Rising Ch.3

Master Methaniel nodded and returned her smile. They ate in easy silence, with the Master taking a second helping. Ahma surprised herself by eating a healthy bit more than she had anticipated. Still, after she had finished the Master piled more food onto the plate. Ahma’s dark eyes widened.

“I couldn’t possibly…” she began. Methaniel held up a huge hand, smiling softly.

“Fore the servants.”

He leaned back in his seat, folding his hands together as he considered her.

“Tell me. What do you need? What can I do to improve your life? And I don’t just mean the servants in general, though that will of course be taken care of. But I mean you, specifically. I want my servants well cared for, and my personal attendant needs to be especially tended to.”

“All I lack are some decent dresses and dye…for my feathers. And more rations.”

Methaniel nodded, his eyes still trained upon her, intense, piercing, their silvery gaze seeming to bore into her. “And what do you think needs to change in my house? What steps need to be taken to make this place the happy home my father once enjoyed?”

Ahma looked down. She could not understand why he asked something like this of her. “I wouldn’t dream of offering my Lord counsel,” she replied. It was what she expected he wanted to hear. Even his father had rarely asked her for counsel on matters so important.

But Methaniel surprised her. “Nonsense,” he replied, his smile radiant and warm once more. Ahma nearly drowned in the intensity of it. “You are the very person I need counsel from most. I ask to know what needs to be done to make you and the other folk under me comfortable and happy, and no one but you or another of them would truly know. Now tell me what can be done.”

Ahma hesitated a moment more, but when she looked up to meet Master Methaniel’s gaze, her eyes were steady and strong. “I don’t believe the steward will care for the people here, no matter how you punish him. He’s become very comfortable. He’s used to wanting for nothing, and doing whatever he wants to sate his ego and arrogance. People rarely change unless they want to.”

Methaniel was silent for several moments, and his eyes settled upon her with such intensity and focus that it almost made her uncomfortable. At last he leaned back in his seat and smiled softly. One huge hand absently stroked his chin. “You are very wise, Ahma. I understand now why my father favored you so.”

Ahma blushed more deeply than usual at his words. She rose, gripping her plate tightly. She was glad that her hands did not shake where they gripped the small platter. Night had fallen long ago outside the covered window, and Ahma was beginning to feel exhaustion tug at her from the many events of the day. “If you don’t mind, my Lord, may I be excused?”

Master Methaniel nodded and stood up, his enormous frame towering high above her. “Of course. Tell the maids they can wait until morning to get the dishes and drain the tub.”

“Yes, my Lord. Good night, Master,“ Ahma answered. She curtsied awkwardly, careful not to drop the contents of the tray, then quickly fled from the room, her heart pounding heavily in her chest.

Methaniel was more than Ahma had expected, quite different than she had envisioned. He was quiet, almost brooding, but not unkind as she had thought he would be. He bore many things in common with his father, and had obviously inherited his sire’s humanity and kindness, though it was hidden under a rough exterior.

Ahma carried the food down to the servants quarters and wondered at what her life would hold in store for her now. In a day, things had changed exponentially. She prayed to Father Sky things would stay on such a positive course.

***

Methaniel stared at the door after it closed behind Ahma. His lips curled into a slight smile. She was unlike any servant he had ever met, respectful yet bold and self-motivated. She acted of her own accord. He could tell she did her best to keep herself restrained, but her spirit and will came through despite her efforts. He found himself wishing more servants were as bright and willful as her. It made things much more interesting, and he valued those who knew what they were about.

He rose and put the plates and utensils in a neat pile upon the table. He had decided Ahma’s words were wise indeed; the Steward would have to be replaced. Most certainly immediately. He would speak with the Steward and tell him exactly why he was being dismissed before sending him out to the street with as paltry a sum of funds to live off of as he could justify.

Methaniel stood before the hearth, basking in the warmth of the flames. He tossed a thick split of wood onto the fire and the flames shifted and danced higher. His mind drifted to the war. His muscles bunched. Already he wished to rejoin his men.

But of course, that wouldn’t be possible, not for some time. His mind wandered to Arthas, who had taken the arrow for him in the last battle against the Naemer legion. And to the strange men who had come so boldly into his home, intent on assassinating him. By now the city guard would be watching his home closely, keeping it safe and secure from without. He would be sure to keep it safe from within.

Something was not right. Someone was most certainly trying to assassinate him, but he did not believe it was anyone from Naemer. The entire business did not feel like a plot from those straight forward and simple people. This reeked of conspiracy and subterfuge. Things were not as they seemed. He knew it as sure as he had ever known anything, though it was just an inkling tugging at the edges of his perception.

He crouched down beside his traveling pack that he had placed beside his armor stand. He rustled about in it and pulled out a single arrow, long and thick and black.

In the course of the war, Methaniel had seen many of the arrows the Naemer warriors used against his forces. Always they had been the same; smooth, slender, and crafted from the same brown wood. They never had a steel head, as this one did, but instead were made of sharpened rock or flint, filed so meticulously and closely as to make a deadly point and a razors edge. And always they bore the feathers of the same bird; a bird he had seen but once, a great hawk whose name he did not know and was sacred to the Naemer people. This arrow bore no such feathers.

Methaniel stood before the firelight, gazed upon the arrow, and pondered.

End. Ch.3