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ahen...what she's heard of him isn't reassuring. A harsh, almost cruel man; an obsessive man. She even remembers vague gossip to the effect of, "Cat's finally met his match." After all, the executioner has no small reputation for stubbornness and unyielding principles. How Rahen managed to succeed even-tempered Ris Komera is anyone's guess. [GM's note: Ris Komera was the previous marshal of Qenar, known more as a behind-the-scenes kind of guy.] The messenger doesn't give her so much as a sympathetic look...or even a supercilious one. Bloody bureaucrats. It is not to a council chamber that the messenger leads Marika, but to an interior hall with a window overlooking the garden. Both magelights and rock-gas lanterns lit the hallway in an medley of color. By the window stands Daziros Rahen, square-shouldered and grey-garbed. His eyes are a curious brown that looks sometimes amber, sometimes almost black. At his belt are two jenachen daggers, one on each side. She cannot repress a stray thought about how good he is with them even as she comes to the sober and perfect attention that Zerre never saw from her. Ruthless and aggressive, she guesses, although she has been wrong before. Not that she is going to challenge him to a match. Noticing her scrutiny, he smiles at her--and there is something of a predator's watchfulness in that smile. Her eyes move away from his belt and take in the rest of him the way any scout's would of a potential danger. Wary and not bothering to hide it, she murmurs, "Marshal," while crossing her fists. For once she has the sense to hold back any sharp words. He returns the salute, a gesture more courteous than needful. Next to him is a hawk-nosed woman with oddly gentle eyes, wearing a magistrate's black. She wears the blade of her office, the vaesjenar, with a mixture of pride and distaste. She nods quietly to Marika but does not introduce herself. Uncertain how to respond, Marika bends her head to hide the puzzlement in her eyes. The marshal inclines his head to Marika. "I thank you for riding all the way to Tenu," he says, with no sign of noticing her sweatiness and general aura of travel-dust. "I had heard that sellspells were now among Qenar's enemies, or at least the allies of Qenar's enemies. Yours was one of the first reliable reports." If her report wasn't one of the first, she reflects, she would hunt down whose *was* and tear that person down for not warning her. She nods back to him with a semblance of respect. It is an uncomfortable awareness that she is treating him as a potential enemy, rather than as the leader of her own country. Or--it occurs to her--are the two necessarily incompatible? After a pause, he gestures at the window. One of his hands, Marika notices, is missing the last two fingers. "The executioner is fond of saying that what blooms once will never come again, and I'm afraid he is right. We have enjoyed long periods of peace, protected both by the mountains and by our soldiers; it is a time for that peace to end. "Tell me, what has Zerre told you about the western situation? What have you seen?" He grins tightly, and adds, "And has there been any word from Miris, last you heard? Any at all?" "I'm sure it's nothing serious," says the woman, but Rahen doesn't seem to hear her. So Zerre must not have told her everything; at least, the marshal's question implies that their dialogue will be limited to those things she has been allowed to know. She asks, "West as in Avrezin, or west as in their mysterious allies?" A little tartly, she adds, "I've not been told much save that war looms. Potential threats from Sorevv...the lone sellspell I encountered..." She lifts her shoulders in a deceptively careless shrug. "It's a tangle of warnings I can't unknot. Certainly I didn't notice anything different in Kisria itself, if any changes would have been obvious in the dark of night." "You are privy to more information than most," Rahen says...almost, but not quite, a reprimand. "But you're right: most of us know far, far too little. Unfortunately, at this point I have barely more information than you do." Confused at the restraint in a reputedly harsh man, Marika finally decides to stop trying to figure him out, when-- "We need more eyes in Avrezin. What you have *not* been told is that our agents nearest Sorevv have not reported in the past season...one by one their reports trickled away, and so far not a one has been found." --Ah, she thinks, knowing what he needs. He certainly has a charming way of persuading someone to go on a mission. Unless persuasion will be unnecessary because she won't have a choice. Or, the more disturbing thought occurs to her, because he thinks he has reason so compelling that she will decide to go. There is a deep, sinking feeling in her guts that, somehow or other, she will end up going. "And yet we need to find out if the Ezinen are truly our enemies, and if so, what their plans are. As well as those of their allies." His mouth tightens. "You may be the only scout to survive an encounter with a sellspell...at least, that is what we surmise happened." We? Marika wonders. Who is this "we"? She has a prickly feeling about what he's about to ask of her. He glances at her, takes in her expression, laughs. "Yes, you're not slow. But you won't be alone, either, should you choose to accept what I've set before you." Not alone? She sighs inwardly. She knows better than to think that they'll choose a bumbler to accompany her, but teamwork is still elusive for her. She has yet to find someone with whom she can actually work with effectively. Mutual dislikes usually get in the way--sometimes deliberately constructed, she admits to herself, but she surely didn't cause anything that wouldn't have happened anyway. Didn't Zerre tell Rahen that she works best alone? She hopes he knew what he was doing when he picked the other. It never occurs to her that *she* might be the afterthought, the addition to someone else already chosen for the mission. And she *still* isn't quite sure what she did to merit survival. Surely he doesn't expect her to be able to do so again...? Then again, she reflects, that will be nothing compared to this encounter--if she *does* survive it. For her, an outburst, brought on by weariness both physical and mental; but if she's lucky, she realizes belatedly, he might think it was mere rambling. So far, at least, they seem to have taken nothing amiss. The woman's eyeslinger upon Marika's travel-stained clothing, and her brow wrinkles slightly. In a more normal tone, not willing to push the marshal quite yet (if she hasn't already), she says, "Nothing from Commandant Miris. Commander Zerre didn't seem alarmed, either."
Back: Marika's Prologue 2 Tower graphic courtesy of Clipart Castle.
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