The Wanderer's Mark: Book Three of Imirillia (The Books of Imirillia 3) by Beth Brower Read Free Book Online

abdomen.
    “She’s not with child,” he said in Imirillian, giving her a jaunty smile. Then he touched her chin softly and stepped away. “Bind them, and bring the horses. We must return to the column before daybreak.”
    The third man, who stood over Dantib, procured some rough rope from his tunic. Soon Eleanor and Dantib were tied together, walking beside the tall man, with the other man leading the horses behind them.
    “Are they marauders?” Eleanor whispered to Dantib when she found a chance to speak.
    “Worse,” Dantib whispered back. “They are slavers. We are being taken into the Shera Shee.”
    ***
    The night sky spread over the desert in its entire splendor, a perfect companion to the endless grains of sand beneath Basaal’s feet. He had taken himself away from camp to wonder at the stars, to pray. He was sore from the evening’s entertainments, where his father had made him perform in combat exercises for the amusement of the men. It was really, Basaal suspected, a way for Shaamil to reinforce his own power. Basaal’s shoulder was sore where he had taken a blow, and he moved it stiffly around as he studied the endless display of lights above him.
    It was not long before Zanntal found him.
    “My Prince?” Zanntal said as he approached Basaal.
    “Zanntal,” Basaal said, nodding. “How is life at the rear of the column?” he asked, for they had spoken little in the last handful of weeks.
    “As I prefer to be at a distance from the emperor and his men, being attached to your small company suits me well.”
    “Distance can be a glorious thing,” Basaal agreed. His gaze moved across the still desert and he closed his eyes briefly, as if there was a physical pain he could not quench. “I am in desperate need of it, and so I came out here to think, to be away, and, most of all, to pray. It comes—”
    The prince hesitated before continuing. “Sometimes, things become too much to bear, and I must open my mouth and pray as if the Illuminating God were drawing the devotion out of me and I will burn in His all-consuming fire if I cannot utter the words on my tongue. Tonight, I felt such a need.”
    Zanntal remained quiet.
    “It has been weeks, you know.” Basaal looked down and kicked the sand with his boot. “I’ve refused to pray since we left Zarbadast. I have never gone so long without paying my devotions.”
    The soldier watched him, seeming unsure if Basaal was waiting for a response.
    “Why so long?” Zanntal finally asked.
    Basaal laughed. “Because the Illuminating God told me to do something I don’t think I can do and because I don’t understand why he asks it of me.”
    “But, tonight, the desert called you back?”
    “The Illuminating God called me back, and I must obey.” Basaal linked his fingers behind his head and gazed above him. “Everything in me desires to be aligned with his will. But I doubt what he has asked of me, and I cannot reconcile myself to it.”
    “What, then, did you pray for just now?” Zanntal asked curiously.
    Basaal shrugged and looked back up to the spangle of lights, twisting above the desert. “Myself. My devotion. The Aemogen queen.”
    Back in Zarbadast, when Basaal had sworn Zanntal to secrecy and asked him to play part in Eleanor’s escape, Emaad’s friend had simply nodded, sworn a covenant, and done his duty. But Basaal struggled to keep his thoughts of Eleanor always to himself.
    “I once told Eleanor that she was not my guiding star,” he confessed abruptly.
    Zanntal waited. But when Basaal did not continue, he spoke. “And were you right or wrong?”
    Sighing, Basaal dropped his hands, set his shoulders straight, and clasped his hands together behind his back as he looked into Zanntal’s eyes. “Both.”
    ***
    The guards walked with torches around the perimeter of the misery-filled camp. When Eleanor asked Dantib about it, he did not hesitate before responding.
    “The dogs,” he whispered as if it were prophecy. “The guards