by Beth Brower
“Eleanor?” he said, seeming confused. He was sweating in the warm night, and before he could calm his breathing, Basaal shivered.
“You screamed. You called out.” She studied his face in the darkness. “I don’t think the guards at the door heard you, but I can’t be sure.”
Hearing this, he sat up and ran his hand through his hair. Then he pushed her hands away gently. “Thank you, Eleanor,” he said, but he could not look at her. “I am sorry for disturbing your sleep.”
She shook her head, wishing to say he shouldn’t worry. But the pain in his face caused her to withdraw to the bed, self-conscious for having witnessed his private agony so clearly.
Lying down, she watched as Basaal lifted himself up from the cushions on the floor and walked to the table against the wall. Then he splashed water onto his face and leaned forward, his arms spread out, pressed against the table, his back to her.
“Would you like to share your dream?” Eleanor asked quietly.
Basaal turned towards her. “No,” he said, and then he returned to the cushions on the floor. He said no more to her, but she knew it was a long time before either of them fell asleep.
***
“What is it?” Eleanor asked as she eyed the box suspiciously.
Basaal rolled his eyes and leaned back against a long sofa in the sitting room outside his bedchamber. “We’ve been over this,” he said. “One does not reveal a gift.”
“It’s in a box.”
“Yes, and no viper dwells within,” Basaal said. “Open it, and see. It belonged to my mother, if that makes you feel any more at ease.”
Eleanor tilted her head and raised her eyebrows before unlatching the box and opening the lid slowly. When she gasped, Basaal threw his head back, laughing. Inside the box was a beautiful flute.
“And now,” he said, “we shall have some Aemogen music!”
Eleanor lifted the flute with reverence and held it between her fingers, moving them along the holes in delicate motions. Basaal watched her as she admired the instrument with pleasure.
“I never knew if my mother played,” he explained, “but this has always been among her things.”
“It is an Aemogen flute,” Eleanor said as she turned it over and read the faded inscription. “Given to your mother by the royal house of Aemogen, my mother and my father.” She pointed reverently to a faded crest. “It’s their joint symbol,” she explained.
Eleanor looked up at Basaal then down again at the instrument. She lifted it timidly to her lips and played a light, experimental tune, testing its clear sound. After stretching the notes, warming to their sound, Eleanor seemed satisfied. Basaal leaned back, listening to Eleanor play an Aemogen folk tune that he had often heard on the battle run.
“I became fond of that one,” he said after she finished, his eyes closed as he reclined against the soft cushions. “Aedon is partial to it as well, I believe.”
In the trail of Basaal’s words, Eleanor saw Aedon in her mind, his expression when he was in agreement with her on any matter, be it state business or personal preference. She remembered the countless times she’d looked up from the papers on her desk to see him sitting nearby, studying a matter of fen diplomacy or harvest negotiations. They had been young when the running of Aemogen had been turned over into their hands, and Eleanor had needed him.
“Yes,” she finally responded, placing the flute back into its box and setting it aside.
“You miss him,” Basaal said. His eyes were now open, and he watched Eleanor closely.
“I do,” she admitted.
Basaal looked thoughtful—as if he would speak, as if he had something to say or to ask—but the moment passed, and his earnest expression softened into a memory. Then he smiled.
***
The days passed.
Eleanor did her best to keep the promise she had made Basaal. She was curious and attentive, and she smiled easily and laughed often when just she and he were in company together. Events were held each day, but Eleanor and Basaal were left alone often enough. Each day, he continued to give her a gift. On the fourth day, Basaal gifted Eleanor with a ruby and pearl wanderer’s mark, inlaid in gold, large enough to fit inside her palm.
“Add it to the pendant I gave you for the wedding,” Basaal said. Eleanor still wore that ruby about her neck and the faint, gold bracelet on her wrist. All the other jewelry she had removed and set aside.
“And, what does it mean,” she asked, “when one wears the wanderer’s mark around one’s neck?”
“It means,” Basaal said as he smiled, “that you are too scared to commit yourself to the pain of the real thing.”
He laughed as Eleanor pulled a face, removing her necklace and slipping the wanderer’s mark into place beside her wedding gem.
“It means,” he began again, “that the journey ahead may be unknown but that you, or the one who gifted it upon you, wishes you the protection of the Illuminating God as you go to your fate.”
Eleanor moved her finger across the mark lying against her collarbone. “Is that why you gave it to me?” she asked.
“It’s one of the reasons,” he replied.
***
“Your next gift is in the stables,” Basaal told Eleanor on the fifth day. He sat reading on the edge of the bed while Eleanor, still in her nightdress, sat next to him, playing a quiet, nimble tune on the silver flute. “We should be going there soon,” he added, “if either of us decides to dress for the day.”
“An excursion to the stables?” Eleanor replied. “I can hardly contain my excitement. I didn’t think your bride would have the privilege of walking so far from the seven palaces.”
Basaal looked up from his text. “And if you behave yourself,” he said, “there will be a parade.”
Eleanor laughed and continued to play the flute for a few minutes. Then Hannia entered and rushed Eleanor off to take a bath.
“How am I to show you to all Zarbadast,” she said, “with so little time to see you ready?”
“You mean, there really is a parade?” Eleanor asked in surprise. Hannia closed the door to the small antechamber where a bath had been readied.
“Of course! There will be a great procession,” Hannia said impatiently as she helped Eleanor disrobe.
Eleanor slipped into the bathwater. “Basaal only mentioned it this morning, and I had supposed he was teasing.”
“Has he taught you nothing about manners?” Hannia clucked as she dropped oils into the bathwater. “In Zarbadast, you do not speak of your activities until just before—as a surprise to your guest. It is only proper that you should know on the day the events you will attend,” she explained. “Aside from the more important days, like your wedding day,” she added, “it would be considered rude if Basaal told you everything you would be experiencing during the week. He would not be so impolite to his new bride.”
“That,” Eleanor said as she sank farther into the water, “makes no sense to me.”
“There are some things you do that make little sense to me,” Hannia said as she hurried Eleanor back out of the bath, wrapping her in a robe. “We have so little time to prepare. I cannot believe you and the prince sat lounging all morning long.”
“I thought it was rude for him to tell me too early about the day?” Eleanor teased as she pulled the robe closer to her wet skin.
“He could have told you hours ago. Now shush!” Hannia glared. “Do not speak. We have too little time.”
***
Zarbadast was like an endless maze to Eleanor, one street snaking after another. It seemed larger from inside the walls than it had in the majestic view Basaal had showed Eleanor that night he helped her from her tent to see the sleeping dragon of a city, settled in its own embers, spreading over the rises of desert.
Eleanor rode Hegleh—the gift she had received that day—half a horse length to Basaal’s left. Behind them rode his brothers, with their wives and children, on horseback or on indescribably ornate litters.
Entertainers of all kinds walked beside the royal family, calling out to the crowds, which were pressed against the walls of the streets. Basaal’s soldiers prowled around the procession, and Eleanor saw that the honor guard, dressed in black instead of red, stayed near the prince, their eyes attentive.
Basaal was dressed in the same fine clothing that he wore for the wedding ceremony as well as his weaponry of black and pearl. On a black chain around his neck hung an egg-shaped pendant of the largest ruby that Eleanor had ever seen. Eleanor too wore the same gown from their ceremony, its long train held by half a dozen maidservants, who walked behind Hegleh, spreading the impossibly heavy skirt so that it would not touch the ground. The afta dar on her hands and feet was as beautiful ever, and Hannia had arranged Eleanor’s hair in elegant twists, complemented by a long pair of pearl earrings.
The people of Zarbadast, who flanked the streets, pressed against the high stone buildings. They were varied and lively. The rich, the poor, and denizens of every rank and trade were crowded into the streets. Those who were lucky enough to live in the tall buildings flanking the wider throughways watched from the comfort of their balconies.
Basaal would occasionally recognize members of the wealthy class with a nod or a motion with his hand. He seemed very aware of how to bestow personal favor in a way so that they might feel their importance. And, bestowing his favor did not stop with the affluent and wealthy of the city. The poor would also reach up towards their prince, and, although guards surrounded Basaal, he would meet their eyes with a smile and, occasionally, move his hand to form cultural symbols that would relay messages.
Eleanor had observed these obscure movements, almost always in passing, during the time she had spent in the palace, but she did not understand any of them despite her watching. What she had seen before, however, had never seemed to bear the significance that they bore now as Basaal shared them with the individuals of Zarbadast. This was fascinating, and Eleanor was stirred to study the layers of meaning in the gestures of Basaal’s hand. Each sign seemed brief and controlled, Basaal ever holding himself separate but attentive in the act. And the people loved him for it.
Each quarter of Zarbadast was notable in its personality. In the wealthy streets, built of hard stone, trees and plants rose in silent eloquence around the gates and windows, and Eleanor saw fine figures in fine clothing. The humble portions of the city were made from bricks wrought out of sand and straw. They were dusty, with corners knocked from their places. Eleanor noticed ruts and runs and children and comfort. And the beauty of the women there, smiling, holding toddlers in their arms. These meek quarters of the great city caught Eleanor’s heart, and she wished to speak with the people here.
There were also many merchant quarters, squares built around public wells, where markets and trading stalls bustled as hives in continual motion, filled with people watching the procession, calling out, and shouting songs and chants. There were those that stared with curiosity; others, with mistrust.
Eleanor had never felt more alien, dangerous, or unknown. For some watched her with hesitation because she was different from them, and, perhaps, a threat to their way of life. Eleanor forgave them instantly, for she knew that some people in Aemogen had thought—justifiably—the same thing of Basaal.
On the horizon, beyond the golden walls and roads of the desert city, a circular wave, dark and blue, was repeating itself, moving closer. Then the sound of thunder rattled in the distance. The crowd looked up, an electric whisper spreading among the people. A storm, a rarity here, was descending upon the city.
Hegleh felt nervous beneath Eleanor’s hand. She knew that the mere weight of her dress would be enough to test her riding skills should Hegleh rear up, and she tried to soothe the horse as best she could. The wind moved silently across Eleanor’s arms and up her bare neck, past her face. It was light, but growing in strength as a threatening gray sky became more pronounced behind the blue clouds, tumbling towards them with the sound of thunder at their back.
Basaal looked back over his shoulder, his eyes catching hers, and he indicated that they would soon be returning back to the palaces. Then a snap split the distant sky. The crowd screamed, some laughing at the prospect of the rare storm. But Hegleh had jumped, twisting in fright. Eleanor’s dress did not give her freedom, and, sliding back, she grabbed Hegleh’s hair rather than putting her full weight behind the reins.
A hand reached out, grabbing Hegleh’s bridle, a voice settling the mare with a string of comforting words. It was a member of Basaal’s honor guard, a man in black with a mark on his arm that was almost shockingly bright blue. Eleanor did not look at his face, focusing instead on Hegleh, but she did notice that Basaal had paused the procession, looking worried until he saw who was helping her. Then he nodded and moved on. As Hegleh followed, calmed, Eleanor turned toward the guard to thank him.
She started in surprise, for his face was as familiar to her as any she had ever seen. In that half second, Eleanor felt as though part of her had returned home somehow. An expression mirroring Eleanor’s feelings seemed to crossed his face, and he looked away before glancing back at Eleanor. She nodded, and he touched his hand to the center of his brow, bowing his head in response.
And then, the sounds of the horse’s feet against the cobblestones, the shouts of the people, and the tangle of city noises returned in an instant. Eleanor realized that seeing the stranger’s face had erased the sounds from around her in the moment that she saw him. She would ask Basaal later about this soldier. She felt she must already know him, but no, she had never seen him, despite the feeling that she had seen his face a thousand times. Eleanor did not look at him again, but the security of knowing he rode with them brought her relief.
The procession was returning now, winding up the streets to the seven palaces, the pinnacle of the city. The soldier with the blue mark remained close to Eleanor as they climbed the final road and passed through the large gates of the seven palaces. Behind her, Emir exclaimed something in Imirillian Eleanor could not understand, and someone laughed in response.
Dozens of grooms spilled into the courtyard, and all the wives and children began to chatter and talk, happy the procession was over and anxious to be free of their ceremonial clothing. Basaal dismounted and handed the reins to an old stable master. Then he stepped back to help Eleanor, laughing as her dress caught on Hegleh’s saddle. Eleanor looked around, but the guard with the blue mark had disappeared.
Then Hannia came down the white stairs and shouted instructions to the maidservants, who were negotiating Eleanor’s train. As she did, the same groom who held Refigh’s reins came forward to fetch Hegleh and led them both back to Basaal’s stables.
“The procession is long, but it’s an important tradition nonetheless,” Basaal said as Eleanor put her arm through this. He pulled at his cuff with his free hand as they began to walk towards the stairs. Then he looked up. The clouds loomed above the vibrant green of the palace trees, which seemed bent under the weight of anticipation.
“I think we are to actually have rain,” he added.
Eleanor was about to reply, but the sound of a horse’s scream caused Basaal to turn away stiffly. Hegleh had reared, and the old man was having trouble calming the horse. The stable master’s face seemed wrought of worry and misery as he pulled at the reins. Then Eleanor could see blood on the white around Hegleh’s mouth. Refigh, also unsettled and spooked by Hegleh’s scream, was passed off to a younger groom as the old man cursed Hegleh, striking the poor animal.
Basaal jolted. He moved away from Eleanor, speaking loud enough for many in the courtyard to hear. “What happened?” he said, yelling at the man for hitting the horse. “Why is Queen Eleanor’s horse bleeding?”
“I—I do not know,” the old man stammered, and he shrunk before Basaal. “She was frightened, nervous for the storm,” he explained. “And I pulled on her rein to shake her—”
“Pulled?” Basaal took Hegleh’s reins from the man and inspected Hegle
h’s mouth. The horse whinnied in pain, looking towards the stable master with apparent mistrust. Eleanor watched the exchange, uncomfortable. “By the stars, man,” Basaal said, and his voice shook. “You have pulled this horse hard enough to gouge her gum. What foolishness is this?” he demanded. “Why would you strike my horse?”
“The mare would not respond to a lighter touch,” the man defended.
“Then, perhaps another stable would suit your beastly needs better,” Basaal said, raising his voice almost to a shout.
Basaal’s face looked pale, and he was breathing heavy. Arsaalan came to his side, speaking slow, calming words, but Basaal shook him off. Some of the wives watched only a moment before dismissing the scene, but Laaeitha came to Eleanor’s side and reached for her hand. Eleanor was grateful to not have to stand alone, waiting for the tension to pass.
“I know. I know Dantib has served me well,” Basaal responded to something Arsaalan was saying before handing Hegleh’s reins to a younger groom. Then Basaal turned from facing his brother back toward the stable master. “You have served me well for many years, Dantib, but you are old. It is time you take your rest as is befitting an old man and allow a younger man to take your place. I no longer require your services.”
“But—” Dantib said, reaching his hand up towards Basaal, who was already turning away. Basaal turned back, his expression livid, his arm rising as if he would strike. Eleanor moved to speak, but Laaeitha pressed her fingers into Eleanor’s arm.
“I am surprised at this,” Laaeitha whispered. “He’s always seemed so fond of this servant.”
“Laaeitha!” a voice called from behind them. Eleanor and Laaeitha turned to see Emir about to ascend the stairs. “You are wanted by the first wife,” he said. “Go to it.”
“The rights of a first wife, eh?” she said in a low, teasing voice. Eleanor smiled in response before turning her attention back to Basaal.
“You have one day,” Basaal said. “One more day to train your undergroom in the needs of my horses, then I want you gone. And,” he added, “take Hegleh to the larger stables in the south end of the city, where Emmen can attend to her needs.”