The night had passed slowly. Farielle couldn't sleep for a very long time. Her thoughts still ran around and around and around, circling the same things over and over and getting nowhere. But there was a new curiosity - a small, tentative thing - about the man that she might (or might not) marry. He played the harp. Somehow, he seemed less frightening for that small piece of knowledge. She fell asleep at last when the stars were fading towards dawn, and did not awaken until nearly noon.
There was food on her table; she had not heard the servant who brought it enter or leave. Farielle found herself unexpectedly hungry, and she ate all that had been brought, then tidied herself as best she could.
'The library,' she thought. 'Perhaps there would be something there I could read...' But she didn't go. In contrast to the day before when she couldn't stand still, today, the girl felt as if she could barely force herself to move.
Midafternoon - and instead of getting cooler, like any sane country, it is only getting hotter. Thankfully, the thick stone walls keep the rooms inside from heating up too much. Farielle still stands at the small, deep window, looking out. Behind her, on a table clearly shoved out of the way, is a pitcher of water and a glass.
A quiet, almost shy knock sounds from the door.
Farielle turns from the window, almost reluctantly, schooling her expression to blankness, and looks at the door. When it doesn't open, she says, "Yes?" taking a step towards it, around the cock-eyed table.
One of the guards pushes the door to, coming in to stand beside it, holding it for the visitor.
A small girl enters the room, her brown arms encircling a large lidded basket. Behind her walks a taller man - a soldier bearing the Farside raven upon his chest. He too is burdened, but with several wooden frames over which has been stretched bleached canvas.
The girl looks at the woman curiously, but soon averts her eyes. Without a word, she places her basket down some paces into the room and indicates the soldier should lean his canvases against the wall. He does so, only sparing the woman a brief, incurious glance before he exits the room, leaving the door ajar.
The girl cannot be much beyond fourteen years of age. She stares at the woman again, then seems to recollect herself and her purpose there. Touching her forehead as a sign of respect, she bows low and introduces herself. "I am Amestris bint Tiribazus anBazhani, first daughter of his second and most beloved wife Ambaz, now first wife since the passing of Shirin, may the Heroes bless her."
She takes another breath before she continues, "The Lady Azradi sent me with these gifts and wishes you find comfort in their use and possession."
The guardsman doesn't bother to shut the door, standing beside it and listening to the conversation. He doesn't look particularly interested in paints and canvases, but neither does he look like he desires whatever punishment dereliction of duty might bring.
"Oh. Yes," Farielle says. "Thank you. I am Farielle Girithlin." The corners of her mouth twitch, and she says gravely, "The only daughter of Caronn Girithlin and his lady wife Nelbrethil of Draudagnir."
"Were your father and mother blessed with many sons, then?" queries Amestris. She lifts her hands to adjust the sheer head-scarf that seems always to be in the process of slipping off. On her hands can be seen faded brown designs, like tattoos. The pattern is curvy and elegant, featuring abstract flower blossoms and fruit.
The faint glint of amusement fades from Farielle's eyes, and she touches the neckline of her dress. "Three," she says quietly. "I have three brothers." She is silent, staring at nothing for a long minute, before asking in the same tone of voice, "And you?"
"I have nine sisters and two brothers," answers Amestris. She straightens, a proud look lifting her features. "It was my mother who bore my father his sons. And I am the only sister they share with their mother. It is a fortunate position, even though I was not born to the First Wife. Such close blood to the future Patriarch of the tribe will make me a valuable bride."
Farielle blinks. "You are fortunate," she says politely, if incomprehendingly. "Are your brothers younger than you?"
"Yes, they are four years younger than me," she replies, "They shared a womb and a name day."
She wrinkles her nose, "They torment me endlessly because I will no longer play with them."
"Why?" Farielle asks curiously. "I - " She swallows and takes a breath, and starts again. "My brothers are older than I."
"I can not play with them because I am no longer a child," Amestris answers in a tone that suggests it should be obvious, "I have come of age and will be married when my father chooses a husband for me."
She pauses, hesitates really, before she continues. "They say in Farside you are to be Lord Alphros' wife. You are very fortunate. He is wealthy and powerful, and like others of the Blood, takes only one wife."
Fortunate. Farielle closes her eyes for a moment. "Yes," she says colorlessly. A pause. "You are .. " She seems uncertain how to ask her question. "It is different for you? You will marry someone who has a wife already?"
"Yes, if my father chooses a man with wives already," the girl answers frankly. Amestris bites her lip a moment, then says, "I hope to be a First Wife and to live near my parents. But they live in Umbar now and my father does not approve of the men here. He is pondering whether he should send me back to the Bazhan plains to marry a man within our own tribe."
"Yes," Farielle says again, quietly. "I can see that you would prefer to be near your parents. Perhaps you will have that pleasure." She smiles, the expression never touching her eyes. "Which tribe is yours?"
"The Bazhani," Amestris replies, looking a touch exasperated at the woman's silly question - and for a moment, like a typical teenage girl. "You do not look happy," she states, a bit defiantly and certainly outside the polite norms of her culture.
"Bazhani." Farielle repeats the word, and perhaps doesn't mangle it too badly. "You must forgive me, I know nothing of your lands or their people. Why should I have known your tribe without asking?" Her blue-grey eyes meet the other girl's thoughtfully for a moment, and the almost-smile twitches her lips again. "You are observant. Perhaps I can do as well. Is it the markings on your hands that tell?"
After a moment, she adds, "I too would prefer to marry and live near my parents."
"Because when I introduced myself I told you my name, my father's name, his tribe and my position," she explains, very carefully. "These are important things to know. It will tell you who is your friend and who is your enemy."
"In the Harondor, where my tribe holds lands, I know the alliances by heart. But here in UmbarI am less certain but my father has begun to teach me so that I do not speak to the wrong person."
She glances down to her hennaed hands. "These markings show that I have reached marriageable age. It will wear off in time. Only the men have permanent ones."
Farielle blinks, and then laughs. "You are right," she says. "I was paying but little attention. I shall remember. But it will not tell me who are my friends or who are my enemies, for the names of your tribes mean nothing to me."
"Is it so bad to speak to the wrong person? What comes of it if you do? And why are they 'wrong'?" The older girl smiles a little as she asks all these, surely very silly, questions. "You see how little I know."
A commotion can be heard just outside the door to Farielle's chamber- a rough, but clearly female, voice raised in anger, perhaps against an unfortunate Farside guard. "I shall make socks from your hide if you don't let me in!"
"If I speak to one who is my father's enemy, they might slay me," Amestris explains, her brown eyes widening slightly at the imagined danger. "And even if they chose not to kill me they would certainly steal me and make me a slave."
"I suppose it is different for your kind, you do not have tribes..." she falls silent, looking toward the door left ajar with alarm. The tribal girl turns around and takes a few steps backwards, bringing her closer to the pale lady.
The Seaward guard is heard to snicker, and then to cough. And then he pushes the door farther open to admit whoever is without.
"We have Houses," Farielle is saying, "But certainly I can speak with whomever I wish and no one will kill me. And there are no slaves in ..." She stops and looks up.
"I am His Majesty's personal tailor, now-!" The old woman bursts in through the door in a huff, falling silent as she notes Farielle's companion. The young woman who is the seamstress's long-suffering assistant trails in after her. Two very large bundles are borne in her arms.
"Ah," the old woman says simply. "I've completed your dresses." She turns an assessing eye to Amestris, perhaps making silent judgments - positive or negative - on her attire.
Amestris' parents have provided for her well, even if her tribal styles and color choices will not make the runways in Umbar's Spring Show. But even so, they are no match for the quality of cloth draped across the assistant's arms.
She takes a few more steps back to remove herself from the bustle but otherwise looks at the Tailor and her girl with avid curiosity.
Farielle looks at the bundles also, with a bit more skepticism. She, after all, was present for the choices of cloth. "I see," she says neutrally, and glances up at the guard who is standing inside the door. "Am I to try them on?"
The old woman makes a great show of distaste as she takes the first of the bundles from her sweating assistant. "Well, I had thought the colours that I had selected had been -beyond- compare but His Majesty," she begins without prelude, obviously continuing a rant begun at an earlier time, "Thought to override an expert's opinion with his own! Pah! King of Gondor my behind, couldn't even pick a complementary shade of grey on a mumakil. Why, if he makes me redo the lady-in-waiting's dresses I will shove his scepter right up his princely behind, since when is brown not a queenly colour, whyasdajskdja..."
Her tirade fades to nothing as she finally removes the last of the protective cloth and reveals a gown of blue silk, incorporating a mixture of Gondorian and Umbarean fashions, though still light enough to be worn in a Harad summer's heat. "You!" she barks at Amestris, oblivious to the fact that she could be anyone from a maid to the Lady of Seaward, "Help the whiteskin try this on, will you!"
The tailor's tirade elicits a laugh from Amestris which she tries to hide behind her hennaed hands. Thus she is caught off guard when that fierce attention is brought to bear on her. Her startlement is visible and she jumps forward, proving she is unlikely to be the famed corsair-woman who rules the tower. Her first act of assistance is to glare at the Seaward guard standing near the door and watching the proccedings with an amused look. "You!" the young girl accuses, pointing at him with one finger while the other hand is placed authoritatively on her slender hip. "Leave or turn around!"
"Oh," Farielle says, spontaneously. "It's beautiful." But she crosses her arms over her chest firmly, and glares at the guard, waiting for him to leave. AND shut the door. Tightly.
"Out! Or I shall get naked too," the old lady chimes in, giving the man extra incentive to follow Amestris's diretive.
The old seamstress's long suffering assistant clears her throat to gain attention; she has with her a large cloth, which - between her and Amestris - could be held up to serve as a temporary dressing screen for Farielle.
The guard is shaking his head firmly, though not without a longing glance at the door. And he is visibly relieved at the sight of the curtain. As much as he might have enjoyed watching Farielle change clothes, he has no desire to inflict the old seamstress on his eyes! He pushes the door shut.
The quick-witted tribal girl grasps the assitance's solution immediately. Offering the guardsman another glare for good measure, she crosses to help the other girl unfold and hold the modesty cloth.
Amestris is small even for a Haradrim, the top edge of the cloth angles down towards her, threatening to fail in its duty for the taller Northern lady. The girl looks at the cloth, she looks at Farielle and then finally the guard. She lifts it higher, elbows level with her head.
As the assistant holds the other end, the old woman taps her foot impatiently.
"Turn around," Farielle orders, not moving. Reluctantly, the guard does so, and the girl slips behind the cloth - her head pokes out above, and part of her shoulder... she moves towards the tallest end, muttering, "This room needs a screen," and holds out a hand for the dress.
"Be sure not to rip it," the old woman natters away as Farielle changes. "That is the finest silk from Far Harad! And don't play with the hems. And don't mind the hips, they're a little tighter than you left-footed whiteskin prudes are used to."
The old woman's last comment proves to be too much for poor Amestris' formal manners. She peeks, curious to see what a prude looks like and how it might differ from normal Haradrim women.
Farielle might not be able to braid her hair very competently alone, but she can change her clothes. She gives the guard a second look, and slips the simple dress she is wearing off, sliding into the blue silk, and settling it about herself. The silk is light; the color stunning. "All right," she says, giving a last tug to one sleeve.
The old woman pushes aside the cloth and stares at the dress with an audible 'hmpf'. "Well, my colour was -far- superior, but it will do," she says blithely, not completely hiding some self-evident pleasure at her own work. "That's for your daily use. Now try the other formal dress. If I catch you traipsing in this one," she says, proffering the second bundle, "I'll have you dragged off to the Dark Citadel!"
Amestris stares at the dress, clearly impressed. "It is beautiful," she says, lowering her arms to rest them. She reaches out tentatively to touch the fine silk, then pulls her hand back self-consciously.
The guard has turned to look as well, and Farielle glares at him until he turns his back once more, though he glances over his shoulder once, frankly appreciative. "Yes, it is," she says to Amestris, "And soft, too." She holds out her arm for the younger girl to touch, before hiding behind the cloth once more to change.
When she emerges this time, she is wearing something far more formal, a white sheath with a violet over-layer. There are accents of black. And the color of her eyes has changed again, more grey now and less blue.
The old woman smacks the guard, before turning to admire her handiwork once more. "It will do," she murmurs, obviously still bitter at the vetoing of her green-and-yellow dress. "I shall go and report thus to His Majesty! You," she addresses Amestris, "Make sure she doesn't do anything silly with them." Then with a nod of her head, the old woman retreats, followed by her assistant. Her grumbling can be heard as she disapears out the door and down the stairs.
Only after the old woman has left does Amestris dare offer Farielle a grin. "I cannot imagine what silly things you could do with your dresses," she says. "I suppose I can ask you to please not paint in them."
"Except the blue one, which is for daily wear," Farielle says. "I suppose I could only paint blue pictures..." She sighs, looking down at herself, and says frankly, "I prefer that one anyhow." A glance at the guard, who is looking over his shoulder again.
"If you look again, I shall throw this over your head!" threatens Amestris, brandishing the cloth at him. She glares at him long enough to enforce her intentions and then turns away, trying her best to hold up the cloth wide enough and high enough by herself. "You should definitely remove this gown, lady. It will mar easily. I am surprised you were given only two dresses. Even I have four in my dowry and I am not as fine as you are."
"Perhaps there are more to come."
Farielle's good cheer fades as she turns to remove the first dress, putting on the older green one instead of the blue silk. Carefully, she takes both to the wall, hanging them neatly. When she is done, she says to the guard, "You may turn around now," and to Amestris, "I have this one. And after all, I can hardly paint in either of those, can I?"
"No, you should not," agrees Amestris. She grins, "It would be silly."
"I wear an old one when I help my mother clean and cook. Then I change before my father comes home."
"When he comes home."
More relaxed after the exciting visit of the Tailor, Amestris looks around the room curiously. "This is a large room to have to yourself. I have seen larger rooms in Farside, though. My father says it is wasteful. I bet your husband will give you an even larger room once you are wed."
"It is large compared to the one I have been used to using," Farielle admits. "And I did not have that to myself. But small to some in my - my home." She doesn't seem to want to talk about husbands, or being wed, saying instead, "Where do you live? At Farside?"
Even after her former comments have left her mouth, Amestris' brow wrinkles in puzzlement. But the lady's question interrupts whatever road her thoughts travel. "My father is a Lieutenant of Farside. He as a house near the tower where dwell also my mother, my brothers and myself. "My sisters and his third wife remain in Harondor."
"If you are to wed Lord Alphros," she asks, "why do you live here instead of in Farside with his lady sister?"
Third wife. Farielle's eyebrows rise a little. "I see," she says, then stiffens at the younger girl's innocent question. She walks back to the window, looking out without seeing anything - save possibly a long, low house on a green hill far to the north. Flatly, she says, "I am a gift. If Lord Alphros finds me pleasing, he will marry me. If not... I suppose the lady here will find some other manner to dispose of me in." Involuntarily, she shivers, remembering.
"I see," murmurs Amestris, studying the lady's back. "No promise has been made. And yet he has bought you these beautiful gowns - no man would spend such wealth on a woman he did not want."
"But it seems clear what you must do. You must please him."
"You are older than I, but I have heard your people marry scandalously late - much as Lord Alphros' family does. Has your mother taught you a wife's duties?"
"I don't want to please him," Farielle mutters under her breath. "I only want to go home, and pretend that none of this has ever happened." She sighs and says more loudly, "Yes. Thank you. I - I would not have wed for 6 years more, in - in the normal course of things. Or perhaps longer. There is no need to hurry. But I, um, know what to do. Um. In theory." By the end of her small speech, she is blushing furiously.
"No, no," denies Amestris, taking on the airs of one older and wiser. The blush and its implications appears to have gone past her. "You know how to please a /Paleskin/ man, not a man of the Haradwaith."
"You must cook him a dinner but begin by showing him you are not afraid to slaughter a goat. Then give him the honor of the raw liver. It will make him stronger and more potent in the battlefield. Then you prepare a meal, the most complicated dishes will demonstrate your skills quite ably. If he invites you to eat with him, talk about your family, especially the women in your family. Tell him how many children they bore and how many lived to adulthood."
"After that you must show him how well you ride a horse and how long you can ride in discomfort without complaining - though perhaps Lord Alphros will not require you travel through the desert for days on end - if so that last bit will be unnecessary."
Farielle turns around mid-way through this speech, staring in astonishment. "L-liver?" she repeats unsteadily. "Raw." Then she is quiet and when Amestris is finished, she nods with as much gravity as she can assume. "I can certainly ride, and I can cook. I - never have slaughtered a goat, but I expect I can manage. At least, if a knife is available."
Amestris nods earnestly, "Yes, cover its eyes, do it quickly before it sees its death," she offers further advice. "And don't think too hard about it - especially if you played with it when it was a kid. It will make you sad and you do not want your future husband to think you are so sentimental you cannot care for him and your family."
"Oh! And don't wear your nice dress."
The older girl nods, making a mental note of all these instructions. "And talk to him of my aunts and my mother," she adds. "No, certainly not the nice dress. I think not even this one. I wonder if I could find the one I had ... before."
Picking up the cloth used for privacy, Amestris says, "You could make a cover out of this"
Farielle takes the cloth, draping it over herself. She looks down, then shakes her head, and wraps it a different way, twisting the corners into a knot at her shoulder. Then, she unties the knot, folds the cloth up and lays it on the table. "Thank you, Amestris," she says, sounding both tired and somber. "You are right, I did not know these things. It is kind of you to tell me. But I think I shall not have an opportunity. I have neither a goat, nor a knife to kill it with, and no way to get either."
She doesn't look at the guard, who has been listening to this conversation with an expression that shows him to be half-way between uproarious laughter and horror. That crazed north-woman can't be /serious/... can she?
"Oh, these things are easy to find," insists Amestris, her expression innocent. "I could provide them if you and Lord Alphros wish me too."
The girl glances out the window where the quality of the light has subtly changed, a sure sign of passing time to the observant tribal girl. She looks back to the lady. "You are tired and my mother will be expecting me home soon. If you need my assistance, just send word."
There is a sudden, intent glint in Farielle's eyes. "Thank you," she says. "I will remember." When the girl has gone, and the guard withdrawn again and shut the door, she doesn't go at once to the painting supplies, but sits on her bed and stares thoughtfully at nothing.
The dresses. Was he trying to bribe her into accepting him? As if she was the sort of woman who - who accepted money for that kind of behavior? Or would overlook his sneers about her kinsmen if he gave her something pretty?
And the goat. Farielle didn't know what to believe. Amestris had sounded entirely sincere, but... a goat? Still, this was Harad. Who knew what the people here liked and believed and did?