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"Court of the Khalid"
Date: December 27, 1998 (Flashback scene to before the war)  Throne Room - Atesh-Gah - Haven: Allegra enters from the foyer, the doors closing silently behind. A broiling cloud of black stalks on the heels of the Royal Herald who announces the man behind him and the woman to his right, "Faisal al'Siraj, Seraskier of the Agni-Haidar and Rabi, Mahisi of the household of Faisal." The diminutive herald then steps aside as the older warrior named stalks toward the dais of the God-King. When reaching its foot, the broiling, inky-black cloud settles into a reluctant peacefulness as Faisal halts, then lowers himself to prostration before Atar, head nearly touching the ground as he bows. Zuhayr enters from the foyer, the doors closing silently behind. Wings tight, and only marginally more awake than she was when the guard roused her from sleep a few moments ago, Kiera's first wary glance is at the ceiling, as if she silently bids it to remain sturdy, up, and far up there. Second, she notes the guards that ring this place, and only when something of a path clears, to the throne, does Kiera see the Khalid. She focuses on him for a moment, then squeezes her eyes shut and tries again. Little subtle movements, are hers, to try to further drag her sleepy mind into alertness. That Herald, ready to get this particular show on the road, then announces The Halfbreed Kiera. --There isn't, yet, any particular job she has, is there? If there is, that poor fellow missed the gossip. She would be a slight figure if not for the large curve of belly that shelters the Seraskier's son until he is ready to set forth in the world on his own. But her aura itself remains slight, small, as if she were a mouse reborn as a woman. She follows behind Faisal and to his right, as is her place, with a plain black lacquered writing kit held under her right arm. The calligraphed hem of her sari ripples as she walks, making the poem its ornate interweavings depict seem alive, and comes to stillness as Faisal halts and lowers himself to bow before his master. Rabi, too, settles down in a pool of her silks, placing her kit in front of her knees. Because of her belly she cannot bow as the Seraskier bows, and so instead she folds her hands across the box's lid and dips her head as deeply as she can manage. The eyes of the court scribes flick across the bowed form of Rabi. Zuhayr steps through the doors at the far end of the throne room, takes two steps inside, and kneels and bows as duty proscribes that he must, hands before him and forehead pressed to the back. He is announced, the big Kaimakam, and yet he remains as he is. Obviously overwhelmed at the invitation to the throne room, the young acolyte enters the slowly. Barely breathing in case his greatest dream and deepest fear should suddenly disappear, he pauses a moment as he is announced by the Herald: "Niamh Gitanjali Mazat, Acolyte Atarvani." The priest-to-be approaches the foot of the dais, sinking into devout prostration. Allegra enters behind Zuhayr, kneeling and bowing in perfect imitation of her "father." Khalid's own court scribe kneels by the throne, writing gear laid out neatly before him. He is tall and dressed in the colors of the God-King's clan, with eyes like dark grey flint and a long face that would seem like stone except for its intelligent expressiveness. This man watches and occasionally gestures towards a young man at his side, a youngster with his own scribe's kit before him. It is this boy, dressed in a simpler form of his companion's clothing, who takes note of the names of all who enter. Poised on his throne of silks, satins and beautifully crafted stone, Khalid Atar sits like a bird of prey watching and waiting as each of you enter his demesne. Fiery eyes are hooded, allowing only slits of blue to be shown under a veil of thick, black silky lashes. Undisguised interest colors the expression of the God-King as he listens avidly to the announcements of the herald. His hands rest on their armrests, while his wings hold close to his back. When the last of you have been ushered into his hall, he turns his gaze upon Kiera and murmurs quietly, "Little hawk, I expect that you follow our customs. No longer are you considered simply an observer of the kingdom." There is no overt reproach in his voice, and while it is barely spoken above a whisper, it does indeed carry in the large hall. Blue eyes fix pointedly on Kiera's form, before sweeping towards the others who have prostrated themselves. That'll take a full twenty seconds for Kiera to wrest her mind around, and she, too, looks at those who kneel. A frown, which sliced the halfbreed's expression the moment the Khalid's addressed her, eases off. She understands, glances sideways at the guard, up at that ceiling again -- stay! -- and then she steps forward, in an area clear enough for her. Kiera will glance back at Khalid, a slight smile touching her lips, then kneel. Wings sweep out, held for a moment over the ground, and trembling; Kiera never lets her feathers touch the ground. But for the Khalid, she will. Brown eyes housed in fragile features remain on Khalid, as Kiera deliberately lowers her wings, so they rest on the polished floor. Then she will bow her head. And it should be mentioned, too, that that ever-accompanying breeze that is Kiera's companion during her waking hours, that spiked at her unease during those twenty seconds, is now but a ruffle of air, a mild displacement which, if it were outside, would not even be noticed. Approval flickers within those blue eyes, but it is fleeting and all emotion is soon smothered as Khalid commands, "Rise. All of you." As if on cue, his magnificent black wings spread forth, shadowing the throne and its sole occupant in a shroud of darkness. From within those depths, the God-King continues to study those assembled before him. "There are a few announcements to be made as well as a few introductions. But first..." Twisting his head so as to give the court scribe his entire attention, he calls out, "Rathan, step forward." Tapestries, illuminated manuscripts, statuary. In these forms only has Rabi seen Atar, until now when she dares to peek up through the veil of her lashes. A glance only before her gaze comes to rest on the top of her belly's curve. The god in flesh surprises her, as she thought it would: he is majestic, kingly, powerful. And yet he seems so... mortal, despite the wings from which the light itself cannot escape. It is well, she thinks as others continue to be announced. That a god embodies paradox. It is why we fail to understand him and yet never stop hungering and striving to. When he speaks it is so like a man and so unlike a man, shot through with a current of power that carries despite itself. She gathers up her kit and rises as Faisal rises, keeping her gaze on the floor in front of her toes. Zuhayr rises as well, and touches Allegra's back between her wings, signal that she may rise as well. His gaze is kept carefully lowered. As commanded, the pool of ebon begins to shrink, the fabric of Faisal's inky black haik draw upward as the older warrior rises to his feet. When erect, the Seraskier stands as if a roughly hewn statue of obsidian, feigning life. The ruined face is drawn towards the figure of the God-King, attentive. Khalid's scribe rises smoothly and his feet carry him forward as he has been bidden. A scribe is trained to work in silence, to be the medium of the transmission of word to the immortality of paper, and so he does not speak as he finds stillness before his god; he bows his head, instead, ready to do Atar's bidding. Niamh rises slowly, keeping his eyes lowered as well and his hands clasped at his waist. Allegra is prepared to get to her feet as soon as Zuhayr does. She stands up straight, keeping her wings folding behind her and her gaze lowered. She remembers having gone through this before, the last time when Amir-al was so nice to her and made her Varati. Arslan enters from the foyer, the doors closing silently behind. Could she, Kiera would silence the shift of feathers that betrays her rising, her pulling her wings back into a more proper stance. But she can't. She is hawk, not owl. The halfbreed's expression has settled back into it's usual mask. She attends Khalid-Atar now, exclusively. Chasidah enters from the foyer, the doors closing silently behind. In one of his rare displays, Khalid's voice rises above its hushed whisper as blue eyes bore into that court scribe. "Rathan," he begins in a tone that shows his obvious displeasure, "Can you explain to me the meaning of this?" Sliding his right hand into the depths of his throne, he retrieves a scroll, which he tosses towards the well-attired Varati courtier. Shadow masks the dais entirely, making it difficult to read the God-King's expression. Rathan catches the scroll out of the air and stills the trembling that surprise and uneasiness threaten to lend his fingers. He unrolls the scroll and examines it, confusion flitting across his eyes. "Sire, it is a missive you bid me pen to send to the Warlord of Clan Per'a." The man's voice is as smooth as his features as he answers as best he can, clearly not understanding the gist of the God-King's question. The guards at the door snap to a rather formal attention before a herald enters to announce, "Arslan Messala, Lion of the North and Pasha of Haven." After a short moment, the herald also announces, "Chasidah Messala, concubine to Arslan Messala." The herald then steps back, and the doors open. The Pasha of Haven enters, a tall Varati, especially considering he is not Xerxes, with a slow and purposeful stride. His obsidian eyes shoot instantly across the room to the dais and the figure upon the throne there. Messala's steps carry him straight to the foot of the dais, and the Pasha drops to his knees and bows his head in respect. "Your will, Amir-al," he speaks, quiet enough to be unobtrusive, but loud enough to reach the God-King's ears. "I see." Khalid's lips draw back, and the flickering of the flames from the oil lamps briefly reflects off of those ivory white teeth. A smile, a scowl -- it is impossible to tell. Pausing in his tirade, the God-King cocks his head towards the entrance of the vast hall as Arslan and Chasidah are introduced by the herald. "Rise, my young and ever-faithful Warlord." There is no mockery in his tone and in fact, one might actually detect genuine fondness in his speech. Chasidah receives a simple nod of acknowledgment, nothing more. The black eyes of the older Varati warrior jerk towards the scribe, seizing the figure in a nearly tangible, viselike grip. No other movements does the Seraskier make, but the hilt of the curving falcare jutting from his inky black haik seems to hark a deathly readiness not evidenced by any other means. Rathan, the Amir-al's scribe, stays frozen in place. He seems far more serene than he feels, a lifetime of attendance to the court having lent him several lessons in acting. The apprentice scribe -- just a mere strip of a boy behind his writer's paraphernalia -- pays close attention to exchange between his master and his master's master. His pen takes note of the Messala warlord's arrival and that of Arslan's concubine as well. In a smooth motion, Arslan rises to his feet, looking directly at Khalid. "Always your willing servant, Amir-al." The Pasha folds his arms behind his back in a soldier's ease position, and drops silent, awaiting acknowledgment or question. Motioning slightly with his hand for Chasidah to rise as well, Khalid refocuses that harsh gaze upon Rathan of Clan Khalida. He queries in a voice rich with deadly emotion, "Are you entirely sure that is what the missive contains?" Ebon wings have held their place, like a halo of inky blackness, around the God-King since the audience began. It is difficult at best to see what transpires upon the throne. "Give the scroll to the Mahisi of my Seraskier's household and let her read it for herself." Twisting in his perch, he speaks, "Tell me, Mahisi of he who stands eternally ready, what you see in that scroll." Rathan blinks. It would not ever occur to him to question the Amir-al, at least not in words, but part of him protests: that woman? He knows of her and her plain writing, writing which he feels she should not be doing to begin with. But he bows his head gracefully -- "Yes, sire," -- and obeys, walking over to Rabi and holding out the scroll to her. "Imphada," he offers. No move does the scribe make without the inky black eyes of the Seraskier drinking it in, an imperfect image of death leashed by fanatic loyalty and obedience. Niamh follows the movements of the scroll out of the corners of his eyes, keeping his head respectfully lowered. Allegra continues to stand beside Zuhayr, her attention attuned mainly to him, ready to move should he cue her to do so. In the meantime, she is perfectly still. A difficult task for a child of four. Now Kiera gives up on trying to fathom the expression or intent of the God-King. Instead, her attention now rides the scribe, the scroll, and then Rabi. Whatever the importance of the words upon this scroll, to have motivated the Khalid to call this meeting... Kiera remembers Rabi's offer to teach her to read. Remembers and marks it again. No better way to spend cold winter days, until she is called to the war. Rabi's gaze snaps up as the God-King addresses her directly. Her eyes, rings of copper-flecked gold around black cores, widen with astonishment and it is with a certain numbness that she accepts the scroll from Rathan. She remembers to bow her head deeply, not to the scribe but to the Khalid. As she has not experienced the courtly lessons that Rathan has, she is unable to still the trembling of her fingers as she unrolls the scroll and looks over it. She looks up and opens her mouth to speak, having completely forgotten -- as she has not forgotten in months -- that she is not capable of doing so. With a nod of apology to the scribe she sinks down and sets down the scroll -- it recoils itself in a faint whisper -- and with sure hands she opens up her plain scribe's kit and retrieves her chalk and slate. Her hand sweeps over the stone, quick and graceful, tracing out delicate and elegant letters in pale white against dark grey. She picks up the scroll when she is finished, rising up to show her writing to Rathan as well as to hand the paper back to him. Rathan takes the slate, his expression disdainful as he looks over the writing upon it. Such plain writing; she'll never be capable of anything worthwhile. The scribe turns and bows to Atar. "Amir-al, she says that the writing is lovely but--" he calms his indignation "--that it does not serve its purpose." "Ah," mouths Khalid. His head swivels to regard Rabi after he acknowledges Rathan's statement. "When I command you to speak, wife of my most fearsome lion, you shall do so for yourself and not through one of my courtiers." Twisting once more, so that his full intent may be absorbed by the scribe of Clan Khalida. "Beauty is the way of our people. It comes from within, from the heart, from the soul. Yet, false beauty, like false pride, is something I do not tolerate. So hard you try, Rathan, that your work has failed to measure up to my standards. You have lost touch with that which I prize most and so you will know the shame of becoming an apprentice once more. Leave this hall and return to the quarters of my lowest apprentices. When once more you realize what it is to be an artisan of the Varati, I will summon you again." His edict is spoken with little fanfare, except the rise in the flames within the various oil lamps that decorate the room. Addressing Rabi once more, he speaks, "Mahisi of my first Seraskier, you shall act as scribe for this court session." Rabi sucks in a shocked breath. A feeling like icy cold and burning fire combined races through her. Speak? Wife? Scribe? The core of steel within her keeps her from reeling -- it is all too much at once. Once again she remembers herself in time and bows as deeply as she can. Her eyes go towards the form of her Seraskier, silently begging guidance; this is so far beyond anything that she ever expected and now the very simple things confound her. Does she remain at his side or go to Rathan's place? Rathan's eyes widen and emotions flit deeply through them: anger, indignation, hurt, dismay. He swallows and bows to Atar. "Yes, sire." And, as the God-King has bidden, he removes himself from the room. The boy-scribe takes very careful notes. Whether it is from obedience or perhaps in remembrance of the beatings he has suffered when his own writing was not up to Rathan's standards, only he knows. The burning coals of the older Varati warrior abandon the discarded servant to turn toward the woman at his side. Upon noting the confused nature of her gaze, the mercilessly grating sound of Faisal's voice tears the air asunder with its roughly formed words, "You are now the scribe, Rabi. You must take your place beside Amir-al." For just a moment, the God-King of the Varati stares at Rabi with such intensity that one would think he was looking through her, not at her. Yet, either Faisal's words pacify him or some thought comes to mind, for he does not speak. And then with a wave of his hand, as if to give the matter no more consideration, Khalid turns his attentions to other matters. "Kiera and Allegra, you shall both step forward so that all within my hall may regard you." Finally, those beautiful ebon wings flutter and then close themselves against his back. In turn, the flames of the oil lamps dim to their usual intensity. Rabi closes her eyes and nods. As quickly as the heaviness of her pregnancy will allow, she gathers up her kit and moves to the place vacated by Rathan. The apprentice looks at her curiously and then shoots her a secret wink. She settles down, sets aside her kit, and quickly takes stock of the supplies already laid out, unwilling to waste time by unpacking her own. She glances up and around from this new and extremely unsettling position and sends up a fervent, silent prayer to Ushas for strength. Allegra continues to stand quietly, though as time goes on, this feat becomes incredibly more difficult. She yawns beneath her veil, perfectly silent, but her little face screws up with the motion. She begins to be distracted with thoughts of bed and warm covers. Zuhayr's attention falls to the girl at his side, and his brow furrows. Lowly, he rumbles at her, and propels her forward with a gentle nudge. Niamh watches as the two winged ones approach the dais, finding the position a bit difficult as his head is still lowered. It's a good thing, on the whole, that the flames in those lamps go down. If they were to ratchet up one more time, Kiera was no longer going to be able to successfully ignore their antics, and... Well... Kiera's unwilling to play her little games with the Khalid, that she does with his guards of the courtyard, whose torches she nightly snuffs. At the sound of her name, however, Kiera's overlarge eyes widen, and she looks from Rabi back to the Khalid. Then she glances to Allegra, with whom she flew this afternoon. That was wrong? The breeze in the hallway becomes more noticeable, and Kiera's wings shiver, once. She looks back at Khalid, gaze open, features neutral, and steps towards him. The ceiling's possible collapse is momentarily forgotten. Allegra stumbles. Oh, she'd missed something! She looks to Zuhayr uncertainly, for guidance, then moves forward as directed. The Pasha of Haven does not keep his eyes lowered, but shrewdly watches every action before him. When the Amir-al calls forward the two winged figures, Arslan's obsidian eyes fall upon the two and watch their approach. His face, seemingly carved from stone as legends speak of the race, betrays nothing of his thoughts. Rabi smiles softly, the expression hidden by her veil, as Allegra moves forward. "Each of you know our history. The Varati have held dominance over this world for four hundred years and after that time, held ourselves proudly and defiantly against those who would dare test our will and power." These words act as a preamble to the God-King's speech, a speech colored with fervent emotion as can be seen clearly in those mercurial blue eyes. "In the thousand years that I have been among my chosen people, many heroes have decorated our legends and bled for our lands. Almost all have been born of the blood of the Varati, yet a handful have stood from the other races." Khalid is apparently speaking to the entire hall, not simply Allegra and Kiera. Allegra tries to listen, having woken up a little bit as she moved forward. She stands very still, her head bowed. A stillness comes over Rabi as she listens to Khalid speak. She closes her eyes as his words fill the hall and, after a time, opens them again to regard the paper laid out before her. She takes up a brush and dips it in black ink. Then, the powerful timbre of the God-King's voice still rolling through her bones, she begins to set his speech to paper. The letters are strong and upright, bold and clean and self-confident with the grace of ancient kingliness. The letters form words, marching across the paper in even, flowing, inexorable rows. Her pace is unhurried; she does not struggle to keep up with him, instead listening with a completeness that commits every nuance of what he says to memory so that she can accurately convey it into writing. Part of her trembles like a willow branch in a spring gale at the very thought of such power and majesty touching her like this. But it bows before the need of the artist to do her faithful work. "Three times, in those one-thousand years, there have been heroes among those who were born candala. Born candala for the misdeeds and mistakes of a prior life, yet redeemed fully in a single lifetime." Raising his hands to the ceiling, Khalid's words echo with powerful meaning throughout the hall, "I have foreseen many changes within this single lifetime. I have foreseen new beginnings and old endings. And in this time, two come before us like those heroes of old -- born candala, yet redeemed nonetheless. She who is called Allegra and Zada is one, and she who is known as Kiera, my little hawk, is the other." He pauses for a moment to allow all to drink in his words. "Their futures, like much in this world, is constantly changing, yet lest they fall from the path of our people, great deeds will follow their footsteps in the years to come." His final pronouncement falls from his lips, "And so both stand in good stead within the Varati, enjoying the privileges of the castes of the household they belong to." At the words borne from Khalid's mouth, the gaze of the Seraskier finds the majestic figure of the Varati's God-King once again. He remains still. The ebon haik keeping hidden his older frame, hangs from his shoulders like a death shroud. The pronouncement sends the Pasha's obsidian eyes flickering first to the halfbreed, and then the young Empyrean. But one does not live long by questioning the Amir-al, whatever one might believe. Arslan wisely remains silent, and his face still impassive. Could that be pride that straightens the Kaimakam's shoulders and swells his chest? Whatever it is, Zuhayr's posture shifts, straightens though his eyes remain downcast. "The child Allegra has many roads to traverse before she may come to her own, yet it is your time now, my little hawk. Climb the dais and kneel at my feet." Khalid's voice rises, yet another notch and flames flicker dangerously within the lamps, only to die down in a moment or two. Black wings extend outward, once more, casting their majestic shadow upon the throne and all near it while the God-King awaits Kiera's approach. Allegra stands silently, listening. As usual, Amir-al talks way over her head, and this, of course, does not make it any easier to stay awake. It is a good thing her head is bowed, for the little girl's eyes drift half-closed as she listens to Amir-al speak. A slight smile touches the Atarvani's lips at the pronouncement and he continues to watch the proceedings in silence. Distinctly uncomfortable, Kiera unknowingly sheds a few small feathers. They are immediately swept away by the current which grew with the portent of the God-King's words. Kiera misses this, too, her mind awhirl in its own eddies, its own raging thoughts. Brown wings pull in tighter, shift Kiera's weight without moving her feet, and she keeps that unblinking regard of hers on Khalid -- until she remembers and bows her head. The floor, unfortunately, reminds her of the ceiling, which -- no, she doesn't look, but -- Kiera thinks a hard and fast prayer to the only God she knows, to keep that roof standing. Then her mind returns to delving other meanings through -- Oh. More? Kiera slants an unhappy look at the torches, then starts forward, feet somewhat leaden, shoulders feeling unnaturally heavy because of wings she's worn all her life. Steadily, Khalid awaits the young half-breed. Nothing more is said, though he does spare a brief glance towards the others in the throne room. His gaze is narrowed as he closely studies the demeanors and countenance of a few in particular. The dark gaze that once assailed the dismissed scribe, now seize upon the winged figure newly approaching Atar. Brutally untrusting eyes pierce her diminutive frame as Faisal watches, mute. Winding her way through the various persons, Kiera finally achieves the dais. She does as she is bidden, and, in trying to remember everything she is supposed to do, forgets the half of it. A nice strong breeze loops around the room, teasing cloaks and harassing the torch-flames, so that shadows dance wild upon the walls. Kiera's wings are tighter, so not to brush any others, and she immediately looks back up at her God-King as she mounts the steps, lifts her wings and kneels as bidden. Whoops. The breeze. Abruptly, it's back to that subtle current of the first few moments of Kiera's arrival here. Kiera's gaze is steady, her pupils narrowed to pinpoints, so that her eyes seem swallowed in hazel iris. Rabi's hand still steadily works across the paper as she continues the even-paced committal of the God-King's words to paper. She finds the end of the speech and sets down the pen. Raising her eyes to regard Kiera, she takes up a reed more slender than the last but still with its own breadth of strength. The Pasha's head turns to one side, studying the form of the halfbreed. His eyes narrow but a touch, and a tightness falls over his expression, an obvious move to conceal emotion. Niamh watches with interest and curiosity, the entire court (and court politics) being fairly new to him. Lifting his hands so as to cup Kiera's cheeks, Khalid allows the young elementalist to regard his face in all its glory and majesty. And indeed it is an impressive countenance -- immortal in its beauty, deadly in its sheer power. Blue eyes, afire, meet dark hazel as the God-King speaks, "You have sworn to me, as your liege, is this not true, my little hawk?" "Yes." Most cannot hear Kiera, as she normally has an airy alto voice. Now, it's quieter, and she is not speaking to an audience, but rather to Khalid, and Khalid only. Being of very few words, normally, and having answered the question, Kiera then falls silent again. More small feathers launch off Kiera's wings. She sheds, when she's nervous. Still refusing to break eye contact, Khalid murmurs, "And you have embraced me as your God, is this not true, my little hawk?" Almost as an afterthought, he adds, "Calm yourself." Unfortunately, his voice is anything but soothing and his grasp would make most nervous. Allegra yawns. Oh, how much longer is this going to take? It is getting so hard to remain standing. She'd just like to curl up and go to sleep right here, right now. But she had to remain standing like this... although she couldn't quite at this point recall why or what she was doing standing at all when she should be in bed. There's a pause as Kiera considers the second request before the first requested answer. "Yes. You are my God." Then she counts four heartbeats -- fast -- before she addresses the comment: "I am within a cave, at night, in front of the Varati host," Kiera rarely exaggerates, but she makes an exception here, in honor of the assembled, "The ceiling may fall and the torches do not act like torches should. And you touch me. I am as calm as I can be, Khalid-Atar." To her credit, Kiera's voice remains steady, eyes locked. And there's about six more small feathers that downy-float away. Rabi switches pens, working in her calm and unhurried pace. In between the writing, she reminds herself not to become flustered and, thereby, not to becomes sloppy. But when the pen touches the paper she is someone else and no thoughts are made beyond being the means of the words finding form. The writing she does to represent Kiera has its own strength, with an added delicacy which is almost completely hidden by a wild grace that dances through the letters. Smiling faintly at this response, the God-King replies, "You are the 'little hawk.' From stormy skies, from dark clouds, from night-shrouded heavens, you swoop down upon my enemies. Upon the enemies of the people of the Neverending Fire. I see the rage within you, for it burns like my soul, like fire itself. I see the wrath that you shall deliver against those who stand against my word, for it is like my judgment -- swift and without remorse." Pausing for a moment, Khalid's brows furrow, before he speaks again, "And your hands will be stained with the blood of many, for it is your destiny and I wish you should have an easier life, but you will not. For in you is the honor, pride and duty of any Varati, and you will not shirk from that duty." Lapsing into another brief silence, he says his final words, "And so, she who would be an outcast to all, an outcast you are no longer. Within the first Clan, the Clan my father gave to me upon my birth, you shall be a member." Kiera blanks. Mind, expression, motion. She only stares at Khalid. And for once, for the first time in Kiera's waking life since the 'curse' of her wind-magic descended upon her, the air is utterly still, around Kiera and within the chamber. This is even enough to break the facade of the Pasha. His mouth half opens to snap a protest, but is quickly shut again. Instead, Messala contents to take a step back and drop from soldier's ease to a wary stance. Enough to show his displeasure, and mistrust of this woman. And with this last statement, Khalid leans forward, still holding Kiera's cheeks within his grasp, so as to place a firm kiss on the girl-woman's forehead. "Make me proud, daughter of Clan Khalida. Honor my name, honor the ancestors who came before you who wore that name. Honor those who died for our colors and for our people." Finally, his hands drop away from Kiera's face. "And let me never shed a tear in remorse for what I have done this day." Niamh can only think of the incredible honor bestowed upon Kiera. "Now leave, Kiera, and take Allegra with you. I fear the hour grows late and the child needs rest. Zuhayr will accompany her soon." Khalid inclines his chin first to his new clansmate, then to the blonde-haired Empyrean girl. Twisting in his seat, he peers at Zuhayr for a few moments. If the honor so recently rewarded to Kiera shocked the Seraskier of the Agni-Haidar, his dispassionate mask is not disturbed by it. He continues to watch, attentively. A very quiet murmur ripples through the court attendants at Khalid's announcement, but it falls to silence as quickly as it rises. Many pairs of eyes regard Kiera with a new keenness before the God-King's renewed voice brings their attention back to him. It takes an obvious effort, but the Pasha slowly regains his composure. He fades back into a soldier's ease, with his face flowing once more into a stony mask. As if the Agni-Haidar Kaimakam can feel the weight of Khalid's regard upon him, and certainly at mention of his name, Zuhayr straightens even further, lifting his gaze a few scant degrees. Still, it travels nowhere near the god-king's eyes. "Zuhayr, my congenial lion, tell me how your household fares. Does the winged child do well?" There is a note of rare humor in Khalid's tone as he speaks towards the Agni-Haidar. The grimness that tainted his tone moments ago has now disappeared. "And is there anything you would ask of me?" Allegra stumbles out with Kiera. Kiera moves through the grand doors that lead back into the entrance foyer. Rabi sets aside a filled page and works steadily to fill another, occasionally switching pens as she goes. Every now and then her head tilts, as if the woman were listening to music. Zuhayr's chin lifts still farther. "Zada does well, Most High, yes. She is content within the household that I mean to build, welcomed by the woman that I claim, and eager to please you in all things. There is nothing more that I would ask of you; you have been more than gracious to me, in blessing my household with your favor." He bows, deeply, from the waist. Full red lips curve into a smile that is not hidden within shadow. Khalid retorts, "Ah, my lions of fire are so easy to please sometimes." Growling out something nearing a laugh, he waves Zuhayr off in a dismissal. "Very well, my silk-covered blade. I shall take no more of your time. Go attend to your duties and your daughter." "Your will, Amir-al," the Kaimakam intones, bending farther. When he straightens, his head still remains bowed as he backs his way toward the throne room doors and out of Atar's sight. Finally, Khalid's gaze lands on Niamh. He has not shown any obvious interest in the Atarvani since the court began, yet now he studies the young man with intense scrutiny. "You who wears the robes of my priests, tell me your name once more." Both of his hands rest in his lap. Niamh starts, not expecting the Atar's attentions at all! He lifts his chin slightly, but keeps his gaze lowered, "Niamh Gitanjali of Clan Mazat..." he answers, just loud enough to carry to the Atar's dais. Zuhayr moves through the grand doors that lead back into the entrance foyer. The young acolyte somehow manages to remain still under the intense scrutiny, despite the fact that his heart is racing and threatening to leap into his throat. "I see, Niamh of Clan Mazat. This is the first time I have seen you in this mortal form, yet your spirit is not so unfamiliar to me. Decades ago, I knew it well." Khalid tilts his chin, then speaks quietly, "Will you interpret my words, Atarvani, as my priests are known to do? I feel the caution, the worry within some of this court. They know the histories of our people, yet none here were alive when last I embarked on the course that I have done this day. And so they worry, for change brings uncertainty. They have read their histories, yet to live in a time such as this one is something else entirely. Will you put their concerns to rest?" Rabi finishes with Zuhayr's words, her letters for him having something of the energy of gazelles if they were forced to be still and proper. She switches pens and returns to the transcriptions of the words of God. Pushing his leaping heart back into his chest where it belongs, Niamh hesitates a sideways glance to the assembled court before returning his lowered gaze to the dais. "Yes, Most Holy, I will do all that I can to ease their worries." "Then speak, Niamh, for we all await your words." And with this last statement, the God-King of the Varati falls quiet, and not a whisper breaks the silence of the court. At the last words from the Varati God-King, the ebon haik of the older Varati warrior becomes a swirling hurricane as he turns to cast his ruined face upon the young acolyte. He watches and waits with a cold dispassion. Niamh takes a moment to compose himself before turning to the assembled court. He lifts his head to look at the collected faces, his own expression now calm. When he speaks, he keeps his tone neutral and low, but he projects his voice to carry. "Tonight, two tests have been given. Only one was passed, for even in the most beautiful, falsehood and deceit can hide. In the most devout, doubt can reside. One can try to disguise these," his gaze remains fixed on the court, yet he almost yearns to make eye contact with a few specific people. He continues, "But no matter how deep you hide these doubts, these lies, they will be discovered. Yet..." his tone changes slightly, reflecting now his complete faith, "Sometimes, in wrongness... in something that should not be... in a seeming enemy, truth and faith can be found. Perhaps each of us should think about how we view others, especially now. Just because an enemy's face may be worn does not mean that they are not sworn to Amir-al and his people." He takes in a deep breath and then slowly lets it out, hoping he's said the right thing. The Atarvani's words actually bring pause to the Pasha. Thoughts form in his mind, obvious in his eyes as he looks towards the young priest with a curious expression. Chasidah bows her head to the floor as she makes her way backward to the throne room door, concentrating on departing from the court without too much disruption A flap of those midnight black wings. Then another. Khalid casts his gaze among the assembled courtiers, before turning back to Niamh. Giving no indication whatsoever if the speech was appreciated or hated, the God-King says instead, "You spoke with flames in your heart. Are there flames in your heart, Niamh? Is there fire in your soul?" He crooks a finger at the young man, beckoning him forward. "I sense these things in you. You have begun to learn to craft the lifeblood of this world, yet you are still young in your skills. Do they call to you, sing to your soul, Niamh? Do they begin to consume you? Can you balance the power?" Each question is asked quicker than the prior, as if building up to a crescendo with raw emotion sweeping through his words. Rabi catches up, in her writing, to Niamh's speech. For him she selects a slender pen and uses it to write strong letters. Chasidah moves through the grand doors that lead back into the entrance foyer. The Seraskier's woman pauses in her work, though, lifting pen from paper as her gaze is drawn towards the action of those vast black wings. She watches, awed and entranced, before coming back to herself and continuing on with her task. Niamh turns back to Khalid Atar, his eyes lowered once more and as he begins to answer the first question the other is asked, and before he can answer even one, all are asked. Finally at the pause, the final question, he answers, finding indeed that the fire burns to be released, and it takes most of his will to keep it in check. "Yes, Most Holy..." his voice is hoarse with effort, "I...I have begun to learn, but I am young and..." Then, "I need to learn!" No, the fires will not consume him... not yet, that is. The twin coals of the Seraskier's gaze seize upon the young figure of the acolyte as he approaches the dais of the Varati God-King. As with Kiera, no semblance of trust for those in the presence of Atar's person is seen in the older warrior's face. The Pasha merely watches. Thoughts still visibly flicker across his face, though the exact nature of those thoughts is unclear. "Mm." The word is almost purred from the God-King. "We shall see, Niamh of my prized Atarvani. Your soul is an old one and I have seen it recrafted in my father's hands over the centuries." And with a final nod of his head, he murmurs, "You are dismissed. We shall speak more upon your fate soon enough. Until then, ponder tonight's events, my own words, your own responses, the ever stoic expression of my Seraskier and the more thoughtful one of my Pasha." He adds, aside, "And never forget my scribe. Perhaps you shall discover why she was called forward, first." Rabi does not react to the words that refer to her. She is too distant from herself when she writes for others, for Atar especially -- she becomes an extension of the pen or brush and word rather than vice versa. But there will be time for reflection, and astonishment, and terror later. Niamh bows deeply to his God-King as he is dismissed, the events of tonight swirling in his mind, itching to be written down in his own personal notes. As he backs out of the throne room, he glances to the three faces mentioned, memorizing their expressions during the course of the evening. On Rabi his gaze lingers a moment more. Turning away from Niamh, Khalid speaks to Arslan. "Of my Warlords, you stand first in my eyes. Yet, it has been some time since I have regarded your countenance, so climb the dais and kneel before the throne." No other is given any consideration in the room, as of now, by the God-King. Or so it would seem, from the attention he lavishes on the master of Messala. Niamh moves through the grand doors that lead back into the entrance foyer. When the Atarvani's gaze falls upon him, the Pasha offers him a slight nod, obsidian eyes watching the young priest carefully. But it is only with his eyes that the Pasha follows; the rest of his body remains perfectly still, almost rivaling the Seraskier in rigidity. Yet when the Khalid's words are directed towards him, it is but an instant before Messala moves. His steps are smooth and calm, even as he takes the steps up that he has never before, as the Pasha's place is beneath Khalid's dais. Only when his steps bring him before Khalid, at the foot of the throne, does Arslan stop, and slowly drop to both his knees before the Amir-al, hands clasped over his lap and head bowed. Lifting his left hand, Khalid cups Arslan's cheek, with a few fingers straying under the man's chin. Gently, he lifts the Pasha's face so that he may regard him, fully. "Ah, Arslan," he murmurs with a faint smile. "I see so much in you, my Warlord. Would you venture to guess what I see when I regard your handsome features?" The black wings pull back into a subdued position, against the throne. One of the Pasha's dark eyebrows rises slightly. "I would not think to presume, Amir-al. But if you asked..." The Pasha lets that trail off, and falls silent. As with all the others who have been bidden to kneel before the feet of Atar, Faisal assails the Messala Warlord with his ruinous face. Stillness hangs thick about his figure, as if the air itself were loathe to trouble the Seraskier or his haik with its touch. "Tell me. I am curious to hear your words. Mortal minds find such thoughts that an ancient creature such as I rarely consider. I enjoy... the unpredictable." Those slender fingers idly caress the sand-beaten features of Arslan's face as Khalid refuses to break his gaze. Asked now to speak, the Pasha's obsidian eyes flicker to almost break from Khalid's gaze, but perhaps an inner pride steels Messala to keep his place. "I would like to think that in some ways I might remind the Amir-al of himself. It is he I strive to be like in my actions." The clenching muscles of the older warrior's jaw shatter the illusion of Faisal as an obsidian statue. Dark eyes grow blacker -- the coldness of his gaze crystallizing into freezing death. Chuckling a little, Khalid murmurs, "Interesting." Nodding to himself, he replies, "I see ambition, Arslan. I see fire. I see pride. I see strength. All that which has made Messala great has come to a climax in you." Black lashes hide those blue eyes for a moment, before he murmurs, "But never presume to understand my will. I have seen the world before it was born and understand the turning of time, itself. You are confused, I know. Yet, understand all things have a reason. And all things are not as they seem." He allows himself a short breath, before pressing on. "You stand before me and your hands are heavy, Arslan. Each hand balances a weight within it. And as I regard you, I look to see if you will drop either weight, or whether you will raise them above your head and thereby carry this burden for eternity -- and the responsibilities and power that come with such a task." Rabi catches up to Arslan's words and stops, setting aside the pen. And at this she becomes perfectly still, watching and listening with rapt attention. "No, Amir-al," is Arslan's bold reply. "I seek only to serve your will, never to understand it." Obsidian eyes flicker down to his hands briefly, and both curl upon themselves and rise as if to lift those weights. "Your way is your own, and I strive but to serve you. Whatever weights I must carry by your demands, I shall, without complaint." Another chuckle escapes Khalid's lips as he acknowledges the response. "Very well, Arslan. Understand then, that one of the most important tests you shall face is upon you. In these days of war, I shall look deep within the hearts of those closest to me and I shall either find them worthy or I shall rip them out of their bodies and offer them up to my father, to be reborn once more." He squeezes Arslan's chin, none too gently, then releases him again. "Rise high or burn swiftly, my favored Warlord, but whatever you shall do, it will be you who decides your own fate." No complaint issues from Arslan at Khalid's squeeze, and indeed the marks left fade sooner than they would on most men. "I seek but to serve the Amir-al, to follow the will of Khalid Atar." The Pasha's curled hands rise a little higher. "Whatever tasks lay before me, I shall do them." "This is all, then. In three days' time, I leave for the front. Tomorrow night, I wish to take a meal with you and your family. We shall also discuss your orders and obligations, then." Glancing briefly at Arslan's curled fists, Khalid's lips press down into a tight line that could easily form a smile or a frown, if nudged slightly in either direction. "You are dismissed, Warlord," he says finally. The Pasha slowly rises, his hands lowering to his sides and fingers opening. His head remains bowed even as Messala stands. "Those of my household who are here shall await your coming, Amir-al." Without another word, Arslan turns, folding his hands before him and offering nothing between his back and Khalid but air, and begins a descent from the dais as slow as his ascent. "All but the Agni-Haidar and the scribe are dismissed." Khalid's orders echo throughout the halls, even as he watches the departure of the Pasha of Haven. His fingers rap idly on the top of the armrest. The apprentice scribe gathers up his own kit and, bowing to the figure on the throne, makes himself scarce. Like blades of long grass in the hot summer breeze, the attendant members of court bow to their god and king and depart, backing out of his presence. Reaching the bottom of the dais, the Pasha's steps grow more rapid. As the Amir-al wishes a private audience, he shall receive it. With an abrupt motion of his hand, the guards about the room dressed in the blue and silver of Messala snap to attention, and follow their Warlord out. When the doors click closed, the room is bared of all those not of the God-King's choosing.
FIN
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