Blood Will Tell [Closed]

[Nalaya]

The Protector's Office
Sevan, Nalaya

"We will see, won't we?" Khavar said of his government's change. It was all she seemed prepared to say on the subject. When he told her that they worshipped blood in part of his country, she laughed. "How fitting that it should be so." There was much unspoken in her face when she studied him. Again, the stone was tossed upward and then caught deftly.

Quenthel relaxed a little bit. It seemed as though the storm had skirted by them. Errando's manners were doing him a great deal. In her opinion, Nalayans were not hard to deal with as long as one understood the absolute importance of politeness and respect, even when in disagreement. But so many foreigners seemed to rush through things and fumble into the territory of insult, much to their detriment. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, trying not to show anything of an emotion. Fortunately, her tattoos made it more difficult for the average person to read her face. The yathrin was pleasantly surprised at how well everything was going, but kept her eyes focused on Errando and the prowling Protector in case anything yet went wrong. She doubted she would be fast enough to diffuse the situation if things deteriorated, but hope sprang eternal.

"You will have your opportunity to open relations with Sevan and begin true diplomacy," Khavar said. Her expression had turned towards the thoughtful. "Provided, of course, you can convince our yathrin guest that you are a creature of honor. Siruhi T'sarran here is the representative of the Quarval-sharess and thus her word carries weight with both me and the leader of her faith, whose opinion matters greatly to me. It is a chance to prove to your opposition that their dislike is unwarranted and that their caution is unnecessary. It would be...advantageous for you."

"Arzhani?" Quenthel blurted out, her blue eyes widening in surprise. She had known that she would be making a report to the Dread Wolf, but she had never imagined that her word could carry so much weight. The Protector was asking—no, telling—her to decide the fate of relations between two countries, or at least whether or not they would go beyond mere trade. But the more politically savvy part of Quenthel understood now what her purpose truly was. Khavar seemed intent upon using Errando and her self to placate Lledrith A'Daragon and thus make the case for broadening interactions with the outside world beyond immediate relations in Southern Acheron. It would substantially decrease the Quarval-sharess's level of displeasure if she heard approval from the lips of one of the faithful, particularly an initiated one. The Dread Wolf would never just consent to meddling from foreigners, save for the Hostillian monk who had been brave enough to dance with her, but it could be a less painful process for the Protector.

Quenthel might have protested at being used as a pawn if she didn't respect the Protector's reasons for doing so. As much suspicion as even she held for the outside world, the yathrin understood the necessity of dealing with it. The Dread Wolf only meant to protect the faithful, but her passions had been colored deeply by the Norveni and would not readily allow the process of healing. Not when instinct told her to lash out protectively instead.

Khavar's impossibly distant eyes focused on the young Mak'ur woman. "Is there a problem, Siruhi T'sarran?"

Quenthel's jaw clicked shut almost audibly and so quickly she almost literally bit her tongue. It was not the time for surprise. "No, Arzhani," she said in a clear voice without missing a beat. "I am equal to the task."

"Good," Khavar said. She went back to her desk and set the stone down before seating herself again. She flipped open a folder and picked up her pen as if preparing to get back to work. "I expect this judgment will not be a rushed or careless one. Much rides on it."

"Understood, Arzhani. Thank you for seeing us," Quenthel said automatically. She knew that their audience was at an end.

"I hope you enjoy Sevan, Paron. There will be a dinner this evening if you would care to join us. It is not mandatory; after all, your time is of course your own," the Protector said, turning her gaze down to the papers. "That invitation is extended to you as well, Siruhi T'sarran."

Quenthel bowed. "I am honored, Arzhani."

"Mm." It was a noise of acknowledgment and dismissal at the same time.

Quenthel looked to Errando. "We should go," she said quietly enough that it was likely inaudible to the Protector. She did not want to disturb the woman. "The Arzhani is a busy woman."

[Ghant]

The Protector's Office
Sevan, Nalaya

"We will see, won't we?" Khavar said of his government's change. When he told her that they worshipped blood in part of his country, she laughed. "How fitting that it should be so." Again, the stone was tossed upward and then caught deftly.

Errando laughed along, softly. This isn’t going badly at all, Errando thought. “Indeed, Arzhani.”

"You will have your opportunity to open relations with Sevan and begin true diplomacy," Khavar said. "Provided, of course, you can convince our yathrin guest that you are a creature of honor. Siruhi T'sarran here is the representative of the Quarval-sharess and thus her word carries weight with both me and the leader of her faith, whose opinion matters greatly to me. It is a chance to prove to your opposition that their dislike is unwarranted and that their caution is unnecessary. It would be...advantageous for you."

"Arzhani?" Quenthel blurted out, before Errando could respond. Hmm… Errando thought, wondering what this was about.

Errando didn’t find that to be a daunting task. Quenthel seemed like a reasonable woman with honest intentions and possessing of a good read on people. So far, Errando believed that Quenthel was fine with him. But, one could never be too sure.

Khavar's eyes focused on Quenthel. "Is there a problem, Siruhi T'sarran?"

Quenthel responded. "No, Arzhani," she said in a clear voice without missing a beat. "I am equal to the task."

"Good," Khavar said. She went back to her desk and set the stone down before seating herself again. She flipped open a folder and picked up her pen as if preparing to get back to work. "I expect this judgment will not be a rushed or careless one. Much rides on it."

"Understood, Arzhani. Thank you for seeing us," Quenthel said.

The Arzhani Protector addressed Errando once more. "I hope you enjoy Sevan, Paron. There will be a dinner this evening if you would care to join us. It is not mandatory; after all, your time is of course your own," the Protector said, turning her gaze down to the papers. "That invitation is extended to you as well, Siruhi T'sarran."

Errando inclined his head with a slight bow. “Thank you Arzhani, so far it has been most enjoyable, and I believe that I shall continue to do so. It would be an honor to join you for dinner this evening as well, Arzhani. With that I would bid you a nice day until then.”

Quenthel bowed. "I am honored, Arzhani."

"Mm." Was the Arzhani Protector’s response. That seemed to be an indication that this audience was done.

Quenthel looked to Errando. "We should go," she said quietly enough that it was likely inaudible to the Protector. She did not want to disturb the woman. "The Arzhani is a busy woman."

“Aye, let us go, then.” Errando responded in a soft voice, making his way back towards the door. The Prince thought that the audience went well, and was definitely not what he expected. What he found was clearly an intelligent, attractive, dutiful woman who was honest and receptive to Errando. Suffice it to say, but good manners held more weight than Errando thought. Arzhani is the magic word.

Once they were a bit away from the Arzhani Protector’s office, Errando might convey some of these thoughts. But for now, he was content to leave and take satisfaction in the audience and how well he thought it went.

[Nalaya]

The Zoranots'in
Sevan, Nalaya

"The Tigress did not show her claws. This is auspicious," Quenthel said, not bothering to hide her relief at how well things had gone. Errando's manners had saved him. He had been respectful. He had made requests, not demands. He had demonstrated a willingness to prove himself. These were all things that were appreciated by the forces that ruled Sevan. "It means the Avangardn will not oppose trade and the opening of a door. That is the head and the heart of Nalaya. Unfortunately, that leaves the soul."

The Quarval-sharess was a very different animal. It would be a difficult case to make and Quenthel doubted she had sufficient evidence or argument. What could she say? That Errando had once defended her in combat? That did not show that he respected the rites of the Yath or the traditions of Nalaya that reached back into the mists of time long forgotten. She would need to come up with some proof that Errando was not sel'tur vlees, that he had some spark of the predatory essence, some hint of the primal that the Yath so revered. Such would not be a simple or easy task and yet it was hers. She imagined that the Tigress would be...displeased if she could not complete the task said in front of her. The woman had said as much, in veiled terms. Quenthel was no fool and so she understood the unspoken warnings. She just needed a plan

Now how to explain this to Errando?

"Come," Quenthel said, motioning for Errando to follow her. "The task that has been set before me--or perhaps it is better said 'us'--is not such a simple one. Khavar T'avish is a woman of reason, despite all of her dark qualities. The Quarval-sharess is one of passions few can match. Her fury is great and her love of vengeance abiding. She has no use for the world beyond Nalaya unless they are of the faith. Even were I to speak for you, I doubt it would sway her. My position has become a difficult one, as has yours. We must find a way to show her that you have z'ress as well as manners. The word means power, but it is not the power of this world. No title, no strength of arms, no blue blood will turn her eyes favorably upon you. Even manners alone will not carry you forward."

Quenthel worried at her lower lip with her teeth as they walked out into the solitude of the garden and the peace that resided within. The stillness of the pool and the calm air of reflection did little to slow her racing thoughts. She knelt down in the soft grass and plucked a blade up, twirling it between her fingers. She was anxious, and more than that, she was beginning to move towards afraid. Fear was an uncomfortable emotion for the Yath. It was the weakness that came from failure, either impending or past, and failure was not its own punishment. It was in her best interest to find some way to justify this interaction with the outside world. Besides, she liked Errando. She respected him.

"I do not know how we can achieve this goal," Quenthel said. "Even detholusin spend many years proving themselves before they become Yath, and they are among the ranks of the faithful. You are foreign and an og'elend, an apostate." She did not say the word with hostility or any negative inflection. It was not a fault to worship another faith as far as she was concerned, though Christianity made her very uncomfortable after the Norveni. Many of the Yath were not so charitable. They had warred too often with other faiths and the wounds were too deep for much in the way of tolerance. They had lost most of their moderates to extremist attacks.

Quenthel looked up at Errando. "It will take some time for me to formulate a plan. I am open to suggestions. I do not know how far you are willing to go for this endeavor, figuratively and literally. To convince the Quarval-sharess is nigh upon a herculean task. It would be no small feat...and no simple one either."

[Ghant]

The Zoranots'in
Sevan, Nalaya

"The Tigress did not show her claws. This is auspicious," Quenthel said. "It means the Avangardn will not oppose trade and the opening of a door. That is the head and the heart of Nalaya. Unfortunately, that leaves the soul."

Errando gave Quenthel that easy smile of his as they left. “I am starting to suspect that you were bluffing me. She seemed quite pleasant to me.” Errando knew that Quenthel was being sincere with him when she spoke of the Arzhani Protector, but for whatever reason, Errando felt comfortable enough around Quenthel to be playful. Although, he had to wonder if that attitude would get him into trouble later.

"Come," Quenthel said, motioning for Errando to follow her. "The task that has been set before me--or perhaps it is better said 'us'--is not such a simple one. Khavar T'avish is a woman of reason, despite all of her dark qualities. The Quarval-sharess is one of passions few can match. Her fury is great and her love of vengeance abiding. She has no use for the world beyond Nalaya unless they are of the faith. Even were I to speak for you, I doubt it would sway her. My position has become a difficult one, as has yours. We must find a way to show her that you have z'ressas well as manners. The word means power, but it is not the power of this world. No title, no strength of arms, no blue blood will turn her eyes favorably upon you. Even manners alone will not carry you forward."

…what dark qualities? Errando thought to himself. He wasn’t about to say that out loud, however. No…this is a very serious matter now. Errando straightened up as he followed her. “So I just have to demonstrate that I have z’ressas. How do your people demonstrate that?”

"I do not know how we can achieve this goal," Quenthel said. "Even detholusin spend many years proving themselves before they become Yath, and they are among the ranks of the faithful. You are foreign and an og'elend, an apostate."

Hmm…an apostate. “Well, I do wonder if there is something I can do…” Errando thought out loud.

Quenthel looked up at Errando. "It will take some time for me to formulate a plan. I am open to suggestions. I do not know how far you are willing to go for this endeavor, figuratively and literally. To convince the Quarval-sharess is nigh upon a herculean task. It would be no small feat...and no simple one either."

Errando tapped a finger against his chin. “How far would I be willing to go? All the way.” Errando responded. “I will rise to any occasion. So anything you can think of, I will be ready.” The Crown Prince of Odolargia and the heir of House Odolaren was nothing if not bold. What could the Yath possibly come up with that he could not overcome?

[Nalaya]

The Zoranots'in
Sevan, Nalaya

Quenthel's blue eyes were pensive when they looked up at Errando through thick lashes. She admired his courage even though she knew it could become foolhardy at any moment. Audacity was a great thing, but not when it inspired one to charge blindly into the face of overwhelming odds where a plan might offer better chance of success.

When he asked how her people proved themselves, he hit upon the heart of the problem. "There are many tests an initiate in the faith, what we call detholusin, must endure on their path to become one of the Yath. There are rites that can become deadly with swiftness, pilgrimages, and prayer. But these are sacred things, secret things. Without preparation and faith, it would be wrong of me to place you into such a position. But perhaps there is no other way."

She stood up and cleared her throat. "The Quarval-sharess has begun her journey back to the Holy City. It will take her many days, as she moves not by train but by road, and with many stops along the way. Tomorrow, we should follow. It will give you an opportunity to see more of the country and you will be able to pass freely with me as your guide. Sevan are loathe to permit the unattended guest to wander beyond the walls of safety here, but they will allow it if you are escorted by one who knows the country and its customs. We may overtake her before she crosses the Chath Niar'haanin at Karsoluthiyl, should fortune favor us. Karsoluthiyl is a Mak'ur city and thus very different from Sevan. If you can tolerate departing from the safety of this place for my people's homeland, we may have a chance. From here, I can do nothing."

Before he could answer, Quenthel rose and gave him a soft smile that was tinged with worry. She did not want to see Errando come to harm and she could not pretend that this was a safe path to walk. She knew better than any outsider how mercurial and violent her people could be. It was normal, a virtual given, to any Nalayan. One always had to hold a hand out to her people slowly and carefully lest it be bitten off out of a bitter anger. The Mak'ur had been wronged many times and it had made them vicious. "Give me no answer now. Take tonight to think on it. Some things are better not rushed. Now, let us see what has become of your group. They have been left to their own devices for far too long and we have some time to pass before dinner."

Quenthel was not eager to end her time alone with Errando, but if he agreed to this, there would be plenty of opportunities to be alone with him. There was no way she was going to drag the others along. They seemed like government types, ill suited to the rural and then wild country that lay between Sevan and Karsoluthiyl. While their advice would have been applicable in Ghant, she doubted very much that any of them had experience dealing with something like the Quarval-sharess. It was possible, Quenthel supposed, but not anywhere remotely near likely.

She lead Errando back to his room and the rooms of the others surrounding it where he could converse with his own men. He likely had things to tell them and she needed the chance to collect her thoughts. Besides, it would be interesting to watch them interact. She did not know what manners Ghant's people used with each other.

[Ghant]

The Zoranots'in
Sevan, Nalaya

Quenthel's blue eyes seemed pensive when they looked up at Errando through thick lashes. "There are many tests an initiate in the faith, what we call detholusin, must endure on their path to become one of the Yath. There are rites that can become deadly with swiftness, pilgrimages, and prayer. But these are sacred things, secret things. Without preparation and faith, it would be wrong of me to place you into such a position. But perhaps there is no other way."

Errando nodded with a determined look on his face, knowing exactly where this conversation was heading. “Perhaps not, my lady…but that isn’t a bad thing.” Rather, it is a good thing, Errando thought.

She stood up and cleared her throat. "The Quarval-sharess has begun her journey back to the Holy City. It will take her many days, as she moves not by train but by road, and with many stops along the way. Tomorrow, we should follow. It will give you an opportunity to see more of the country and you will be able to pass freely with me as your guide. Sevan are loathe to permit the unattended guest to wander beyond the walls of safety here, but they will allow it if you are escorted by one who knows the country and its customs. We may overtake her before she crosses the Chath Niar'haanin at Karsoluthiyl, should fortune favor us. Karsoluthiyl is a Mak'ur city and thus very different from Sevan. If you can tolerate departing from the safety of this place for my people's homeland, we may have a chance. From here, I can do nothing."

Before he could answer, Quenthel rose and gave him a soft smile that was tinged with worry. "Give me no answer now. Take tonight to think on it. Some things are better not rushed. Now, let us see what has become of your group. They have been left to their own devices for far too long and we have some time to pass before dinner."

Errando’s red eyes grew large as he looked down and match the blue of Quenthel’s eyes. “As you wish…I will let you know on the morrow.” Errando already had his mind made up…he was going. Out of respect, he obliged the Yath’s request. Why should he be afraid? No challenge was one that made the Crown Prince hesitate in the face of.

She lead Errando back to his room and the rooms of the others surrounding it where he could converse with his own men. He likely had things to tell them and she needed the chance to collect her thoughts. Besides, it would be interesting to watch them interact. She did not know what manners Ghant's people used with each other.

She would get that opportunity, as the other Ghantar were gathered in the common room. Errando stood before them as they chattered amongst themselves, and to get their attention, he smacked the table they were seated around.

They all stopped and turned their eyes to him. Then he addressed them in Ghantish. “Hau nire gida da, Quenthel. Yath bat, Makur du da. Quenthel gehien mota eta abegitsua da. Du Arzhani Babesle, nork erabaki du negoziazioak merkataritza bilera plazerra izan nuen. Harremanak hobeak dira posible, baina agian Quenthel batera nuen bere ama-lurrak sartu ahal izateko erritu jakin ihardun hori bakarrik.” (This is my guide, Quenthel. She is a Yath, of the Makur. Quenthel has been most kind and hospitable. I have had the pleasure of meeting with the Arzhani protector, who has agreed to trade negotiations. Better relations are possible, but only that I might accompany Quenthel into her native lands to engage in certain rites.)

The Ghantar nodded and smiled, one even speaking in poor Latin. “Greetings, Lady Quenthel. Errando speaks highly of you.”

One gentleman looked at Quenthel with a blank face, and then turned to Errando. “Eta zer esan nahi du guretzat esan nahi du? Zuk ez duzu espero, geure burua arriskuan jartzeko iezaguzu zure abentura txiki mesedetan, ez duzu?” (And what does that mean for us? You don't expect us to endanger ourselves for the sake of your little adventure, do you?)

“Ez, ez dut. Denean bihar irteten nintzen, Ghant nahi duzue guztiak itzuli eta egiteko onak Arzhani Babesle eskuzabala eskaintza. Ghanteko kanpo harremanak helburu nagusia merkataritza da, ez da? Hau lortu da. Gainerako nire kabuz dut.” Errando answered, matter of factly. (No, I do not. When I depart tomorrow, you all shall return to Ghant and make good on the Arzhani protector's generous offer. The principal goal of Ghanteko foreign relations is trade, is it not? This has been achieved. The rest I do on my own accord.)

One particular fellow that Errando didn’t care for, spoke as he shifted eyes between Quenthel and Errando. “Eta zer ari gara zure ama esango? Hori joan egin zen duzu inoren basati batzuk lur sartu parte hartzeko euren modutan? Ergela zara ezer betetzeko dezakezu han uste baduzu. Gehiago litekeena zure ipurdian jan dira. Ko hau mokadu bat hartu nahi duzun kanpo gozatu litzateke apustua dut.” (And what are we going to tell your mother? That you ran off into no man's land with some savage to take part in their ways? You are a fool if you think you can accomplish anything there. They are more likely to eat your ass. I bet this one would love to take a bite out of you.)

Errando moved swiftly, standing right beside that man. “Quenthel buruz txanda daudelarik Hitz egin berriro, eta zin jainko guztiak dela ez dut zalantzarik zure aurpegia apurtu dut. Ziur enperadoreak arazoak eragin duen niretzat baita laguna jakin bateko ikaskuntza interesa izango litzateke nago.” (Speak out of turn about Quenthel again, and I swear by all the gods that I will not hesitate to smash your face. I am sure the Emperor would be interested in learning of a certain companion that caused trouble for me as well.)

“Du Arzhani babesle erabakia helarazi dugu izango Kanpo Arazoetako Ministerioa da, eta sakatzen duzunean zer gertatu azaltzeko, esango soilik dugun herrialdean bira bat hedatua hartzen ari zaren helburuetarako diplomatikoa da.” (We will convey the Arzhani protector's decision to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, and when pressed to explain what happened to you, we will merely say that you are taking an extended tour of the country for diplomatic purposes.)

“Ona, beraz, orduan finkatu zen. Quenthel esan nion zela ez dut erabaki bat bihar arte eman bere. Beraz, ikusi, ordura arte zer gertatzen den izango dugu.” Errando responded as he turned to Quenthel and smiled. (Good, so it's settled then. I told Quenthel that I would not give her a decision until tomorrow. So we shall see what happens until then.)

Errando continued. “Ere egingo dut bazkalduko Arzhani Babesle batera gauean. Duzu asko egin zuek contenido zaren enpresa batekin espero dut.” (I will also be dining with the Arzhani protector tonight. I expect the lot of you to content yourselves with you business.)

Errando walked back over to Quenthel, and he wondered what the subsequent plan was. Hopefully it didn’t consist of dealing with these southern Ghantish bastards, Errando thought. Most foreigners, to Errando’s knowledge, didn’t know how deep the rivalry between northern and southern Ghant ran. But to a Ghantar, it was always evident when one from each were in the same room. Perhaps Quenthel sensed some of it...she seemed rather perceptive, after all.

[Nalaya]

The Zoranots'in
Sevan, Nalaya

Quenthel could tell that the other guests of the Protector did not have the same respect for her as Errando seemed to have, but that was to be expected. They were foreigners and the laws of courtesy were not universal. Besides, she knew of the reputation her people had beyond and even within Nalaya's borders. It was a fearsome one. She nodded her head courteously when she was addressed all the same and returned the greetings in flawless Latin. Their language was very strange to her and like nothing she had ever heard. It was not a particularly lovely language to her ears, but she did not feel a compulsion to check Errando's throat for some kind of injury either, so there was that.

She was tempted to bare her teeth at the one who provoked Errando into raising his voice, but she knew it would only reinforce a belief in her savagery. She compromised with a wide, pleasant smile that showed her teeth, including the pointed ones. It seemed friendly unless one really knew to watch her eyes.

It was not hard to feel hints of tension between Errando and the others. She heard a difference in the way they spoke, so perhaps they were from different regions of the country. She could understand an old dislike for such a reason. Perhaps the Ghanti were no better than her people, she reasoned. Well, she imagined they were less violent on the whole. Ghant had not been embroiled in a bitter civil war for the past ten years and more. The history of Nalaya was warfare, though it waxed and waned like the moon. Never was it gone entirely, but it changed. Different groups fought different enemies, while nursing the same ancient grudges. The Mak'ur had always been more concerned with the outside world than their fellow Nalayans, but there was hostility aplenty with their neighbors inside the country as well. Quenthel felt the enmity acutely, as many of the Yath did. They were viewed with a great deal of mistrust and dislike when they left the areas where their faith dominated. At least, by the Nava'ai. The Arusai were more understanding and that made places such as Sevan safer for her to travel alone. She still had to take care, but less so.

Quenthel gave Errando a small smile that showed no teeth when he turned around. "I will leave you to do whatever you wish to do here before dinner, Paron," she said respectfully. "I will return at the proper hour to join you. Feel free to wander the Zoranots'in, but I would not leave its walls if I were you. I cannot vouch for your safety. It is very easy to get lost in Sevan and end up where one should not be."

The yathrin gave him a bow and departed, planning on getting ready for dinner herself. Her clothes and body were dusty, and with the journey they would need to make approaching, she knew her opportunities for hot showers would not be so plentiful. The Yath were many things, but filthy was not among those adjectives. Pride in one's body meant keeping it clean. Her thoughts lingered with Errando as she walked down the hall. He was a very strange foreigner in that he did not seem quite so foreign as she had anticipated. Was he dangerous as the Norveni were? He did not seem to have that same bull-headedness. He had spoken to the Arzhani Protector with respect, after all.

It was not what she had expected, and that both pleased her and made her very uncomfortable.

---

In the Garden
Sevan, Nalaya

Khavar looked up at the features of Anahid Vaneni, forever frozen in marble. The ashes of the former warlord had been scattered in each of the regions of Nalaya, so this was the closest thing to a tombstone that the first Protector had. Ponderous grey-green eyes traced the outline of the face, the somber cast to the face. Suffering had been a great deal of Anahid Vaneni's life. It was the price she had paid to make Nalaya what it was—a place that she had dreamed of for everyone. It was a world that Khavar still struggled to see and believe in. How could she accept that people were good when she knew better? Anahid had always managed to see the angels of humanity's better nature behind every set of eyes, even the impossibly distant ones that now looked at her statue. And because she saw them, because she spoke to them, those better angels emerged. Khavar had no such power to transfigure.

Ghant would never know the Vehandzn, and in a way that grieved Khavar. She had not intended to become Protector and certainly never desired to fill the gap that Anahid's death had left in Nalaya's heart. It was a still-healing wound, a reminder that even the greatest changes had not left the world a perfect place. Khavar had done her absolute best to punish. She was cruel where Anahid had never been, but she still charted the same course that her predecessor had set. Her friend, if Khavar T'avish truly had any friend in the world.

Anahid Vaneni was gone.

An unfamiliar stinging pricked at Khavar's eyes and she blinked hard. Then it vanished. "Arzhani," Hravad greeted from behind her in a gravelly voice.

Khavar turned. Hravad Ardzuni was a tall, grim man with a face marked by dueling scars and eyes of cobalt blue. Almost all of his brown hair had greyed and care wore lines into his granite features. He had not been the same since that terrible day that Khavar had heard unfold from the solitude of prison. They had allowed her the radio for dreadful hour. Then Siran and Hravad had come to essentially break her out despite their past differences, all so that she would assume the powerful position she had now. "Hravad, what did you need?"

"Dinner is almost ready," he said. There was a pause as he considered what to say and how to say it. Hravad's speech was never rushed. He was a good man, a solid and dependable second-in-command. "Are you feeling well, Arzhani? Siran said the Ghanti delegate left without a scratch."

"Funny," she said dryly. The sun was rapidly sinking below the horizon and washing the world's sky in red and purple. The wisps of white clouds had become a gleaming gold. From here in the garden, the shimmering lights of Sevan that wavered like torches on the sea were not visible, but Khavar still knew they were there. "Anything else?"

"Qasim's leytenant is here—" he started to say. Before he could finish, Khavar brushed past him like a woman on a mission. He knew from that stalking, predatory walk that someone was about to have a very unpleasant evening. Someone would have to pry her off of him and that had become about half of Hravad's job lately. Khavar's temper was worn thin of late and he did not envy the poor bastard who was about to be on the receiving end.

A swarthy Vatani man was waiting on the edge of the garden, smile white against his brown skin beneath dark eyes. It was not a genuine smile. The animosity between himself and Khavar T'avish ran deep. During the war, he had served with Casimir despite his ethnicity. She had not forgiven him for betrayal any more than she had forgiven Casimir. He extended his hand to the woman who was calm-faced even in her fury. "Protector T'avish," he greeted.

"Izz al Din," she greeted in return before catching two fingers and wrenching to a point just short of broken bones. Khavar twisted viciously, contorting his wrist and elbow into a position where they would break just like his fingers if she applied much more pressure. His scream was a pained one. "I distinctly recall telling you that I would gut you if you ever showed your face in Sevan, Paron. But that was years ago, so perhaps you have forgotten. Allow me to remind you."

"Arzhani, if you break him, Qasim will be furious," Hravad said in a cautioning tone. "Milits'iayi or not."

Grey-green eyes flickered over at him. "Hush, Hravad. I am not speaking to you." She tweaked Izz al Din's fingers in a way that sent shockwaves of pain down his arm. Her attention was focused back on her victim in a distinctly cat-like sort of fascination. "You are exceedingly fortunate that I have other things to attend to besides drawing this out, Izz al Din. I have not forgotten what you did to me in Yeraskh, nor what you intend to do to me now with Qasim. I will not let anyone destroy what Anahid built. Not you, not Qasim, not the world. Nalaya will stay united."

"You are fighting the tide, Protector," Izz al Din said through gritted teeth. "But that is not why I am here. Qasim bids you speak with him in In Salah."

"I do not take orders from things that should be scraped from the sole of a boot," Khavar hissed. She had a great deal of rage that had been pent up these many weeks and now she had acquired a deserving target. Everyone knew that Qasim wanted to force her out of power. He just wasn't willing to force it to a war, if only because Khavar believed in total war. She would ruin whatever it took to bring him to his knees. So he moved in more subtle ways, allowing the forces of crime to flourish in the Dominion and seeking to sway people against the federal government. He had even tried to convince the Quarval-sharess, which had nearly killed him in a very literal sense. Izz al Din was just a puppet, but he was a willing one and that angered her beyond measure.

"Arzhani..." Hravad tried again.

The Protector took a deep breath and let it out slowly. The Vatani man relaxed slightly, knowing that she had just calmed herself. Before Hravad could blink, she twisted her hands hard. There was a sickening series of snaps and a howl of agony as Izz al Din dropped completely to the ground with an arm bending the wrong way. "Consider that my reply," she said coolly before stepping around the man trembling and weeping on the ground. "Hravad, I will be at dinner if you wish anything of me."

Hravad sighed. Now he would have to send for a medic.

Khavar said nothing as she stepped into the dining room, but her thoughts had turned again to Anahid. Compassion was the virtue that Anahid had tried to instill in her above all things. If her current interactions were any indication, Khavar supposed the lesson hadn't quite stuck the way her friend had intended.

[Ghant]

The Zoranots'in
Sevan, Nalaya

After the business with the Ghantish party was more or less concluded, Quenthel gave Errando a small smile that showed no teeth when he turned around. "I will leave you to do whatever you wish to do here before dinner, Paron," she said respectfully. "I will return at the proper hour to join you. Feel free to wander the Zoranots'in, but I would not leave its walls if I were you. I cannot vouch for your safety. It is very easy to get lost in Sevan and end up where one should not be."

“Alright…I think I am going to lay down in my room with a pack of ice on my face. You can find me there.” Errando chuckled. It could not be said that the Crown Prince of Odolargia was not enjoying himself in Quenthel’s company. In his mind, she had an impeccable sense of humor and was rather easy to talk to…contrary to what he might have thought initially. As much as he enjoyed her company, for the time being, twas the company of the ice pack he was looking forward to the most.

The yathrin gave him a bow and departed, leaving Errando alone. Errando was an uncomplicated man, and a man that stuck to the basics. Perhaps for those reasons, Errando did exactly what he said he was going to do. Taking a warm bath would help him, along with some fresh clothes afterwards. So he stripped down and climbed in, soaking down into the water…

He thought about the distinctions between northern and southern Ghant. Northern Ghant was always thought of as consisting of the four northern provinces- Eskura, Izotza, Odolargia and Thule. It was a land that was, for the most part, wild, savage, backward and thoroughly pagan in both culture and religion. Many of the various clans and tribes had been hostile towards each other and to outsiders since time immemorial. It was only when some of those clans and tribes began to turn to lords and kings for protection that things began to change, ever so slightly. Then, when those kings and lords turned south to Ghish, the power of the Obsidian Throne helped to bring peace…for a time.

The Ghantish Civil War was unique in that, rather then fight each other, the northern tribes and clans at first banded together against the south, and join the northern kings to that effect. Eventually though, they turned on each other, and that spelled the doom of the northern cause. Odolargia was not so unlucky as to suffer greatly, however. For one of the great northern leaders was Sekundo Snake-Eye of the House Odolaren. His power to command men was so great, and his ability to instill fear so thorough, that the Emperor of Ghant himself reached out to him, offering his son and heir to Sekundo’s daughter Magdalena. The King of Odolargia was loathe not to accept such and offer, and he agreed.

From the day Magdalena was wed to Sebastian of Ghant, Odolargia became the bane of every southerner, hated and loathed by many, and feared by most. Magdalena was said to practice blood magic, not excluding bathing in the blood of virgins and feasting upon babes. Indeed, young women and children were often reported missing in Ghish, with no trace of them to be found. Whether these stories were true or not, one thing was certain. During the winter months of 1871, she gave birth to a puny boy with hair as dark as night and eyes the color of blood. Magdalena died in the birthing bed from bleeding to death, the child brought forth ripping her apart as he emerged. The cursed child was named Nathan, after his uncle and grandfather, and he would go on to become Emperor Nathan III…the Mad Emperor of Ghant. Odolargia’s closeness to him during his life and reign and its loyalty to him in the Ghantish Revolution did Odolargia no favors either.

Since the days following the Mad Emperor’s death in 1939, the Odolarens were almost as spat upon as the Pazuzus, who at various points in history the Odolarens would either count as friends or enemies. For, while the Odolarens at least had a sense of honor, the Pazuzus had none, always relying upon treachery, deceit and cutthroat tactics in order to advance their sinister goals, originating in their worship of a demon.

These days were somewhat different though. People cared less and less about the old ways…about demons and warlords, honor and virtue…at least down south, that is. Maybe that was why he liked Nalaya so far…it reminded him of home…to a degree. People here cared about respect…about honor. He could appreciate that, to the degree that he wanted to see more of it.

After the bath, he went back to his room and dressed in a black tunic tinted with red. After he was dressed, he laid down with an ice pack on his face right away, in the hopes that he could lessen a possible bruise from getting punched in the face from earlier. After all, it would not serve to have such a mark if he was going to present himself to the Arzhani Protector again…

Naturally, as he laid there waiting for Quenthel to return, he had to think about how his situation in Ghant and in Nalaya were somewhat similar. As an Odolaren, he had a chip on his shoulder…he had something to prove. The honor of his house remained to be restored…remained to be rejuvenated. Perhaps this was his opportunity…his one shot to prove his worth. He would capture it and make the most of it.

For now, however, he needed to wait for Quenthel to return.

[Nalaya]

The Zoranots'in
Sevan, Nalaya

Quenthel rapped her knuckles against Errando's door, many rings gleaming in the light. The yathrin had bathed and changed her clothes, luxuriating in the opportunity to do so. Now she was dressed in a dark blue, a similar sarong to her original one wrapped low at her hips, though this was patterned with silver and white. A matching cloth was wrapped in a band across her breasts, leaving her midriff bare. There were some bruises from earlier that had formed on her tattooed skin, but she didn't seem to feel them. Her sun-bleached hair was still loose and her feet were still bare. She saved her smile for when he emerged from his room, giving him a brief look up and down. "Very dashing. Come, dinner is waiting."

Dinner was down the halls and through a set of french doors that looked out into the garden. On the opposite side were windows, where the orange sun sank down behind black mountains and left the world to turn into a black velvet veil of night studded with silver stars and highlighted by swirling nebulae. The dining room itself was not overly large but did look like something from the 18th Century, with rococo furniture in mahogany wood and cream-colored fabric. The table was topped with numerous dishes, from snkapur, a mushroom soup, to fluffy, golden-brown crusted loaves of bread to Sevani white trout grilled on a skewer to various cheeses and fresh vegetables. There was a pop as Khavar uncorked a bottle of a dry Ijevan white whine that was probably as old as Errando. She started pouring herself a glass immediately.

The Protector, who was still in uniform, was not alone. There was a tall and grim-faced man covered in dueling scars who looked over when Quenthel and Errando came in. Hravad Ardzuni was not a friendly looking man by nature. His lips were thin under his perfectly trimmed mustache and his cobalt blue eyes were stern. His greying brown hair was swept back away from his forehead but not gelled, short length left natural. His rank insignia glittered at the shoulder of his sable uniform opposite his silver cord and decorations from milits'iayi units from before unification gleamed on his jacket. There were six silver stripes above the end of his sleeves and diamond cufflinks flashed in the light. Everything about Hravad was just-so, carefully maintained to a peak professionalism.

A waifish Nava'ai woman sat next to him in stark contrast, curious eyes dark and intense when she looked over at the pair. Siri Kalousdian was a slight and worn woman, but she still clung to vivacity despite her struggles with her health. Her dark hair was pulled back and her tan skin bold compared to the white of her T-shirt. She was wearing tan BDU pants and matching desert boots still. The Virabuyzh Yndhanur had just gotten off a truck from In Salah, so she was practically still shaking off the last of the sand.

"Paron Odolaren, Siruhi T'sarran, may I introduce Ter Ardzuni and Arzhani Kalousdian?" Khavar said, nodding to each of her compatriots in turn. "Siri, Hravad, these are our guests."

"A pleasure," Hravad said in a low, gravelly voice. He allowed Khavar to fill his glass before she moved on to get Siri's. "Normally there are more of us, but we have scattered to the winds at the moment."

Siri nodded and smiled her acknowledgement before looking at the Protector again. "You didn't answer me about Deadora," she said seriously, studying Khavar intently for any sign of a reaction. Her dark eyes had a diagnostic attention to detail and her fingers danced with the precise grace of a surgeon's.

"Jennifer Thrall is perfectly charming," the Protector said noncommittally. Her grey-green eyes still had that unassailable distance that made her so difficult for people to read. The classical lines of her face were calm and composed. It was hard for Hravad to believe that she'd broken a man's arm nearly off only maybe five minutes before.

"So are serpents," Siri said. She was probing, looking for a reaction. She didn't hate Deadora, but she didn't like them either. They were a little too keen on bloodshed for her tastes. The Shrailleeni she respected for their aid work, but she couldn't say she was in favor of matriarchy any more than patriarchy.

"Mm." It was an acknowledgment that Khavar had heard what Siri said, not an answer. The Protector motioned for her guests to take a seat. "Perhaps we should put a pin in business for now. Is Nalaya suiting you, Paron Odolaren?" Even as she spoke, however, there was a silent communication between her and Siri. It was a look that said, I'm finished discussing the matter.

Quenthel was nervous to be here among legends, particularly the Tigress, but she gave no outward sign of it. Instead, she took her seat gracefully and waited for Errando to do the same.

[Ghant]

The Zoranots'in
Sevan, Nalaya

As Errando finished making sure he was presentable, he heard a knock on his door. Sure it enough it was Quenthel, who looked quite nice in her dark blue garb. She looked him up and down. “Very dashing. Come, dinner is waiting."

Errando smiled and inclined his head. “As do you,” he said as he began to follow her, wondering what to expect at dinner.

The dining room was down a few hallways, and Quenthel led him in. It was not particularly large but did look like something from the 18th Century, with rococo furniture in mahogany wood and cream-colored fabric…not unlike one that could be found in Ghant with its old tastes, which Errando could appreciate. The table was topped with numerous dishes, some of which Errando could identify as fish, soup, bread and vegetables…it all looked rather appetizing. There was a pop as the Arzhani Protector uncorked a bottle of wine. She started pouring herself a glass immediately.

The Protector, who was still in uniform, was not alone. There was a tall and grim-faced man covered in dueling scars who looked over when Quenthel and Errando came in. His lips were thin under his perfectly trimmed mustache and his cobalt blue eyes were stern, a man that reminded Errando of his own father. His greying brown hair was swept back away from his forehead but not gelled, short length left natural. His rank insignia glittered at the shoulder of his sable uniform opposite his silver cord and decorations gleamed on his jacket. There were six silver stripes above the end of his sleeves and diamond cufflinks flashed in the light. Everything about Hravad was just-so, carefully maintained to a peak professionalism. Quite impressive, Errando thought to himself.

A woman sat next to him in stark contrast, curious eyes dark and intense when she looked over at the pair. Her dark hair was pulled back and her tan skin bold compared to the white of her T-shirt. She was wearing tan BDU pants and matching desert boots still. An attractive woman, like the Arzhani Protector, but Errando remembered quite vividly what Quenthel told him regarding that which captivates can also kill.

The Arzhani Protector addressed them. "Paron Odolaren, Siruhi T'sarran, may I introduce Ter Ardzuni and Arzhani Kalousdian?" she said, nodding to each of her compatriots in turn. "Siri, Hravad, these are our guests."

"A pleasure," Hravad said in a low, gravelly voice. He allowed Khavar to fill his glass before she moved on to get Siri's. "Normally there are more of us, but we have scattered to the winds at the moment."

Remembering what he had learned, Errando bowed before each in turn. “Arzhani, a pleasure to see you again, and thank you for the invitation.” Then to Ardzuni he turned. “The pleasure of making your acquaintance is mine…Ter.” Then finally to the lady Kalousdian. “A pleasure to meet you as well, Arzhani.” After the introductions, Errando kept quiet and looked to Quenthel for guidance. He had a sneaking suspicion that amongst this company, saying the wrong thing could mean death. Indeed, like his own neck of the woods, saying or doing the wrong thing could cost a man dearly.

Siri nodded and smiled her acknowledgement before looking at the Protector again. "You didn't answer me about Deadora," she said seriously, studying Khavar intently for any sign of a reaction.

"Jennifer Thrall is perfectly charming," the Arzhani Protector said noncommittally.

"So are serpents," Siri said. She was probing, looking for a reaction it seemed. Errando thought that could be a dangerous game to play with the Arzhani Protector.

"Mm." Was all the Arzhani Protector replied with. "Perhaps we should put a pin in business for now. Is Nalaya suiting you, Paron Odolaren?"

Errando gave a faint smile and inclined his head. “Yes indeed, Arzhani. It is suiting me quite well. I have thus found the scenery, the architecture, the food and the company much to my liking. I have no cause for complaint, Arzhani.” Errando noticed Quenthel take her seat, and Errando did the same. As he was unfamiliar with table manners and etiquette here, he waited and watched Quenthel to see what she did…she was very much the guide, after all.

[Nalaya]

At Dinner
The Zoranots'in

Khavar gave Quenthel and Errando a smile as brief as summer lightning, there for not even a second and gone the next. It took a good eye to even catch the expression and only a familiar one would know its meaning. "It gladdens me to know this is so," she said of Errando's comment on the hospitality of Nalaya. After all, she was a hostess and it was a virtually sacred tradition of hospitality that permeated every level of society. "Please, allow me to pour you a glass. Siruhi T'sarran, do you drink? I know many of the Yath eschew alcohol." The dust had been carefully scrubbed off of the bottle that had been part of Casimir Narekatsi's private reserves. It pleased Khavar inordinately to avail herself of her old enemy's wine, particularly sharing it with the Avangardn and foreigners. It would have driven the warlord to a frothing rage had he been alive. She knew it was a petty act against a dead man, but it was still very gratifying all the same. Besides, it was good wine. She and Casimir had similar tastes in alcohol and it would be a shame to let it go to waste.

"One glass will not hurt. Thank you, Arzhani," Quenthel said, surprised by the respect that Khavar was showing. The pride of the Tigress was legendary. But then again, perhaps the woman could be agreeable when she was not insulted or threatened. The yathrin did not know the Protector well enough to assume anything. She tasted the wine and smiled slightly, pleased with the vintage. She was no connoisseur, but she did know what she liked. It was a rare treat to drink and never something indulged in to excess lest it dull the senses and separate her from the world around her.

If Siri was surprised by Errando's manners when compared to those of the other Ghantish diplomats she had met, she didn't say so. "I had heard the Yath were involved in our talks with Ghant," she said mildly instead as Khavar filled Errando's glass. "I didn't realize one was serving as a guide. You should count yourself among a rare few, Paron Odolaren. As a general rule, yathrin do not deal with outsiders. And Quenthel, I commend you for it. Things like this change the world's view of the Mak'ur."

Quenthel looked pleased at the unexpected praise, if embarrassed. "I am only a servant of the Quarval-sharess's will," she deflected.

"I don't envy you that," Hravad said with a chuckle. "She's a difficult woman to please."

You have no idea, Quenthel reflected. Hravad only knew her from interacting with her on fairly level footing, or at least footing much more level than Quenthel's own. The young woman had her reservations about whether or not she would be able to satisfy the Dread Wolf, and failure did not look like an appealing option. Angering the Quarval-sharess would be even worse, and she knew there was a chance of that as well if she went through with her plan to help Errando.

"Speaking of," Khavar said as she sat down and the pass of food began around the table with everyone serving themselves what they wanted. "Siruhi T'sarran says that you intend to leave Sevan tomorrow. I assume this is related to the conversation that took place in my office. I would attempt to dissuade you, Paron Odolaren, but I take you for the kind of man who is not easily shifted once his mind is made up."

There was silverware on the table and while much of the meal could be eaten with the hands, everyone used forks and spoons. It was a less traditional way of eating, but one that they gathered a Ghantish man would probably be more familiar with. Using a fork seemed to be almost universal beyond Nalaya's borders, save probably for parts of New Edom. Quenthel was unfamiliar with one, but she could catch on quite quickly. It wasn't a difficult concept even if it was strange.

Siri and Hravad both looked something between quietly alarmed and puzzled. "What draws a Ghanti delegate out of Sevan?" the grim and growling general asked.

Another one of those brief, barely-there smiles flickered across Khavar's features. It was a secret smile, one that communicated—no matter how suddenly it vanished—that she knew something that no one else knew. Quenthel caught it, though only just. She was perceptive even for a yathrin and that was her saving grace. It had to have something to do with their trip and the Quarval-sharess, but what it was, Quenthel had no idea. What she did know was that calling attention to the Protector's fleeting expression was not the wisest course of action.

"We are going to Karsoluthiyl," the yathrin answered, looking to Errando for a moment. She would leave it up to him to tell them the why.

[Ghant]

At Dinner
The Zoranots'in

The Arzhani Protector responded to the Crown Prince of Odolargia. "It gladdens me to know this is so," she said of Errando's comment on the hospitality of Nalaya. "Please, allow me to pour you a glass. Siruhi T'sarran, do you drink? I know many of the Yath eschew alcohol."

Errando nodded his consent. “Please and thank you, Arzhani.”

Quenthel responded in turn. "One glass will not hurt. Thank you, Arzhani."

Siri spoke then, as Errando began to drink his wine. "I had heard the Yath were involved in our talks with Ghant," she said mildly instead as Khavar filled Errando's glass. "I didn't realize one was serving as a guide. You should count yourself among a rare few, Paron Odolaren. As a general rule, yathrin do not deal with outsiders. And Quenthel, I commend you for it. Things like this change the world's view of the Mak'ur."

Quenthel looked pleased at the unexpected praise, if embarrassed. "I am only a servant of the Quarval-sharess's will," she deflected.

"I don't envy you that," Hravad said with a chuckle. "She's a difficult woman to please."

Errando spoke up then. “As it happens, Ter and Arzhani, I appreciate the rare opportunity. The Mak’ur and the Ghantar both can benefit from a changed perception. I know that I have some ground to make up for, and I intend to do just that, with some guidance, of course. The Arzhani Protector I have found to not only be a generous host, but also pleasant company. I should also add that Arzhani’s trust in Quenthel is well placed.” Errando flashed a smile at the yath.

"Speaking of," Khavar said as she sat down and the pass of food began around the table with everyone serving themselves what they wanted. "Siruhi T'sarran says that you intend to leave Sevan tomorrow. I assume this is related to the conversation that took place in my office. I would attempt to dissuade you, Paron Odolaren, but I take you for the kind of man who is not easily shifted once his mind is made up."

“You are very keen, Arzhani. It is oft said that we Odolarens are a stubborn lot. Might I digress, fortune favors the bold, does it not?” Errando asked as he drank his wine and ate some fish, albeit awkwardly with a fork. In his neck of the woods, the people eschewed silverware in favor of their hands.

Siri and Hravad both looked something between quietly alarmed and puzzled. "What draws a Ghanti delegate out of Sevan?" Hravad asked.

"We are going to Karsoluthiyl," the yathrin answered, looking to Errando for a moment.

Errando knew what that look meant. “Well, Ter, Quenthel mentioned something about…detholusin. Some tests and trials, I take it. I told her I would not give her a decision until tomorrow, but that doesn’t mean my mind hasn’t already been made up.” Errando grinned as he drank some more wine and ate some vegetables and soup.

[Nalaya]

At Dinner
The Zoranots'in

Quenthel was grateful for Errando's trust and made a mental note to herself to not abuse it. She was being given a great deal of responsibility and she needed to measure up to it. There was a great deal riding on things now and that possibly included Errando's life. If they went into this and he failed the tests set before him, it could kill him. The Yath were not forgiving and she knew that better than most as one among their number. The trials of a detholusin were not easy ones. Even if it was permitted and he passed them, that was no guarantee that the Quarval-sharess would not take offense merely at his presence. The leader of the faith was more mercurial than Khavar T'avish, consumed completely by her passions. There would be no check of reason to the Dread Wolf's temper.

Khavar looked a bit amused at Errando's interjection. It was not often someone someone referred to her company as pleasant. She knew she could be charming or at least have that kind of effect on people, but everyone knew that they were still at a distance from her. Things like intimacy and disclosure were not in her vocabulary.

It was Siri who answered him more directly. "I think you have already gained ground, Paron," she said, albeit with a hint of caution to her tone. She still very much had her reservations. She didn't assume Ghant was a hostile country, but instead felt that their choice of representatives was somewhat lacking. However, she had not met Errando and so she had not ventured to make an opinion yet. "I was informed that we are opening greater avenues of trade with Ghant now. That is certainly more than nothing."

Hravad turned his head to look at Quenthel. Errando's explanation made little sense to him. It was too vague. He raised an eyebrow. "Siruhi T'sarran, would you care to elaborate on this trip to Karsoluthiyl?" Hravad asked very politely.

Quenthel nodded, acutely aware that eyes were now focusing on her. "It would make things much easier for the Avangardn were the Quarval-sharess persuaded that Ghant is not an enemy in disguise, holding out one hand while wielding a dagger in the other. Faith is the tie that binds and z'ress is the essence of faith. If Err—Paron Odolaren could prove that he has that quality, it would make him worth listening to for the Yath. If he is worth listening to, then perhaps his words will even reach the ears of the Quarval-sharess."

The corner of Siri's mouth tweaked slightly with a hint of a humorless smile. "Let me guess—that won't be easy to do."

"If it were easy, the Yath would be no different from anyone else," Quenthel said.

Siri examined Errando. "I thought the Yath didn't let anyone who wasn't faithful participate in any of their rites."

That was the sticking point that Quenthel struggled with. "We do not," she said. "But it may be possible to beg dispensation from the Quarval-sharess. I do not know if it is possible or not, but it is the only thing that I can think of."

Hravad frowned, his fork full of food just short of his mouth. "I can't imagine the Quarval-sharess is going to like that."

---

L'i'dol Shrine
Siunik, Nalaya

Bittersweet smoke curled around a kneeling figure, so thick that Xarann could barely make the outline of the Quarval-sharess out. The light in the small temple that stood open to the air was low and flickering, illuminated only by a pair of iron braziers. Their jumping flames cast shadows that leaped and danced as though they were alive. Silence covered the room in a veil, broken only by the snaps and pops of burning wood and herbs. He felt almost painfully exposed as he walked across the smooth stone floor towards the grooved altar that the Quarval-sharess knelt before. She was deep in communion with other forces, things that he did not pretend to understand. Xarann was only one of the keepers of the shrine in Siunik that served as a bastion of the L'i'dol faith within an og'elend city. Here in the Highlands of Nalaya, it was a dangerous occupation. Tensions between the Nava'ai and the Mak'ur were always high, and that meant vandals trying to damage sacred things or defiling the temple. Worse was the occasional attack on the faithful. Xarann was a guardian of the place as much as a steward, and his rifle had come out many times.

Never before, however, had he seen the Quarval-sharess. To have her visiting the city was at once a great honor and a terrible threat. She was not called the Dread Wolf because she was a creature of softness. This space was her space, the dim world between the light and the dark, the place where the veil between spirit and flesh was thin. They said that she moved between the worlds and he believed it as truly as he had ever believed anything. His was a faith from birth, deep and abiding. Here in Siunik after the war, he found comfort in service to the Yath. They took care of everything so long as he kept this place open to them for the rites.

No one troubled the shrine when the Yath were within.

"Quarval-sharess, there is a man here to speak with you," Xarann said carefully.

The figure wreathed in smoke did not move. "What does he want?" a voice like liquid gold asked.

"He would have you leave the city. There are men with him."

There was a chuckle, low and throaty. Xarann was not certain whether to feel relief or not. "Who is he?"

"He is one of the city councilors. He—" The Mak'ur man was cut off by the sound of approaching feet. The men who had been waiting outside had apparently grown tired of waiting. He heard movement in the darkness in response. The yathrin who had gathered to pray with the Quarval-sharess were rising to their feet. "He is impatient. There are more outside."

"I can speak for myself," a patrician Nava'ai man said, flanked by a half-dozen able-bodied men. Every one of them had a rifle. Other people were following, mostly unarmed, half to gawk and half to shout their dislike at the Yath. They felt secure in their numbers. Surely not even one of the Yath would dare do anything faced with an overwhelming force. "Leave the city, Lledrith A'Daragon. It is enough that we suffer your servants."

Xarann stepped between the man and the kneeling woman. "Keep a civil tongue. You speak to the Quarval-sharess," the temple's guardian said sharply. One of the men stepped forward and shoved Xarann back before leveling his rifle at the Mak'ur man.

"Xarann," the voice like honey said. It was a beautiful voice, the kind of thing Xarann expected would come from a siren of myth: melodic, rich, and deceptively gentle. "You have no need to defend me further. You have performed your duty enough." He saw the lithe figure rise and turn around.

The Quarval-sharess emerged from the smoke like a wraith, her bare feet soundless against the stone. Her hooded eyes were dark as night with pupils fully dilated from the herbal smoke she had inhaled and her sharply featured, angular face was composed in arrogance. The bold tattoos of a wolf's face covered her own and the lines coursed their way down her body. A wrap of cloth across her breasts and another low across her hips that covered her down to mid-thigh left plenty of tattooed flesh visible. "You wish me to leave?" It was said softly and questioningly, throwing the city councilor entirely off balance. He expected fury from this figure of legend.

"Leave now and do not return," he said harshly all the same.

The Dread Wolf smiled, baring pearly teeth complete with a set of fangs. "Or you'll what?" she said. Before he could answer, she stepped in so fast that his men flinched back reflexively. There was a flash in the darkness and a strangled scream from the man who had been speaking. Xarann quickly saw why—the Quarval-sharess had plunged a knife into his bladder. She ripped up viciously, tearing through abdominal muscles and eviscerating the man. The cut went from his groin to the bottom of his ribcage and gleaming coils of intestine were spilling out. Blood spattered everywhere, including across the Quarval-sharess's face. She spun him around and looped her arm around his neck, holding his body between her and them as he screamed. "Put down your guns, oolos, or join him."

There were soft clicks of safeties being flipped off in the darkness. The other Yath had positioned themselves so they had the remaining six in a crossfire. If a firefight erupted, it would be going poorly for the Nava'ai and possibly the crowd behind them. The men held up their hands carefully and then gingerly set their weapons down. "The vostikanut'yun are not coming," one of the men said, trying to intimidate the Yath into backing down. "You would have to kill all of us."

The Quarval-sharess dropped the body gushing blood and licked her lips, catching some of the coppery liquid there. "Or just you," she purred. She threw down her knife and left it to gleam silver in the moonlight that poured through one of the open arches. It was perfectly easy to see her, that cruel smile on thin lips. "Kill enough and the rest just break and run. Weak. Sel'tur vlees. That is all you are: soft meat. I will leave this city the day it pleases me to do so and not a second before. While I am here, this is my city. Come take it from me if you dare, little man." She motioned with one hand and the Yath in the wings lowered their weapons.

Xarann felt pity for the poor men who had frozen with fright, but as far as he was concerned they had invited this upon themselves by breaching the sanctuary of the shrine to offer only disrespect.

The tall, lean woman clicked her teeth together at them and bared them again in a grin. "Run along, oolos."

They turned and fled, pushing into the crowd that was rapidly dispersing. The seven Yath assembled, five male and two female, around the body of the dead city councilor. "The vostikanut'yun will not be happy, Quarval-sharess," one of the men said quietly, his tattooed face turned towards the ground and the body lying on it when he spoke. He did not dare look into the eyes of the Quarval-sharess, barely more than an initiate himself.

The mystic rubbed her fingers together as if enjoying the slippery texture of the blood and the smell of copper. Then she looked up with eyes that flashed in the darkness. "The only law is power, Elamshim. I taught you this."

One of the women spoke up. "What should we do with the body, Quarval-sharess?"

"Spread it on the steps, that any who walk by might know of what took place. What lesson have you learned this evening, my children?"

What fear looks like, Xarann reflected as he crouched down and grabbed the body, dragging it out of the shrine proper and onto the steps. He could already see the light of the police cars approaching, but he knew there would be no arrest made. The law was the law, yes, but some things were older than the law. Some things were so old they were written in the genes of Nalayans.

Who knows better than the Quarval-sharess?

[Ghant]

At Dinner
The Zoranots'in

Khavar looked a bit amused at Errando's interjection, although it was Siri who answered him more directly. "I think you have already gained ground, Paron," she said, albeit with a hint of caution to her tone. "I was informed that we are opening greater avenues of trade with Ghant now. That is certainly more than nothing."

Errando nodded as he drank some wine, savoring the taste of it. “Indeed, Arzhani, so it would seem. It is a start at least, and all great trees grow from the smallest seeds, it is said.”

Hravad turned his head to look at Quenthel, raising an eyebrow. "Siruhi T'sarran, would you care to elaborate on this trip to Karsoluthiyl?" Hravad asked politely.

Quenthel nodded. "It would make things much easier for the Avangardn were the Quarval-sharess persuaded that Ghant is not an enemy in disguise, holding out one hand while wielding a dagger in the other. Faith is the tie that binds and z'ress is the essence of faith. If Err—Paron Odolaren could prove that he has that quality, it would make him worth listening to for the Yath. If he is worth listening to, then perhaps his words will even reach the ears of the Quarval-sharess."

That explanation was better than anything Errando could muster. He understood how perceptions were reality, and that Ghant as a nation had to prove itself to the Avangardn. That task fell upon him…and who better than he to meet the task before him? At least that was Errando’s line of thinking. That and the food, which was rather good.

The corner of Siri's mouth tweaked slightly with a hint of a humorless smile. "Let me guess—that won't be easy to do."

"If it were easy, the Yath would be no different from anyone else," Quenthel said.

Siri examined Errando. "I thought the Yath didn't let anyone who wasn't faithful participate in any of their rites."

"We do not," Quenthel responded. "But it may be possible to beg dispensation from the Quarval-sharess. I do not know if it is possible or not, but it is the only thing that I can think of."

Hravad frowned, his fork full of food just short of his mouth. "I can't imagine the Quarval-sharess is going to like that."

Errando finally chimed in at the end of that conversation. “Indeed, Ter, perhaps she will not. Rest assured however that I will make every effort to see to it that I am taken seriously at the very least. Contrary to popular belief, there are those among the Ghantish that are capable of taking dangerous matters seriously. As it happens, Ter, that perhaps if I was none such individual, that the course of today’s events might well have been different.”

[Nalaya]

At Dinner
The Zoranots'in

"You have no idea how true that is," Hravad said when Errando remarked that things might have been different. He thought of Khavar's temper and the violence it manifested with. The meeting with Errando had been so quiet that he hadn't heard it in his office, which was right next door. That was a distinct change from earlier in the day when she'd been interrupted in the middle of something important and shattered her paperweight against the door when she hurled it at the offending party, who had narrowly managed to close it in time to avoid a concussion. He needed to stop buying her glass ones, but he was afraid to get her something metal despite the fact that it would be much more durable. Not that it would be pleasant to be struck with a chunk of glass.

"You are different than the Ghantar I encountered in Callaban," Siri acknowledged as she studied Errando. He was very different. "I was not impressed with the Foreign Minister. He lacked the diplomacy I have come to expect from the representatives of nations. It did not paint Ghish in a flattering light."

Siri was a fundamentally honest person, though she had long ago learned when it was better to suffer something in silence rather than open her mouth. She would not say anything about anyone behind their back that she would not say to their face. Manners were important. Besides, she was curious to hear Errando's appraisal of that situation. He appeared to hail from a different part of Ghant, one with more decorum. That, or perhaps their foreign minister had been chosen very poorly. If so, it was a mistake that should have been rectified before setting the man loose on the world.

Quenthel sat quietly and listened. She could sense that at least Kalousdian still had her reservations about Ghant, which meant that the Protector likely did too. No matter how pleased the Protector might have been with Errando's manners, proper honorifics would only take him so far. The burden of proof still sat on his shoulders, whether he knew it or not.

Nalayans would do business courteously and honorably even with strangers, but they were very slow to trust as a people. Some ethnic groups were easier to get along with than others. For example, the Imanalov' had very few enemies and were no one's enemy. They were the gentlest souls that Quenthel had ever met, but they were so isolated that she could understand. The outside world had never beaten the gentleness out of them and even in the civil wars they had largely just retreated into their mountains where armies would die before they found their quarry. She admired the mystic Anur with their serenity and softness even if she could not really understand how they achieved such power without tapping into the whirling tempests of emotions. If she had been born someone and somewhere other than where she was, she would have chosen among their number. It was a far cry from the Mak'ur and their violent suspicion of the world beyond their own. Perhaps, Quenthel reasoned, her people missed out on things because of that knee-jerk reaction to what had always been danger. Or perhaps that suspicion was what had kept them alive.

Dinner was coming to an end as they finished the food on their plates and the dishes grew more and more empty. The wine was low in the bottle now, perhaps a glass or two from being finished. Hravad used the last of the bottle to top off everyone's glass as a couple of enlisted men of very low rank arrived to clear up the table. Normally, the Avangardn would have taken care of it themselves, but they had a diplomatic guest they were in discussion with and they had known it would be so since before dinner.

[Ghant]

At Dinner
The Zoranots'in

It was at this point during the course of dinner when the elephant in the room was finally addressed. "You are different than the Ghantar I encountered in Callaban," Siri acknowledged as she studied Errando. He was very different. "I was not impressed with the Foreign Minister. He lacked the diplomacy I have come to expect from the representatives of nations. It did not paint Ghish in a flattering light."

Errando chewed on that question for a bit, wondering how he was going to answer that…where to begin. It wasn’t something that could be explained easily or succinctly. He would try, however.

“Ah, so it was you that he insulted…for that I am sorry, Arzhani. As it happens, Ninu Inogaru is very much a product of his Saila. He is a lowborn fellow from the Saila, or Department, of Bizkarrezurra, in Dakmoor, on the border of Arrautsa and Eskura. It is oft said that nothing good ever comes from Bizkarrezurra, either. For thousands of years, the lords and peoples of that land have hustled the Great Houses of Dakmoor, Arrautsa and Eskura for power and influence, switching sides and pitting one against the other with their mineral resources and wealth as an incentive to influence and manipulate, swearing fealty to this King or that King as a result for their own benefit. Yet, of all people they are most like those in Dakmoor, which is rather fitting considering they have been sworn to the Dakmarans of Dakar since the Civil War. People from Dakmoor are often arrogant, vain, xenophobic and conceited. The Empress might be an exception to that, but Ninu certainly fits that bill. His appointment, then, made much sense. It was because Yula Zimya was corrupt and thought that by bringing him in she could appease the people that thought that she was biased against Dakmoor, which she was, but also at the same time anticipated that he might be prone to putting his foot in his mouth, thereby damaging the credibility of Dakmoor, despite it simultaneously doing the same for Ghant. Very much a ‘cut off your nose to spite your face’ situation. Might I digress, the majority of Ghantar grew tired of Zimya and her people putting their foots in their mouths, and so come election time, they were all washed away. The new Foreign Minister is from Morragon, in Nathia, and those people are much more…diplomatically amicable, Arzhani.”

Errando explained all that as the food began to disappear and the wine began to run dry. “I hope that explanation makes some sense, Arzhani. These words I know to be true, for over the millennia Odolargia has feuded with those to the south, past the Odoltsua Marches. And for what its worth, the distinctions between Provinces and even Sailek within, can be rather stark. It is oft said that no two Sailek produce similar folk. Naturally, Ghant is a very difficult place to understand, especially when there are so many differences between localities, some even permeated by ancient feuds that live on to this day. Maybe there are some similarities in this country.”

[Nalaya]

At Dinner
The Zoranots'in

Siri removed her napkin from her lap and carefully folded it up before placing it on the table. "Thank you," she said to the young man clearing her place for her. She looked over at Errando. "You mistake me, Paron. I was not the one insulted. Only the one who had to play damage control afterward. But your explanation is helpful. I am not familiar with a world where one's place of birth determines personality, but I can see it dictating manners."

"And manners maketh the man," Hravad quoted. He then addressed the second part of the topic. "We have our feuds, yes, but those are blades we have been beating into plowshares for a few years now. With varying degrees of success, of course." He thought of the enmity amongst the ethnic groups that had been, with a few exceptions, ever so slowly subsiding. It would take decades, if not centuries, to heal those old wounds, but there was a desire to close them and that made all the difference. Would Ghant ever reach that place? Somehow Hravad doubted it.

"Because Anahid made it so," the Protector said. Khavar's smile flashed across her face like lightning, but there was a hint of melancholy to it that was very much at odds with the perception of her moods. Few took her for someone who felt things like grief and she preferred to keep up the front of invulnerability. Anger was much easier to feel, much more comfortable. Khavar raised her glass. "To plowshares."

"Lav maght'yel," Siri, Hravad, and Quenthel all answered automatically to complete the toast. Quenthel gave Errando an apologetic look for not teaching him how to answer a toast. This one had surprised her and so she had no warning for him. However, no one seemed bothered.

Khavar finished off her glass of wine. She would probably have port before she went to bed, but that would be well after paperwork. She had a great deal of thinking to do with this Deadoran business and now dealings with Ghant. It was easier for her to contemplate her next move when the halls were still and quiet. For the most part, she was satisfied with how she had structured things. Trade was acceptable, something that clearly benefited both parties but more particularly her country. Khavar divided the world into things that were hers and that were not hers. She was viciously protective of what was hers and couldn't have cared less about anything else. In this case, Ghant's satisfaction was merely consequence.

The Quarval-sharess would take care of the rest.

"Off to the grindstone?" Hravad queried when Khavar stood up and set her glass down.

Khavar checked her watch. "I still have a briefing on Dengali and an intelligence meeting that will probably run until 2300," she said, recalling her schedule without a problem. This was not her busiest day by far, but it was a full one all the same. "It is always lovely to spend time with you two. And thank you, Paron Odolaren and Siruhi T'sarran, for consenting to be our guests. If you will forgive me, I have things to attend to." It was on that note that the Protector departed for her office again.

Siri sighed. "I need to get back to it too," she admitted. "We haven't finished our overhaul of the CLS training section of the basic medic course." She nodded to Errando and Quenthel. "It was a pleasure to meet you both. I hope that the next time I encounter the Ghantish foreign ministry that it will be this...respectful of a discourse. Are you headed to bed, Hravad?"

"Yes. PT tomorrow at 0300," the grim and growling general said as he levered himself up out of his chair. The day Hravad couldn't exceed the standards he set for his own soldiers would be the day he retired.

"Good. You need your beauty sleep," Siri said with a grin.

Hravad muttered something grumpily in Nalayan, causing Kalousdian to laugh. Even Quenthel's lips quirked up into a smile. But then the yathrin stood up and looked to Errando. "Allow me to show you back to your quarters, Errando," Quenthel said. She knew he wouldn't be able to find his own way back yet. "Tomorrow morning we leave for Karsoluthiyl."

[Ghant]

At Dinner
The Zoranots'in

In response to Siri, Errando inclined his head. “Indeed, Arzhani. Some in Ghant take manners more seriously than others…mostly highborns who value it.”

Hravad added in. "We have our feuds, yes, but those are blades we have been beating into plowshares for a few years now. With varying degrees of success, of course."

Errando thought of that for a moment. Ghantar would thus be at each other’s throats with plowshares, he contemplated.

"Because Anahid made it so," the Protector said. Then she raised her glass. "To plowshares."

"Lav maght'yel," Siri, Hravad, and Quenthel all answered automatically to complete the toast. Errando clumsily attempted to toast as well, but he suspected he was too slow and didn’t do it quite right. Quenthel gave Errando an apologetic look, and Errando hoped that he would not pay for his ignorance.

Not long afterwards the Arzhani Protector stood up and sat her wine glass down, as if to leave, which Hravad inquired about.

Khavar checked her watch, and explained things to him. Then she addressed Errando and Quenthel. “And thank you, Paron Odolaren and Siruhi T'sarran, for consenting to be our guests. If you will forgive me, I have things to attend to." It was on that note that the Protector departed for her office again, before Errando could thank her and say goodbye. Might even be last time I ever see her too.

Siri sighed and then spoke some, before she nodded to Errando and Quenthel. "It was a pleasure to meet you both. I hope that the next time I encounter the Ghantish foreign ministry that it will be this...respectful of a discourse…”[/i]

“The pleasure was mine, Arzhani…and yes, that can be expected.” Errando answered with a inclined head.

As dinner began to come to a close, Quenthel looked to Errando. "Allow me to show you back to your quarters, Errando," Quenthel said. "Tomorrow morning we leave for Karsoluthiyl."

Errando bid goodnight to Hravad with a “Goodnight Ter, a pleasure to meet you,” before turning to Quenthel. “Indeed my lady, tomorrow is the big day. How are you feeling? I felt tonight went well, and I feel good about my fortunes.” Errando thought that maybe he should be nervous. But he wasn't.

[Nalaya]

After Dinner
The Zoranots'in

Quenthel pondered Errando's question. How was she feeling? Not even she was certain. Errando saw their fortunes well, but Quenthel was more cognizant of the dangers they faced. The displeasure of the Quarval-sharess was in some ways much more dangerous than that of the Protector. It depended on whether or not Errando would be perceived as a guest or an intruder. She could not vouch for his safety and that added to her trepidation. "Tomorrow is not what gives me pause," she said carefully as they walked down the halls. "It is what lies at the end of that journey. If we take the train, we should arrive at Karsoluthiyl late in the night. Many of the Yath are creatures of the night, which means we will have our reception. I sent word that I was coming to seek audience with the Quarval-sharess. I did not mention you lest they revoke their welcome."

She worried at the broad line of black that bisected her lower lip with her teeth. Anxiety was a foreign emotion to Quenthel and she was quickly learning that she did not like it. At least she was young enough that she would not wholly destroy her reputation if things went south. Such transgressions were not easily forgiven, but they were more expected of the youth and so some leeway was given. "It is wise to be cautious," she told Errando as they reached the door. "Audacity is a virtue, but in excess it becomes folly. I have faith in you as you have conducted yourself well among the Avangardn, but...the Quarval-sharess does not see the world as you or even I."

They reached Errando's door and she gave him a soft smile, hints of worry lingering in her eyes though she would never admit that her heart was doubtful. It was not a good plan, this thing she had crafted, but it was the only one she could think of. "Rest well, Paron. May your dreams be untroubled and your slumber peaceful. I will fetch you at dawn."

Quenthel knew her own sleep would not be the most relaxed in the world. With that farewell, she departed from him.

It was a short walk to her own quarters that had been provided in the guest area of the Zoranots'in. It was a finer accommodation than she was accustomed to, but she was glad for that. The hot shower was particularly wonderful. When all her ritual ablutions and her prayers were finished, she curled up in the cotton sheets and closed her eyes. Her dreams were full of images of the Holy City and the Norveni, as they sometimes were when she was reminded of the war. Her story earlier had awoken her memories. They were not wholly unpleasant dreams, though at times they were fearful or angering. It was more restful than she had anticipated.

---

The Protector's Office
The Zoranots'in

"So you're sending him to Lledrith? God and the archangels, do you hate him?" Siri said without preamble, seating herself in the chair across from Khavar's desk. It was about 0200 hours and the darkness in the office was broken by only by the moonlight streaming in through the blinds and the desk lamp that illuminated Khavar's paperwork. The Protector herself leaned back in her chair and steepled her fingers, tapping them against her lips thoughtfully. "You know what she's like."

"Oh yes," Khavar said. "I am rather counting on it."

Siri raised a dark eyebrow and studied her superior. Theirs was a strange relationship, a balance of opposites. Much of the time, Siri found herself acting as the Protector's conscience, but that did not make her privy to most of the woman's thoughts. Khavar was an unapproachable figure who kept her heart armored carefully and kept everyone at arm's length. Siri could never imagine softer emotions from the Protector, but sometimes she saw glimpses. Like with the birds. Khavar fed the little songbirds that made their nests on the ledge of her window. She regarded them with a fondness that she rarely directed towards other human beings. Or in dealing with Rehan's illness, where she had been accommodating to everything that Rehan needed. Siri was beginning to suspect that Khavar really did care about certain things, even if she did her best not to show it. "You still have a problem. Why? Paron Odolaren was very respectful. The yathrin didn't seem to view him with hostility."

"This is not about personality. Consider their instability. Siran's briefing was very informative regarding the Jotnar and the situation in Azurlavai," Khavar said, her distant eyes narrowing ever so slightly in displeasure. "A regime that cannot handle its internal affairs to the point where their problems are being exported is not something I want to have on my plate."

"As Hravad said, we have our own feuds," Siri pointed out. "I understand caution, but maybe this is exactly what Ghant needs."

"It is not my job to stabilize a foreign country," Khavar said bluntly. "Our feuds are beside the point. Point to me where Ghant has a consistent international policy. This would be like dealing with...what is that charming expression?...a loose cannon."

"And the Quarval-sharess is your answer?"

The Protector seemed to look through Siri rather than at her for a brief moment as if evaluating the contents of the Virabuyzh Yndhanur's thoughts without needing Siri to verbalize them. "I respect Lledrith. I value her opinion. I appreciate her support. Her attitude towards the outside world has not been shaped in a vacuum. More than that, I trust her to be completely honest in her feelings. She is not a deceptive creature."

"Every time you see her it nearly comes to blows one way or another over just about anything. You fought wars against each other when you served under Casimir. Now you're willing to stake Nalaya's future relationships on her opinion?" Siri said quietly, considering this. Nothing that Khavar had said was a lie, at least as far as she could fell.

"Hravad said manners maketh the man," Khavar said, picking up a beautiful silver pen. She slid the report on her desk over to sit in front of her and made a small note in the margin without looking up. "Enemies maketh the woman."

---

Morning
The Zoranots'in

Quenthel was at Errando's door just as the sun broke over the horizon, knocking lightly on the wood. She had everything prepared. She'd booked tickets and made certain the Yath would be there to receive them. The yathrin was again dressed in red, this time with a black sash around her waist. Today was a day of mourning and so it was natural to wear the color of power. It was an anniversary of the defeat at Yvoth-Lened, at the shores of the sea where the Norveni had first landed and driven the Mak'ur back. "Good morning," she said when he managed to answer the door. She was not certain if he had just risen or if he had been awake for a time as she had.

The journey ahead of them was not a short one. The train ran to Karsoluthiyl with only a few stops and one switch from the new rail to the old rail. Though it was comfortable, it could also be quite boring for someone who was not accustomed to their own company without entertainment. Quenthel did not mind the long ride for her part. Karsoluthiyl was almost a modern city despite its mostly Mak'ur population, though its amenities were not complete. It was the gateway from the east to the western and internal reaches of the Homeland. Perhaps he would find it an interesting place. It certainly had a storied history. Battles between the Arusai and the Mak'ur had been fought there, though the enmity did not run deeply despite the more recent conflicts. That was a hatchet that had been buried with a surprising amount of success thanks to the Zmrukht Accords.

Her nerves had eased now that they were approaching the moment of truth. Their course was decided and the outcome now rested in the hands of fate. Whatever happened, it would happen for a purpose. Besides, there was no room for uncertainty. She would need every amount of doubt purged in her mind.

It had been strange to encounter Siri Kalousdian in the halls. The woman had wished Quenthel, and Errando by extension, good fortune in their endeavor. There was something in her eyes that had seemed so worried, however. Perhaps she was afraid that what they intended would stir up a hornets' nest. It was a thought that had crossed Quenthel's mind.

However, she had hope. The Quarval-sharess had given her mark to the Hostillian Ambassador. That was a sign of the greatest respect. Why would she not be so welcoming towards a Ghantish delegation? It was true that he was not a monk and as in touch with all that was alive and not alive, but he conducted himself with respect and even perhaps honor. It was times like this, Quenthel knew, that one had to have faith.

[Ghant]

After Dinner
The Zoranots'in

Quenthel spoke to Errando as they walked back to his quarters. “Tomorrow is not what gives me pause," she said carefully as they walked down the halls. "It is what lies at the end of that journey. If we take the train, we should arrive at Karsoluthiyl late in the night. Many of the Yath are creatures of the night, which means we will have our reception. I sent word that I was coming to seek audience with the Quarval-sharess. I did not mention you lest they revoke their welcome."

“…I would hope that the Quarval-sharess doesn’t mind surprises, then.” Of course, that that gave Errando pause. In many parts of northern Ghant, people didn’t like surprises. At all. Surprises could get a man killed in the wilder parts, and Errando suspected that this might be similar.

In regards to Errando’s mention of good fortune, Quentel had the following to say. "It is wise to be cautious," she told Errando as they approached the door to his quarters. "Audacity is a virtue, but in excess it becomes folly. I have faith in you as you have conducted yourself well among the Avangardn, but...the Quarval-sharess does not see the world as you or even I."

“Aye, that much seems apparent from what I have heard of her. I understand that the wrong word, or the wrong move could prove fatal.” Errando nodded. “We shall see what fate has in store for me, soon enough.”

They reached Errando's door and she gave him a soft smile, her eyes seeming to worry for him…something that Errando found most endearing. "Rest well, Paron. May your dreams be untroubled and your slumber peaceful. I will fetch you at dawn."

Errando smiled back. For the first time, he wanted to reach out and comfort her, perhaps with a gentle hand under her chin…but that didn’t seem prudent. Strange how the more he was around her, the less he saw her as a feral savage with desecrated flesh, and the more he saw her for what she was…a young woman with heart and spirit. Or so he came to suspect, anyway. There was still much to learn.

“Rest well I shall, and to you as well, Quenthel. See you at dawn.” Errando said softly as he shut the door. Tired as he was, Errando changed into his bed clothes, brushed his teeth and went to bed, falling fast asleep…

The spirits whispered on a chilling wind,
As the blood continued to flow.
He could hear the demons screaming within,
As the darkness continued to grow.

Humankind would always be foolish,
Rash decisions were an instinctive need.
But how could they have forgotten our ways,
Tradition was lost to greed.

The zealous would kill the innocent again,
As the greedy played out a game of chess.
As the books of false gods became a creed,
They were ragged shells at best.

His people died in the tens of hundreds,
And innocents were slaughtered like swine.
He was afraid that in this dying world,
The God of Blood would dine.

The blind would follow in his burning steps,
They would see within him a flame and fire.
And he knew that the hearts of passionate men,
Were easily laced with glorious desire.

In dreams he called and granted them strength,
He sent his avatars to enchant the night.
He turned the blind into seeing creatures,
And robbed them of the light.

But it is was here they would stand in final defiance,
We warriors of blood would turn back hell.
To face death with the virtue in our veins,
Because, as we say, the Blood Will Tell.

---

In the Morning
The Zoranots'in

Errando woke up in the darkness of the early morning, jumping out of bed in a fit of sweat and shaking. What an odd dream, he thought, as he shook himself fully awake and ran a hand through his short black hair, still covered in gooseprickles and breathing erratically. Apparently the sun would rise soon. Naturally…for it always darkest just before the dawn.

Errando did the usual things with expediency…bathing, brushing his teeth, and sorting through his bags. He decided to wear a snug black tunic trimmed with burgundy, with a black cape with the bloodmoon emblazoned upon it. He had some comfortable dark slacks and boots to go along with it, and it was as he was putting those on that he saw his double bladed battle axe in the largest bag. It was wrapped tightly in a cloth cover, but he knew it all too well. The blades and much of the shaft were jet black, while the grip was a patterned dark red and black. He was hoping he wouldn’t need to use it at any point during his quest…

Just as the sun broke over the horizon, Quenthel, he presumed, began knocking lightly on the wood of the door. Ready to go, Errando moved swiftly towards the door, opening it softly. "Good morning," Quenthel said.

“And good morning to you. I am ready to go.” Errando smiled as he scooped up his bags and waited for the next, more perilous chapter of his Nalayan adventure to begin. Maybe it would end sooner than he anticipated…but maybe not. He was content to do as he was going to do and let the Gods decide the rest.

[Nalaya]

Departure
Sevan, Nalaya

Quenthel nodded. Her own bag was waiting for her by her bare feet. It did not have much in it but clothes and few basic amenities. She carried a copy of the Linath with her, albeit one printed on paper in the form of a standard book rather than the scrolls that the original had been written upon. The ancient paper that had once contained that sacred text had long ago been destroyed simply by the marches of times, but it was copied diligently every hundred years so that the verses forever were preserved. There were copies in every shrine and temple of the faith, along with the home of the average follower, so it would never be lost. It was a thing that had existed for as long as her people had writing, and it predated even that in the sung and spoken form. Once it had been scratched on hides and painted on stone—now it was printed with a modern press hundreds of copies at a time in multiple languages. It was a strange, almost jarring thought. Her personal copy was old and well thumbed, handed down for the past hundred years in her family. The spine had been repaired many times and the cover replaced, but at its heart it was the same book smelling of vanilla pages and aged ink.

Her lips twitched up into a little smile at his clothing. He would be hot by the time they reached the train station in all of that, though the morning was cool enough not to be too unpleasant. Thankfully, the trains possessed air conditioning, otherwise the journey would have been a miserable one even for her—and she was someone used to the feel of a hot sun beating down on her. "If you have everything, let us go. And with haste. The train leaves in half an hour." She shouldered the strap of her canvas bag and started walking, confident that he would follow without difficulty. She would have offered to help him with his bags, but such was a thing often rebuffed by men. It was not unappreciated, just like having the door held open. She respected anyone with such manners.

Quenthel lead the way out of the halls of the Zoranots'in and into the city proper, nodded to by security guards. They were less attentive to those leaving than to those entering and she was known to them. After all, she was here at the request of the Protector and the order of the Dread Wolf. The Quarval-sharess did not make requests.

Sevan was bustling away, more active by far in the morning than it had been the previous afternoon. Before the sun rose high and the heat turned everything sluggish and slow, people worked hard to perform their basic chores. Many were in transit to work, which bogged down the narrow streets. By Quenthel's estimation, they would barely make it to the platform before the train left. It was her own fault for delaying so. The temptation of a long hot shower had been overwhelming.

After quite some time of struggling through traffic and narrowly avoiding collisions with other people, they made it to the train station. There was security to pass through, but it was brief and efficient. Errando earned a look of bemusement and even puzzlement for his battle axe, but he was clearly foreign and so the soldiers running the checkpoint shrugged it off. They had probably seen stranger things, Quenthel supposed.

The train had an electric engine, but it was meant for traveling the long distances out to the Homeland and the Highlands, and as such it was in the style of a much older train complete with compartments. Quenthel passed over their tickets to the conductor and let him lead them through the car to their own compartment. It was a comfortable space with windows that looked out into the station. Later, they would provide a beautiful view of the rolling hills, mountains, and farmland that made up much of the domain of the Arusai.

Quenthel settled into a seat by the window. The compartment was designed for four people, but the other two places were vacant. For now they were alone, though it was possible that someone would board to occupy the space at a later stop. They were underway now and the chance to back out of this was past, though she knew Errando would not have changed his mind. His stubborn bravery was endearing, if perhaps dangerous. She studied Errando with her sapphire eyes, contemplating what to talk about. There was much to explain about the Yath, but she did not know where to begin. The knowledge had been a part of her for her whole life, as imprinted upon her being as walking or breathing. It was confusing to speak to someone on the subject when they had no reference point for something so natural to her.

"We are set on course now for the City of Splinters," she explained. "We call Karsoluthiyl that because it is where the world of my people meets the world of the others. For many generations it has been a place where peace fractures. It is also the political center of the Mak'ur, where the Ilharnen and Ilharessen meet. They are the leaders of the factions that govern our people, each hailing from one of the great tribes. The name is sometimes appropriate to that as well. There are...divisions, but most are not obvious despite our nature."

No one group controlled power, and that meant a certain amount of machination. Obtaining and keeping power was a central goal to the Mak'ur, but they were very rarely permitted to pursue it violently among their own people. The Quarval-sharess and the Yath allowed for a healthy amount of chaos, but anyone who threatened to destabilize the structures of society too much faced a brutal punishment. A renegade faction could be obliterated easily by the influence and force that the Yath wielded. Because of this, the C'rintrin moved in subtle ways and made plays for power that were less direct, though each maintained a monopoly of power amongst their own kith and kin. There were displays of personal violence rather than open warfare, motions that forced opponents into risky and foolish decisions, and jockeying for the favor of the Quarval-sharess and the Yath by extension. It was a climate of permanent change, alliances and rivalries shifting like sand beneath water.

Most of this was of course confined to Karsoluthiyl. Such politics were not permitted within the Holy City, for example. Anyone who violated the sanctity of Dyvynasshar would wish that they had never tasted the breath of life. Still, the nature of the Mak'ur political structure was cutthroat—often quite literally.

"If you have questions about what is to come, or anything that springs to mind, speak. I will endeavor not to bore you," Quenthel said with a smile, trying her best to be welcoming about it. Curiosity was good. It meant he might internalize something that would protect him. "I doubt you were briefed anything on my people, so I understand that it is probably quite strange. Latin is still spoken in the city, but much more rarely. I am afraid you will have to rely upon me for translation."

[Ghant]

Departure
Sevan, Nalaya

Quenthel nodded. Her lips twitched up into a little smile at his clothing. "If you have everything, let us go. And with haste. The train leaves in half an hour." She shouldered the strap of her canvas bag and started walking. Errando, with bags in hand, stayed close behind her.

She lead the way out of the halls of the Zoranots'in and into the city proper. After quite some time of struggling through traffic and narrowly avoiding collisions with other people, they made it to the train station. They passed through security, while Errando earned a look of bemusement and even puzzlement for his battle axe in the sack on his back. It is better to have something when you don’t need it, than to not have it when you do, Errando thought.

Quenthel passed over their tickets to the conductor and let him lead them through the car to their own compartment. It was a comfortable space with windows that looked out into the station. This seems nice, Errando thought, as he put his bags away and sat down, making himself comfortable. “This is pretty cozy, wouldn’t you say?” Errando asked, his red eyes twinkling as he studied it and what he could see beyond the windows.

With eyes like sapphires, she took the opportunity to explain some things about where they were going and what they would encounter. Then, of course, she offered to answer questions about it in order to help him understand.

He again noted the contrast between his red eyes and black hair, with her blue eyes and light colored hair. Also the tattoos, in particular the one splitting her chin from her bottom lip. It would have been interesting for somebody to see them next to each other, that he didn’t doubt.

Errando wasn’t going to waste this opportunity. “Well, I suppose you speaking for me will help to eliminate the possibility for miscommunications.” Errando smiled. “Might I digress, it would seem as there is some time we have before we get there. I would like to use it to learn as much as I can about the things that I might need to know. Such as, what are some of the reasons for the divisions between the great tribes?” he asked, out of curiosity. He suspected that the more he knew, the better off he was going to be. Then he asked another question. “Also, it would help to know what I should avoid doing…to better prevent a possibly untimely death. You told me it can happen fast, with the flick of a wrist upon an unsuspecting throat. Any way I can minimize the possibility of that coming to fruition, I would like to explore.”

The battleaxe in his bag wouldn’t save him from the Quarval-sharess if she wanted him dead. Errando might have been seasoned, but from what he had heard of her, he would be totally at her mercy. He didn’t like that, nor the thought of being cut down at a whim by her either. But he didn’t have a choice…he wasn’t necessarily afraid, per say, but he was anxious about it. Why wouldn’t he be? There was much riding upon it…his life notwithstanding.

[Nalaya]

On the Train
Sevan, Nalaya

"Very comfortable," Quenthel replied when Errando commented on the train. "I prefer to travel this way. The roads take longer and I find cars less comfortable. One cannot lie down and sleep while driving, unfortunately." She said it with a little smile of amusement.

But then of course he took her up on her offer of information. She was glad of it, even if it meant her mind would have to work hard.

Quenthel pursed her lips, contemplating the nature of Errando's questions. Neither his inquiry into the divisions nor his request for information on what not to do was an easy query to answer. "There are two universal forces to my people. The first, above all other things, is faith. It defines us as a people. L'i'dol is the heart and soul of my people. Its law supersedes all other laws and is enforced by the Quarval-sharess and the Yath. It provides order and structure to our world in a way nothing else can. This is because the Quarval-sharess and the Yath wield the power of the divine. There is one law in Karsoluthiyl—those with the power make the law."

"The second is power. The quest for dominance within the Mak'ur is central to the tenets of our faith and as such it defines every aspect of our lives. We are a warlike people ruled by our passions. It is not a bad thing, but it means that we must be kept in check. Those restraints, applied by the Quarval-sharess, mean that we must express our war-like behavior in less...open ways. The divisions have always been there, and for as long as we have had civilization, they have been controlled. The network of favors and alliances that makes up each qu'ilinasar, each faction, is constantly shifting as each person works to increase their own personal power. New quarrels and rivalries spring up every day, just as some end every day. It is...complicated."

Quenthel had always seen her world from the top down. Being Yath had automatically elevated her status above even the C'rintrin, though it was a very different kind of power. She did not have to rule as they did nor jockey for power. Instead, she was able to devote herself to prayer and pursuit of the holy. She had chosen to attempt to become detholusin when she was very young and had managed the feat despite that youth. It meant that in many ways, she was removed from the constant struggle to be the best that was Mak'ur life. Of course, there were many who found a niche where they were satisfied and no longer did they run in the race, but there was a certain expectation of achievement before that.

She smiled ruefully. "As for what you can do, it is difficult to say. There is a fine line to walk between not being submissive and issuing a challenge. The first step is of course manners, to address every one by their proper rank if they possess one. Where the Arusai will let things slide, the Mak'ur will not. The average citizen will not mind if you use their name without honorific. However, we will be dealing in a large way with the Yath and they demand the respect that they are owed. The easiest way to remember is this: if the tattoo is green, Honored is the honorific; if the tattoo is black or blue, Revered is the honorific; if the tattoo is black edged in red, Most Revered is the honorific. If you know what rank they hold, you may use that in place of their name. Yath'abban are green, yathrin are black, yatharil are blue, yathallar are black edged in red. The tattoos of the Quarval-sharess are black, but it will be obvious who she is by the actions of those around her."

Quenthel laughed slightly. "You are getting a crash course in our society's echelons of power. The main thing to be aware of is that you should be careful whose eyes you meet for any length of time. Too long a stare is a challenge. And you must never meet the eyes of the Quarval-sharess. As much respect as I afford you, you are still og'elend and that means you are an outsider. Not all who worship in the faith are Mak'ur, so there will be others who appear out of place. There are even Yath who are not born of my people. But you are foreign and you do not follow L'i'dol. You lack that right to belong."

She stretched lazily, like a big cat, and yawned slightly. Then she gave Errando a smile that she hoped was reassuring. "It is fortunate, actually, that we are meeting with the Yath. They are much harder to mistake for an average than the C'rintrin. One would have to be blind. Is there anything else that you wish to know?"

The train was pulling out of the station now, beginning its long and winding journey towards Karsoluthiyl. Soon they were underway, the green of groves and grass rolling past along with the gold of wheat fields. It did not take long, as it was not very far out of Sevan, for the country to become rural.

[Ghant]

On the Train
Sevan, Nalaya

“Aye, I have a truck that I sometimes drive in the warmer months, but I much prefer to ride horses. Personal taste, I suppose.” Errando chuckled. A strange thing to think about in regards to his homeland, was that there was a tenuous balance between tradition and progression, between old and new. Many people had cars, computers, tablets, cell phones, televisions and gaming systems, while others eschewed those things for the traditional way of life. Things like horses, books, melee weapons, etc.

In response to Quenthel’s explanations and her question if he wanted to know more, Errando couldn’t help but pick her brain. He asked for an elaboration. “…Can you tell me more about L'i'dol?” Errando asked. Rather boldly, he followed that up with another question…one that was almost like an elephant in the room up to that point. “…And what of the consumption of manflesh? Could you…tell me more of that…is it true?”

Errando was finally beginning to put one plus two together about notions of formality and manners in Nalaya. He began to see such things as a sort of safety net…a mechanism by which to mitigate violence by providing order and structure that everyone could easily understand and abide by. This was perhaps why Nalayans took manners so seriously…it was at the core of their nation, a central theme in what they were trying to achieve in the way of a semblance of unity and peace. Hence, any threat against manners was a threat against Nalaya. Not unlike how Ghant felt about balance.

Alas, in many sections of Ghantish society, manners were sorely lacking, as it was not uncommon for Errando and his family to be disrespected openly by those that could get away with it. House Odolaren was looked down upon and alienated in Ghant, despite their status as a Great House and one of very few that could boast of being “Kings.” A hollow crown, it was oft said. They could be honorable, virtuous and noble, but as long as people thought they were prone to cause trouble and that they had savage beliefs, they would never be respected.

“…Also, can you tell me more about these qu'ilinasars. How do you feel about them?” Errando asked her curiously. The concept didn’t seem unlike Ghantish clans and tribes, which were more prevalent to the west of where Errando was from as opposed to his own province, which mostly consisted of sleepy, provincial towns and great manors, castles and estates belong to the nobility. There were wild peoples that lived in the forests though on the border of Odolargia and Eskura though…nasty, savage folk that practiced ancient rites and were prone to violence. Zorgindutako was not a place that Errando wanted to go if he could avoid it.

Errando was beginning to see that there would need to be balance between appearing too weak and appearing too strong. A delicate tightrope that could result in death if that balance was lost. “…Lastly, do you have any ideas as to how I can appear not too weak but also not too strong…besides the proper manners, of course?”

Errando studied the changing scenery…the departure of Sevan and the entrance into the countryside. Fields of green and fields of gold. It seemed somewhat peaceful. It might be the last peaceful thing he would see in a long time.

[Nalaya]

On the Train
Between Cities, Nalaya

"L'i'dol is the embracing of the primal. The nature of the divine is wild and passionate, untempered by the trappings of civilization. This is at its purest in the world of nature and as such we seek to emulate its power, best seen in the spirits of predators. What is man but one of these?" Quenthel said. It was difficult to explain in Latin as she lacked many of the special, almost technical and sacred words. "But it is more than that too. It means...sacrifice. The Yath give up worldly ties and things to become closer to that which created everything and the spirits that inhabit the world all around us. Everything, alive and not alive, has a spirit. Every spirit has z'ress and it is their essence that we commune with. We humans look upon the world and we think we know it, but our perceptions are limited. It is by leaving the bonds that shutter our eyes through emotion that we break our own chains of mortality and egocentrism."

The consumption of the flesh of another human being was not something Quenthel was unfamiliar with. It was always a question at the forefront of strangers' minds. "That...let us call it legend...has its root in truth," she said, not uncomfortable explaining it. It was not the first time that she had needed to explain it. "There is a long tradition of predation in the Mak'ur peoples, though I have never engaged in it myself. It is something reserved for the most hated of enemies. It is not a thing of hunger or something done for sport—it is done rarely, and solely to inspire fear. It has served that purpose very well. After all, that is all that most know of us. But it is not a religious rite. It is cultural. Predatory cannibalism in Nalaya is unique to the Mak'ur. All that said, you need not fear becoming a meal. Even those who displease the Quarval-sharess to the point of deserving death do not find that end in a time of peace."

She trusted Errando enough to expend the effort to explain. She knew that he sought merely to understand. She still expected judgment and perhaps even recrimination, but that was a normal reaction as far as she understood. There was a reason her people frightened others, as she said. It was designed to do exactly that. Such stories kept people out of their territory and away from sacred spaces. She gave him a smile that was almost tentative. "Surely Ghant has its own traditions in such a vein, though perhaps not to our extreme."

Quenthel cleared her throat a little and moved on to address his question regarding the structures of power. "The qu'ilinasar are necessary. Not only do they keep things balanced—they also bring and hold people together. They are shifting constantly like sand, but there is still order to it. But I am no longer tied to them as a yathrin. The Yath are...apart. Sometimes I think upon the qu'ilinasar that I was born to with longing, but more often I am relieved. The ties of the Yath are more concrete, though even they may change with a strong enough wind."

She did not say it, but she knew that this situation with Errando could be one such wind. If things went badly, her reputation could quite easily be damaged. She was putting her trust into him to some degree. "There are seven great qu'ilinasar and many smaller ones. Together their c'rintrin, their representatives, rule supposedly as equals...but some are more equal than others."

Finally, she came to his question on how to present himself. It was a complicated one. "The danger is not appearing too strong—there is no such thing. The danger is presenting a challenge that cannot be ignored. Manners are a good place to begin, but one cannot be too conciliatory. This is a question only you can answer, to be truthful. Everyone finds their own way to express themselves. Show that you are not afraid to answer a challenge, but that you are respectful of whose ground you tread upon. Karsoluthiyl requires some cunning to navigate, particularly among the C'rintrin. Hopefully we will avoid their notice. They might attempt to take advantage of a foreigner of influence in the city, as you would be an unknown element."

Outside a serene countryside rolled by, but they were drawing ever closer to the mountains and thus the Chath Niar'hannin, the great river that divided the lands of the Mak'ur and the Arusai. Its churning white waters were some hours away, however. She had a question of her own. "Tell me of your House, Errando. I know that is as close as a foreigner comes to a qu'ilinasar, though most are so small that we would call them ka'lum."