The Wanderer's Mark: Book Three of Imirillia (The Books of Imirillia 3) (8 page)

When all had fallen, a great silence hung over the desert city until night alighted itself on the barren ruins, calling forth a holy wind. It was not gentle but mighty and full. It did not gust and sway but moved as one continuous stream, a show of awesome force and power. The wind continued all night long. The moon did not show her face, and all was darkness and sound and terror.

Finally, come morning, when the sun again lifted itself above the desert sands, all was as if man had never been—all was forgotten.

Basaal opened his eyes.

***

“We have come far south,” Zanntal explained as he drew a map for Eleanor in the sand. “As I see it, the fastest way to your country is by passing through the edge of Aramesh and then dropping into Partolla, then crossing the Arimel Mountains to the north of Aemogen.”

Sharin was playing in the dirt around their feet, remaining close to Eleanor, still not trusting Zanntal. “The mountains cannot be crossed,” Eleanor said as she rested her hand on the girls shoulder and shook her head. “Especially in spring, when the glaciers would be impenetrable. That is why,” she added, “except for the pass and the port, Aemogen is so secure.”

Zanntal considered her words as he stared at his makeshift map. “The emperor’s army has assuredly by now, crossed into Marion.” He traced the path of the army. “We can reach the Arimel Mountains in five or six days’ time,” he said, looking back up at Eleanor. “Yes,” Zanntal insisted upon seeing her astonishment. “That is how far south the slavers brought you. Now, I lived in the northwest mountains as a boy, in the peaks above the Deeatnaah monastery,” he explained. “Our livelihood came from our skill of negotiating this difficult terrain. There are some towns in Partolla, near Aramesh, where we can find supplies and ropes.” He moved his fingers in the sand and looked calmly at Eleanor. “Prince Basaal once spoke of your unwarranted trust in me. If this is indeed the case, then trust me to help you across those mountains. We can drop into your country without negotiating the armies at the pass,” he assured her. “Seven to ten days after we reach the mountains, and no more.”

“Basaal spoke to you about my trusting you?” Eleanor asked openly.

“Yes.” Zanntal nodded. “When he asked me to play a part in your escape from the palace.”

“And why did you agree to help?” she asked.

Zanntal did not look away, and Eleanor could not mistake his sincerity. “Because when I saw you in Zarbadast, I felt I had known you all my days.”

Eleanor smiled. “Yes.”

“I will see you to your country,” Zanntal insisted. “By whatever power that determined we should meet, I will see you across those mountains.”

Eleanor pointed her finger at the map. “Are you telling me that I can be home in fewer than twenty days?”

“Yes,” Zanntal said firmly.

Eleanor clucked in reply and grinned.

***

Two more days south, and they left the Shera Shee behind. Eleanor could not help smiling as the majestic, blue Arimel Mountains rose in the distance. For the first time in weeks and weeks, the ground felt
real
. Zanntal had produced Eleanor’s herdsman boots, Dantib’s tunic, and her leather satchel, which still held the seeds Basaal had gifted her. She threw the satchel over her shoulder and thanked the Illuminating God for it.

Dantib’s tunic was repurposed for Sharin’s needs, and Eleanor took Zanntal’s headscarf to cover her own hair: by now, a motley brown with two inches of copper at the scalp. Her face felt raw—sunburned and windburned.

“I’m quite certain I look ridiculous,” Eleanor said as she was securing the tunic around Sharin’s waist with a rope. “My friends will hardly recognize me.”

The soldier said nothing.

Zanntal had taken to the little girl, and he was quick to help Eleanor in her care. Sharin gave him smiles as she clung to Eleanor’s skirts, shyly eating the food Zanntal gave her with deliberate determination. Eleanor asked her questions about her family, but Sharin just stared, neither nodding nor shaking her head.

As they traveled, Eleanor began to talk to Sharin about Aemogen, of spring and summer, the harvests and the flowers. She described the sea and the green. And, although the girl did not understand what all of Eleanor’s words meant, Zanntal, she noticed, would listen intently. Sometimes he asked questions. As the Arimel Mountains grew before them, they spoke of their childhoods, experiences, the political challenges facing Aemogen, and the cultural challenges facing Zanntal’s kin, whom he had left several years ago.

When they reached the Partolla towns, the people there took them for what they presented themselves to be: a family traveling south. Eleanor’s physical appearance was not such an anomaly here in the South, and Sharin clung to her so tightly that no one questioned their story.

Zanntal had money enough for food and a little clothing, and, in each town, he would casually accumulate more rope. Soon, Dantib’s gray mare became their stock horse. He bore the supplies patiently, paying little attention beyond trudging along their path and seeing to his own personal needs.

Zanntal scanned the snow-glossed peaks ahead of them. “This is not beyond what I have seen in the mountains of the high north,” he said. “Granted, they were never this tall,” he added, his face creased. But, it was with confidence that he scanned the crevices and crags. “What is the Aemogen word for mountain?” he asked.

Eleanor told him. “Why do you ask?”

“If I am to spend any time in your country, I will need to know the language,” he explained, “unless you plan on sending me back to Imirillia.”

“Of course not.” Eleanor smiled, and then her face fell. “You are not—how is it said—sworn until death to Prince Basaal?”

Zanntal shook his head. “I swore to Emaad, and he is dead. My allegiance is now my own to give for how long I wish it. Prince Basaal understands this.”

They took to the foothills. Nights were cold, now that they had traveled so far south. And, when they woke in the morning there was frost on their blankets. The horses did well on the first few days of travel, up through the rising foothills. But, on the third, they began to encounter passes that would require their small company to climb with their supplies tied to their backs.

“We are going to have to go on without the horses,” Zanntal told Eleanor early that afternoon.

“I know,” she admitted, trying to give Sharin comfort, for the girl had been crying off and on since morning. Eleanor’s hands were shaking, and she felt light-headed. But the mountains smelled like home, and Eleanor was determined to see Aemogen before many more days passed.

Hegleh had patiently climbed the uneven hills, nickering only in light complaint. Now, as Eleanor and Zanntal secured their supplies to their backs with ropes, it was time for her to say good-bye to Basaal’s horse. Eleanor moved her hands along Hegleh’s neck, whispering her thanks to the beautiful beast, removing the bridle, and then kissing her between the eyes.

Dantib’s gray horse, who had held no great affection for anyone save his master, was already wandering down the slope, following the lines of bright, spring grass. But Hegleh paid the gray horse no mind, following Eleanor, Sharin, and Zanntal instead as they continued up through the ravine.

“Go,” Eleanor said, and she waved the horse away as it struggled up an outcropping of stone. “Go away. You can’t follow us here.” Hegleh whinnied and blew out her nostrils, upset that Eleanor did not wait for her. Sharin began fussing again, and Eleanor held the girl’s hand as they continued to climb.

When they reached a crag where Hegleh could not follow, it tore at Eleanor’s heart. But, mouth pressed into a line as she fought her tears, she continued. Hegleh’s whinnying could be heard long after they had lost sight of the mare.

***

While Emperor Shaamil and Ammar ate, Basaal stood, studying the map of Aemogen carefully. Ranjen, one of Basaal’s officers who’d remained at the Marion encampment, now sent reports daily: Basaal’s troops were pressing their way up the pass with little to moderate progress as they cleared away stone and rubble. The Aemogen archers kept them at bay, and it was slow work.

Running his fingers over the map, Basaal tapped a finger on Ainsley. He’d had no word from Zanntal in well over a month and had no way of knowing if the soldier had even found Eleanor and Dantib, let alone helped them back to Aemogen. Basaal leaned against the table. This whole business with Aemogen had long since gone sour, and Basaal worried he would not manage to do what the Illuminating God had asked of him. It was going to take all his courage to even try.

“When the road passes near Marion City,” Shaamil said, his words interrupting Basaal’s thoughts, “we will stay as guests of King Staven’s hospitality for several days. The army can continue towards the encampment.”

“Now there’s sense,” Ammar said more to himself than to his father.

Basaal looked up at his father, displeasure evident on his face and he sighed audibly. Ignoring the black look he received from Shaamil, Basaal left the map table and paced along the luxurious carpets, now far more dusty than they had been months ago.

“What is it you object to?” Shaamil asked as he continued to eat his dinner, giving sharp, sidelong glances as he chewed deliberately.

“Nothing,” Basaal answered as he ran his fingers through his hair. If anything, he should be grateful for these few extra days before having to make a decision. “I care as much for my uncle as I care for—” Basaal waved at the air. “I can’t actually think of anyone that I like so little as him.”

Ammar laughed, but the emperor swallowed and took a drink before delivering the acerbic words, “Not even me?”

Chapter Five

There were times when Eleanor knew her confidence in Zanntal’s plan was fixed. After working their way up and over a difficult pass or at the end of a long day of struggle and ropes and cold, she would look back at their progress and feel sure. But, there were other days that made it hard for her to keep any hope.

Eleanor yelled as she slipped, burning her hand as she tried to grab her rope. The rope left several agonizing slivers in her already swollen and blistered fingers. She yelled again as she waved her fingers in the cold air before thrusting them into a patch of iced over snow. This particular moment was one of many that had convinced her their small group was mad and would end up dead before they ever found their way through one of the treacherous gaps and down into Aemogen.

“Are you alright?” Zanntal called back to her. Sharin was strapped to his back, and her face had crinkled in pain when he yelled. The infection in Sharin’s mouth seemed better, but a fever had set in, and Eleanor had stayed awake most of the night, trying to comfort the shivering girl.

The routine Eleanor had adopted since they began their ascent was feeling immense guilt for not having left Sharin with some family along the borders of Partolla, followed by a counter argument that they could not trust Sharin’s fate if she had just been left in a village alone. Eleanor could ensure a good future for Sharin in Aemogen
if
—she added with mounting stress—they could find a way to survive the Imirillian invasion.

Eleanor slipped again, and this time, she could not stand the pain of the rope and let go, falling to a ledge, banging her knee against an outcropping of rock. Zanntal said something, but Eleanor lifted her hand and stared at the shredded flesh. There was blood on her fingers.

“Eleanor, are you alright?” Zanntal repeated from above.

“No!” Eleanor said, feeling the word fly out of her mouth to match her frustrations.

“You’re exhausted, I know,” Zanntal said as he looked down over the edge, watching her struggle. “Have you injured your knee?”

“It smashed against the rock,” Eleanor said with a cringe.

“Should we stop?”

“We can’t afford to stop while there is still daylight,” Eleanor said, gritting her teeth as she stood, wiping a drip of blood from her cheek with her tattered sleeve.

On they went, the sun disappearing behind the peaks to the west. It grew cold. Sharin seemed worse now, yet Eleanor could do nothing for her until they stopped for the night. It took a long time to maneuver the crevices before them, and Eleanor’s fingers were still struggling to grip the ropes.

When the terrain grew even more challenging, Zanntal tied Sharin to Eleanor’s back while he slowly negotiated the climbs, securing what ropes he could to pull Eleanor and Sharin up to safety. When it was finally time to stop, to sleep, and to rest, Eleanor held Sharin in her arms. She tried to tempt her with whatever small amount of water and bread she could, for the girl refused but very little.

“Do you think she will die on this mountain?” Eleanor asked Zanntal as she moved her thumb over Sharin’s cheek, lulling the girl to sleep.

“No,” Zanntal said, and he was confident. “Tomorrow, or the next day, I am hopeful we will find our way through to the south side. We will go down into your country before many more days.”

Despite the cold air against her face and arms and the almost unbearable burning of her hands, Eleanor smiled and kissed Sharin’s now sleeping face.

“You cannot know what this means to me, returning to Aemogen,” Eleanor said.

Zanntal’s expression seemed serious, but his eyes were certain. “You can thank me after I start a small fire and make an herb poultice for your hands,” he said. “We are fortunate to still have enough supplies to not make us desperate.”

***

Eleanor had secured the bundle to her back, and asked Zanntal to tighten the knots, as her hands were too stiff to be effective. The soldier said he would. But, in the course of preparing to leave their makeshift camp, he had forgotten. So had Eleanor. Only later that morning, when Eleanor was facing the task of pulling herself up ten feet of a steep cliff, did she remember it had not been secured as tightly as Zanntal had always insisted.

“I can’t help you with it now,” he called down. “Climb up, and we’ll secure it.”

“My arms!” Eleanor called back up. “They’re too tired. Can I tie myself to your rope?”

“Yes,” Zanntal shouted. “Hurry. Sharin is crying, and I can’t give her any food until you can get up here.”

The muscles in Eleanor’s forearms were tight and strained. She wrapped the climbing rope around her waist and maneuvered it to make the knot Zanntal had taught her days earlier.

“I’m ready.”

“Yes,” Zanntal answered.

Eleanor had spent a portion of every day wondering why she had not thought to find herself some men’s trousers. After granting herself a moment to again curse her thoughtlessness, she began to pull herself up the face of the small cliff, her purple fingers clinging to whatever edges she could find.

Though not as harsh as it had been during the night, the wind left the rock face cold, and Eleanor shivered despite herself. When she reached her hand up to grab a small shelf, the rock beneath her left foot gave way.

Eleanor cried out as she fell, and the rope jerked around her stomach with such force that she felt as if her back would break in half. The ill-tied supplies slipped from their place and tumbled down the cliff face, bouncing and then falling into a steep fissure. Eleanor’s arms flailed, and she could hear Zanntal yelling something. Rock and dirt came spilling down from above her head, and Eleanor struggled to right herself and to grab the cliff face.

“I’m trying!” she shouted against the steady stream of words she could not understand. Finally, her hand struck the rock, and Eleanor managed to slide her fingers into a small crevice.

“Ah!” she yelled, pulling with all of her strength until she could find a steady place to put her feet. Once she had, she could feel the rope slacken as Zanntal regained his lost breath.

He came over to the edge and looked down.

“And that was nearly all the food?” he called down, scanning the remnants of what could be seen below them.

“Yes,” Eleanor yelled, clinging to the cliff, her pulse beating against the unmovable stone. “Should I go down?” she asked. “Can I salvage anything?”

Zanntal cursed—something Eleanor had not heard him do before—then shook his head. “No. It’s all fallen beyond reach. Any effort would be futile, a waste of strength. Let me untie Sharin and set her down, and I will help lift you up.”

It took several minutes of negotiating the cliff face, but Eleanor was finally pulled up over the edge. Zanntal gathered her into his arms and uttered a phrase of relief, although concern still marked his face.

“I have some bread and very little dried fruit,” he said. “Water we have but little.”

“What about the snow?” she asked, breathing hard against Zanntal’s chest.

“Yes.” Zanntal nodded. “But it must be melted first, or we would seal our deaths.”

He helped Eleanor to her feet, and she walked to where Sharin lay, huddled halfway under a stone. Zanntal brought out a bite of bread. While he fed the girl, Eleanor stood and studied the pass ahead. It looked more navigable than anything else they had seen the entire day, and Eleanor breathed out in relief. After Sharin was fed, they continued.

Late in the day, just as the sun had turned the sky gold and pink and the wind began spinning past their ears, Eleanor lifted herself to the top of an outcropping.

“Zanntal!” she cried over her shoulder. “Aemogen! It’s Aemogen!”

Stretched out beneath a smattering of white clouds, the woods and fields of Aemogen rested serenely far below them. Zanntal came up behind Eleanor, Sharin asleep on his back. He did not speak as his eyes wandered across what could be seen of the green country.

“No view was ever more beautiful!” She laughed, gripping on Zanntal’s arm.

“Let us be careful,” Zanntal warned. “It looks as if the glaciers on this side are larger than anything we have yet encountered.”

Eleanor felt too happy to care, and they soon began their descent.

***

King Staven looked no happier to receive the emperor and his sons than Prince Basaal had felt to be received. Basaal’s obvious displeasure and Ammar’s taciturn silence left Shaamil to be the most pleasant of the party. This amused Ammar, at the very least.

Once the two brothers had withdrawn to Basaal’s private quarters, Basaal ranted to Ammar about having to spend time in Marion City. Their father had been seen to a far more elegant suite, but the physician had chosen the hospitality of his brother, who claimed his mother’s rooms without so much a “Hello, Uncle. How are you?”

“I would warn you against the baths,” Basaal mentioned cryptically to his brother.

“Why is that?”

“Oh, you may get stuck conversing with one or more of my relatives,” he explained. “And, the bath never struck me as an ideal place for a gathering of lost kin.”

A frown of agreement came from Ammar. Then he half disappeared into a room that a maidservant had just finished arranging. “I would like to wash and change,” Ammar said, “and go an entire day without seeing your charming face, dearest brother. Good night.” Ammar closed the door behind him, leaving Basaal to wonder how he would explain Ammar’s absence at dinner.

“I’ll just see about having your trunks sent up,” Basaal shouted after his brother, “since serving Your Ornery Grace is certainly not below my dignity.”

“I would rather think not,” came the reply, and Basaal, despite himself, laughed aloud. Then he sent a servant to bring up Ammar’s things.

After several death threats, Ammar did come to dinner in the end. As Basaal sat down to sup with King Staven and his court, he caught the eye of his elderly cousin, Telford, Thayne’s brother. Telford winked. Basaal’s expression, in return, was almost murderous. He had no idea what he could say to his cousin about Eleanor’s whereabouts, and the guilt of it made Telford’s watchful glances unbearable.

After a stiff and quiet meal—the emperor sitting beside Staven, playing games of subtle word manipulation in between compliments about the food and drink—Basaal found out that they were to be treated by a concert of musicians. Upon this announcement, Basaal groaned aloud, which caught the attention of Staven, who, in return, glared at Basaal.

It was another hour before Basaal could escape.

***

“Ah! I hoped I’d run into you,” a voice said.

Basaal jerked his head up, immediately chastising himself for seeking solitude in one of the formal gardens. Of course, Telford was having him watched, just waiting for his chance to pounce.

“The last thing I would think this to be is an accidental run-in, Cousin,” Basaal stated hotly once Telford had come close enough to fall into step with him.

“Still wearing black, I see,” Telford said, grinning good-naturedly as he straightened his hair. It had come askew in his rush to catch up with his cousin. Basaal hoped such silly fashion ideas were not hereditary.

“What do you want from me?” Basaal asked.

“Last time we met, there was an untimely interruption,” Telford said as he looked across the garden. “Let’s go down this corridor of crab apples to that stone gazebo,” he suggested, pointing to an allay of trees in spring bloom. There’s someone just up ahead,” Telford explained, “whom we should avoid.”

Basaal obliged with a grumble.

“As I was saying,” Telford continued, “we were interrupted before I could fulfill my part of the bargain.” He withdrew an old, faded letter, its seal long since broken. “A letter, from your mother. She mentions you. Needless to say, I don’t think she dressed you in black at the time, expecting you to be scowling at the world. But mothers rarely see foul markers in their own children, so it wouldn’t have made a difference,” he added, chuckling at his own joke as they arrived at the stone gazebo. He handed the letter to Basaal. “I do believe the words
thank you
are often said in such circumstances.”

“Go to the devil,” Basaal replied as he slid the worn letter into his stiff jacket.

“Touchy.”

In a rush of anger, Basaal grabbed his cousin by the lapels and forced him against one of the pillars. “I do not need any smart comments from the likes of you. I know you’re here to ask about Eleanor, and I have nothing to tell you,” Basaal hissed as he shook his cousin. “Nothing.”

“My dear boy, calm yourself down,” Telford said, his tone turning businesslike. “I do want to ask you about the whereabouts of the queen. But, you mustn’t take it so personally—you will give yourself stomach problems, and, at my age, there is almost nothing worse.”

In frustration, Basaal released Telford and took himself to the other side of the stone structure, sinking onto a bench and covering his face with his hands.

“I could be killed,” he explained, “for what I am about to tell you.”

“You’re in luck,” Telford said. Basaal could hear Telford settling himself down on a bench opposite him. “I don’t blabber.”

Basaal looked through his parted fingers at the older man. “I lost her,” he said.