The Wanderer's Mark: Book Three of Imirillia (The Books of Imirillia 3) (11 page)

“No moon means that Seraagh is on some mission,” Eleanor said then drew a long breath. “That sounds appropriate.” Aedon looked curious about her comment, but Eleanor pressed on. “Let’s start at the beginning of your plan and walk through each move, in detail, to see if this is even a possibility.”

The council met through the rest of the day, working out questions, scenarios, and timing. Placing stones on the map, representing divisions of the Aemogen army, they discussed how best to use their small force. Crispin told Eleanor of the number of powder weapons they had built.

“We are working on a handheld variety,” he explained. “But, as you can imagine, it’s proven quite dangerous.” Pausing, his face turned sober. “We’ve lost two men over its invention.”

“The original plan was brilliant—when we were only going against seven thousand,” Eleanor said at length. “Against thirteen, we will have to build in more assurances.” She ran her eyes across the scenario they’d envisioned on the map. “If we can,” she added.

“Surprise and disruption,” Thistle Black said, repeating the opinion he had been sharing all afternoon. “Our success will entirely depend on that. If an army of thirteen thousand breaks through the pass, we’ve no hope. Either we do this or we die trying.”

“Aedon has told me about your training rotations,” Eleanor said, looking towards the bank of windows. Daylight was disappearing fast. “Let us bring all the men into full training at Ainsley. The southern troops must be called up now if we are to be ready in twenty-seven days.”

“But, what of the crops?” Aedon asked. “It’s just as urgent this year as it was last year to put seeds in the ground on time.”

“The situation has changed,” Eleanor stated. “Women and children must finish the work.”

“Can they plant enough food to sustain us through this coming year? With all the struggles the inevitable drought will bring—”

“They must,” Eleanor said, cutting Aedon short. “If we want to preserve Aemogen, it is time for all of us to do more than is possible. The seed bringers and their assistants must take responsibility for aiding the women and children to plant the fields.”

Aedon’s mouth worked silently, but his face looked resigned, and he nodded. “You are right,” he said. “I only wish that you weren’t.”

“We’ve heard some of the miners saying they won’t close down their mines to come,” Thistle Black growled. “Not many, but a few up and down the line.”

Eleanor looked at Thistle Black without blinking. “I will send a fen rider with a message to all mining fens that the mines will be shut down—effective immediately—save the closest mines which may provide raw materials to our blacksmiths. If the other mines fail to follow suit, I will charge whatever man that refuses with high treason, and he will hang from west tower.”

Eleanor knew the men were taken aback with her abruptness.

“Is there anything else that we have left undone for this afternoon?” she asked. Eleanor looked at each man on the council. They avoided her eyes but did not move. “What is it?”

Crispin looked at Aedon then back at Eleanor before he spoke. “We all want to know what happened to you, Eleanor.”

Silence filled the room.

Eleanor looked at the men before her, friends, councillors, pillars that had held her up through the first years of her reign. Her eyes met Edythe’s. Considering what she should tell them, Eleanor lifted her hand to the back of her neck, moving her fingers over the scars there. She breathed out and leaned back.

“Alright,” she said.

Eleanor began her tale. She told them of waiting for Basaal, having him hand her Aedon’s note, and starting their journey to Marion City. “I could not accept Staven’s offer,” Eleanor said and then paused. “Every instinct in me felt it to be a false direction for the people of Aemogen.”

Then she spoke of their journey north, describing the stone sea, the Aronee desert, the long nights in the desert, and Annan’s kindnesses to her.

“Despite the fever I will never forget my first view of Zarbadast.” Eleanor paused, remembering the vision of its pulsing, burning coals, spread across the golden sands and of Basaal helping her to stand, placing his arm about her waist.

Next, she spoke of the people, the city, and the seven palaces of Zarbadast. Eleanor told them of the emperor’s challenge in great detail. Both Crispin and Aedon listened more intently as she described Basaal’s fight and her mind games with Emperor Shaamil.

Eleanor pressed on to her escape, describing Dantib and their trek through the desert. The men’s faces were attentive as Eleanor spoke of being captured by the Shera Shee slavers, enduring Dantib’s death, finding Sharin, and suffering injuries from the chains and the whips.

Eleanor spoke of Zanntal with great warmth, explaining how Basaal had sent him, and describing how Zanntal had paid off the slavers and helped her and Sharin through the desert then over the Arimel Mountains.

It was dark when Eleanor finished. Every detail shared. Every moment recorded except two, the morning that Eleanor sealed Prince Basaal’s Safeeraah and the fact that the wedding did happen before Eleanor’s escape. Of these she said not a word.

Sean was the first to speak. “It sounds like Wil, Prince Basaal, I mean, acted honorably.”

“Honorable?” Crispin said, choking on the word. “He’s the enemy who seeks our destruction. He’s our foe and the reason Eleanor has experienced such an ordeal. There are no thanks or praise owed in his direction. Did he aid our queen? Yes. But his campaign still continues on the other side of those mountains,” Crispin said as he pointed towards the western windows. “His army still waits to subjugate our people and steal our sovereignty.”

Eleanor flushed. She had spoken little of Basaal, for she did not want to listen to the opinions of others about him. It was difficult enough to sort out her own knotted thoughts. Eleanor sat to one side of her chair and raised her hand to her forehead.

“I think,” Aedon said slowly, “that Sean was addressing the basic idea that Prince Basaal not only did all he could to ensure Eleanor’s safety and protection but also refused to act in a way that would remove himself from the leadership of this conquest, thereby preventing his father or brothers from repeating what has happened too many times before to other countries.”

Aedon took a quick breath then continued. “He has sought to preserve Aemogen as best he could while honoring the obligations of his birth,” he argued. “He even spent six months trying to convince us to surrender so that it might be a bloodless conquest. And, when we would not listen,” Aedon added, “he trained our men to fight. He is not without honor—”

Crispin balked, but Aedon lifted his hand, his voice quavering in anger. “I do not excuse him for any wrongs and deceptions or for the
pain
—” Aedon said, the word flickering like a flame in his voice, “that the queen endured as a result of his treachery. I only say the man is not without honor.”

Aedon stood, as if he could not handle sitting any longer. No servants had yet entered to light the lanterns or candles, and his face was difficult to outline against the dark windows.

“There is nothing else for us to do this evening,” Eleanor said as she also stood, her fingers pressing softly against the mark in her skin, hidden beneath her sleeve.

***

“At least the view is tolerable,” Ammar said before he dropped the curtain of the tent back across the doorway and returned inside. Basaal followed, none too fondly, after receiving a faceful of tassels.

Shaamil sat in conversation with his Vestan, occasionally looking towards Basaal and Ammar, each having claimed an elegant couch. Ammar sat reading a scroll. But Basaal draped himself comfortably across the couch with one of his legs hanging over the armrest while the other tapped the beat to an Imirillian folk tune on the rug. Basaal hoped his nonchalance would cover the questions he was turning over in his mind. If he was not to lead his army into Aemogen then surely the Illuminating God must have some plan, an alternative that would present itself in Basaal’s thoughts.

Once Basaal had decided he would do what was asked of him, he pleaded in prayer for direction—for understanding. Nothing. Nothing had come. And so, Basaal began to run through the options in his own mind. He could run, leave Marion, leave Imirillia, and disappear. If he did this, the emperor would commandeer Basaal’s troops and his assets, directing or dispersing them as he pleased. Also, Basaal could never return to Zarbadast, and there would be no way to ensure that his men would be taken care of. Not a promising option.

If he led a rebellion, ordering his troops to not fight, the emperor would have Basaal killed. Or, if Basaal’s army remained loyal to their prince, then the Imirillian forces would kill each other in a desperate civil war. Basaal would be executed or would have to seek exile far from the reach of the Imirillian Empire which was “impossible.”

The word was unintentionally spoken aloud by Basaal to the silence of the tent.

“What was that?” Ammar asked.

“Nothing,” Basaal said, returning his thoughts to his problem. Earlier, Basaal had called a meeting with his own officers, the emperor and his generals, and, to Basaal’s distaste, the Vestan. But Basaal had been left unsatisfied with the reports of their progress at the pass. They were to meet again that afternoon, but he wished he could go himself to see—

Basaal swung his leg down from across the armrest and stood, pulling at his fingers. Shaamil dismissed the Vestan, and his eyes followed Basaal.

“Father,” Basaal said. “I am going to postpone the meeting planned for this afternoon.”

“And why is that?” Shaamil asked.

Basaal walked to the refreshments table and poured himself a drink. “The reports are insufficient for my taste,” Basaal explained. “And I’m not the military leader to sit and wait, as it is. I wish to assess the progress for myself. I will ride out to the pass and view what progress has been made, which I will then report upon my return. You can see the mountain across the valley—it’s close enough. I’ll ride out this afternoon, inspect the operations, and spend a night or two in our encampment there, for moral, and all of that. When I return, in two days’ time, we will continue our war council.”

Shaamil’s eyes narrowed, as if he was guessing something Basaal could not get at.

“You do not approve?” Basaal drained his glass and faced his father.

“I do not disapprove.”

“It’s settled then,” Basaal stated. “I will come and say good-bye once I have gathered my things.”

Basaal left the tent in search of Annan to ask if his friend would ride out with him part of the way. In case Basaal decided the only way to obey the word of the Illuminating God was to run, to disappear entirely from this place, he wanted to feel prepared. And that meant saying good-bye.

***

Later, wearing his full assortment of weaponry, Basaal mounted his horse and set off across the valley with Annan at his side. For the first time in Basaal’s life, he saw no clear options before him, and his only recourse against the overwhelming impossibility was a wave after wave of adrenaline rushing through his veins. He almost felt giddy, the vaporous result of throwing himself into a plan he had no idea how to calculate getting into his head.

He pushed Refigh hard, challenging Annan to a race, playfully hurling insult after insult back on the wind toward his friend in challenge. When Basaal finally pulled Refigh up short, and Annan had caught up to him, Basaal was grinning at the freshness of the day, his cheeks red from the cold edge on the spring wind.

“It’s still a bit brisk out here,” Basaal said. “I can hardly imagine what a winter must be like.”

“Cold,” Annan said, then he changed the subject. “What, exactly, has made you so…
exuberant
today?”

Basaal laughed and decided to speak honestly with this friend. “I have never felt quite so desperate, so split and trapped. And, suddenly, everything strikes me as absurd or meaningless. But,” he added, “despite the futility of all this struggle, you’ll have to admit it is a beautiful day.”

Annan’s face creased, but he did not speak. They settled into a steady pace with Basaal occasionally remarking on the mountains, Marion, and the conquest. Annan did not answer often, but Basaal could see that his friend continued to worry.

“You can turn back here,” Basaal told Annan. “You’ve come just over halfway, and I will feel better knowing you are back at camp keeping an eye on things.”

“And, you are certain you do not need me to come to the pass?”

“Yes.” Basaal nodded. “A few days, and I will be back, ready to face the emperor with a clear head and, hopefully, a better idea of how to do what is asked of me.”

Annan looked at Basaal quizzically, but he turned his mount.

Basaal paused now, the wind ripping across his face, and reached his hand out, clasping Annan’s forearm. Annan wrapped his fingers around Basaal’s.

“Life unto death, as one soul, fealty forever,”
Basaal said, repeating their oath. Then he leaned closer to his friend and, hands still clasped, reached his other arm around Annan, embracing him as much as he could. “Until we meet again.”

As they pulled away from each other, and Annan again looked at Basaal strangely. “Go with the Illuminating God.”

Basaal felt a smile of trepidation on his face. The giddiness had passed, and he could again feel the weight of what lay ahead. “I endeavor to do so,” Basaal assured him.