by Beth Brower
Care and respect, life and children—all of this Basaal offered to Eleanor by helping her to escape and to reclaim her throne in Ainsley. The only difficulty, Basaal admitted to himself, was how to justify riding his army into Aemogen. This did not align with what he had sworn to uphold.
And, as he stood there, watching Eleanor sleep, Basaal wondered whether his own covenants to himself could withstand the invasion without being compromised. He walked closer to his bed, where she lay, admitting to himself that he did not know if he wanted to know the answer.
As Basaal sat down on the side of the bed, Eleanor moved slightly, and he rested his hand on her arm. “Are you sleeping?” he asked. But she gave no response. So Basaal gathered some of the cushions from the bed for himself and threw them onto the floor. Then he lifted Eleanor’s sleeping body, trying to cover her by pulling the blanket that was beneath her up around her.
“Basaal?”
“Just a moment,” he half grunted, trying to maneuver Eleanor and the blanket without waking her up. Basaal laughed as he failed miserably. Laying Eleanor back down, he pulled the blanket from the other side of the bed and wrapped it up and over her body. “Is that better?” he asked.
“Mmm—” was all she replied.
Basaal leaned forward, kissing her gently on the lips. Eleanor responded by moving her hand to his face, and Basaal cursed the temptation of the moment before turning away, letting out a long, slow breath.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, Basaal coerced his stubborn boots from his feet then pulled off his shirt, tossing it onto the floor, next to the pile of cushions of his makeshift bed. After he had settled down on them into whatever comfort he could manage, Basaal lay awake on the floor, counting her every breath, until he finally fell into sleep hours later.
Chapter Fifteen
The breeze hinted across Eleanor’s face, bringing with it the sounds of the ocean. She reached her arms forward, stretching without opening her eyes, thinking that, perhaps, she was at Old Ainsley fen and soon Thayne would urge her to breakfast, and then she would slip down to the cliffs above the tumble of the southern seas. But when she opened her eyes it was the carved white walls of Zarbadast that stood before her.
Eleanor turned onto her back and looked around the bedchamber. She brushed her hair away from her face, her fingers catching on the jewels woven into her locks. She was alone. Curtains hung about the room in transparent red, almost appearing pink in the early morning sunlight, which came in from a large open window. They were lifted and billowed by the soft wind.
Furniture, more elegant than Eleanor had ever seen, also adorned the chamber: a table with carved gilded chairs; an ornate black armoire inlaid with pearl; and two carved side tables, holding a simple assortment of trinkets, boxes, and a beautiful sculpture of a great golden armored horse, tossing its head to the side. But Basaal was not there.
Eleanor lifted herself from the bed and slipped her feet to the cool floor. As she stepped across the floor towards a set of brass doors flung open wide, the hem of the teal robe moved over the marble like the ocean. Outside, there were steps leading down towards a garden. Because she could hear no sounds from the outer chamber or the corridor beyond, Eleanor stepped down the stairs, guessing it was in the garden she would find Basaal.
The garden rolled out like a vision before her. Grasses, beautiful waves of grasses, taller than Eleanor’s waist, straight and green with ethereal golden heads tossed in the morning breeze. They spread before Eleanor, only interrupted by a small grove of trees in the center.
Interspersed with the grasses, in geometric patterns, were rows and rows of tall, brilliantly red flowers like Eleanor had never seen before. Their green stalks held an intricate array of blooms—expanded as if they were on a plate—lustrous in their red intense color, each the shape of a cross. Eleanor stepped down to inspect them closer. It was the same flower from the symbol of the wanderer’s mark.
A movement in the distance caught Eleanor’s eye, and she looked towards the trees. There she saw a figure, performing a ritual prayer. Basaal. His movements were slow and deliberate, as if he was lost to them. Waiting for him to finish, Eleanor ran her hands over the golden tufts atop the grasses and admired the red flowers. This was a large garden, enclosed by white walls with—as far as Eleanor could see—no entrance save Basaal’s personal bedchamber. Along the perimeter, where the grasses and red flowers gave way, stood borders of tall trees and an undergrowth of rich green. The morning was cool, and the wind off the desert was sweet.
As she moved, Eleanor’s tired muscles spoke of the days before the wedding. Her body was tired and sore, and it felt good to walk slowly, her bare feet pressing on the square marble steps that made up each pathway. In the peace of the garden, Eleanor was caught unaware by two subtle revelations—she was at complete ease in this place, and she had not felt so unencumbered in many months.
“Eleanor?”
She turned, and there he was, coming towards her. “Did you sleep well?” Basaal inquired.
Eleanor smiled from watching his graceful approach. “Yes, actually. I feel more rested than I have in ages—tired but rested.”
When he reached her, it felt only natural for Basaal to slide his hand behind Eleanor’s neck and kiss her.
“Good,” he answered as he pulled away.
“You never told me of this place,” Eleanor said as she looked around her.
“Does it meet the approval of your discerning Aemogen eye?” Basaal asked.
“It’s beautiful,” she replied. “The red flower, what is it called?” She reached a hand towards a section of blooms. “It looks to be the same pattern of petals found on the wanderer’s mark.”
Basaal looked impressed by her observation. “And what have you discovered of the wanderer’s mark?” he asked.
“Very little,” Eleanor replied. She shared with him what Hannia had told her as she began to walk slowly along the paths. Basaal followed her, listening. He said nothing until she had finished.
“I suppose, in simplistic terms, her definition is right,” he said. “It is a mark wanderers use to manifest their motivations and desires. But it is tied to our religion and has greater implications,” he explained. “The mark is layered with significant meanings. These days, many treat it as an expression of fashion, desecrating the sacred purpose of this symbol.”
“What, then, does it mean to you?” Eleanor looked towards Basaal as he fell into step beside her. “You wear it over your heart, signifying an endless devotion to your home despite your path,” she added. “What layers exist beyond that?”
“Well,” Basaal said, picking a tuft of grass as they walked. “The Safeeraah are covenants made with the Illuminating God, often—but not always—including a covenant with another individual.”
“Like many that you wear,” Eleanor inserted. “The Safeeraah from your mother and from your brothers—they are tied into covenant with the Illuminating God?”
“Yes,” Basaal nodded. “The wanderer’s mark is different. The wearer, who chooses to venture from home, reflects on his understanding—of the teachings found in the Seven Scrolls and other holy writ—then decides what he wants from his journeys and chooses to place the mark in accordance with both considerations as a sacred promise to himself,” he explained. “It is not something one enters into lightly.”
“And are many able to keep these promises?” she asked.
“They try, sometimes failing despite their intentions,” Basaal answered honestly. “But as a wanderer keeps moving, so must he keep trying to live his promises, obtaining pardon from the Illuminating God each time he fails, if his persistence is pure.
“They say,” Basaal continued, “though it is not recorded in the Seven Scrolls, that Seraagh, the messenger angel of the Illuminating God, rose one morning during her time of disobedience before Him to find the wanderer’s mark upon her stomach and upon the top of each hand—expressions of a lover. Once she had returned in obedience to the Illumin
ating God, she woke to find the marks on her hands gone, replaced with one in each palm; a remembrance that all her actions were to glorify the Illuminating God until his work with men was complete. The mark would then be restored to the back of each hand when she and the sun were finally to be together.”
“And the mark on her stomach?” Eleanor asked Basaal as they came to the steps leading into Basaal’s bedchamber.
He took a long glance at Eleanor. “It remained a symbol of the hunger that she felt for her love despite returning faithfully to her duty. The Illuminating God did leave her that much.”
Before Eleanor could do little more than absorb this sentence, Basaal disappeared through the transparent red curtains.
***
“You look tired, my dear,” Hannia said as she cleaned Eleanor’s face with a wet cloth. “You have only one more celebration, and then the day is over.”
Eleanor nodded but did not speak. Basaal had done his best to warn Eleanor about the relentless celebrations and ceremonies. But now, in early evening, before attending a grand banquet that would be hosted by Emir, Basaal’s eldest brother, she could scarcely keep her eyes open.
Eleanor slipped off the gown she had been wearing all day, and Hannia draped her in a beautiful melon-colored garment of Imirillian style, embroidered with golden leaves. Then she bound up Eleanor’s hair—now freed from the jewels—twisting it away from her face and securing it with a gold and diamond straight pin. Hannia soon had Eleanor adorned in more jewelry of gold: a necklace, a couple rings, and a pair of long pendant earrings, made of golden spheres, hanging just above her shoulders.
After Eleanor was dressed, Hannia decorated Eleanor’s eyes and painted her lips dark red. Then she brushed Eleanor’s face with a fine powder and stepped back, clucking in approval.
“They say,” she said, tucking a loose strand of Eleanor’s hair back, “that Emir throws the grandest parties in Zarbadast. There will be hours of food, music, and, perhaps, even dancing. And you look the part, my dear.”
Eleanor yawned, rubbing her fingers across Basaal’s crest on her forearm. It was still tender under her fingertips.
“And now, I will leave you to be ready for your husband,” the older maid smiled. “I am happy for him, for you both.” She looked at Eleanor in a way that reminded Eleanor of her own mother, and Hannia must have noticed this thought, for she clucked her tongue and began to comfort Eleanor. “Now, do not be sad. You are tired. Yes, I can see it,” she said. “But the Prince Basaal, my master, will be a good husband unto you, and you will be happy with him. I did not think I would ever see Basaal so evenly matched, as his mother hoped he would be. And, yesterday, he told me that he was content with you as his wife,” she added, “and that there would be no more weddings beyond this.”
This stole Eleanor from her exhaustion, and she was about to ask Hannia exactly when he had said this, but then the doors opened, and Basaal entered. He had changed and now wore a fresh ensemble of all black with a sash of purple about his waist.
“A tribute to Emir,” Basaal explained as he watched Eleanor’s eyes travel to the sash. Hannia bowed silently before the prince and then disappeared from the room. “A custom of honor and respect.” Basaal sank down next to Eleanor on the low bed and leaned his head against the wall, closing his eyes. “It should be an enjoyable evening,” he said, “but I am rather tired. By the way,” Basaal added, shifting so he could see Eleanor’s face, “I have yet to give you the gift of the second day because I will present it after the feast tonight.”
“A second gift?”
“According to Imirillian tradition, the bridegroom gives the bride seven gifts,” he explained, “one on each day of the celebratory week. Yesterday, I gave you the pendant, for you to wear during the ceremony, and the bracelet. Tonight, you will receive the second gift.”
“What is it?” Eleanor asked curiously.
“I am not going to tell you,” he said. “It is a gift, which implies a bit of surprise.” He closed his eyes again and rested his head back, his hands clasped comfortably with one another across his chest.
“If the bridegroom offers a gift each day, then does not the bride also bring a gift?” Eleanor asked. “Hannia never spoke of it.”
A slow smile spread across Basaal’s face, but he did not open his eyes. “Considering the duplicitous nature of our marriage, I think it best we forgo the bride’s gift.”
Eleanor looked towards Basaal, and—though his eyes were closed—she raised her eyebrows just the same. “Ah,” was her only response.
The feast was everything Hannia had predicted it would be—and more. There was music and laughter and servants flowing throughout the chamber with food and drink. It was a more personal group than their grand wedding banquet had been, with only about seventy-five people in attendance. The emperor was not present, which, Basaal explained, was not unexpected, for he had thrown his feast and would leave most of the celebration to his sons.
Eleanor again remained quiet most of the evening, but she did notice that the people seemed vastly curious as they watched and approached them, most speaking to Basaal as their eyes looked towards Eleanor. Eleanor asked Basaal what reason he supposed for their silent inquiry.
“You have become quite well known for how you defended yourself against my father,” Basaal said as he shrugged. “You have presented yourself as the powerful woman that you are.”
“There was a time when I did not strike you as powerful,” Eleanor stated matter-of-factly. “And so, now I wonder if you are being facetious.”
Basaal looked quickly towards Eleanor. “I spoke in all sincerity,” he insisted.
“There was a time,” she continued, “when you would have dismissed any thought of my being powerful, due to the size of my country, the use of my resources, and the nature of my interactions with the people of Aemogen.”
“Yes, well,” Basaal shrugged. “The world moves, and we with it; and I see now what I did not before I was taken from my place and cast upon a stranger’s shore,” he quoted a line from the Third Scroll.
Eleanor thought for a moment before responding. “Or, in other words,” she said, “you realize now that you may have been wrong.”
“I realize that there were some things I did not understand,” Basaal countered, his tone indicating he did not see this as the same thing. “Can you believe it was almost a year ago we met?” He knit his eyebrows and offered Eleanor a half frown, half smile. “We met in the garden.”
“You were trespassing,” Eleanor said.
“You were pretending to be a gardener,” he countered.
“I was not pretending anything,” she insisted. Just then, a loud pop resounded through the noisy hall. Eleanor jumped and looked around, but Emir’s guests cheered, moving towards the long bank of open windows. “What was that?” Eleanor asked Basaal.
“Your second gift,” he responded. The prince led Eleanor by the elbow through the crowed until they were able to pass through the doorway, out onto the balcony. A second popping sound rattled the air, accompanied by a shimmering explosion of light in the sky.
Eleanor gasped. “What was that?”
“A firework,” Basaal responded.
She saw that Ammar stood nearby, a humored smile appearing on his face as he watched Eleanor’s worrisome expression. More explosions lit the sky above Zarbadast.
“It’s simple really,” Basaal shouted into her ear. “You blow up mountains; we send colors into the sky. But I am sure that it relies on the same principles of science.”
Gold, silver, red, purple, green, blue—these colors burst and spiraled in a dangerous sparkle across the dark sky, leaving trails of smoke, billowing like the skeletons of something once alive, hanging above them in the air. Each time the snap split the sky with color, it could be heard echoing down the streets in endless shocks.
“And the people,” Eleanor called over the noise and glimmer, “do they enjoy getting their teeth knocked out by the sounds of your ent
ertainment?”
Basaal laughed. “They love it,” he said. “This gift is in part for them.”
“But, how do you know?”
Basaal held up a finger as if asking her to wait.
“Can you imagine these flying out over Ainsley?” Eleanor yelled over the noise, speaking in her own language.
“Yes. The night of the spring festival,” Basaal shouted back, “just before the dancing is through.”
The fireworks exploded over every corner of Zarbadast in an endless stream until, with several bursts rupturing the night sky in simultaneous finality, it was over.
As Eleanor watched the trails of smoke float against the indigo desert sky, a wail of cheers rose from all of Zarbadast, the entire city shouting together in celebration. This rumble of voices gave Eleanor shivers along her back.
Basaal smiled, but it was not his usual loose grin, nor was it the tight acknowledgment he gave her when he felt he was right. It was an expression of tenderness for the people whose voices rose around him. A Eleanor knew that the love, or whatever affection of the heart she held for this prince, was pressed upon by the expression he held on his face when the entire city of Zarbadast had cheered.
***
She woke to the sound of a scream. Sitting up and looking around the dark chamber, Eleanor expected to see someone. But she saw no one and could only hear Basaal, calling out nervously in his sleep. She slipped from the bed and knelt down beside him.
“Basaal!”
His forehead was hot, and his face was twisted in pain. Eleanor rested one hand over his heart, covering part of the wanderer’s mark, and raised her other to his forehead.
“Don’t!” he said as if fighting Eleanor’s touch. “No!”
“Basaal,” she said again as she grabbed his shoulders and shook him hard. The prince opened his eyes, clutching her arm with his hand.