[Kransha]

The words of the King presented a great surprise to all in the room, though some pretended not to be flustered, and feigned full understanding. Morgôs did not need to pretend for, even though he was taken aback by Faroz’ statement, his nature did not reflect his surprise. He looked, to the wandering eye of others, to be as calm and collected as any man would be on an average day, with naught to do but be calm. Inwardly, he was reeling, his mind racing. This proclamation by the king was more than controversial, it was dangerous. Faroz, even in his ‘naïveté’ as he and the Emissary had discussed, was not inept or witless. He knew that his daughter was no firm rock in a tempest sea, nor was she any bastion of safety. Her decision might well be too wistful, too passing and fleeting, not befitting of such a crucial decision. Decisiveness was something Morgôs valued, but he always had the time to consider options, a perk of immortality. Being overly decisive was a sure path to dissolution. It was not a healthy idea to place the crown so early on his children’s head before an heir had been chosen.

Faroz’s parents had been rash as well, and Morgôs remembered his severe rejection of their choice to marry young Faroz to the heiress of Alanzia. A silly political scheme it had been, one meant to sway the fickle hearts of commoners. This was the same, a ploy, nearly condescending to many, but Morgôs saw through it. Truly, Faroz was an honest man, if not a cruelly efficient one, and this plan would work to his advantage. A transfer of regency to his children would do more than just decide the matter of the Emissary, but it would allow Faroz to glimpse his two offspring making an important decision, and how they went about it, which would help him make his own decision about who his heir would be. Also, as dank as the thought he entertained was, this might also be an easy method to shift some responsibility from the shoulders of Faroz, leaving him in power, but effectively removing the blame for any wrongness of his youthful children. But, Morgôs knew the King better than this. That was not his keenest motivation.

Either way, the situation gravely troubled General Morgôs. He trusted Prince Siamak, from what he’d heard, but did not fully allot that trust to Gjeelea, who might hold greater sway over the decision at hand because of her commanding air and strength in the court. She had the nature of a youthful woman, full of folly, as Morgôs had been told. The Elf wished that he knew more, that he had met one of the two royal progeny on one occasion, but he had not, and he regretted his avoidance of social functions. He knew too little of those who would someday rule, and did not have the time to learn, as he had with the Kings of yore, Faroz’s forefathers.

Faroz had spoke of earlier of Morgôs career, truthfully, as if the General were an antique of great value to him. Since Faroz was a boy, Morgôs had trained him in the ways of war, so that he might learn the ways of strategy, tactics, and of the military essentials that one might need to govern. Nine generations of Pashtian kings had been trained by Morgôs in those ways, tutored by him. This would be the first generation in two centuries that would not place a ruler on the throne who he intimately knew. He had not taught either Siamak or Gjeelea, and though they were both more than a decade old, he had met neither of them formally until this very night, and only knew them from hearsay, and the reports of courtiers in the King’s halls. Morgôs had not offered to tutor young Siamak, because of the long-running debate as to whether he would be King or not, and he had some qualms about teaching Gjeelea. He supposed that, whenever the King chose an heir, he would have to teach that one at least a little, to prepare him or her for the throne. He admitted that he would've liked to train Siamak, if only to know him better, but Siamak seemed gravely hesitant, which effected Morgôs adversely.

Now, Morgôs did not feel at ease with the situation. He worried for the present, and the choices that would be made. He had long hoped to secrete some manner of alliance between himself and the young Prince, who he had just now met, and this seemed a perfect time to distill a drop of his influence in the boy. The Elf fleetingly decided what he would do, a swift endeavor, hasty for him, but a promising one as well. Studiously, he leaned forward against the table’s edge and directed his gaze at Siamak. “Prince Siamak,” he said, as Queen Bekah, Faroz, and the Emissary talked of other things nearby, “may I speak with you after the banquet? I have a matter which must be discussed to speak of.”

Siamak looked at first flustered, but, after a pensive second, nodded, and looked with just concern to his father, who was mulling over a question from his wife. “If my father allows it, I would be honored.” Said the Prince, shy, but obviously interested in the prospect. He seemed to have taken to the General right away, which was a definite bonus. Without polite hesitation, Morgôs whipped around in his seat to the King and interrupted his conversation. “Your majesty?” He said, assuming that the King had heard the exchange. He had, as the Avari quickly learned.

“So long as you do not enchant the mind of my son with your sly mind, Morgôs.” Faroz said, smiling, interjecting the words as a side-note to the General before he prepared to resume his other dialogue. The General realized the nature of his rudeness, severing the King’s train of thought with his terse words. “I could not, milord.” He said quietly, not meaning to disturb the King, with an apologetic gesture, “I am too enchanted myself to attempt such a feat.” Faroz turned to him again, very patient despite the continual interruptions of his Elven commander. “I cannot control my son’s conversations, General.” He said then, “You need not gain my permission.”

With a simple motion, the Elf bowed his head, “You are as judicious as you are wise, you majesty.”

“I need not flattery from you, Morgôs,” said Faroz in response, “it does not suit you.” The king the turned to his wife and the Emissary, to resume where they’d left off, but, before he did, Queen Bekah leaned towards him and whispered something silently into his ear. He shot a glance at Morgôs as she spoke to him, and the General could not help but wonder what she said, but tried not to think of the suspicions the Queen held, or the praises, or whatever it might be that she now told the King. With a disquieted look, Faroz began to answer the question that the Queen had asked a minute ago, and Morgôs looked sharply at the Prince, who returned the look, confirming that they would parley after the festivities had concluded.