The Chamber of Xa'los
Beneath the Orthae Qu'ellar
Karsoluthiyl, Nalaya
"Marginalized? You permit them to rule. Look no further than your Emperor, who japes and jibes even as he drags the reputation of his own country through the mud. Culled? You are ruled by sel'tur vlees, corpulent parasites that wriggle and shriek when the world treads upon them as is its right. Fruit is not turned from blossom rotten, whether sour or sweet. It is cultivated to rot, allowed to rot, tolerated to rot. Corruption of the soul abounds and has been allowed to fester unchecked. Why else would your leader pounce upon others to satisfy his own callow whims, then roll over to expose his belly the moment they even snap their teeth? Yours is a poison tree, a sickly and twisted thing uncertain of its roots. Its branches rattle in the unforgiving winds of fate, brittle limbs soon to be broken and weak trunk to be uprooted."
The Quarval-sharess's tone was harsh and perhaps even scathing, but not necessarily any more angry than her usual self. Her crimson eyes were boring into the man standing in front of her. It was not a searching gaze—it was a burning one. If Errando had considered his task an easy one, it had probably become quite evident that it would be anything but. "Honor is duty. Honor is sacrifice. Honor is respect. Honor is z'ress. You are...adequate. You do not know our customs and cannot be expected to know them, but you walk with soft tread. Your Ghanti brothers have not done so. A duel in the house of another without permission, fought before the eyes of the many solely to shame the loser? Breaking an attempt at peace for a war-torn nation? Ruling through proxies and machinating in the shadows? Insulting the Matriarch Empress of Deadora, one who is deserving of respect? Whoring for the promise of power? Being merely born into kingship, unproven and yet allowed to rule? Point to me where there is honor in this. Do more than enumerate your virtues—show them."
Quenthel stood very, very still and quiet. She knew better than to try and intervene now. She was already on very thin, very fragile ice. Besides, it was hard to breathe around the knot of anxiety that had formed in her throat as the Dread Wolf spoke. She couldn't feel her feet at this moment in time, suspended in a limbo of trepidation.
"All I have seen from your people is selfishness," the Quarval-sharess said, gripping the arms of her seat tightly as if digging in her claws to crush struggling prey. There was a definite curl to her lip. "What the Ghanti want, what the Ghanti please, what the Ghanti think they deserve. It does not matter who pays the price. They demand respect, recognition, without offering it in return. How many Ghanti do you think consider Nalayans all to be savage, godless cannibals devoid of culture or intellect? How many of those Ghanti are in positions of authority, your nobles and your ministers and your emperor? You come to this place and you tell me that I should turn my ears to those who are deaf."
The Dread Wolf paused, evaluating the silence and waiting for the rebuttal. She leaned back in her seat with a flexing of iron muscle, settling in to again lounge. She was seeing something contrived, controlled, something artificial. There was no spark. The manners were proper, but the mannerisms? He needed to understand the essence of L'i'dol, to embrace the aspects of the divine.
It was a pity her faith would likely never reach those frozen shores. There was potential there, even if it was enslaved to weak men and a stagnant system.