The Wanderer's Mark: Book Three of Imirillia (The Books of Imirillia 3) (13 page)

A man that Basaal recognized from the castle guard stepped forward just as a sound came from outside the door—a whistle then a sequence of knocks. The torch was extinguished, and no one moved. After a bottomless minute, the same sequence was repeated with a slight variety.

“It’s him,” someone said, and the locks were opened. As the soldiers pulled the door open, a shadow entered. They latched it shut immediately.

The man muttered something—a password, perhaps—and the torch was again lit. Whispers rattled above Basaal’s head, he heard the name Wil being said. And, when he looked up, the shadow stood gawking at him.

“On the grave of Ainorra Breagha, it is you,” the man said.

These words came from a hunched over, grotesque looking man with teeth askew and a crooked nose: dirty and stringy, a vagabond seller of sorts. But his voice did not match his bent and filthy exterior. It carried the fine tenor of a well-bred gentleman.

“You don’t recognize me, do you?” the man asked. “Well, turnabout is fair play, or so they say.”

The man removed his teeth, and Basaal started as the grotesque figure began to melt away. He detached his nose and removed two large patches of sunburned skin from his face. Then the stranger grimaced as he stripped off the thick eyebrows from his own brow. Finally, he stripped his coat away, having been stuffed and filled. Free of this restrictive garment, the stranger stood up straighter. And, with the sweep of his hand, he stripped off his grimy wig to reveal beautiful hair of silver.

The man breathed deeply. Thayne. It was Thayne of Allarstam, Telford’s younger brother and, therefore, Basaal’s own cousin. Thayne rubbed his hand across the stubble on his chin and turned to the soldier behind him.

“Successful in every way, Ansell,” Thayne said to a soldier beside him. “I am supposed to report to Ainsley, and you well know I am eager to get back.” Thayne waved towards Basaal. “How did this come about?”

Hushed and hurriedly, Ansell related how they’d taken the prince. To Basaal’s chagrin, they had been aware of him since he first approached the towers. Basaal leaned his head back against the stone and made the sound of a sigh. Thayne glanced at him sharply then back as the captain finished.

“And what does he have to say for himself?” Thayne asked, looking at the gag in Basaal’s mouth.

“It just all happened. We’ve had no time to do anything save let you into the tunnel.”

“Yes, well.” Thayne folded his arms. “I am going to take him back into a storeroom while your men prepare us dinner. The prisoner eats too,” Thayne added, seeing the soldier’s expression. “Get to it. I’ll find out if he came alone.”

Two soldiers lifted Basaal to his feet. He was pushed behind Thayne through the twists and turns of the cavern. Storerooms, indeed, they were, but Basaal could not see what was concealed in the packages and crates or what was piled in the corners. In a small room with a table, a handful of chairs, and a few candles, Thayne lifted a candle to the torch, and, after it lit, sent the guards on their way.

“I shan’t need you,” he assured them as he lit several more candles, melted onto the table with their own wax. Then Thayne offered Basaal a seat, and he removed the gag. “I trust there will be no shouting and carrying on,” he asked as if he already knew the answer.

“Thank you,” Basaal said as he wiped his face on his sleeve. Thayne did not unbind his hands. Sitting down across the table from Basaal, Thayne set his face in an amused frown.

“And so, my ghost returns,” Thayne said. “Are you flesh and blood this time or merely an apparition?”

Basaal knew Thayne expected no answer, and he gave none.

“Telford was right,” Thayne said. “I was a blind fool to have not known you as Edith’s son. A few times, the thought pressed on my mind, but I was in too much disbelief. How could it be? So, I gave up the thought. But, my, you carry her eyes and her face. Those cheekbones,” he added, “handsomest trait of the family, I’m afraid.”

“How about if we skip the formalities and cut through the questioning as well?” Basaal said briskly, leaning back in his chair, staring at the dirty, but elegant figure of his older cousin. “I am alone. No one knows I am here. I’ve never revealed—neither to any member of my military staff nor to my family nor to any friend that I know—the existence of this passage or of the towers. And my horse is tethered farther down the abandoned road in the woods. Did I answer all of your questions?”

“Not quite,” Thayne said as he folded his arms and looked with disapproval at Basaal. “I see you have no desire to discuss our common connection or your mother, so we will move on to far less agreeable topics.”

Basaal raised his eyebrows to disagree with Thayne but then altered his face to an impassive expression.

Thayne’s eyes narrowed, but it was in pain not anger. “Why am I to believe you?”

“I’m not without honor,” Basaal said as he lifted his sleeve again to his face. His nose was running. The moment struck him as a odd, a bit funny. He fought back a desperate smile. Thayne’s eyes missed the smile, for he was surveying the Safeeraah along Basaal’s forearms.

“Hotheaded, brash, self-serving,” Thayne said, ticking off a list of negative attributes. “All of these I grant your character readily. But foolishness? Carelessness? No. So, why are you here?”

“I was curious,” Basaal said as he shifted.

“Son, if we are going to be straight, let us be straight. Curiosity never bound an Imirillian royal to do anything without good purpose behind it. Why did you come up?”

Basaal leaned his head back and lifted his bound hands to cover his eyes. Curiosity may not have ever bound an Imirillian royal but pride had. And his own pride was insisting he not reveal his heart to this man.

The sound of footsteps came down the tunnel into the hewn-out room, and their food was delivered: dried apples and pears, dried meat, bread, and a little cheese. Thayne nodded to the soldier as he set the food before them. Basaal watched from behind his hands, searching desperately for any plan of escape that might come into his mind. Before the soldier could leave, Thayne made a motion and spoke. “Tell your captain that the prince has a horse in the woods, away down the tower road. Bring the beast back, and erase any trail that you can. We must act soon if the tower is to appear abandoned before daybreak. The trees must also be put back in place. We’ve four hours yet before morning.”

“Yes, sir.” The soldier nodded. “We will see it all taken care of.”

The trees need to be put back in place? Basaal wanted to ask about this odd allusion to camouflage, but he did not.

“Let us not waste time,” Thayne said. He looked at his food but did not touch it. “What brought you on this fool’s errand?”

“I swear,” Basaal shot back in frustration. “Is this a family trait?” Basaal lowered his hands from his face. “Between you and that brother of yours, I’ve been asked more stupid questions—” He trailed off, almost expecting Thayne to laugh, to respond with something clever, and to ask the question again, as Telford would have done. Instead, Thayne’s face froze, and he matched Basaal’s glare with one of his own.

“Get on with the facts,” he warned, “if you wish to be spared the uncomfortable realities of being a prisoner of war in Aemogen.” Thayne’s voice was as cold as his Marion eyes were blue.

“I, quite foolishly, wanted to know if I could find out any information regarding the return of the queen to Aemogen,” Basaal replied. “Don’t believe me, by any means, but it is the truth of the matter,” Basaal said flatly.

“Eleanor?” Thayne pressed. “Returned?”

“That is what I came here to find out. The original plan we had arranged—for her to sail down the eastern coast—fell apart. And, by chance or by the grace of the Illuminating God, I came to know that she had been taken into a rather dangerous part of the empire. So, I sent one of my best soldiers to find her.”

“Taken?” Thayne’s jaw tightened.

“By slavers,” Basaal admitted, sounding much more calm about that prospect than he had ever felt.

Thayne leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, his eyes relentlessly boring into Basaal’s own. “So,” he said, “you are telling me that you, Prince Basaal, came up here in search of news of Eleanor’s fate with what—less than a month’s time before battle? Thirteen thousand men are waiting to decimate Aemogen, and you chose to go on a self-indulgent field trip to see if your enemies’ monarch was safe in her bed?”

Basaal looked at Thayne and did not answer. He was already cursing his own stupidity, so Thayne’s mocking disbelief wasn’t necessary.

“Eat,” Thayne ordered as he began to pick slowly at his own food. Basaal lifted his bound wrists expectantly. After chewing on a piece of bread and swallowing, Thayne nodded towards the prince.

“Your arms still work, I presume.”

Grumbling in Imirillian, Basaal began the uncomfortable process of looking like a complete fool.

“Have you heard back from your soldier, the one you sent to find Eleanor?” Thayne asked while playing with a piece of dried fruit.

“No,” Basaal answered sharply, giving up on his food and dropping it back down on the table. He settled back against his chair with a flourish to indicate he was not interested in looking like a captive monkey while eating.

“You say you had planned a route to the East?” Thayne pressed.

“I promised Aedon I would see her escape,” Basaal replied. “Zarbadast was the first opportunity with any likelihood that she—or I, for that matter—would stay alive. She left the city with my most trustworthy friend and confidant well over two months ago now. I can’t—” he faltered. The memory of Eleanor interrupted Basaal’s thoughts, and he looked down towards the floor, remembering the moment when he had opened his hands and watched her fall into the darkness below.

“On old Ainsley, Telford was right.” Thayne’s voice sounded uncomfortable—thoughtful.

“About what?” Basaal asked.

“You’re still in love with her.”

With a string of Imirillian curses coming from his mouth, Basaal kicked the table in front of him, sending his plate rattling across the wood. Several candles toppled, leaving only one flame standing. He looked away from Thayne, angry. Invaded.

Thayne’s frown deepened. “Dear me.”

Time passed, and neither man touched his food. Thayne appeared to be thinking through a bevy of internal details with no intention of speaking to Basaal. Basaal, in turn, should have been planning his escape but found nothing but blankness. The only thought rattling around his mind was how impertinent Thayne’s assumptions were. The bastard.

After some time, Thayne picked up the toppled candles, relit them, and set them upright back on the table.

“I’m not really a man of war, you know,” Thayne said. “So I make this possible breach of secrecy for humanity’s sake and because I know for certain that we are not going to let you go.”

Basaal continued to stare anywhere else but at Thayne.

“Yesterday morning we received notice that Eleanor has indeed returned to Aemogen.”

A bolt, a crack—something sharp split Basaal’s chest, and he closed his eyes, leaning forward, covering his face as best he could.

“By now,” Thayne continued, “she should have reached Ainsley Rise. I am leaving, come morning, for the castle.”

These words fell on the table between them, for Basaal scarcely heard anything Thayne had said. Basaal took several deep breaths, muttering the words of a ritual prayer to steady himself. Eleanor. Eleanor was safe. Calmness began to smooth out every sharp edge of anxiety he had carried with him. His promise was fulfilled, and there was only one thing now for Basaal to do: figure his own destiny, be it escape or death. His honor had now answered for everything else. A smile born of relief crossed his face, and he sat up straight.

“What do you plan to do with me?”

“Take you as prisoner to Ainsley.”

“To my death?”

“I won’t deny it’s a possibility,” Thayne replied.

Basaal shrugged. “Then, let’s get to it.”

Chapter Nine

A few days passed before Eleanor relieved Edythe of the morning audience.

“I don’t know why I should feel nervous,” she confided to her sister the first morning she’d decided to return. Edythe gave Eleanor a stabilizing smile.

“There will not be many matters to address,” Edythe assured her. “Preparations for war have taken the space of so many things, and requesting an audience is made up of the everyday. I shouldn’t wonder if you’ve only one or two people to see at all.”

But word must have spilled down the Ainsley stair and into the city that Eleanor was to attend morning audience, for the throne room was full of people, waiting for a glimpse of their returned queen. Eleanor wore a bright blue gown that Miya had taken in at the waist according to the fashions of her gowns from Calafort. Eleanor hoped the results would give the illusion that she’d not lost so much weight. That it did not do.

“Don’t take too much time with alterations, Miya.” Edythe had said, shaking her head. “We hope to be letting those darts out within the month.”

There were very few requests—and nothing extraordinary—until the acting captain of the guard came forward. He was a young man recommended by Crispin, whom Eleanor was deciding upon.

“There has been a serious altercation in the streets of Ainsley,” he reported. “Both men have been brought to the castle for trial.”

“Bring them in,” Eleanor waved, certain that altercations happened all the time in Zarbadast, and Shaamil never bothered. The thought was amusing.

The first man Eleanor did not recognize; the second, she knew all too well.

“Thistle Black,” Eleanor said as she set her elbows on her armrests and leaned slightly forward. “You have been fighting in the streets of Ainsley? Who is this poor man to have aroused such ire?”

Aedon, who sat along the western wall with the rest of the council, almost laughed at Thistle Black’s ready humility.

“I’ve no desire to be a friend of this rogue,” Thistle Black explained. “And I do not even know his name.”

“Sir?” Eleanor said. “Yes, you with the swollen eye. What is your name?”

“Rols, Your Majesty,” the man replied as he bowed farther his already bent head.

“And, what caused you to catch the anger of Thistle Black?” she inquired. The man, Rols, kept staring hard at the floor, his cheeks burning. “Thistle Black, what happened?” Eleanor insisted, her face dropping its humor.

“This man was speaking lies in the streets, Your Majesty,” Thistle Black said. “And I wanted to show my, ah, disagreement with the tales.”

“And, what were these lies?” Eleanor asked, her voice turned steely.

“That—” Thistle Black faltered. He looked towards Aedon for a moment then stubbornly back at the queen. “I’d rather not say.”

Eleanor wrapped her fingers around the edge of her armrests. “Speak.”

“This man claimed that your virtue had been taken by the men of Zarbadast,” Thistle Black explained. “That they’d…well, I would rather not say. But, I felt it my right—” he paused for emphasis, “my
duty
, to defend the honor of your name, Majesty.”

Whispers filled the throne room like the sound of a rushing river.

Eleanor’s expression flickered, and she turned an iron gaze on Rols. The man was visibly sweating and trembling, the redness on his pock-marked cheekbones turning a deeper shade of scarlet. Eleanor glanced at Aedon, who looked like he would kill the man if he’d been given the chance.

“Look at me, Roles,” Eleanor ordered. The man had closed his eyes, but, to his credit, he moved his chin up and opened his eyes obediently at his queen. She did not give him a smile. “Have you been to Zarbadast, Rols?”

“No, Your Majesty.”

“Then, you make a bold claim as to knowing what happened while I was there.”

“Yes. I—please,” he said, his lip beginning to tremble. “I’d heard—
stories
, just stories, about the city and didn’t know.”

“No, you did not know,” Eleanor said, tilting her head to the side. “And would anything that may or may not have happened cause you to remove your fidelity?”

Rols pressed his lips together, his eyes wide and glass-like. When he spoke, his voice was shaky with emotion, “No, My Queen.”

“Well then. I would rather not be discussed in the streets,” she said, her voice cold. “But, you have not been brought in for slander, rather for fighting.” Eleanor moved her eyes to Thistle Black’s face. “Neither, I repeat,
neither
of you should have engaged in public brawling. I assume it must have been disruptive or caused property damage for the guard to feel it necessary that I should see you.”

“Only the post of a butcher’s shop sustained injury,” Thistle Black admitted gruffly.

“Well, I’ll require a fine to cover the costs of repairs,” she said. “And then, I propose that the guard let you cool your heads in my dungeon for a day. Old Ainsley! If grown men cannot control themselves in Aemogen, I’ve little hope for our chances against the Imirillians.” Eleanor pressed her lips together then looked again towards Rols. “Have you been preparing with the men of Ainsley for battle?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“And, is there any other reason why I should question your loyalty to myself and to the crown I wear?”

“No, My Queen,” he said, and he fell to his knees. “I am as loyal as the day,” he said emphatically.

“Remember that,” she said, “the next time you are tempted to drag my name through the filth of the street, speaking what is not known, least of all understood.” Eleanor could not bear the weight of the room so she turned towards Thistle Black with a lighter smile, lifting her intonations towards humor. “Thistle Black, next time you feel the need to defend my honor, use that edged tongue of yours rather than those clenched fists. The butchers of Ainsley must not be so put upon. Dismissed.”

A soft wave of laughter followed as Eleanor told the guards to take both Rols and Thistle Black to the dungeons. She was glad of the lightened mood and tried to push past the event as soon as she could. What a spectacle.

The final petition was simple, but Eleanor did not give the small farmer much hope. “Were it not a time of war, I could make an immediate decision,” she explained. “As we are preparing ourselves to go against the Imirillians, I must first speak with your fen lord, and then we will see if your needs can be met in a timely manner without sacrificing the higher needs of the nation.”

As she finished, the doors to the throne room burst open.

“We have him!” a soldier announced. “We caught him at the pass!”

“Who?” Eleanor demanded of the breathless soldier.

“The Imirillian prince!”

Eleanor shot up from her throne just as a company of several men entered. Crispin, hand clenched around Basaal’s arm, brought him roughly before Eleanor. Basaal was bound and gagged. And, when saw her face, his legs almost gave way, he faltered. Eleanor recognized his stunned expression as relief. Impatiently, Crispin forced Basaal onto his knees before her, and the prince stared ahead blankly, making eye contact with no one.

“My Queen,” Crispin said, though he was out of breath. “The men have captured the Imirillian prince near Colun Tir. He claims he was alone and that he is no spy. Aside from his weaponry, this was all he carried on his person.” Crispin opened his hand to reveal a small bracelet of gold with three pendants attached to it. Then he threw it to the ground before Basaal.

“Away with you,” Eleanor said forcefully, keeping her voice as clear as she was able. “Away with all of you. Crispin, you and your men clear the room and wait outside. Only Hastian needs remain—and Aedon.”

Crispin moved to speak, to question her orders, but he checked himself and bowed, clearing the throne room of curious observers before closing the large doors with a sound that echoed inside Eleanor.

Her heart jumped short of its beat as she again looked down at Basaal. Tussled, worn, bruised on his face, his eyes cloaked in a state of no emotion as he knelt before her. He wore his presence well despite all this, that indefinable pride, which filled the space around him, reminding her of the might of Zarbadast. Reminding her what it was like to be with him.

Tracing his bent figure with her eyes, Eleanor stepped down from the dais. She knelt before him, her skirts a puddle around her, her knees touching his through the fabric. Eleanor reached her hand hesitantly towards him before she pulled it back. Basaal moved his head up and looked into her face.

With the steadiness of his long breaths as the only sound, Eleanor lifted her hands and moved them around his neck to the knot that held his gag in place, untying it with practiced fingers. Basaal watched her, his eyes wandering from her eyes to her chin. When the gag gave way, her lips quivered as her wrists pressed lightly against the curves of his neck and shoulders.

The line of Basaal’s mouth was emphasized by the way his eyebrows were knit together. He appeared resigned, separate, studying her face from some strange distance. As she drew her hands away, briefly touching the skin beneath his jaw, Basaal blinked, and the corners of his mouth turned down.

Pushing the fabric of her full skirt aside, Eleanor found the pendants—so casually tossed to the floor—strung together by the delicate bracelet Basaal had gifted her. She reached down, her fingertips feeling the worn stonefloor before surrounding the ruby and gold tokens. Eleanor lifted them, turning her hand over to look at them, the rising bird, the ruby she’d worn for the wedding ceremony, and the wanderer’s mark. They felt heavy in her palm, almost like she was holding a living thing, beating and alive. She felt that it was his heart—or her own.

Her hand was shaking, and she could smell a trace of cinnamon coming from his dirty cloak. Bringing her eyelids down, Eleanor wrapped her fingers around the jewelry in her palm and then lifted her eyes back to his.

“Did they hurt you?” Eleanor asked as she lifted her free hand to the edge of his face, her fingers touching his skin, nervously, like a butterfly.

Basaal hissed in a breath at her touch, flinching, but he did not answer her. Eleanor paled, pulling her hand back, remembering Basaal knelt before her as a prisoner of war, and she was Queen of Aemogen. And she must get away from him, before something in her split apart forever.

She stood, hastily pulling herself to her feet, pressing the pendants into the palm of her hand and shaking her head back and forth. “See that he is settled in the dungeon,” she said for either Hastian or Aedon to hear. “In the king’s cell.”

With the feeling of a fabric ripping between them, Eleanor stepped away, turned, and walked past the dais, disappearing through the door behind the tapestries.

***

Eleanor went straight to her chambers. Edythe, who was sitting with her embroidery, laid it aside when she saw her sister’s face. “Eleanor?” she asked. “What’s happened?”

“He was right!” Eleanor choked in near rage. “Oh, Edythe, why didn’t I listen?” Her anger came strong and clear. Her teeth clenched, she had tears in her eyes, and her chest burned.

“Who was right?”

“I have been broken, Edythe. I have no strength left.” Eleanor fell to the ground, kneeling, a sob catching in her throat. “They have captured Basaal. They brought him before me. I looked at his face, knowing full well the destruction he has brought down on all of us. Yet, knowing that his fate is in my hands rips at me!” Eleanor said fiercely and clenched her hand into a fist, hitting it against her chest. “And all I wanted was to reach out to him. I tried, but I can’t! Don’t you see?”

Edythe came to Eleanor’s side, kneeling and pulling her sister against her shoulder.

“I cannot love him,” Eleanor sobbed, “because he has been sent to destroy my people. And yet—” Eleanor pressed her face against Edythe’s shoulder. “He could hardly stand my presence, so what does it matter? I cannot speak to him of anything—not of Zarbadast or the Shera Shee or the fate of Dantib. I can’t abide the pain, and I feel so far away from here, from all of it—the stone, the gardens, the people—I am hopelessly far away. My journey has changed me, and I feel so empty, and I can’t—”

Eleanor clung to her sister, the feelings of sorrow wrenched from her core as she sobbed. Edythe held her, whispering softly, stroking Eleanor’s hair, and crying soundlessly alongside her. It was a long time before Eleanor’s sobs turned into slow, unsteady whimpers.

“You are not empty,” Edythe said through a clenched jaw, and she spoke from her own determination. “You are grieving. Yes, you have changed. There is no way around our own life experiences. We must live through them, and we do.” Edythe pulled away and met Eleanor’s eyes. “You have not been depleted. You have been added upon. Gift this to your people. Draw strength from who you have always been, and draw wisdom from what you have now seen.”

The abysmal weight of it all pulled at the corners of Eleanor’s eyes, but she nodded, pressing her forehead against Edythe’s shoulder, wondering if she could trust herself to her sister’s words.

“I am sorry, Eleanor, that you and the prince are on opposite sides of this war. I am sorry that it is confusing and uncertain and cruel. It’s no small thing to love someone despite how they have hurt you. It is no small sacrifice you offer.”