Date: December 29, 1998 (Flashback scene)
Place: Seraskier's Suite, Master's Quarters - Atesh Gah - Haven
Cast: Faisal, Khalid (I/III), Rabi
Scene: It is during a supper in Khalid's honor that Rabi's son chooses to be born, and the God-King attends the birth himself, predicting a glorious destiny for the child of his loyal Seraskier and Faisal's mute Mahisi.

Seraskier's Suite - Atesh Gah - Haven:
      The brilliant glow of sunlight explodes into the room from the large bay windows opposite the entryway. The warm rays of the sun splash over countless red clay beds, suspended from ceiling. In some clay beds, vines of the deepest green whose leaves tumble almost to the floor, soak in the glow of the sun. In others, flowers explode in every color of the rainbow, pleasing the eye as well as the nose with their delicate scents. A few of the flower's pedals have escaped their buds and tumbled to lie idle on the floor.
      Beneath the hanging garden, the furnishings of the chambers are finely made, if sparse. A plush blue carpet stretches across most of the floor, its design an intricate lace of golden vines that crawl up each edge. Upon the carpet, cushions of blues and burgundy lie in every corner, each ready to be used in the comforting of the suite's residents and guests.
      Save for the carpeting, small tables of a red wood stand against the walls of the audience room. Each sport trophies of war. On one, a broken lance with the lion crest of Clan Ummayyid on its blade. On another, an ancient golden helm fashioned in the manner of the Praetorian Guard, its craftsmanship ruined by a jagged tear down the right side. Beside the table bearing the helm, another of like manufacture prominently displays what appears to be a book. Emblazoned boldly upon the cover is the sigil of the Agni-Haidar, black wings cradling a fiercely burning sun. New in construction, the most recent ornament gives of a soft scent of beeswax.

From beyond the door, the Agni-Haidar announce Khalid's presence.

Khalid pushes wide the twin wooden doors and advances into the Seraskier's suite from the embassy hallway beyond.

The room is lit brilliantly with candles ringing the walls. In the center, a pool of midnight soaks up the light greedily, a haik of purest ebon. The Seraskier of the Agni-Haidar lays prostrated before the guest newly entered, his head pressed toward the ground. I tones roughly hewn, words fall from his aged lips, "May I serve until my last breath escapes me."

Behind him, arrayed along the wall like trophies, are the Seraskier's household -- slaves are on his left and his three consorts are on his right. The slaves consist of two women -- one old, one young -- and one young mongrel man who is clean and neatly dressed. Of the consorts there is Rabi, a much younger woman who is not able to still her trembling, and an older woman. The God-King may recognize the latter; she was one wife to the Khaliph. Behind Rabi there are two women dressed in the pure white saris of Ushasti. All have their heads pressed to the backs of their hands as Faisal, does save Rabi, who herself bows as low as her belly will permit.

Entering the suite is a pair of the black and silver attired Agni-Haidar. Their movements are precise, fluid and graceful. Stepping to the side, they twist in position and hold rank, allowing the next member in the procession to come within. And there is no doubt who indeed they herald, for despite the lack of lavish clothing or grand pomp and circumstance, Khalid Atar's presence is powerful and felt even at a distance. The God-King surveys the room, his expression as unreadable as the stones of the strongest vara. Two more Agni-Haidar close the gap behind their liege.

A lifeless rock of onyx, the older warrior remains prostrated, as silent and disturbing in his grimness as death's stare.

A tremor passes through Rabi and her expression tenses for a heartbeat or two. But she remains in her bowed position as well.

"Rise." The command is issued in the same way Khalid speaks with most -- quiet, calm and with an authority that cannot be contradicted. And while the God-King's face is all but expressionless, blue eyes betray him as they usually do. Such passion and fire is rarely seen in any Varati, yet his own orbs flash with intense meaning and consideration.

The inky black robes, pooling around the white-haired warrior, begin to draw upward, as if draining ceilingward. The Seraskier rises, a pillar of nightmarish black amidst an ocean of warmth. The robes, loathe to fall silent, do so as the chin of Faisal rises, allowing him to cast his ruined face upon the Varati God-King. Lines deep and vicious crease the man's face like crevices marring the surface of the hardest mountainsides. Faisal steps aside, his weathered hand gesturing towards the place of honor amid the sea of cushions behind you... a silent plea for Khalid take the spot normally reserved for only himself.

Silk rustles as the household moves to do the Amir-al's bidding. They keep their eyes downcast. The servants melt off to the sides and into the kitchen, all save the man who remains kneeling and ready to serve. The two Ushasti straighten up and one glances at Rabi before looking at her colleague.

"I am honored that you may make me welcome in your house, my first Seraskier," intones Khalid as he inclines his chin towards the aged soldier. Blue eyes flicker briefly towards the Ushasti and a faint smile crosses his lips. "My mother's handmaidens. She was always as skilled with life as she was... with death. Some of the tales are lost in time, but her wrath was one to behold, a long time ago." Shaking his head as if to clear some troubling memory from his mind, the God-King turns back to Faisal and shakes his head. "No, I am honored you offer me the spot, my Seraskier, but it is your household. And while all may be mine, I would return the honor. Seat yourself in the proper place and let your Mahisi do the same. I will take the next place after her."

The Ushasti begin to speak. They are midwives, these two -- and seeresses also, from the way they finish one another's sentences: "We beg your forbearance, Most High, but--"

"--the honored Seraskier's son has--"

"--chosen these moments to come into the world--"

"with your permission we--"

"--will attend to her elsewhere." The two bow, and Rabi bows as well, with a blush that colors her cheek with a red like hot bronze.

The sound of two rocks grating against one another, Faisal's voice cleaves the air, "This household and its members are your property, it will be as you wish." He nods deeply before stalking toward the cushions at the far end, then turns and waits for the Varati God-King to make himself comfortable before doing so himself. At the Ushasti's pronouncement, the veneer of cold sternness the older warrior seems to assume so easily, flickers... an expression of almost concern wanders across features so unused to displaying such emotion... and then is gone as Faisal turns toward Khalid, apparently having discarded the alarming news in favor of tending to his guest.

The Ushasti do not seem particularly worried; then again, they would be steadily calm cutting a baby out of its dead mother's belly. Rabi, for her part, simply looks abashed that this would happen during so august and important an event.

"Oh?" Khalid's eyes narrow to the point of squinting as he stares at Rabi. "You could not have picked a more convenient time, Mahisi of my first Seraskier?" Ebon wings flutter restlessly against his back. "Or is it the son who will not wait?" Shaking his head slightly, he turns to chastise Faisal, "Wise Lion, will your son always be like this? Too hasty? I worry that he will lead a charge of my Agni-Haidar in the future and be premature in the attack." While the tone appears entirely serious, the God-King must be jesting. Or is he?

The words that fall from the older warriors lips are of like manner, coldly serious and if true, a window into the monstrous soul that the Agni-Haidar keep locked away, "I will see that he is punished, Sirdar."

Rabi's eyes widen, mere delicate rings of copper-flecked gold around pits of black, and the blush intensifies so that the redness of her skin stands out clearly against the arc of her veil. How could this mouse of a woman ever assume that Khalid is joking -- he is a god. She bows over as far as she can even as another tremor passes through her, this one augmented by her trembling. The older Ushasti regards Khalid and arches an eyebrow.

"No, I do not believe that will be necessary, my loyal lion. I believe we can forgive your son this time." Nodding to himself, Khalid says simply, "The matter is already forgotten." Smothering what might be a smile by pursing his lips, the God-King eventually speaks, "I wish to observe this birth. We may take our dinner in the room with her, Faisal. This is an auspicious event and I have foreseen great importance for this son, my etched sword." Once more, this is most certainly a command -- whether the Ushasti would allow it or not under normal circumstances.

Faisal accedes to the wishes of the God-King with a bowed head and a grating, "If you so wish it, Sirdar." The head rises before jerking towards the servants waiting nearby, "We will eat dinner in the birthing chamber of my son." The black pearls then turn towards Rabi before the ruinous voice rings again, "Where will you give this child, Rabi?"

Men usually avoid births like the plague; who likes to see the messy aftermath of their handiwork? The Ushasti nod, however. It is not the first time that an auspicious birth has been overseen by men of importance. Aba and Ananda come out the kitchen with laving bowls in hand just in time to hear these pronouncements, but somehow do not drop the items in their shock. Rabi, for her part, goes pale. But who would deny the Amir-al's request? The young woman straightens up and rests one long-fingered hand across her belly. The other gestures towards Faisal's quarters.

At Rabi's indication, the older warrior turns toward Khalid and bows his head once again before gesturing with an outstretched hand toward his own private quarters.

In a ripple of white like the heart of lightning, the two Ushasti rise. They bend over and lend their strong arms to the pregnant woman and Rabi gains her feet with surprising grace. She waits, though, for Atar to precede her.

"Send word to the Atarvani, as well, of this event. They will give your messenger a small sack. This messenger must be accompanied by an escort of the Agni-Haidar, for that package is special and slated only for the child of the Seraskier." After making this announcement, Khalid lapses into silence as he steps towards the appropriate chambers.

Khalid disappears through a intricately carved oaken door, passing into the master's quarters.

Faisal turns toward Erasmus and nods mutely for him to carry out the instructions before turning towards the quarters himself. He, too, disappears through the intricately carved oaken door.

Master's Quarters - Seraskier's Suite - Atesh-Gah:
      The theme and style of the audience room floods into Faisal's private quarters unabated. Opposite the entryway, the same expansive bay windows invite the sun to bake the interior of the room with its blinding touch. Suspended from the ceiling, the same red clay pots hold a dizzying assortment of greenery. Vines spill out from over the pots' edges, their twining limbs dangling almost to the floor. Flowers of varying kinds blossom on high, creating a wondrous crown of color and fragrance ringing the ceiling.
      No plush carpet can be found to soften the floor's sternness. Golden marble stretches unhindered from wall to wall. Only a simple pallet in the far corner hides any span of it. The pallet harks of a Spartan, difficult lifestyle. Only a fraction of a finger in height, it hardly serves to dampen the hardness of the floor. Atop it, a light blanket and pillow sit ready to be used, their own construction likewise ill conceived to keep out the chill of a winter's night.
      Unlike the audience chamber, no trophies of war stand proudly along the wall's edge. Instead, a tall wardrobe dominates one wall. It faces a wall bare of any ornaments save one: a carved rectangular notch houses a bronze depiction of the Varati King-God, Khalid Atar. With the sun's warmth, the bronze skin of the statue glows as if the metal visage were a living, breathing thing. Inky black wings stretch to each side, ready to propel Atar upward and defiantly wrestle the Varati's lost Kingdoms from the Empyreal host.

Words spoken beyond the private quarters tell of the Seraskier relaying the command to a household servant before following on the heels of the God-King. He remains standing, his eyes watching the train of servants that bring the cushions and food in from the audience chamber. When they are arranged around the birthing pallet, again the Seraskier remains standing, waiting for Khalid to assume a seat before he does.

Standing to one side, Khalid allows the womenfolk to do as they please. Once the pillows have been arranged anew, the God-King settles down into his seat with only a single flap of his majestic wings. Continuing his conversation as if nothing was amiss, he queries of Faisal, "Tell me, Seraskier, have you spoken with the child Allegra yet?"

The birth pallet -- an austere, thin little thing -- has been augmented by a veritable nest of cushions which in turn are covered by a thick leather blanket which in turn is covered by soft terry cloth. There are other items of birth about: bowls filled with steaming water and lots and lots of towels. The Ushasti guide Rabi to the pallet and, without a second thought, begin to unwind her saris from around her to replace them with a much lighter kaftan of brown silk. It is almost a dance of white and blue and green and only flashes of the young woman's body can be seen in the flurry of movement. Then she is dressed. She settles down and removes her veil, uncovering thick black hair streaked with little glitterings of silver here and there. Her face is pleasantly pretty but not beautiful, with delicately carved features set in an oval face. But the arrangement of her features are far outshadowed by the scar that grins its ugly quarter-moon crescent across the base of her throat, white and twisted and wicked. The Ushasti settle themselves on either side of her.

The snowy-capped head of the older warrior nods in acknowledgment before the roughly hewn tones of his voice rip through the air once again, "I have, Sirdar. When first I saw the girl, I thought her only Candala and warned her to behave within the walls of Atesh-Gah. She grew angry and insisted that she was now Varati, now that you had named her so." His voice is bland, betraying nothing of his opinion on the matter.

Pillows are hastily brought in and rearranged, and the two serving women bring the men bowls of hot water and towels for their fingers, as well as a trays of drinks: kaffe, hot cider, cool grape juice, plum raki, and pure water. Aba, the old woman, kneels down at Khalid's side to pour his choice of drink for him. Ananda, the younger, attends to the Seraskier.

Listening to Faisal, Khalid nods to the statements made, yet diverts a considerable amount of interest towards Rabi and her throat. "Mm," he murmurs to himself. "So tell me, honestly, what did you think of her. Leave aside my own announcements, Seraskier." Slender, deft fingers capture a mug of kaffe.

With subtle hand gestures, Rabi communicates with the old servant. Once the God-King has been served, Aba brings the Ushasti tea. She melts back into the background, then, to bring out the first course: humus and falafel with wedges of pita, with a light yoghurt sauce for the falafel. The humus has extra garlic in it and the falafel are quite spicy, their temperature cooled by the sauce.

Again, the deathly stern mask of the Seraskier threatens to falter as the warrior grapples with the task of ignoring the orders of Atar, and still obeying them. A silence ensues, one thick with hesitation. When at least he speaks, the rough manner of Faisal's words are broken by pauses, "She is... a... loud... girl."

Thank goodness for contractions. They have such a way of quelling humor. Rabi finds the whole situation so surreal it seems almost absurd; her fingers bite down into a cushion as the powerful muscle spasm ripples across her belly.

The God-King of the Varati, the single-most powerful being to walk the face of the world, is almost defeated by a single comment of his Seraskier. At the very least, he certainly almost loses his grasp on the mug. And while his face manages to retain its stoic demeanor, his eyes dance with merry humor at the statement. "Ah, she is, is she? I imagine she can be quite willful. Is there anything else which you would add to that assessment, shield of my heart?"

One of the Ushasti shifts slightly, making herself more comfortable. In doing so, she ceases to block the line-of-sight to a framed piece of artwork near the pallet-bed. It is broadly painted in bright colors, with all the clumsy heartfelt enthusiasm of a child. Broad wings of black spread out from a central brown figure -- the bulging muscles might be the result of skill, but more likely they are born of luck. The figure is surrounded by tiny painted dots which, upon closer examination, resolve into butterflies. The priestess offers Rabi some tea and the Seraskier's consort gratefully takes a sip. She quickly hands the cup back before another contraction hits her.

Faisal's eyes watch the labors of his consort as words ring in answer to Khalid's question, "She is also..." A long delay ensues before the Seraskier puts an end to it with a blunt, "...small."

For one of the first times in her life, Rabi is glad she is mute. She smiles, a smile of tender adoration and deep humor. She simply can't help it, God-King or no. Birth has filled her with pain and wonder and with a number of hormones that makes it impossible for her to be somber at the moment.

"I see." Khalid decides discretion is the better part of valor and lest he lose his mug entirely, he places it aside for the moment. He glances down at his place, so as to keep his own smile hidden. Plucking at the pita-bread with his fingers, he dips it in the yogurt, then pushes it between his lips. After chewing for a few moments, he speaks again, "She is important to me. I believe she may be important to us all. I believe father has crafted her half of which was another. We shall see." Blue eyes consider Rabi as he continues, "Her fate may be twined with that of your son."

Rabi eases against the pillows and does her very best to remain relaxed. The older Ushasti murmurs to her and she nods, remembering to breathe evenly. A contraction hits her while she is breathing in and the breath stops with a small gasp. "Don't push, Rabi. Not yet," murmurs the older Ushasti, and Rabi nods, riding the wave that ripples through her.

Faisal only nods in mute acceptance of the God-King's prophecy before stretching forth his hand to snare his own piece of pita and flavoring it with the sauce offered.

"Make sure the Agni-Haidar keep her well protected. I know Zuhayr will run his household well and take care of her, yet with so many assassins afield and with constant treachery from the Empyreans, I will take no risks." Khalid's gaze flickers back towards Rabi as he begins working on his food in earnest. "Tell me how you came upon your Mahisi, Seraskier."

Rabi turns her face slightly to regard the two men -- no, the man and the divine being, breaking bread with one another. Her heart does a funny little flutter in her chest and she swallows, causing the scar to writhe slightly. What is wrong with me? Somehow the scene is so profound she wants to cry. Another contraction, much stronger this time. She resists the urge to push but feels a wetness between her legs -- the water, breaking. A predetermined hand-signal and the younger Ushasti is there to catch the wetness with a clean towel and to arrange the kaftan so it is not in the way of the birth.

Faisal says, "It will be as you say, Sirdar. The girl Allegra will be protected." Without a pause, the older man launches into an detailed, painfully bland explanation of his history with Rabi, "In the Rialto, I happened upon a woman drawing calligraphy to entertain children. I asked her how she learned. She told me from her father. She also told me that she sold her skills for profit. I forbade her to do so, but to keep her from starving, I offered her a place in my household as slave. She became my consort when she shielded my back from fire thrown at me by a dishonorable woman who was once Shechah. I rewarded Rabi by offering to make her my consort or consort to another house."

Aba waits until she sees that most of the pita and humus and falafel are gone. Then, with timing to ensure that the men are never waiting for food, she brings the next course: a bed of rice, fragrant, with small chunks of lamb and beef atop in a curry that is blood red and murderously hot. Bowls of mushrooms and of the salty, bitter black vara version of seaweed are set to the side, a reminder of the times spent underground. Aba and Ananda set out utensils: broad spoons for the curry and long skewers for the mushrooms and bitters. But the main course comes next: fresh, hot nan, bubbly on one side and glistening with a light sheen of ghee.

Rabi closes her eyes. The food smells sweet but the story is even sweeter. She barely feels the next contraction, lost as she is in memory.

Temperamental, mercurial and always dangerous, Khalid's features twist into something approaching rage as he growls out, "Who was this woman who struck at you with fire?" For the moment, both Rabi and food are forgotten, disregarded. Blue eyes blaze with dangerous fury as he studies the face of his Seraskier.

Rabi sucks in her breath at the waves of anger she feels pouring forth from that singular figure who is the center of the room wherever he sits in it.

Faisal answers obediently, "The woman's name was Rani. I struck her for addressing me dishonorably, and when my back was turned, she threw fire at me in retaliation." The words end as abruptly as they had begun.

"And you did not slay her?" Hissing his disapproval, Khalid's words are laced with venom. "For a time now, I have indulged Rani like I have indulged no other. I have assumed her grief overcame her senses and she would come to see reason, once more. I see my faith was misplaced. This time of indulgence has come to an end." Nothing more is spoken on this topic, yet there is deadly meaning in that every word. He reaches for a piece of nan, but finds it turned to ash as his fingertips touch it. Snarling under his breath, wings flap in agitation for a moment or two, before settling back into position. The second nan fairs better and is used with the lamb curry. "The wound on Rabi's throat. Tell me of it."

The blush races up Rabi's throat, skipping over the white, clumsy scar, to trace her jaw and cheekbones with redness. But a certain calm settles over her when she remembers: he does not think it shameful. So I need not fear.

Another contraction, much harder now. Perspiration beads Rabi's forehead and she screws up her face against the pain. The younger priestess dabs her forehead and smiles, whispering encouragement.

Faisal bows his head in the face of Khalid's anger, and when prompted to speak once again, he answers in the same blunt, precise manner, "Warriors from another Clan attacked her village. Her parents were killed and she was soiled. The warrior who soiled her slit her throat, but she did not die from it."

It is good that Khalid has already put the mental blocks up in controlling his rage, for the entire dinner setting would assuredly go up in flames, otherwise. "I see," he says with deathly calm. "This was dishonorable. If she was taken as a slave, it would be acceptable. But to do this shows no honor. Has it been discovered who this warrior was that would break one of my most sacred surahs?" He speaks as if he were simply debating trivial matters, yet the flames in those ever-expressive blue eyes are so intense, so furious that cities would tremble for fear of this wrath being unleashed.

Rabi sucks in a deep breath and steels herself against the next contraction. "Breathe out with it, Rabi," murmurs the older woman, and Rabi obeys although her breath comes out in a stuttering gasp.

Faisal lifts his head from its reverent bow and casts his eyes upon the woman laboring before him, now far in her contraction cycle. Even as his eyes watch her giving birth, his words follow quickly on the heels of Khalid's question, "She has not told me who the warrior was and I do not believe she knows, Sirdar."

"When time permits, you shall find out who this warrior is that has done such a thing to your Mahisi. Who would dare break our chodana. Then I wish him fed to rabid dogs. A kshatri he will no longer be, when Ashur Masad judges his soul anew." With force of will, Khalid closes those blue infernos that are his eyes and when he reopens them, he is calm once more. He begins to engross himself in the food.

Rabi breathes more quickly now, trying very hard not to pant, but the contractions are so much closer together that it is difficult. She shakes her head, eyes wide, confirming Faisal's words, and then turns her face away again as she is taken by another rush of pain. She can feel the child, now, pushing through bones that give way with deep reluctance. The tendons of her fingers are white as she clutches the cushions on which she lays.

Amid the conversation and the sounds of labor, two black figures step into the room, accompanying a third clad in robes of deep crimson. The Atarvani priest carries a small chest and when he steps between the two ebon figures, all prostrate themselves before Khalid. The Priest says, "We have brought what you have instructed us to, Amir-al."

Tears squeeze out through Rabi's tightly-closed eyelids as she remembers her parents and her heart breaks all over again and she smells the fire and the blood and she hears the voice of her God and knows that they will finally have their just vengeance.

"Very good," comments Khalid aside as he notes the presence of the Atarvani. Between bites of the lamb and nan, he turns back to Faisal and asks suddenly, "Do you love her, Faisal? Do you love this woman you call your wife? And if so, how deep, how strong is this love?" He is once more calm, subdued, perhaps even melancholic.

Khalid adds, almost as an afterthought. "And how do you know that it is love?"

Faisal answers Khalid's charge with a voiced promise, deathly ominous in its sincerity, "I will find him, Sirdar, and he will be punished as you say." No sooner is the sentence complete, than he begins another to reply to the words spoken to him. His mouth draws open... and then seems to freeze as Faisal wrestles with an answer. At length, Faisal answers with a simple, "Rabi pleases me very much. She is a dutiful Mahisi."

The edges of Rabi's vision go black-red with the pain of the next contraction. She writhes silently and then falls back on the pillow. And she is still aware of the questions the Khalid is posing to the man whom she loves with all her heart. She understands Archana so completely; were anything to happen to Faisal she could not bear this life and would want -- would need -- to follow him. Suttee. Let others call it barbaric but they do not understand love -- ohhhhh! another silent cry against bone-cracking pain. Her fingers tighten around the young Ushasti's hand and the elder touches about Rabi's face with a damp towel. "That's good, Rabi," murmurs the elder quietly. "That's good. On the next one, push. As hard as you can." Rabi nods, chest heaving with the effort of finding air.

Discontented with that answer, Khalid presses, "Does she stir passion in your heart, my Seraskier? I do not ask whether you may live with her, but rather, can you live without her?" The God-King watches the face, the expression of his most loyal servant with such intense scrutiny.

Of course he can-- Rabi thinks dimly. He is so strong... She can feel the next contraction welling up inside her, like thunder heard from a distance.

With a dispassionate sternness, Faisal answers, "Yes, because my duty requires me to."

The storm breaks. Rabi bears down with all her strength, vision going black with the effort. Her breath explodes back into her and the elder Ushasti nods. "Good," she murmurs. "Next one, just like that. You're doing well."

"I see." Khalid leaves the matter alone, pursuing it no longer. Then, he speaks, "Faisal, raise your gaze to mine, so that I may see your eyes and so that you may see my own." Blue orbs search the Seraskier's face.

As bidden to, the terrible face of the warrior, weathered by the abrasive currents of time, turns to face the God-King of the Varati seated beside him. The inky black pearls of Faisal's eyes find Khalid's powerful blue gaze and hold it. He remains silent, a figure more stone carving than man.

Another thunderclap within her. Rabi goes pale with the effort of pushing and the cords in her neck stand out until the reach the writhing smile of the scar across its base.

The elder priestess has shifted position. Very quietly she murmurs: "Good, Rabi. I can see the top of his head." She smiles. "Just like that, next one." Rabi nods numbly.

"In all the world, in all creation, mortal men have wished for many things," begins Khalid as he refuses to either break his gaze or allow Faisal to escape his probing regard. "Yet, never have the Agni-Haidar asked me for anything. Since their creation, since I wrestled the twelve lions of the mountains and desert and drew fire from my soul to make them mortal, yet more than mortal, they have asked me for nothing." Black wings stretch out, from his body, to cast a shadow upon all the room. "So this day, I ask you Faisal, if any wish of yours could be granted, any at all, what would it be?"

The most recent in a series of bewildering questions for a man who has never known anything other than devout service, Faisal's brows threaten to knit in astonished confusion. Lips twitch, hesitate, then twitch again. When at last he speaks, it is not in the commanding tones of authority, but in a manner that reveals his discomfort at being asked such, "To die honorably and be reborn to serve as Agni-Haidar once again."

"I see." It must be a mantra for the God-King and it is quite possible those two words have been written countless times in the scriptures of the Atarvani. They are easy words. Words that hide true meaning, true feeling. And so he repeats them, "I see." Giving the smallest of smiles to Faisal, Khalid finally turns away as he says, "I will trouble you no longer, my ever-faithful lion. We shall watch your son born and a new era begin."

Rabi manages to suck in another deep breath and bears down with the next powerful spasm. The feeling of bones spreading and creaking is intense and the pain is almost ecstatic. Her back arches slightly as agony hits steel and finds itself rebuffed. The Ushasti remains calm. "Good," she remarks. "That's good. His head is free. Don't stop, Rabi." The Seraskier's woman can barely catch breath in between the contractions now, they are so rapid and close together that they seem like one long wrenching push to free the baby from her body.

Faisal turns his black gaze away from the Varati God-King almost eagerly and casts it upon the woman who shares his bed, his devoted Mahisi as she labors through the pains of birth. The mask he now wears is the one presented to all, the cold expression of a man who knows his purpose. Yet at the corners of his eyes, the lines of age seem longer than before, as if still wrestling with the concepts posed to him this evening. In silence does he watch his Mahisi give birth to his first son.

Rabi sucks in air in shuddering sobs as she bears down. She is so tired. Her limbs feel like lead -- she just wants to give up completely. But there is fire in her eyes, too, and so despite herself she continues to push, and push, and push, and then the child's shoulders are free and it is easy. Tears of relief fall down her cheeks as she hears the priestess say, "There, he's free -- one more for the afterbirth, dear." Rabi gives another mighty push and feels empty; the priestess rests the little child on her lap, takes up a length of silk and ties off the umbilicus, produces a knife and frees him from the lifeline that has provided air and food for his life up to this point. The knife is set aside and with sure fingers she clears his mouth and nose and lifts him, giving his foot a light blow.

A tiny thing, this baby. But he doesn't sound tiny. The room is immediately filled with a mighty, indignant howl.

And with a single, powerful flap of his wings, Khalid Atar has risen from his perch on the pillows. Striding towards the chest, he murmurs to the Atarvani and other Agni-Haidar, "Away." As they retreat from the room, he takes a key from within the folds of his sash and uses it upon the lock. Items within are moved and rearranged as the child begins its first cries of freedom.

With a gracefully quick motion, the Seraskier finds his feet, but remains behind, watching his God tend to his newborn son.

Rabi shudders from her effort, all the muscles of her body trembling and she is so pale. But she laughs silently all the same, fresh tears pouring down her cheeks. Joy has dawned in her face like the coming of the sun after a long and arduous night and with wide eyes she watches both the face of her Seraskier and the form of the Most High.

The younger priestess beams and leans forward to whisper, "See? You did it!" before moving to collect the afterbirth, wrapping it and setting it aside. She wets some clean cloths and begins to clean the exhausted woman as the elder quickly does the same for the babe, swaddling him in soft felt and an overwrap of silk to keep him warm after a surreptitious check to make sure that all limbs are accounted for. The cozy wrapping does nothing to assuage the baby's fury at being pushed from his mother's warm body and his howls continue. The Ushasti cradles the bawling boy in her arms and kneels before Faisal, although she positions herself to face both the father and the father's master.

"His name. What shall his name be?" This question is posed as Khalid swivels once more, so as to regard father, mother and son. In his hands is a golden chalice, bejeweled with sapphires, rubies and diamonds. Striding forward, the God-King demands, "I shall hold the child in my arms." Even as he speaks, he twists his left arm appropriately, so that he may carry the child one-handed, if placed in the correct position. The other hand balances the chalice.

"My lord," says the Ushasti, and rises to place the child within the curve of the God-King's arm. She bows and backs away.

The baby settles down a little. He still cries, but the volume is abated. He's warm now, at least. But now he's hungry, too.

Faisal answers plainly, with the same dispassion as if he were observing the death of an enemy, "The boy's name is Jaimizal."

Rabi watches Faisal's face, a tender smile on her lips. She shivers and the younger Ushasti lays a gently blanket over her. Her fingers curl against the cloth as she continues to observe, her gaze shifting to the form of the divine one in whose arm her baby is now cradled. There is no fear on her face, only perfect trust.

"That is a good name." Khalid's approval is stated quietly as he cradles the child in his arms. "When first father charged me with my task, he sent me to my half-brother, Jamil, for aid. I knew my chosen were still kafir and would not be easily persuaded to change from their heathen ways. So I said to my brother, what aid will you give me?"

The God-King gently rocks the tiny baby within his arms as he continues to speak, "My half-brother, who was the son of my father, but still mortal, said to me: Brother, I give you Clan Khalida. They are of my blood, ordained for you." Nodding to himself, as if recalling these events vividly, he presses on, "I gazed upon my Clansmen and knew them to be strong, yet I needed more. I said to my brother: Your blood is powerful and I see the strength in your progeny. They will be good soldiers and pashas, yet I require more." Lifting his fiery blue gaze first to Rabi, then to Faisal, he explains, "So into the desert I went and into the mountains I searched. And after twelve days, my search ended with the twelve greatest lions the world would offer."

The shuddering of Rabi's body eases as the tale weaves itself through the room in words of gold and silver and purple. She listens raptly, captured.

As Khalid's gaze passes over her he can see the depths of her wide, amber eyes.

Faisal's ebon gaze flickers from Khalid to Rabi, and then to the child in the God-King's arms. He remains mute, as if a party witnessing an event that did not concern him.

Speaking quietly, yet with such strength and force of will that has always made his words captivating, Khalid continues the tale, "Each lion was wild, untamed. Each lion was its own master and would not yield to any. Any save I. I wrestled each lion and each lion cut me once, spilling my blood which was like fire, upon the ground. And after I subdued each one, I said: Since you desire my blood, which is fire itself, I shall give it to you."

Blue eyes flicker downwards, once more, to the child he holds. "And so I pried open the mouths of each lion and taking a great breath, I released a piece of my soul, of the flames of my body, into those majestic beasts. And no longer were they beasts, but rather they were men. Yet unlike any mortal man, for they were Agni-Haidar. They were my lions. Tamed with my wrath, fury and blood. And tamed only by one such as I."

A furious, dark smile taints his lips as he murmurs, "And when I marched upon Turnad Cshal, the seat of the palace of the false king, his messengers fled to his court and spoke to him: Lord, he who has been prophesied as our God has come. And in his wake are twelve men who are not men, but who are death and fury and wrath and vengeance in mortal form. And they are black, like the merciless night. And they are silver, like the cold stars. None can stand against them." Raising the chalice in his right hand, he whispers, "And the false king known as Ruthas Cshal wept, for his end was near." Pressing the cold gold against the lips of the baby, he murmurs, "I renew the flames of those twelve lions in you, son of Faisal, son of Rabi -- he who is known to the world as Jaimizal and whose soul speaks to me another name. You are our future. You, whose fate is twined with others, will be a hero for a new age."

At the conclusion of the God-King's narration, the warrior wracked by the travesties of age, lowers himself to the smooth marble floor and bows servilely before Khalid, his forehead pressed to the stone at the honor, horrifying in its magnitude, that has been bestowed upon his household.

Rabi's brows knit as she listens to the story, but not in consternation or fear or anything of the like. Rather it is as if all of the veils surrounding the soul of her Imphadi have been cast aside. How wonderful! How terrible! She is at once filled with profound awe and a deep, abiding sadness. Tears pour, unnoticed, from the warm gold through which she views the world. And the honor is so great, so deep, that it tears its own lasting mark within her to watch it happening to her son. Her heart flutters again and she feels her throat close. At Faisal's action she, too, draws herself up as best as she is able -- she doesn't even notice the pain that lances through her in waves -- and bows, as best as she is able.

The child swallows some of the liquid, his lips pursing to suckle the nipple that is not there, and sputters. This isn't milk! He protests -- loudly.

"Rise, Faisal -- he who has always stood at my side, for ten centuries. Be at ease, Rabi, who has been meant for my Seraskier since the beginning of eternity." Smiling softly, Khalid glances down at the child, making sure it has drunk at least some of the liquid as he whispers, "Drink Jaimizal, whose future my kingdom rests with." And as those last words are spoken, his powerful black wings fold inward, surrounding the baby and hiding it from the sight of all. And for just a moment, he ceases to cry. When those ebon wings part, once more, a single black feather rests in the tiny hands of the child. "Take your son, Seraskier, and look upon him proudly."

The stone visage pulls himself from the floor until he stands as before, a pillar of nightmarish hue to rival the bleakness of a rival's call at night. The white cap nods in acceptance before arms stretch forward to receive the child of his Mahisi's making.

Rabi rests back as she is bidden, her hands twined in the blanket that covers her. She watches with wide eyes as Jaimizal is enfolded within wings of deepest night and most astonishing beauty and as he is reborn a second time with a token of the Most High's clutched in his tiny fingers. Those wide eyes continue to watch as the baby is transferred into the arms of his father. A deep abiding sense of purpose and peace fill her: Khalid has given them such an honor but also a grave and most important task, and she feels the weight settling on her shoulders. And yet she finds she can bear it. She was made to bear it, just as Khalid has said. Everything... makes... sense.

Black eyes of the older warrior watch the child in his arms without expression. Jaimizal fidgets, tiny fingers desperately clutching at the ebon feather. The coarse lips of Faisal threaten a smile, and then slowly, almost reluctantly slow, the corners of the venerable man's mouth begin to curl upward. The smile, as faint as it is, lingers a moment as eyes drink in the sight before him. His child. The voice of the man rings anew, "You have done well Rabi. I am pleased."

Delivering son to father, Khalid says quietly, "I shall leave this household now. There must be much for all of you to discuss and a son's proper place, in his first hours, is with his mother and father, unbothered." Turning away, the God-King places the chalice back into the chest as he bids his farewell, "I thank you for the fine food and conversation, Seraskier. Good tidings on this auspicious day, Mahisi of the household."

Ah, look. Another smile to file away within the treasure chest within her heart; this smile is the most precious of all. She returns the smile and looks to the face of her god. She bows her head and even if she had a voice to speak with there would be no way for her to express her gratitude or devotion or undying loyalty. She will serve Faisal and her son and in doing so, serve him.

With words spoken in parting, the servant of the Varati God-King drops into a crouch, one limited by the burden he now carries and utters with the same stoic conviction that resounds in every word he has ever spoken, "May I serve until my last breath escapes me, Sirdar."

There are no more words to be spoken; Khalid Atar has said enough for this night. He leaves the chest to be taken back by the Atarvani and Agni-Haidar. And with a graceful sweep of his black wings, the God-King of the Varati leaves the household of the Seraskier of the Agni-Haidar.

Rabi snuggles into the cushions. She is so sore. Her hair has become loose and frames her head in a halo of black. The Ushasti finish their chores and, with soft smiles and murmurs of congratulations, leave the quarters carrying off all of the detritus. Aba fairly dances in to clear way the clutter of the dinner; Rabi has eyes only for Faisal and his son.

The warrior rises to his feet once more, eyes riveted to the mewling face of his son, yet he spares a glance for the woman lying exhausted upon the birthing pallet and crosses the room to sit beside her... and with no small measure of reluctance, surrenders his precious burden to her. "Hold your son, Rabi."

Rabi gathers the baby into her arms, face lit from wonder as if she cradled a tiny sun of it close. She bites her lower lip and looks up at the Seraskier; tears threaten. She smiles softly. Jaimizal fusses again and Rabi frees a hand to tug at the shoulder of her kaftan. With trembling fingers she bears a breast and then holds the black feather steady against their son as she turns him towards her. His tiny lips find her nipple and he begins to suckle; Rabi's eyes widen and her lips part and she wraps her free hand around him to hold him close. Her eyes find her Imphadi's face again.

Your questing eyes find the shadow of a smile still lingering upon Faisal's face, yet one that dissipates quickly with time. In its wake, he says sternly, "You must rest Rabi. You have done much this day."

Rabi frees that hand to lay a soft palm against his cheek. She nods, smiling. And she is weary. In time, Aba comes to collect the little baby and make sure he clean and ready for sleep, in a tiny crib brought out of storage for its first use. When the baby is securely bedded it takes no time at all for sleep to claim the exhausted woman.

FIN  

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