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

in the distance.
    Dantib held a harmony with the horses that Eleanor could not fathom. Some times, as if he were privy to their thoughts, he drove them hard, beyond what Eleanor supposed was their strength. Other times, he gave them rest when Eleanor could not see a reason for a slower pace. She fought against the temptation of impatience, watching over her shoulder for any sign of the Vestan, wishing to push on. Despite her nervousness, Dantib would not push the beasts.
    For several days, Eleanor and Dantib progressed steadily towards the East, dropping south at certain markers that Dantib had memorized. They encountered few travelers, none with hostility or much curiosity.
    “The people of the East,” Dantib explained, “value their independence and mind their own business.”
    Despite the arduous nature of desert travel, the first weeks passed safely. They were hidden in the barren rock deserts of the East with no whisper of the Vestan. As their confidence increased, they began to spend hours speaking and telling stories. He told her of his childhood in the desert, of how he secured his first palace job, and of meeting the child Basaal. She, in turn, spoke of Edythe, her father, and her people.
    Listening intently, Dantib would occasionally share his observations on life. Eleanor’s mind was greedy for the wisdom he held, and she saw how Dantib warranted Basaal’s high esteem. There was a sweetness in the old man’s company that lead Eleanor to forget her blisters and sores, the dirt, and the wind. As the days passed, her feelings for Dantib grew tender, her blisters began to fade, and, although they subsisted on little, there was always enough. Soon, Eleanor would remind herself, she would be sailing to Aemogen, and all would be well. For the first time in months, Eleanor’s dreams were only of home.

Chapter Three
     
    “I had forgotten what it meant to travel with Father,” Basaal said as he reclined in the comfort of the emperor’s personal tent, a small map rolled out across the floor.
    “Yes,” Ammar said, not looking up from where he was writing at the table, replying with thick sarcasm. “An extended wing of Zarbadast; all the comforts of home.”
    Basaal sat up and laughed. “You need to get out more,” he said. “I daresay no one in the world travels as we do now. I certainly never do—unless with Father.”
    “It’s hot,” Ammar replied as if that mere fact alone discounted every comfort.
    “It’s spring,” Basaal chided, “and almost as temperate as the Zeaad ever gets. Thank the seven stars it isn’t any worse. You do realize,” he added, “that Father has several companies of soldiers whose sole occupation is to procure and deliver fresh fruit?”
    “The grapes have too many seeds,” Ammar replied.
    Basaal grinned then picked the map up from the floor, his eyes wandering towards the eastern roads, where Eleanor and Dantib should be, following a path to the coast.
    If the Illuminating God would only grant it.
    “Trying to see if you can find your wife among the landmarks?” Ammar asked. Basaal looked up. Ammar was studying him.
    “Leave off it, Ammar. I know nothing of her whereabouts.”
    “And neither do the Vestan,” the emperor’s voice came from across the pavilion. Basaal and Ammar looked at each other before acknowledging their father as he came through the door of the tent with two of his generals. “Strange,” he said, “that she should be so capable of disappearing with no leads or trace.” Shaamil walked across the soft carpet of rugs and sat down at the table near Ammar. “I did, however, receive a singularly interesting missive.” The emperor moved his eyes to Basaal’s, a slight smile on his face.
    Basaal cleared his throat. He and the emperor had hardly exchanged a civil word over the last few weeks of their travel. “Yes?”
    “The stable master, whom you dismissed with such—” Shaamil paused, “ exhibition, has turned up missing. And so has the