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"In Her Father's Footsteps"
Date: January 28, 1999 (Back-scene)  It has not even been twenty four hours since the bells chimed the announcement of your father's death. The candles have been lit, yet you have been given no respite to mourn or consider what has transpired in this short period of time. Even as you reflected on your father's memory within the comfortable confines of your chambers, the knock came upon the door by the black and silver death guard of the Agni-Haidar. Four of them stood stoically before you, commanding your presence to the Amir-Al. As the herald announces your name within the court, a collective hush falls upon those who have been assembled to witness this event. The walls and pillars are stationed with more of the royal guard, while other kshatri and Atarvani watch the scene that is about to transpire. The hush is replaced by a very quiet, soft buzz as the audience whispers among themselves, speculating as to the reason for this woman's presence. Perhaps the Most High wishes her here because she is her father's daughter? There is motion at the side of the great throne, where the scribes seated on the floor nearby dip their pens into ink and record Shahar's arrival. For the sake of her father's memory, for the sake of her father himself and the love she bore him, for the sake of her own pride, Shahar proceeds with a deft, unconscious and effective blend of dignity and deference, But as she approaches the throne and the God-King upon it, her gaze drops, her head bows; a sincere, even shy complaisance emerges. She plainly dares not look upon the Khalid. The four Agni-Haidar, such stern and unbending figures of nightmare and death, bend. They sink down, prostrating themselves before their God and master. As the men serving as her guard show obeisance to Khalid Atar, likewise does this slender figure of animated marble descend to her knees, then touches her forehead to the ground. So still is she, so poised in so bent a posture, that one may imagine that she could happily, facilely remain thusly posed for the foreseeable future. And of course, she speaks not a single syllable before properly addressed. "Rise." The word is uttered, cutting through the whispered speculations that filter through the huge hall of the God-King, as an undeniable command. Khalid Atar, arranged upon his pillows, silks and satins, gazes down upon the prone form of the daughter of his late Shakir, without even a flicker of emotion or apparent concern. His face is a study in stoicism and even often expressive, fiery blue eyes are hooded under a veil of long, silky black lashes. As magnificent ebon wings extend and stretch to mask the throne and its sole occupant in shadow, Khalid calls down towards Shahar, "She who is daughter to the heart of Clan Khalida has come before me. The heart has stopped; does the daughter grieve?" His voice never rises upon a murmur, yet it instills fear, respect and obedience and carries the power and will of this ageless immortal to all that hear it. The Agni-Haidar rise and settle into perfect stillness; but for the movement of their chests as they take and release their breaths, one would take them for dead. Until looked in the eye, that is, for their eyes are in constant motion -- even in this most secure of places they are on guard, scanning for danger. There is no buzz of whispers now; few would dare to utter a sound when the Most High is giving breath to words, every syllable made holy by the mere fact that it is he who is speaking them. The whispered speculations die down... no one dares interrupt the God-King on his throne, indeed. There is one man, nevertheless, who dares edge forward to a frontal vantage point in the gathering: Dahlibor, a kshatri long familiar with the family of Jehan, and who now fixes black eyes upon the daughter of he who has passed on to be reborn. Not nearly so tall as the Agni-Haidar stands Dahlibor, yet he is tall and well-made, aged but not old, fine lines about the corners of his eyes and only the slightest scattering of gray within his ebon hair. His eyes narrow in sharpening concern at the sight of the kneeling woman, a suspicion dawning within his heart... for he has yearned for the position held by Jehan, and now, with his daughter before the Khalid, Dahlibor Khalida cannot help but wonder what omen her presence means for him. Shahar regains her feet with fluidity that must be inborn; such grace cannot be tutored. As she moves, the soft whispers of silk detail her sinews' motions; the delicate tinkling of three impossibly slender bracelets dictates the downward sweep of her left hand as it takes a position at her side. Her eyes focus on the pillows on which the Amir-Al rests, demure, but her voice is supple and well-enunciated. She is humble but not afraid. "I grieve in my mother's stead," she explains lucidly, "and I grieve for my imakhu as well, though I grieve not for him. His soul is safely at rest and ready for the Samsara." Fine pens dance across paper as they record the woman's response, capturing the soul of her words and committing them to posterity in broad, thick, shining, black lines. "Ah," mouths Khalid and even this whisper flows on the winds, so that all within the hall may hear this simple musing. "I grieve, daughter of Khalida. I grieve, for I have lost a great Shakir." There is a subtle shift upon the throne; perhaps one hand rests on the hilt of that legendary divine sword which rests snugly at his waist. It is difficult to tell, for all is shrouded within shadow upon the dais. "And Clan Khalida grieves, for it has lost its heart. The body shall die, if new heart is not reborn within its bosom. Who shall be that heart, my lioness?" Eyes already watching Shahar watch even more intently. The Khalid does not give out words of praise lightly, although sometimes he gives them out in irony. What is to be the case here -- does she please him, or is this a prelude to her disgrace? Not a sound is made, and many are holding their breaths unawares. I, Amir-al! Dahlibor Khalida's heart cries out within him. Verily, the seasoned kshatri even takes a step forward with the force of his desire, conviction burning within his dark eyes. Only the fact that his God-King still addresses another keeps him tethered... just barely... to his place. But it is obvious to those nearby that here is a Clansman with more than a neutral interest in the matters unfolding before all. As Khalid's voice caresses the throne room and in particular her own hearing, goose-pimples raise on Shahar's wrists before the supple flesh vanishes beneath the satiny folds of her sari. She is barely cognizant of others' murmurs, ignorant of the jealous flare within Dahlibor: what exists in her world is what rests upon the throne. And, perhaps emboldened by Khalid's praise of her father, she speaks with delicate precision and deeper emotion. "For the clan I likewise grieve, Amir-al, but the tides of life flow freely, do they not? And tears of our loss must water the grounds to encourage the seeds of our future. Thus does hope spring from despair. And a heart..." She moistens her lips before pressing onward with a bold touch, "A heart will emerge in the spirit of its predecessor. Thus have I seen." A wry, mirthful chuckle escapes the lips of the God-King. It is a rare one, for humor is not a trait Khalid Atar is known for -- at least not in public. And such humor is oft deadly indeed, a herald for the fury that rides in its wake for one who has displeased him. "Is this so? You have seen it? Enlighten the court to what else you have seen, my silken predator?" His lips curve into a faint smile, which is mostly unseen by the assembled courtiers. The smile is missed but the chuckle is not; eyes are downcast and yet somehow they manage to catch a peek here, a glance there, at the face of their liege. There is a ripple of motion as some of the courtiers use subtle gestures with their fingers to communicate with their peers. "What I have seen, Amir-al, is a crater where once was the heart of this mightiest and most majestic of clans." Shahar's voice is bathed in sincerity and humility: she means what she says. "And envy over the one who strives to fill that emptiness. My father's demise does what he would have most disliked: caused dissent, even envy. This, as I have said, majestic Sire, is what I have seen." There's skepticism to be seen on the faces of some of the courtiers, in particular some of the males. Their expressions make it clear that they do not think much of this 'vision.' An easy thing to foresee, yes? "You speak with wise words, daughter of a cold heart." Khalid's last statement is thick with emotion, and spoken slowly, with grave intent. "You have ambition. I admire that. You also have great strength of conviction and loyalty. I admire that even more." Offering the simplest of nods to Shahar, as if acknowledging her in some grand design, he speaks, "My eyes are upon you, mistress of Clan Khalida. Shall you be the new Shakir? Shall any raise the challenge for the claim to the seat of leadership of the most powerful of our Clans?" Envy, indeed; the very face and frame of Dahlibor Khalida, while it does not shout that emotion, nevertheless hints in the loudest of whispers. With narrowed eyes and a lean mouth drawn into a taut and jealous line, this proud courtier stands with a fist clenched, driving his nails into his palm to distract himself from bursting out to interrupt this... woman. For all that his heart is afire with envy, he will not show himself a barbarian by speaking out of turn! But, hark! Hosanna, Amir-al! Dahlibor's heart soars, then, as the Most High provides him with his opportunity. He strides forward, power and grace flowing in the movements of his muscular dark form, and immediately kneels, head to his hands, before the throne. "I, Dahlibor Khalida, raise challenge to this claim, Most High!" his voice rings out. Motion, now. The courtiers scan one another's ranks, seeking out any sign that there will be challenge. And there it is -- Dahlibor crystallizes from the mass of adherents, acquiring a face and character where he once was simply a faceless member of the horde. Pens make a quick flurry as the scribes write down the challenge. Twisting his head, within the depths of the shadow he has wrought with midnight wings, Khalid gazes upon Dahlibor with fiery blue eyes. "Is this so, Dahlibor Khalida?" For moments that span into minutes, the Amir-al says not a word in response to this contest of power and position. Finally, he pronounces, "If this matter were among two male kshatri, I would allow the 'diya' to be of blades and blood. Yet, Shahar cannot fight that war and has no champion to act in her stead this day. So instead I say, each may strike at the other with words. Dahlibor, you shall state your claims first and why it is you who should take upon your shoulders this burden and privilege." Canting his head, he fixes his attention on Shahar, "Then from your own mouth, I shall hear your response and claims, Shahar. Let it be so." Shahar pauses not a jot, though a jet of ire flashes fleetingly in her golden-green irises. Silent in the wake of the query from Khalid and the ringing challenge from her cousin, she has but one recourse at present, and that is to bow her acquiescence to the God-King. That simple and sincere gesture sufficiently indicates her agreement to the terms. Another ripple of movement goes through the courtiers, the few women looking speculatively at one another. There are so few of them, and although they do not begrudge or complain of their place in society, it is as if they suddenly have a champion in the form of Jehan's daughter. They send prayers up to heaven, to Ushas and to Ashur Masad, and even wing a few silent words towards the figure of the throne. Let her be strong! Dahlibor sinks down to one knee but still manages, supple as a snake, to touch his forehead to the ground. A very formal, very difficult version of the bow that a woman could not do, not in her skirts. He raises his head, but not so far as to look at anything higher than the Most High's hands. "My liege," says Dahlibor. "I am Dahlibor ibn Sufi al-Mahad Khalida, son of the illustrious al'Mufasa Sufi Siraj Khalida. I have served the Clan as Umar-ikr since my father joined the wheel of life some twenty years ago. As assistant to the quartermaster, I have sought for the good of the Clan with many other Clans, kshatri and vaisya; I have solid knowledge of its workings and of its economics. When others have sought to pressure us into giving less of a share for the things of our desire, I have not bent; my soul is as iron for the good of the Clan. The Imphada may be daughter of her father, the most esteemed Jehan, True of Voice, but she is a woman and a gentle creature. Will she be firm when firmness is needed? Will there be steel within the willow, or will she gently and gracefully bend before the will of other Clans? What experience has she in the handling of Clan business, one so young and sheltered as she?" If the words have impressed Khalid whatsoever, the God-King does not allow himself to show his pleasure or satisfaction with that answer. Instead, he basks in the shadows of the dais as he turns upon Shahar to hear her answer. Shahar attends to every syllable, absorbs each nuance of phrase, stirs not at all at the implications -- nay, the outright declarations -- that doubt exists as to her worthiness. Impassive, she is difficult to read and slow to respond, her manner carefully confident without arrogance. A powerful weapon has she in her armory, and that is the vision to which she earlier referred, but as before, she is hesitant to use what can be claimed as flimsy argument. Without again kneeling -- as she was earlier bid to rise by Him that she serves -- Shahar sketches a deep downward bow from her waist before beginning her riposte. Likely Khalid alone may see the banked embers of her passion being bellowed into life. "I salute the esteemed cousin of my father's blood, Amir-al, and dispute not that he is worthy to serve at your side until the end of his days, for who among us, among your Clan, would tolerate life without seeking worth in your service?" The ping of each word echoes across the chamber, a responsible and respectful tonality. "And yet," continues the only daughter of Jehan al-Fadir Khalida, "who among your people is sheltered and gentle? Who among our Clan would shirk from any task laid before us, when it comes from the lips of the Khalid himself? Yes, I am a woman, and blessedly so, for I am what I was made by Your will, Sire. But do not let this mantle of femininity dissuade you and your people, for my soul is the steel of the Khalida, and my heart burns with the fire of love for our Atar alone. If my calling is as Shakir, then let my lungs burst, my eyes weep blood, and my soul be damned forever more lest I shy away from any task you lay before me." And for a glorious moment, the court falls into complete and total silence. Not a word is spoken, not a syllable is uttered. Hearts beat wildly at the words spoken by the daughter of the late Shakir, while passions are enflamed and thoughts race madly at the possibilities. And all heads are turned towards the God-King, to see his judgment. With the rustle of feathers brushing against feathers, the wings of Khalid Atar descend and coil against his back, so as to bask the throne in the lights of the oil lamps of the grand hall. Shadow falls away and the Warlord of Clan Khalida can be seen once more. "Of words spoken to me, of tales sung in my presence, few have moved me as your own have this day, Shahar. Climb the dais and kneel at my feet, daughter of Khalida." Dahlibor's fingers curl into fists, the tendons standing out whitely against his dark skin. But he makes no argument, for this is the word not only of the head of his Clan but of his God as well. He bows deeply again and withdraws, becoming an anonymous heart among the ranks of hearts arrayed around the room once again. Tremulous, breathless, Shahar essays the steps leading up the dais before sinking to her knees before her life's inspiration. Even if she had leave to speak, emotions would still her voice in this proximity to the Khalid. So she waits before him, quivering not with fear but with the depth and strength of feeling that poets describe but rarely themselves feel. The scribes are hard-pressed to keep up with this. But they do, capturing every single word in perfect clarity upon sacred papyrus. Slender, deft hands raise from Khalid's sides to cup the face of Shahar. Nimble fingers undo the bindings that keep her veils in place and when they are removed, he allows them to fall to the side of the throne. Gazing upon his akraba with fierce, deep blue eyes, the God-King murmurs, "On this day, as our kingdom looks upon us to see what we may forge, I say this: A new heart is born into the soul of Masada. Into the body of Khalida. On this day, I proclaim you, Shahar Khalida, to be Shakir of Clan Khalida. None shall contest your word within our Clan, for your word is absolute and spoken in my name. None shall take the blade and challenge you, for I shall champion your cause with my own blade, or shall the Nayaka." Allowing his words to sink in, he speaks further, "But be wary, daughter of Khalida. You must be strong, for in the darkness, daggers shall be aligned against you by the greedy and the envious. And you must be loyal, for if you fall into folly, my wrath will be as great as my generosity. And most of all, you must be wise, for Clan Khalida is the grandest of all Clans and must be led in such a fashion. Go this day and know a great honor and burden has been placed upon your shoulders." With those final words, the creature known as 'The Divine Flame of Heaven' leans forward and plants a kiss on Shahar's brow. Something like a sigh whispers through the room as the collective breathes are released. For the first time since her father's demise, and perhaps for the last time in the foreseeable future, tiny dewdrop tears twinkle in Shahar's eyes in public view, so moved is she by his proclamations, his caveats, his touch and kiss. Her eyes squeeze shut, spilling those twin droplets onto her unveiled cheeks, then open so that she may for once look upon the visage of her God and King. And when she summons breath to respond, her voice has the strength of a whisper only, her words the tempered steel of an oath of the heart and soul. "Never, Amir-al, shall I fail you." Another soft sigh, softer still for it is from the women. Their champion has triumphed.
FIN
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