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

one-eyed slaver. Then he pulled his cloak evenly over his shoulders and motioned Eleanor towards his horse.
    “Up with you,” he said crisply, lifting her onto the horse. “And nothing untoward or back you’ll go.” He lifted Sharin up into Eleanor’s arms then mounted behind Eleanor. A click from his mouth sent the horse flying from the gap that was Katerah.
    ***
    Outside of Katerah, Zanntal had taken a gamble. He had promised a hermit farmer, who lived in a dismal stretch of the desert, that if he would watch Hegleh and Dantib’s gray mare while Zanntal rode into Katerah, he would be paid enough gold to leave his desperate existence for a life of luxury. This was explained to Eleanor, and they retrieved the horses with haste.
    Eleanor, exhausted from relief, could barely keep herself astride her horse, let alone hold Sharin. So Zanntal tied the horses into a line and brought both Eleanor and Sharin back onto his own mount, cradling Eleanor in his arms as she, in turn, clung to Sharin. After an hour, he stopped and readied camp, setting a tent and building a small fire in the bottom of a gorge.
    When Sharin had fallen asleep, Eleanor wrapped Zanntal’s cloak around the small girl. Then she left the tent, joining Zanntal near the fire. He sat crouched, mixing several spices and powders together that he had retrieved earlier from his knapsack. He looked up briefly at Eleanor before returning his attention to the fire. His scimitar hung about his waist, and Zanntal was ever watching, and listening to the noises around them.
    Eleanor sat down, pulling her knee up under her chin, feeling the stiff pull of the scars forming on her back. “Will you tell me now how you came to find us?” she asked.
    Zanntal did not answer immediately. He pulled a small kettle, filled with steaming water, away from the fire. Moving his hands in deliberate motions, Zanntal put his spice and powder mixture into the water, stirring it with a small spoon. He tasted it and appeared satisfied, for he poured a cup for himself and one for Eleanor. She took his offering gratefully, testing the tea against her lips before deciding to let it cool.
    “The slavers who took your horses,” he answered, “made the mistake of trying to sell Hegleh to the emperor’s column.”
    “The emperor’s column?” Eleanor frowned. “Does Emperor Shaamil ride with Basaal?”
    “Yes,” Zanntal said candidly. “After your disappearance, the emperor mobilized six thousand of his own men to join with Basaal’s seven thousand waiting in Marion. After I intercepted the slavers,” Zanntal explained, returning to his narrative of Eleanor’s discovery, “the prince—” Zanntal paused. “He pressed them for information about where you were being taken, then sent me to find you straightaway.”
    “Is he well?” Eleanor stared into the small cup in her hands before looking up at the man.
    “He was very angry when I last saw him. I do not now know how he fares now, but I believe they must have passed through the Aronee and into Marion by this time.”
    “And you were sent to what end?” Eleanor ran her tongue over the forming scar on her bottom lip.
    “To see you to Aemogen,” Zanntal replied.
    She swallowed, her eyes heavy, and looked down at the sores on her wrist. “Did the prince have anything else to say, aside from charging you see me to Aemogen?” she asked after several silent moments.
    With a slight sound, Zanntal cleared his throat and nodded. “He wanted me to ascertain if you had been harmed in any way.”
    Eleanor set her cup near the fire and stretched her fingers towards her sore back, pulling her arms closer. It could have been worse, much worse. She heard Sharin stir inside the tent and breathed a sigh of relief.
    “Nothing that cannot heal,” Eleanor said, trying not to falter.
    They spoke no more that evening. Eventually, Zanntal put the fire out and stood watch, his scimitar drawn. Eleanor retired to the tent, placing her arms around