The Shining City.
Althor clopped along sedately, led loose on a gold-chased bridle worked with bells. His red coat gleamed, the caparison across his back sewn in myriad rainbow colours, all of them deep and luxurious. Another cloak hung from the shoulders of the tall man leading him, patched from the same elaborate fabrics. His bronze skin was almost as exotic and deeply shining as the horse. Dark tousled hair framed warm eyes, which saved the features below from being too sharp. But it was the hint of a rakish smile which tugged gazes back for a second look. Men and women both.
The thoroughfare was bustling, and even such an unusual pair did not naturally part the busy market crowds. A few shoulders bumped gentle in the tide; inevitable really. After a moment Zahir glanced down at a leather-worked pouch in his gloved hand, testing its weight before he spun suddenly, and waved a companionable arm at a man already beginning to disappear into the crowd.
“Ho, friend! You seem to have dropped this!”
When the surprised man turned, Zahir threw the coin pouch back. A confused hand brushed to find emptiness at his hip. Then he blinked and saw the patches, of course. Zahir grinned.
By the time he picked the first night’s tavern, there was already the low hum of a buzz around his arrival. A soft cushion of rumour was how he preferred to make his entrances. Tar Valon was a harder city to work than most, when its denizens were even somewhat used to the rarity of Ogier along their wide streets. A Gleeman was not quite the symbol it would have been elsewhere. Though, quite aside from his illustrious reputation, Zahir spent enough time on and off the circuit pursuing other ends that his name was one of diamond and golddust when it uttered on expectant lips. As it should be. So it wasn’t that hard.
After the performance that evening, he lounged wreathed in fragrant pipesmoke, copious glasses of proffered drink, and good company. He was vocal about his plans to compose the next great epic; about his desire to pick one sister in particular for the honour, once he’d chosen the perfect one from the worthy. It was met with some amusement, of course, but it was only important that people knew where he was going. Complicity smoothed the lie; made it harder to disappear in that viper’s nest. Though he was not without skills of his own. And it wasn’t even a true lie.
A few people both came and drifted away from the table as the night wore on, lured by the talent amongst them. Zahir’s was the type of charm that left none to escape in the shadows. When one woman in particular approached, however, he paid attention. An elaborate braid worked around her crown and fell heavy down one shoulder, her clothes elegant but simple, not unlike many patronising the various tables. She did not have an ageless face, nor even a ring on her finger, but he knew who she was. And what.
“For the gleeman,” she said, brandishing a coin and a slim smile.
Zahir offered an easy smile in return, ready to accept and dismiss in the same breath as his raised palm. Though when she had the temerity to raise her chin and sniff, the winds changed and his grip snatched to capture her slender wrist instead. They always thought they were something more. Perhaps if they were, they could be trusted to sort their own affairs. Zahir’s hold tightened, drawing her in, but with a wayward crook of his lips he only lifted her hand to his lips and placed a soft kiss there. “My thanks to the beautiful lady,” he said, voice deep and melodic; enough to make most women sigh. A flash of something unpleasant met her startled gaze, though he only let her hand slip free when she pulled back.
He’d never seen one of them walk so fast to get away.
Laughter erupted, and Zahir joined them. He palmed the folded note alongside the coin into an inner pocket sewn inside his jacket. “Alas, my charm proves too potent. Did you see how she blushed?”
The names he would peruse later.
And tomorrow, he would ascend the steps of the White Tower.
Althor clopped along sedately, led loose on a gold-chased bridle worked with bells. His red coat gleamed, the caparison across his back sewn in myriad rainbow colours, all of them deep and luxurious. Another cloak hung from the shoulders of the tall man leading him, patched from the same elaborate fabrics. His bronze skin was almost as exotic and deeply shining as the horse. Dark tousled hair framed warm eyes, which saved the features below from being too sharp. But it was the hint of a rakish smile which tugged gazes back for a second look. Men and women both.
The thoroughfare was bustling, and even such an unusual pair did not naturally part the busy market crowds. A few shoulders bumped gentle in the tide; inevitable really. After a moment Zahir glanced down at a leather-worked pouch in his gloved hand, testing its weight before he spun suddenly, and waved a companionable arm at a man already beginning to disappear into the crowd.
“Ho, friend! You seem to have dropped this!”
When the surprised man turned, Zahir threw the coin pouch back. A confused hand brushed to find emptiness at his hip. Then he blinked and saw the patches, of course. Zahir grinned.
By the time he picked the first night’s tavern, there was already the low hum of a buzz around his arrival. A soft cushion of rumour was how he preferred to make his entrances. Tar Valon was a harder city to work than most, when its denizens were even somewhat used to the rarity of Ogier along their wide streets. A Gleeman was not quite the symbol it would have been elsewhere. Though, quite aside from his illustrious reputation, Zahir spent enough time on and off the circuit pursuing other ends that his name was one of diamond and golddust when it uttered on expectant lips. As it should be. So it wasn’t that hard.
After the performance that evening, he lounged wreathed in fragrant pipesmoke, copious glasses of proffered drink, and good company. He was vocal about his plans to compose the next great epic; about his desire to pick one sister in particular for the honour, once he’d chosen the perfect one from the worthy. It was met with some amusement, of course, but it was only important that people knew where he was going. Complicity smoothed the lie; made it harder to disappear in that viper’s nest. Though he was not without skills of his own. And it wasn’t even a true lie.
A few people both came and drifted away from the table as the night wore on, lured by the talent amongst them. Zahir’s was the type of charm that left none to escape in the shadows. When one woman in particular approached, however, he paid attention. An elaborate braid worked around her crown and fell heavy down one shoulder, her clothes elegant but simple, not unlike many patronising the various tables. She did not have an ageless face, nor even a ring on her finger, but he knew who she was. And what.
“For the gleeman,” she said, brandishing a coin and a slim smile.
Zahir offered an easy smile in return, ready to accept and dismiss in the same breath as his raised palm. Though when she had the temerity to raise her chin and sniff, the winds changed and his grip snatched to capture her slender wrist instead. They always thought they were something more. Perhaps if they were, they could be trusted to sort their own affairs. Zahir’s hold tightened, drawing her in, but with a wayward crook of his lips he only lifted her hand to his lips and placed a soft kiss there. “My thanks to the beautiful lady,” he said, voice deep and melodic; enough to make most women sigh. A flash of something unpleasant met her startled gaze, though he only let her hand slip free when she pulled back.
He’d never seen one of them walk so fast to get away.
Laughter erupted, and Zahir joined them. He palmed the folded note alongside the coin into an inner pocket sewn inside his jacket. “Alas, my charm proves too potent. Did you see how she blushed?”
The names he would peruse later.
And tomorrow, he would ascend the steps of the White Tower.
![[Image: zekesig2-1.jpg]](http://thefirstage.org/wp-content/uploads/2021/12/zekesig2-1.jpg)