by Beth Brower
“Believe what you will,” Basaal said as he tossed his turban into the air and caught it. “But, despite my serious scholarship, I did manage to move our plan forward.”
Eleanor rolled her eyes and waited.
“There are three common routes for traveling south from Zarbadast,” he said. “One is through the Aronee and the Zeaad deserts, which we have already traveled. The second is directly south, passing through the Shera Shee desert and into Portola or Aramesh. The third, the most common route, is to head far west, to Capabolt, then take the more fertile roads down to Alliet and then into Marion,” he explained. “The third choice is by far the easiest journey.”
“Surely the Vestan will be expecting me to take the western road, then,” Eleanor said. “Or, perhaps, to try and return through the Aronee.”
“That is what I think,” Basaal confirmed.
“So we will go through the Shera Shee,” Eleanor said as she smoothed the white fabric of the dress she wore, her voice sounding decided. Basaal shook his head.
“What?” Eleanor asked.
He looked around at the garden as he spoke. “The Shera Shee desert is the most lawless corner of the Imirillian Empire. More than half of the Continent’s slaves are imports from the slavers that haunt those deserts. It is dry, barren, full of jackal thieves and starving souls. I would send you anywhere but through the Shera Shee.”
“But the Vestan will be canvassing the other routes,” Eleanor said.
“Yes,” Basaal replied. “Which is why I propose that you go by sea.”
“By sea? You said there were only three ways.”
“I said that there were three common routes,” Basaal corrected Eleanor as he lifted her hand in his. Turning it over, he drew a map on her palm. “Here is Zarbadast, there is Capabolt to the west, and Marion to the far south,” he explained. “But directly east from Zarbadast is the country of Krayklan, part of the Imirillian Empire these fifteen years.” Basaal moved his finger across her palm from the center out towards the edge near her pinky.
“Although small, their ports serve to good purpose and have been a great asset to Zarbadast,” he continued. “The pathways through Krayklan are many and varied, for there are endless canyons that a person might slip through on their way to the shore. There are thieves and cutthroats, to be sure, but not as many as in the Shera Shee. And I have a contact, a shipmaster who serves my interests for a good turn I did him and his family. The advantage is that he does not sail from the main port in the north but from a small, insignificant place, which only a few fishermen keep, farther south. His vessel can take the eastern sea all the way down to Aemogen, to Calafort.”
Eleanor clucked like Hannia, which made Basaal smile. “You know full well entering the bay at Calafort is impossible without a sea map.”
“I do know that,” Basaal said. “Which is why, as soon as I decided on this route five days ago, I sent Annan back to my army in Marion as my chief commander with a special letter for my beloved cousin, Telford. You remember we met in Marion City?”
“Did you send a message for Aemogen?” Eleanor asked, her eyes wide, and she threw her arms around him.
“Yes.” He laughed, catching Eleanor’s wrists and pulling back to see her face. “Using some of the phrases from the battle run, I wrote a message for Aedon. He should understand the impromptu code and have the sailors of Calafort on the lookout for a craft, hovering out from the quay.”
“It will take Annan six or seven weeks to reach Marion,” Eleanor said as she calculated the journey in her head. “And, possibly, another week to smuggle the letter into Aemogen?”
“And it will take you four or five weeks to get from Zarbadast to the coast, if all goes well, then another week on the water,” Basaal explained. “You can’t leave Zarbadast for another fourteen days, so the letter should precede you, regardless of how quickly you’re able to sail down the coast. You should arrive in early spring, if—”
“What a relief,” Eleanor interrupted, letting out a breath, “to be sailing home without having to go down through that desert again.”
Basaal did not feel as optimistic as Eleanor looked. “If all goes well,” was all he could say in response.
“And this ship’s captain?” Eleanor asked, obviously thinking through the journey. “Will you notify him?”
“No,” Basaal said as he shook his head. “I have a token that I will send with you to commission him for this errand,” Basaal explained. “The captain’s name is Lorne, and he lives in a small town known to the locals as Seaylt. My friend will explain the route to you once you’re free from the city.”
“And how is it that I will escape from Zarbadast?” she asked.
“That,” Basaal said as he sat up straight, stretching his back, “is something that I cannot tell you until just before you are to leave. Best be cautious.”
***
Eleanor opened her mouth to press Basaal for details but changed her mind, moving her lips into an even line.
“Then, I’ll not pester you with more questions this evening,” she said.
“That is a change,” Basaal said, lifting his hand to her face, brushing aside a strand of her hair.
Eleanor closed her eyes, battling between his touch, and the conflicting feelings she’d already been fighting. She wrapped her fingers around his wrist, guiding his hand away.
“Basaal, I wanted—wanted to apologize,” she stammared. “I fear that I may have—” Why was it so hard to speak openly with him about some things? Eleanor released his hand and looked out over the garden. “This week,” she began again, “there has been much time to think, and I’ve come to realize why this can’t continue.”
Basaal placed his hand on the corner of the wall where they sat and looked at Eleanor. “What can’t continue?” he asked.
Eleanor felt along the smooth marble with her fingers, searching for a way to speak her mind. “You and I,” she finally managed to say. “This affection we’ve led each other to believe—”
“Oh,” Basaal interrupted, his voice sounding flat. “I apologize,” he said, “for causing you—for thinking—”
Never before had Eleanor felt so exposed. She slipped off the wall and took a few steps away from him before turning back around, staring at the patterns on his sash rather than looking at his face. “I care for you,” she admitted, “very much.”
“Yet?”
“Yet, we will not be together long, don’t you see?” Eleanor said as she braved a glance at his face. “I can’t want to be with you, to be close to you, if I am going to return home to Aemogen.” Eleanor took a long breath. “I will be honest, as far as I can be. I do not think this short time together will be worth the pain that our separation will bring. So I am choosing to begin separating now, when it is still my choice,” she explained. “Soon, in only a few months’ time, you and I could be standing against each other in battle. How is that supposed to be bearable if I know you are still in my heart?”
Basaal lifted a hand to his neck and looked up towards the stars scattered far above Zarbadast. Then he gave a slanted laugh and slid off the wall, leaning back against it with his hands resting on the edge.
“Why do you laugh?” Eleanor asked, crossing her arms, feeling uncomfortable in this moment of unaccustomed vulnerability. She could just barely see his expression in the darkness, one part amusement and one part something that she could not translate.
“I thought you believed in love—”
As he said these words, a shadow moved in the garden near Eleanor. Not unlike the quiver of a palm caught in the breeze, but Basaal stiffened.
“Someone is here in the garden,” he said in the Aemogen language, stepping forward and then pulling Eleanor closer to the fountains, half concealed behind his body. Basaal’s hand moved towards a dagger hidden at his wrist. Despite the ban on weapons during his purification, he would not go without a means to defend himself.
“Is it the assassin?” she whispered.
“A spy from my father, I would guess,” he whispered.
Eleanor could see nothing in the deep black and green of the garden. She was always surprised with the reality of Zarbadast, for being with Basaal made her forget its insidious nature.
“I think he’s gone,” he said. But Basaal’s hand did not leave Eleanor’s arm. “To be sure, let me walk you to the stairs of the women’s quarters.”
“I thought that was against protocol?”
“Your throat being slit before the wedding is against protocol, a more pressing concern in my mind,” Basaal said stiffly. “Come, I will take you back. These pathways are more obscured than I care for.”
Basaal kept his arm around Eleanor’s waist, listening for any sound, any hint. Finally, up ahead, Eleanor saw the long staircase towards the women’s quarters. Someone stood at the top, only a silhouette against the bright lights behind her.
“Hannia,” Eleanor said, recognizing her worried stance. “You can leave me here. I will be fine the rest of the way. If she sees that you’ve brought me,” she added, “I may never hear the end of it.”
“Fine,” Basaal said as he scanned the darkness one last time. “Be safe.”
“Send Ammar with word that you returned safely to your own rooms,” she requested.
“I will.”
“Go then,” Eleanor said, gently pushing him away. “Hannia will be wondering why I have not come.”
“Good night,” Basaal said, and he kissed her on the cheek before disappearing back down the pathway into the darkness. Eleanor pushed a branch away and began to ascend the long stairway. Within moments, Hannia would see her.
Then she heard a snap, a sound in the undergrowth nearby, and Eleanor jumped and turned to the side.
“Basaal?” she said.
Nothing. She grabbed her skirts and began to move quickly up the stairs, but she was jerked backwards and pulled off the steps, a hand over her mouth. Eleanor twisted, trying to escape, but she was pulled firmly against someone’s chest.
“The emperor,” a voice hissed into her ear, “wishes an audience with you.”
***
The man forced a gag into Eleanor’s mouth and bound her hands behind her back. Then he forced her into an unfamiliar corner of the garden and through an open door into darkness. Trying to keep her balance as best she could, Eleanor stumbled nonetheless.
Once they were inside the walls, the man lit a torch, and Eleanor saw her captor: not only a Vestan but the same assassin who had killed the snake in the desert before it could strike Eleanor, the same man who had threatened Basaal before they had left for the Marion court. Eleanor glared at him as he pushed her through the tunnel. It was a dirty and dark place, this underbelly of the Zarbadast palaces, endless twists and stairs going off in all directions.
With no hesitation, the Vestan led her through the winding hallways before pushing her up a tall set of stairs. Eleanor stumbled on the hem of her long white gown, smashing her elbow against the stone wall. This only seemed to increase his impatience, and he prodded her forward faster.
When they came to a door, the Vestan pushed a key into its lock and then pulled at the latch. A loud click echoed down the staircase, and he kicked the door open, pushing Eleanor through without ceremony.
It was dim in the circular chamber. Several archways rose in the deep space around them, hung with curtains of thick purple velvet. Then Eleanor noticed that a figure sat on a throne in the middle of the room: Shaamil.
He cleared his throat. “Remove the gag, then leave us,” Shaamil ordered.
The Vestan cut her gag with his knife, pointing it menacingly close to Eleanor’s neck before disappearing into the darkness behind her. Only one lamp was lit. Glowing behind the emperor, it shadowed his face.
Despite her need to catch her breath from the quick ascent up the stairs, Eleanor pulled her shoulders back and lifted her chin.
Shaamil sat in the shadows, unmoving. Without his watching audience, without the grandeur of his large throne room, Eleanor found the potency of Shaamil’s presence almost suffocating. Although, surprisingly, he did not seem as able to intimidate her as he had before.
“Is that so?” Shaamil said as if he could read her thoughts.
Eleanor made no sound.
The Vestan had bound Eleanor’s hands tight, and she attempted to shift her wrists, but to no avail, for the rope bit into her skin. Eleanor sighed and resigned herself to the pain as she kept her eyes focused on the shadowed face before her.
Shaamil shifted in his throne, and Eleanor could now see half of his face. His mouth twitched, and his eyes were unyielding.
“Tell me of my son’s time in Aemogen,” he said.
Eleanor’s stomach gripped around itself, and she said nothing.
“Answer my questions,” he ordered, “and I will return you to your quarters.”
“There is not much to tell,” Eleanor said.
Shaamil waited. Apparently that was not the answer he was looking for. In the shadows around his shoulders, Eleanor thought she saw something, a movement, a hint. She looked again but couldn’t be sure.
“I am not a very patient man,” Shaamil said. As he spoke again, the shadow around his shoulders moved. Eleanor’s eyes blinked and then went wide as she saw a snake’s head, weaving through the air into the lamplight, its black tongue slithering out in Eleanor’s direction. The emperor raised his hand and ran his fingers beneath the jaw of the beast. Eleanor shuddered as she realized that it was the same kind of large, black serpent she had encountered in the desert.
“I will repeat myself only once,” Shaamil snapped. “Tell me of my son’s time in Aemogen.”
Frowning, Eleanor answered as vaguely as she dared. “He came to Ainsley under the guise of a traveler and said that he was the son of an Imirillian lord and had chosen to abandon the army. After coming to know his skills in warfare, we commissioned him to train the men of Aemogen.”
“And you simply let him remain without questioning his allegiance?” Shaamil asked as he tilted his head. “You risk showing yourself to be a fool.”
“We gambled with the knowledge that if he were a traitor, we would gain far more from him than he would from us.”
“And what did you gain?” Shaamil asked.
“Aside from a few military exercises?” Eleanor asked as she half laughed, sounding as bitter as she dared. “A lesson in petulant behavior, an aggressive perspective of life, and a little false camaraderie. I assure you,” she added, “all of Aemogen wants his blood.”
“But not you,” Shaamil said. “You fell in love with the treacherous boy.”
Eleanor pressed her lips into a line and gave Shaamil a hard stare.
“Oh, he is treacherous,” Shaamil said. “I can see the disagreement in your face. But you, innocent as you are, will marry the most dangerous of all my sons. And, if you do not see that, I pity you. Do you honestly think that you can trust his words? That he has no thirst for power? The boy has soaked up power and allegiance with the pleasure of a desert plant.”
Eleanor made no response.
“His mother would worry over his nature,” Shaamil continued. “Not so soft, not so caring as she had wished him to be. He shared none of her alacrity or tenderness, traits you seem to have in such abundance. No,” Shaamil said, and his smile tilted. “As a child, he was motivated by domination and would win at any devil’s cost. He would use duplicity and deceit and then come down so hard that his opponents were rattled by their defeat.”
“He is callous,” Shaamil continued. “Ruthless. Ambitious. Can you claim that you never saw this? Never questioned any of his philosophies?” he asked. “Have you never wondered why my youngest son, the seventh son, is the richest among the princes of Imirillia? Or, did he never tell you?”
As the emperor spoke, his fingers baited the snake wrapped around his shoulders. “I wonder what your people will think,” he added, “when they find that you are the wife of the most insidious power-monger o
n the Continent?”
Eleanor would not let this comment shift her face, knowing he was trying to press her into a reaction, something that he could take, weigh, and measure. All his words were spoken with the intent to manipulate her. And she knew Basaal. She knew his desires. At least, she thought she did.
Yet, all the words that Basaal had spoken about power and place now came crowding into her mind, and the fragile trust she’d given him when he had promised her an escape—a trust that had turned solid—now felt like sand slipping through her fingers.
“And now you have come,” Shaamil said as he lifted a hand against the shadows of his face. “You carry your own weight, Queen of Aemogen. I’ll not deny that something beneath your innocent face calls to him,” Shaamil explained. “Basaal has wanted to bring the South under his subjugation since he was a boy, and you have become a desirable pawn in his game.”
Shaamil leaned forward, and Eleanor could discern more of his face and of the snake still wrapped around his body. The lines of his age showed beneath his closely trimmed beard, crow’s feet setting off the skin around his black eyes.
He considered Eleanor. “I have dreams,” he said, offering an unexpected admission. “Be they visions, I know not, but they come. For many years I have seen the same vision: of Basaal, seventh son, riding forth, under banners of black and bloodred, stopping in the center of the Continent, a golden crown of towers about his brow—”
Eleanor started at his reference to the Aemogen battle crown, and a cold, worrisome fear swept from her feet to her shoulders, and she shivered. Shaamil’s eye took note.
“And—” Shaamil continued, “from his footsteps are born venomous snakes that cover the earth in all directions, even beyond the borders of this continent, bringing all into subjection beneath him.”
Eleanor swallowed, waiting for what Shaamil would say next.
“And then,” Shaamil said, “on the night of your betrothal, the same dream came again, albeit two things were changed.” The emperor held up two fingers, pointing them simultaneously at Eleanor with an accusatory air.
“The banners of his army had turned to silver, bearing the symbol of a tower, and instead of snakes, each footstep sent a horse—a strong horse, adorned in gold, unrivaled by any I have ever seen among my stables—riding to each coast on the Continent and, at the shore, transforming into a jeweled bird of prey. One horse bore a rider dressed in red, who did not leave my son’s side. A bird landed on the rider’s outstretched arm.”