The Aging Bough (Ifran)

[Colombina]

Sadiki was old and he was tired.

The patriarch stood in his garden, staring across a shallow fountain where the wadj plant bloomed. These were decorative strains of the plant paired with white lotus for aesthetics. They swayed in the gurgling pool, their leave hanging like fine fringe.

Men had died for less water then what fed his plants. Sadiki dipped his fingers in the pool and anointed his sweating temples.

This garden was a lonely pleasure. His wife was gone and he was too wise for a concubine. His living friends were few and his sons proved more treacherous than good. The rest of his family was middling at best, spoilt and amoral. It was his own folly. If he had labored to discipline his children in their youth, he would not suffer for it now.

He had spent his years rearing another man’s family. Sadiki had thought his legacy would be in the Pressorah’s house. She looked to him like a father and carried herself with wisdom. Perhaps if he had daughters, his line would be honorable. Sons were headstrong and wild.

Yet, she was not his blood. It seemed to matter now the years were passing faster and dwindling. What was he leaving behind to bear his traits, his passions?

Sadiki sighed, it was too far gone to do much more. He wandered his garden, wondering if Ifran would arrive on time or at all.

[Colombina]

[Woot!]

Ifran arrived bare chimes before the designated moment, moving quietly but making enough noise to announce his presence. He wanted there to be no suspicion that he came bearing an assassin's blade, though he couldn't help but wonder if Cyrah could find his grandfather's throat as easily as she had found his. The thought bore nothing of desire, merely calculation. At this point, he could not help but calculate. It would, he hoped keep him alive a good long while.

It would not have been the first assassination attempt, and would not be the last if his grandfather lived much longer. Such things were a common byproduct of Eypharian politics.

He could not remember a time when things were warm between them, though one of his nannies had assured him that Lord Sadiki had been quite pleased when his youngest son and a daughter of the House of the East Winds bore a healthy, hexabrachian son. At least, he hoped, there was no bad blood between them. If there was to be bad blood between him and the lord paramount of his House, he would like to have earned it himself at least.

"Esteemed Grandfather," he said, his words respectful, but not over the top. "I am here."

[Colombina]

When Ifran arrived, Sadiki questioned whether he was pleased or disappointed. HIs grandson had heeded instruction, but was the old man vigorous enough to accomplish anything worthwhile in their brief interaction?

"Powerless," the man rumbled the word in his throat.
"We are powerless, Ifran. None but the gods can simultaneously control people, places or things."
Sadiki smirked, entertained by his next thought.
"But ah, there is the illusion of control, especially among our people, and men are made drunk on it. We have power but for a moment, and then…"

The man opened the fists his hands had made, as if releasing chaff to the wind.

"It is gone, taking your sense of worth with it."

Strange that Sadiki should articulate such ideas. He had held the reins for so long, and done works that would make Kings marvel.

"I wonder if the old lords of Eyktol ever foresaw the Valterrian? We see pieces of their monuments, jutting out from the lonely sands. The stern faces of their statues, the might asserted in their inscriptions. And now, only bedouins read them as they piss on the stones."

Sadiki folded his hands behind his back, the gesture seemed like a feat when an Eypharian performed it.

"What do you say to that? As a young man ready to mount the world?"

[Ifran]

Surveying the peaceful, artificial order of the garden, feeling the desert winds on his skin that smelled of sand and sun and timelessness, Ifran delved deep into himself for an answer. He had always wanted power, and perhaps Sadiki had recognized that before Ifran was sent to train for the arts in the home of another artist, kept away from his kin while he learned to wear masks, both external and internal.

This was a test. Even within a Noble House, there were family politics. Ifran had done his best to seem an average North Wind artiste, throwing himself into theater politics and avoiding those of his grandfather. There was no quicker way to lose one's cards than to play them too soon, and Ifran had decided to play the long game and the deep game and wait and see. Desert cobras struck with precision, and so would he.

"I assume nobody with the power or will to stop the Valterrian saw it coming unless there was some profit to be had by tearing the world apart. Even the gods have their seasons. There are dead gods and there is apotheosis. The only constant in life seems to be change, but there are always people guiding the rest through the change, for better or worse. With any luck, the better outweighs the worse, else all would be despair."

He considered things, whether it were likely Sadiki was facing his elder years with such despair or if it was all part of a test. Intrigues and plots could have so many dimensions. Everything was cast in neutral modes, even his gestures muted by what could be interpreted as respect for his grandfather. The fact of the matter was he did not know his grandfather's mind, and so could not gauge how further eloquence might be read.

"I would say that I wish I could have half the effect upon the world that you have, but I am sure you would think me either flippant or sycophantic."

There was a small smile at that, an attempt to bridge the gap between them with a hint of humor.

[Colombina]

Sadiki responded to his grandson's jest with a twitch of a smile.
"So you would say. And I would reply that all men have an influence on the world, whether they choose to or not. It is the nature of the influence that matters."

The old man began to walk a few steps ahead, leading them down one of his favored paths of the many that winded through the garden.
"What was the last genuine thing you did, grandson? Some action as direct and guileless as drinking water when thirsty."

His quick glance back cautioned against lies. Sadiki was getting old, but he had maintained his stature when all others were lost in squabbles.

There was power in him yet, but it was derived from the strangest source: a private adherence to wisdom and justice. Intrigue surrounded him, yet his principles could wither the manipulations. Like the nomads said: it is impossible to cheat an honest man.

[Ifran]

Ifran nodded to the hypothetical conversation they were having, what would be said, even as it was said aloud. He would have said more, but it would sound fatuous. Not for nothing did foreigners claim that Eypharians spoke on some other plane from other people, or on too many vectors to keep track. Some assumed it was a mental development coordinated with having so many limbs; most Eypharians just assumed they were superior.

The younger man fell into step with his grandfather. He took a moment to absorb the vespertine beauty all around them, an oasis maintained by the old man at his side. There was a lesson in that awareness: that power came with responsibility.

In considering the question, he had to select the correct answer from among various possibilities. To him, everything he did on stage was as genuine as drinking a glass of water to assuage a real thirst. In the manner that children played and it was real, so to did Ifran attempt. For the most part, he felt he accomplished that goal, to live a real life on stage, though reality might be heightened or seen through a distorting glass. To his mind, Ionu wasn't of necessity a liar, nor dreaming Nysel. Reality had an inherent plasticity. Perspective altered reality, and perspective itself was possible to alter.

Did he want a crude truth? To take a slave to bed was much along the lines of assuaging a thirst with a drink of water.

He chose, finally, to err on honesty's side even if the answer was not pleasing to Sadiki. The fact of the matter was, Ifran played a deep game, but Sadiki was wiser than he.

"I am more genuine on stage than I am in life," he said. "So the answer would be on the boards of the theater before I received your summons. I can pour more of Ifran, as I understand myself, into Royet or Isikais or whomever I am called to play, than into the Ifran of the House of the North Winds who must interact with the others of his caste. I must dissemble more as myself than as a character with a tenuous existence in the shared experience with the audience.

"This is perhaps not the answer you would wish, but I am young, as you said, and this is the reality I understand. It shifts under my feet like sand, and I seek to move with the sand. Otherwise I will sink beneath it and be no more."

[Colombina]

Sadiki's expression and posture registered no change at his grandson's admission. Not all answers were equal but Sadiki could behave as if they were.

"There will come a time when reality will no longer shift. When you meet the stones unyielding. The foundations that will not alter, regardless of will or feeling."
He smiled without showing teeth, deepening the wrinkles on his face.
"But that is the mind of old men. The young believe they can scar the face of Lhex. The spirit swells their aspirations."
It seemed he found little wrong with this trait in youth.

He pushed aside a branch so they could pass, but immediately thought better of it. Sadiki broke the offending bough and used it to lightly sweep the path where he stepped. A subtle lesson in the man's methods, a flaw was not to be lazily avoided but wrenched from before you.

"So the stage is where you feel the tang of honesty? Fiction is protection both in your caste and upon the stage, but one winnows to the truth through fantastic ways while the other seeks to obscure it."

Sadiki turned to face his grandson.
"An interesting answer. I am glad your lessons have brought you some pleasure."

Turning back toward the path, Sadiki led them toward a favored fountain embedded in the wall. A stone peacock tiled in silver and green glass splayed its feathers against the wall, trickling water from its beak into a crescent shaped pool lined in lapis tile.

Sadiki sat on the wide edge of the fountain.
"I should like a performance from you. A play for your grandfather, of your choosing. I will put funds at your disposition for such a thing. Perhaps we shall see the Ifran that has been so cleverly kept without sacrificing standing."

[Ifran]

"Have you a favorite?" he asked, his appreciate and thanks woven into his words in subtle modes and undermodes. "I have been secretly writing a work about Isikais, but I am not as confident in my abilities as a writer as I am with my performance skills."

It was good, he thought, to know one's strengths and weaknesses, but that didn't stop him from attempting to cultivate other skills. If he never wormed his way into politics and a seat of power, he would have to take comfort in his other passion: the theater.

Of course, his grandfather's philosophies were apparent in the way he treated his surroundings, much as an actor created relationships with both other characters and his surroundings in order to join the production as an organic whole. Of stability, he would have to take Sadiki's word for it until such time as he found it himself. But he had not put a Pressorah on her throne, nor aided and succored her regime, thus he could not stand on stable ground as yet.

Still, he suspected that such stability was not ironclad. Politics was always a shifting morass of desires and stratagems, and his grandfather could not necessarily count on being on top forever. With luck, he would still be there when he died, and pass his power to a worthy and capable inheritor.

Would that the bequest were his!

[Colombina]

Sadiki paused, digesting the real pleasure his grandson seemed to feel. While his house was known for artistic endeavors, its head’s appreciation for the theater was more casual.

His understanding of Semhu was deeper than most due to literary exposure and an understanding of art’s mechanics, but he was by no means an artist or passionate lover of the stage. Sadiki professed only an honest enjoyment for plays.

“A preference? It is kind of you to ask, Ifran, but my eyes are already full of what I prefer and know I prefer. It would be a gift if you would bring a novel story to enjoy.”

It would also serve a greater purpose, a better understanding of his grandson. The boy had already expressed a freedom tied to his art that was absent in a mere interview.

The elder cast another glance about his garden as he decided what latitude and tasks to give Ifran.

“You have my resources, but do not grow too zealous and gild the actors.”

He took another deep breath, foraying into a rare space in his mind: one of levity.

“Populate it with whomever you like, you are under no obligation to enlist your noted Aunts or cousins.”

A quick smile followed, serving as punctuation.

“I am a patient man. I will not demand an immediate performance to burden you amidst other responsibilities.”

He hoped his grandson had other interests apart from pleasurable pursuits.

“Perhaps something for my birth feast next winter. Something for the entire house to watch.”

[Ifran]

One schooled in reading body language and facial ticks would immediately see the wheels in Ifran's head begin spinning like the mechanics of a complicated golem set a-whirl with life. In his obvious excitement, he saw no reason to hide it behind a social mask. For the young noble, it was a heady thing to be completely honest, even for only a few moments. He had not been dishonest with his grandfather, but merely careful with how he worded things and how much he revealed. Everything could be spun.

"It shall be as you say," he agreed. "A birthday present."

He was quickened with energy, fairly brimming with it. The potential buzzed in him and his smile was imperfect enough to be real.

"Thank you, Esteemed Grandfather."