[Firefoot]

Siamak felt stiff as a board as he and Gjeelea began the entrance of the royal family. He wanted so dearly to make his father proud of him, to make him see that he was more fit for the throne than his sister. Next to him, she was all ease and grace, and Siamak felt surely he could never do better than that. He kept his head up, with an effort, though it was dreadfully uncomfortable to have all the nobles seemingly staring at him. He knew they were more likely watching his father, but that was not how it felt.

“Presenting His Majesty, King Faroz, ruler of Pashtia.” Siamak recognized the voice of the Chamberlain. “Her Majesty, Queen Bekah, and their children Princess Gjeelea and Prince Siamak.” Siamak felt his ears heating, and hoped that his face was not turning red as well. It was only made worse by his sister’s intimidating presence by his side. There were bows from the men and curtsies from the ladies as they passed, and that helped, at least a little, because it took their eyes off them for a few seconds.

His relief was immense when they finally reached the table of the king. His father sat at the head, as was customary, with his mother at his right. A space was saved for the Emissary at the king’s left, and he joined them shortly. Siamak took the seat beside his mother, honoring the wishes of his father that they sit together this night. Gjeelea sat across from him, beside the Emissary. Siamak was intrigued at his first sight of the Emissary up close. He was nothing but courteous, and there was an air of power and nobility about him. Siamak still felt wary of him, though as before he could see no reason for it. There was no reason to suspect him of malice and treachery. It confused Siamak immensely.

The few remaining places at the table were quickly filled by three Avari, who Siamak recognized readily: the General, Morgôs; his wife, Arlomë; and their son, Evrathol. He was good at remembering faces and names, and prided himself on it. He tried to recall whether he had heard that they would be dining with them, and wondered if he should not have let them have the seats closer to the king, since they were the guests. It was too late now, he supposed. Morgôs occupied the seat next to him, and Siamak greeted him saying, “Good evening to you, General Morgôs.” Siamak had never actually met the general except on formal occasions, but had found him to be pleasant: not so petty and conniving as many of the nobles were.

“And to you, Prince Siamak,” Morgôs responded politely. Siamak wasn’t exactly what to say next, but he was saved by the servants who had quickly brought out a multitude of platters holding all the finest meats and tasty sides. Siamak’s mouth watered at the scent. A glance around the banquet hall showed that the remainder of the people had seated themselves, and all were waiting for the signal that they could begin to eat.