by Beth Brower
On late nights, when the harvest winds rattled through the fields and woods and set Ainsley Rise all a clatter, Eleanor would think about Crispin and his eternal absence. There had been no laughter and far less movement. They had become stiff without him. They had become older.
And then there was Hastian. More than once, Eleanor left her bed at night with the hope she might find a specter of him standing outside her bedroom door. She never did.
Death, she felt, was endless.
***
Just as the bluster of winter blew into Ainsley, when the white flakes crowded and clung to the windows of Eleanor’s apartments, creating frozen pictures on the glass, Edythe entered with excitement in her eyes.
“Eleanor! Just come up from Calafort is the latest shipment from Imirillia, and you will never guess who has come with it!”
Eleanor’s heart jolted so thoroughly, she snapped the quill in her hand. A familiar figure walked into the room.
“Ammar!” Eleanor stood quickly, knocking her chair to the floor.
“Your Majesty.” Ammar bowed as he spoke this carefully in Eleanor’s language. He then raised his eyebrows in surprise when she greeted him with an embrace.
“And what has Emir sent down from Zarbadast so precious to warrant your accompaniment?” Eleanor asked and smiled fully. Then her mouth shifted towards a more serious expression. “I hadn’t thought we would work out the final treaty before spring. Are you here to witness the signing?”
“No,” Ammar said, reverting back to Imirillian. “This is embarrassing.” His mouth twisted in a way that reminded her of Basaal. “I so seldom feel discomfited by anything that I’ve no doubt it has physiological or spiritual benefit.” He paused before speaking again. “I have come—I have actually come to seek sanctuary.”
“Sanctuary?”
“Emperor Emir has chosen to not offer me a pardon. He did, however, permit me the choice of exile. And so, I ask, will you accept me into your country?”
Overcome, Eleanor was shaking her head from surprise even as she said, “I would have you here one thousand times over. Yes!”
Ammar offered a thankful nod and looked towards the darkening snowstorm, rushing against Eleanor’s windows.
“Although,” Ammar added, “upon seeing the infernal nature of your winters, I may have changed my mind, ready to face the oblivion of the executioner’s axe rather than this devilry.” He waved towards the window.
Eleanor laughed out loud.
As Ainsley Rise grew accustomed to the physician’s company, Ammar’s presence did a great deal for them. Beneath the careful eye of two physicians, Aedon improved. Zanntal was relieved to have Imirillian conversation, especially when the foreign nature of Eleanor’s country became too much. Edythe took to Ammar easily, and they developed a respectful friendship as she shared her knowledge of the records hall and convivially encouraged him to study there. Eleanor, when she could forget Basaal, simply slept better.
Not many days after his arrival, Ammar carefully approached the subject of his youngest brother when they were sitting privately in her rooms.
“Far be it for me to intrude,” he began, “but if you have not heard from Basaal, I want you to know the reason.”
Eleanor felt herself retreat into the frozen tucks of her internal scars, where she kept all thoughts of Basaal, but she nodded, listening.
“Upon returning to Zarbadast,” Ammar said, “Basaal was brought before Emir and given judgment. The truth of his betrayal was bad enough, but the rumors in Zarbadast were pure specimens of fictional genius,” Ammar continued calmly. “I know that Emir gave much thought to Basaal’s fate. Would he go to his death? Would he be stripped of his army? What about his wealth? Should he also be sent into exile? Emir’s wife, Laaeitha, pled on Basaal’s half, or so I have heard. In the end—”
“Yes?” The word came out almost as a whisper.
“Nothing,” Ammar said with a wave of his hand. “Emir offered Basaal a full pardon; he maintains his place in the royal house of Imirillia.”
“Nothing?” Eleanor repeated. She took a breath, not realizing until that moment she had been holding it. “I admit I’m shocked,” she replied when the words came. “I have been expecting to hear the worst.”
“Blood runs deep,” Ammar said as he shrugged.
“But not deep enough for a physician?”
“My profession declares it so,” Ammar answered with as serious a tone as she had ever heard him use. “I have killed, so great mercy was shown to me in allowing me exile.” Ammar paused then continued. “Basaal did not choose to remain in Zarbadast, though.”
“He didn’t,” Eleanor said, preparing herself.
“There is an old sanctuary, a monastery of sorts, in the northern mountains, the Deeatnaah monastery—Zanntal knows the place. Few who are not training to join the order of holy men ever go there.”
Eleanor waited for an explanation, wondering why, then, Basaal would have gone.
“I believe Basaal went to Deeatnaah,” Ammar continued, “in order to fulfill the steps of deep purification: prayer, meditation, the reading of the Seven Scrolls, and—hopefully—a redemption. During the little time he did spend in Zarbadast, Basaal kept muttering to himself about how he was damned, how he had broken his covenants—his eyes were haunted; his dreams, horrific. I was worried he might lose his mind,” Ammar explained. “Then, after one especially difficult night, Basaal woke up, insisting on going to the monastery. I could not stop him, no matter how I tried.”
“Is it so bad,” Eleanor asked, “going through these steps of purification? Is there no chance it will bring him peace?”
Ammar shifted. “The truly devout attempt to strip themselves of everything—the paths of their thoughts, their assumptions, the history of their actions—it is a painful examination at best. At worst? Well, this is accompanied by a physical manifestation of the spiritual journey; seekers fast for days, sometimes weeks, until just before the point of death, when they are given the smallest modicum of food, added to slowly as their learning and study increases. This process serves as a symbol of their inner reconstruction.
“I will not pretend that many have not died from this process,” Ammar said honestly. “Others have been forever altered, changed beyond recognition from who they once were. Some have even gone mad. That is why few choose this path. And also why I felt the need to tell you, so you would understand when he chooses not to return—not to Aemogen, and not to Zarbadast.”
“Not to Zarbadast?” Eleanor could not help showing the emotion she had so carefully hemmed inside of herself. She moved to the edge of the settee, clutching the cushion on either side of her. “Basaal loves Zarbadast more than anything! Could he not find solace among you there? I know, I know. The battle and all the death is—” she began, but hesitated. “I understand the feeling of going mad inside one’s own head. But—”
“There will be no solace found in Zarbadast for Basaal any longer,” Ammar stated.
“Is it the death of Shaamil?” Eleanor did not hesitate to mention it.
“No.” Ammar was not ruffled. “Certainly, all the death took its toll, all the men killed, and Basaal’s part in it. The grief of Aemogen and Imirillia. Giving his allegiance to too many opposites and being unable to reconcile his actions—” Ammar waved his hand. “But, what broke Basaal, what I am certain keeps him away and walking through his hell, day after day, is the death of Annan.”
“Annan didn’t live?” Eleanor choked out. She had not thought, even once, to question whether he had survived. Annan had always been there—so kind, so loyal.
“You hadn’t heard?”
“No,” Eleanor managed to say.
For the first time, Ammar looked hesitant to speak. “Basaal feels he killed him, that he ought to have saved Annan somehow, but did not.”
***
“Do not fear, small child,” the Holy Man said to the boy. “Is your master so unkind?”
“My master is a grea
t merchant, and he has entrusted me with one storeroom. But the lute players in the street beckoned me come, and I went. All in the storeroom was stolen out.”
“Have you petitioned your master for mercy?” the Holy Man asked.
“I am afraid. I dare not go unto him for fear of banishment.”
—The Third Scroll
* * *
She had never known how the cold wind wound through the streets of Ainsley, for Eleanor’s winters had always been inside the comforts of Ainsley Rise. She was bound up, unrecognizable, and already wishing the wind did not persist so. Her bones felt iced over, the cold overlapping the grief that permeated everything else inside of her.
When Eleanor reached the familiar door, she knocked, an impatient sound in the cold wind.
Aurrey opened the door, saw Eleanor, and then pulled her inside with a mother’s scolding. “It’s too cold to be out, Your Majesty!” she said as she brought Eleanor in beside the fire and deftly began to remove her outer layers of cloak, gloves, scarf, and hood. “What possessed you?” Aurrey asked. “And on such a day?”
“I needed to get away from my work for a few hours where no one would find me,” Eleanor confessed.
“Hmmm,” Aurrey said, inspecting the stitching on Eleanor’s cloak before setting it down. “You and Haide both. The man sounds like a demon in his workshop today. He’s not taking to his work, and I can hardly convince him to man up about it. The children are all in there,” she added, “playing among the scraps. Shall I call them in?”
Eleanor had found Haide and Aurrey, not two months after the battle. Her unexpected arrival had all but frightened Aurrey to death. But Haide took it in stride and seemed humiliated, rather, that Eleanor would pay them special mind when there was so much struggle everywhere. She had not stayed long on her first visit, but had returned often.
Haide had no desire to speak of the war. Neither did Eleanor. Aurrey spoke out according to the conscience of her own tongue, crossing lines that neither of them were willing to even touch. She seemed to feel no compunction about discussing the prince, though Eleanor and Haide just looked on in silence. It wasn’t a bad thing to discuss, Eleanor had decided, when she could bear it.
On her third visit, Eleanor had collected her courage enough to ask them for the favor she had been wanting: A home for Sharin.
“The one who cannot speak?” Aurrey had responded.
“Yes, that is right,” Eleanor had said. “I’ve wanted to find a family that could take her in as their own, to be raised alongside their own children. The crown would compensate for any expenses and beyond,” she explained and then paused before continuing. “Would you consider doing this? Sharin is just older than your eldest, and the companionship may be desirable too.”
“Your Majesty.” Aurrey had run the palms of her hands along her skirt. “Taking in an Imirillian child could be—I cannot know how to say it—but I worry for my own children among their friends. Might they be shunned—?”
“We’ll take the girl,” Haide had interrupted from his brooding corner by the fireplace, rubbing the stump of his wrist unconsciously.
“Haide, what if—” Aurrey began, but Haide interrupted her again.
“An innocent child, in need of a home, will have a place with us,” Haide insisted. “And we’ll take no money from the crown,” he added. “A man has his pride and his way of supporting his own.”
Aurrey flushed and looked as though she would have rounded on Haide had Eleanor not been present.
“The two of you may discuss this first,” Eleanor said. “And, if you like, I can bring Sharin tomorrow to get to know you and your children. I ask that you take time to decide. What is best for all is what is best.”
When Eleanor returned the next afternoon with Sharin in hand, Aurrey had looked at the child—eyes black as night, mouth sober, cheeks soft—and taken Sharin into her heart before Eleanor could even introduce them properly. It was settled.
When Haide came in later from his workshop, looking angry, for he could do almost nothing, he nodded towards his wife and Sharin and then shrugged. “I knew it,” he’d said. “I talk all compassion, and Aurrey holds against it. But as soon as a kitten comes begging for scraps, she’s the first to set down the cured ham that’s been saved for an occasion. How did she ever think she could resist a child?”
“I will only agree to leave Sharin with your family if you accept a stipend from the crown for her support,” Eleanor had stipulated. “And I will send a tutor—for the benefit of all your children. I promised to give Sharin the best life I could, and a family is crucial in that, but so is education and opportunity,” she added. “You will not move me on this point.”
“You aim for a tutor to teach my children reading and numbers, philosophy and all that?” Haide had asked, frowning as he eyed Eleanor with suspicion.
“Yes,” she’d replied. “And language and music and anything else.”
Then Haide’s unshaven face had broken into the first sincere smile Eleanor had ever seen him give. Seemingly forgetting himself, he held out his remaining hand and said, “You’ve a bargain.”
Eleanor had taken his hand and shaken it firmly.
Now, as Eleanor warmed herself before the fire, Aurrey called the children in. Haide followed them in, as he often did, to sit and speak with Eleanor.
“Have you heard anything of your prince?” Haide asked uncharacteristically. “Rumors say he is not coming back.”
“Prince Basaal is away, at a monastery of sorts.” Eleanor did not expound.
“Cleansing himself from all the bloodshed?” Haide asked with an edge in his voice.
“I believe he is trying to.”
“Would that we all could,” was all Haide replied.
Eleanor looked down at her hands. “Perhaps the spring will help.”
Later, Eleanor kissed the children on their cheeks, marked the happiness in Sharin’s eyes, and disappeared back out into the snowbound wind, returning to Ainsley Rise.
***
And there was sorrowing throughout all the lands, much weeping and heaviness of heart. And the prophets went before the Illuminating God. And, when they had lifted up their voices, He said unto them: Give unto them my law that they might be redeemed.
—The Fourth Scroll
***
Eleanor continued to manage her losses in a private way, rarely acknowledging the painful process to Edythe or Aedon or anyone. After months of hollow existence, her numbness was fully working itself out, her heart tingling like an arm whose blood flow had been stopped and was once again pulsing through its veins. Eleanor knew it would be a painful resurrection. As feeling returned, it came with waves of anger—searing, white anger—followed by a gripping guilt that twisted like a weed inside her heart. Under the burning suffocation of such internal sorrow, she couldn’t have spoken of it to anyone, even had she desired to do so.
She kept moving each morning. Stifled and bound as she was, she did not shy away from her work or her people. As strange as it seemed, for Eleanor had never truly had a marriage, her people considered her a widow of the war. This made Eleanor feel, at one moment, wildly relieved that Basaal had chosen to leave and that she had not kept what so many had lost. But, in the next moment, her knowledge—of him being gone from every familiar thing, slowly eating away at himself in hopes of purification—would break her, and it would take days for her to again feel steady on her own feet, days to shore up and mend the break.
One late-winter day, as the icicles melted in the golden sun of the afternoon, Eleanor began to believe that it might be possible for healing to come, someday. That the horror might be able to fade. And it would come independent of whether Basaal chose to come back or never returned. Eleanor admitted to herself it would be its own relief, to let him lay buried with the dead, and not have to question the consequences if he were to return and again change his mind, only to leave her once more.
It felt like a horrible thing: this relief-ridden confus
ion. Of course Eleanor wished he would return, that they would find their way to each other again, didn’t she? Yes, beneath all the stains of war, she loved him still. But Eleanor knew she must be ready for it, and he must be ready for it too. If he would ever be, she did not know. Eleanor had, on occasion, awoken with his screams in her ears. Every time this happened, Eleanor had fallen back onto her bed, gripping the fabric of her nightclothes over her heart, forcing herself to breathe slowly.
Basaal’s cries began to melt away with the snow, and she welcomed the peace of its absence. She no longer took out the pendants he had gifted her from her desk drawer, but rather left them untouched.
***
“What is it that man seeks when he kills another?” the warrior asked the Illuminating God.
No response came down from the heavens.
“What must I do to consecrate myself to thee?”
No response came down from the heavens.
“Am I among the damned of this world?” the warrior finally asked. Then Seraagh came and placed her hand on his forehead, on his lips, and then over his heart.
“Do you wish cleansing and understanding from the Illuminating God?” Seraagh asked, and the warrior knelt.
“Yes.”
“Then put down that which binds you to death, and come,” Seraagh said, taking both his hands.
Basaal looked away from the ancient scroll and wept.
***
Spring came to Aemogen with all its rituals. The festival was subdued; the ceremony, reverent and somber; the evening’s festivities, filled with more conversation and silence than dancing. Still, there was a strength found. It felt good, a relief, to gather together—talking of the rain and forecasting when the crops could be sown—the women as much as the few men, for many were now husbandless and worried over their farms.
Eleanor continued as she had before, working the sorrows and ghost stories of winter into the spring earth, and into the business of ruling Aemogen. Aedon, as he had been every year before the invasion, was close at hand for the organization of the coming growing season. His body continued to heal.
Eleanor also chose a new leader of the fen riders. He was not as fast as Doughlas, neither did he smirk nor laugh with the same puckish delight. Eleanor had not yet appointed another Queen’s Own, and she took the suggestion she should as a violent intrusion. Those closest to her soon learned never to mention it.