The Wanderer's Mark: Book Three of Imirillia (The Books of Imirillia 3) (19 page)

“You refuse to close any path,” Emaad said. “It is a weakness. It will always keep you between the places you should be.”

“Pardon?” Basaal looked towards his brother, confused.

“Your whole life, your summer here in Aemogen, Eleanor’s escape from Zarbadast…. Does it surprise you that here you are, living the consequence of your balancing game between honor and what you have always known? For a freeman, you have imprisoned yourself by refusing to declare where you will stand.”

“I’ve never been a freeman,” Basaal said, his laugh a clip of anger.

Emaad shook his head and then did what he thought best, he hit Basaal as hard as he knew how. The younger brother reeled backward. Basaal didn’t cry out in pain but found himself smiling as he recovered himself, dabbing the blood away from his split lip. He could feel the numb swelling against his gums.

“You want to have a go at it then?” Basaal challenged good-naturedly.

“You’ve spent your entire life balancing, balancing between Father, our religion, your conscience, the rights of others. Well, there comes a time when you have to choose a side. But you waited.” Emaad paused, looking calm. “You waited, trying to do what was honorable—I know—but sooner or later a decision would have to be made. You refused to make it, and so, life had to do it for you,” he said. “Now, here you are. You have drawn the line and find yourself on the opposite side of the emperor.” Emaad laughed and fingered the line on his neck. “Is that really a surprise? The reason you’ve played this game your whole life is because you could never stomach the idea of becoming the man he is!”

Basaal was getting agitated. He pressed his fingers against his lip and took them away. On his fingers, the blood formed patterns in bright red: the symbol of Basaal’s house, surrounded with a thousand representations of the wanderer’s mark. He smeared the blood and looked back at his brother. “Why must everyone have an opinion about what I must do with my life?”

“You want my opinion?” Emaad asked. “You can’t stay in Zarbadast. You know that. I see it in your face. Where would you go, otherwise, but here? Wander around the Continent, living a shiftless life? You would be racked with guilt. Your honor would haunt you every night. So, you have now what you would have chosen anyway. Give yourself,” Emaad urged. “Give yourself to Aemogen. You no longer need to hold anything back. You have chosen your side, and, whether you recognize it or not, it is what you would have eventually wished you had chosen. Stop moping.”

“I’m not moping,” Basaal said in anguish. “I’m mourning.”

He opened his eyes to find blackness. It was night, and the fire in Eleanor’s audience chamber had gone out. Yes, Basaal remembered, he had come back from the travelers’ house after Eleanor was already asleep.

He sat up, breathing hard, his heart racing. A dream. He sat against the couch and leaned his head back in relief. He yawned, but it was at a cost, for his mouth stung. Basaal lifted a finger to his lip. When he brought it away and moved his fingers towards the moonlight, he could see blood. A chill ran through his spine. He smeared the blood between his fingers, and tried to go back to sleep. Sleep did not come.

***

Eleanor was seated in the throne room, wearing the black velvet gown she had commissioned in Calafort, her hair bound up with the Battle Crown in place. There was no smile on her lips. Her council sat in their places, and several companies of soldiers stood in silent attention, each soldier holding a spear in his hand, the ends of which rested on the stone, pointing to the sky. Edythe met Eleanor’s eye and smiled just as the sound of footsteps caused Eleanor to look back. Prince Basaal, dressed in the most formal clothing he’d acquired in Aemogen, wearing his elegant weaponry of black and pearl. He was clean-shaven, crisp, and someone had split his lip again.

“Pardon my tardiness,” Basaal said once he came before her and bowed. “You know how I suffer for my vanity.”

As he was about to move aside toward his throne, Eleanor reached for his hand. He looked her in the eye, and she swallowed, grateful.

“This is a difficult thing for me.” The words were spoken so lightly that they hardly pushed against the air between them.

“I know,” Eleanor said, almost losing her composure. “Perhaps I was unfair to wish it. But, I thank you.”

Nodding, Basaal took a deep breath. “Are you ready to sound brash and impetuous?”

Eleanor’s face broke into a smile. “With your experience, I don’t doubt our success.” He scanned her face, his resignation showing through the thin mask he wore.

Crispin entered the throne room as Basaal took his seat beside the queen, nodding to Eleanor. The sound of many footsteps clattered in from the corridor. As they waited, Basaal transformed, now appearing casual, almost disinterested. Eleanor met his eyes, and a strained smile was shared between them.

“Reminds me of home.” He spoke in Imirillian so only she could understand. “False confidence, word manipulation—I wouldn’t miss it for anything.”

Two dozen soldiers entered, escorting six men, still blindfolded from their journey. One of the Imirillians was particularly tall, dressed in—what were by now—dusty white robes. Eleanor almost laughed out loud. Ammar. The emperor had sent Ammar.

Six soldiers stepped forward to remove the blindfolds, and Eleanor smiled at the physician once he found her face. The corners of his mouth turned up, and he raised his eyebrows in greeting. Then, as his face wandered from Eleanor to the throne beside her, he froze, and Eleanor saw an expression she didn’t even know the physician possessed: shock.

Drakta, the man whom Eleanor had encountered in Basaal’s tent all those months ago, was the leader of the delegation. Once he saw the prince, he took a step forward, intense hatred for Basaal in his eyes.

Eleanor held out a hand. “You are quite welcome to remain where you are,” she spoke in Imirillian.

Shaamil’s war leader glared. “Hospitable journey this has been.”

“It was not meant to be so,” Eleanor said, sitting up straighter in her throne. “I assume we will conduct our business in Imirillian for the sake of your envoy?”

“We don’t speak your foul language,” Drakta growled back.

“And, what is it the emperor desires you to say. Have you come to announce your surrender?”

Five of the six men in the emissary, the officers and soldiers of Shaamil, laughed. The sixth stood with his hands behind his back, surveying the architecture of the throne room, seeming uninterested in the politics of the moment.

“His Grace, Emperor Shaamil, wishes us to tell you that your defense at the pass is charming, but he is ready to begin the conflict in earnest. With much equanimity, he again offers Aemogen the opportunity to reconsider its position.”

“Under what terms?” Eleanor sounded uninterested.

“The lives of your people, all of the people, would be spared. Yours, of course, would be forfeit as well as the princeling’s, I’d imagine.” Drakta looked at Basaal. “Although, when the emperor hears the tale that his beloved son has gone to join the Aemogen peasants, he may want to take the boy back to Zarbadast for his death.”

“Go to the devil,” Basaal interjected with a challenge in his eyes. “Climb back to your kennel, and remain the emperor’s yapping dog.”

Drakta took a step forward, and every soldier in the room took a step towards Drakta, their spears pointing at the man.

“If you will please refrain from moving,” Eleanor said calmly.

All the emotions he must have controlled for years now shown in Drakta’s face as he stared down Basaal.

“Is that truly all you have come to say, Drakta?” Eleanor said. “It seems a pity to have ridden in such discomfort for days to be so utterly predictable.”

He turned his burning eyes on her. “I come with a warning: If you refuse the emperor now, he will send a force up the pass, swarming like desert dogs into your country. The pass will soon fall, and all of this,” he said, looking up and around the throne room in disgust, “will be gone.”

Eleanor rose, and Basaal followed suit. She took a step down the dais and stood before the war leader. “Well, then, let them come,” she stated slowly. “And you will find that what awaits you in this land is more hellish than you could possibly imagine.”

“Desert dog, indeed,” Basaal sneered as he looked Drakta up and down.

“Uuaahh!” Drakta spun his hand towards the prince. Crispin and his men rushed forward but not before a spray of white was flung into Basaal’s face. Basaal screamed as it hit his eyes. He turned away, cursing.

Guards surrounded Shaamil’s envoy, three of them grabbing Drakta and holding him in place, Aedon was calling for water, and Eleanor rounded on Crispin. “Did you not search them for weapons?”

“We did!” Crispin insisted, before he ordered the envoy be taken to the dungeons.

Basaal was pulling away from any attempt at assistance, swearing whenever touched, his fingers clutching at his eyes. Aedon grabbed Basaal’s arms.

“Take him to my rooms,” Eleanor ordered. Then she sent Crispin a message, requesting the presence of Ammar in her chambers.

***

In the moment after Drakta’s hand shot out, Basaal had fallen back, raising his hands to his face. He tried to open his eyes but could not. A million suns had exploded, and then darkness and pain. He cursed. Voices rang out. Someone called for water, and then there was a scuffle and shouting. The pain increased in sharp bursts, causing Basaal to breathe in suddenly, which he followed with another string of curses. Basaal could not tell who was around him or whose hands steadied his arms. Water was brought, and they began placing cool rags over his eyes as they brought him quickly to Eleanor’s chambers.

It was Aedon, Basaal believed, who forced him into a chair and brought a wet rag again to his face.

“Open your eyes,” he commanded.

“I can’t, you bastard,” Basaal retaliated.

“Basaal, hold still!” Edythe said. “That includes your tongue.”

“The physician!” someone said.

“He’s here,” Aedon said, breathing a sigh of relief. Basaal was still in great agony from the pain.

“Your physician is useless,” Basaal snarled as he fought against any assistance. “He used Arillian salts!”

***

“Quiet!” Eleanor said, her voice cutting through the noise, and the clamor stopped. “On Old Ainsley, Basaal, let my man attend to you until Ammar is brought up. Proceed, doctor.”

“I’ve never seen this,” Eleanor’s court physician said, flustered. “But, I suppose I need to wash it out as best I can.”

“I would think so,” Eleanor said urgently, stepping forward, and nodding to Aedon. “Help me, Aedon. Hastian?” Aedon and Hastian pulled Basaal’s hands away from his eyes, and Eleanor forced Basaal’s eyelid open as water was poured directly over his eye.

“Eleanor!” he shouted at her. “By the seven stars, I will never forgive you—”

She ignored him, and, when the physician nodded, they forced open the other eye and repeated the process. Basaal tried to shout, but the water poured into his mouth, and he began to choke.

“So, this is how Imirillian princes are treated in Aemogen,” Ammar said from the doorway, where he stood, bound, with Crispin at his elbow. “I suppose turnabout is fair play,” He added. Eleanor straightened, and Aedon and Hastian both released Basaal. The prince shot forward, sputtering.

The scene that Ammar must have witnessed struck Eleanor as incredibly funny, and she began to laugh.

***

When Basaal woke, it was deep into the night. His eyes throbbed, swollen and burned as they were. Bandages were still in place. As he moved, a groan came from his lips.

Someone touched his cheek softly.

“Sh. Go back to sleep.”

It was Eleanor.

“I am so tired,” Basaal murmured.

“You should be,” Ammar said from nearby. “We gave you something to help you sleep.”

Clearing his throat, Basaal braved the words. “And my eyes?”

“I have done all that I know how to with the materials at hand,” Ammar said practically. “The Aemogen physician had never seen Arillian salts before, but he did well to wash it out as soon as they could force you to let him. The salve I applied should remain in place for a day, so we will remove the bandages tomorrow. You should sleep through until then—I’ve a theory it helps with the healing,” Ammar added.

“Are you feeling any pain just now?” Eleanor asked quietly.

“Yes.” Basaal moved his fingers to find hers.

“I am not in any way saying you deserved this, Basaal,” Eleanor said, “but you seem to have an extraordinary gift in aggravating people to violence against you.”

Ammar’s laugh could be heard from across the room, where he was preparing a draught for the pain.

“I thought that was the plan.” Basaal coughed. “You two don’t seem to be taking my impending blindness very seriously at all,” Basaal said with a short breath. Every movement caused his eyes to burn all the more.

“I do not think it will cause you to go blind,” Ammar said. Basaal could hear his brother’s footsteps walking towards him. “Drink this,” Ammar said.

Eleanor urged Basaal to sit up if he could. It was unbearable. He hissed from the pain. Eleanor put one hand to his back as Ammar brought the sleeping draught to Basaal’s lips. The taste was not a pleasant one, but Basaal forced himself to swallow.