Farside Tower begins its slow descent into sleep, as dusk takes over the sky and lamps are lit along the walls and walkways. The air is cool and dry, winter's hand reaching far. The grounds are not yet empty, most heading into the tower for their meals and then for sleep. A few mingle with the guards and others practice along the area near the barracks. Yidirim is of this latter group.
Clad in a heavy shirt of chain, he practices with a dulled blade with an older man; Yildirim seems displeased with the situation.
A guard from the gate comes, a small ragged boy following him and looking around in fascination. The guard stops by the practice area, dropping a heavy hand on the boy's shoulder to keep him away from the blades, and waits.
Yildirim midswing raises a hand for his partner to halt, his breath heavy and ragged. He squats, bending over in exhaustion, and then he eyes, first the feet, of the boy and guard. Quizzically, he asks, "Is that one mine?"
A swift grin from the guard. "Likely you'd know better than me... He said he has some information," he replies. He gives the boy a small, encouraging shake. "Go on then, the Captain's who you're wanting to talk to."
A nod and the Captain stands. He gives his sparring partner a silent dismissal and moves to the boy. "Hello lad. Do you drink?" he asks, offering his arm in greeting.
"Course," the lad answers a bit scornfully. Who doesn't? He looks up at the guard then back at Yildirim, a little suspiciously. "Heard a feller sayin' as you'd pay a body as heard anything 'bout that bone woman?"
"I'll handle him," Yildirim says the guard. He looks to the boy, "I may be." He nods towards the barracks, "Let's talk it over a pint. What's your name?"
The guard nods and returns to the gate. The boy hesitates, then follows Yildirim. "Jarad," he says after a minute. "What sort of captain? You got a boat?"
"That I do, Jarad," he says, leading the boy into the barracks. There he finds the mess and pours two glasses from the barrels of ale there offering a mug and a table to sit at to the boy. "If you like boats, perhaps we can work out a trip in your payment, which I think brings us to business." His manner hardens overly so, a caractiture of adults getting ready to negotiate, "So let us speak then of business. What do you have for me?"
"Girl tol' me I could grow up t'be a corsair," Jarad brags, though there is an undercurrent of doubt in his voice. Eagerness at the offer of a ride vies with disappointment, but then he shrugs and takes a long swallow of his ale, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. "I heard some men talkin'," he says, looking around cautiously. "'Bout a whiteskin woman? Said..." He squeezes his eyes shut with the effort of remembering, and his voice takes on a sing-song timbre. "She oughta be dead. Don't know why we're risking our necks. An', 'Fajzed was s'posed t'bring supplies, but the weasel didn't show.'"
"Fajzed you say?" Yildirim says suspiciously, "Did you see their faces? Where did you hear them talking?" He leans back in his lean, casually, sipping from his mug, "Promise of coin brings a lot of tales."
Jarad looks offended. "I ain't lyin!" He glares at the man. Sullenly, he says, "Heard 'em down by that ol' burnt up place, th'one y'can't go in cause th'floor's all holes an' the roof's fell in." A pause to drink some more of the ale, and reluctantly, the boy admits, "I never seen 'em up close. Only heard 'em talking. I hid b'hind some stuff. Tried t'follow when they left, but they went differnt ways, an' I lost 'em."
"No, I do not think you are. Do you know any men in that section of the city named Fajzed, Jarad?"
The boy shakes his head. "Ain't never heard of nobody called that. Not round where I live."
Yildirim considers. He says naught for a time, sipping from his drink. Till finally, "I think there is some worth to your words and you are wise to bring this information to me. But you have come here for reward. What reward do you seek?"
Jarad wavers. "You said... I could ride on a boat?" he asks at last.
"A boat trip is fair payment. Around the bay then." Yildirim finishes his own mug, setting it upon the table, "You gave me a name and a location. Is the boat ride enough to compensate you for your information? Are you satisfied?"
Hope flashes across the small grubby face. "You pay me, too?" he asks, adding fairly, "'Cept they only stopped t'talk there."
"I can pay you. What price do you think is fair?"
"Silver penny?" Halfway through, Jarad turns the question in his voice into a statement, obviously trying to sound like someone he has heard bargaining.
"A silver penny!" Yildirim shouts. His lips twist in consternation, his hand rubbing at his chin. Again for a long time he stares at the child.
"You are a brash negotiator, Jarad. I offer a counter-offer. A penny now and ten copper a month and you work for me now. You hear something good, you come to me. You see something off, you come to me. And you don't share what you hear or see, or speak of our deal with anyone. That and the boat ride."
Jarad waits, putting a frown on his face as if thinking hard. Clearly, he has seen someone do this also. Then he spits in his palm and holds it out to seal the bargain. "Done," he says solemnly. A moment later, "What sort of 'good' m'I sposed t'tell you?"
Farside's Captain shakes the boy's hand, not flinching at the spittle. "A good deal. As to what you are looking for, you know the name Vain?"
"Heard it," Jarad says cautiously. "Y'don' mess with him. Not if y'want t'stay alive."
"When you hear it again, listen and don't mess with them. Bring me news of him. Vain, this Fajzed and the paleskin woman. Her name is Farielle. Those are the names that'll put food in your gullet and drink in hand. Fair enough?"
The boy nods. "Tell you f'I hear anything 'bout Vain or Fajzed or Fa-Farel. What you want her for?" he asks curiously.
"Those copper that will soon line your pockets don't grow on trees, Jarad. I get paid just as you and for now, I get paid for finding those three people. Make sense?"
Another nod. Jarad drains his mug, and stands up. "When do I get t'go on th'boat?" he asks.
"Noon tomorrow. Say your name to the guard, he'll have someone take you to the docks." Yildirim stands as well, "Good doing business with you, Jarad. I hope to speak to you again soon."
The boy grins widely. "I'll listen ever'where!" he vows, turning to dash out of the building.
...
Carefully, slowly, with all the strength that she had left, Farielle began to picture the stars. She ignored every sound, refused to pay attention to anything she saw. The stars. They glittered high and brilliant. When she had them there, she imagined herself rising, floating up towards them. Beneath her was the sea, and west - west was the drowned land of Numenor, and beyond, the isle of the elves.
Something banged, shattering her vision, and painstakingly, she began again. Deeper. She would have to go deeper. Try harder. She could do it - she /must/ do it. The stars. The ocean. She floated across it, westward, ever westward. In the distance, above the horizon, a green land swam into view. Farielle fixed her concentration on that spot. She thought she could hear singing.
It's always dark in this room, unless a lamp is lit; there are no windows. There is a cot along one wall, Farielle is lying on it with a thin blanket over her and staring blankly into the darkness. It has been a while since she ate last, but things still move in the shadows - every now and then, her gaze goes to something that isn't there. Then she looks away, forcing herself to ignore them. To concentrate. Other than that small movement of her eyes, and the slight lifting of the blanket as she breathes, she is still and silent.
A metallic rattle breaks the quiet, then the groan of wooden hinges protesting movement in its wake. Heavy footsteps then herald a dark, stony-featured man in weathered clothing and a black headwrap, little more than a dust-littered shaft of amber light accompanying him to testify to some daytime hour before the door is closed again. He crosses to Farielle without much regard beyond a few grunting words.
"You'll be sitting up now, you will," comes his gravelly voice above the scrape of a wooden stool against the floor. Using his feet, he shoves it over beside Farielle's cot before crossing the room again. The dull sound of fumbled metal follows in the dim.
The girl is motionless, not reacting as the door opens and shuts again, nor to the rough-voiced order. But something - perhaps the sound of metal - filters down into her awareness, and she turns her head. "I don't want... " The words are thin, whispered, and they trail off unfinished.
There is a passing quiet, in which nothing is to be heard from the guard but the rasp of his breath against the far wall - or as far as can be ventured from the girl's makeshift bed. Not long after, a dim, oily light springs to life, casting unsteady shadows around a broken room of meager furniture.
"Makes no difference to me what you want," the man grumbles. "Sit up girl, or you'll choke on your food." A half-hearted kick rattles her cot, and a tin cup of clear liquid is placed unceremoniously next to a plate of bread and dried fruit on the stool.
There is still a pause before Farielle stirs, then pushes herself cautiously upright. She sways a little, and clutches the edge of the cot - but there is a curious tentativeness; as if she isn't certain the wood will remain wood beneath her grasp - or even remain there, at all. Then, as if overtaken by a sudden and terrible thirst, she takes the cup and drains it. "Could - I have more. Please?" Words, too, come out oddly - as if she listens to each one and wonders, did I really say it?
It is no recognizable word he offers, but the man reaches for the skin at his belt and pours more water for her nonetheless - half as much as before. "There'll be more when you've eaten, and no sooner," he growls in a voice that does not invite a challenge. "Eat."
Farielle drains this second cup as well, setting it down and looking at the bread and fruit. For a long moment, she doesn't move, then with a little defeated sag of her shoulders, she reaches for the fruit. It is with still more reluctance that she takes the bread when the fruit is done; holding it in her hand and not eating.
Though the guard's movements are difficult to discern in the dim and yellowing light, it does chance upon a shadowed frown on his craggy features. "You don't want him to come again," he grunts impatiently, and rather vaguely, before steps and the muted sound of dull metal repeat like metal tools jostling in a leather satchel. "You'll wish you'd eaten, then."
Always this perpetual darkness, and the raging thirst. Farielle stares at the bread a while longer, then slowly, she breaks a piece off and eats it. Then another. At last, it is gone, and she holds out the cup, mutely.
The rock-hewn man sniffs at this, a sneer in his voice. "I thought so. That's a smart girl." Liquid sloshes in his waterskin as he thrusts an arm out to refill her cup once more, careless of a splash that misses its mark.
This done, he pushes the stool back to the corner, there to cut a mountainous silhouette as he sits. Now comes the hollow, gritty ring of steel upon a whetstone.
Farielle drinks the water, but doesn't ask for more. Perhaps she knows he wouldn't give her any. She huddles onto the bed, putting her back against the wall, and clutching the blanket around her knees. The irritating whine of the sharpening knife keeps going, over and over and over. Something moves in the corner. The girl shuts her eyes desperately, but it won't help. It hasn't any time before.
Smiling cruelly in the darkness, the guard watches Farielle even as the moments grow long. The oily lamplight is ominous in his eyes as he continues his idle sharpening.
The stars. The isle. She'd heard them singing once; surely she could find them again...
...
Zadan Ulbar is a grand mansion of Umbarean style: five stories and three wings of grand marble halls, tall windows, and pillared private chambers. Formerly the Karkhan Palace, the home of Emperor Ajnabi, it has now be taken over by the self-proclaimed King of Gondor, Alphros anAzulada, who has restyled it to his taste. Ancient tapestries and statues depicting the bygone days of Numenor, as well as more recent heroics from across Haradwaith, are particularly prevalent.
The palace is guarded by a cadre of Umbarean warriors and attended to by a host of servants. It serves as an embassy as well as a residence; merchants and dignitaries are frequently present, doing business with the King's representatives.
Winter's grasp is not a harsh one in Umbar - not compared to the lands of the North - though its touch is more readily felt here beyond the high walls of Umbar, where the deep desert winds can more freely blow up from the shadows of the Haradwaith in the east. Wide windows receive their brisk tendrils; silk curtains flutter with faint reticence, and candle flames dance uncertainly.
These wide windows are the hundred eyes of Zadan Ulbar, formerly the mansion of Emperor Ajnabi, now claimed by the one who deposed him. And though the new master of this place may be frequently absent, today he walks the halls, veiled yet unaccompanied.
The temperate winters are cool enough for those used to warmer climes - especially the climes far south of Umbar that bred the tall woman who visits these halls (as well as its Master). Azradi's silken gown is covered with a light woolen wrap - a make of which only a few would recognize as Gondorian. A servant clad in the livery of this mansion escorts her to where her brother wanders. He does not announce her, there is no need. "Alphros!" Lady Farside calls, hastening to meet him. She smiles broadly, radiating a genuine joy. "We are too consumed with our duties, you and I, how long has it been? Since Caldur, I am sure."
As if awaking from a long sleep, or dream, Alphros gazes at the newcomer... and then at great length smiles. "Ahhh, Azradi, greetings." He reaches for a hand in a brotherly greeting. "Duties, hopes, ambitions; yes, they are consuming are they not. What is it that brings you here, then, away from your many distractions?"
Giving her hand, Azradi moves in closer for a moment and kisses his veiled cheek - a sisterly peck and then she is away. Her broad smile twists wryly. "Your potential bride brings me. I have wanted to talk to you about her for weeks now. And now her tale has taken a darker turn, so it seems to me a conversation is even more neccesarry."
"Yes," Alphros frowns. "When first I had sent my proclamation that I sought a Queen, I did not think that it would become such a... distracting matter." He looks pointedly at Azradi. "Have you something to add other than what is heard on the streets and in taverns? Alas, that this Vain character... does not know the contents of the reply that I had penned to Lady Eruphel in regards to the Gondorian Lady. Alas for her too. I have withheld sending it as I am not sure how it might influence her fate."
"You heard my decree?" Azradi says, glancing to her brother. She pulls her woolen wrap closer. "Since I did not know your intentions, I have had to assume she is still of interest to our family and therefore her abduction an insult to the anAzualda. Eruphel and I have conferred over the matter. Seaward will concentrate on searching for her, while I will learn as much as I can about this Vain and his men: who they are, where they can be found. They must be destroyed. His actions are an insult to Seaward and all other Towers. I've set Yildirim to the task, and lent him the darkest men under my command. Now you must tell me if I was right or wrong to claim insult for the family. What did you pen to Eruphel? What do, or did, you intend for the girl?"
"I regret that the matter has become public," Alphros answers, a hint of displeasure entering his voice, "Though I suppose such is inevitable when a Tower Lord such as Lady Eruphel was so intimately involved. But I did not think all Umbar wished to peer into my marriage bed. Still, you should know that I had written to Lady Eruphel stating that while Lady Farielle fulfilled all that I wished of in a bride... lineage, health, and prospect... It was an ailment of the spirit that concerned me, a certain... fire. Of course such a flame is essential in a Queen, but I cannot afford to be wedded and then burnt. Ironic," his lips twist into a bitter smile, "Given that my claim to Kingship, aye our very family, is borne of one such unhappy and broken union."
The veiled King-Claimant waves a hand. "I am grateful for your efforts... I have agents and coin enough, but not your resources. What I had penned to Lady Eruphel was this: I am uncertain of Lady Farielle's suitability, and though I am not yet willing to commit, neither am I willing to completely cast her aside as a bride. Of course the thought crossed my mind that she could be taken as a Royal Consort, though truthfully I have no need nor desire for one, and such might not only lessen her legitimacy as a Queen, but also provoke her to stab me in my sleep one night." If he jests, he laughs not. "So I had proposed that Lady Eruphel take her as a lady-in-waiting, so that her virtue might be retained and her foreign manners schooled by time in Umbar, ere her future is cast in stone or iron."
Silence. Both during Alphros' explanation and for a few moments afterward. Azradi clears her throat delicately. Her expression is one of amusement when she finally speaks. "Forgive me, brother. I must peer into your marriage bed. Your wife, whoever she may be, will be an anAzualda and my sister. For this I, have taken an interest in this matter and in the girl herself. But there is another reason I must concern myself with your marriage bed."
Every time we go into battle, especially together, we risk ending the direct anAzulada line. We must marry and have heirs. I feel this most urgently. However, I have no prospects and if you are intent on marrying for advantage rather than love...then I urge you to consider this woman more carefully - else reject her and find another." Indeed, the anxiety (and a strange longing) in Azradi's heart is quite evident in her features. "Perhaps you should take her as a consort after all. Though, if rumors are correct, she has refused to marry you...did you intend to marry her by force? For that matter, will you care if she recovered from this Vain but deflowered?"
"Sister," Alphros says with a hint of a smile, summoning as much reassurance as his otherwise distracted manner might afford. "If you worry so much for an anAzulada heir, then take a consort yourself as did Lady Eruphel and bear him children. This is your responsibility now... You know that I have foresworn my inheritance. Besides, unlike the claim to Gondor, we have relatives enough that should we fall without issue, there are other branches of family for which to pillage for an heir. I shall go on living and seeking, not living beneath the terror of quaint family expectations." He throws up his hands in mock dramatic disgust. "This Gondorian shrew has already distracted me enough for my immediate goals! Alas that I could not abandon her to her fate... She is still a nobleborn woman, and must be found. Before we speak more of that, I have something else to tell you... Something that these matters have reminded me of."
Reddening when he suggests /she/ marry, Azradi looks away. "If that is what it would take to continue the line, I will take an heir from among our cousins." She returns her regard to Alphros, seeking his eyes through the veil. "But you are my brother. You can deny a legal right but you cannot deny your blood, our blood. Should I die without issue, one of your children should succeed me." Her anxiety is not relieved one bit. "We will speak more on this. But first tell me what you wish."
Together they speak of this matter and that, but no more is said of the Lady Farielle.