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

he gave a quick nod but did not speak.
    “Why, then,” Basaal continued, “did you honor the request of the Aemogen queen, that she had claim on my hand? That was a very strict observation of old law: that she be given to me, for the sake of the Safeeraah, rather than to Arsaalan for wife?” Was it only to manipulate me , he wanted to add.
    Shaamil cleared his throat. Yet, instead of acting provoked, the corners of his mouth moved upward in a slight smile. “I saw how you looked at her.”
    Basaal felt a flush rise up his neck. “What do you mean?”
    “Do you know what I have always considered your greatest weakness?” Shaamil responded.
    Basaal waited.
    “For all your talk of honor,” Shaamil continued, “you have never known your own heart.” Basaal shifted his weight, feeling, for the first time, how warm the air was inside the tent.
    “What is it you are saying to me?” Basaal asked.
    “You looked at that girl the same way your mother used to look at me,” the emperor said simply. “But that is over, and you’ve clearly sustained no more damage than your lost pride. I had supposed your feelings for her to be less shallow than they are. She won’t live now, anyway.” He took another sip of his drink.
    ***
    It was late in the day that Kale came for her. Pushing Sharin aside, Kale grabbed Eleanor behind the neck, forcing her close to him as he whispered threats. “If you make any sort of noise or called any attention to yourself,” he muttered, but then he unlocked her from the wall. He gave her a headscarf and told her to pull it over her face. Then, with her wrists and waist still shackled, he forced her from the cave.
    She blinked in the purple light. Standing in a line were some of the women of their train, younger women, mostly, lined up and waiting, their heads bent. Kale approached a merchant who was standing with another man of means, speaking casually. The stranger’s hand held the reins of a horse.
    She could not hear their words, but, from their gestures, Eleanor guessed he was here to purchase a young woman. Panic rose in her chest, and Eleanor, for the first time since her capture, cleared her mind to make a decision. If she did as Kale had ordered and stayed quiet, avoiding this man’s attention, she would soon be back in the cave and at Kale’s mercy. But, if she were taken away to an unknown fate, although she would be free of Kale, Sharin would be left here alone.
    She knew that there would come a time when they would separate her from the child. But, for Sharin’s sake, Eleanor could not choose it to be sooner rather than later. She looked down, away from the buyer, who had begun looking at the women farther down the line, and she tried to make herself disappear.
    He moved closer, occasionally asking a question about one of the thirteen girls and women standing there. Kale answered his questions in the voice of a man selling rugs or spices: eager to part with his wares for a good price.
    Eleanor studied her feet as the man worked his way ever closer to where she stood. When he finally came to her, he paused, looked a moment, then moved on. Eleanor breathed a silent sigh and dared not shift. The man began to move past her neighbor to the last woman on the line, but then he took a step again towards Eleanor.
    “I want to see her face,” he said casually in an accent she did not recognize.
    The one-eyed slaver stepped forward and none too gently pushed Eleanor’s chin up. She swallowed and looked right into the man’s eyes—it was Zanntal, Basaal’s honor guard.
    Eleanor gave a surprised noise that may have sounded like fear, but that she knew to be complete relief. His eyes searched hers for the briefest of seconds before he looked at the worn, blistered skin of her face, the whip mark on her lip and chin, and the shackles on her wrists. Then he moved on.
    Eleanor panicked. Had he recognized her? Should she call out? She looked down again at her feet, waiting. She would wait.