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

laughed. “That’s a bad sign.”
    Ammar’s brow knit, and he looked at Basaal strangely. “You said she was not feeling well. As her physician, it would be unsuitable for me to ignore her fatigue.”
    “Clearly,” Basaal said almost too readily. “Yes. It’s only—I don’t—I believe she was sleeping when I left. That is to say, she meant to rest,” he explained, trying to hide his unease. “But please, visit. I just did not want you to wake her—that is all.”
    “I have a task that will take some time, and then I will go,” Ammar said. “Eleanor never does sleep long, even when ill.”
    “Yes,” Basaal said, and he shrugged so stiffly that he almost laughed at himself. “And tell her I won’t be far behind you.”
    ***
    The soldiers passed without looking twice in their direction, but Eleanor still felt her stomach twist until they had moved farther up the street. The eastern gate stood ahead of them, a tall, arched display of beautifully carved stone. Soldiers stood near it, eyeing the many people pouring in and out.
    It was late enough in the day for them to leave the city unnoticed. So, although Eleanor’s entire body was beating with the drumming of her heart, she and Dantib passed through the gate, waiting patiently for the crowd to give way. She held Dantib’s arm with her covered hand, being careful to keep her headscarf pulled down, and tried to imitate the tired motions of the vendors and herders around her.
    Walking away from Zarbadast without looking back was a surreal task for Eleanor. It seemed strange and so unbelievable that she was free of the city. Using a staff he had purchased in the market, Dantib altered his walk to reflect his many years; a worn figure with his knapsack, old sandals on his feet. No one would have ever guessed the treason he was committing.
    Soon, they were pushed to the side of the road by a small band of horsemen and blended into those on foot as they spread out towards the eastern deserts.
    “Rocks,” Dantib said to Eleanor not long after getting onto the road. “There are many rocks and canyons. By the end of the day, we will have dropped down into one of them and will be lost from the view of the main road.”
    “Will we get far enough to be untraceable?” Eleanor asked quietly, aware that her accent would set her apart if overheard.
    “Be the Illuminating God willing,” Dantib replied.
    Then, as if it were a sign, a woman called out to them. “There, you, old man! I’ve sold my wares and travel east the day long, if you wish a ride.”
    They turned to see a woman, covered with a jangle of cheap trinkets, her skin tight and discolored from years under the desert sun. She was driving a jumble of wood barely passing for a cart, pulled by an equally disreputable donkey.
    Eleanor bent her head as Dantib greeted the woman warmly. “Seraagh herself could not have made a better offer,” he said. “My dear woman, I accept your ride. We have many days left in our journey and would appreciate a rest to our bones.”
    With Eleanor’s help, Dantib lifted himself into the front of the cart. Then he began a congenial conversation with the woman while Eleanor climbed onto the back, sitting on the edge of the cart, where she could see the massive city spreading out behind her. There, to the north of the eastern gate, rising above a cacophony of buildings and structures, gleamed the white perfection of the seven palaces.
    Eleanor grabbed the sides of the cart as the donkey shifted and moved forward, taking them over three rather large holes in the road. Pulling her teeth together against the resulting rattle, Eleanor watched as she moved farther from Zarbadast. Farther from Basaal, and his rituals and his honor and— Eleanor gripped the cart harder, taken off guard by the pain she felt at the thought of leaving him behind. If only he had come. If only he had come with her.
    ***
    Basaal had endured almost two hours of long, stretched out anticipation, envisioning