Date: January 11, 2000
Place: Queen's Chambers - Atesh-Gah - Haven
Cast: Amineh, Shahar, Thalia, Vayu, Vrsa
Scene: The Imam of the Atarvani was slated to arrive at Atesh-Gah one afternoon with all due pomp and circumstance. However, the night before, he slips into the embassy relatively incognito, to meet with some of the local leaders and discover the state of affairs for the Varati in Haven.

Queen's Chambers - Atesh-Gah - Haven:

It's a cool, clear autumn's night, and quiet blankets Atesh-Gah, the day's duties done, families retired to their chambers. Only in the Royal Wing does business proceed as usual -- the Agni-Haidar moving in time-honored patrols, crimson-robed Atarvani returning from the night's final prayers. Within the Maharani's chambers, those that keep the Varati presence in Haven organized have gathered, awaiting the arrival of the new Imam.

Nighttime: apparently, Vayu's preferred time of the day. He always seems to be out and about when others are safely tucked away. There comes a creak from Thalia's door, a pair of Agni-Haidar ushering Vayu and his guest inward. Thereupon, Vayu bows to the assembled persons, and offers a lower bow to the Maharani. "Imphadas, may I present an esteemed guest, the newest Imam of Haven," he murmurs, stepping aside so that Vrsa may make his own greetings.

Within the Queen's Chambers, the Agni-Haidar and Atarvani which constantly watch over the woman lurk in the shadows created by the lanterns which give the room a taste of the long gone day. Chairs, arranged about a table, are filled except for two places which appear mournful in the lantern's light. Thalia is seated at the head of the table and she looks over at Vrsa as Vayu steps aside.

How much glory lays upon the shoulders of an Imam? How splendid the robes and jewels that should bedeck them, making their physical form shine like the fire itself. Visions of power and strength (not to mention the fearful ear of the God himself), surround the very word. So it is with some small measure of disappointment that often secretly greets Vrsa's arrival. There is nothing splendid about him, or his raiment. His vesture consists solely of a simple robe, rich in texture but simple as a poor Atman's. Under the robes the man is large, though not exceptionally so for a Varati. The heavy lines on his face and the chunky bulk of his aging muscles seem to belong on a poor farmer, not on the face of an Imam.

It is not until his eyes sweep over the room that the power of the Imam is felt from the simple man. What is absent from his form and his dress burns in his eyes with the furious heat of the noon sun. Those old, hard eyes could scorch the life from the land and leave it barren, or bring new life to a spring day. Slow, purposeful steps, just one shade up from plodding, bring him along the path that Vayu has laid. One by one every being present in the room is taken under his gaze and weighed, the slowness of his steps giving him all the time he needs. Once he has taken the center stage he bows slowly, the weight of age creaking in his bones. "Imphada, I thank you for taking this time to meet with an old priest."

Amineh sits in one of the chairs provided in the sumptuous chambers, her cup of tea sipped from only a couple times before being set aside. Her honor guard is absent -- what need is there for two more Akhund, when in the Maharani's presence? Her hands are clasped in her lap in a neat tangle, and she waits in silence. The Nabi is not the chattiest person, and situations like this make it very evident. When the doors open and Vayu performs his introduction, she rises to her feet in a rustling of silks and performs a deep, deep bow. "Honored Imam," she intones, though her voice is quieter than usual. Amineh, humbled?

Thalia says gently, sounding soft, but her voice carries across the room, showing the strength which must reside within the curvaceous and serene Empyrean woman who is now called the Varati Queen, "The pleasure is ours, noble Imam. Please have a seat. I am sure that your journey has been long and there is much to discuss this evening." Her white hand dips toward the two empty chairs.

Vayu has, in traditional style, withdrawn to the edge of the room and is kneeling in silence; he will likely remain so until called upon. Affairs of religion are usually not his province, save in cases of heresy and hidden knowledge. Even then, his involvement is usually limited to witch-hunting, burning, and other... uncourtly... activities.

In august company, amidst those she admires and respects, the Lioness of Khalida is not the stern, distant creature who stands as Pasha of Haven or Shakir of Khalida; no, here, near Thalia and beside Amineh, who is much like a mother to her, she is only Shahar. No pretense, no show of pride requisite. She has donned her veils, which are often missing in her man-like duties where she prefers to show her full countenance to those with whom she conducts business, and is clad modestly before one to whom she shall show great reverence. Indeed, her bow is deep and respectful, impossibly so, to the Imam, and she does not fully straighten, nor does she sit, until Vrsa has settled. And her eyes remain downcast, modestly.

Slow as a turtle blinking the eyes move from Amineh, to Shahar. A small smile is given to each in turn, the curve of the lips as gentle as a willow branch in the breeze. He could be a patriarch looking over the assembled girls of his clan. A single extra moment, something that would be missed my most observers, is spent upon Thalia. It passes like the wind, however, and she is given a smile and bow as warm and deeply respectful as any of the others. Dry as old parchment, a hissing from the past is his voice. Soft and sibilant he speaks, "Thank you for the welcome Imphada Amineh Daaye ibn Jatla, Imphada Shahar al-Jehan Khalida, and Great Maharani Thalia Jovia Tritonides Khalida" At the invitation to a seat, Vrsa bows slightly and smiles again. "Thank you Maharani, but might I sit upon the floor? It has been ages since I was a young Akhund, and chairs play havoc with my old bones."

Thalia sounds faintly amused. "As you wish, noble Imam. I would not wish to take any pleasure away from you. The shudra can easily serve you on the floor, though I fear that your view will be mightily occluded due to the height of the table. Would you like some cushions?" She sounds like the consummate hostess. She glances past Vrsa to Vayu, "And, Imphadi Vayu, would you like to take a seat at the table? Your position is greatly pleasing to the eye, but your distance is hard for the voice to reach."

"Certainly, Maharani," Vayu comments, rising with a quick bow; he steps briskly over to the table and seats himself. "I was not aware my presence was needed for the discussion." Having said that, he looks to Vrsa, studying him in a very academic manner -- not hungry, not curious, but with an artist's eye.

Amineh remains standing as the Imam's seating preferences are handled as well, then eases back into her seat. Unlike the Pasha, however, she does not cast her eyes down to the table to wait -- intent ink-black eyes follow the Imam as he moves further into the room and addresses the Maharani. Gnarled fingers untwine, straighten, then recurl into a new pattern. Fidgety? She who never batted an eye at Jaihyn's sentencing? Wonders will never cease.

Bowing his gratitude, the Imam slowly slips to the ground, folding his legs under him as he does so and settling in slightly to one side so that the table does not block the view of his face. In the distant lands of vara Alam Zulyat, it is called the lotus pose, adopted by young priests too poor to afford a more elegant seating. Despite his protestations of age and infirmity he slides into the difficult pose easily, his legs folded perfectly under his robes and his back straight as a rod of iron. Taking a single moment to adjust his robe into a near perfect spill, save for one little catch at the turn of his shoulder, he smiles to the assemblage. "I thank you, but no, I need no pillows. Your welcome is most gracious and gives me great hope for my work here. Did my messenger tell you why I asked for this audience?"

Shahar has cause to downturn her eyes before the Imam, but to herself, near her heart, she keeps those reasons. Only after Vrsa has folds himself into a seated posture does she retake her place, coiled on her seat's edge like a panther waiting to strike at unsuspecting prey. She keeps her thoughts and reactions likewise to herself and listens; it is, after all, what she does best.

A shudra brings a cup of hot tea to Vrsa, setting it on the ground to his right. Thalia replies, "Yes, your desires were made clear by the messenger. You wish to know the status of the Varati, the priesthood, and religion in Haven. Perhaps Nabi Amineh should speak first, as she is of your order and thus most knowledgeable about the issues which should be brought to your attention."

Vrsa turns his attention to Amineh, the full weight of his gaze coming fully and finally upon her. Adjusting the tea cup without lifting it from its saucer he waits with stone patience for the woman to make her report. After a moment, his hand leaves the tea and settles back to its loose drape across his knee.

Amineh, she who strikes fear into men's hearts; Amineh the unswayable and fanatical. Amineh's been called a great many names by those who fear her -- but Vayu is certainly not afraid of her in the slightest. He turns to watch her speak; respectful and quiet, he folds his hands in his lap.

Silent as a cat, silent as the feline for which she is nicknamed, Shahar mutely attends to the conversation. She is no fool; there is no cause to interject her words and wisdom comes from listening.

Perhaps? Far be it for the Nabi to go against the Maharani's own suggestions. She inclines her head to Thalia in silent acknowledgment, then rises to her feet. The movement is not as smoothly executed as usual, as if she changed her mind whether to stand or stay seated at the last instant. A slight bow to the Imam seems to calm her, and there is no trace of nervousness in her voice when she begins to speak. "Would that I had better news to bring you of the priesthood, Honored Imam; save for a very few, the Atarvani is affected by Haven's influence as much as the regular populace. Despite Qismati-na's example, the Surahs are ignored or barely obeyed, and many of our kind leave the fold to live amongst the candala and never return." She looks down here. Guilt, perhaps, or shame. She's tried to instill discipline and obedience in the local 'flock,' and is not at all proud of her results. "I trust and pray you will make things right for our people in this..." Careful, Amineh. "...difficult place."

Amineh's speech finishes and leaves a momentary silence in the room. The Imam's lips wrinkle like a raisin as he considers these ominous words. The tea cup is finally lifted, a small sip taken. "I see. How deeply does this infection go?" His voice is still soft, as comforting and familiar as the recitation of the surahs, of the whispered prayers of the true faithful.

Well, the God-King Himself married an Empyrean -- the verdict on just how badly candala influence has corrupted the Varati nation is still out, as far as a whole lot are concerned. Amineh does not question the God-King's wisdom on the matter, thankfully for all involved. The Nabi considers Vrsa's question a long, long while, studying her reflection in the polished tabletop, then finally raises her eyes back to the Imam. "I am no longer certain," she replies. "The... magical flux that overtook Haven has left me without my scrying ability, and I am no longer blessed by the Amir-al's omens. It is a dire threat to our people, however, that much is certain." She reclasps her hands again, meeting the Imam's eyes a second longer, then retakes her seat.

Shahar's expression in public is impassive. She strives to look emotionless, which is why her temperament in private surprises many. Yet at the question and Amineh's response she cringes, mercifully briefly, and studies the table and her tea cup before her. No, this is not the most comfortable of conversations.

A threat to the people. Though his lips do not move it seems that the Imam repeats those words to himself. A trembling passes over the surface of the tea, setting it to sloshing for the moment before the cup is set back to the saucer with a slight clatter. "I thank you, imphada, for your honesty." Slowly the eyes track across the room, seeming to drag the whole force of gravity with them. Did he see Shahar's wince? Perhaps, for it is she who those eyes settle upon. "And you Imphada Shahar? How deeply do you think the poison of this place has settled into the hearts of those who should love their God and King the most?"

The Pasha rises to her full height, so much like a man's; it suits her profession, her inability to breed, her station equal to a man's and, worse yet, above most men's. Yet she speaks humbly, the mezzosopranic voice a purring rumble in the chamber. "Blessed Imam, the hearts of the Varati forget their Surahs, forget the Neverending Fire that lights ours souls and hearts and the paths our lives shall take. But look upon me; I am a woman, yet few men -- even those to whom I should bow -- may stand beside me. The wisdom of the Amir-al has placed me in a lofty position at his side, and many see this, and other changes," a surreptitious glance follows to Thalia, "as a cry for revolution. Not of the body, but worse... of the heart. We are a fragmented people, and it makes me weep."

Thalia appears to be impassive as she listens to Amineh's recitation. Her face, so pale in comparison to the dusky-hued Varati all around her, makes her seem like a ghost. Not even the rich color of her sari can imbue her flesh with greater darkness, but she is not washed out or sallow. Instead, she looks to be a piece of fine porcelain, the silence carving out hollows and ridges to make her perfect work of art. She sits in her chair, relaxed and seeming at once both perfectly at ease and completely alert. The Queen's eyes rest on Shahar as the Imam asks his question and her eyes grow solemn at the response given.

Infection of ideas? On Earth, that concept didn't come about until the early 20th century or so, with the concept of 'Memes' -- viral ideas. Vayu leans back in his chair, watching all assembled with diffidence and pensiveness. His face is impassive, giving little clue to what he thinks of the whole discussion of unholiness. After all, he consorts with the kafir on a daily basis -- and some of his friends are (gasp!) mongrels and Atlanteans.

In answer to Thalia's responsive glance, however, Shahar continues, turning fully toward the Maharani, "I exalt what the blessed Amir-al gives us, what he chooses for us. To you, my Queen, my beloved Maharani, I prostrate myself, willingly. But many are ignorant, many do not consider his purpose... and this is why we have dissent, why the Surahs are disobeyed. Why I weep."

Silence and slow time, a child of contemplation, are the response to the Pasha's words. This time there is no traitorous tea cup to betray his reaction to the words, only the deep and heavy eyes which rest upon the towering woman for a moment which seems to stretch to the point of snapping like a wire frayed by the quivering tension of its load. "Thank you, Pasha. I understand. You may sit, Imphada." Vayu is considered a moment, and then passed by in favor of the queen. "And you, Great Maharani. What do your wise and enlightened eyes see?" Vrsa makes no mention of the idea of infection of thought starting with Plato's republic in the section on the daemonic infection of poetics and propaganda upon the will. That, he will save till he debates Vayu some late night over the fate of one of those mongrel friends.

Thalia may look fragile, but she is solid and strong, the same way that fine bone china can take the weight of a grown man upon it and remain a single piece. "Imam, my words may provide you with the greatest grief, for they contain both information and requests." She stands from her seat, and pushes away from the table. Still short in comparison to the Varati and far too curvaceous to appear to have any fire, nevertheless, the Maharani steps away from the table with a click of her heels that is almost thunderous in the silence.

"I have been away from Haven, doing business in the rest of the Kingdom, and only recently returned, but the malaise which the Nabi and the Pasha speak is far deeper than they know. Yes, the candala influence the Varati, make them seek outside ways, but those who dissent with Khalid's rule have also flocked here because, in its neutrality, Haven is their refuge from his anger. These people also sway our people with sweet words which can only lead them to the den of the serpent, but that is not the total sum of my experience. I have heard that there are those among the Varati here who do not believe that my husband cares for their welfare, that he does not care for his people and in this belief, they turn their backs on the Surahs." Thalia's hand clenches into a fist and the Queen takes a deep breath.

"I would ask, at this time, that the noble Imam consider bringing those who have gone astray back to the Surahs, back to the rule of my husband, but not with terror and punishment, but with logic and kindness. It seems to me that many of them are confused rather than seriously turning to candala ways. It has also been my experience that fear has been causing a rift rather than removing it. I ask also that the Atarvani make a greater concerted effort to teach the gifted children among us, so that they do not go to Delphi to learn the means of controlling their magical gifts. If there is anything which draws Varati away from the Surahs, it is the lure of Delphi."

Thalia returns to her chair now that she has said her piece. It is as if the angst inherent in her words forced her to leave her seat so that the pressure within did not cause her to explode when she spoke.

Soft light from the lamps slides across Vrsa's features, a slow roll like the ooze of oil over water in dawn light. The single stray fold of his robe is finally straightened with a slight, precise tug of one hand. Then he speaks. "I hear your words, great sisters, and I see the light of Fire in your eyes, I hear the ancient drums in your words. But I tell you now -- things must change. We stand upon the axis of a new age, the pivot of the world hinging upon our worthiness."

As he speaks, his voice seems to grow, though not one decibel of noise is added. The growth of his voice is the growth of fire, the brightening of tone and light that fills the room with radiant heat. "We have been chosen to lead all, whether Varati or Mongrel to a new age of light and joy. We alone have been given the words and the way whereby everyone can find perfection. We do this not because we wish power, we do it because we wish love. From our God and King we have been shown the way to Utopia, we have been shown the light of glory, and the truth of joy. Now, it is our task to bring this light to the whole world. This is not done from fear, or hate. This is done from love, and that we must always remember."

The voice is ringing now, the sound of trump calling out the dawn of a new day, the march to war, and the truth of light with one brass sound. Seated still, the old priest seems to have grown, to be filling the room with the power of presence, the weight of a giant will lifting him up like a general before his troops. "We have been given this task not because we are better than others, or because we are more righteous than others. We have been given this task because we are the ones willing to make the great sacrifice. We are the ones willing to put self aside for the glory of all. Now it falls to us to put aside thoughts of self and to rise up with one voice and sing the glory of our God! It is time for us to take our place as the priests and kings who will show all else the one true way!"

For a moment, the last word hangs in the air, and Vrsa slowly seems to shrink back into himself. He is, after all, only an old priest. In a much softer voice, a voice without thunder but only the unfortunate tones of will he says, "And those who will not follow, who would jeopardize the hope of all the world, those who we try to teach but refuse to learn -- They must burn. For the good of all, they will burn."

Ink-black eyes move from Imam to Maharani to Imam again as each speaks and adds their interpretations to the original question. Amineh does not add anything, or refute any points Thalia makes -- not only would it be improper to disagree with the Maharani, but she sits in the presence of two whose knowledge and wisdom far exceed hers. The comment that fear has caused the rift between the devoted and astray brings a light tilt to her head -- after all, the Nabi is not known for her compassion in dealing with wayward souls -- but again she stays silent. Her lips, pursed into a short, thoughtful line, relax as the Imam continues to speak, his words shunting aside her own concerns. When the final syllables fade away, her whisper can be faintly heard: "Blessed are those who bear the Divine Flame without flinching, for they will bring illumination to us all." And she bows in her chair, eyes closed, in deepest respect.

Without standing, the Imam bows in return, his own eyes closing at the recitation of the holy words. "We shall take the weight, we shall bear the burden. I was given my name as a reminder -- I am the bull that must bear the yoke. I have no fear that with your help I shall be able to bear it to the end of the field."

Thalia does not have the look of a soldier in the fight, but rather that of a commander. She listens to Vrsa, her face impassive and the fist, which had formed when she spoke, and remained closed as she sat down, slowly begins to loosen as the fervent words flow over her. It would seem, for now at least, the Imam and the Maharani are working from the same precepts. "There is one other thing, noble Imam, there are many candala preachers in Haven, some of them even interested in converting Varati to the faith of other races. Should you come upon the one called Orcinus Kuronbo, you should be wary, for he has recently returned to Haven and he preaches to more than his own people. He is not easy to miss, for he is as dark as the night."

The bow is turned towards the Queen, and held for a full moment. When Vrsa straightens, the easy smile is back upon his face. The light and shadow of the fanatic is fallen from him, leaving the general and warrior gone and the kind old uncle in his place. "I see, and I understand. I shall take steps to ensure that his words find barren soil, and his dark, wet lies are left parched before the light of Truth. Perhaps even he can be brought to a proper understanding of things."

Thalia smiles, making her seem even more ethereal than before. "Good, then I believe this concludes your orientation session, noble Imam. The hour grows late and I would desire that you are fully rested so that you may bring our people back to the true way."

A careful eye looks to the wick of the nearest lamp, and noting how far it has burned, Vrsa says. "We can finish these things later, once I have officially arrived. For now I must be back to my camp, else I will be missed." With a grace surprising in one of his age, he comes to his feet, flowing as a willow's growth. "I thank you again for your time, and your honesty. I feel that we can truly change this city, and return the glory which our God is due."

"Mmn," comments the Nabi, when Kuronbo is mentioned -- she was under orders to locate and protect the Atlantean, after all, back when he and his sanity were more trusted. Thalia's recommendation regarding him sits well with her, though, and she adds nothing more -- instead, she rises to her feet once the Imam has spoken and intones, "So is it said; so let it be done. A restful night's sleep to you, Honored Imam." She remains standing, silent and watching, as Vayu again serves as honor guard and escorts the Imam back to his encampment.

A final bow to the Queen, and the Imam turns and leaves with the silent sound of his bare feet whispering over the tile, the sound of fire burning away stubble.

FIN  

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