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

more difficult than her journey through the Aronee and Zeaad because the rocks jutting up in the sand caused Hegleh to question her footing. Riding so long with little rest brought about a stiff response from her muscles and blisters every time the horse hesitated. Eleanor gritted her teeth and kept going. She would soon be on the ocean and then home, Eleanor reminded herself when her hands ached beneath the reins, or when the muscles in her legs murmured against the steady pace. Dantib continued much as he had the entire journey, without complaint.
    They spoke little the first days after leaving Dantib’s family. But, a few mornings afterward, they came across a hollow in a rock near the river, and Dantib agreed it was safe to stop and rest. Then he began to speak to Eleanor just as she was settling her sore, dusty body onto the ground.
    “You should not mind him.” Dantib was caring for his horse, and he did not look at Eleanor. “My son,” he clarified. “You should not mind my son. He has seen much sorrow, and it is through his pain that he speaks.”
    “He did not approve of your work in the palace?” Eleanor asked, leaning her head against the rock behind her, too tired to eat the dried fruit they had rationed from Dantib’s pack.
    “No,” Dantib said as he rubbed a cream into the legs of his gray horse. “But he did not always feel so vehemently as he does now. You see,” he said, grunting as he reached his fingers down the fetlock of his horse. “They had a child, a son, who married young.” Dantib stood up straight, arching his back before walking over towards Eleanor and settling himself beside her.
    He brushed the sweat away from his forehead. “Imirillia prospers to the west,” he continued. “The caravans go abundantly between Zarbadast and the cities and countries found there. But here, in the East, where I am from, we live scattered through rock and desert, poor and hungry, and it is hard for a man to provide. The port in Krayklan has a northern road that runs to Zarbadast. But, farther south, we do not benefit. When my grandson’s wife died in childbirth,” Dantib said as he shook his head, “my grandson was distraught and felt there was no life for him in the East. He resorted to migrating to the more prosperous country of Aramesh, to the south. That was three years ago.”
    “Just before the Desolation,” Eleanor said, her face falling to the sympathy she felt. “He was in Aramesh?”
    “He had left the child with my son and daughter-in-law, and, when word came of Shaamil’s revenge, we waited. My grandson never returned. We suppose he must have died beneath the hand of Imirillia’s own army.”
    Eleanor sat still, somber, and the image of Blaike’s body, gashed and empty, crossed her mind. She shook her head at the waste. “I am sorry,” she whispered. “I am sorry for it all.”
    “You know that Basaal has his own sorrows from Aramesh.” Dantib looked kindly on Eleanor. “My son does not know the prince spared so many. He does not know who Basaal is, so he does not understand my devotion.”
    “And why have you not told him?” Eleanor questioned the stable master.
    Dantib’s lips played with a soft smile, and his eyes lifted gently to Eleanor’s face. “My dear, there are journeys to be had, and we must not dilute the struggle, or we do those we love a disservice. Now, sleep,” Dantib urged. “We have been riding hard. I feel at peace, as our way has been blessed. We will begin again soon enough. You can rest.”
    ***
    The horses continued to struggle across the eastern sands, and the physical demands of the journey did not lessen. The jolt of Hegleh’s pace screamed against the blisters on Eleanor’s hand and legs, but her thoughts were bent on Aemogen, and she would not relent. Every part of Eleanor’s body was tight, and anxiety was eating from her heart into her bones. She felt like she was on fire with worry every time they passed another party or saw riders