A Sultan and a Concubine

["Felizia al-Bahir" <felizia@angelfire.com>]

Salon of Wallach I -- Imperial Palace (Kaitain)

        This elegant salon is the sedate picture of tranquillity. It's positioning, on the East wing of the palace, makes it ideal for a morning tea, or an early breakfast meeting, when the sun pours through the picture windows and bathes the hardwood floors in brilliant gold light. The ceiling is adorned with silver trappings and engraving, underlit by, of all things, soft incandescent lighting. Several comfortable lounge chairs and benches adorn the room and would easily suit any social combination under 15 persons.

Exits:
 Lapis Lazuli Archway <N> leads to Celestial Hall -- Imperial Palace (Kaitain) 
 Carved Doors <E> leads to The Saudir I Memorial Grand Library of the Imperium -- Imperial Palace (Kaitain) 
 French Doors <S> leads to Eastern Wing -- Imperial Palace (Kaitain)


A small table, between two chairs, sits next to the windows. Situated at an angle, they afford a view of either the gardens, or, the room at large, depending upon the preference of those who occupy the chair. The one occupying the chair now, though, her legs folded and tucked up under her 'indian-style', stares out at the gardens beyond. Veils in place, only her eyes are visible, the dark stain beneath each one belying a lack of sleep. An untouched breakfast has grown cold, as has the cup of tea there on the table.

Felizia's fingers worry against each other, as though the motion is one of someone clicking through beads on a string. A string of beads for prayer, perhaps.

        He wastes no time in coming here, the unassuming, dark-skinned lord of Kaising; through the splendid halls of the Imperial palace does he go, espied by watchful Sardaukar and courtiers alike until he ranges here - and reaching this most ancient chamber does he pause at the threshold, stopping in his tracks as he beholds the wayward maid of the Bajazete house tucked in the chair and enveiled.

        How small she seems. He wonders at it.

Unknowing of the observation, her fingertips slow in their agitated motions. Slowly, her eyelids droop, exhaustion seeming to win some part of this battle. Her eyelashes only meet a second before she rouses herself, her head snapping back up immediately. But still, her stare remains locked on the gardens beyond the protection of the glass.


        "It's beautiful, is it not?" He allows his voice to slide in soft and gentle as the breeze. "The finest in the Known Universe."

The familiar voice is quite unexpected, to say the least. Felizia's head turns, a small squeak barely stifled. Out of the chair she launches herself, quicker than any might guess.

But it is to the floor that she sinks, like a rock to the bottom of a still pond. Over her knees she bends, her forehead pressed to the floor.

        And it's his chuckle that comes to greet your skin kissing the floor. "Rise, Felizia. We must speak."

Slowly, with great effort, she peels herself up from the floor. Though her head remains bowed, shoulders slumped dejectedly.

        "I am happy to see that you are feeling better," he calls, stepping into the room - walking, quietly, by the windows. "I understand that you were overcome...by the heat, I am told. It can be an unbearable thing, that, can it not? When it's fresh and bright?"

"I was not well," Felizia says in a soft voice, but offers no further explanation or additional input to the statement. She simply sits there, wilted like a bloom starved of water.

        He pauses by the window. "Many are not well in our hoouse," replies the Sultan. "Afflictions of all kinds, I understand - not merely fainting, of course, as you've had come upon you."

The girl's head rises a small measure. She's listening, to be sure, and quite intently.

        "We find ourselves afield from normalcy, do we not?" Dark fingers fan against the window's frame and he turns back, curiosity in those bird-black eyes. "Don't you find? Such...strangeness."

Wordlessly, she nods, the rise and fall of her chin slow. Feeling, rather than seeing, she knows eyes are again upon her.

        "Strangeness..." The word is foreign on his tongue, a repetitive ghost that chimes as if attempting to mold itself upon that silky organ into some more informative, more palatable meaning. "What do you think of it, Felizia?"

It is a long moment before her voice obeys her will to speak. Perhaps, the will isn't all that strong. But a question is as good as a command; in the mind of one who has spent much of their life as a slave, at least. Hesitantly, Felizia stammers, "I-I... I am frightened..."

        Another pause - he is a man of hesitation, your Sultan.

        "As am I, Felizia. As am I."

She gathers a shuddering breath, though her shoulders slump even further down. Her arms wrap around herself, as she slowly tilts forwards. Try as she might to stifle them, sobs wrack her body. And through it, she manages to choke out the heart of her issue. The thought that plagues her most.

"I.. I wish it were me... not Nuala.. I wish it were me..."

        He drifts closer, passing like a dark moon aboutyour sunlike countenance. "But it was not, my precious," replies the fellow in his soft, whispering voice. "And you came here rather than see to the burial of one killed by her own hand under your watch. You must understand, Felizia, that it gives one cause to wonder why such a faithful servant of my people and my house abandoned her duty."

"I did not mean to..." she murmurs quietly, her head shaking. "I made.. much of the preparations, but, Master Muradin, and the Kadin, they both cornered me, and they were asking so many questions, and when I tried to tell them it was none of their concern.. I went to the marketplace to get what I needed, and send for what needed to be sent for... and then I came here, to watch the butterflies, to think, and I didn't know he was the Emperor, and then he said I should stay here, but I didn't know what to do and I was so scared so I agreed... but then I wanted to go back, but I couldn't find a driver..."

Despite the tears that course down her face, her explanation runs along in one long string. Only barely does she stop to breathe. Finally, the string of words comes to an end, and she sits, blinking, unsure of what's she's even just said.

        Now does his voice fall flat and thin as a velvet blade, carefully sewn from the air. "She is dead, Felizia. I believe you know why. And...while I do not believe you had anything to do with the death of the Sultana...." A pause, and that dark moon comes by to bear his glittering eyes upon you, "...I believe you may know who. I will beas forthtright as I can, Felizia. There will be death for this. It cannot be avoided. And unlike many in our vaunted Imperium I will not settle for scapegoats. Hence...if you know, I will give you time to tell me before it is extracted from you. You are like my child, and you have your Sultan's love...my love. But this is a trespass that cannot be left to fade." He lowers himself upon his haunches, turns those eyes directly upon your own. "Do you understand?"

She nods slowly, gravely. "I only wished to tell you, but... I was afraid... and when it grew late... and I'd not yet gotten back... Master Muradin would have beaten me again, surely. I didn't know what else to do."

        "Muradin." The name is nearly belched forth like toxic smoke. "I will see to my son, mark me well. You will enjoy the Emperor's protection until these matters are settled - but remember, Felizia. If you have not told me what it is you know within a month, I shall come for you."

"If my most gracious Sultan wishes, I would tell now," Felizia murmurs softly.

        He shakes his head. "No. Not here. There will be witnesses to it, so that there can be no question in the future - you will wait, and we shall soon come to hear your words."

Felizia bends forward once more, her forehead touching the floor at the toe of the shoe that has been in her line of sight all this time. "It will be as my Sultan commands," she says softly.

        "Then so shall it be. Mark well, Felizia, daughter of the house of al-Bahir, that you are now the bearer not only of the burden of your soul but that of your Sultana and my own honor, as well as the life of your son. Betrary not these things by taking your own life." He passes then, his robes whisper-soft and rasping as he goes.




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