[Firefoot]

It took all of Siamak’s willpower to remain standing there firmly after Gjeelea’s cutting remark. Was that what she thought of him? Had she played him for a fool, always knowing that they should be accepting of the alliance? But no, the High Priestess had said that Gjeelea had been seeking advice, same as he, only that morning. So why, then, the swift jab? And in front of the whole court! He yearned to simply slink away unnoticed. Wait! Could that be what she wanted? To humiliate him, to make him flee as she so often had? Why? To what end? He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. She was so strong, so confident. Could it be... that she felt threatened by him? Preposterous.

“...See to it, my children, that all preparations are made for your mother’s journey.” His father had been talking. Siamak hoped he had missed nothing important. “I will retire to my chambers until tomorrow so that I may take counsel with my heart about this day. Let it be known that any who disturb me shall receive the direst punishment.” He watched his father descend from the dais and leave the room. Now what? he wondered uneasily. He did not have much to do for his mother’s preparation until the actual funeral; most of what needed to be done was for the women. He wished he had a plausible reason to leave the great hall immediately - though he thought he understood his sister more, it changed his reaction little. More seeds of self-doubt had been sown, and already they were taking root. If that was how his sister saw him, how did the rest of the court view him? Had the choice to accept the alliance been so clear to all of them, too?

Only his sense of duty and his newly-acquired knowledge from the General kept him in the court for as long as was proper. He mingled among the rest of the nobles, accepting their condolences and doing his best to assure them that the conflict with Alanzia would be settled quickly, and that there would be no such war as there had been only a quarter of a century before, even though he could promise no such thing, only hope for it. Finally, Siamak felt he could properly take his leave. Few remained in the hall, and none marked his passage as anything unusual. Once alone, however, he wandered the corridors of the palace like a lost dog, knowing not where to go. He did not want to go to his chambers, for there he would be utterly alone. Yet, he did not want the company of others either. So he kept walking, staying to the lesser-used hallways and passages that he knew so well. It was dark, for the torches had not been lit, but Siamak cared not. He could not reconcile it to himself that his mother - beautiful, regal, and queen in every sense of the word - was dead, cruelly killed by an unknown murderer.

His feet wandered aimlessly, it seemed to him, until he came to the gardens. Not the public ones, either, but the private ones restricted to all but a few. And finally, it seemed he had a stroke of luck: in the chaos of the palace, the guards did not hold their usual positions. He did not heed the still-pouring rain and went out, going quickly and directly to his mother’s gardens. Beneath her window high above there were a few small stone statues, broken, as if they had been pushed from the window. A reddish tint could be seen in the puddles. He had not heard it before, but it seemed to him that his mother had been thrown bodily from her rooms. It made his heart sick.

Only now, in the solitude of his mother’s gardens, did Siamak let his grief go. He fell kneeling before the statue of Rhais, as his mother so often had, his body shaking with silent sobs.

A message came unbidden to his mind. You are strong, Siamak, stronger than you know. The voice was comforting, its tones smooth and strong; familiar, somehow. Use that strength, my son. And be wary...

“Mother?” asked Siamak aloud. But the voice had gone. He was alone.