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Bekah was pleased that the banquet did justice to the King's stature and to the skill and talent of the palace servants. The cedar and myrrh were burning in the tall standards. The food was arrayed splendidly and spoke of the variety of fleshes, both of meat and of plant, which Pashtia had to prepare. Bekah made a note to remember to commend them tomorrow, after a public acknowledgement here before the music and entertainments began.
She had watched the Emissary partake of his first eastern feast. After the polite address of bowing to her when Faroz introduced her, he had not paid her much attention, but focussed upon the King for aid in learning the various foods and manners of eating, which Faroz had been eager to give. Flat bread he had never seen, nor the variety of sweet and savory sauces in which to dip it. He was a skilled conversationalist, she saw, for he used the food as a topic of conversation, adroitly avoiding any discussion of his country or his Lord's purpose, addressing Morgňs about ancient avari breads and Faroz about the minced meat and spices wrapped in vine leaves. Fresh figs he had never seen.
"Your Majesty," he had said, "what might I expect from this delicacy? And how shall I eat it?"
The King had laughed and picked up a large fig from the platter. "You must first cut it just so," demonstrating with his knife how to make two crossed slashes. "Then, you must hold the thick skin apart and sink your teeth into the soft mushy flesh. Here." And before anyone could demonstrate how to do that, Faroz held the fig up the Emissary's mouth and bid him bite in. Bekah did not know if she should be shocked at the familiarity or applaud Faroz's skill in attempting to see if he could throw the Emissary off his calm demeanour. As a ruse, it had not worked, for the Emissary had merely taken a courteous bite, laughed, and wiped the sweet sticky juice from his chin with his fingers.
"And it is appropriate to lick them?" he had asked her, one of the rare times he had shown her any notice. Bekah had merely bowed her head in acknowledgement, her cordial set smile taking the place of words. He barely noticed her; not once did their eyes meet. Was he avoiding her? she wondered.
She sat back against the cushions which were nestled around the low table and spoke with her son. He was shy, but when spoken to he warmed to the conversation. He is a good boy, she thought to herself. He needs some kind of project which interests him where he can demonstrate his skills to his father. She looked around the room for their daughter, but in the rapid movement of servants and the bustle of voices she could not make out Gjeela. She caught the glances of the High Priestess and Priest, however, and realised that they soon should be introduced to the Emissary.
For the time being, however, she spoke a few words with Alomë, who had been so responsible in helping her overcome her fear of the avari. Public fear, that is to say. In her heart Bekah still found the elven longevity and superiority frightening and often wondering how they could stand the weakness and foibles of the lesser-lived men with whom they lived here in Pashia. When she looked back at her husband and the Emissary, she saw them engaged in a merry, light-hearted conversation into which they were attempting to draw Morgňs. Except for his rudeness in avoiding her directly, he was a charming man, Bekah realised. And her husband looked younger and happier, caught in the rapport of eager talk rather than formal manners. Yet she would never have survived in Pashtia without those manners.
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