Date: December 10, 1998
Place: Palisade and North, Courtyard, Hallway - Atesh-Gah - Haven
Cast: Archana, Arslan, Beggar, Drisana, Faisal, Khalil, LittleBear, Mehmet, Niamh, Rabi (@emitting Yasmin and Pari), Zuhayr
Scene: Tragedy strikes outside Atesh-Gah as Mehmet, the Khaliph and High Priest of the Atarvani, is murdered.

Palisade and North - Haven:
      Some have likened the Varati home to a geode--rough and plain on the outside, while opulence and splendor lie within. Certainly the first part of that analogy is true. The only hint that these buildings house the more prominent members of Varati society are their size. Massive structures loom on either side of the street, crafted from brick, marble, granite, and even metal.
      And here, also, is the grand embassy of the Varati. Only shaping magic could have created such a structure, for it gives the impression of having grown out of the earth itself. Like the others, its decoration is minimal, yet flowing curves and the use of obsidian and marble make such ornamentation unnecessary. Flanked by stone pillars, the entranceway is constantly guarded by sentinels who may as well be stone themselves, so humorless are they. Only guests of the kingdom and ambassadors from other realms may pass within.
      A gate leads out of the city to a road that eventually winds into the distant, northern mountains, though few ever dare venture that far.

Archana trails along behind Mehmet silently, seemingly unaffected by the warmth of the autumn noon. Watching the figure of her husband proceed along the street, her eyes are affectionate but quickly lower to the street before her.

Mehmet moves fluidly, despite his age and size. Beneath his saffron robes is a warrior's body, oddly suited for his station--that of the High Priest. At the moment, his brow is beetled with a frown, and he murmurs, half to himself, "I leave and look what happens. We are driven to war." He is walking unhurriedly along the street, having just emerged from Atesh-Gah. Archana trails a few feet behind.

A glorious day, for something in the mid-fall. Shining sun, perhaps only a hint of the Haven winter soon to be on its way, in the breeze that takes the edge off of noon-time heat. Might be why this particular figure pick this spot to make his dubious living. Just a huddled figure leaning against the stone structure so common amongst this strip of street. Wrapped in some large, tattered burlap robes. Hunched. Another beggar. Why can't the Hounds keep these folk in line, hmm?

Sighing inwardly as she catches her husband's murmuring, Archana increases her pace ever so slightly. Absorbed with the displeasure of Mehmet, Archana is oblivious to her surroundings. Placing a gentle hand on his arm, Archana murmurs something in his ear.

Despite his station, Mehmet is alone--unescorted save for the crimson-veiled woman trailing along in his wake. It is the middle of the day, after all, and Haven had been safe enough before. He slows his steps as Archana draws abreast of him, bending his ear to listen. Dark eyes skim over the beggar absently--he seems to have other things on his mind.

Archana whispers "You could not help this... you were away on business. Do not let it consume you. I worry, you have not eaten all day, even though I prepared your favorite meal. I know you are concerned and rightly so... but if you fall ill, you will do no one any good. They need you well."

A faint smile sketches briefly over Mehmet's lips at the woman's low words--a smile despite the weariness marking his expression. He folds his hand briefly over hers, still resting on his arm. "My comfort will wait. I must do the Amir-al's work." He looks away from her, dark eyes seeking out the Delphic Citadel, and then the frown returns. "Come," he says, starting in that direction.

Anxiously, Archana watches for Mehmet's reaction, her smooth brow furrowed with worry. She relaxes briefly at his reply, though the concerned expression is still present. She follows him obediently, however, without another word.

Yep. Haven's plenty safe. Sure. And the beggar will cease his hacking, wrenching cough to wipe at his mouth with the back of one filthy sleeve. Dark features, if one could spot anything under that voluminous hood. Perhaps some displaced Varati, driven to this desperate station as his only means of living? It's when the pair draw near that the poor soul will begin to approach. "Please, imphadi." Mebbe Mehmet is the generous sort. "Spare something, for a unfortunate kinsman?" The one hand that's visible shakes like an autumn leaf, afflicted with severe palsy.

At the voice, the High Priest slows. Consternation flits across his features. "You see how they treat their people?" he murmurs, to no one in particular. "There are no beggars in Masada." With a sigh and an absent shake of his bald pate, Mehmet reaches within saffron robes for his coin pouch. "Find yourself honest work, imphadi. The Amir-al frowns on idleness."

Archana pauses as well, nodding at her husband's words. She watches approvingly as he hands the beggar some coins, her dark eyes somewhat sad as she gazes at the wreck of a man at their feet. She murmurs softly, "Of course, you are right... I only wish I could do more. When I go to market, I try to pass out some food... at least to the children, if nothing else."

"It is the Amir-al's will," Mehmet murmurs as he extends a bronze soldi to the beggar. "Yet we can afford some charity." His dark brown eyes rest on the beggar's. "Perhaps your sins will be forgiven in the next life, imphadi."

Begging's some tough work. Gotta take several beatings to get enough money to buy bread nowadays. And those gangs of kids... the stories this one could tell. One palsied hand extends to gently pulls the soldi from Mehmet's fingers. It takes a few quivering seconds to pull the coin away. The beggar's eyes are a soft, alert blue, surrounded by the caked mud and filth of sleeping in the finer dumpsters of Haven. "Th-thank you, imphadi." The beggar's hands, moving up to cup Mehmet's face, still quivering. "Thank you," burbled over and over.

Archana winces faintly at the beggar's gratitude, averting her eyes away from the painful sight. "Yes, we can afford it..." She tells the beggar quietly, "Please... go buy some food." She cannot help but urge this, unwilling to see anyone suffer.

With a slight frown of distaste wrinkling his lip, Mehmet pulls away from the beggar's hands. "Thank the Amir-al," he tells him. "And pray that you are redeemed and judged worthy in your next incarnation." With a rustle of saffron robes, he starts to turn away from the ragged beggar, motioning to Archana.

Oh, c'mon. Is the beggar really that smelly? True, it's been a full month since his last bath, but hey. Details. "Imph...imphadi?" Give the poor, sickly beggar some credit for determination: he's knelt by Mehmet's knees, clinging tenaciously to his robes. "If I kin trouble ye... for a blessing?" Just a few parting words to give him a little hope. What can it hurt?

Stayed from his departure by the beggar's persistence, Mehmet turns, his enigmatic face settling into sterner lines. "A blessing?" he queries. "The Amir-al does not bless those whose hands are idle. But He is not cruel or without compassion." He gestures, saying, "Take the coin. Do not spend it foolishly. And remember where it came from."

Archana hesitates as she watches the interaction between the beggar and her husband. She begins to move to go as Mehmet does, but then as the poor man throws his arms around Mehmet's knees, she stops. Unsure of what to do, she waits.

The beggar nods. Emphatically. "I w-will, imphadi." Releasing Mehmet's cloak. And for a heartbeat, the beggar isn't so palsied, isn't so hunched-over, and isn't so timid. Springing out of that crouch, whipping a hand out from one of those hanging burlap sleeves. A glint of light on steel, sunlight flashing off the blade of the dirk in the "beggar's" hand. Aimed at Mehmet's throat.

Dark eyes widen. The High Priest has enough time to jerk backwards, but not enough to dodge that blade. Time enough to heat the air, eldritch energies sparking in a desperate attempt to save himself. But it is too late. There's a spurt of crimson as the blade is buried in his throat, and a flame arcs from his fingertips, blindly aimed for the beggar-turned-attacker.

Archana is slow to react in her disbelief, convinced her eyes are betraying her. How could this be happening? She watches in horror as the once-beggar attacks her husband with a deadly weapon, shoving the blade deep into her beloved's throat. A gasping, strangled sound comes from her throat, which swiftly rips into a scream, "NO!" Blindly, she lunges toward Mehmet, trying to catch him, to assist him.

That arc of flame is bad news, for the beggar-turned-assassin. Sweeping, grazing across the killer's weapon arm as the dirk is torn out of Mehmet's throat. Burlap (possibly flesh) seared, as a large patch is singed, across the bicep and shoulder. It was most likely effective, if the surprised, angry cry out of the hood is indication. But, that'll have to be nursed later. Arm held close to his body, as the beggar starts to move. Away. Fast. Git.

The High Priest stumbles backward in a swirl of saffron robes--stumbling into the arms of his wife. His fingers clutch at his throat, futilely trying to stem that gout of blood. Some sound gurgles from Mehmet's throat, but its meaning is lost. The air in the immediate vicinity is warm--an aftereffect of that lance of fire, which was too late to save him.

Have an intimate last moment. The killer has seriously overstayed his welcome, as Mehmet's burst of magical flame so subtly pointed out. And his legs move very well now, propelling him away from the Atesh-Gah, away from Mehmet's bloodied throat, and away from potential harm. When the opportunity presents itself, he'll be turning down a pre-planned route. A cozy alley here, and a shortcut there.

Arslan passes between the massive pillars flanking the entrance to Atesh-Gah and joins you on the street.

Archana struggles with the sudden burden, almost dropping Mehmet's body. Awkwardly, she lowers him to the cobblestones, kneeling as she rests his head in her lap, holding him close, "No...no...no," she can only echo that numbly as her small hands also try to futilely staunch the blood pouring from his wound, "You cannot die... no no no... it is too early, too soon... we had so many years left..." She is weeping so hard, she can scarcely force her mouth to form the words. She tears off her veil so that he can see her face, not giving a single thought to propriety for once. Her grief-ravaged expression is all too apparent. She screams for help, begging for intervention, "Anyone! Please....oh no....please!"

A trio of rather large Varati emerge from the Atesh-Gah, one silken-clad, the other two mail-clad. The metalless Varati strides forward, his dark eyes cold and wary. "What has happened here?"

Zuhayr and Niamh pass between the massive pillars flanking the entrance to Atesh-Gah.

Mehmet is cradled awkwardly in Archana's arms, his saffron robes stained with blood, and more of it yet wells from the deep slash across his throat. His dark eyes stare upward, struggling to focus, and his lips move to speak. Whatever he says cannot be discerned, but he raises bloodied fingers, weakly reaching toward his wife's tear-streaked face.

Whoever made that awful mess in the middle of the street went thataway. Or was it thataway? Perhaps yonder. Anyway, he bailed, after taking a nasty would to the shoulder. Anyone who was looking in his direction might have seen him take a nice glance back. Always pride in good craftsmanship. And he's gone.

The beggar runs off down the street.

Dark eyes take in the scene, and the Visir acts quickly. He snaps a hand towards the guards, who draw their blades and take positions surrounding the fallen priest. Arslan himself kneels down beside Archana and Mehmet, his hand reaching slightly towards the wound. The hand falters, and falls. "I'm sorry, Imphada. We have no Healing master here, and this wound is far beyond any but an Adept."

Archana suppresses the hysteria that wells up so quickly, feeling it raging out of control. She rudely snaps at the three Varati men approaching, in a tone she never uses, "The High Priest has been wounded... can you not see that! Find help!" Her dark eyes flash imperiously. Without wasting any more breath, she turns back to her dying husband, the tears flowing freely. She takes his outstretched hand and squeezes it gently, "Beloved... I am here..." She kisses his forehead and his mutely moving lips. She begins to plead helplessly, "I love you... do not leave me... can you not see that I need you still...?" At Arslan's words, she bursts into tears, hugging Mehmet's body to her breast. "Nooooooo..'."

Zuhayr, once the import of the scene and the cry have registered, retreats and returns through the gates. He passes between the heavy stone pillars that flank the entrance to Atesh-Gah.

Niamh gasps as he comes across the sight. The High Priest, viciously wounded! The scrolls in his arms forgotten as he wishes to help, but stays back, not wanting to crowd the wounded one.

Arslan bows his head. "My apologies, Imphada. There is nothing we can do for him." The Visir's hand reaches gently on Mehmet's shoulder. "May your spirit be sped into Khalid's embrace, Imphadi, and may you return again soon to us, and serve with us once more."

Mehmet twitches spasmodically, and there is a flash of light and heat, harmless though, to those who stand around. The echo of a dying man's fading power. His blood darkens Archana's crimson silks as she clutches him closer, now soaking onto the cobblestones beneath. The man's eyes roll toward Arslan, and again his lips move, but no words issue forth. The light is fading from his eyes.

[Moments ago, in the Courtyard - Atesh-Gah - Haven]

Someone seems to be shouting outside the Atesh-Gah. A woman's voice, screaming.

Niamh blinks and looks to the entranceway he just came in, "What's that?"

Rabi starts violently at the sound.

Drisana pulls on Rabi's hand, head swiveling in the direction of the sound.

Emerging from within the complex, the Visir of Haven scowls slightly. He makes an abrupt, commanding motion at a pair of guardsmen, and, hand on his blade, steps out to the street.

Rabi wraps an arm around Drisana, holding her close. She trails in the direction of the gate but does not approach it.

Arslan passes between the massive pillars flanking the entrance to Atesh-Gah and returns to the street.

Drisana hugs herself to Rabi. Still, she's flooding with curiosity. "What's that, mummy?"

Rabi shakes her head, feeling an awful fist of fear in her belly. Her free hand automatically comes to rest across her belly as if to protect the child within.

Drisana's little zoris struggle against the grass for a moment as she again tries to go out and see what's happening.

Niamh looks to the others and takes a couple steps forward as curiosity seizes him.

Rabi's fingers clamp down hard. She looks at Drisana and shakes her head sharply.

With hand on the pommel of his falcare, Zuhayr casts one glance over the assembled, and starts for the gates.

Zuhayr passes between the massive pillars flanking the entrance to Atesh-Gah.

Drisana bites on her lip, obediently siding to her mother. Still, oh how she wants to know what is happening.

Niamh follows, the curiosity getting the better of him. He passes between the massive pillars flanking the entrance to Atesh-Gah.

But we will find out eventually, that is Rabi's motivation. She will not put herself, the baby, or her daughter in danger to satisfy curiosity. Not until she is convinced the danger is gone.

Drisana says, "Mummy, can't we at least go to the gate? We'll be safe there, but we can still look out?"

Rabi shakes her head firmly and holds up one hand as if to say, 'wait.'

Faisal steps out of the embassy and joins you in the courtyard.

Drisana nods reluctantly, zoris trampling on the ground as if the shoes had taken on a life of their own, wanting to go outside and look. Still, she doesn't move from Rabi's side again, patting her mother's hand with her own.

Rabi turns quickly, sensing Faisal's appearance. Her eyes are wide and frightened and when she sees him she is filled with relief. No greeting is given--she points urgently towards the gate. A woman's voice wails up from outside: "Noooooo..."

A ragged gasp shudders into the Seraskier's woman: she knows that voice. Archana! She points to Drisana and to the ground: it's clear she is saying 'you stay here!' And with that she gathers up her skirts and makes for the gateway as quickly as she can.

Zuhayr passes between the heavy stone pillars that flank the entrance to Atesh-Gah, and joins you in the courtyard.

Drisana blinks, head turning so fast from Faisal to Rabi and then back, "Father!" Safety is needed, who should she run to?

Not Rabi, for she has made it clear she wants the child to stay here. She steps as quickly as the child in her belly will allow her, her eyes big golden rings of terror, towards the gate.

Zuhayr returns at the jog, and stops just inside the gate. Aha, there she is! "Imphada Rabi!" Moving again, is the big Kaimakam. He won't run over anyone, promise. "Imphada, if you or the Imphada Aba know a thing of the healing arts, you are sorely needed."

In the failing light of the day's sun, the ambiance of the embassy's courtyard grows darker with the arrival of the Agni-Haidar Seraskier. His stalking stride pauses noticeably at the cry from beyond the walls, but his ruined face fails to give rise to any manner of emotion. He resumes his stalking stride towards the gate in the thick walls ringing the Embassy. When dark eyes manage to discern the figure of the Kaimakam, Faisal's thunderous voice reaches out, "What goes on, Kaimakam Zuhayr?"

Rabi makes it to the gate and practically flies out of it.

[Palisade and North - Haven]

Rabi passes between the massive pillars flanking the entrance to Atesh-Gah.

It is hard for a woman so heavily pregnant to move quickly, but Rabi is trying her hardest. She takes in the scene and a wail of horror, utterly silent, leaves her through her mute, ravaged throat. She has never seen the man in Archana's arms but she knows who it is. She approaches quickly, eyes full of anguish and fear. No healer, she, but it does not stop her from wanting to help.

Arslan squeezes Mehmet's shoulder softly. "Hurry back to join us once more, Imphadi. The Varati need men with your spirit of flame. Until your return, may Khalid guide over your spirit." The Visir's hand moves from Mehmet's shoulder to touch Archana's hand. "He will not be long gone from us, Imphada. Spirits such as his return quickly."

Niamh reaches out a hand to gently stop the woman with child, turning to her and saying softly, "Nothing more can be done..." He then turns back to the dying priest.

Oh NO! No no no no no no-- Rabi denies it in her thoughts, she begs the gods silently to stay this awful course. She comes to rest against Niamh's arm, the silks of her veil bunched in her fists.

Faisal passes between the massive pillars flanking the entrance to Atesh-Gah and joins you on the street.

Mehmet's gaze has returned to Archana, whose face hovers above him, distraught and wet with tears. He cannot lift his hand now, but in his expression there is a kind of peace--a dignity, like that which cloaked the man all his life. Even in death, it remains. He twitches once more and then lies still, limply gathered in Archana's arms with a swathe of blood staining his saffron robes.

LittleBear steps through the gates to the north and enters Haven.

The fortified gate in the wall of Atesh-Gah disgorges an ominous figure clad in a storm of black. Striding in stern, yet unhurried manner, the time ground figure of the Agni-Haidar commander approaches the knot of persons surrounding the prone figure of the Khaliph.

Archana hunches over Mehmet's body as he takes his last breaths. A low, thinly keening wail escapes her lips. It is obvious to any spectators present that this is more than a mere consort mourning over her dying master, but a grieving woman losing the love of her life horrifically. Her veil is gone from her face, ripped in two and thrown to the streets. Her features contorted, lips drawn back from her teeth in a grimace of pain as she speaks quietly to him, "Good-bye, my love. I shall never let the memory of you die... twenty years is a long time, and yet..." she chokes, "somehow not even close to long enough..." As he falls limp in her arms, she leans over to kiss him one last time, "Good-bye."

LittleBear blinks, ears flickering up at the sight of such a crowd. Stepping carefully, her hair bristles slightly as goosepimples run over her skin at the horrible scene. Better make out of here quick.

LittleBear travels south toward the intersection of Fairway and North.

The heavy, embroidered hem of Rabi's outer sari dances with her trembling. Tears run out of her eyes and are swallowed hungrily by her veil.

One dusky-skinned, bloodstained hand drops onto the cobblestones as Mehmet draws his last breath. The Khaliph, the High Priest of the Atarvani, is dead.

Rabi feels something else then, something that starts as a tiny fire in the pit of her belly and quickly becomes a bonfire. She is not shaking from grief now, but from pure rage, hot and deep and all-consuming. Who did this thing?

Arslan gives Archana's hand a gentle squeeze. "Even now, his spirit rushes to return to life once again. Come, Imphada. I shall help you see his body cared of, and then you might tell me all you can of the one that attacked him."

Niamh turns away as the hand falls to the stones of the street, eyes bright with a mixture of sorrow and rage.

The thunderous strides of the Seraskier slow as he nears the scene. The ringing of his boots against the stone of the street halts, and he presides above those kneeling in mourning. A roughly hewn statue of obsidian. No grief nor sadness reaches the eyes that drink the sight before him. The image of a lifeless figure is broken as Faisal lifts his attention to cast it about the street, as if expecting to find the charred remains of the fire-mage's assailant. He finds none.

Archana prostrates herself over his body, hiding her face in his voluminous, blood-stained robes, oblivious to the crowd gathering. At Arslan's words, she makes a great effort to speak, her voice breaking, "Please... please, if I may just have a moment..." Her words, though heavy with grief, have great dignity.

Rabi clenches her fists even more tightly, torturing the precious silk caught up in those furious fingers. The men will want their information. I must tell the Ushasti. She turns and makes her way back through the gates of the Atesh-Gah.

Arslan nods his head. "Of course, Imphada." The Visir slowly rises, and turns to the newly-assembled crowd. A wave of his hand is made to dismiss them. "Nothing can be done. Justice will be found, but now the Imphada needs time to herself. Let us leave her to it."

Rabi passes between the heavy stone pillars that flank the entrance to Atesh-Gah.

Niamh nods and turns to go back inside. He passes between the heavy stone pillars that flank the entrance to Atesh-Gah.

Faisal's browsing attention falls upon the four Agni-Haidar flanking the gates to Atesh-Gah. They stand rigid in their duties. To them does Faisal approach, boots ringing against the stone street, fading with his determined departure.

Quite an image, this. The older woman in the crimson, blood-stained sari embracing the bloody body of the now-dead man in the robes of the High Priest. Resting her forehead against his still chest, Archana's dark hair tumbles over to hide her face. She mourns quietly now, her loud weeping now fading to muffled sobs. After a few minutes more, she lifts her head, wiping her face on the hem of her sari and taking several deep breaths.

Mehmet does not move. His eyes are still open, and they stare sightlessly upward. His lips are parted, having exhaled that last sigh. His hand lies on the cobblestones, palm up, fingers curled--the magic they once wielded now fled.

The mail-clad guards remain in their positions beside Mehmet's body and Archana, backs towards the fallen priest and watching the street. The Visir stands near the Atesh-Gah entrance, glancing towards the grieving woman at odd intervals.

But only two of the guards stand there. The other two are missing.

As the Seraskier approaches the rigid guards flanking the entrance to Atesh-Gah, they break their posture to bow. The words exchanged are hardly audible, given the great distance between the gate and the prone Khaliph. Even the thunderous voice of the older warrior does not intelligibly reach the ears of the small knot of people.

Archana stands up slowly, reluctantly, unwilling to move from Mehmet's body. She swallows with difficulty, her voice a bit broken when she speaks to Arslan, "I... am ready, now, Visir." Her stance is wobbly, though.

Arslan turns fully towards Archana, nodding slightly. "Guards, bring the Khaliph's body." The Visir himself moves towards Archana, reaching a hand towards her. "We shall see to the body first, Imphada. Word of how it happened can wait until you are better composed."

They return without sound, two black figures moving back towards the Atesh-Gah. One comes up from the south and the other from the east, and even though they run, their armor makes no sound. The two missing Agni-Haidar warriors angle directly for the tall and commanding figure of their Seraskier.

The warriors recently arrived, bow to the Seraskier and stand ready for his question. Those that rain upon them are clipped and blunt. The answers given by the Janizars are of the same manner. The words garbled, their clarity lost to the crowd of the street.

The first warrior to reach Faisal bows and begins his report without further ado. His voice is quiet, meant for Faisal's ears and the ears of the Agni-Haidar nearby only. "We ran when we heard the Imphada's scream, Sirdar. Coming upon the scene, a figure was running its way down an alley. It paused to look back and ran further when it saw us. We pursued, but were unable to catch up to it. A mongrel beggar, Sirdar, or so it appeared." The other catches up and bows but adds nothing more.

Archana nods to Arslan mutely, taking his hand unsteadily. She allows herself to be led wherever he chooses to go.

Arslan returns towards the Atesh-Gah, the two mail-clad guards following, bearing the body of Mehmet between them.

Arslan and Archana pass between the heavy stone pillars that flank the entrance to Atesh-Gah.

[Meanwhile, in the Courtyard - Atesh-Gah - Haven]

Rabi pries her hands away from the silk of her veil and the cloth is crumpled. She is deathly pale and heads directly for the main doorway of the Atesh-Gah

Niamh notices the childbearing woman's pallor, "Imphada? Are you well?" Obviously not all can be too well after what they just witnessed...

Ah, a man's addressing her. Rabi stops and turns. She nods, quivering, the need to move barely held in check.

Niamh does not keep her then. With a slightly incline of his head, he lets her continue on.

Rabi inclines her head, a look of grateful relief flooding her eyes. She turns and goes as quickly as she can, careful on the stairs but still moving with urgency.

[Entrance Foyer - Atesh-Gah - Haven]

Drisana passes through the grand double doors that lead out into the courtyard and joins you in the entrance foyer.

Drisana runs after, nearly dropping her headcirclet in her speed. Little hands clamping it back down, "Mummy, mummy, wait for me, what's happened, mummy?"

Rabi reaches out for the girl's hand. Once she has it she speeds through the hallways of the Atesh-Gah. She finds the proper door and knocks on it solidly, urgently.

Drisana follows with, running with her mother. Quiet, her eyes are big, huge, watching.

The door opens slightly and a wrinkled face peers out. This woman, clad entirely in pure white, is even older than Aba. She sees the look on Rabi's face and quickly opens the door further, allowing mother and daughter to enter. "What is it, Child?"

Drisana looks up at Rabi, and then back to the old one. "Someone was screaming earlier, Imphada, and now I don't know, I didn't see what happened, but someone said the Khaliph was attacked."

Rabi nods her agreement and the old woman ushers them in. A servant immediately brings tea and another white-clad woman rustles in, almost as if summoned. Chairs are brought for the old woman and Rabi and the servant brings over cushions for the rest. Rabi sets down her sewing basket and pulls out her slate and chalk, her hand a furious blur of terrified energy racing across the stone in an effort to describe the horror to which she has been witness.

Drisana sits down on the floor on a cushion by Rabi, hands clasped in her lap as her eyes continue their abnormal widening, near shock at all that has happened.

Rabi holds out the stone to the old woman, who takes it into her hands and considers the writing carefully. "Whaaaat? The Khaliph murdered in the street?"

The other woman gasps, shocked: "No!"

Rabi nods firmly, eyes stricken. The Seraskier's woman points to her eyes as if to say, "I saw it myself."

"Oh! Oh, poor Archana--oh no, this is terrible," says the young white-clad woman. "Grandmother, what will we do?"

Drisana goes pale, "'Chana? Is it Mehmet? Poor 'Chana!"

The old woman taps a finger on the slate. She nods to Drisana. "I'm afraid it is, little one. Mehmet has been killed." Her voice is very gentle. She says to her granddaughter: "We will wait. The men will need to speak with Archana to find out what happened. When they are done, we will go to her."

The younger woman sucks in a breath and nods mutely.

That aged, wrinkled face, framed in white silk, turns to regard Rabi. "You've done well, child. Go back and keep an eye on Archana; she will need you, and us. Yasmin will go with you. And you too, sweet child, if you like. I'm sorry you have to learn of this at so tender an age."

Rabi bows her head. But she thinks, oh, grandmother, Drisana already knows.

Rabi raises up from her chair and offers Drisana her hand. The young white-clad woman also gets to her feet. The tea is still untouched and Rabi gives the servant an apologetic look.

Drisana is mostly quiet, smiling a little to the old one, "Es all right." before rising to go with Rabi. Her street-accent has come back, just now.

Rabi squeezes Drisana's hand and tugs her a little closer.

[Interlude: Courtyard - Atesh-Gah - Haven]

Drisana steps out of the embassy and joins you in the courtyard.

Arslan nods his head again. He gently pats the hand he holds. "Is there anything else I can do for you, Imphada?"

No sound save the faint whispering of cloth heralds the arrival of Rabi and her daughter. They are in the company of another young woman, a woman who is clad entirely in silk as white as newfallen snow. All three come to rest at the top of the stairway, coming no further towards the group of men around Archana or the widow herself.

Archana obviously feels like she is losing her rather tenuous current grasp on reality. She shakes her head faintly, her turmoil-filled eyes dropping, "No, thank you for your... kindness." She turns away, placing her hands over her face.

But Archana would recognize the white-clad woman. She is one of the Ushasti, the beloved worshippers of the gentle Lady of Dawn, and she is here for the Khaliph's wife. But unlike the men, who press close and ask questions and offer comforts, the comfort this woman offers is far more subtle. She is simply there, for Archana, ready to be approached when Archana wants to, if she wants to.

Arslan releases Archana, and silently watches her move away.

Drisana holds Rabi's hand tightly, eyes enormous as she looks at Archana and the others present here.

Khalil stands like a stone statue fixed in place at his post by the doors of the Atesh-Gah.

Archana wobbles back and forth for a few minutes, the drops to her knees on the hard, cold stones. She makes no other noise, just kneels there, her face still hidden.

Yasmin, she of the pure white raiment, glides down the stairs and goes to the Khaliph's wife. She kneels down on the stones beside her, not speaking or touching. Just being there.

Within the Atesh-Gah, she is safe. The Visir moves away, inside the building.

Rabi's head is bowed. She raises her eyes, though, and looks to Arslan as he moves past her. There is a silent plea in those rings of golden fire. Rabi begs Arslan, silently and with nothing but the look in her eyes, to find Mehmet's killer. It is only one plea of many he will hear, she is sure, and none of them as loud as the cry in his own heart.

Arslan's eyes and mind are on other things. He steps inside silently.

Rabi turns and walks down the stairs slowly, carefully.

Arslan ascends the stairs to Atesh-Gah's sturdy double doors, allowed past by the ever-present Agni-Haidar.

Drisana follows with Rabi, a deep frown on her forehead now. "Ma..." Just that, her grip on her mothers hand almost hurting herself, yet she doesn't let go. Street accent thick enough to cut with a knife in that one word.

Yasmin is with Archana; Rabi senses now that another needs her. She leads Drisana to a nearby bench and sits down, pulling the child into a close, tight embrace.

Drisana snugs up tight to Rabi, eyes still in that unnaturally widened state. "Wad well happun weth 'Chana, Ma?"

For many long minutes, Archana just kneels there, motionless. Whether she is praying or grieving is unclear, most likely a mixture of both. Finally, she stands tremulously, her dark face paled considerably. Offering the woman in white a faint nod, she is unable to do much more.

Rabi's hands, resting against Drisana's shoulder and cheek, are like ice. The child feels her mother shake her head.

Yasmin offers her hand.

Archana takes Yasmin's hand with something akin to gratitude. Catching Drisana's words, she turns slightly to regard the little girl, her calm faltering. What indeed shall 'happun weth 'Chana?' Bracing herself, she cannot seem to form the words for a long time. And then she says, not willing to let the girl have any illusions, as cruel as it might be, "I will be with Mehmet soon, young one."

Drisana bites on her lip. "Ye gunna die too, 'Chana?"

Tears fall, one after the other, streaks of wetness that catch the light in a silver glitter. Rabi look at Archana but she makes no expression of protest. She understands, completely and totally.

There is a catch in her throat as Archana tries to reply, croaking out very simply, "Yes, young one. But it is best this way..."

"Imphada..." Yasmin speaks now, very gently, her voice a rich and soft contralto. "There is tea inside." No command, no summons. A soft suggestion.

Drisana looks down at her hands, then back to Archana. A momentary hesitation, and then she's off the bench, walking over to the widowed woman, arms held out to hug her.

Rabi releases Drisana immediately, nothing impeding the little girl's motion towards Archana.

Archana nods to Yasmin and starts to move inside. Pausing at the little girl's approach, she smiles faintly and goes down onto her knees to hug Drisana, stroking her hair gently, "Mourn not, little one. Everything will be fine."

Drisana hugs Archana tightly, mouth trembling as she's almost starting to cry herself. "Why you have to go, too, 'Chana? We'll miss you!"

Rabi can barely see Archana and Drisana; the world has gone blurry through the lens of grief, of hot salty tears.

Archana stares down at Drisana unhappily. She tries to explain, "It... it is what is always done, Drisana... it is not for me to change tradition. Her grief-ravaged face twists into an extra bit of misery, "Besides... I wish to be with Mehmet. I do not wish to live without him... it is no burden." She is swiftly losing her hold on her tears, "I will miss you all, too."

Rabi would not want to live without Faisal. Her heart seizes up at the thought, knowing that she would have to live for Drisana and the baby, unable to bear the thought of it. A renewed look of horror crosses her eyes--what of Mehkti?

Drisana is crying now, starting to pull back from Archana after one more fierce hug in order to run back to Rabi.

Yasmin regards Archana with eyes rich in sympathy. "Does that decision need to be made so soon?" She murmurs, her voice wistful and sad.

Rabi opens her arms for Drisana. She gathers the girl in as close as her bulging belly will allow and snuggles her.

Archana is left with empty arms and a melancholy air as the little girl runs from her. She stands slowly, replying to Yasmin, "I do not think I can live without him.... and I do not want to."

"Come have some tea first," the young Ushasti offers quietly. "Grandmother is there too." Grandmother: the most ancient of the Ushasti priestesses, the aged Pari.

Drisana cries against Rabi's shoulder, hugging herself tight against her mother.

Rabi caresses Drisana's hair, rocking the child gently in her arms.

Archana sighs deeply and nods to Yasmin, "Yes... I think I shall." She throws a gaze at Rabi and Drisana, pausing for a moment.

Rabi looks up and meets Archana's eyes. There is nothing but grief and the deepest sympathy there, and a silent plea not to go even though she understands the emptiness so freshly torn in Archana's heart.

Drisana calms, but she's still crying, looking up at Rabi. "Why did they have to go kill him, mummy? Not fair!"

Rabi doesn't know the answer to that and her heart is filled with anguish. She looks down and shakes her head, sorry and furious and grieving all at the same time. Why? That is the question. Why?

Archana's head droops slightly and she turns and enters the foyer, shoulders bearing the weight of many new burdens.

Drisana stomps her feet against the bench, anger moving away the tears to an frowning grimace. "Stupid people, evil, why did they do it, mummy?" Pleading suddenly, slumping against Rabi's side.

Oh, baby, Rabi wails silently. I don't know. I don't know. Fresh tears pour from her eyes and she rocks the child, holding tightly for her own comfort as well as for Drisana's.

Yasmin walks with Archana and the two vanish into the Atesh-Gah. The shadows of the arched doorway swallow Mehmet's widow first, with her crimson, bloodstained robes. The white of Yasmin's robes seem to hover there, even after she is gone. And then the mirage fades and the arched space is clear, the door softly closing shut.

FIN  

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