[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Because the Person I love lives
Inside of you,

I lean as close to your body with my words
As I can –

And I think of you all the time, dear pilgrim.

Because the One I love goes with you
Wherever you go,
Faroz will always be near.

If you sat before me, wayfarer,
With your aura bright from your many
Charms,

My lips could resist rushing to you and needing
To befriend your blushed cheek,

But my eyes can no longer hide
The wondrous fact of who
You Really are.

The Beautiful One whom I adore
Has pitched His royal tent inside of you,

So I will always lean my heart
As close to your soul
As I can.

Faroz spoke the words just beneath his breath and tapped out the rhythm of the music upon the pillow beside him. With his other hand he stroked the Ring unconsciously. He had been working on the poem for a long time and it was almost finished. He ran through it again to fix in his memory the shape of the words, for like all of his compositions he dared not write it down for fear that someone might stumble across it and know that he indulged in poetry. Once, long ago, he had smuggled a young singer into his apartments, late at night and recited to him the few poems he had written, and then ordered the youth to sing them aloud. The King had sat upon his cushions, closed his eyes, and listened to the low melodies of the boy as they breathed Faroz’s words into existence. It was the only time he had ever heard his songs aloud. In wild moments of fantasy, he dreamed of finding that boy once more and bringing him back to Kanak to give a performance of Faroz’s songs to the Court, but such fleeting moments had grown fewer, and now hardly came to him at all.

He was shaken from his reverie by the entrance of the Lady Arshalous and, strangely, the Lady Hababa. He rose from his cushions and approached them, waving away the guards who had brought them in. “My Ladies, welcome. I am glad that you could attend upon me upon such short notice. But where is the Lord Korak?” The women curtsied low, casting their eyes upon the royal feet. Faroz endured this with the good grace acquired through thousands of the same kind of performance. How he longed, suddenly, for the slight inclination of the head given him by Ashnaz, whose eyes never left his own to seek the ground but remained fixed upon him.

“My son is taking the airs, my King,” the older woman was saying. “On his horse.”

The King did not allow this to ruffle him. He knew the general opinion of his preference for divans over horses, and how this had been received by the nobility. It irked him that what was, for him, simply a preference of how to travel had become a fad for some, and a political statement for others. What if I were to suddenly decide to go about naked? he wondered, a sardonic smile crossing his face. Would the nobility feel compelled to undress as well? And would those who insisted upon wearing their clothes suddenly be regarded as dangerous rebels? The Lady Arshalous was now speaking. “We have dispatched a servant for him, your Majesty, and he should be with us soon. Should we wait for his arrival before speaking of…whatever it is you have sent us for?”

The King shook his head impatiently. “No, he can be informed of our topic when he arrives. In the meantime, I assume, Lady Hababa, that you are here in his stead?” The older woman inclined her head by way of assent. The King wondered if she were capable of holding rational conversation, for he had heard that she was becoming absent of mind. Be that as it may, she was here now, and the King had to admit that he preferred her company to that of her son. He invited the women to join him upon the cushions that had been laid out on the balcony. The sun was now well into the sky and the canopy of silk cast a pleasing shadow on where they sat. There was a large kettle of tea steaming upon a low brazier and the King as host, according to the custom of his land, served them all. So it was in every Pashtian home, from the meanest cot of the poorest peasant to the Palace; it was one of the few social graces that the King both fully understood and appreciated in its purity and simplicity. As they were sipping their scalding drink, the King began. “I wanted to speak with you and the Lord Korak about the proposal to build a new High Temple to Rae.” Faroz saw the look of alarm and distaste which marred the otherwise fine features of the younger lady. The elder seemed more circumspect in her response. “I have not yet decided whether to build it, but it seems prudent for me to look into the matter of financing it. I believe that your son is in favour of the project?”

“Oh, yes, I think he is,” Hababa replied. “At least, he has spoken of it to me from time to time as something he should like to see. He believes that it is wrong to have one High Temple but two deities.”

“And do you think he would be willing to pay for part of such a temple?”

Hababa looked less certain about this and made a non-committal noise deep in her throat. “I cannot speak for my son on matters of money, Majesty.”

“Of course not, but if he is as keen upon the idea as you say, it is reasonable to assume that he would be willing to see it brought about? I am sure that his…piety…would demand nothing less of him.” Hababa merely hemmed, smiled and buried her face in her cup. The King, having scored this much at least, turned his attention to the Lady Arshalous. “You, I understand, are not so keen as your cousin to see the High Temple built.” It was not a question. “You are then undoubtedly wondering why I have asked to see you as well? For two reasons, really. First, your cousin, as rich as he is, cannot pay for the construction of the Temple alone. Second, I would be interested in hearing your opinion of the matter before I make my decision. Why do you resist the idea of a second High Temple? Are you so opposed to the idea that you would refuse any request for funds to see it built?”