Bound by her oath of silence, she might as well have been one of those pathetic, pitiable lunatics who constantly drooled and were ofttimes possessed, and were either utterly as speechless as idiots, or spoke the language of the moon, isolated in the midst of all.
She knew that it was really demons which afflicted the minds of men, and not the moon. However, lunatic or no, she followed the calling of a different god, and felt as one moonstruck in broad daylight. It was an odd sensation which persisted steadfast, that somehow she no longer spoke, spiritually in her heart, the same language as they who worshiped wood and stone.
Her head elevated above the multitudes, Si'Wren pretended not to notice as more than a few openly ogled her. The tirelessly prancing black stallion was clearly of noble lineage, and had the lines of a thunderer and was blessed not only of classic lines but also of an inordinate swiftness which, with little Si'Wren on him, made the combination of horse and rider as swift as a rushing rapids and left the Emperor's horse-messengers perpetually envious.
Si'Wren's raiment consisted of a long-sleeved blouse and leggings, tiny slippers, and a riding cape. Every item was absolute, total jet black, and tight at the cuffs of wrists and ankles and at the waist, but free to ripple over her slender limbs in the sun and wind. Attached to her black saddle, chased with silver trim, were her official writing kit packed in wrapped punk moss in a saddlebag, and a few other items.
Upon Ibi's strict orders, she was forbidden to use berry juice to stain her lips, or make use of any other form of makeup, or any sort of adornment or jewelry, because it would have detracted from the appearance of royal dignity and absolute asceticism in her calling as Royal Scribe. It was bad enough, decried Ibi one day, that she was only a female. Worse, she was small even for her age and sex. On top of that, Si'Wren, born into a world of penta-centenarians, men and women of five hundred or more years of age, was, at a mere seventeen, so infernally young.
What was needful, said Ibi, was for her physical appearance and wardrobe to convey a sense of royal station. Instead of bearing the appearance of a junior scribe, she needed to carry about her some sort of outward dignity as a signal to all who observed her, of the terrible sense of majesty which her high station demanded. She desperately needed to personify somehow, with but her mere appearance, the fearsome aspect of sheer awe and awfulness of her high station in Imperial service to his highness, the Emperor Euphrates, said Ibi.
With that in mind, Ibi had exactingly prescribed and appointed her formal court uniform, under strictest guidelines, and had put her totally in black to signify before all and sundry that she was no mere plaything, but a Royal Officer of the Court.
Never, said he, was she ever to appear in any other color. Else, how could she possibly expect to be taken seriously by her peers at court, not to mention the coarse and disrespectful public at large?
Her hair, he observed, must never be cut, neither broidered except according to his strict guidelines. When actually in court or appearing in public, she was to braid it in one or more long braids, which she had permission either to wear straight down the middle of her back, or coiled up in any one of several formal designs according to his precise dictates.
He forbade the artifice of vanity in any way, shape, or form, and no color was to be added to her face. She must not pluck her eyebrows—which were not that heavy anyway.