The Wanderer's Mark: Book Three of Imirillia (The Books of Imirillia 3) (10 page)

“No.” Eleanor sat. “I’m dizzy. Can we just sit awhile?” she asked. “Rest—space to think—that is what I need.”

Aedon brought Eleanor’s horse over and staked it with his own, then he came and set himself on the grass beside her.

“You’re tired,” he said after some time. “And I keep forgetting—” he trailed off and made Eleanor take a drink anyway. “If you insist on pushing yourself,” he added, “then I insist you give yourself a fighting chance at it.” They both were silent for a few moments.

“Who else has died that I should know about?” she asked after a time.

Aedon listed the names that were familiar. A few were distant cousins of Eleanor’s.

“Most of the casualties were men you would have recognized, but they were farmers and thatchers, and you would not have known them by name. We’ve a record of the dead back at Ainsley Rise. And, every few days, Crispin sends a message from the pass.”

“I will acquaint myself with it as soon as we return home,” she said as she lay down on her back in the grass, staring up at the late-afternoon sky. Aedon, too, lay on his back, a blade of grass between his teeth, thoughtful.

“I’ll never forgive you for that,” Aedon said after a time.

Eleanor looked over at him. “For what?” she asked. But he would not meet her eyes.

“Riding out like that before the Imirillian army,” he finally answered.

“You’ve already forgiven me,” Eleanor answered back, her voice subdued. “I can see it in your face.”

“Then you misinterpret,” Aedon spoke sharply. “I believe you took ten years off my life.”

***

The ground rumbled under the thunder of thirteen thousand soldiers marching in place. Basaal could feel the vibration buzzing in his hands through Refigh’s reins. Then came the sound of trumpets. Then there were banners, soldier’s livery, all marked with the symbols of Emperor Shaamil and of Basaal, seventh son.

As the royal company came over the rise, just above the swollen war encampment, Shaamil raised his fist, and all the men, standing in perfect lines, began an endless roar that rang in Basaal’s ears. He shifted in his saddle and then raised his own arm. The noise became deafening. If Shaamil had noticed that the soldiers gave out a louder sound in response to Basaal, he showed no sign of it.

Ammar rode beside Basaal, frowning at the companies of Basaal’s men, which were adorned in red and black. They had spent the winter, waiting patiently, and now their time would be coming. The soldiers of Shaamil’s forces wore a shade of purple so dark only the bright sunlight could catch any color out of it. Standing at perfect attention, both armies turned their shouts into the war chants of Zarbadast. The men’s hunger for a fight, Basaal knew, would be insatiable.

As he rode towards the line of tents, waiting for the emperor and his sons, Basaal heard again in his mind the words he had heard that morning in prayer before he had left Zarbadast. He felt a shiver as he stared at the men before him. He watched the nape of his father’s neck, knowing clearly what the Illuminating God had asked of him. The words came crowding into his mind now, louder than all the chants and cheers of men ready for war.

“
You shall not lead your army into Aemogen
.”

Again, even in the warmth of the mid-spring afternoon, Basaal shivered.

Chapter Seven

Ainsley was at war. As they rode in from the north, Eleanor could see several encampments of soldiers out beyond the western gates.

“The men of the northern fens gather here at Aemogen for training as they prepare to serve three week’s time at the pass,” Aedon yelled over Eleanor’s near gallop. “There is also the southern camp, as I told you, near Rye Field fen. They are ready to mobilize as soon as we call for their aid.”

The towers of Ainsley Castle held steady against the sky, and Eleanor could feel the beat of her heart, the emotion stinging her eyes as they came nearer. Up through the northern gate they rode, sweeping towards the western side of Ainsley Rise. A horn blew from above, and the men of the encampment let out a cheer as Eleanor’s small company entered the gates of the courtyard.

Then Edythe came running out, followed by a stream of people. Eleanor dropped from the horse into Edythe’s arms. They were laughing, and Edythe was crying and rushing through words Eleanor could not hear. Aedon stepped behind Eleanor, his hand on her back, leading her through those gathered.

Then a commotion caused the crowd to split as Hastian, Queen’s Own, came sprinting, holding the sheath of his sword in his hand to keep it from swinging as he ran towards Eleanor.

***

Despite knowing better, Eleanor and Edythe, with warm mugs of tea, sat up late into the night talking on Eleanor’s bed. Edythe spoke of Gaulter Alden, Doughlas, their preparations, the long winter, and how she had stepped into role of regent.

“I’m sure Aedon mentioned how Crispin and Thistle Black are testing a new idea of weaponry involving the powder,” Edythe said.

“Yes.” Eleanor nodded. “But not many details beyond that.”

“Tomorrow, Crispin is expected to arrive,” Edythe explained. “He has a plan that, until I heard another six thousand men were to arrive, I was sure would work. Now, I am so not certain.”

Eleanor’s head was hurting, and she wished for just one night to push the threat of war away. “Tomorrow, we will discuss it all in detail. But, tonight, let’s forget about the war and just talk about anything else.”

“Would it be too hard if I asked you to tell me of Imirillia?” Edythe inquired as she leaned against the pillows, burrowing farther beneath the warm blankets. It felt to Eleanor like an overwhelming request.

“I hardly know where to begin,” Eleanor admitted, the words soft on her tongue. “It makes me want to smile and cry simultaneously. Each memory of beauty is accompanied by another of shadows.” She leaned her head against the headboard and closed her eyes. “I can hardly believe I’m home,” she admitted. “It still feels strange, as if I’m wearing a garment that doesn’t quite fit me anymore.”

Edythe reached her hand up and touched Eleanor’s chin.

“Did he hurt you?” The question had been asked lightly, but Eleanor could see that Edythe feared the answer.

“No.” Eleanor squeezed her sister’s fingers. “No. We became partners of sorts, actually.”

“Then how come the scars and sores on your back? Your wrists? Your hands?” Edythe asked.

“The journey home.” Eleanor pulled her hand back and covered her wrist instinctively. “I was caught by slavers, but one of Basaal’s soldiers rescued me, helping me home at Basaal’s request.”

“What is he like?” Edythe asked as she set aside her mug and moved closer to Eleanor. “Wil, as Prince Basaal, I mean.”

Pausing, Eleanor leaned her head farther back into her pillow. “He has made more of his character than I would have thought possible of anyone in his place. I respect him immensely.”

Edythe frowned as if catching a hint in Eleanor’s face. “What happened between you?”

“He did not order the raid on Common Field,” Eleanor said, forcing the words she had wanted to tell Edythe into the open. “I know you do not want to hear this, but I think you should be aware that the attack was carried out without his orders, and he was furious. His aim in spending time in Aemogen was to negotiate a peaceful surrender so that no lives would be lost. He still carries Blaike’s death on his shoulders.”

The blood drained from Edythe’s face, and she began to absently pick at Eleanor’s coverlet, remaining silent while Eleanor watched her movements.

“Do you still mourn Blaike?” Eleanor felt out the words, trying to find a way to discuss his death.

“It has not yet been a year, Eleanor.”

“No,” Eleanor agreed. “Almost, but not quite.”

“There has not been time for grief,” Edythe said quietly. “But, I do not really wish to discuss it, if you can understand.”

“I do,” Eleanor confirmed in an instant, “better than you suppose.”

Edythe looked to Eleanor’s face. “And what about the mark on your left arm?” she asked.

Eleanor had no answer. There were stories she was not ready to tell.

***

Crispin arrived late the next morning.

Eleanor had left Edythe to care for the morning audience, as Eleanor sat at her desk, reading several months’ of back reports. When she received news of Crispin’s arrival, Eleanor directed he should come straight to her private audience chamber. As the door opened and Hastian showed Crispin in, Eleanor almost laughed, moving to greet him. He surprised her by dropping to his knees and bowing his head.

“My Queen.”

“Get up, and greet me properly,” Eleanor exclaimed with a laugh. He stood as he was told, but his air remained stiff and formal, a subject to his queen. As they studied one another, Eleanor realized the quick smile and boyishness she’d once known in him was now gone, replaced by the heavy new responsibility she could not help but notice weighing down his shoulders. She also noticed that he wore the insignia Gaulter Alden had always worn.

She wondered what he saw in return. Crispin looked as if he would speak but was waiting for her to address him first.

“You have done well,” Eleanor complimented him, motioning towards the stacks of hastily written reports on her desk. “I’ve spent the morning reviewing your reports from the pass. And I am favorably impressed by your leadership and command there.”

“Had I not received the encouragement of the council and of Edythe,” he explained, “you must believe I would have never assumed this position for myself. Please consider the other worthy men for this post,” he added, “which was never mine to take.”

The impatient smile that flickered across Eleanor’s face felt like a stolen expression of Basaal’s. “On old Ainsley, Crispin, you know very well you’re the man for the job,” she said. “And I couldn’t be more pleased. I ask, as your sovereign and your friend, that you remain at your post.”

Crispin bowed his head, relieved. “As it pleases you, Eleanor.”

Baffled by such a foreign formality in Crispin, Eleanor now soaked in the sound of him speaking her own name. She threw her arms around him and kissed him on the cheek, and he responded like his old self, lifting her to her toes and saying something about needing to feed her more.

Before she dismissed Crispin to wash and change, Eleanor said, “The war council and the fen lords will meet as soon as you are ready. I understand you and Thistle Black have come onto an idea that will benefit us in this fight. I ask that you come prepared to share with me the particulars.”

“I will,” Crispin said as he bowed. Then Hastian opened the door, and the young war leader passed into the corridor.

“Hastian, how long has Crispin been like this?”

“Your Majesty?” Hastian asked. The Queen’s Own furrowed his brow in an exaggerated manner.

“His mood, his bearing,” Eleanor said, motioning her hand towards the door Crispin had just exited through. “This new seriousness.”

Hastian cleared his throat. “It’s hard to say.”

***

It took time for Eleanor to gather the courage to walk into the library, where her council and all the fen lords were waiting. She was just so.… Well, Eleanor admitted to herself, she didn’t know what. But she felt broken into too many pieces and worn thin and uncertain of how to pick her life back up again. After claiming as much self-decided hope as she was able, she entered the room.

Edythe had joined them, her chair at the opposite end of the table from Eleanor’s. As Eleanor sat, the rest of the council followed suit. Then she said the first thing that came to mind: “I hope that, this time, someone bothered to search the library.”

Aedon and Sean smiled. The fen lords not privy to the joke looked at each other in confusion. Then Crispin stood, his face flushed as he pushed back his chair and walked past Eleanor to search the rows and rows of books.

“We are quite alone, Your Majesty,” he said as he bowed upon his return before sitting down in his chair.

“Then, let us begin,” Eleanor said as she looked around the table, making eye contact with Thistle Black, who sat at the far end near Edythe. Having not noticed the querulous fen lord before then, Eleanor gave him a private smile, which he returned.

“I’m—it’s good to be here, in Aemogen, with all of you. My memories of you kept me filled with courage. Now,” she said as she cleared her throat and looked at the table, “to business. I’m sure you have all heard by now that Emperor Shaamil has decided to accompany Prince Basaal to ensure the success of this conquest. He brings with him only a fraction of his army: six thousand men. Added with the army of Prince Basaal, we now face thirteen thousand.

“Now, I also understand,” she continued, “that Crispin and Thistle Black, of the South Mountain fen, have been working on a stratagem involving a new weapon of sorts. Although many of you might already be familiar with the idea, I would like a full report. Crispin?”

Eleanor felt a simultaneous twinge of sadness and pride as Crispin stood, looking older and strained, shuffling the few papers in his hand before looking up.

“After Your Majesty stalled the army at the pass,” he began, “Thistle Black and I were investigating the damage done by the lines of powder. The damage was—as you will come to see—immense. So, we began to wonder if the powder could be manipulated in any other ways to aid in our defense,” Crispin said and, to Eleanor’s relief, looked up and grinned quite like his old self. “Don’t believe Thistle Black when he says this was his idea. I thought of it first.”

Thistle Black harrumphed in response.

“I wondered what would happen,” Crispin continued, “if the powder were to be placed inside a restricted environment: a metal sphere that one could hold in a hand or a box full of Bryant’s blacksmithing scraps. With much care, we began to experiment along the eastern coast.”

“And?” Eleanor asked as she raised her eyebrow.

“Devastating,” Crispin replied, his grin turning into a steely smile. “Though, you’ll probably not forgive me for some of the damage the eastern coast has sustained,” he admitted. “The smithies throughout Aemogen have begun the construction of two or three types of this powder weaponry, mainly hollowed spheres that can be filled with powder and lit by a long fuse at a great distance. In the mean time, Lord Thayne has been spending time in Marion, recruiting a small company of mercenaries sympathetic to our cause. We consulted the treasury before offering a price if they agree to help us with our endeavor.”

“And what do you plan to do with these powder devices?” Eleanor asked.

“The only thing I believe we can do,” Crispin replied, looking around the table before looking back at Eleanor and lifting his chin. “We plan to attack the Imirillian encampment.”

Eleanor stood over the map of the Imirillian camp, watching with interest while Crispin laid out his plan before her. The war council also listened without interrupting.

“The Marion Company will—at an appointed time—set the devices here, here, and here,” Crispin explained, pointing to each location on the map. “One of them is also a food supplier, bringing in barrels of who knows what almost on a daily basis. We will make quick use of that. Our own team will be prepared to set up a line here,” Crispin said, his fingers moving across the map. “And here. And there among the horses, which is where we hope to strike first. Our men will come through the tunnel to Colun Tir then fan out into the woods to form a solid line. They will later leave the trees under cover of darkness and wait for the explosions to pass before bearing down for the attack. We’ve already practiced wrapping the reins and such in woolen cloth to mute the noise of the cavalry waiting in the darkness.”

“And what if some of the devices go off late?” Eleanor tapped her finger against the map.

“A circumstance we hope to avoid, a chance we take.”

“I know from the mining reports that handling powder in any form can be quite dangerous,” Eleanor challenged. “Are you certain we can put all of our devices in place without putting the soldiers, the tunnel, or the absolutely necessary element of surprise at risk?”

“Thistle Black and I have some ideas that I have prepared here,” Crispin said as he held up a stack of worn papers. “And we will only use teams of experienced miners to set the lines on the night of the invasion.”

“Which is?” Eleanor asked.

“Our original plan,” Crispin told Eleanor, “was to attack twenty-seven days from now, in the middle of the night. It is the next new moon,” he explained. “The valley would be in impenetrable darkness.”