by Beth Brower
She looked at herself again in the mirror, her copper hair—its many layers of jewels catching the light—and her pale skin on black—a startling contrast. For a moment, Eleanor could not remember who she had once been or what her life had meant, for she was so far away from herself now.
Then there was a knock, and the moment shattered like glass.
“That will be Basaal,” Hannia said.
Eleanor panicked. “He is to see me like this?”
“You are his bride,” Hannia said. “He comes to offer his gift to you, a token you will carry with you throughout the ceremony,” Hannia explained as she took Eleanor’s hand. “This is the most beautiful work I have ever done, and for that I am proud. I love Prince Basaal. Keep him well.”
Then Eleanor was left alone in the room. She turned as the doors opened, her train followed course in a dramatic twist.
When Basaal’s eyes found hers, Eleanor saw a flash of pain. Although his face was unmoving, it looked caught in between two emotions. He walked down the steps from the door, and the straight line that formed his mouth twitched at the corners ever so slightly.
“It was made for you,” he said, “this gown.” Basaal eased his mouth into a counterfeit smile. “You look beautiful.”
The weight he carried, the heaviness behind his familiar face, was difficult for Eleanor to see. And, when she finally found her voice, the words tumbled out. “I didn’t realize the meaning of it all, Basaal, or I would have never—” she began. “I didn’t know the significance of the gown or the rituals. Had I known, I would have insisted that we find another way. I feel—”
Lifting a hand, Basaal shook his head, keeping his smile intact despite the mixed expression around his eyes. “Don’t, Eleanor. I can think of no better purpose for this gown than as accent to you.”
“It wasn’t meant for me,” she whispered.
“Perhaps not,” he said and let out a quick laugh and shrugged. “But perhaps it was. Now, look at what Hannia has done,” he said, gesturing toward the mirror. “You look like a true Imirillian bride. Remarkable,” he added as his eyes met hers in the reflection. “Edythe would have liked to see you like this, I think.” He raised his hand to her hair in a brief, unspoken punctuation to his words. Eleanor turned and tilted her head, lifting her eyes to his.
“I think you’re right,” she said. “She’ll never forgive me for getting married without her.” With this, the mood lightened. Basaal took a step back, holding his arms out.
“Will I shame you?” he asked. He wore a plain, yet beautifully made tunic, in black, of course. His high collar was simple and stiff, the line just below his jaw, splitting open into a v where the top black button was secured. Aside from the stiff, militant coat, Basaal wore breeches and tall boots, similar to what he had chosen to wear in Aemogen, but these were more expensively made and fastidiously crafted. He also wore his formal weaponry of black and pearl. It complemented Eleanor’s dress, making the two of them quite the visual pair.
“No,” Eleanor smiled. “You’re very handsome.”
Basaal swallowed and looked down, retrieving a small velvet bag from where it was tucked into the sleeve of his tunic. “Before we go,” he said, “I must offer you a gift to wear for the ceremony.”
He placed his fingers inside the bag and withdrew a ruby pendant the shape of a tear, its many facets catching the light from the windows.
“I selected it myself,” Basaal said as he undid the clasp of the golden chain and motioned towards her as if asking permission to secure it in place. Eleanor nodded and moved her hair as Basaal placed his hands around her neck, fumbling with the clasp. He stood so close. Eleanor looked towards the floor, aware of the sensation of his wrist brushing across her neck, pressing against her skin. Eleanor believed she could even feel his pulse for the briefest moment before he pulled his hands away. Now the gem rested against Eleanor’s skin, just above the folds of her dress’s neckline.
“It’s beautiful,” she said, lifting a finger to touch it.
“I have something else, a more personal gift than this wedding finery,” Basaal said, seeming nervous as he tipped the velvet bag. A small gold chain, appearing more like gossamer thread than jewelry, fell into his calloused palm. It was the most delicate line of gold she had ever seen, almost invisible until it caught the light, like a spider’s web.
“It reminded me of you,” Basaal said. He motioned towards the neglected trunks of jewelry. “I didn’t think you would like looting the vanities sent over from my palace, but this—for its delicate nature and extraordinary strength—seemed a fitting gift. In my mind, I pictured you standing upon the western battlements at Ainsley, and only this had a place there.”
As he secured it on her wrist, Eleanor burned, so conflicted she wished to run, to disappear. She wished to be with him. She wished to never see him again.
“There is something I would ask from you,” Basaal said, stealing her attention away from the bracelet by taking her hands.
“What is that?” Eleanor asked as she faced his gaze.
“Seven days.” Basaal’s expression betrayed he had prepared these words in his mind before entering the room. “There are seven days before you go. I don’t know what is to happen beyond them, how we will be set against each other.” Basaal took a breath. “But, for the next seven days, I intend to show you the very best of Imirillia, and I beg you to see what good is to be found in this land. Be present and curious. Ask questions, and see why—see what Zarbadast means to me. For, something tells me that you will not come this way again, no matter how I would wish for it.”
His words felt prophetic to Eleanor. She could feel the truth of them in her bones, and she shook slightly, looking at the Safeeraah just revealing themselves beneath Basaal’s sleeve.
“I believe you may be right,” she answered. “I fear—I fear that we were not meant for each other, you and I, not in this world in any case, despite whatever we—” Eleanor stopped, sad as the thought, planted deep in her mind, finally came to light. Feeling flustered, she pulled her hands away from his. “If this is your desire,” she said, looking down at her hands, “I’m happy to give it to you. What you love shall have my attention these seven days—I promise you that.”
“Perhaps we are as moon and sun,” he said, causing Eleanor to brave a look at his face. “Separated by the ten thousand miles of the world. Yet, despite whatever truth your words may hold, they won’t—” Basaal paused, opening his mouth as if he were sifting the thoughts in his mind. “They won’t keep me from wondering—from regretting.”
Stepping closer, Basaal looked down at her, hesitant only a moment before kissing Eleanor. And she kissed him back. She kissed him until every instinct warned her, for the sake of her own heart, to pull away. When she did, Basaal appeared shaken.
“Yes,” he said. “You are right.” He stepped back, resetting the emotions on his face as he lifted a hand. “You are right. But I am glad to know you would consider me, had things been different,” Basaal said, not looking at her as he spoke, running his fingers over his brow. “Perhaps, one evening, over the coming years—if we both survive this war—you, like Seraagh of old, will come to your post early so that you can glimpse me, in your mind’s eye, setting as the sun across the ten thousand miles of the world.” He paused before asking, “Will you wonder then if I have forgotten you?”
Yes, Eleanor thought, but she couldn’t say it.
“Enough waiting,” Basaal finally said. He forced his tone towards joviality and pushed past his question, laughing at himself before taking a long breath. “Well then, My Queen, shall we be wed?”
Chapter Fourteen
He could see her nervousness as they walked down the corridors lined with endless rows of ceremonial guard. The closer they came to the throne room, the closer she pulled herself to him. Basaal raised his free hand to cover hers, tucked through his arm, in assurance.
“It’s not long,” he whispered.
Eleanor continu
ed to look straight ahead, but she nodded. Three maidservants followed behind her, lifting the heavy train of Eleanor’s gown. When the ornate doors of the throne room loomed before them, Basaal stopped and straightened his shoulders.
“We wait here,” he explained, “until three trumpets sound and the doors open.”
“Hannia told me I need not speak anything,” Eleanor reviewed aloud.
“Correct.” Basaal nodded, finding that adrenaline was pumping through his body. “I make the wedding covenants before the holy man, in ancient Imirillian, and then speak them to you,” he explained. “If you accept, you bow before the holy man then turn and bow again before me.”
This image seemed to thaw Eleanor from her nervous freeze, for she looked his way with a slight challenge behind her eyes.
“So I am to bow before you?” she said.
Basaal grinned, relieved to see another emotion in Eleanor besides fear. “Yes,” he replied. “But it may make you feel better to know that I will spend the entire ceremony kneeling and, therefore, will already be in a position of submission before you.”
“Good,” Eleanor responded frankly. Basaal laughed, his nervousness mixing with an unanswerable excitement. He kissed her affectionately on the cheek. Just then, the sound of several trumpets wove together gracefully, coming from the throne room.
As the guards opened the large doors, Basaal could see an almost endless crowd of wedding guests, waiting inside. He took a step forward, and Eleanor followed, her fingers pressing tightly against the sleeve of his jacket.
***
If Eleanor had thought before that the people of Imirillia had been dressed in colors bold and bright, it was nothing compared to the spectacle of what was now before her eyes. More people than Eleanor could have ever imagined stood packed around the central circle of the throne room, glittering in jewels and fine fabrics. Eleanor’s eyes swept across the Imirillians, catching glimpses of a few familiar faces: Ammar, some of the wives, and the other brothers.
The emperor, of course, sat on his throne, dressed in deep purple, his face unreadable. A man that Eleanor presumed to be the officiate of the ceremony stood two steps down from the throne, wearing white and silver, watching as she and Basaal approached. Many of the women were pointing and whispering as they eyed Eleanor’s gown.
As Basaal led Eleanor to the center of the circle, Hannia appeared silently and straightened Eleanor’s heavy skirts behind her before melting away again into the crowd.
Uncomfortable beneath the scrutiny of so many eyes, Eleanor was beginning to find the gown suffocating. She tried to take a deep breath, but the clasps restricted her breathing. Eleanor wished to raise her hands to her waist, in an effort to remedy the problem, but she kept them laced before her as she watched the beginning of the ceremony.
Basaal left Eleanor and walked, ever graceful, toward the holy man, where he knelt and bowed his head. The holy man spoke some words that Eleanor did not understand and then began to quote from the Sixth Scroll. “And man must take a woman to covenant, to please the Illuminating God, for he has declared it so,” he said. “My son, do you hear the words?”
“I hear the words,” Basaal said.
“Do you hear the words, my son?”
“I hear the words and—” Basaal paused, and Eleanor saw his shoulders fall slightly as if a weight had unexpectedly been placed upon them. “I hear the words,” he began again, “and I bind myself to the covenants of this marriage you will speak above my head.”
“Let us, then, fulfill these covenants in word and solemnity.” The holy man closed his eyes and began speaking in an ancient Imirillian dialect that Eleanor could not understand. Each sentence was delivered clearly and deliberately so that the entire chamber echoed with the resonance of his articulate voice.
Basaal kept his head bowed, seeming to bend lower beneath the additional weight of each covenant. As guilt pricked Eleanor’s mind, she forced it back. She would not feel bad for the ruse. No other consideration could rank above getting back to Aemogen. To use the words Basaal relied on so often, her honor spoke to that.
The covenants poured endlessly from the holy man’s lips, and Eleanor gave up her futile attempts to understand any of them. She hazarded a glance towards the emperor. He sat still, his eyes intent on Basaal’s face, the particular expression of concern Eleanor had glimpsed before underlining his impassive expression. Eleanor followed the emperor’s stare back towards Basaal, still kneeling beneath the weight of the wedding covenants. It was then that something in Basaal’s bearing changed. He set his shoulders back straighter as if a thought had somehow freed him.
Silence shook Eleanor from her thoughts, and she noticed that the holy man was now watching her. Hannia had told her that she would be invited to Basaal’s side once the covenants were read. The holy man opened his hand to her, indicating that she should come forward. So Eleanor began to walk, pulling against the impossible weight of her dress, listening to the swish of the fabric moving across the white marble floor. Basaal did not turn towards her, as she stopped beside him.
“You have bound yourself to the sixteen covenants and now must proclaim them upon the head of your wife, in solemnity and truth.”
Basaal turned to face Eleanor, his head still bowed, his body bent forward, his hands resting on his legs. He began slowly, hesitant as his tongue trespassed over the ancient words. They seemed to stretch out forever between them until, finally, Basaal lifted his head, meeting her eyes with his own.
Eleanor managed a hint of a smile and Basaal waited as she turned towards the holy man, bowing as low as she dared while still maintaining her balance. Then, turning back towards Basaal. Eleanor bowed, as she had to the holy man, but then continued lower, dropping to her knees before Basaal, placing the palms of her hands on the ground before her and bowing her head.
A murmur rippled through those in attendance. Eleanor did not look up. She knew from her study of the Second Scroll that this bow was the deepest show of respect one could offer in a public assembly of Imirillia. When she felt Basaal’s fingertips touch hers, she lifted her eyes, seeing him mirroring her own bow, the same expression of deep respect in return.
The holy man repeated a phrase several times in ancient Imirillian and then declared the ceremony complete. Eleanor did not move until Basaal stood, offering her both of his hands, and lifting her to her feet. As they stood, facing each other, in this dreamlike moment—all white and color—Eleanor thought Basaal was the most beautiful figure she had ever seen. It was almost a relief when the crowd began to cheer, breaking the haze and bringing the room back into focus.
Lifting his finger to her cheek, Basaal tucked a loose lock of hair behind her ear. And, as Eleanor felt a blush rise on her cheeks, he smiled. The crowd’s cheers steadily increased until they were chanting something together in Imirillian Eleanor did not understand. Basaal looked towards the ground, then he looked back up at Eleanor before turning towards the crowd.
“What was that?” he called out, smiling. Louder and louder became the cheers until Basaal stepped towards Eleanor, pulled her close, and gave her a long, slow kiss. As his hand move from the back of her neck to her cheek, she could feel the blood pulsing in his fingers.
The noise of the crowd was unlike anything Eleanor had ever heard, thunderous, too massive even for this grand hall. After Basaal kissed her, he stayed close, his cheek against hers, whispering something she could not understand for the volume of other voices.
Shaamil left his throne and walked down the three steps to congratulate his son. He was pleased. Eleanor watched him express real affection for Basaal, first greeting him with a handshake, then, with an embrace, whispering something into his son’s ear. Basaal nodded and smiled, his hand resting on his father’s back.
Then, turning to Eleanor, Shaamil regarded her almost pleasantly. Yet, she couldn’t help but notice that his eyes still held a challenge in them. Her instincts still spoke of warning. He embraced her and whispered in her ear.
>
“May your life together be long.” Eleanor thought that this was all he would say, but he stayed close. “I find that people usually get what they deserve from a long marriage,” he said. “If you deserve happiness, it comes. If not, well—you can’t run away, now can you?”
Eleanor was nauseous at his words and his proximity, but she lifted her chin with a flourish and met the challenge in his eyes with one of her own. She did not see how Shaamil could possibly know of their plans. But, as she and Basaal were swept into the congratulations of the brothers, Eleanor found herself wondering if there was any way he did.
***
The wedding party made their way through the wide, white halls, Eleanor, on Basaal’s arm, and Hannia, with the help of two maidservants, carrying the long train behind her.
“Remember, you promised to enjoy this,” Basaal prodded.
“Am I not?” Eleanor asked, pulled from her thoughts by his words before she had even realized her mind had wandered.
“You’re wearing the same look,” he argued, “that you often did on the battle run while counting up men and supplies and hours.”
Eleanor took a deep breath, or rather, tried to take a deep breath, increasingly frustrated with the tightness of the gown. “You know I’ve never been one to rush into a new experience with haphazard enjoyment,” she said.
“I know,” Basaal stated.
And he did know. Pulling herself closer to him, she let out whatever breath she could muster. She had promised that she would be present, and she would.
“What comes next?” she asked.
“The wedding feast.”