by Beth Brower
The old man stood, slightly hunched, and motioned to her. “I will tell you more once we have left the city. For now you must follow, quick and close.”
***
Basaal was at war, but it was a war with himself as much as it was a war with his father. The covenants of his Safeeraah were wrapped around him like the strong roots of a tree; while they held him up, they also tied him in place. Basaal now felt that they called for opposing actions.
How could he treat with Aemogen in honor—the honor the Illuminating God required of him—tied as he was by covenant to his father, when he could not condone his father’s current course? And was loyalty to the empire the same as loyalty to its emperor, even as the emperor crossed every line given by the Illuminating God?
Shaamil had separated himself from the religion—he did not practice any form of prayer, he neglected any devotion save public display, and he had exiled the prophets from Zarbadast when Basaal was a boy—enough so that Basaal was still surprised his father had honored Eleanor’s claim to marry Basaal. The emperor thought he could manipulate Basaal more effectively with her alive, no doubt.
“Are you ready to be purified?”
Basaal jerked his head up. “Come again?” he asked.
Ammar had just come from his apartments, meeting Basaal in the general corridor of the main palace. There were several servants passing around them, bowing wordlessly, giving space to the two princes.
“Are you ready for one more tedious ceremony?” Ammar asked.
“I’ve never minded ritual,” Basaal answered, still distracted.
“No, you haven’t.” Ammar fell into step beside him. “What is Eleanor doing while you’re away?” he asked. “Raiding the archivist’s hall?”
“Eleanor?” Eleanor was beneath their feet now, making her way through the tunnels of Zarbadast. “She is unwell today, doubtless from all the festivities,” Basaal answered.
Ammar frowned. “What are her symptoms?”
“Ah—” Basaal ran his fingers through his hair. “A general tiredness is all.”
***
It was an extensive maze of tunnels that ran beneath the palace. And Eleanor wondered who else besides Basaal knew of them—or used them. Dantib must have memorized the route, for she could see the careful attention evident in his face each time he stopped, as if he were trying to remember the correct way through.
Though his movements were agile, he was a very old man. The torch that he held was small, but its light was bright on his gnarled, knotted hand, testifying to years over years of work.
She did not know how long they had been moving through the tunnel, but he finally stopped and motioned towards a dark square above them.
“It is unlocked,” he whispered. “All that you must do is press the wooden door up, and it will give. I will help lift you. Then you must drop the rope down for me. Be quiet as you can.”
He dropped the torch, smothering the embers with his foot. Eleanor blinked in the darkness, looking up. She was now able to make out lines of light around the trap door above her head. A sound from farther down the tunnel echoed towards them, and the muscles in Eleanor’s body gripped her bones.
“A rat,” Dantib whispered.
Her eyes were now adjusted to the dark, and Eleanor could see he had laced his two hands together, motioning for Eleanor to place her foot between his hands. Doubting he could lift her, Eleanor did as he asked, pushing up and steadying herself against the tunnel’s ceiling.
The wooden door was close, and with a bit of effort, she pushed it open as Dantib held her steady. The rich smell of spices filled Eleanor’s lungs, and she grasped the edges of the stone floor above her, pulling herself up despite the tight strain in her shoulders. Catching her breath, she could feel the hard stones against her knees.
She reached forward in the dim light of what appeared to be a storeroom and found a small rope with a loop at one end. Lowering it into the tunnel below, she gripped it with all her strength as Dantib’s weight pulled the rope taut. Dantib reached up—first, with a single hand, then, two—hanging onto the edge. He seemed unable to bring himself up any farther. So Eleanor dropped the rope and grabbed the old man’s wrists, careful not to make any noise as she hoisted him up into the storeroom.
Once Dantib was free from the tunnel, he shut the trap door and locked it. Meanwhile, Eleanor looked around them. The room was filled with spices, crates and barrels of spices. It was kept cool, and little light trickled in.
Dantib motioned for Eleanor to help him as he rolled an old, faded rug over the door, then they shifted several barrels to cover it. When all was back in place, the entrance to the tunnel was completely concealed.
“Where are we?” she whispered, out of breath.
Dantib motioned for her to be quiet and lead her up a stairway to the ground floor. They passed a small, barred window, and the stable master removed a pebble from his pocket. Standing on his toes, he lifted his hand up and dropped the pebble through the bars. The sound of soldiers could be heard in the corridor above and Dantib froze, waiting for the footsteps to pass. Once the hallway had quieted, Dantib nodded and led Eleanor down the hall, pausing at the corner, and looking around it carefully. Peering over Dantib’s shoulder, Eleanor could see the front doors of a building. They were open, but two guards stood on the street, talking to each other and watching the people. She could also hear more soldiers, moving in a room nearby.
Eleanor was petrified as she waited for Dantib to do something, but he just stood there watching the street then looking down the hallway behind them. Someone laughed, and Eleanor heard footsteps approaching. The muscles in Dantib’s face shifted, and his eyes returned to the front gate. Just then, a man riding a horse appeared outside on the street. It was the guard, Basaal’s guard, Zanntal.
Eleanor allowed herself a slight feeling of relief as Zanntal motioned to the soldiers at the door, calling them over to him. The men stepped a few feet into the street, and Zanntal kept them occupied with a description of supplies he needed for a royal feast. So Dantib and Eleanor flew around the corner just as another soldier came into view. They slipped silently out the entrance, behind the guards, into the busy, festival-filled street. Eleanor looked back once at Zanntal, but he paid them no attention. Pulling her headscarf down over her face, she let out an anxious breath and followed Dantib. They lost themselves in the city.
***
The ceremonial council—and its purification rite—was to be held in a large room in the main palace. In only a matter of moments, the brothers had all assembled, speaking amongst themselves until Shaamil entered the room.
Basaal watched as his father took his seat at the head of the long table. They had not truly spoken all week, and he was uncertain if the hint of goodwill exhibited after the wedding ceremony still held. The emperor’s face was unreadable, but his eyes were active, scanning the faces of his sons as they took their seats. Emir sat opposite the emperor, the remaining brothers—Ashim, Arsaalan, Ammar, Kiarash, and Basaal—flanking both sides.
When all were seated, Emir stood and began the ceremonial council.
“Who is it,” he began, “that has come to swear himself to the Illuminating God, the empire, and the emperor?”
“It is I,” the brothers responded simultaneously.
“And who is it,” Emir continued, “that comes on this day of purification to make himself clean before the same?”
“I,” Basaal said alone.
“Then, let us begin.”
***
The smells of the street were fair and foul: spices; refuse; crowds of people; vendors, calling out their wares; bright colors; and laughter. Today was the largest festival of the year, and not only did all of Zarbadast turn out but, as Basaal had said, many people had also come in from the provinces to buy, sell, and celebrate.
Eleanor’s simple brown clothing did not call attention, for it was poor in comparison to what she saw around her. Dantib held her by the elbow, guiding her th
rough the crowds, following a path that crossed the busiest streets.
“How much time do we have before they begin looking for us?” Eleanor asked in a side street that Dantib led her down.
“The prince said we would have, at the very least, one hour, at the very most, three,” he said. “Almost an hour has already passed.”
Eleanor pulled again at her headscarf. “What is our plan?”
“There are many travelers in and out of Zarbadast today,” Dantib explained. “We must leave through the east gate and reach the eastern rock lands before nightfall. Our horses are waiting a handful of days outside of Zarbadast. Are you prepared to travel all night?” He peered in her eyes for a moment.
“Yes,” Eleanor said, her heartbeat up her throat as she looked around the jumble of the marketplace they were passing through. “Just show me where to go.”
Dantib grabbed Eleanor’s hand, and they fled through the endless maze of stairs and streets, moving towards the East.
***
“Basaal?”
Basaal shot his head up like the flick of a whip’s end and looked into the eyes of Emir.
“Pardon?” he asked.
“The correct answer would be, ‘Yes, my Lord Emperor.’” Emir’s tone was impatient. Evidently, seven days of celebrations had worn on the first son, and he had little tolerance now for this final ritual.
“Yes,” Basaal said as he nodded towards his father, repeating the words with all the steadiness he could muster, “My Lord Emperor.” Shaamil paused, his eyes on Basaal, then turned his attention back to the words that Emir was speaking.
The ceremony continued, and Basaal shifted from the uncomfortable emotion in his chest, the hollow pounding in his ears threatening to undermine his warlike state of mind. But the fear gnawed at him that at any moment Eleanor would be reported missing. Basaal again tried to give himself over to the words of the ceremony. But it was another failed attempt. His thoughts could not leave Eleanor for a moment, and he felt strange, as if he had defeated himself and lost his center.
“Honor for Imirillia, Honor for Imirillia, Honor for Imirillia, and blessing upon her emperor,” the brothers repeated together. Basaal joined late in the chant. No one seemed to have noticed.
“Basaal,” Kiarash hissed.
Basaal blinked and looked up. They were all staring at him.
“It’s time to make your covenant to the empire,” Emir said.
“Yes, I was—I was thinking,” he explained. “I was preparing myself.”
Basaal stood in place, his hands clasped before him and his head bowed, and repeated the ceremonial phrases. He remembered all the words, but his mind was still with Eleanor, who should have slipped from the palace storehouse by now, into the streets of Zarbadast. As he spoke, he thought about how they would run down into the markets, weaving amongst those there to observe the day of purification. Then Dantib would lead Eleanor to the east gate and out onto the busy road, where merchants, travelers, pilgrims, and revelers would be pouring back and forth in a busy stream of celebration.
He finished speaking his pledge and knelt on the ground beside the table as a silver bowl was placed before him. Pushing his sleeves back, Basaal dipped his hands into the water, washing them in symbolic promise of cleansing himself to honor God, empire, and emperor. Then Emir handed him a towel, uttered a final blessing, and it was over.
Kiarash clapped Basaal on the back and helped him stand, which dissipated his dreamlike vision of following Eleanor from the city. The noises of the room flooded his ears, and Basaal finally felt present. Each brother congratulated him, and Kiarash made a comment about being the only brother still unmarried.
“Aside from Ammar,” Kiarash rushed to add. “Not that he could get a girl if he tried.”
Ammar did not look entertained. Shaamil rose from his chair at the head of the room and actually smiled as Ashim said something to him that Basaal could not hear. Then he walked to where Basaal stood and extended his hand. “You have taken upon yourself the covenants of cleansing necessary to fully commit to God, empire, and emperor,” he said. “May you have the honor to keep them.” Basaal took his father’s hand and nodded. Then Shaamil continued. “Your seriousness in this thing pleases me.”
He hadn’t meant to jerk his head up so fast, but Basaal did, looking directly into his father’s eyes. He found no sarcasm evident there, no biting edge, but rather the shadow of sincere affection. Ironic, Basaal thought, that this had been the only holy ritual he had ever undertaken in his life where his mind was not fully present.
“Do I please you, Father?” he asked.
Shaamil lifted his ringed hand and touched Basaal’s neck only a moment. Then, saying nothing and with Emir at his side, he left the room. Basaal watched him go, feeling a sense of mourning. In a matter of hours, his ever-shifting relationship with his father would turn once again, twisting like the dry root of a starved desert plant whose wood would soon split irreparably. And Basaal was sad for it.
Arsaalan grabbed Basaal’s arm. “Come,” he said, “and spend some time with us.”
“I don’t think we should invite him along,” Kiarash said. “His sparrow’s song is so saccharine I can hardly bear his company.”
“I’ll come,” Basaal accepted with a forced smile. “Eleanor is much more to look upon than Kiarash, but if Ashim promises to be there, I’d be happy to make the sacrifice.”
In truth, it could not have been better had he planned it that way. This would buy Eleanor and Dantib the time they needed to disappear into the rocks east of Zarbadast.
Kiarash pulled at Ashim’s beard and mentioned something about bad taste.
“If you are going to be absent, would you mind if I check on Eleanor?” Ammar said from behind Basaal.
Basaal half turned. He had not realized Ammar was still in the room. “Why?” he asked.
“Jealous already?” Kiarash laughed. “That’s a bad sign.”
Ammar’s brow knit, and he looked at Basaal strangely. “You said she was not feeling well. As her physician, it would be unsuitable for me to ignore her fatigue.”
“Clearly,” Basaal said almost too readily. “Yes. It’s only—I don’t—I believe she was sleeping when I left. That is to say, she meant to rest,” he explained, trying to hide his unease. “But please, visit. I just did not want you to wake her—that is all.”
“I have a task that will take some time, and then I will go,” Ammar said. “Eleanor never does sleep long, even when ill.”
“Yes,” Basaal said, and he shrugged so stiffly that he almost laughed at himself. “And tell her I won’t be far behind you.”
***
The soldiers passed without looking twice in their direction, but Eleanor still felt her stomach twist until they had moved farther up the street. The eastern gate stood ahead of them, a tall, arched display of beautifully carved stone. Soldiers stood near it, eyeing the many people pouring in and out.
It was late enough in the day for them to leave the city unnoticed. So, although Eleanor’s entire body was beating with the drumming of her heart, she and Dantib passed through the gate, waiting patiently for the crowd to give way. She held Dantib’s arm with her covered hand, being careful to keep her headscarf pulled down, and tried to imitate the tired motions of the venders and herders around her.
Walking away from Zarbadast without looking back was a surreal task for Eleanor. It seemed strange and so unbelievable that she was free of the city. Using a staff he had purchased in the market, Dantib altered his walk to reflect his many years; a worn figure with his knapsack, old sandals on his feet. No one would have ever guessed the treason he was committing.
Soon, they were pushed to the side of the road by a small band of horsemeonn and blended into those on foot as they spread out towards the eastern deserts.
“Rocks,” Dantib said to Eleanor not long after getting onto the road. “There are many rocks and canyons. By the end of the day, we will have dropped down into one of them
and will be lost from the view of the main road.”
“Will we get far enough to be untraceable?” Eleanor asked quietly, aware that her accent would set her apart if overheard.
“Be the Illuminating God willing,” Dantib replied.
Then, as if it were a sign, a woman called out to them. “There, you, old man! I’ve sold my wares and travel east the day long, if you wish a ride.”
They turned to see a woman, covered with a jangle of cheap trinkets, her skin tight and discolored from years under the desert sun. She was driving a jumble of wood barely passing for a cart, pulled by an equally disreputable donkey.
Eleanor bent her head as Dantib greeted the woman warmly. “Seraagh herself could not have made a better offer,” he said. “My dear woman, I accept your ride. We have many days left in our journey and would appreciate a rest to our bones.”
With Eleanor’s help, Dantib lifted himself into the front of the cart. Then he began a congenial conversation with the woman while Eleanor climbed onto the back, sitting on the edge of the cart, where she could see the massive city spreading out behind her. There, to the north of the eastern gate, rising above a cacophony of buildings and structures, gleamed the white perfection of the seven palaces.
Eleanor grabbed the sides of the cart as the donkey shifted and moved forward, taking them over three rather large holes in the road. Pulling her teeth together against the resulting rattle, Eleanor watched as she moved farther from Zarbadast. Farther from Basaal, and his rituals and his honor and— Eleanor gripped the cart harder, taken off guard by the pain she felt at the thought of leaving him behind. If only he had come. If only he had come with her.
***
Basaal had endured almost two hours of long, stretched out anticipation, envisioning when and how the storm would break. As much as he tried to listen, Basaal could not take his eyes from the doors of Arsaalan’s grand salon, speaking only an occasional observation, waiting—and waiting.
It took longer than Basaal had thought for Ammar to come into the room, white-faced and stern.
“Basaal.” Ammar tilted his chin at him and stepped into the corner of the room. This was the first test, acting a part before his brothers. Basaal stood and walked to Ammar.