A/N: Happy Solstice! Today is also the 23rd anniversary of the release of the first Baldur's Gate game, so this chapter is to celebrate winter and 23 years of my favourite game series!
Hour 20 Hammer 12, 1371 DR
They were given only a few short hours to acquire appropriate attire for this dinner, but it certainly helped that Eston Gaevyn was using his money and influence to make it happen for them. Both Syrin and Rasaad had grown up within humble means, so showing up to this event bedecked in such extravagant silks felt rather excessive, but Eston assured them that their host would be offended by anything less, being not just a pasha, but also, more importantly, a massatyr, which was the Calishite equivalent of a baron. Rasaad was able to get away with a little more simplicity, since he had the excuse of being a monk of Selûne, but Syrin was not so lucky. The seamstress at the Sufontis market put her in a flowing black aba with gold detailing along the hems that was so elaborate that she said "I couldn't possibly" no less than three times in the shop. The last time she'd worn anything even close to this level of elegance was at the gratitude ceremony in Suldanessellar.
When they finally arrived at the massatyr's palatial home, they realized that, for all their fussing, their attire was not nearly as extravagant as the place they were visiting. The grounds alone exuded wealth, from the large mosaic fountain to the abundant beds of flowers which perfumed the air with their sweat herbal scent. The intricate geometric patterns that made up the walls and the walkways were inlaid with so much gold that Syrin estimated that a single square foot of their path could pay 2 years of a farmer's wages.
"If this is a massatyr's home, I cannot conceive of what the caleph's palace must look like," Syrin commented as they made their way to the front doors. Rasaad pulled a little bit of a face in response, as if to say, "yeah, that's the upper crust of Calimshan for you". She had noticed that he seemed rather uncomfortable with this whole scenario, and she couldn't say that she blamed him. He had been born poor in a kingdom with a heavily enforced class system and had been raised in an order that valued frugal living. How strange it must be for him to mingle with the rich. Syrin subtly reached out and took his hand in support, and he gave her a small but appreciative smile in return.
A pair of guards opened the doors for them and the Gaevyns, and they came in to an interior that was even more lavishly appointed than the grounds. Silk drapings, intricately patterned rugs, and ornate lamps decorated every corridor and every room. Celthica gazed at everything in awe and commented a few times as they were guided through the house that the estates in Waterdeep were almost boring in comparison.
"That, I think, is a matter of perspective. You are amazed by this, but not by your own home, because it is new to you. I have little doubt that there are many among the Calishite nobility who would consider your home quite charming compared to their own, simply because it is unfamiliar," Rasaad told Celthica sagely, and Syrin recalled how interesting he had found Baldur's Gate when they had first arrived there.
"Maybe you should come back to Waterdeep with us!" The girl's eyes were wide like she'd had a stroke of genius, and Syrin was genuinely honored that such an invitation had been extended, but before she could give a response, Eston gestured for them to be quiet, as they were about to be led into the banquet hall.
Inside, they found several plush cushions placed around a very long mat like chairs around a table. There were already a few people seated, being served by dutiful attendants and talking amongst each other. In the place of honor was the man who was undoubtedly the massatyr himself. He was a tall, thin man with a very full and well-kept beard, and he was adorned with a great deal of gold. Both he and the other guests stopped when the group of newcomers entered, looking at them with interest. A young man in a servant's uniform stepped forward to introduce them.
"Pasha Eston yn Argen el Gaevyn yi Waterdeep wa uzha byr Celthica." Eston and Celthica stepped forward at this and each gave the massatyr a respectful bow, which the massatyr returned with a nod. They then made way for Syrin and Rasaad, who stepped forward nervously. "Rasaad yn Bashir el Selûne wa uzha zawa Syrin," the attendant said, and they both winced slightly at Syrin being introduced merely as Rasaad's wife, but knew better than to challenge it. The couple bowed to the massatyr, and they received the approving nod, allowing Eston to take them all over to be seated at places near the host.
Rasaad stiffened slightly when he looked at the guest across from whom he'd been seated: a man of 50 or so with red skin, golden eyes, pointed ears, and silky orange hair that rippled on its own and morphed into actual fire at the ends. A fire genasi. And Rasaad seemed to recognize him. Syrin squeezed her husband's hand and made a note to ask him about it later.
"Welcome, welcome! It is good to see you, my friend!" the massatyr greeted Eston warmly. "Unfortunately, my daughter could not join us this evening; she has taken ill." Syrin and Rasaad exchanged a glance at this. Did Tomi know or even care how much trouble he'd gotten this poor girl in? Both of them severely hoped that she hadn't been physically harmed.
"Ah, that's a shame. I do hope she feels better soon," Eston replied.
"With any luck. With any luck." The expression on Massatyr Badhir's face was very much one of a parent hoping their unruly child will see sense, but quickly recovered to a mood of jovial curiosity. "But do tell me about your friends." He gestured to Syrin and Rasaad, and Eston's face lit up.
"Syrin and Rasaad have been taking care of my daughter and keeping us safe during our desert crossing. They are extraordinarily capable. I saw them single-handedly take down a dragon."
"Ah yes, word has reached me of this dragon attack. I am honored to have such accomplished warriors sharing my meal." Badhir looked at the couple with astonishment and fascination, a look they had seen many times by now, but had never quite grown comfortable with.
"The honor is ours," Rasaad responded with an appreciative nod, although Syrin could tell that he was just being appropriately polite. He had no desire for the approval of the excessively wealthy, though he received it anyway.
"What manner of warriors are you? What are your talents, I mean?" the fire genasi chimed in, suddenly quite invested in the conversation. Syrin felt Rasaad's grip tighten around her hand, and she chose to answer for them both.
"My husband is a monk expertly trained in many martial arts. I'm simply good with the sword and the bow." The fact that she had spoken for her husband seemed to take many of the people around them by surprise, like a piece of furniture had said something to them out of the blue, but none of them called her out for her faux pas.
"I see." The look of interest in the genasi's golden eyes made Syrin genuinely uncomfortable, but she, like the other guests, did her best to not make her true feelings obvious. This was of course aided by the fact that she had not yet removed her veil, so they had only her eyes to read.
"This is my friend, Pasha Sabbalad Edraz yn Dirak el Nariim. You must forgive him his curiosity; he has a great appreciation for a warrior's skill and sponsors many of the arena events here in the city," Badhir explained and Edraz grinned. If Syrin remembered correctly, sabbalad was the word for someone who ran an entire city district, certainly not someone to be trifled with. Rasaad clearly didn't like him for some very personal reason, because there was an angry light in her husband's eyes that she had not seen since his pursuit of Alorgoth. Whatever this Edraz fellow had done, however, he did not seem to recognize Rasaad, or if he did, he was expertly hiding it.
"Pasha Edraz, may I ask what you are pasha of?" Rasaad inquired, keeping his tone one of mild interest.
"My holdings are many, but chief among them is the masons' guild. As our dear host has said, however, my true passion lies in the arenas. You would do well to place your bets on my mamelukkar, especially at the Arena Efreetum." At this, Syrin began to piece together why Rasaad was so bothered by this man. The mamelukkar were the gladiator slaves that fought for the public's entertainment. Rasaad's father had been sentenced to be a mameluk when he could not repay his debts, and had been killed in the Arena Efreetum. Edraz may have been responsible for his death, and that would certainly explain Rasaad's behaviour.
"His mamelukkar receive some of the best gladiatorial training to be had in Calimport. You should attend the games later this tenday and see for yourself," Badhir suggested with a big smile, blissfully unaware of Rasaad's simmering anger and Syrin's disgust. Eston said something in response, but Syrin didn't hear; she was too busy monitoring Rasaad. He was maintaining a cordial demeanor, but she could see that he was struggling in the way he gripped her hand and squared his jaw. She rubbed her thumb over the back of his hand soothingly, not sure what else she could do here to help him through this. Coming to this dinner had been a foolish mistake.
An attendant came around to fill their cups with trika wine, but Syrin realized she probably shouldn't partake, even though trying the unique smelling drink would have been a welcome distraction.
"Only tea for me, thank you. I must abstain for, uh, my health," she declined quietly and a little awkwardly. The attendant nodded, taking the hint, but unfortunately, so did everyone else around her, despite her attempt to be discreet. The conversation she had been ignoring stopped, and they all turned to her like social sharks smelling fresh gossip. None of them made direct eye contact with her, since it was practically a criminal offense in these parts to look another man's wife in the eye, but they observed her nonetheless.
"Are we to congratulate you?" Badhir asked, stroking his beard. Syrin once again thanked the gods for her veil, because she was blushing intensely. Eston was staring at her, mouth slightly agape, and her embarrassment deepened as she remembered that he hadn't known she was pregnant.
"I, um…if you wish to."
"Forgive me, Massatyr, but Syrin is very shy about such matters," Rasaad added politely but firmly, trying to get across that this wasn't a topic they wished to discuss.
"Ah, of course. I meant no offense. May you have a strong and healthy son, dear lady." When Syrin gave a thankful nod in return, Badhir mercifully dropped the subject, and they were able to continue on through the dinner in relative peace, barring the aggravating presence of Edraz and the uncomfortable amount of attention Syrin got when she finally pulled aside her veil to eat. She spent most of the meal silently observing the interactions of the others and marveling at how Rasaad's crash course in Calishite social politics had taught her what to expect, but seeing it in action was quite different. Eston was clearly experienced working within these rules, because he seemed to have no trouble engaging with the host and the other guests on the same level.
When the meal was over and it was time to discuss business, Syrin was escorted to a room that led out into the gardens, and although she was bitter at being treated differently, she was admittedly grateful to be in a more peaceful setting, one that was close to nature no less. The scent of jasmine wafting through the night air and the steady burble of the fountain soothed her nerves. She drew her fingers absently across hanging vines and crawling plants beneath a trellis, sensing their vibrancy of life in the way rangers could.
"Your caretakers must be very proud of you all," she muttered to the greenery, and if plants could preen, these certainly were. She felt pride and joy from them at her words and she smiled. It was so good to see others finding value in what she had to say after being treated like a man's property all evening. Rasaad had warned her that this was how things were done by the traditionalists of his country, and no one liked to adhere to tradition more than the upper class which so greatly benefited from it, but actually being faced with it had been more than frustrating. It had reminded her of the tragic course her life had taken in the past couple of years.
Little of that time had been her choice. The world had taken and taken from her, passing her around from evil to evil like some chronic sacrifice on the alter of change. Again and again, she had been robbed of her freedom, her choice, her voice, and she had fought tooth and nail to take them back. She was a quiet person by nature, but it was everything to have the option to speak, and now, after having only just won her free will, tradition demanded her silence and obedience. It seemed such a small thing, just one little dinner party, just a few hours of playing a role in the pasha's political theatre, and yet it had hit her harder than she could ever have expected. Agency was a precious thing, and it kept slipping through her fingers like water.
Syrin's brooding thoughts were interrupted by a brief flit of motion at the corner of her eye. A bit of fabric she thought it was. Someone was here in the garden with her.
"I know you're there," she called out. There was a beat of stillness, and then a young woman appeared from behind a plant-covered lattice wall. She was slightly shorter than Syrin with a soft face and large brown eyes. She was dressed in clothes that were the very height of Calishite fashion, and her demeanor was apprehensive but curious.
"Are you one of my father's guests?" the young woman asked, her voice small but melodic. She was undoubtedly the Amala that Tomi had spoken of.
"Yes. Sort of. My name is Syrin yr Gorion. You must be Amala yr Hassinya." Syrin gave her name in Calishite form, not wishing to give any indication that she was an elf. Amala didn't seem the type to be weird about elves, but they didn't really know each other, so it was better to be cautious.
"Yes, I am Amala."
"A mutual acquaintance has mentioned you to me before."
"Oh? Who would that be?"
"Tomi Undergallows." The moment Syrin said the halfling's name, Amala's face lit up, and she finally approached.
"You know Tomi?! Tell me, do you know where he is? Is he safe?" This reaction wasn't quite what Syrin had expected, but it gave her an abundance of sympathy for Amala.
"I know exactly where he is, but I wouldn't exactly say he's safe. The authorities are looking for him." At this, deep worry became etched in Amala's features, and she began to wring her hands.
"My father will order them to keep hunting Tomi until they have him." She put her face in her hands, growing more despondent by the second. "Oh, what have I done? He is going to get hurt because of me."
"I may be able to help him," Syrin offered, and Amala looked up at her in surprise.
"You would do this? You would take such a risk? What is your price?"
"No price. I know what it's like to have no control over your life because of your father and to feel guilt over the things he does to others because of you. Seeing you win against him is reward enough for me." Amala's astonishment doubled at this, but then it faded into understanding, and she reached out to take Syrin's hand.
"Then you are a friend indeed. Come, I would like to show you something that I think you will appreciate." Amala led her just beyond the gardens to a small paddock where three slender horses wandered about. They had high tails and narrow snouts, marking them as the breed unique to Calimshan. Rasaad had once told her that Calishite horses were among the fastest and smartest in the world, and the nobles who typically owned them held a great deal of pride and affection for them. Amala was clearly one such person, as she began to tell Syrin all about her family's horses, their names, their temperaments, their accomplishments at races, everything. Syrin wasn't used to experiencing animals in this way, but she listened nonetheless.
The horses seemed to sense the approach of a ranger, because they were almost drawn to her like moths to a flame. She could sense their proud nature and curiosity.
"I have never seen them do this with a stranger before," Amala marveled as she watched all three horses sniff at Syrin and nudge her.
"I…have something of a talent with animals."
"You are full of many surprises, it would seem." Syrin let out a laugh at this.
"Far too many."
She and Amala spent some time playing with the horses and idly talking about random things, from entertainment in the city to favourite foods. She learned that Amala was very sharp, had a keen sense of aesthetics, and was very interested in life beyond Calimshan. It reminded Syrin of her old friend Safana, who had also been a young Calishite noblewoman who had not been content to obey her father. Amala was different, however, in that she was shy and more interested in sight-seeing than adventure. Tomi had been all the task of adventure she'd really wanted, but now Tomi was gone, and she was left only with whatever distractions she could find within the confines of home. Syrin had to wonder what kind of woman Amala would be if the choice was hers.
"Syrin!" they heard Rasaad's voice call from the gardens after a while, and she realized it must be getting late.
"That's my husband. I must go," she told Amala, backing away from the paddock. The noblewoman reached out and touched her arm.
"Thank you for your company. If you see Tomi, please tell him that I am sorry, and I hope to see him again one day."
"Of course."
"Oh! And please do not let my father know that you have seen me."
"You have my word. Goodnight, Amala yr Hassinya." With a smile and a nod, Syrin returned to the gardens to meet Rasaad.
He looked a bit concerned when she found him near the fountain, but that soon faded to relief when he saw her. She came up and took the hand he held out for her, glad of its warmth in the chill night air.
"Where were you?" he asked, sounding a little like he'd been worried that something had happened to her.
"I'll tell you later. I presume that it's time for us to go?"
"Yes, thank Selûne." Rasaad said this almost too quiet to hear, and Syrin rubbed his arm comfortingly as they walked back inside.
"If I had known what it was going to be like for us, I wouldn't have so casually accepted the invitation. I'm sorry."
"You could not have known." Syrin would have said more to this, but house staff appeared to escort them back to the entry hall, and she didn't wish to speak in front of them. They met up with the Gaevyns and were all of them taken to the gate, where their carriage picked them up.
All the way back to the Jet Jambiya, Eston and Celthica excitedly talked about the dinner, oblivious to the fact that their friends had not had the same experience. It was oddly this more than anything that reminded the young couple that the Gaevyns were high born and had belonged at that dinner, unlike them.
When Syrin and Rasaad were dropped off at the tavern, they bid their farewells with promises to visit the Gaevyns in a few days and headed straight up to their room. They were tired and stressed and wanted nothing more than to curl up in bed and fall asleep in each other's arms.
"I found Amala in the garden. Her story was rather like Safana's, at least what parts of Safana's were true, except she's sweet and timid by nature, so she hasn't made the leap of becoming a pirate," Syrin informed Rasaad as they shed their expensive eveningwear. "She seems to genuinely care about Tomi, which makes it all the more tragic that the man showed no concern for her."
"Indeed," Rasaad replied solemnly. Syrin was used to him being terse at times, but something about his tone told her that he was troubled about other things. She came over and put her hand over his, pausing him as he started to untie his sash.
"What is it, Rasaad?" He stared at her for a moment, and his calm began to crack, emotional pain furrowing his brow, until he quietly gave his answer.
"Edraz is the man responsible for my father's death. To sit there and listen to him talk of the arenas, to have to share a meal with him…I had hoped never to feel such anger again, but it claws at me like a lion trying to break from its cage, and for justice I can do nothing."
"I know. I know, and I am so sorry." Syrin pulled Rasaad into her arms and hugged him. He pressed his face into the side of her neck, and she felt his tears against her skin.
"When you left, I thought I was going to lose myself again," he murmured between shaky breaths.
"But you didn't," she soothed. "And I'm here."
Rasaad said nothing more to this and simply held her close.
A/N: ...and now we get into Rasaad's trauma. I hope you enjoyed!