The Wanderer's Mark: Book Three of Imirillia (The Books of Imirillia 3) (23 page)

She moved her hand towards his face, brushing his cheek with the side of her thumb. Basaal caught her hand, kissing her wrist, holding it gently as he closed his eyes. Eleanor leaned forward, touching her lips to his, trying to ease the pain from his face. Trying to draw out the pain in her own lungs. Basaal responded, moving his hand away from her wrist, placing the heel of his palm on her neck and pulling Eleanor closer as he kissed her in return. Her heart dropped at his touch, and she was losing herself to it when a pounding came at the door of Eleanor’s antechamber. There was a noise and then Hastian’s voice, stating something firmly.

Basaal pulled away from Eleanor, breathing heavily, resting his forehead on hers stubbornly. “Please tell me no one is wanting to see you just now,” he said quietly.

An impatient knock on the door of the audience chamber was Basaal’s answer. Reluctantly, Eleanor moved away from him, her fingers hesitant to lose his touch. She smoothed her dress and let one of her feet drop to the floor. Closing his eyes, Basaal sank lower into the couch, reaching for her wrist and pressing it to his lips, before he muttered something softly that Eleanor could not hear.

“Come in,” she called.

Crispin burst through the door.

“Eleanor, is Basaal—” Crispin began, but then he saw them sitting together, registering the expression on Eleanor’s face. He flushed. “Oh.”

“What is it, Crispin?” Eleanor brought her fingers to her temple and closed her eyes.

“Nothing really, I just, well—” Crispin cleared his throat, and Basaal sat up, turning to look back at Crispin. “There are some men back at the encampment who are frightened, determined to leave. I thought that the prince might help persuade them, give them courage before the march tomorrow. But, I should have thought—”

“No,” Basaal said as he stood, his hands loosely resting on his hips. “I’ll be happy to come with you. Just a moment.”

Eleanor covered an affectionate smile; he did not sound happy. Basaal disappeared into the corner bedroom, where—as Eleanor had discovered a few days previous—he had been keeping his personal effects after taking up residence on her sofa. He returned with his cloak and his weaponry in place.

Eleanor watched him cross the room, thinking about the first time she had seen him in his princely garb, suited up for war. He had frightened her on that morning in his tent, the day after the pass had come down.

“Will you be gone long?” she asked.

Basaal nodded reluctantly. “I should have thought to go out sooner,” he said. “The men need their officers and their leaders with them. And, whether I like it or not, that is what I have become. I imagine I will probably sleep at the encampment.”

“Oh,” Eleanor said, not meaning to sound so disappointed.

“I am sorry.” He bent down and kissed Eleanor, moving his thumb across the line on her chin. “If I can, I will come to you in the morning, before we are to march out.”

Crispin had disappeared back into the antechamber, or Eleanor would have wished him a good night. As it was, Basaal kissed her again, slowly, his hands holding her face tilted towards his. He stopped just as the kisses became more urgent—too soon for Eleanor—and simply said her name once before leaving, closing the door behind him.

Eleanor could hardly bear him being away.

When morning came, Eleanor reached her hand behind her on the bed to find nothing there. She turned and looked at the bedspread, rumpled by her own restless sleeping and nothing else. The emptiness felt prophetic somehow, and Eleanor shook the thought from her mind as she rose to prepare herself for battle.

Edythe came to help her. It was a quiet morning, and Edythe put Eleanor’s hair up ritualistically, placing the battle crown on her head. Eleanor wore a new white gown and the sword she had worn for ornament during the battle run.

“The holes in your ears have grown over,” Edythe observed. “Clumsy of me not to have noticed.”

“It is alright,” Eleanor said. “When I return.”

“Yes,” Edythe said. “When you return.”

Crispin came for Eleanor when it was time to leave. He escorted her down to the courtyard, where Thrift stood, saddled and waiting. Basaal was there, organizing something with a few of the men, and Eleanor saw that a change had taken place: he was a soldier, his mind was in battle, and he was not the same person she had been with the evening before.

Eleanor mounted, as did Hastian, who rode directly behind her. Zanntal was with them as well, having informed Eleanor he would aid in her defense at Colun Tir. With Thrift’s reins in her hands, Eleanor turned and looked back up at the towers of Ainsley Castle just as the signal was called.

The company rode out onto the western downs, the banners of Aemogen trailing in the air.

***

The rumble of the long columns, the pound and jolt of his horse—Basaal was struck by the familiarity of the scene as the small army pressed through Aemogen towards the Maragaide valley. He conferred with Crispin and Aedon, took time to be among the men, and stepped naturally into his role as leader, soldier, and prince.

Eleanor was there, of course, but Basaal found it difficult to be much in her company. There was always another question for him to answer, another soldier to encourage, or more logistics to review. Then word came from the guards at Colun Tir that Thistle Black and his team had successfully brought all of the powder devices through the mountain. There was no word yet from Thayne and his men, who were going about their work of readying the charges and weapons they would leave along the western lines of the Imirillian camp. But, he had to assume all was well with the Marion company.

On the first night, Basaal came to Eleanor’s tent late, and she had already fallen asleep. He watched her a moment before grabbing a bedroll and taking it outside, where he lay awake, thinking of the coming days and tracing the patterns in the stars.

Chapter Fifteen

Darkness stretched from the mountains down through the valley, unyielding and thick. The only relief being the fires of the Imirillian camp across the plain. Eleanor’s officers moved through Colun Tir and its outbuildings with no guide but their own hands on the walls; no light would be lit at the tower.

Basaal took comfort in this blind cover—this absence of vision that gave no confirmation of fear in the eyes of the soldiers, no periphery of the usual images that came—by course—in the preparation for battle: the horses dressed and impatient; weapons, sharpened, polished; a young soldier, frozen, emitting youthful terror, looking wide-eyed and fragile. Freedom from these sights delivered a freedom of mind. Basaal wondered why all armies did not prepare for battle in the safety of darkness, where no vulnerability could be revealed.

Basaal, Crispin, Aedon, and Sean knew what they were to do, and they went about it, exchanging whispers and orders frankly: no halting, no hesitation. Basaal had lost track of Eleanor. She was somewhere inside the tower, receiving updates from Crispin. So Basaal continued with his work. He had been asked to accompany an advanced group of miners, who were ordered to set explosives along the northern lines of the Imirillian encampment as well as the eastern lines among the horses. Aedon’s experiences, having grown up in a mining fen, had caused him to be a leader in the group, and he had requested Basaal join the mission, making use of the prince’s knowledge of the camp. Basaal had agreed and followed his acceptance by exerting great efforts to forget that he had.

A messenger from Thistle Black came up the mountain, asking the men to be ready. They would be called down soon. After checking Refigh and leaving his horse in the careful hands of Zanntal, Basaal entered Colun Tir. He must find Eleanor and tell her good-bye.

He found Eleanor in a storeroom, deeply embedded in the center of the fortress, the only place sanctioned to light a candle. She sat at a crate, used for a table, where a map was spread. Her battle crown glittering, the white of her gown looking iridescent, otherworldly. She was surrounded by whatever officers were not busy on Crispin’s errands. The young war leader stood beside her, speaking in a hurried voice with Sean. Basaal almost wished he had not come in, for he could now see their faces. The ease of anonymous preparation gave way to tension, and the discomfort of battle settled in his chest.

Eleanor called to him without looking away from the map. “I was wondering if I would see you.”

“I’ve kept him busy in the yard,” Crispin said, breaking away from Sean, reaching his hand out to Basaal, who stepped forward and took it with a firm grasp. “The prince has suffered his dignity to help me execute field command.” They clapped each other’s shoulders, and then Basaal stepped towards Eleanor.

“Thistle’s crew leaves down the mountain soon,” he said, and as he was speaking, Eleanor looked up into his eyes. “Is there—” He bit off the words, unsure of what to say. The light had revealed no fear or trepidation in her expression, rather a solidity, a grace; she was fixed and resolute, her entire being empowered with a nobility he had never seen in the emperor of Zarbadast. Basaal grappled with his memories, wondering how he could have missed this in her before. He took a step back.

Basaal knew what Eleanor was to him, and he wished fiercely he didn’t.

***

It had taken Basaal walking into the room, to offset the ordered focus of her mind.

Eleanor had tied her sternest hopes to the work her soldiers would do that night. The focus she gave the attack was only increasing as each hour was spent. All was tightly organized in her mind, and she was fully present in her role. But Basaal’s entry had caused the air to swell and ripple, his presence bold enough to challenge her single mindedness.

“There you are,” Eleanor said, her attention still given to the work before her, despite the call of his presence. “I was wondering if I would see you.”

Crispin said something, from over her shoulder, but Eleanor lost to his words to her focus on the map. It was Basaal’s voice who called her back.

He said something and Eleanor looked up into his eyes. “Is there—” He stopped speaking, and Eleanor watched as a strange expression marked his face. It was the first time since they had left Ainsley that she felt Basaal’s tight role of soldier was pulled aside, and all of him—every humor and question and feeling—was showing through. He was incomparable, and mortal. They all were so very mortal. Eleanor felt herself falter, and she stood quickly to cover the thought.

“Might I speak with you privately, before you leave?”

Basaal halted then swallowed—a soldier once more—and Eleanor almost wished she had not spoken.

“Certainly.” His stillness gripped her. “I had come with the hope that we would.”

Eleanor stepped around the crate and walked into a side room. The dimness grabbed at whatever light it could, leaving them to see one another only just.

Eleanor turned to face Basaal. “There has not been much opportunity to speak since we left Ainsley.”

“No.”

Eleanor thought she saw Basaal place his hand on his sword.

“The men,” she said, “they are greatly relieved you’re with us.”

No answer came from Basaal. Eleanor sensed perhaps he did not want to speak of it, of the fight. Of his place in it. She searched for words that might express what she’d wanted to say, self-conscious. And, at the risk of Basaal not feeling the same way, Eleanor heard herself blurt out, “I can’t bear you going away without the assurance of return.”

Whatever spell or hesitancy had been holding Basaal back, whatever degree of soldierly calm he had carried with him on the march from Ainsley, almost broke—but not quite. Basaal lifted a hesitant hand but stopped short of touching her face.

“Promise me,” he said, “that you will retreat into the tunnel if this goes badly. Bar the way, and open it for no man.”

Eleanor did not promise, she frowned.

Basaal continued in a whisper. “There can be no promise to be made of return—”

“Promise me anyway,” she said.

“One man to every four.” Basaal spoke the odds calmly. But the sound of his voice did not match the expression on his face. “You know better than that, Eleanor. I am—” Basaal lifted his hand to her arm but didn’t continue.

“I need you to find your way through this,” she said so quietly that she could almost not hear the words she spoke.

Basaal kept his mouth in a solemn line as he breathed the air out of his lungs.

Eleanor wanted to speak again but thought better of it. And then, standing on her toes, she kissed his mouth. Basaal closed his eyes but did not respond.

“Basaal,” Aedon said, coming into the dark storeroom. Basaal opened his eyes, and Eleanor looked over her shoulder at what she could see of Aedon’s outline. Basaal did not take his eyes away from her as Aedon spoke to him.

“The crew is assembled. We go now.”

“Yes,” Basaal replied, and Aedon left. Eleanor stepped past Basaal, to follow Aedon, when his hand moved down her arm to her hand. His fingers wrapped around hers. And, together, they followed Aedon through the corridor, down the stairs, and out into the courtyard.

The silent crew was ready, with their horses, for Aedon and Basaal to lead them down the mountain. The remainder of the army still waited inside the tunnel. With his hand still holding Eleanor’s, Basaal weaved through the men to where his horse stood.