The Wanderer's Mark: Book Three of Imirillia (The Books of Imirillia 3) (18 page)

They glared at one another, all of Crispin’s discipline working hard to keep him from spitting in Basaal’s face. He forced himself to chew on the inside of his lip instead and did not speak. Basaal raised his eyebrows, his mouth hinting at a smile. Basaal realized he had sounded like his father, and he relished the ease of using a tone that would silence almost anybody; he hated himself for using it on someone he would still wish to consider a friend.

“Do you have a man willing to fight?” Basaal continued, trying to sound patient, although he was not—he did not need to stand here, begging for a partner.

Crispin breathed out slowly and tilted his head while allowing his boyish grin to cover his anger. “I’ll see if I can find you a worthy partner.”

Five minutes later, Basaal stood with his sword drawn, looking down at a trembling fourteen-year-old boy, holding a pathetic excuse for a weapon. A crowd had gathered, but Basaal’s black mood held them off, and they watched from a distance.

“So, you are my worthy opponent,” Basaal said matter-of-factly.

The boy’s eyes went wide, and he stuttered out an attempt to explain that he was no kind of expert. The amusement of watching the boy’s terror held Basaal from speaking for only a moment before he chided himself for his meanness and gave the boy a reassuring appraisal.

“No need to explain yourself,” Basaal said. “We can run through some exercises and see where you are.” Basaal hesitated before continuing. “From what fen do you come?” he asked. “I believe I must have seen you last year, during the battle run.”

“Rye Field fen, Your Majesty,” the young man said, stumbling over the address with uncertainty. “I am called Tarit.”

“Tarit?” Basaal rolled the name over his memory. “You’re not the potter, are you?”

Obvious pleasure spread a shy smile across the young man’s face. “I showed you about my potter’s shed.”

“Yes, I remember. I owe you some glazes, don’t I?” Basaal said as he remembered his promise. “After all this, I shall see it done. Now, I am in desperate need of training. Will you oblige?”

Tarit’s timidity was chased away by Basaal’s crisp instructions as the pair began to work through the same sword exercises he had taught the young man the summer before. After this disciplined practice of technique, he began an open spar, and Tarit threw his whole heart into the exercise. The young man had improved, and Basaal asked if he had been training.

“My mother made me work at it every day,” Tarit explained, “because she wants me to come back alive.”

***

Later that afternoon, Aedon found Basaal still on the training grounds, working with a small but willing group of men. It felt much like the battle run had, save that Crispin and his top officers stayed apart from the impromptu training for most of the day. There were also many men acting offish and grumbling, willing to serve accusatory glares in his direction rather than join in his instruction. But his small and eager group satisfied Basaal nonetheless. When the prince saw Aedon, he pulled himself away from a scrimmage and greeted the councillor.

“Aedon,” Basaal said as he extended his hand.

“Prince,” Aedon replied, bowing first before shaking Basaal’s hand. Aedon motioned for Basaal to walk with him, so Basaal gave training instructions to the men before falling into step beside Aedon.

“I am glad to see that you’ve come out today,” Aedon admitted.

“Adding one to the small number who are pleased with the idea,” Basaal answered as he pulled at his collar in the heat of the day. “I’ll not deny that I’ve enjoyed the drills and the interactions with the few men willing to associate with me. I have yet to be run through, at the very least.”

“Yes.” Aedon laughed. “Aside from Crispin’s frigid temperatures and the general suspicion of the soldiers—whom you yourself trained very effectively, I might add—do you find yourself feeling more accustomed to life at Ainsley Rise?”

Basaal shrugged but did not answer. They were at the edge of camp now, standing before a spring meadow of green grasses.

“What is it you would like to speak to me about?” Basaal asked as he stopped and turned, his hand resting on his sword more from habit than from thought.

Aedon scanned Basaal’s face.

“If this is about myself and Eleanor—” Basaal broke off, trying to fight the faint bristle he’d heard in his own words.

“No,” Aedon responded immediately. “Only a fool would walk a second time into that burning barn. And, of the many things I am, I do not believe a fool to be one of them.”

Basaal’s face relaxed, and he crossed his arms. “Burning barn?”

“It’s an expression, not a prediction,” Aedon replied immediately. “I have come for something that I had hoped you would have volunteered by now.”

“Speak.”

“Your leadership,” Aedon said.

The words stuck to Basaal’s skin uncomfortably.

“Go on,” he said. “Be blunt about it.”

“I can abbreviate it for you,” Aedon replied evenly. “You, Prince Basaal, live by honor. From our many conversations, both last year and since your return, I know you do not believe in the aggressive tactics of your father to conquer this and other lands. You hate war and its results, although you do love fighting, and I have yet to reconcile that—” Aedon added plainly before continuing. “So, here you are, bound to Aemogen and to Eleanor by this honor. Is it really your intention to sit at Ainsley Rise as we march out to fight? If this is your plan, I would ask you to reconsider for the sake of said honor. Join with us to defend our sovereignty.”

“I am only one man,” Basaal replied.

“You are one thousand men in the eyes of those you have trained. Whether they can forgive you for it or not, they cannot leave the image of who you are aside. You are more than one soldier, you are practically…” Aedon lost his words, looking frustrated.

“Immortal. A demigod,” Basaal answered ironically.

Aedon’s face looked blank for a moment before a humorous expression crossed it. “I suppose that is one way to say it. Yes. Quite accurate.” He laughed. “Although—”

“Although, you would never have said it that way,” Basaal guessed.

“No.”

“Neither would Eleanor.” Basaal sighed. “And what of her leadership?”

“It is there, unbroken,” Aedon answered immediatly. “But her work for your pardon has created a distance, an unsettling feeling among some of the people. If the two of you were to unite for Aemogen, not only would it create the kind of power I believe we need to have any hope in this battle but also the people would forgive her, praise her even, for sparing your life. You would become a king who could stand with our queen.”

“You would have me go into battle against my own army? You would ask me to cut down the men whom I have been responsible for? What of them and the lives of their families?”

“I am asking you to consider it, yes,” Aedon confirmed bluntly.

“This is hell.” Basaal moved his hands to his hips and looked at the ground, spitting into the grass as he weighed Aedon’s words. “I will admit to you,” he finally said. “I’ve already been wrestling with this question since I returned from Common Field. I will also admit that Eleanor has promised me my freedom, if I so choose, once the battle has been decided. I have made no promises to her that I will stay and become King.” He caught Aedon’s eyes as he spoke truthfully. “Did she tell you that?”

“No,” Aedon said, and his face creased. “Yet, I don’t feel surprised by the revelation.”

“The burning barn,” Basaal said, kicking the dirt as these words came slowly from his mouth.

“It’s an expression, Basaal, nothing more.”

“I only wonder.” Basaal took a deep breath. “Was it the moon or the sun that set it ablaze? Something to think about.”

Basaal turned away from Aedon, returning to Tarit and the others, who were sitting and standing now in a circle. Settling himself down beside the boy, Basaal joined the casual round of conversation while the image he had seen of himself—standing between Aedon and Crispin, his sword drawn—worked circles around his mind.

Chapter Thirteen

That night, when Eleanor again found herself wandering into the throne room, a figure was already draped across her throne. When she did not say anything, Basaal spoke.

“Your throne is more comfortable than mine.”

“Is that a symbolic observation?” Eleanor asked.

Basaal replied with a low laugh, and then he straightened himself. “I can move if you would like, but I believe there is room for us both.”

Eleanor almost thought to turn back around and return to bed, but he had sounded like he had in Zarbadast. And, after watching the shadows on his face, she sighed and stepped onto the dais. Basaal lifted his left arm to give her room, placing it around her shoulders as she settled in next to him. It felt like coming home, the pressure of his body against hers.

“I just lost a wager with myself,” he admitted. “I assumed you would return to your rooms.”

“It was tempting,” Eleanor admitted, yawning, half wondering if Hannia would come rushing into the throne room to send them off to sleep. “I should return and force myself asleep.” The air in his lungs shifted, and Eleanor felt the pressure of his chest against her shoulder as he prepared himself to speak.

“Stay awhile with me.”

The words webbed out across every dark corner of the throne room before returning to her in a single, soft entreaty. Eleanor took them in with no effort to shield herself from the emotion of it. Stay with
me
, she wished to reply.

Eleanor lifted her hand to rest on his chest, and, in response, Basaal pulled her tighter against him as if they had finally given themselves permission to care for each other again.

“As I left the training fields today,” Basaal said, “I passed a man whom I’d met last year. He lives with his wife here in Ainsley, a shoemaker by trade. I went to shake hands, and he refused me.”

“Hmm,” Eleanor said sleepily, turning her face in closer to Basaal. “Did he say why?”

“Oh, I am sure you can guess the reasons. Betrayal leaves an acidic residue, does it not?” He rested his chin on the top of her head and breathed out slowly. “He is also bitter because, during his last tour serving at the pass, he was caught by an Imirillian arrow, straight through his hand.”

Wincing, Eleanor looked at her own hand, resting just below Basaal’s collarbone. “No bones were broken, apparently,” Basaal continued. “But the head of the arrow had been dipped in poison, so he’d had to get an amputation to spare his life.”

“And so he would not greet you?” Eleanor repeated.

“No, he would not,” Basaal said. “‘Are we not friends?’ I asked him. But Haide—that is his name—just laughed. ‘Hang me if you want, Prince, but I’ll not bow down to the likes of you.’ And then he was off, carrying his sword with his useless left hand.”

“Does this man now have any way to support his family?” Eleanor asked.

“I couldn’t say.”

The darkness hung about them, and Eleanor kept trying to say that when they returned from the war—if they returned—she would see the shoemaker taken care of. But sleep weighed in her bones, and Basaal’s presence was so peaceful. And she needed him to stay.

“There is something I wanted to speak with you about,” he said, his voice sounding far away. She thought she moved, acknowledged what he had said, but Eleanor was too close to sleep to know for certain. “Remember,” he said softly, “there is something I must speak with you about.”

***

In the early morning, Eleanor woke to find herself in her own bed. Basaal must have carried her. A sliver of the memory played at the edges of her consciousness. He may have even kissed her, but she was not certain. Not wanting to leave the warmth of her bed, yet knowing that sleep was gone, Eleanor decided to retrieve the reports from her desk and bring them back into the bedroom.

As she entered the gray-lit audience chamber, she saw that Basaal was fast asleep on the sofa near the fire. “Basaal,” Eleanor whispered, and he stirred. “Basaal.” The prince did not open his eyes but turned to face Eleanor, folding his arms tightly against his chest for the chill of the spring morning.

“I must fight,” he answered, still half asleep. “I was told I must fight for Aemogen. And I promised I would.” The words tumbled painfully from his tired lips, and he sank back into sleep.

***

The news burst upon them like a whirlwind or a gale out from the sea. And, when Eleanor thought about it later, she was glad that days of endless rain had accompanied the tidings. The fen rider who had brought the news was wet and chilled through, but the fire in his own eyes had been warmth sufficient. His news was that Emperor Shaamil had sent a small envoy to negotiate with the queen.

“Crispin was worried if he waited for Your Majesty’s approval, it would be too late to both receive the envoy and to make for the Maragaide valley by the appointed day,” the fen rider explained. “But, if we received the envoy immediately, they could come and be gone before we were set to march out. And, this would only increase our chances that the emperor would have no notion of the attack, seeing as how we could send back false information. Hoping to speak in your name, Crispin agreed that they might send six men, blindfolded the entire three-day ride, to Ainsley Rise. So, they set out yesterday morning and will be here tomorrow.”

“Why would Shaamil be sending an envoy into Aemogen?” Eleanor asked aloud. She did not look at her council but at Basaal, who sat silent nearby.

“Did he specifically say it was to negotiate?” Basaal asked the fen rider.

“That was the implication,” the fen rider answered, “but never in so many words. Crispin believes it is an intimidation tactic that we can turn for our own benefit.”

“They will come under the banner of negotiation, but their terms will all be used for intimidation and the advantage of Zarbadast,” Basaal said, crossing his arms and feeling caught. “If you are too subservient, your behavior will be suspect. Better to appear brash and defiant. Then the message they take back to Emperor Shaamil will be one of ignorance and pride.”

“How are we to bring a delegation of six men into Ainsley, the heart of our military encampment?” Sean asked, worried. “We cannot hide three thousand soldiers.”

“I assume this is why Crispin demanded that they be blindfolded,” Eleanor replied.

“And, we can suspend all training on the day the delegation is in Ainsley, keeping the delegation within windowless rooms, under constant guard. It can be done,” Aedon confirmed confidently.

“Let them come,” Eleanor consented. “We will plan what we want Emperor Shaamil to think of us.”

***

Eleanor had assumed Basaal would be willing to sit on a throne beside her when the Imirillian delegates were given an audience. But he said he would not.

“There is nothing for me to consider,” Basaal argued. “You are asking me to openly declare myself as your ally before my father’s delegation. No. I will not do that. I refuse to even be in the room.”

Eleanor pressed her palms against her desk and tried again. “I am asking you to stand beside me.”

“You are asking me to cause confusion, questions, and intimidation by being present.”

“Those would be secondary benefits,” Eleanor stated honestly. “But I want you beside me, first and foremost, for your support, your strength, your help to read the situation. You know what to watch for.”

Basaal shifted in his chair, his arms crossed stubbornly, then dismissed himself from the queen’s rooms without so much as another word.

“I am only asking him to consider the idea,” Eleanor said impatiently when she spoke with Aedon later, reiterating the reasonableness of the request she’d made to Basaal. Thunder sounded off the windows, but the constant rainstorms that had been washing over Ainsley for the last two days were now letting up to become dismal drizzles.

“You are not asking him to consider it,” Aedon countered as she shuffled through the reports from the pass. “You are telling him to do as you wish.”

“That’s untrue.” Eleanor threw herself against the back of her chair, staring at the window. “I wish he would reconsider,” Eleanor finally said, staring back at the papers on her desk, drumming her fingers.

“Is it really that important?” Aedon asked fairly. “As a matter of state?”

“No.” It was not, she admitted to herself. Eleanor could face the delegation with her own mastery of the Imirillian language. Eleanor knew her craft, and she did not need Basaal to sit beside her. But she wanted him to.

“I know,” Aedon said although she had not spoken her desires. “I wish he would.”

Later, she found Basaal in the dark gray of late afternoon, walking the western battlements, inconsiderate of the wind and the threat of returning rain. Once he saw that Eleanor had stepped out onto the wall, Basaal leaned against the stone battlement, waiting for her to come to him. He pulled his cloak tighter, against the chill. She stopped beside him, looking towards the west, where no hint of evening light broke the gray sky.

“Will you not stand beside me?” Eleanor asked again, as the fierce wind swept her skirts.

“Consider it a free lesson in Imirillian statecraft,” Basaal said, and he pulled back from the battlement as he continued to watch the heavy gray clouds spin across the western downs. “You are always alone when choice and consequence come up against each other. It matters not who stands beside you in your life or how much they can give. There always comes a point where you are alone against the challenges you face.”

A split of lightning was followed by the drum-deep sound of thunder, rolling out over the green field.

“You confuse me,” Eleanor said, her voice unwavering, her expression as tempestuous as the sky. “You place peculiar limits that I don’t understand. ” The clouds spilled open, and rain began to fall hard over Ainsley. Eleanor did not look away from Basaal’s face despite the downpour. “Having a relationship with someone, friendship or love, means standing by them, standing present, even if those you stand with must face certain realities alone.”

The wind spit the rain in their faces, and, finally, Basaal turned with a conflicted expression towards Eleanor. “You are asking me to come and stand before a delegation from my father and appear as if I have chosen Aemogen willingly.” Squinting against the heavy rain, he brushed the water away from his face. Basaal flinched as Eleanor threw her arms up in frustration.

“You said, just three days ago, that the Imirillian invasion was unjust!” she shouted above the sound of the rain. “That, to satisfy the Illuminating God, you would stand and give yourself to Aemogen’s defense!”

“And, by the seven stars, I will!” Basaal cursed, shouting back. “You know I will!”

“But you will not stand with me now,” Eleanor cried. “I do not think I can face this war on my own, Basaal.”

He took a step closer to the Eleanor and pointed towards the castle. “You have all the others! You have Aedon and Crispin and Edythe—the entire country is standing with you!” Basaal spread his hands out before him. “What difference could I possibly make?”

“Is there nothing I can say to persuade you?” Eleanor gulped back her emotions before continuing. “The strength you give me—”

She brought her hands down on the wet stone of the battlement before her and looked away from him, towards the north. The high mountains of the Arimel could not be seen, cloaked in the deepening gray of the afternoon. Eleanor was wet through, and she began to shiver as the wind increased. She knew it was unfair to ask so much of him and that, perhaps the only strength he had left he needed for himself.

“I’m sorry.” The wind carried Basaal’s words off his lips, but Eleanor heard them clear enough. “I cannot stand with you.”

Eleanor turned and watched as Basaal tucked his shoulders against the rain and moved south along the battlements towards the travelers’ house. The muscles in Eleanor’s face tightened beneath her eyes, and then she, making a defeated sound, went north.

***

The next morning, Basaal took himself to the river. Running low and calm, it was nothing like the river of the year before. What had then been tumbling and fervent was now quiet, an omen for little water for the year ahead. He paced along the bank, tracing his own footsteps up and down the entire morning.

The birds of the day seemed quite unaware of his mood and continued their pleasantries as he paced in the long grass and thought of Eleanor. He wanted to stand with her, as they had done in Zarbadast, but he could not commit himself to the declaration this would make. As unfair as his forced exile was in comparison with Eleanor’s futile attempts to save her small country. His heart felt still and hard and, as much as he hated to admit it to himself, sad.

And he knew his sadness would dictate the distance again growing between them.

Emaad found him, sitting morosely near the riverbank.

“You missed evening meal last night.”

“So it would seem,” Basaal said as he flicked the blade of grass he wove between his fingers into the river.

“You were always ridiculous when sulking,” Emaad challenged, glaring at Basaal with stubborn affection in his eyes. “Stand up.”

“Why?” But Basaal stood when Emaad did not respond to his question.