Shadow of the West

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

The Emissary arrived at dawn, emerging from the shadows of the west like the return of a dream. He and his vanguard of fifty tall men were dressed in richly woven clothes of purple and black, and their great war-horses struck sparks from the cobbled way that led to the city. Their faces were fair, though deeply tanned by their passage of the Great Desert, and yet despite the weariness of their journey they were proud and stern in aspect. Their hair was dark but their eyes were startling shades of gray, even blue, and not the usual brown. Most surprising of all, their faces were smooth and closely shaved. To many who saw them, they appeared as the Avarin, but their countenances, which bore the marks of age and toil despite their great beauty, were clearly those of Men, and not of the immortal ones. They were strangely armed with long, straight swords at their sides. Their weapons were the result of great craft, but many a Pashtian wondered at how such a large and cumbersome weapon could be used it combat.

They passed first through the rich farmlands that lay upon the banks of the river. The morning sun leapt above the horizon, revealing the company to the labourers already hard at work in the fields of their employers, trying to gather in as much of the crop as they could before the sun gained the advantage of the day, dissolving it with a blank white heat. The dark men did not glance to either side as they rode past the farms, nor did they acknowledge the stares of those they passed. The road turned away from the river and they followed it up a slight incline as it brought them closer to the city walls. Farmlands gave way to rolling hills, richly clad with grasses and shrubs, and home to the country estates of the nobility. The large houses of brick glowed like burnished bronze in the rising sun, and their groves of grapes, olives and figs clustered thick about them. At this season, the houses were deserted by all save the groundskeepers and a few servants, who watched the company pass from the walls that rose about the estates. These people were used to the sight of richly appointed parties, but these people from the west were so strange that they could not help but stare in wonderment.

The walls of the city rose up in the near distance but the company rode on apparently undaunted. They passed through the great empty fields that had been cleared for the mustering of Pashtia’s army and cavalry, and if they were at all impressed by the twin statues of Rhais and Rae that rose above them upon either side of the road, they did not show it. When they reached the city walls the gates were opened for them without any command or word being spoken, and it became clear to those who watched from the ramparts that the company was expected. The horses’ hooves clattered noisily upon the stones as they followed the road through the suburbs. Here the houses were small and closely built, but they were all of them clean and richly appointed. They were built in the manner of all Pashtian homes, of mud-bricks that had been fired to bronze-coloured strength. The homes presented to the street only blank walls with narrow windows, but as the company passed the tall gates of each home they could see that the houses all had large central courtyards, and that all the rooms of the home opened out onto covered walks that ran about the inside the building. As they pressed on into the city, the homes grew richer, and taller, and in the courtyards were fountains and pools, supplied by the great viaduct that they had seen at the waterfall more than three leagues distant.

The road passed through another wall, this one not as high as the great outer defense, but richly carved and draped with banners of silk. Within the ring of this wall were the markets and houses of trade. The goods of the Pashtians were laid out upon counters and tables, and could be glimpsed beyond the thick wooden doors of huge warehouses. There was a great press of people about although it was yet early morning, and in the many markets the company passed through there was a continual hum of business and industry.

At last, the road achieved the wall of the Palace. It was the first structure they had seen not made of brick, but of hewn stone. It sprang up before them and glowed pink in the sun, for it was made of marble that had been brought here over immeasurable distances centuries before. The gate that admitted them into the Palace grounds was made of steel, and upon it were many figures engraved of the Kings of Pashtia and their deeds. Within the walls of the palace, the sounds of the markets were stilled and replaced by the gentle trickle of falling water and the call of birds. It was like another world, a green world of immaculately tended trees and flowering shrubs. There were small shrines and statues scattered amongst the streams and copses, and occasionally small villas could be glimpsed behind vibrant walls of hedges. The scents of a thousand different plants filled the air. The road rose up a hill toward the palace. It looked, from the outside, like the homes they had passed earlier, only much larger. It glowed with the rich warm hue of the bricks, and its walls were smooth and unmarked. When they passed through the gates, however, they were given a glimpse of the huge courtyard around which the palace had been built. It was filled with gardens and pools of water even more miraculously elaborate than those they had seen, and in its center there rose a single tall column of black stone, smooth and featureless, but which shone as though it had been burnished with a cloth. Beside the column was a deep well, perfectly round and carved, it seemed from the living bedrock upon which the palace had been built.

They stopped at the end of the passage that led through this wing of the palace, and a single guard stepped forward. He raised his hand and spoke to them in the common tongue of the East, and was surprised when he received an answer from the tall man who rode at the head of the column in the same language.

“Your coming is known to my King and you are welcome,” the guard began ceremoniously. “My King bids you appear before him and make the purpose of your journey known.”

“I thank your King for this greeting, and I will attend him.” The company dismounted and followed the guard through a door at the side of the passage. He led them into a large hall, lit by rows of windows high up in the walls, and filled with a press of people dressed in silks and cloths of many different bright colours. The crowd was silent and moved aside to allow the company of stern men to pass. At the end of the hall there rose a tall dais, upon which stood the King, clad simply in an orange robe of silk, and wearing his diadem of pounded silver. He was unarmed, but about the foot of the dais were ranged a hundred of his personal guard, their faces covered with the same scarlet cloth that draped them to their feet.

The company halted at the foot of the dais and the Emissary stepped forward. Looking up to where the King stood he addressed him in tones of practiced diplomacy. “Hail and greetings to King Faroz of Pashtia from my Lord Annatar of the West! He sends you good will and friendship, and bids me ask if you are willing to exchange the like with him.”

A murmur ran through the crowd at the fair words and the noble manner in which they had been delivered. The King, however, appeared unmoved as he replied. “The greetings are returned, but I am afraid that I know nothing of your lord. You have come a long way from across the Great Desert, through which few Pashtians dare now travel, for we have heard that the lands to the west have grown dangerous and that the kingdoms of that realm are in eternal conflict. We want no part of foreign wars.”

“It is true that in the past there were trials in my land,” the Emissary replied. “But those troubles are behind us now. My Lord desires only peace and friendship with all the peoples of Middle-Earth, and to that end he has sent me into these distant lands to seek out both with our long separated kindred of men.”

The King paused in thought for a time before responding. “You speak fairly, and I will consider the request for friendship, but does your lord ask only for that? You would not have come all this way merely to express tidings of good will.”

“You are wise and perceptive, King Faroz. I cannot deny that my Lord has given me two tasks of more specific import. He bid me say that if you are willing to accept his friendship, then might you consider alliance as well? My Lord is powerful in his lands, as you are in yours, and one can never have too many allies in an uncertain world.”

“Of this first matter, we will speak further. What of the second?”

The Emissary drew forth from beneath his clothes a small black bag, from which he took out a gold ring. It was unmarked and plain, but there was upon it a small red stone that glittered in the light, and the gold itself shone. Many who beheld the ring felt that it was a thing of great worth, and longed to examine it more closely. The Emissary held the ring aloft. “My Lord Annatar is known in the west as the Lord of Gifts. Let this be the first of the gifts that he will send as token of his friendship and alliance!”

The King came down the steps of the dais and took the ring from the Emissary. He held it in his palm for a moment and gazed at it in silence. It was a beautiful thing, perfectly round and unmarked. Its gem seemed to glow with a dull red light of its own. He resisted the urge to put it on immediately, for he did not wish to seem over eager in the eyes of his people. Looking up at the Emissary once more, the King thought for a fleeting moment that he caught a look of great cunning on the man’s fair face, but when he looked again there was only a noble mien of respect. Closing his hand about the ring, the King spoke so the court could hear. “It is indeed a rich gift, and I will accept it. As to the offer of alliance, I will speak with you further about your Lord and take counsel with my nobles. For now, however, accept in return my own expressions of thanks and friendship.” The King’s eyes drifted back down to the hand in which he clutched the ring. “It is indeed a rich gift,” he said as though to himself. “A precious gift.”

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

“There will be much demand for saffron and myrrh and cinnamon, Majesty, if you can provide it.”

“My people have prepared for such trade and can accommodate your wishes, Master Trader, should you be able to provide a fitting payment for them,” spoke a calm voice, of a female timbre not young but not yet old either.

The Trader bowed low. “Indeed, Majesty, we can. I can offer quince seed and ambergris and leather, finely worked to a soft and supple state.” The merchant was short and lithe, with a face darkened by travel over the desert and lined by lashings of wind and sand, for he was of the nomad tribe, the Dabi, which crossed over sand as if it were a great sea.. He had made several crossings from Alanzia to Pashtia and back again, each time bringing more and more goods into the exchange. His demeanor was wary yet courteous; he seemed to know the Queen and her retinue, for this was not the first time he had negotiated trade.

They spoke in a large room of vaulted windows which on the one side gave out onto the gardens, pools and fountains of the inner Palace and then, on the other side with but two windows, onto the courtyard where the King held his audiences. The walls were covered with stucco and held in relief flowers, grapes, and great beasts. The lintel over the main door was carved with lotus plants. Around the windows looking out upon the King’s courtyard were carved griffons and lions while at their apex was a complex design of both the sun and the moon. It was as if the Queen’s quarters were balanced precariously between the splendors of the sophisticated Pashtian society and the ferocious might and strength which guided it. The Queen herself was surrounded by several ladies and attendants, some of whom worked at tapestries with needles and wool and yarn while others stood at a respectful distance from The Trader and the Queen. Guards stood at the door, but the general air was one of routine, daily activities for the royal retinue. However, before the Queen could accept the Trader’s offer of quince seed, a third voice spoke up.

“Mayiam, Majesty, come, the visitor arrives.” The young maid, Tabari, had been watching discretely at the open window which gave onto the King’s courtyard as the tall Emissary from the West walked up to the King’s dais. She had remained hidden behind a gauzy curtain and now withdrew to speak to the Queen, bowing as she did but then standing erect before the woman.

“You have well fulfilled my request, Tabari, to be my watchful eyes when I must attend to my duties and obligations. You bring honour to all Pashtian girls with your good work” Tabari beamed with the words of praise, which made her love her Queen even though some still remembered that she came from the land of the Enemy. With those words Queen Bekah rose from her seat of pillows on a richly embroidered couch of red and gold and moved softly towards the window, staying behind the curtain so no one, not even the shrewdest eye of the new arrivals, could have observed her. Her King would know she would be there, watching, but the new visitors would not. Behind her followed The Trader and her old nurse, Homay, who had come with her more than two hundred moons ago when the child bride followed her young husband to the foreign land. The three watched silently as the courtesies and formalities of the court were observed and listened as the murmurs of the attendant crowd suggested the various stages of the audience.

“Tabari, do you know if this Visitor stopped at the Obelisk and made his respects there?”

“I know not, Majesty, but I shall soon bring to you the information you require.” With a bow, the girl withdrew from the room, the guards opening the door for her.

The old nurse spoke up. “I have never seen a Westerner from beyond the Great Desert. They are tall and walk with assurance for all their courtesy.”

The Queen nodded at the old woman. “Homay, your eyes are as sharp as they have always been despite your years.”

“He seems to have offered the King something, which the King has accepted,” noted the Trader. Bekah looked back at the nomad who was the chief Merchant between Pashtia and her old country. “The men of the West are not known to us. Nor we to them. It is proper to offer respect and courtesies.”

The Trader bowed and remained silent, his closed lips suggesting that he would not offer further observations.

For her part, Bekah was greatly interested in this Emissary but she made sure to hide her keenness behind observations about the many others who attended him. She had caught a glint of light as the King’s hand had closed over the gift and she was made strangely anxious by the event. She wanted to dismiss her feelings, explain them away by assigning them to the troubling issues which everyone was currently discussing in the Pashtian court, but she found she could not forget them so easily. Why now, when trouble seemed to be around every tongue, did this harbinger from the West arrive” Yet to no one she spoke these words, but kept them in her head. Perhaps she would speak them later to her King, when court business was concluded and she could have his ear.

When most of the ceremonies seemed concluded, Bekah withdrew from the window and the two figures followed her.

“You have your agreement, Trader. I will accept what you offer in exchange for the saffron, myrrh and cinnamon which my people have prepared. You make take them to my half-brother, the King of Alanzia, with my commendations and tell him such trade makes his Sister-Monarch happy, for it secures peace between our two countries. Tell him also of the respect and courtesy with which the Western Messenger greeted my Lord King Faroz.”

“Majesty, the trade is concluded to our mutual happiness. I shall leave once the noon heat dissipates and carry your wishes on your behalf. “ With those words, The Trader bowed low and backed toward the door, keeping his face upon that of the Queen as he retreated.

The Queen looked around at her courtiers and attendants, who had maintained an expectant air wanting to hear more of this Emissary. “We have much to prepare for. The King has ordered a dinner tonight in honour of the Emissary from the West.” With those words, the room emptied as her retainers sought their own rooms and work and began preparations for the night’s splendour.

To the guards at her door Bekah spoke quiet commands. ‘send word that I wish to see prepared the burning of cedar and myrrh for the banquet tonight, which will put the deities as well as our guests and ourselves in a pleasant mood for the festivities. And prepare for me, as my offering to the Emissary, bouquets of myrtle and narcissus. He deserves to know personally our courtesies.” A guard nodded his understanding and withdrew.

Then she turned to her old nurse, Homay, who led her to the baths, where she was rinsed with sweetbriar and eglantine water and her hair was washed with leaves from the Lotus tree, and her skin was oiled with lavender and lily of the valley. Her hands were decorated with intricate designs of henna and her eyes kohled, her cheeks blushed with quazeh and vasmeh used to line her brows where her eyebrows had been plucked these many years ago when she became, while still a child, a married woman. Thus it was everyday she was prepared for her public audience with her King, but today she would be more splendidly dressed. Their private words on matters of state would come later, much later, if at all, for often these days the public audience was all she saw of the King.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Siamak


Siamak hurried out of the large hall as soon as the audience with the emissary was concluded. He was troubled, though he could see no reason for it, and wanted to think before he spoke with anyone. The halls of the palace were empty with the exception of an occasional servant, for all the nobles had attended the audience, curious about these strange foreigners, and they were most certainly strange. Unconsciously he reached up and fingered his black beard, its shorter length attesting to his youth. The beard, or lack thereof, had been only the first of many differences. They had been tall and of proud bearing, with startlingly blue and gray eyes. He was suspicious of them, for more reasons than their physical appearance. He had never seen men from across the Great Desert, and he didn’t know why they should be here now. What good would an alliance with Pashtia, hundreds of leagues away from the lands of the emissaries, do this Lord Annatar? It wasn’t as if any of the eastern lands had ever assaulted the west. Which made him wonder, had an emissary been sent to Alanzia as well? To Pashtia’s other neighboring countries? For all their fair words, he did not think that their motives were as noble as they were being led to believe.

His brow was furrowed in a thoughtful frown as he meandered through the many passages of the palace. The walls were richly adorned in colorful tapestries and lined with sculptures and statues. Siamak noticed none of these, however, buried in thought as he was. Subconsciously, he had taken himself towards the gardens within the palace walls. He had been raised in the palace, and knew the halls and rooms like the back of his hand, though for one less familiar it would have been easy to become lost.

The gardens were quite possibly his favorite place in the palace, especially the private ones limited to the royal family. There, he could be alone with his thoughts and away from the various court schemes for power and manipulations of the nobles to get the laws they favored passed. There were some days when Siamak thought he would be happy as a simple farmer, away from the complexities of palace life. Most of the time, though, he did enjoy his life, and deep inside he knew that he wouldn’t leave the palace for anything. He was not concentrated on this now, however, and varying thoughts of the emissaries drifted through his mind.

Siamak wandered over the cobbled pathways of the gardens, letting the chirping of birds and the trickle of water from the fountains set him at peace so that he could think clearly. He finally found a bench in a satisfactory location and sat down. It was shaded by a medium-sized fig tree and had a wide view in either direction to let him know if anyone was coming, though he didn’t really expect anyone. As far as he could tell, he was the only one who visited the gardens on a regular basis, except, of course, the gardeners.

He soon refocused on the issue at hand. The king had announced that there was to be a banquet tonight; he wanted to have his thoughts straightened out before then, because he was fairly confident that his opinion would be asked. Young though he was, at eighteen years of age, as the king’s son and possible heir to the throne, his opinion was not without weight. Nobles often times seemed to be trying to figure out where he stood, wondering if they should support him or his older sister. That didn’t mean that he would tell them his opinions, though; he was a firm believer that he could learn a lot more by listening than by talking.

His thoughts soon brought him to the ring the emissary had given his father. It was unlike any other ring he had ever seen, and if he had had a clearer view of it than many he still hadn’t seen it closely. He wasn’t sure he wanted to, either: anything with that kind of effect on people probably had some kind of magic, and he was tentative around things he didn’t understand, especially if it was from so far away... Perhaps he was just overanalyzing it. More likely it was simply a ring of great worth and beauty, two things that the culturally-advanced Pashtians certainly understood. Probably the ring was simply a token of good will. Probably.

The whole situation made him uneasy, even though he could pinpoint no reason for it. By all appearances the emissary and their Lord Annatar had nothing but good feelings towards them, and that may have been the problem. Siamak could not figure out why the Lord Annatar wanted their friendship, though he had nothing but proud feelings of his country. Their resources were many and the culture was rich and developed, but it certainly wasn’t practical to trade all the way across the Great Desert. It was simply too far. Pashtia did not want any part in foreign wars, and the transport of troops across so great a distance was unreasonable. Besides, regular communication would be near impossible.

Frustrated that he was getting nowhere, Siamak decided that it was time to go inside. He needed more information before he would be able to form a solid opinion based on facts rather than intuition. He now regretted his hasty retreat from the throne room because he might have been able to learn more about these strangers and their lands. On the other hand, it was just as possible that the emissaries had been escorted to guest rooms to freshen up after their journey leaving the nobles to gossip among themselves. Siamak didn’t like gossip very much - it was usually chock-full of rumors and half-truths, leaving one with the onerous task of deciphering how much of it was fact.

He returned to the palace building by a different way than he had come to a gate that would be closer to his personal living quarters. He had lost track of time out in the garden, and with surprise he had found it to be a few hours later than when he had come out, though there was still plenty of time before the banquet that night. By now, he had probably been missed, but he hoped not. There were very few people that he would be willing to see before tonight. He pushed through the garden gates, paying little heed to the guards there. He turned down the less used corridors in an attempt to avoid people. He knew that his own status was higher than theirs, but nobles made him nervous. They always seemed to want something, whether special favors with the king or some kind of alliance. Not that he wasn’t grateful for their support; if his father was ever going to name him the heir he would need all the support he could get. It wasn’t so much that he wanted to be king as he didn’t want his sister Gjeelea and her betrothed to rule. He didn’t like his sister very much. She was everything he was not: gossipy, manipulative, and out-spoken, and her fiancé was just as bad: greedy and brutish. In truth, he felt rather intimidated by his sister, and she was one of the people he was most trying to avoid.

Siamak sighed in relief when he reached the section of the palace that was the quarters for the royal family. Once he reached his rooms, he would not have to see anyone he did not want to, and he had only to eat a small afternoon meal, think, and prepare for the banquet tonight.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

“Tell me more of your journey.”

The King and the man of the West were sitting upon cushions in the courtyard of the small villa that had been placed at the latter’s disposal for the duration of his stay. He had, as yet, not spoken of how long this might be, nor had he elaborated upon the Lord Annatar’s messages of alliance, but there had been much to speak of anyway. The King himself, intrigued by the stranger, had shown him the way to his lodgings, an event that had caused a slight rustle of murmur to follow them both through the palace grounds as they had proceeded along the gravelled paths. Along the way they had tarried to look at the plants and statuary, with Faroz explaining what he knew of each. He was not an avid gardener and he had been forced to ask his attendants upon more than one occasion the name of a plant, or to identify its properties. The Emissary had seemed interested in all that he could learn of the plants, and at the King’s bidding had broken off the stems of some blossoms and carried them with him to his rooms. “These remind me of a plant that we have in my own homeland,” he had explained. “It is used in the healing of certain ailments of the blood. I am curious to see if this plant is related to the one I know.”

Faroz’s chamberlain, an elderly man who had served the former King in the same capacity for some years, spoke up at this point. He was a tall and severe looking person, with sharp features and very little hair left upon his wizened head. “That plant is called farullias by my people,” he explained quietly. “It is used for healing, but how and for what I do not know. If you would like I will arrange to have a healer come to you in your chambers to discuss it and other plants.” Despite his polite manner, it was clear that the elderly courtier had yet to form an opinion of the stranger.

Faroz smiled at him. “Yes Jarult,” he said, “that is an excellent idea. I am sure our new friend has much to learn from our people. And I am sure we have much to learn from him as well.” The manner of his address to the stranger was noted by Jarult with little more than a flicker in his eyes, but it did not go unnoticed by the King. I must be more guarded he told himself. I do not know why I am so drawn to this man, but I must be cautious before my people. It would not do for me to be overly familiar too soon. He looked ahead once more to the chance for private conference.

As they sat upon the cushions then, looking at the potted trees and feeling the cooler airs of the coming evening settle about them, Faroz took great pleasure in the moment. It had been many years since he had sat alone with any person for a private conversation, and it had caused quite a stir when he had dismissed his train of attendants so that he could speak with the Emissary. The stranger had bathed himself and been clothed in dark silks after the manner of the Pashtian nobility. While the manner of his dress and his surroundings must have seemed strange to him, he appeared comfortable at the villa, quickly seeing to the ordering of the rooms and to the disposition of the few belongings that he had brought with him over the desert. Five of his men-at-arms were to remain with him at the villa. The others had been housed in apartments at the Palace. When the Emissary was refreshed, Faroz took him to the courtyard and pointed out the bas-relief that had been carved into the wall facing the main passage. It was an expertly executed likeness of the former King. He was mounted upon a horse and about him was a host of cavalry, resplendent beneath a sun of gold. The figures had been so cunningly painted that they seemed to glow with life. The ivy upon the walls had begun to grow about the figures, as though to crown them with leaves and berries. Beneath this image the two men reclined upon the large silk cushions and spoke for many hours.

He had found his companion knowledgeable about Pashtia and the lands about it, and they spoke for a long time of his journey. “A hard coming we had of it,” he concluded. “But the lands between your kingdom and the realm of my Lord are becoming much safer with the end of the conflicts that have ravaged the West. Oh,” he said feelingly, “how we envy you the peace and prosperity you have built here! Such wonderful things have we seen since our arrival! Mind you, with the end of strife for my Lord, he has turned into something of a craftsman himself. The ring he has sent you, for example.”

Faroz leapt at the topic with an eagerness that surprised him. “Yes, you perceive my mind. I have wanted to ask you of that since receiving it. It is a wonderful thing. He made it himself you say?”

The Emissary nodded. “Indeed, with his own hands. Nine such rings has he forged to give to his closest friends and allies. I myself bear the first, and yours is but the second.”

Faroz felt an odd flush of gratitude at hearing this. “Who will bear the remaining seven?”

“Those other kings and princes of the world who wish to accept them from my lord,” the Emissary replied quietly. “We seek to build a new order in this Middle-earth. One based on bonds forged between rulers so unbreakable as to make conflict between them unthinkable.” As he spoke his dark grey eyes shone like burnished steel. He looked directly at Faroz and the King noticed how very dark the man’s hair was, and the strength of his even features.

“You have not yet told me your name,” the King said. Then, recovering himself, he said more diplomatically. “That is, I have not asked you your name, for I do not know if such is the manner of your people.”

The Emissary smiled and reclined upon his cushions, completely at ease. “Indeed, it is not the practice of my lord to have his messengers name themselves to his fellow Kings. He prefers for us to speak as with his voice. For believe me, majesty, what I say comes from the Lord Annatar as sure as if he were here with us now. But be that as it may. While I must be nameless to your people, you can call me Ashnaz.” As he said this a slow smile came across his features, as though he were laughing at some jest, but his manner was one of sincerity and friendship.

Faroz smiled and, taking the man by his hand, said, “Very well, my friend – for such will I call you as I can see that you are a person of honour and great dignity in your land, and our conversation this afternoon has been greatly pleasing to me. But come,” he said, suddenly remembering the time, “we must be gone to the banquet.” Rising they left the villa and proceeded back toward the palace.

[Amanaduial the archer]

Some way from the humid palace garden where the king's emotions were stirred by the Western stranger, the cool air of the great temple to Rhais stirred slightly as a newcomer entered the still depths. But this was no stranger to the temple: the building recieved her as an old friend as she walked forward from the depths of shadow around the entrance, moving assuredly through the dim temple. The sandstone pillars rose up on either side, reaching high above the woman's head many times her height, majestically tall and imposing. The lines of the pillars wove round and around, spiralling upwards, and were decorated with tiny but intricate patterns of leaves, as befitted the temple of the earth goddess.

The white robed woman walked quickly between the lines of pillars, the long-chained medallion swinging on her chest with the rhythm of her passage, and she began to hum softly to herself, a strange, flowing melody that seemed to harmonise with itself in the echoes of the temple as she strode towards the altar steps at the front of the temple. She paused briefly in front of the steps, her melody stopping momentarily as her lips moved in a prayer or blessing of some sort. Then she continued up the steps, her footsteps light and silent as she followed the path she had taken every day for years. Reaching the top, she slowed down to a walk, then, halting, she genuflected low in front of the statue, her right knee nearly touching the stone floor as she bowed her head low behind the arch that her hands made as her arms crossed at the two golden wrist bands, as if tied, her hands making loose fists: the typical bow to the statues of Rhais or Rae. Straightening up again, the priestess took a step backwards looked up at the giant seated statue of Rhais which towered above her, the main focus of the temple, and a smile graced her young, slim face as her kohl-lined eyes lingered on those of the goddess.

"Goddess Rhais..." she murmured softly, then walked to either side of the statue's feet to light the warm naptha lights at both sides, allowing them to cast their warm light across the front dais and steps, and to sparkle mysteriously in the ruby on her chest, and above it the engraved lines of the tree stood out more, the light catching inside the tree’s outline. As she paused to look up once more at Rhais, the lamps lit her dark skin, making her expression seem to glow with sombre thoughtfullness, as if she was asking something of Rhais.

"High Priestess Zamara?"

The timid address made Zamara spin around, her long dark plait of hair spinning behind her as she turned to look down the steps at the owner of the voice: a girl in her early teens, her head covered by a shawl, naturally, her face round and young looking, although she wore she same simple robes as Zamara, although without the gold finishes. The older woman smiled down at the younger priestess, her face more. "Tayfar, I did not expect to see you today. Why have you come in so early?"

Tayfar bowed her head to Zamara before she spoke, and she blushed slightly at the warmth in the priestess' voice. "I thought it may be best, High Priestess - there will be much to do this evening if you are to go to the banquet, and it will take longer than usual."

A flicker of worry or anxiety seemed to dart across Zamara’s face, although it could have just been the light of the lamps as they fluttered slightly from a sudden breeze through the huge stone temple; it was gone in a second. She nodded slowly, then seemed more certain, nodded more briskly. “You thought it out more carefully than I, Tayfar – I had almost forgotten about our new visitor from the West.”

Tayfar laughed quietly, advancing up the steps. “I doubt that, High Priestess,” she replied with a grin. Zamara raised an eyebrow at her but contented herself with saying nothing, smiling back a little although her heart wasn’t really in it. This Western visitor…what was he here for? Zamara herself had been saying the morning blessing of the temple when the emissary had come through the city, but she was told that he had not even paused in front of the statues of Rhais and Rae. He did not accept them as gods. Of course, maybe he did not know…but that made things harder. Even Alanzia worshipped Rhais and Rae – how far away was this noble messenger’s country that he did not even recognise the faces of the deities of sky and earth?

Zamara knelt once more to the statue and murmured a prayer before rising and starting to one side, before she paused, freezing in front of Rhais’ likeness as if arrested by a word from the goddess. Tayfar hesitated also, but didn’t speak, knowing Zamara’s sudden notions of prayer, or who knew what, that sometimes came upon her. The priestess closed her eyes and took a deep breath before telling Tayfar to move on and start mixing the antimony that they would make into makeup later for the ceremony that evening: she would catch up in a few moments. As the younger priestess bowed quickly and scurried behind the statue to the inner sanctuary, Zamara half turned back, her eyes shining as she looked up towards Rhais’ face, her slim, dark fingers curling around the ruby medallion as she sank to one knee.

“Goddess, does this stranger come for good or evil? An alliance would be a fine thing, and to spread knowledge of our people, our customs, our deities…a noble cause, and if these Westerners actually seek it, they are blessed in my eyes. But such a strange journey to make from the war-torn lands…” She waited for a moment, then bowed her head. “Protect us from such foreign wars,” she said softly, more to herself than the statue. Coming out of the trance-like state, the High Priestess rose again. Running one hand across the fine silk of her robe, she followed Tayfar’s path to the inner sanctuary – but the fingers of her other hand stayed tightly wrapped around the ruby medallion.

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

The ring certainly looked like a wonderful, generous gift from where Gjeelea stood. She could see it glint faintly from where her father held it, examining it closely. Gjeelea smirked as she wondered whether or not the ring would even fit about one of her father’s fingers. The princess and eldest child of the Pashtian rulers stood quietly in the corner of the large assemblage, watching the proceedings with intrigue and contemplation. The meeting adjourned, with great hope between the two foreign peoples for peace in the future – and with plans for a great celebration and welcoming feast that night.

Some chose to leave the assembly immediately to go and prepare for the festivities set up for that night. Others Pashtians like Gjeelea would find solace in chatting about the great hall with acquaintances, discussing the arrival of the foreign delegates.

“They certainly were handsome visitors!” Gjeelea cringed at hearing the high-pitched voice of the young noble lady Majran nearby. The princess moved from her isolated spot to join the gaggle of young women speaking of the new arrivals. The hem of her deep maroon robes lightly caressed the magnificent marble floor as she entered the circle, and nodded politely to the greetings of the women. Gjeelea smiled sagely at the gathered ladies and their petty conversations. Gjeelea could feel the women eye her from the highest braid peaking beneath the colorful gauze of her headscarf to the lowest hem of her robe. She waited patiently for an introduction into the conversation.

“We were just speaking of the men from across the desert, milady,” said one girl, chirping her own explanation. From beneath a most unbecoming beige scarf Gjeelea could see hidden tufts of dark brown hair. I knew that already, thank you…Gjeelea thought cynically, though she nodded passively and toyed with one of the tiny ebony braids of her own hair.

“Really? How do you all feel about them, then?” Gjeelea asked in a smooth, oily tone that gave away none of the her own opinions on the matter. I will see how they feel, then perhaps speak, the princess decided inwardly, waiting for a reply.

“I worry that their goal is not one of peace, lady,” spoke one girl carefully after much inner deliberation. “Why else would they bring so many men with them? It would not stand to our army, but peace should not come in armed soldiers.”

“I fear that they are unholy,” added another noblewoman. Her dark eyes darted from one lady to the next as her voice lowered, “How could they get across the desert? Such a journey is very dangerous, you know.”

After her words, the rest of the circle joined in at the same time, chattering over another to voice their fears.

“Oh, girls, girls, please! There is no reason to fret,” Gjeelea interrupted gently, lying through her teeth. “The only thing these emissaries give us is a good reason to feast, celebrate, and wear our good silks for a night.” There was a gentle, nervous laugh from around the circle. Smiling kindly, Gjeelea nodded her head to each woman in turn. “If you do not mind, friends, I fear I must leave you now. I must prepare for the festivities of tonight.”

There came a chorus of farewells and a grand rustling of skirts from bowing women as Gjeelea left the group. She meandered away from them, and out of the corner of her eye she could see the ladies disperse just as she left the hall. It was just as well that I uproot their weeds of fear, and save my opinions for later…Gjeelea thought, reflecting on her words with the women. Inwardly the princess worried, and wondered how these strangers might affect the king in matters of state…especially if somehow they might influence her father in choosing an heir. Despite these thoughts Gjeelea continued to rustle along quietly to her room, where she closed the door and dismissed her attendants to prepare in solitude for the night ahead.

Her dark, muddy hazel eyes glistened as she chose a dress; the first she decided on one of deep crimson color with pale yellow embroidery - the first of many dresses she would try on before choosing the right one for the banquet. Gjeelea's movements were passive, and her decisions unsure...her thoughts still remained on the emissary and how the foriegn entity might influence King Faroz. How did they cross the great desert? Why? That is most unusual...they would not do such a thing if it were not important. Gjeelea's thoughts starting running rampant in the silence of her bedchamber, and the princess never knew silence could be so loud.

[Kransha]

As was expected, the King’s announcement that a banquet would be held on the evening of the emissary’s arrival brought many courtiers, counselors, lords, ladies, and the like to the court of Faroz. The more public of the gardens that speckled the lavish palace courtyard were brimming with guests from the greater estates of Kanak. Well-clothed and extravagantly garbed, upstanding nobles crowded the gently winding paths that circled the individual fountains, shrines, reflecting pools, and mazes of hedge and flower. Sweet smells permeated the air with graceful plumes of scent that wafted over the heads of Pashtia’s finest. Near countless magnificent flavors filled the air, accompanied close behind by the busy buzzing of noble gossip, the kind only talked of in Kanak’s highly revered, eminent upper echelons. The mild, tranquil sound of flowing water, and rippling waves in the courtyard’s several pools was drowned out overwhelmingly by tactless talk and garbled words. The lights of many torches crackled and glowed with faint energy, lighting up the darkening gardens and playing out shadowy games which flickered, portraying numerous silhouettes that moved swiftly across the surfaces of the inner palace walls. These silhouettes were overborne, though, by the fine reliefs carefully etched into niches in the walls, which stood out on carven tablets, burnished with brazen frames and affixed to the courtyard’s innards. Flowery vines laced over these delicate stories, told in pictures that lined the stone, depicting war, peace, love, loss, and all those things that a master teller of tales might be familiar with.

Morgós Elrigon, General of Pashtia, saw his own likeness on those walls more than once. Perhaps the images there were not of him, but they certainly could’ve been. Some were definitely portrayals of him, and they gleamed with the rich freshness of modernity, but reeked of a certain contemporary falseness which soured the general’s taste for them. He noted silently that those he knew to be of him depicted him as larger than the other plated figures. He stood, sometimes in a variety of poses, often parading some weapon of a kind, and with an artist’s pale attempt at portraying some fragile glowing effect radiating from him. Were he a haughtier Elf, he would’ve frowned at the representation, for it certainly did him no justice. The images of Kings and Queens were far greater in comparison, and those of the lower set, farmers and soldiers, miniscule.

His senses as far as scent and taste were not as intoned as his thoughts, at the moment. He was busy with the workings of his mind, and the graceless sounds that cluttered up his ears. He could not help but feel a certain vague discontent as the talkative folk about him blathered on heedlessly, spouting all sorts of drivel which bore no meaning whatsoever to him. Pained by the course cacophony, Morgós let a gloved hand flit to his ear. He sought, at first, to block out the well of noise, the bulk of it at least, touching his gentle fingers to the leaf-shaped ear he bore. Then, knowing full well that he could not alleviate the noise, he simply brought his hand to his head, and allowed the digits to knead his throbbing temple wordlessly, as he moved through the crowd. He felt as if he had to break away, the din disrupting, which was a great surprise. Morgôs was a soldier, a warrior of high degree and regard. The din of battle did nothing to him, save for his temperament, and he had never been pained such in combat, war, or conflict. Yet, the noise of noble prattle made his head ache with a passion, and he hurriedly moved away, wandering with aimless measure into the deeper locales of the palace courtyard.

The courtyard of Kanak’s royal palace was indeed elaborate. This was, though, only the middle courtyard, between the ones that featured on the outskirts of the palace, dotted with villas, and those within, off limits to all but the highest nobles and the royal family. This great expanse was only a small fragment of Kanak's wealth. It was marked, or rather divided into sections, with boundaries indivisible. Some was more public, and that was less extravagant, only bearing stony paths and the familiar reliefs on the walls. Tree copses and veiled groves, shrouded in the mists that emanated from flowing fountains marked the boundaries of the inner levels, with paths, as winding and twisting as serpents, circled these high hedges, copses, and several monuments, adorned with glittering materials. Some statuary lined the broader paths, mostly of the simplest variety and all a great distance apart, only popping up every so often, and most could not be seen if one did not know where to look for them. Some sections, more wooded with plants, gardens, trees, and all manner of horticultural achievements, appeared to be the eaves of a forest, the like could not be seen in deserts. Statues cropped up rarely in these dazzling oases, and only as landmarks on a beauteous plain, often concealed by surrounding bushes planted neatly about the pedestals that bore busts or carvings. Some trees indeed were ornamented with carvings into the thicker wood trunks as well, but mostly, the depths of the courtyard were natural, all designed to seem as a fluid transition from a majestic urban zone to an equally majestic land of fantasy, which was different and radical to any Pashtian, to whom a desert, barren and wasted of trees, was the norm. Past the trees, though, were the copses grew the thickest and most dense, lay the wealth of palace grandiosity. Here was the unroofed passage that led to the palace steps themselves, and the dais where Faroz had met the Emissary. It was magnificently festooned, and no commoner could ever hope to venture this far into the city . Morgôs had a great distaste for such immodesty.

Oddly, Morgôs often clothed himself immodestly, despite his spite for the immodest, and could be found clad in fine, richly colored cloths. His court garb consisted primarily of a sable, loose-sleeved tunic made of dyed cotton with a silver silk jerkin, an embroidered sash, simple breeches, high boots covering the whole of his feet and calves, made from firm but supple material. Today, he wore the robe of a courtier of Faroz heaped over all of this, which was his normal accoutrement for social events in the palace. It was not as much a fashionable choice as it was an obligation. Morgôs never had been able to follow the wending trends of Pashtia, and wasted no time trying. In the courtyard, he was no more than indistinguishable. On the battlefield, though, it was another matter entirely. Morgôs was an idiosyncrasy in every way. He was a shining star upon the sands of war, the fiery world around him no more than an empty void were he, a celestial body, had free reign as the very winds. This was not were he came into his own, in a lush courtyard stuffed with the botchery of political engagement, that surrounded him. He looked up, past all of the lights, the sounds, the festivities, to the stars in the sky above.

If there was one thing that Morgôs identified with, and found solace in, it was the stars. Those sparkling, twinkling lights that frequented the heavens, radiant, fervent, and, even with the passing of great clouds, constant…just like him. As he would live for centuries more, he could set his mind by those stars, for they were impregnable and unchanging were they hung, from silken unseen threads that suspended them all in one awesome array. Morgôs barely blinked as he looked upon them, and wished that more could be seen, but this night was, strangely, far more filled with clouds, plumed masses that overshadowed every shining glint that graced the black expanse. Clouds held no comfort for Morgôs, only those stars. They were the first thing he remembered, his abiding memory of a time so long ago that he himself had forgotten most of what occurred back then. Now, though, he knew all that was required of him, and it was sometimes painful to remember what had been, not only because it strained his mind, but he felt that dark things might have happened in that time…very dark things. Those things plagued Morgôs just as the stars comforted him, though he presently dismissed his wistful reverie and let the noise of the growing festivities billow again around him.

The General of Pashtia had been likened to a star by those around him on several occasions, most often on the field of battle. Some said that it was his own cosmetic planning that had forged this strange, stellar appearance, but others declared that, when Morgôs Elrigon rode into the thick of battle, he was imbued with the light, and the beauteous rage of the stars themselves. Soldiers said that, when Morgôs took the field, his armor shone with a silver light so brilliant that none could look on him and not be blinded. Legends followed him closely, dogs at his heels that leapt and bit whenever their master was slighted. Indeed, the hounds of myth bounded closely behind Morgôs, and were well fed by those they saw and what they imbibed. The stories of him said that on the battlefield he could become “a very star, fallen from the sky and filled with fire, which smote Pashtia’s enemies until they fled, with him behind.” That delectable excerpt was from the published and overly flowery account of the Battle of Keldoraz, one of the more memorable events of the last war. Morgôs’ memories of the fight had been hazy ever since, mystified in way unknown to him now. As he always did, thinking on the times sent him back into a daze of thought, and a dreary fog descended on his real perception, blurring the images of the reliefs he still gazed coldly on.

A voice from behind snapped his concentration.

“General, I did not think you would be here.”

He turned, slowly, ready for the assault on his dreamy state. He saw, just behind him, the figure of his adjutant lieutenant, the man who acted as his aid in the Pashtian army, who went by the name of Gyges. Gyges was a shorter man than Morgôs, though most mortals were. He was too a dutiful servant, and not a servant either, for he was more an aid to Morgôs, an adjutant lieutenant to his tactics and a foil for his stratagems, in addition to a welcome amicability in a hostile world. Gyges had served Morgôs as a chief lieutenant for some time, not long in the sense of an Avari, but, perhaps, some time for mortal men, for whom time was fickle and ever fleeting. Gyges seemed as if, no matter how much time passed, he would remain where he stood, at the side of any man who was in need of him, for that was the man he was. He was youthful, but bore the distinguished beard of a fair Pashtian, even if it was evident that it was new and untended. Gyges held a good position, and was an upstanding member of the military and society, but it was obvious from the sparkle of wonderment in his eyes that he was not used to the incredible, lavish heights of the palace. Morgôs felt warmth looking upon him, upon a face that might have been naïve, but he knew was not.

“What cause would you have to doubt my presence, Gyges?” Morgôs barely cracked a smile as he spoke, a faint sliver moving across his lips. He was not a smiling person, and no light shown in his content looks, but it was pleasant to see his more often frown-creased face alight with some jollity. Gyges looked to him, as astute as a student, studying ever harder in the service of a masterful tutor, which was a role that Morgôs fit neatly. With a subtle grin upon his youthful face, Gyges continued, walking dutifully alongside his commander.

“You are - if you’ll excuse my saying so – not a man who seems like he would relish such gatherings.” said Gyges, his tone almost speaking in reprimand to the General, as if he were reproaching him for his coming, “I had guessed that the King would call you here to see to the King’s guards, as a precautionary measure in light of these new happenings.” Morgôs’ smile faded again, wistfully being absorbed into his familiar expression, which was constantly imprinted upon his features, chiseled their like statuary on marble. He turned away from his aid, moving towards the fringes of the crowd. Morgôs looked backed at him, a gentle, dull gleam reflected in his wispy eye. “The King’s guards have a captain, my friend,” he said, muffling his voice somewhat to cause less of a distraction as the two entered a less haunted copse of trees, “and King Faroz has his hold on the palace firm enough to ward off indolence at the wave of a royal hand. No, I was not called.”

“Your wife, then?” said Gyges, ducking a low-hanging branch as the duo wound their way away from even the outskirts of the noble muddle and into a thickly wooded number of tree groves, marked by several smaller, more fragile fountains, the water of which gleamed all the brighter as the willowy trees blocked the distant torchlight. Morgôs sighed deeply, shaking his head in a melodramatic manner that brought a quick-flashing smile to his aid’s face, and a vigorous smirk. “Not so either.” murmured the General, feigning dejection, “She is with the queen. My son, though, has eluded me hereabouts, but I do not trust to seek him. His devices are his own, today, and I must tend to mine, detestable as they may be.” He did not show a joking look as he said this, but Gyges knew that he was at least mocking his own tone with such statements. But, nevertheless, the lieutenant persisted with his question, sidling up to the General, who looked positively doleful in his contemplation.

“Then what?” Gyges exclaimed, his voice louder, “Surely you did not wish to attend a banquet. I know you are not here for food and merry-making, nor for politics, so what brings you to the court, and in your evening best, I daresay.” He looked quickly over Morgôs, to affirm his claim, and nodded with a cluck of his tongue, picking up the pace and fairly skipping to keep up with the General, whose speed had increased. The din of the crowd was gone, replaced by gentle fountain splashing and the rustling of courtyard trees. Morgôs suddenly turned, pouncing gracefully, and headed off the younger man, who skidded to a clumsy halt. “Need I explain my every action to a subordinate?” He chided, taking a commanding tone.

Taking the spur, Gyges snapped to attention. “No, sir.”

Morgôs’ arched soldiers relaxed and he simmered down from his false harshness, turning again and beginning again to walk, but slower now. “Well,” he said, “I shall anyway. Sometimes, there are banquets and festivities that deserve to be attend. It would be a dangerous thing to avoid the topic of this evening’s aristocratic forum, for a General must know about what he defends, and the nation he serves. So, he must also know who his nation allies itself with. The emissary of this ‘Lord Annatar’ and his train are not like Pashtians or Alanzians, from what I have heard and seen so far.”

“Certainly not, but therein lies more illusion.” Gyges grinned again, seeing hidden meaning, and raised an accusing hand at his noble commander, “You are here for diplomacy, or, at least, to avoid a tactless maneuver?”

“Ever the detective,” Morgôs laughed, not joyfully, but still with some modicum of enjoyment, playing his part as only a master thespian could, “you know that role well, and play it with your heart, if only your heart could serve my whims in a snappier fashion.” Gyges chuckled reprehensively, but Morgôs continued, saying thus: “Yes, for what it’s worth, I am avoiding a failing. The Avari may be ‘devils’ in some land, but they are devils with some notion of political correctness.” The adjutant looked up now, his thin, prim eyebrow rising curiously. “You have conversed with the Emissary?” he asked, his curiosity obviously piqued. “No, not yet.” Morgôs said in swift reply, “I was watching a drill of the rearguard out on the training fields when the Emissary arrived, and I was soon summoned, but I have not yet entered the palace this evening. No doubt I will soon discover the contents of this matter, but I am content enough not to know.”

Gyges looked at him, with both dark and light in his two eyes as he posed, hesitantly, a controversial question that Morgôs had been waiting for. “The Emissary…you trust him, sir?”

Morgôs retorted wittily, hoping to disregard, and just as easily avoid a straight answer. “Trust him?” he cried out, “Not yet, by the gods, I have not even met him! For all I know he is a desert worm with wings in disguise that has devoured the king and his courtiers in their company!” Gyges barely stifled a contorted laugh, and Morgôs smiled benevolently, letting his upraised hand, which had been busy with mad gestures, fall to Gyges’ shoulder, which was heaving up and down as he releases a brief guffaw. “A fine thing that would be.” The lieutenant said, in between the deep breaths that followed his comedic spasm, “But he is no desert worm – he is a fine man.” He rose up again, to his full height, looking confident, but Morgôs chided him seriously.

“You misplace your trust, lieutenant.”

“I don’t think I have.” Gyges continued readily, “He gives gifts; he brings praise and accolades for King Faroz and all his court. Surely, he brings many things else; cures and tools from the west from whence he came…new methods of war.” He nearly winked at this, knowing that such a proposition might raise some interest in his general, but Morgôs did not even reply to the last phrase, and instead stood silent for a moment, pausing on the path. The two had, in their winding journey through the courtyard, returned to a populated area, though it was less filled than the one they’d come from. Here, the talk was more subdued, civilized, and sophisticated, from what the two could hear of it. Instead of raucous laughs and irksome babble, idle whispers filled the air. Morgôs found purchase on which to speak soon enough. “No one should ever gain a man’s trust unquestioned, Gyges. Friend or foe, trinkets do not forge alliances, nor do merry words and tidings. Trust is forged by time, and we here today have none of that, especially if we are going to squander the time we have been allotted on banquets.”

“Speak for yourself, sir.” Gyges remarked matter-of-factly, “Decadent as it is, I am happy to indulge a Pashtian meal fit for a king.”

“And I too, Gyges.” Morgôs said, his demeanor becoming peaceful and merry again.

“I am glad to hear it.” said the lieutenant, moving slowly backward, “Now, I have my own business to attend. Fare well, General.” Gyges turned fully away as the two were met by the crowd that began to move quietly around them, surrounding them with overly colorful cloths that glinted with baubles and bangles. Gyges moved away, but clapped his right hand, clenched into a firm fist, to his heart and bowed, as was the salute of Pashtian nobility, and of captains in its army. Morgôs did not have time to return the gesture. “Fare well, my friend.” Was all he said back, but Gyges has already disappeared into the crowd again.

With a little bob of his head in acknowledgement of his friend’s departure, he was absorbed into the scattered crowd as well, looping between the clumps of noble courtiers who had separated. Letting his robes drag along the smooth tiles of the courtyard, the length of the material undulating like gentle waves as he moved, with flowery grace that was all too distinct, and implicative of his Elven nature. Many took glances at him, out of their eye’s corners, some revering and not willing to look upon him fully, others cold and with copious suspicion. He did not care for stray looks, regardless of the emotion behind him. He could see what feelings lurked in the deep, unavoidable mortality of their countenance. His own mind was perceptive enough, sharpened with a precision that, as far as he had learned, mortal men did not possess. He, like his wife and son, bore both nobility given with position, and the strength of will held only by Avari. Now, Morgôs wondered what those two, his spouse and child, had busied themselves with. Even though his son was not a frivolous lad, he had not been seen by Morgôs in some time. After his attending the event at Kanak’s training grounds, Morgôs had been whisked straight to the palace in light of the events. He did not know if his son, Evrathol, was on the grounds, but he suspected as much.

His wife, Arlomë, was probably with the queen. Being part of the royal entourage had its responsibilities, but its benefits as well. Morgôs, though, was impartial to the benefits, just as he was to the responsibilities. His spouse’s duties to Queen Bekah were all relative, in his opinion, but he held little true respect for the Queen herself. Morgôs had never been a prejudicial Elf, in any way, shape, or form, but he could not surmount his dislike of the woman whose retinue his own wife was a part of. She was, after all, Alanzian by birth, and no good had ever come from Alanzia, even after the marital alliance arranged by it and Pashtia, to resolve the last great conflict. That had not been the first combat with Alanzia in which Morgôs had played a dutiful part, and he felt that it might not be the last. He’d seen relationships crumble, like the walls erected around them. Like the highest stronghold battlements, naught could last forever – save, perhaps, for Avari, which was where his philosophy bore its base. Avari were, barring violent death, immortal beings, though few remained in Pashtia who had walked its lengths for longer than a millennium. The petty alliances, the meager diplomacy, and all the hastened works of man were, cosmically, all futile and useless to the grander, greater bounds. The girdles of the world would not keep them intact forever, and thus, any alliance between long-time enemies was doomed to stand only for a short while. The marriage between Bekah and Faroz might have ended a war, but such minor action would surely not even subtly divert future wars. Blood would always be spilt, no matter what monarchs engaged in political scheming of whatever sort.

Morgôs’ mind now went back, from his long-winded inner thoughts to thoughts, simpler and terser, of his wife. He had never asked her, in the time that she had been in Queen Bekah’s retinue, what opinion she bore for the queen. In earnest, he had a minute fear of her response deep in him, for he was loath to find a subject on which he disagreed with her. Only a few of Pashtia’s matters were discussed by him and his spouse frequently, and he, for one, did not relish the breaches in that relationship. It was more than an irksome thing to be in disagreement with an Elf like Arlomë. Any opinion she had was one that she had some passion to argue for. She was, in truth, more of an extrovert than he (which led Morgôs to believe that their son, Evrathol, had taken more from him than from her) and, though he could not be sure, more impolitic as well. She had no need to be as tactful as he, for the Queen who she served was more dismissive, and did not require her retinue to be composed of those with grounded beliefs. As a General of the King’s Army, Morgôs was held to certain standards, and had been oft analyzed by Faroz’ counselors, and, probably, many of his actions reported to the King. Morgôs did not believe the king was suspicious, but someone who controlled such a great force, with such a mighty backing had to be trusted in every respect, and so he understood that he could not be fully trusted without evidence to prove the fact. He had said, but moments ago, to trusty Gyges, that no man could be trusted. Men were fickle indeed. They had but one life to live, and fickleness was the best way to extract from that unpleasant existence pleasure. Mortality had its price, but no price cannot be heckled…certainly not in Pashtia.

Avari, though, bore none of this. But, immortality had its price as well.

Ceasing to think of such morose matters, Morgôs moved towards the palace, which sprung up before him in all its terrific splendor. He saw the great column loom above, but turned his head down instead, directing his gaze away from the glory, and to the earth. He moved forward, past whoever stood on either side of him, and looked to the uniformed heralds of the king, who stood at varying locations. One, he noticed, was nearing him, and came up to him directly, cutting off his solemn path. The herald was a youth, with a beard no longer than a man’s finger, which was far shorter than the Pashtian norm. He was clad in the usual, easily distinguished outfit of an indentured courtier of King Faroz, richly colored but not so elaborate that it held the pompous energy of the nobles talking in the courtyard.

“General Morgôs,” said the youth, “The banquet is to begin shortly, and his majesty, King Faroz, desires your presence there. Surely you do not wish to disappoint him.”

“No, surely not.” Morgôs murmured in reply, and followed the herald into the palace.

[Imladris]

Arshalous buried her black head into the scarlet cushions that decorated her bed and pounded them with her fist. She did not want to go to the banquet tonight. There were too many people at banquets and they made her stomach upset.

She sat up and swallowed determinedly, wiping her nose as she did so and looked about her chambers. Bright murals depicting battles and fine ladies languishing in green gardens adorned her walls. The floor was a mosaic forest scrubbed clean by her serving girl. White gauze, wafting down from golden rods, surrounded her bed to protect her from the buzzing bugs that roamed in the night.

Slipping off her bed, she went to her wardrobe and selected a silken dress of emerald green edged with pale pink. She slipped into it, found her soft leather sandals, and called,"Semra! Semra!"

A small girl of fourteen hurried from another room, bowed, and said softly, "Yes, my lady?"

She glanced up at Arshalous, her round brown eyes flickering with a trace of fear. Her mohagany hair was tied back in a nest of braids, and her brown feet were bare. She was a servant, brought to the house yesterday.

"How may I serve you?" she asked in a high voice.

"Sit," said Arshalous, patting the edge of the bed as she began to comb her hair. "There is a banquet tonight."

There was a short pause and Semra bit her lip nervously. "Is that why you are dressed so lovely?"

"Naturally," said Arshalous with a scowl. Tossing the brush away so that it skittered across the bed and tumbled to the floor, Arshalous took a case of kohl and began to put a heavy layer around her eyes.

"Why?" asked Semra tentatively. Arshalous saw her trace the silken design of the silken coverlets.

"Emissaries from the West," said Arshalous shortly. "We must honour and welcome them."

"You don't think we should?" asked Semra.

"Oh no, it's an excellent idea," said Arshalous. "If we didn't they would become offended (even though there really is no reason to be offended) and war could be declared and we wouldn't want that...well, maybe the army would but that's just because they have restless spirits. I just don't want to go to the banquet. People get so roudy at banquets..." She glowered darkly. "Could you fetch me a scarf?" she asked absently.

Semra slid off the bed and dashed to an ornate dressar. Carven vines curled around the elgs, delicate flowers were etched into the golden handles. Semra selected a white scarf from one of the drawers and draped around Arshalous's head. "You look beautiful," she said.

Arshalous rolled her eyes. "No I am not...but thank you."

[Nurumaiel]

The light of the fire created strange shadows to play over the room. It was a large room, decorated with tapestries and richly-coloured rugs, and the fire was the only source of light and warmth. There were three windows, but all were closed. But for the fire, the room would have been a forbidding place, and indeed even with the brisk blaze there was a coldness. A tall, handsome man let his impressive step fall before the hearth, and just behind him was another man: short, pale, and thin, with keen eyes darting here and there, betraying a mind of cunning and maybe even some intelligence. The taller man was not distinguished by any singular expression of face, but rather by his good looks, and by his rich dark hair, and by his strong figure. A perturbed frown was upon his face, and his eyes were fixed on the flames that leapt here and there, and crackled and spat with a malice.

"A banquet tonight? Whatever for?"

"There is an emissary arrived, Lord Korak, from the West," the skulking, pale man replied. "Naturally the King wishes to honour him with a banquet."

"Naturally? Why is it so natural when I could not see it myself?" The Lord Korak's voice was angry, and his fists clenched powerfully at his side.

The pale man showed no signs of fear or even a slight apprehension, but said smoothly, and with impudence: "It is natural, my Lord. What would you do if you were King?" The darting eyes slid down to the fists and the taut arm muscles. "As you will be someday," he added, and the hands unclenched.

Lord Korak turned, and a bright light shone in his eye. "That is more natural than what you spoke of before, Morashk," he said. "Then the Princess will be there?"

"Naturally, as she is the King's daughter," said the pale man.

"You speak of naturally again," said Lord Korak, and though he showed no signs of anger this time, his frustration was clear in his voice. He clasped his hands behind his back and paced thrice in front of the fire. "Why is it so natural when I cannot see it?"

"It is this:" said Morashk: "you have taught me to know the minds of all the Royalty, to find out what pleases them and what does not, for your own advantage."

"I know that," said Lord Korak. "And because of it the Princess shall be my wife, for I have well-pleased the King."

"Well, as I know what the King does and thinks and says, and what he will not do and think and say, naturally it comes naturally to me."

"Too naturally," said Lord Korak, and he glowered at his servant. "I hear that word for endless days. Must all things be natural for you? Can you not think?"

Morashk stood erect then, and a frown of insulted pride came to him, but his voice did not lose its smoothness. "I did all the thinking needed long ago, and now I need only remember."

"Then you shall find it no difficult task to choose a suitable present for the Princess," said Lord Korak.

"Not at all," said Morashk, and he crossed the room and withdrew.

Lord Korak sat himself upon a couch richly embroidered, and was nearly buried by the decorative pillows that fell over and about him. His face glowed in the light of the fire, and the gold twined in his long beard glistened and shone. He said nothing, nor moved from his posture, but he gazed fixed down at the stone floor, and was silent. Time passed, and Morashk returned, displaying a necklace of gold and set with stones. Lord Korak took the piece of jewelry and gestured for his servant to leave, and then he studied the gift for the Princess. It would look pretty clasped about her throat, though he could not say it would improve her looks. There was no beauty in her. There was no beauty in any girl. If he married her he would have one to inherit his wealth and lands, her at least if she bore no son. But there was more than that.

Lord Korak left his relaxed posture then and sat straight up, and his eyes glinted with hunger as they swept through the room. The rugs, the intricate stone-work, the tapestries... How fine it all was, and how unsatisfactory. He had been in the Palace many a time before, and it was a sight above all sights. And more than that, there was power, and authority, for the one who held the throne. The Palace, and all in it, and all power, would be his, if he married the Princess.

If he became King.

He stood, and prepared himself for the banquet.

[Bêthberry]

"But I must see someone. And the Queen accepts audiences from all members of the city."

The Guard listened closely to the man's story and conferred with the other guard. Finally, after more discussion, one entered the Queen's main audience room and crossed to the door of her private quarters, where he called to the old nurse.

"Homay, there is one who insists upon seeing the Queen upon temple business. Will she accept the visitor?"

Homay conveyed the message and Bekah, not yet fully arrayed with her headress or other state ornaments, appeared. Once she was settled on her seat, the guards let the man enter.

"Majesty, " he spoke, bowing low, "I thank you for this impromptu meeting."

"You say you have urgent temple business?"

"I have a message for the King from citizens who wish to see a proud display of our worship. Yet the King did not keep our scheduled meeting."

"The King has many responsibilities and duties. He is not free to make personal choices but serves the nation and the people. You should remember that he could have more pressing matters to attend to. Perhaps you can return tomorrow."

"Majesty, I come bearing offerings for the Sky god, which must be given today."

Bekeh looked closely at the man.

"What is your occupation?"

"I am a master builder, Majesty."

Bekah thought quietly to herself at this news. So already the pressure is building from many quarters. First the priests. Then the lords. Now those who would benefit from building a new temple to Rea.

"Let no offering then be wasted, nor your faithfullness either. Take the offerings and spread them around the Black Obelisk."

"But Majesty, that is to both deities."

"I am sure that deities are beyond squabbling over tribute as we mortals do, Master Builder. I will not presume to know the King's mind on this or speak for him. I will simply suggest a way for your efforts not to be in vain. You sought my audience and so now you have my advice. The choice is yours. Waste your tribute or offer it in public display where all may understand your aspirations."

The Master Builder had not been expecting this. He had hoped rather to draw the King's interest to those who wished to see a temple built, a development which would bring wealth to his coffers and work to many. Yet he could not deny the Queen's generosity in seeing him nor her advice.

"And you will inform the King?"

"Of course I shall. And he may take what further action he deems important."

With a wordless bow, he withdrew and the Queen beckoned the guards to her.

"You were right to notify me of his distress. Has the King spent the entire day with the Western Emissary?"

"Yes, Majesty."

Bekah walked over to her favourite window which looked out upon the garden. The scent of jasmine and cedar wafted through the air and she breathed deeply as she sought time to think. Then she turned back to the guards.

"This arrival is unlike anything we have known. The King must think it is a serious matter to give it so much attention. For my part, I will make sure to prepare for him a display of Pashtian hospitality and preeminence. "

The guards nodded.

"Please send my invitation to General Morgôs and his wife Arlomë, to join me at the entrance to the banquet tonight, and sit beside me at my table, their son also should they wish his presence. Send also my request to the Prince and Princess that they join me for the entrance. They may take their own tables, as is their right, should they wish. And tell our chief Priestess and Priest that a table shall be prepared for them, across from mine, so that we each sit at one of the King's hands."

"Word will be sent immediately, Majesty."

After the guards withdrew, Homay left the private quarters and silently placed a hand on the Queen's shoulder. Bekah turned to her with a sad smile, but said nothing. She had caught a glimspe of her son in the garden, alone and pensive again, and she made a note to speak to him soon about making his presence known. And she wondered if her daughter would have the presence of mind to understand the necessities of a state dinner.

[Amanaduial the archer]

"High Priestess?" A muffled voice preceding another knock on the door broke the quiet inside Zamara’s quarters. When there was no reply, the door was edged carefully open and Tayfar’s covered head appeared around the side. She looked around the room quickly, then, a look of puzzlement on her round features, she advanced tentatively into the room.

“High Priestess Zamara…?” She repeated, looking through the open doorways almost guiltily as she took a few more steps forward into the centre of the room. She had never been inside Zamara’s rooms alone before – and it seemed she was entirely alone, for the Priestess was nowhere to be seen. Compared with the palace rooms or rooms of others high in state, Zamara’s rooms were surprisingly sparse, for practical reasons mainly: they were quite open, the rooms separated with beaded curtains rather than doors, and the whole of one side was dominated by wide, unpaned windows stretching from ceiling to almost floor-level. The Pashtians, living in the desert, were fine craftsmen of glass, but the priestess contented herself with veils of thin, dark-cream cloth instead. It provided more shade from the heat, rather than magnifying it as the sun would and besides, no one would dare to use the open windows as a means of unlawfully entering the chambers of the High Priestess of the most favoured deity, Rhais. The veils were each embroidered with the tree design of the goddess, and there were five on one side of the room – the side that should, the girl thought, be facing towards the desert – each about half a metre apart. On wall opposite the windows, snaking stetches in some sort of dark red mud – meandering, twisting patterns, both smooth and jagged, although of what it was hard to say unless you were either very close or far away. Tayfar half closed her wide brown eyes and squinted at the patterns, trying to look at everything together in unity as the priestesses had taught her, and, after a second or two, she realised the whole image: a forest, stylised trees melding into each other, each set in the centre with a large knot hole, out of which red sap was flowing – the ruby red of Zamara’s medallion. Tayfar’s eyes opened wide again as she smiled childishly in simple delight at the revelation, and she darted forward to the wall, her fingers outstretched towards the ruby red of the sap – so bright from afar. But as she did so, she found the picture was in fact far more complex than it had seemed at first, every leaf seeming to be picked out, but from so close it was strangely flat and two dimensional. Tayfar’s fingers traced the pattern of one ‘branch’ of leaves, until a breeze wafted through the room and she spun around guiltily, expecting to see Zamara watching her.

But the cool room remained empty. Directly in front of the door Tayfar had entered by, adjacent to the wall of windows and the forest-wall, was a larger opening, but the entrance of this was draped with an airier, veil-like covering, and beyond it she could see the ghostly outline of a balcony rail; but despite the bright sunlight of the late afternoon coming from the West, the younger trainee acolyte could not see a silhouette through the veil. Hearing the sound of running water, she moved towards the bathroom like a moth drawn to the light, rather than floundering in the other woman’s rooms – but on the way there, she felt drawn by that larger window. Glancing furtively towards the doorway where the sounds of water came from, she drifted towards the window guiltily, reaching out with a trembling hand to pull the veil aside.

The brisk clattering of the beaded curtain made Tayfar jump like a startled desert rabbit, her hand shooting down to her side in an instant as she spun around. Zamara stood in the doorway of the beaded curtains, a new white robe hanging untied at the waist from her slim frame and her hair flowing loose over her shoulders, but her hands hidden from sight behind the curtains. The priestess relaxed when she saw Tayfar, and to the girl’s relief, she did not seem angry: she moved back into the other room and the sound of the water stopped, it’s silence accompanied by the sound of a metallic object being put down – Tayfar, in her curiousness, couldn’t help wondering what it was. Then Zamara emerged once more and Tayfar nodded her head deeply to her in respect.

“Priestess, are you ready for me to prepare you for the banquet?” she asked formally. Zamara didn’t seem to hear immediately, an indulgent smile on her angular features. Her dark eyes flickered past Tayfar to the window then back to the acolyte once more, and Tayfar blushed, caught out. “I-I didn’t mean any harm in touching the veil,” she stammered uncertainly. She had always been told never to go into the private quarters surrounding the temple and never, ever to touch what was inside without permission, qualification or a holy purpose – none of which, obviously, Tayfar had. She had been at the temple for a few months now, and in that time still felt as lost as ever with the mysterious High Priestess. My family will disown me if I am rejected from the temple… “I was just looking b-because…”

Zamara walked briskly towards her, but passed by without reprimanding her, sweeping the gauzy curtain aside in a swift motion to reveal a sight outside that took Tayfar’s breath away.

“If this is why, then you are more than forgiven.” Zamara’s voice was amused.

The fiery fingers of the sun were reaching towards the tips of the mountains in the distance, making them shimmer with heat as it’s rays turned fiery red and danced behind them, a golden-orange haze settling over the sandy horizon. Zamara drew up a chair as Tayfar stared in wonder: she had not looked at the sunset over the desert for years, and had never really thought about it, but this wide, arched window afforded an amazing view. Snapping back to her senses, Tayfar took the chair from Zamara with an apology and took the liberty of placing it on the balcony, so that Zamara would face the sunset as Tayfar prepared her. Opening the dull brown satchel that hung across her chest, the acolyte took out a snap-up table and, after setting it up, took out a plain wooden box and placed it on top. Unshouldering the bag, she took out a comb and softbrush and began to work her way through Zamara’s thick, surprisingly wavy, dark hair. She worked in silence and with gentle efficiency.

“It is beautiful, is it not?” Zamara broke the silence after some time, and Tayfar looked up, still slightly jittery, then continued with her work, opening the box and taking out several long, thin strips of stiff golden cloth. As she began to wind them into Zamara’s hair, the priestess continued. “It is the most wonderful fusing of the two gods: both Rhais and Rae are in that spectacle. It is not just the sky god who makes himself known in the sunset, although of course he reigns over it: the mother goddess reflects and compliments his work underneath there, allowing her beauty to work with his as the sun sinks behind the desert, to form such a vision.” Zamara sighed softly.

“And so the sun sets in the West.”

Zamara picked up on the stress Tayfar put in the last word. The smooth skin of her brow crinkled slightly. “What do you mean?”

“Oh, nothing, nothing.” The acolyte’s fingers worked easily as she twisted the curls of hair around the strips of gold. “It…it just seems appropriate, that’s all.”

Zamara did not reply. Tayfar continued and after Zamara prompted her a little, she began to chatter, her words flowing more easily as time passed and she moved onto doing the priestess’ hands and makeup. She talked about her father and his vibrant stories from the army as she painted back on the henna patterns (already stained lightly as a fine red lattice on Zamara’s dark skin from being re-applied so often) across the priestess’ palms and the backs of her hands…

…fondly talking about her mother, how she had worked hard to bring up Tayfar as well as her two twin brothers, Cadeffen and Tadek, identical to all but Tayfar and her parents, as she rubbed the kohl powder into a fine paste and applied it carefully to the pale insides of Zamara’s eyelids, along the line of the eyelashes, and noting to herself as she did so the strange dark sapphire tinge that the irises had;

…and as she applied the fine lines of white kohl to accentuate her cheekbones and following the line of her nose up between her eyes to a tiny diamond of white dots in the centre of Zamara’s forehead, Tayfar spoke also of her mother’s death several months ago after Tadek and Cadeffen left for the military as well, how she had said her family was ‘disappearing in front of her eyes’ – Zamara didn’t speak: she herself had lost one parent at an early age, but the priestesses of Rhais taught that everything happens for a reason: if Tayfar’s mother had not died and the rest of her army been in the army, she would never have been entrusted to the temple of Rhais.

And as she tied at the side the golden cord wrapped around Zamara’s waist and slid the golden upper arm bracelet, the golden wrist bands and neck band, she finished off with talk of the temple and the priestesses themselves. She added the finishing touches to Zamara’s makeup, darkening her eyelids, touching up the diamond of white dots, stark against Zamara’s dark skin, and stood back. The High Priestess opened her eyes and, after talking to Tayfar further for a few minutes, she dismissed the girl with her thanks. Only when she heard the door close behind the younger girl did the priestess actually look out towards the sunset once more.

The sky god’s greatest wonder was now half-submerged behind the mountains of sand in the distance, and great, smouldering rays reached still into the sky and stroked Rhais’ work tenderly. Zamara smiled, then it faded slightly as she thought more deeply about what Tayfar had unwittingly said. ‘It sets in the West…seems appropriate, that’s all.’

“I do not think that is all…” Zamara murmured, rising from the chair to stand in front of the balcony rail, looking out across the awesome stretch of the desert in front of her. The sun sets in the West…it comes to it’s final resting place there…the work of our gods dies in the West. She blinked, startled by the thought, and her jaw tightened. What sort of premonition could that be? A foreshadow of what was to come. The Westerners did not even recognise Rhais and Rae. Did not even pay heed to the gods she had dedicated her life to…

“I dine tonight with these Westerners, O Goddess,” she whispered to the sand dunes. “I will find out what they mean towards you and your brother Rae.”

[Imladris]

Arshalous wrapped the white scarf around her head loosely so that a few stray locks of raven hair would manage to find their way out of the folds. "If any call asking for me," she said to Semra, "tell them that they can talk to me at the banquet. If they are fortunate not to have been invited, tell them to drop by tomorrow."

Semra nodded and helped Arshalous with her soft leather sandals. "Thank you. If you like you can go to my library and read the scrolls within or feel free to explore the house."

Semra's eyes widened.

"Come now, there is more to life than serving," said Arshalous lightly as she left the room.

Sunlight streamed through the windows onto the stone hallways as Arshalous strode through the house and into the atrium. The atrium had a small fountain in the middle that chuckled merrily to itself. Birds flittered and dipped their beaks into the warm water while insects buzzed lazily in the nearbye garden.

Arshalous summoned her stabler and ordered that her favourite mare, Telitha, be saddled. Arshalous kissed Telitha's muzzle when she was brought to her, and mounted easily, and patted Telitha's neck when she was settle comfortably. "Let's pay a visit to Korak, shall we?" she whispered in Telitha's ear.

~~~

"I would like to speak to Korak," said Arshalous to one of his servants.

The servant nodded and melted into the perpetual gloom that was a permanent guest in Korak's dwelling. There was a swift patter of feet and Korak appeared, impatience glowing in his handsome features. A necklace dangled from his hand as his fingertips played at the chain.

"A gift for the princess?" she asked, pointing to the jewelry. She laughed to herself. Her cousin was a bit of the fool to think that he could buy the Princess' regard.

He nodded shortly. "Did you come here for a reason?"

"I was just wondering if you could tell me your thoughts of the Emissary and the silly little banquet we will be having in their honour."

[Nurumaiel]

Korak's face burnt with rage at the obvious insolence in his cousin's voice concerning the necklace. Was she daring to think that he actually loved the Princess? Did she think the necklace was the result of sentimental feelings? A quiver passed through him, but he showed no exterior sign of his anger, save the colouring of his face. Rather he gestured for her to sit down, and he poured some wine from a golden pitcher that sat upon the low table in the corner.

"Feast now, my Lady," he said, his eyes hard upon her, "and I will tell you what I think." A mocking smile twisted and distorted his handsome face. "Fear not. The wine is not poisoned."

"I had no fear of such a thing," she replied, with coldness, and a smile of her own, likewise full of insolence. Yet she did not touch the wine.

He himself sat, and leaned back, completely at ease. He never went to his cousin's home when he could help it, for he felt powerless there. Here, in his own abode, it was different. He could play cat and she would be the mouse, and he had nothing to fear from her. He could be master, and she would be lower than he. He studied her, but she showed no signs of uneasiness. A flush of annoyance came to his face at this. She seemed completely comfortable. She did not look in the least intimidated. He straightened, and spoke briefly.

"I do not even know who this Emissary is. All I know is that the banquet provides me with a perfect opportunity to raise the King's esteem for me."

"As well as the regard of the Princess?" questioned the Lady, and she glanced at the necklace.

Lord Korak's face burned a deeper red, and a vein stood out on his forehead. "As far as I care for her regard," said he. "As husband of the Princess I will be given the perfect chance to become King."

The Lady's eyebrows raised. "Is it wise to tell me that?"

Korak paused, and fumbled with his words for a moment. No, he did not think it wise. The Lady was now in a perfect position to tell the Princess exactly why he wanted to marry her, and women were so sentimental. The Princess may refuse him, as she had every right to do. But Korak would not show this new-founded concern to his cousin, despite his deep and angry regret that he had spoken so without thought. He laughed in her face. "I do not fear you as a competitor for the Princess' hand," he said. "I see no lack of wisdom in what I have said."

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

On their way back to the Palace, Jarult met them. The chamberlain had been loitering in the garden for hours, his unease growing toward alarm and then panic as the day’s audiences came and went unanswered. A seemingly endless stream of servants came to him from various points of the Palace to ask for the King, bringing word from yet another person whose petition demanded the King’s attention. Those who came from the ordinary guilds were easily dealt with by a quick word to come again upon the morrow and hope to find the King more at his leisure to meet with them. The answer, while not satisfactory, was the best they could hope for and they had to content themselves with it. The servants who came from members of the nobility, however, were more difficult to put off. Puffed up with the importance of their position, they were querulous in their demands on their masters’ behalf, and Jarult had to speak sharply to several of them. He grew so tired of these encounters that he sent word that he and the King were not to be disturbed any more that day. But with the cessation of the interruptions he had nothing to distract him from brooding over the unprecedented manner in which the King had received the Emissary. To have spent time with him alone was one thing, but to have spent an entire day in private conversation with an utter stranger… To place his very life at the mercy of this man from across the desert…it was hardly to be believed. And yet he had the proof of his own senses to bear out the truth of it. As the sun westered and sank, the gates of the Emissary’s villa remained steadfastly closed, and Jarult could do nothing more than worry.

When finally the King and the Emissary emerged, the old man almost threw himself at the King. “Majesty!” he exclaimed, in his urgency and concern almost forgetting the presence of the stranger. Recalling himself, the Chamberlain looked at the man pointedly and said with greater reserve to his King, “There are matters we need to discuss of an important nature, Khamûl.”

The Emissary turned to the King and repeated the word with shocking familiarity. “Khamûl? Is this a term of respect in your land, or a formal title?”

The King smiled. “It is hard to know what to call it. It is a term of…respect, I suppose, used by my subjects. It is in Old Pashtian and means ‘Shining One’. It was the praise name of my father, which is why I think old men like Jarult use it. They seek to flatter me.”

Jarult shook his head violently at that. “No my lord, never would I seek to flatter. I merely…”

The King laughed lightly and held up his hand to stop the torrent. “It is all right, Jarult, I know your heart is sound. I speak lightly, for my heart has been greatly lightened by this day’s converse. And I know what matters you feel we need to discuss. I have whiled away a day as an ordinary man when I should have been acting the part of the King instead. No doubt you have had to contend with many upset people, demanding I meet with them about matters too important to wait for tomorrow.” As he spoke he smiled and even laughed lightly, in which he was joined by the Emissary. Jarult did not know how to react to this and remained silent. “Very well. My friend,” he turned to the Emissary, “I must pay some heed to these matters, for I am still King. You go ahead of me to the courtyard, there should already be gathered there some number of my people, all dying to have a look at you. I will see you at the banquet.”

The Emissary bowed low and departed with fair words. Now that the Chamberlain was alone with the King he began to speak of the matters that had come up, and together they walked toward the Palace. As they went the King’s countenance lost its levity and assumed the hard form of concern that was the norm. It aged him considerably. They achieved the King's personal chambers where he prepared himself for the banquet. He removed the loose robe he had worn since the morning's audience and put on a suit of dark red, woven from the finest silk. He thought for a moment about wearing a circlet of silver, but decided to go unadorned this night. As he dressed, the King listened carefully to his Chamberlain and responded to all of his points, but inwardly part of his mind was elsewhere. More and more of late, the pressures of rule had begun to gall him and weary him. The endless intrigues of the nobility, the demands of the people…even his family. At times he felt as though he were beset upon all sides by the demands and worries of other people. At times he felt how delicious it would be to disappear and remove himself from the concerns of kingship and walk the streets of his city unnoticed and unmarked by any. He sighed at the impossibility of this dream.

Something Jarult was saying caught his full attention. “The master builder Rekan went to the Queen? How did he like the answer he got from her?”

“Not well my lord. The Queen bade him spread his offerings about the obelisk and offer it to both deities.”

Faroz laughed lightly. “I can well understand how such a piece of advice would not please him. And did he do it?”

“What other choice did he have? He could not so openly affront the Queen.”

Faroz laughed once more at the wisdom of his wife. He had never loved her, nor, he was certain, had she ever felt any tenderness toward him. But he had come to respect her intelligence and judgement. She was a faithful and helpful partner in his rule, and a capable woman. He was suddenly seized with a desire to see her. Bidding Jarult to oversee the final ordering of the banquet, he sought out Bekah’s apartments. He used the smaller passageways to avoid meeting other people, and soon he was at the door to her private apartments. The guards came to attention and for a moment he considered sending word to his wife that he had arrived, but determined instead simply to enter unannounced. He found his wife at the window admiring the setting sun. It had been a number of years since he had visited her in her quarters. Indeed, it had been a number of years since they had spoken outside of their formal audience each day, and she was surprised to see him there. She bowed her head slightly and approached him, holding out her hand for him to take it. He took it lightly in his own and held it to his forehead, then bent and kissed her lightly upon the brow. If she were surprised at his sudden use of the formal intimacies of husband and wife she did not show it. “You look well tonight,” he said.

“Thank you, lord. I thought it best to honour your guest. You have favoured him with your attentions today greatly.”

He smiled. “You would chide me for neglecting my duties. You are right. Although I hear that you took over some of those duties in my stead.”

“The man came to me, lord. I only answered his query.”

“You did right, lady. I should not have abandoned you all as I did. But this Emissary…he fascinates me. He has come from such a far land, and has told me such things as you could not imagine. Did you know that in his land, Elves are not part of the human world, but live apart in vast realms of their own? And there are other beings there as well, short of stature and stern of spirit, who live only in the bowels of mountains where they mine the riches of the earth. It was a wonder to me.”

The Queen looked at him carefully. “You are enchanted by this man, lord. Are you so sure you can trust all that he says? He has spoken much of his lands, but has he said anything of why he has come so far? What is it that his King Annatar wishes with an alliance with us, who are so far removed from him?”

Faroz fell silent and looked out across the desert sands. The sun fell below the horizon and night came upon the land in the instant so that the stars appeared above as though a host of torches had been lit at once. “I do not know, lady. I want to trust him, and if my concern were for myself alone I would. But you are right, I do not have the luxury that normal men do to choose my friends based on such paltry concerns as feeling and friendship. Come,” he said quickly, before she could reply to his odd manner. “Let us not keep everyone waiting.” He held out his hand to the Queen who took it in her own, and Faroz lead her toward the door of her apartment. “I will sit at your table this night and you can remind me of my duty should I begin to forget it in the pleasures of the evening.”

[Firefoot]

Siamak sighed. He knew he should probably be preparing for the banquet - the feast was fast approaching - but he had no inclination to rise from his reclined position on the couch in his reception room. Now that it came down to it, he wasn’t really sure that he wanted to go, but with position comes responsibility, and sometimes desire had nothing to do with choice. With that in mind, he picked himself up from the couch and began to head for his dressing room. He did not get far, however, before the door behind him opened. Siamak whirled on his heel, surprised and curious.

“M’lord Siamak?” said the man at the door, inviting himself inside. Siamak grinned, waving him inside.

“Come on in, Okarid. I have a banquet to prepare for,” he said. Okarid was Siamak’s only attendant, though the relationship was much more complex than that: Okarid was Siamak’s confidant, and the two were friends. They were about the same age, though the two were as different as night and day. Okarid was outgoing, confident, and very impulsive. They knew each other and their roles well, so well that their master-servant positions were almost a game the two played, both weaving from friendliness to propriety without missing a beat, so that no one who observed them would ever notice anything but the most proper relationship.

“The banquet, of course. I bet you’re looking forward to that,” Okarid said.

“Oh, yes, of course,” replied Siamak sarcastically. He was glad for his friend’s cheery presence. Okarid was the only person around whom he felt safe to say exactly how he felt about anything.

“Let’s see...” said Okarid, going to Siamak’s wardrobe. “This should work well, don’t you think?” He pulled out an outfit of blue silk: bright, but not too gaudy, and suitable for a banquet.

“Perfect,” replied Siamak. There were days when he thought Okarid should have been born a prince and he the servant; Okarid had a natural ability to understand nobility and their ways - Siamak didn’t know what he would do without him.

“So what do you think of this emissary?” asked Okarid, striking up conversation as Siamak began to change his garments. “Fascinating, aren’t they?”

“You might say that. I don’t trust them,” answered Siamak bluntly.

“Really? Why?” queried Okarid. “I only saw them from a distance.”

“That’s exactly what I’ve been trying to figure out for the past couple hours,” said Siamak with a sigh. Okarid raised his eyebrows. “It’s just a feeling, really. Their actions are very proud and proper - they even bring gifts! - but something’s wrong.”

“Huh. Perhaps you will learn more tonight?”

“That’s what I’m hoping.” There was a sharp rap at the outer door. “Go see who that is, would you?” Siamak wondered who it might be. There were a few options: it could be a messenger, or perhaps some noble wanting to speak to him before the banquet. The latter thought made his head hurt.

“M’lord Siamak, this man has a message for you from the queen,” Okarid called from the next room. Siamak glanced at the mirror and went to hear what the man had to say.

“Thank you, Okarid,” he said, and turned to the messenger. “Yes?”

“Prince Siamak, Her Majesty requests that you join her for the entrance to the banquet tonight. You may meet her in the private garden adjoining the banquet hall. You may take your own table, however, if you wish.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Siamak. The man bowed and left the room, leaving Siamak alone again with Okarid. There had been nothing unexpected in the message, though it was reassuring to know precisely what was going on. He returned to his dressing room, Okarid in his wake. Siamak took a better look at his reflection in the mirror, and decided that the four small gold-entwined braids in his beard did not need to be redone. He ran a comb through his shoulder-length black hair, and decided there was little other preparation to be done. It was time to head out, though there was still time before the banquet began. Being a little early would probably be a good idea. He turned to Okarid.

“I will see you later tonight, or tomorrow morning perhaps, to tell you anything you want to know about how the banquet went,” Siamak said He knew that the servants knew a great deal of what went on in the palace; he had learned much news of interest from what Okarid had heard through the servants’ grapevine. He opened the door to the hallway, planning to head to the courtyard - it was there that those attending the banquet would gather beforehand. He knew that the servants knew a great deal of what went on in the palace; he had learned much news of interest from what Okarid had heard through the servants’ grapevine. Okarid grinned. “Of course, M’lord.”

[Imladris]

Arshalous clucked her tongue softly. He didn't find any danger in telling her that he merely wanted to marry her so that he could become king...she reflected this for a moment. She did not honestly think the Princess would mind his motives...in fact she probably would love having more power than if her brother became king. Yet...would the Queen mind? Would the King mind? She chewed her lip and her eyes drifted to the ceiling in a slow roll.

She would probably never even tell the fact to the royal family. It was simply bad form to say such things...yet...he was such an imbecile, she thought bitterly. Her only living relative an imbecile. If the throne passed to him...she shook her head.

"Well, you see," she said, playing with the ring that adorned her finger, "it was unwise because I could relay that information to the royal family and they may not like that." She smiled at him.

He paled a little and the necklace trembled in her fingers.

Her smile broadened grimly. How she loved to play with him like this. Yet, if she could so easily play him, what could others do?

"Let me see that necklace," she said abruptly, leaning over and plucking it from his fingers.

The golden necklace glimmered palely in the gloom. With her finger she touched the sapphires, and rubies that were nestled along the chain, bound to their beds with silver vines.

"It is pretty, is it not?" asked Korak, a proud, mocking smirk twitching about his lips.

Scoffing, she tossed the necklace carelessly to him. She watched with amused pleasure as she scrambled to catch it. "Beauty is in the eyes of the beholder, Korak. And if you think that that is beautiful..." she let her voice trail off in delicate ambiguity.

It was a beautiful necklace and she felt a prick of jealousy for the princess. She almost wished that she had suitors (though they would be unwanted) to shower her with such jewelry.

She reached for her goblet to douse her jealousy, but jerked back, her fingers curling with irritation both at the fact that she couldn't trust her cousin and the fact that he was grinning maliciously at her. It hurt in a dull, blunt, sub-conscious way that she couldn't trust Korak. Would he try to poison her? She doubted it. Yet...there was always that irritating yet. She considered taking a gulp just to wipe that smear off his face.

No...life was too pecious for now to risk death. Death would come quick enough...and if she was ready and Death did not come, she'd drag it to her bedside. However...today was not the day.

"If you are to become king," she observed as she abruptly changed the subject, "it would be wise to actually care about Emissaries and things. Oh, but I forget," she said with a laugh, "you only care about appearances..."

[Kransha]

The immediate innards of the palace at Kanak had often been seen by Morgôs, and he did not need to look upon them. Something about this whole great farce of festivity already had drained his strength from him. He was weary, if only from wandering back and forth through the courtyard. As the courtier of Faroz lead him towards the public entrance, grand as expected, the amount of people lessened. Many nobles had been invited, but most had enough bonds with other members of nobility to be able to forge petty conversation in the courtyard. Morgôs had nothing to do but find his wife, Arlomë, and Evrathol, wherever he was. Though he could not be sure, he resolved that Arlomë must be in the attendance of the Queen at present. Every member of Queen Bekah’s retinue was probably engaged in some activity designated for them. Morgôs would find his spouse in the palace if he could, or dispatch this same courtier to search for her.

Quietly, as he and the herald before him advanced into the solitary silence of the palace foyer, Morgôs took the young courtier by the shoulder, clasping a small, ornamental pauldron strapped to his mountain-sharp shoulder and turned him swiftly around, leaning towards him with a hasty whisper in his throat. “Lad, tell me, where dwells the Queen tonight?” The courtier shook his head in abrupt, youthfully vigorous manner, which irked Morgôs. He was a swift being himself, but he did not see why things in Pashtia had to be hurried so. He knew that it was the short span of events for men, who could not appreciate the pleasure taken in a length of time. His lip curling disdainfully, he removed his hand from the youth’s shoulder and listened to him speak.

“I do not know, sir.” He said, very apologetic, and overly mobile, nearly bouncing from one foot to the other. A moment before, he had been slowed, calm, collected, but now, as soon as the two had entered the palace’s confined halls, he became restless and disconcerted, looking as if the merest spark might set him off, ablaze and soaring like a comet to his next destination. “Honestly,” he than said, gesturing with his hands, sorry for either his lack of knowledge, or his inability to slip out of the conversation, “I know very little of what goes on hereabouts, and far less tonight.”

Unfazed, and persistent, Morgôs snapped back, “Have you perhaps caught a glimpse of Bekah’s entourage?”

The courtier looked slighted, and Morgôs did not understand the look of very mild contempt that was shot at him, but all became clear when the courtier neatly corrected him. “You mean, ‘her majesty’s’ entourage, do you not, General?” His tone was now impatient, and did not seem meant to spur a response from him immediately. His need to fly had evaporated, replaced by a disdain that Morgôs had held for him but a moment ago. But, the general was not in the mood to entertain this new attitude, and quickly retorted with a similar annoyance, trying to resolve that portion of the conversation and gain a reply to his original question.

“Of course I do. Now, have you an answer?”

With a curt sigh, the courtier shook his head. “No, I have not.”

Morgos grumbled a few syllables under his breath and asked again, with more urgency, as unneeded as it was, “Are you able to seek out the Queen?” The courtier shook his head before the general had finished, his elegantly braided beard flung easily from side to side of his helmeted head, which bore the simple helm of a guard of the palace and servant of the King. “Not now, milord.” He responded, and Morgôs felt enough honesty present in his rushed tenor to serve, “I have more to do.” Morgôs nodded, begrudgingly in fact, and waved his hand as a dismissing motion, which seemed to release the courtier from his hold and firm affixation to the tiled floor. He sped off, with a bare bow as he passed, the sound of his rattling footsteps echoing off the high ceiling and resounding for a good many seconds.

He looked about, hearing new sounds, smelling new smells, and feeling a strange cold fill him. Pashtia was more often than not a warm land, and the palace seemed cold. Most mortals might not notice such subtle temperature changes, but, to Morgôs, it was a stirring and grave adjustment. He pulled his heavy robes about him, uncharacteristic again. In the courts, he was more self-conscious, and not himself. Maybe, it was his true self that he was hear, in the greatest structure of Kanak, and a different division of himself on the battlefield that took him over, knowing of his mind’s diversions and riddling thoughts, and manipulated him to whatever end it might desire. He could never tell, for he had many selves, each of which was frequently used, and he could alternate as easily as he could a suit of mail. But now, again, his reverie was stirred by the multitude of footsteps booming in the distance and gaining on him, until a number of guards appeared in the threshold of one of the gateless entrances to this foyer hall. At the other side of the broad room, several passages converged, and each issued out into darkness and enigma on its other side so that Morgôs could not see past their cold, steled archways. There were six or seven guards, and most filed immediately past the general without a passing nod, but one stopped just before him. This guard bore the colors and the coat of a man in service to the queen, and lacked the sterner cloths of the King’s retinue. He was probably indentured to her, or served her of his will, perhaps even an Alanzian himself, but, in the court, Morgôs did not dwell on that.

“General, I bring an invitation from Queen Bekah.” Said the man, who was, as Morgos observed, some years older than the first courtier to address him, “She wishes for you to meet with her at the banquet entrance, with your wife and son, and sit beside her this evening during the feast.” Morgôs was immediately aroused with curiosity and suspicion as well. He supposed that this invitation came merely from the Queen’s sense of state tact, but he knew that she was not inclined to like him as a man – or an Elf, rather. His views were clear enough to any other. But, at such events, it was that tact that really mattered, and Morgôs assumed that this offer had been extended because of his wife’s position, and his own, or perhaps by the King’s prerogative. Surely, Faroz was busy with the Emissary, and could not be bothered with the issuing of invitations.

“If only my wife and son could be found.” Exclaimed the General, loudly, and the guard jumped a little. Morgôs peered forward, both at and into the palace guard, with a keen look on his Elven face. “Does my wife still hold counsel with the Queen.” He asked, patient and reticent. This guard was less hasty than the last, and took a moment to think on the words, his gaze twiddling about until it found the darkened corner of the vaulted hall roof and wandered there briefly, eyes blinking occasionally. It was more than half a minute before he responded, and the general waited, his foot tapping with absolute noiselessness on the floor.

“No,” he said, “not when I left her last. Most of her majesty’s retinue is busy in the palace.” He gestured around, indicating the halls, even though they were empty at the moment. Morgôs’ keen Elven ears heard many noises stirring up in the other sections of the palace and offshoots thereof, for the palace was very vast. The room he stood in was great to the eye of a pauper, but only one of the many entrance halls that could be accessed from the courtyard (and one far less crowded). Morgôs did not let his ears or mind linger on those resonant sounds in the distance, swelling and dying all in instants, and responded to the guard accordingly. “Indeed.’” He murmured, with a grateful nod to the guard, which was returned, “If I can locate her and my son too, I will gladly attend at her side.”

The guard bowed. “Yes, general.” Taking the hint from Morgôs, he turned smartly on his heel and marched off down the hall, in another direction than the one the first guard had taken. Once he had disappeared through one of the hall’s many passageways, corridors, or colonnades that led off through the palace, Morgôs stood alone, wrapped up in his courtly garb, in the hall of the Pashtian King, solemn and soundless in thought.

[Nurumaiel]

"I care nothing for the Emissary," said Lord Korak, and he stood from his chair, raising himself to his powerful height. He did not stand over her, however, and seek to intimidate her, but he paced to one end of the room before returning to the table. He opened his mouth to speak, but he was cut short, for the door opened and the servant Morashk slipped in. He paused when his darting eyes rested upon the Lady, but with no change of expression he glided onward once again, and stopping at the table he poured a goblet of wine and gave it to his master.

Lord Korak was relieved at the presence of his servant. Morashk was quick-witted, and cunning, and on more than one occasion had served as the brain when the Lady cousin paid a visit. Morashk was servant, confidant, and also counselor. He took care that his master said nothing that might give the Lady an unfair advantage, and he advised his master on what to say in reply to her. It aggravated her, to see Morashk whisper in the Lord's ear, but she could do nothing about it, save spit out spiteful comments. Morashk did not care; all that mattered was that his master did nothing foolish. More than Lord Korak appreciated his servant's counsel, he appreciated that the two of them shared a hate for the Lady cousin.

"Master, I could not help but hear you mention the Emissary," said Morashk, smoothly, and with a crafty look at the Lady. "Perhaps you should end this visit, and prepare yourself for the banquet."

Lord Korak gazed into the eyes of his servant until the meaning was clear to him, and then with a satisfied smirk he shook his head. "No, I will let my guest stay a little longer to entertain herself."

Morashk's pale, spidery hand extended, the long fingers spread wide. "Then, Master, you will not care at least if I take the gift for the Princess and bind it so it will not be damaged on our little journey to the Palace?" He took the necklace, and let it run through his hands as if it were a river of gold and rubies. "What a fine gift for the Princess, my Lord," he said, as if to himself, and as if he were forgetting the presence of the Lady. "Her worth is surely high, if you are willing to lavish her with such presents." His shifting eyes rested upon his master's face, and his look was meaningful.

The Lord Korak understood, and he spoke, saying: "Indeed, servant, her worth is high, as is the worth of any woman who is presented with such a gift. There are women whose suitors cannot afford any gift; they are to be pitied. But to be detested are the women who have no suitors, who are thought so base and ugly as to have no one to cherish feelings for them."

Morashk's eyes glinted, but he ignored the Lady Arshalous, though he was deprived the satisfaction of seeing the anger he hoped was in her face. Lord Korak was gazing at his servant impatiently, obviously wanting him to go about with his task. "I will withdraw then, my Lord, and fulfill my task," he said. "But, my Lord, do not linger long. Time passes, and the banquet is fast approaching."

"I will entertain my guest a little longer yet," said Lord Korak, "for she has not yet satisfied my generosity by accepting the wine I have given."

"Yes, my Lord," said Morashk, and he slunk to the door. There he paused, and he turned, saying, "M'Lord, what, pray, shall I do about your Lady Mother?"

"My Mother," said Lord Korak, in surprise. "I had forgotten about her."

"Shall she attend the banquet?"

"If she wants to, I suppose she must," said the Lord. "Go at once and seek out one of her maids, servant, and send her to my Mother to help her prepare. Then fulfill your task of the gift, and do not forget to set out the finest in my wardrobe."

"Yes, m'Lord," said Morashk, and he bowed. Yet he did not withdraw, but, with a quick glance at the Lady Arshalous, added: "Those women who are loved by no men... they deserve not to hold the title of 'Lady.' A Lady is one who is loved, and who is fair of face." His eyes flicked to his master. "Like your mother, m'Lord."

"Yes, yes, like my mother," said Lord Korak, impatiently, and he waved his servant away. When the door was closed softly, he turned to the Lady Arshalous. "You too will be anxious to prepare yourself for the banquet, my lady cousin, if you plan to attend. Yet I insist you drink the wine first. It is not poisoned as I have said. I swear it is not poisoned. At worst it is bitter, made of ill-chosen fruit. I will not let you leave this table without accepting my offering first. So drink, cousin, and then go prepare yourself for the merry banquet."

[alaklondewen]

The palace buzzed with excitement as the banquet preparations neared their completion. Deep blue eyes watched intently as the servants busily dashed around the small tables that filled the grand banqueting hall, setting out fine dishes and arranging elaborate centerpieces. Every detail would be perfect before the guests arrived. The aromas of freshly baked breads and sweet sauces from the kitchens slowly filled the hall and mingled with the fresh fragrances of the scrubbed and finely dressed ladies of Queen Bekah’s entourage. The hushed voices of the young women twittered with expectations and new gossip.

Draped in fine silks of deep turquoise with gold embroidery lining the hems, Arlomë silently stood, isolating herself from the mortal misses. She stood out greatly from the others. Her skin was milky instead of darkened from the sun, and she stood a full head above most of retinue. The elf cared little for the young women and did not share their utter excitement for the festivity. This was not her first banquet in the presence of the king and queen, nor would it be her last. The mortals found such immense pleasure from such trivial things. Turning her mind from their mindless chatter, Arlomë wondered about her husband and his whereabouts. Actually Elrigon had been heavily on her mind since she laid eyes on the strange men from the West. The couple had only seen one another briefly before they returned to the palace grounds, and Arlomë had not had time to probe his mind about the Emissary. During his arrival, the elf woman had peered silently through the curtains from her place behind the queen and wondered at the meaning of this man’s motives and what the ramifications would be to the kingdom. Elrigon would better know about these matters, and he would put her mind to ease as he always did.

The final minutiae were in order, and Arlomë gave her nod of approval to the chefs. They had done well with the little time they were given. The elf then, after a sidelong glance at the still chattering ladies, took her leave from the hall to find her beloved.

Slipping through a small side door, Arlomë entered a narrow hallway that ran the length of the banquet hall and met with one of the smaller entrance rooms on the east end of the palace. Rich chestnut carpeting accented the great mural of the desert landscape and its red tipped mountains that filled the left wall. On the right, intricate tapestries hung that delicately depicted the daily activities of the Pastian citizens. One displayed three average, yet beautiful, women filling their water basins, while another showed a strong lad caring for his steed. Arlomë slowed her pace as she neared the entrance hall. A small empty room lay to her right, and she slipped through its small door. The room was darkened with the setting of the sun, and the elf caught her reflection in the great window the occupied the far wall. Stepping closer, Arlomë studied her appearance. The gold of the stacked bangles that hung at her wrists glittered from the light that filter into the room from the hallway. Her eyes, lined with blackened kohl, had seen millennia of cares, and yet still looked youthful when they sparked with interest. Her long arms gracefully untied and than retied the turquoise scarf tightly around her raven hair. Once satisfied she nodded to her reflection and spun on her heel to reentered the narrow hallway and make her way to the entrance hall.

Before directly stepping into the hall, she paused and glanced around the corner. To her surprise a solitary figure stood alone in the vastness of the king’s hall. His form and stature was as familiar to her as her own. A small smile spread across the elf’s face, and she crept silently toward his back. He made no movement that expressed any knowledge of her presence, so she took even more care to approach unnoticed. Slowly, carefully, her fingers reached...oh so silently, toward the General’s back...

[Imladris]

Arshalous swirled her goblet, staring at the wine. His servant had poured Korak a glass...surely it was not poisoned as he had said. Raising it in a slightly mocking toast, she stood and took a small sip.

He had not been joking when he said that the wine might be bitter. Her own wine was much better than this. "Well, it is a pity that such a great grand lord such as yourself can't afford to have better wine than this," she said with a curling smile as she handed the goblet back to him. "I, my lord, have already made myself fit for the feast. I thought that I would drop by before going to the palace and hear your thoughts about the emissary so I wouldn't have to hunt you down and drag you from the Princess' presence."

She watched with undisguised pleasure as his handsome twisted and became splotched with red and purple. With a stiff curtsey she bowed and strode from the room.

Whistling for her mount she swung herself into the saddly, and loped from the premises.

Why did Korak and herself have such hateful relationship? She tried to remember if there had been an argument in the distant past or if they had always been that way. It was terrible that she had to fear poison from her own cousin.

She glared at the roadside and spurred Telitha into a gallop until they came to the walled gardens of the palace. Handing her horse to a nearby servant, she strolled into the gardens. She let her hand fondle scarlet blossoms as she walked passed and every so often she would lean down and bury her nose in their fragrant petals.

As she drew near the courtyard, she looked up and saw the Black Obelisk pierce the sky. She bowed down, and murmured a soft prayer of rote to the Earth Mother...with a muttered, half-praise to the sky god for she did not want to purposely call down his wrath upon her.

[Orofaniel]

The garden surrounding the Palace had been neatly polished for this particular event; the flowers were blossoming, giving one and all the scent of delicacy and beauty. The statues stood still but they seemed alive this evening. The water in the fountains was dancing; the spectacular water drops made the eye heed no other objects, as they made such a comfort to the troubled mind. Evrathol gazed upon it all; he couldn't remember when the palace had been so full of magnificence and beauty as in this moment. Was it a new place he had come too? Intrigued and fascinated by the sudden, but interminable, beauty of the garden, he walked swiftly over the ground. Evrathol could feel the heaviness of his clothing; the sweet coloured robe he wore was of the finest fabrics. His boots were high and showed great confidence, reflecting the elf that wore them. His face however, still holding the usual mask; stiff and unchanged. His hair was hanging down on his back, neatly in a braid, while some of his hair hung loose around his ears. It made his face look broader.

The guests were going to be of the finest rank. Evrathol wondered what he was doing among them; clearly because he was the General's son and because he was a part of the Royal Court, but he couldn't quite understand what he'd done to earn such a great position among these fine and noble guests. He, however, didn't object, quite on the contrary; he embraced the possibilities he had, what else was he to do?

The room he was standing in right now didn’t quite capture Evrathol’s interest as much as the garden had done; the carpet was of a ghastly colour that he wouldn’t be able to describe in words. Evrathol, however, smiled - being polite as he is. He looked around himself, digesting the new atmosphere that was filled with new impressions each time he turned around. Standing there quietly, in his own thoughts, one of the servants stepped up to him. "Excuse me, sir," he said politely. "You are the good lord Evrathol, are you not?" the servant continued while making a small gesture with his hand. Evrathol nodded, full of confidence, wondering what the servant wanted from him. "Her Majesty, the Queen, has asked your parents to meet her at the banquet entrance," the servant then started. "I see..." Evrathol interrupted. He should have known the Queen's kindness to ask the General and his family to attend her during the banquet. He sighed a little, but waited for the servant to finish. "I believe they are already with her, although I'm not quite sure," he said looking around. Evrathol knew what he was thinking; Evrathol had come late as the banquet was now about to start. The servant then turned to Evrathol once again, explaining him that Evrathol was expected to attend them. "Thank you, my good servant," Evrathol then said. "At your service," the servant said, smiling weakly as he was dismissed.

Walking across the floor, he wondered where the General and his wife might be. Perhaps they were already at the banquet entrance, he didn't know. He decided to follow the elegant hallway that he had approached; It was far longer than he would have imagined at first, it was, however, neatly decorated with tapestries that even Evrathol found enchanting. The result of walking down the long hallway was nothing else than the banquet entrance. He eyed two figures in the corner; knowing that by the black raven hair and the fine figures, it had to be the General and his wife - Evrathol's parents. Walking towards them, they didn't notice him at first, as they seemed to be preoccupied with something else. By looking at his mother, he felt that the time of his arrival had been most inconvenient, not only for his mother, but both of them. They seemed to take no heed of him, as they were heavily debating things of great mattes- or so it seemed. They did turn however, as soon as they heard Evathol's voice.

"General - father - I hear you're expected me..." Evrathol let out, now standing right in front of them. Evrathol's voice was as always, full of confidence. He then bowed to his mother, who looked ever so charming this evening. "Thank you my dear," she said as Evrathol kissed her cheek. "Good evening son," his father said, smiling, but he didn't seem too joyful. "My apologises for having to let you wait. It was very wrong of me; please do forgive me," Evarthol then said, first looking at his mother, then turning to his father. Morgôs nodded, but took no heed to what Evrathol had said. "Do not worry, my son," Arlöme said, pausing before continuing; "Her Majesty, the Queen, has not arrived yet."

"Have you seen the Emissary?" Morgôs then asked Evrathol, breaking the short silence that had occurred.

"Nay, unfortunately not. Not yet at least," Evrathol said, feeling obliged to use the word "unfortunately" as he cared little for the newcomers and the gifts. He didn’t return the question to his father as Evrathol had the feeling that Morgôs hadn’t met the Emissary himself yet.

"That is why they are holding this banquet, is it not? In the Emissary's honour?" Evrathol continued, lowering his voice. He knew, of course, the answer to his silly question, but he found no other way of continuing the conversation. "Indeed it is," Arlöme answered quickly.

"You don't tell me you've seen him, do you?" Evrathol asked his mother a bit surprised; he had the impression that she might have since her answer had come so quickly. "No, not really, maybe a small glimpse. Just a small one," she said firmly.

Evrathol raised an eyebrow, but his mother didn't notice it. He wondered why his father was speaking so little this evening.

[Bêthberry]

"No, my lord, I do not chide you so much as merely express a concern over this Emissary's mission. You could well have been right in choosing his company all day, if you learned from him what his manner of address and purpose is, or that of his lord. And it will be well if someone watches over the Emissary closely at the banquet, to see what his habits and tastes are."

Faroz stopped short and looked at the woman who was his wife. Here, again, she was pointing out, as she often did, that there are always many possibilities and choices rather than simple ones. But before he could say anything, she reminded him that she was without headress and her final state accessories, and asked if he would wait for her to complete her dressing.

"I shall wait for you in my private courtyard." She bowed as he withdrew, relieved at how she had been able not to show surprise at his unexpected appearance. She was indeed "Mayiam, Lady of Cool Water." But his sudden appearance in her private quarters, after absenting himself for so long, had brought the sensation of burning hot air to her lungs. She gasped for cool air and wondered again at his actions.

~~~~~

He sat hidden in a corner of the courtyard, bored for the time being while he waited for the banquet. He heard movement and, hidden behind shrubs in full leaf and bloom, watched her appear from the far door. She moved with aplomb and dignity, not the graceful, quick and lithesome movement of a young woman, but with the calm demeanour of a self-possessed woman. She moved first to a statue at which she knelt, her head looking up at its top and her hands held up, palms facing the statue itself. He peered towards her more intently as he sought to understand her actions. Almost unconsciously, his hand sought out his inner pocket and caressed his ring, willing it help him gain a sense of what was in her mind and being, what thoughts she was conveying to the air. Yet he did not put it one, not yet. He held his eyes more sharply on her. It was a deliberate, knowing, shrewd gaze which sought to lay bear her inner thoughts and desires. He followed every movement of her hands, her arms, her shoulders, the curve of the purple silks over her hips and thighs, her feet lost to his sight under the amethyst pantaloons which billowed out from under her gown. He saw her sit back upon her legs, dropping her hands almost in a sense of tiredness and leaning her chin upon her chest. Then, he watched as she leaned slightly and slowly rose to move to the seat under the cedar tree. In the dark of early evening the jasmine flowers she wore around her waist and as part of her headress glowed with an eerie sheen. Darkness clung to him and he sat back, a shadow among shadows, but his keen eyes followed her every movement.

She was not sure when she became aware of a chill feeling in the air around her. She felt the hair on her arms rise as she fought against a shiver. She was in her own garden. What made her feel this way? She looked around but saw nothing. In the busy manner of preparations for the banquet, all hands were in the kitchens and hall; even the guards had been called away. Strange, she had become inured to their presence as she had to that of her servants. Was it their absence which made her feel so strange? A cold sweat trickled down her back and between her breasts and she felt sickish, as if she wanted to bathe again and wash this cold air off her body. She rose suddenly and went to seek the King in his garden, now strangely anxious to see him.

The Emissary allowed himself a knowing, shrewd smile. So this was Faroz's queen. A fortuitous occurence. He had not realised he had stumbled into her private garden. This place was a maze of gardens and courtyards. Such a fond silliness these people showed towards the natural world. So she was so little protected? He rose, pleased with his discovery but unsatisfied that he learnt no more. Then he sought out the courtyard Faroz had sent him off to in the first place, where he could mingle and feign ignorance of events here. And he would have to remember to control his face carefully when he saw her again at the banquet.

[Nurumaiel]

The Lord Korak glowered at the door. How he hated his cousin, how he hated her! It was well that she had come to see him. At his own home he felt some power, but when at her dwelling-place he had some reason to fear. She had been afraid of him, and when he thought of this the scowl was swept off his face and replaced with a cruelly content smile. She had feared poison in the wine, odd as that was, for he had told her there was none. Yet she did not trust him. She had twisted her goblet in her fingers, looked down into it, brought it to her lips, but had never sipped from it, not until the end. The parting blow, she thought her words were. All the hateful things he wanted to say were contained in the bitterness of that wine, without him saying something that might hurt him. "Bitter wine, my Lady cousin?" he said, and he took up his own goblet. "For you, yes. But only for you."

Morashk crept into the room, and he pressed into his master's hands a package wrapped with fine red cloth and twined and bound with gold. Lord Korak took it, and he looked approvingly at it. "The Princess will be well-pleased with her gift," he said. "Now, Morashk, I trust my mother is preparing herself, and I trust also that you have chosen a fitting outfit for me?"

"All that you ask has been done," said Morashk. He moved to the table and began to clear it of the goblets, and he saw that the Lady's cup was not full. So she had actually sipped from it, despite her fears. He hoped that she, riding home this moment, was pale and fearful, wondering if there was indeed a poison, slow to take effect. He smiled with delighted malice at the thought.

Lord Korak ordered for good wine to be brought to him, and he departed from the room that still bore the ill presence of his cousin. He went to his own room, still lighted only by the fire, and inspected the clothing of rich blue, embroidered with gold. It would do well enough. The gold twine was taken from his beard, and the dark hair combed out, and then re-braided with greater care, and with better and more gold. He let his hair fall loose, and he put on his banquet outfit, and then Morashk entered. The servant braided his master's hair with great care and skill, for that was always his task, on account of Lord Korak demanding perfection at least and being unable to ably braid his own by reaching over to the back of his head. Gold was braided there, too, and the Lord Korak surveyed himself in the mirror. He turned, and, going to his wardrobe, selected a cloak of deep yellow, and Morashk arranged it about his shoulders. And then, thus prepared, he sat back on his couch with the goblet of good wine in his hand, taking care not to disarrange his clothes, and he sent Morashk to bring his mother.

When his servant went, the silence drew upon him and led his mind to think of what had just occurred. The Lady Arshalous was a horrid little thing, and she had been since she was a child. They had always hated each other. Or, no, perhaps not. Where had it begun? The day his father had died, when he was only a very small child. He had been full of sorrow that day, though he had long-since forgotten his father, and his sorrow had been manifested in anger. The Lady Arshalous was always annoying, but she had been thrice so that day, and had teased and mocked until Korak could bear it no longer. He tore the bits of fake jewelry, that she as a child wore, from her wrists and from her throat, and pulled at her hair, and called her names, and she had never recovered from it, though long ago she had forgotten why she hated her cousin. Or, at least, this was why Lord Korak hated his cousin. He could not say how it was for her, and when her hatred began. More than likely from the first moment she set eyes on him, she was such a spiteful creature. How he wished he could pull her hair now, and tear her jewels away.

Oh, and poor Morashk, for he...

But his thoughts were interrupted then, for the door opened and a slender, pretty little maid slipped in, her hands clasped before her and her eyes meekly on the stonework. He glanced at her, and turned his eyes to the door again, for his mother entered. Her once-beautiful skin was wrinkled, her rich, luxuriant dark hair had turned grey and was flecked with white, her light girlish step was replaced with a weary one, but she held herself tall and was beautiful still. Korak rose, and crossed the room, and gently kissed his mother's cheek, for he could not help but love her, despite that he thought her foolish and sentimental. Her large brown eyes, shadowed with many sorrows, looked up into his face, and she spoke, saying: "I heard voices, my dear one. Who were you speaking with?"

"My Lady cousin paid a short visit," said Korak.

"Your words were bitter?"

"There were as they ever are, Mother," said Lord Korak, and a sigh burst from her and she shook her head sadly.

"Remember at least, dear son, that she is the daughter of the sister I loved very much," she said.

"Yes, Mother," said Lord Korak, but he laughed inwardly. How sentimental of his mother! It mattered not to him whether the Lady cousin were a relative or not. All that mattered was that they hated each other, and that he sought to avoid her whilst seeking her out to hurt her in any manner possible.

"The horses are saddled, m'Lord," said Morashk, his pale face peering around the doorway.

"And yours too, I hope, fool," Lord Korak growled.

"Yes, my Lord," said Morashk, with some sauciness in his tone.

"What an impudent servant!" cried Korak, in frustration. "He has assumed that he will be permitted to come to a banquet at the King's Palace! It is well for him that he is so useful, or I should be rid of him. I could send him to my Lady cousin."

"That would be cruel to him," said the mother.

Lord Korak put his hand on her back and turned her about, and they moved away, with the little maid following behind. They went out into the cold air, where Morashk stood waiting with two horses, and two more of a smaller kind, though not quite ponies. Lord Korak helped his mother upon her small steed, and with a grunt of reluctance assisted the maid, with a scowl at Morashk, who was already upon his mount. Then he mounted into his own saddle, and, by his mother's side, led the little company in the direction of the Palace, where lights shone and the soft strains of music played.

The banquet was beginning.

[Novnarwen]

"Father, you're aware of the banquet which will be held at the Palace shortly? Are you not?"

He opened his eyes. The sleepy state he had just been in was interrupted by a squeaky voice. He didn’t turn immediately, just rose briskly from his kneeling position. He gave a little snort, before casting his black mantle furiously with his right arm. He reminded an awful lot of a bat, which made the young man jump, as if scared. The Priest frowned, turning to the man who had entered his chambers. "Banquet?" he raised an eyebrow, bit his lip and gave the man a grim look. "Of course, my dear Son," he said with a firm voice, emphasizing 'dear'. The Priest hurried over to the young man's side, approaching him with elegance. He laid his hand on the other man's shoulder and smiled evilly. "I am indeed aware of it, but I will never be able to make it ON TIME!!! . . .Do you know why?!?" The tone of his voice changed drastically, and it was obvious that the male Priest was working himself up into a frightful temper. His brow turned suddenly fiery red; meanwhile the veins on his neck went dark purple.

What had he done to deserve all this? What had he done in his life to deserve such a cruel and despicable punishment? Inside of him, his organs were turning. The anger, with which he was filled, was making him dazzling red all over. He tried to restrain himself, whispering curses the man next to him could not hear; he reproached the god or goddess who had sent him this incompetent Servant. A man, his age, his position, deserved better. This was degrading. He made a sigh and tore himself away from the Servant. "Be gone, Son. Be gone from my sight." The Priest heard the footsteps die away. He was alone.

He cast himself onto some of the big cushions on the floor, sighed sorrowfully, feeling sorry for himself. "I do not deserve this. That arrogant little oaf. How could he forget to tell me. A banquet! He knows I like banquets, especially those at the Palace. Oh... Dear, dear." He shook his head slowly. "Alas, what a world. It has truly turned on you, Tarkan..."

The Priest rested his head on one of the bigger cushions, staring out in thin air, while thinking. Could he not change his life? The life he was living now was certainly not to his likeness. It lacked of happiness and pleasures, position and respect. How could he gain it, a man like himself? He realised that he still had much of his life ahead. Tarkan was only in his mid-thirties, though, looking quite a lot older. His face was without a wrinkle; thus appearing quite young, but his eyes were dim and sombre, underneath, there were, as painted, large dark rings, which made him appear old after all. The paleness in his face was a proof of this unhealthy way of living. The life in the temple or in his chambers, praying all day, doing his rituals, fasting and everything else that had something to do with religion and the god and goddess, was eating him up inside. It was not that he didn't enjoy it; he did to a certain degree, but he didn't feel that he accomplished anything. He felt empty, as if deprived from all riches in the world; riches such as respect. He was nothing to anyone. Well, that was not completely accurate. He was the King's half-brother, but he would never gain any position for that reason. He was nothing to the King, but he was related to him, which meant at least something. Also, he would probably become a High Priest if the new temple was built, but it didn't mean anything. As far as he knew, people were caring less about religion than ever. The feeling of being abandoned struck him with the power of a clock which strikes six times, which means that it's time for evening prayer.

He let his gaze wander. The cushions, on which he laid on, were of green fine fabrics, a mix between cotton and silk. He touched the surface, feeling the smooth material under his fingers. He had several of these cushions, each in different colours. They matched perfectly and gave thus the room a very lively look, not suiting the priest's personality. The walls were painted light green, whereas the strips of wood were moss green, but were almost covered completely by pictures and tapestries; several amongst them were portraying Rea or the goddess of the earth. In front of him, there was a low table, of dark wood, where he usually sat when eating. To his left, stood a rather big altar, of which he used every day. Incense of every fragrance was released from here, giving his chamber a cosy and rather mystic atmosphere. Aside from that, he did not have many belongings which were his and his only. He lived in simplicity, such as, after his opinion, all priests, priestesses and other who wanted to commit themselves completely to faith should do. He lived by the biggest temple of the goddess of earth. There were a few private apartments and chambers, only available to true men and women in faith. He had a few things though, other than the described cushions in the living room. He owned a bookshelf, where there were placed about fifty to hundred books, of which mostly was religious literature. It stood at the far end of the Hall which led into the room of where he sat now. The bed he slept in every night was also his own. The bedroom was the smallest room of his apartment, and faced the east. When awakening, he could to see the morning blossom, making the night fade away, through the window. Also belonging to him, were a few fine clothing, which included robes, mantles, trousers and shirts, of pure silk or other fine fabrics; all with rich embroidery with golden, silvery or any other matching colour.

He had almost fallen asleep, as he had closed his eyes pleasantly, dreaming about the world of Kings and all their riches, when he was reminded of the banquet. He sprang up, not certain about what he was to do. It would be embarrassing to show up late, yet it would be worse if he didn't appear at the banquet at all. He frowned, tapping his foot on the floor which was covered by a brown carpet. What was the banquet for anyway? Had the young man, whom served in the temple heard wrong? Why there would be a banquet on a day like this, Tarkan didn't understand. Why he hadn't been informed in advance was even more peculiar. He ran out of his chamber, out of his apartment, and knocked on the first door that he met in the Hallway.

"Father," the young man said with a bow, when opening the door. He lowered his forehead for Tarkan to kiss it.

"Dear Son... I must apologise for my behaviour earlier. I hope you were not offended by my complete lack of forgiveness," he said, calmly, not meaning a word he said.

"Do not apologise. It was your right to get angry, Father." The young man, whose name was Pelin, said quietly.

Tarkan stared at him, trying to hold his mask. Did this young man sincerely believe him, or was he faking it? How dumb could a man become? He wondered, but didn't dare think more of it as he was eager to question him about the banquet. He gave the man a gentle smile, before opening his mouth. "It is hard for me to believe that a man can forget about a banquet, especially when it's taking place at the Palace. But I do forgive you, my dear. Let us not think evil thoughts of each other, as it will bring no good to either of us," he said with a grin, and clasped the man on his shoulder. "Regarding the banquet . . .Were you told why such evening is taking place in the Palace? What is the occasion?" he asked politely.

Pelin shrugged; "Of that I do not know for certain, nor was I told much. But it is said, from rumour that an Emissary has come to offer the king an alliance. You are invited to the banquet to sit quite near the King, I believe. You should hurry." The young man's eyes lit with excitement, and Tarkan could feel that he got even more eager by every word that came from his mouth.

Thanking him and adding a false smile, Tarkan went to his own apartments again, rather curious about this person - this Emissary.

[Amanaduial the archer]

Through the stone corridors and past the private temple courtyard Zamara hastened, her shadow dancing surely over the carefully cultivated plants and small statues around the sides; the fingertips of one hand lightly and absently brushed the low wall around the courtyard. In her other hand she held a slim mahogany staff, plain dark wood that twisted around itself in a natural spiral to the more bulbous top, where a natural knot hole had been taken advantage off and set with a piece of facetted sand-crystal: otherwise it was plain, apart from the practical gold-leaf tip at the base that tapped softly on the floor as Zamara walked. Coming to the end of the corridor, she turned left opened the unlocked door that led into the temple: rarely if ever were the doors locked in these places, for none of the citizens would even think of entering. She frowned slightly, making a mental note that, as there were outsiders, this may have to be taken into account, but it was only a brief thought. Sweeping surefootedly down the lamplit spiral staircase, her robes trailing behind her, and entered the Temple through the inner sanctuary behind Rhais great statue. But the priestess was never in such a rush that time could not be taken for her goddess: rather than simply passing Rhais (unthinkable for anyone, and practically blasphemous for a priestess!), she came to stand directly in front of the statue and knelt in the typical bow to the goddess.

Tayfar, standing at the door with another of the acolytes waiting to accompany Zamara, heard the soft sounds of the other woman's robes swishing across the stone floor of the temple, and straightened up hastily. As she looked into the temple, she saw Zamara frozen at the depth of her bow, her delicately painted hands held in front of her in the motion of vulnerability and her back to the door. All the naptha lights were lit throughout the temple now, as night approached, with special attention paid to the area around the statue, and in their flickering light the golden strips through the High Priestess' wavy hair seemed to shine and dance, and her white robes seemed to glow, her elegant, feminine figure bathed in a soft circle of light. As if she is a goddess herself, Tayfar thought awefully, then shook herself, allowing herself a quick genuflection to Rhais at such a strange and possibly wicked thought, before bowing in unison with the other acolyte as Zamara walked towards them.

The trio passed down the great steps in a triangular formation, the two younger women walking behind the High Priestess as they made their way first to Tarkan's apartment: it was right that the foremost leaders of each deity's worship would enter the banquet together. Zamara bid Tayfar and the other - an older, silent girl by the name of Sedaar - to wait at the bottom of the steps as she walked forward and tapped three times on the door with the end of her staff. It opened immediately and a young man of Zamara's height bowed deeply to her in silence. The woman's smile greeted him when he straightened up - she recognised the young man from the temple. "Good evening, sir: is the Priest ready?"

"May the sun and blessings of Rea shine upon you, High Priestess Zamara." A slightly grating but genial voice spoke from behind other man before he himself could answer, and Tarkan emerged, splendid in his own fashion in the same way as Zamara, his shirt and robes over it picked out in fine embroidery, made of rich, dark silk.

"May Rhais' lend her blessing and fruits towards you, O Priest," Zamara reciprocated formally, pressing her palms together and raising them to chin level. Tarkan gave a dry smile as he stepped forward and covered her hands with his palms, and they both bent their forehead together solemnly. Parting, they moved down the steps, the younger man closing the door - and locking it, Zamara noticed - and hurrying after them, falling into step with Tayfar and Sedaar behind Tarkan as they made their way through the moonlit streets towards the palace.

Zamara inquired politely as to Tarkan's health, and they exchanged a few sparse pleasantries, slipping to first name terms rather than their formal titles (which were many and varied), before she moved onto the matter that she wished to hear his view on: although their jobs were, superficially, similar, the Priest and Priestess rarely talked or saw each other, and as they were quite different people, this appeared to suit both quite well. This distance, and their own personalities, caused some stiffness and formality between them; but despite this, Zamara did respect her male counterpart's views on matters that concerned them both - such as this one. "Tarkan, I presume you have heard of the newcomers of - the emissary and his retinue from the West?"

The older priest shrugged his thin shoulders lightly. "Not much, Zamara. I was...less aware than I should have liked of this banquet, and it's reasons," he replied, glancing briefly over his shoulder at the man who followed, who blushed and averted his eyes. Zamara wondered about this, and about the shy grin that Tayfar then exchanged with him, but didn't comment. She frowned a little, the stark white kohl dancing on her forehead. "You do not know of them?"

"Are they particularly remarkable?"

The priestess raised her eyebrows and smiled at Tarkan, cocking her head slightly to one side. "They travelled over the great desert, just to see the King - and, I believe, to present him with gifts. They wish for an...alliance, I believe."

"An alliance between the East and the West?" Tarkan's voice was slightly incredulous. The woman nodded sagely in agreement. "Exactly, my lord. It is strange indeed..."

"Their other purposes? Have they expressed any way in which they would like to...seal this alliance?"

Zamara paused. "I had not thought of it, Tarkan. I do not think they had expressed any will for marriage with the princess; if they were to, I think it may cause more trouble than it's worth with Lord Korak." She looked up ahead again and took in the grand sight of the palace, lit and decorated splendidly, the sounds of business and merriment already coming from inside. She nodded once to Tarkan as she caught his eyes again, her dark gaze emphatic. "No doubt we will find out tonight their intentions, for the sake of our deities if nothing else."

Tarkan looked at her questioningly as she said the last part, but did not speak, for as they came to the grand, arched entrance of the palace, a servant, obviously waiting for them, came forward and bowed deeply. After addressing them formally, he conveyed her majesty's wishes that the priest and priestess dined on her table that night. Unruffled - for it was quite usual - Zamara consented and, dismissing Tayfar and Sedaar (along with Tarkan's attendant) with another servant, she readjusted her grip on her staff, took a deep breath of apprehension, and followed the servant along with Tarkan.

[Kransha]

Morgôs, Arlomë, and Evrathol did not dawdle long in the hall. One of the short passageways led them swiftly from the hall where they congregated to the banquet hall, a shortcut around the courtyard. The passage was not haunted much by the nobles from the outside, though a number of servants and courtiers still roamed there, carrying all manner of supplies, ornaments, foodstuffs, and fine materials, the rarest and most beautiful of their kind in all of Pashtia. The family headed past all of the trivialities, though, avoiding them with Elven grace at hand, and proceeded into the banquet hall’s immediate edge, where it met the arch that led inside, the banquet hall entrance. It was not yet bustling with activity, but bore enough folk for it to be called ‘crowded.’ Slowly, considering each step, the three worked their way into the room and stood, eying the fine architecture and decorum. Arlomë did not, for she had seen it before, but young Evrathol was captivated, and it was no long before he had meandered quietly off, into the hall’s depths.

The two, Arlomë and Morgôs, were left together, half isolated from the other clumps of nobles, not walking or moving much. It was not long before Arlomë leaned towards Morgôs’ whose gaze was distracted, and spoke. “Elrigon,” she said, “you are silent tonight? Something troubles you?”

Morgôs shook his head, overly hasty, as if he were trying to avoid an answer, though he did respond. “No, nothing…” after a quick pause, he turned to look to her, with an uncanny look of urgent need glimmering in his starry eyes. “So,” he said quickly, “you have not seen the Emissary?” She examined him, closely, for but a moment. Like any Elf, just as Morgôs could, she could hone her mind to a saber’s point, and analyzed her husband with a simple, enigmatic look, projecting an unseen hail of mist that filled him, and Morgôs knew that she could sense his uneasiness. She spoke back slowly, with total sincerity. “No, it is as I told Evrathol. Only glimpses, no more than the others of the Queen’s retinue.”

“I see.” Morgôs nodded, looking away into the depths of the thickening crowd. He then turned to her, “Well, we shall see him. The Queen has invited us to meet her at the entrance and sit with her.” Arlomë blinked bewilderedly, but Morgôs knew she was unsurprised. “I had not heard as much.” She said, softly, and the General simply nodded, though the gesture was nearly concealed by the subtlety with which it was issued. Morgôs, turning again, looked off, taking nervous glances about the room, but Arlomë spoke again.

“I know your mind, Elrigon. It is plain what troubles you. You are suspicious of the Emissary.” Her tone was accusatory, but not unloving, and she seemed more content with her for figuring out the fact than annoyed at her husband for it. But, she became less content when Morgôs snapped back, very defensive, “No, I have no reason to be. I have heard nothing.” But here he saw that she was confused by his defensiveness, and relaxed his military guard, allowing himself to smile and warmth to fill his face. “For the General of Pashtia, I know very little.”

Arlomë laughed pleasantly, “Little of this court, perhaps, but you know enough to serve where it matters. Is that why you are uneasy? The Emissary, from what I have seen and heard, has a great wealth of knowledge and words at his disposal, for he charmed the King with ease. Do you think he has another motive?” Morgôs rounded on her, louder and more forceful, his eyes narrowing. “All these questions and still I have not met the man!” He exclaimed as he threw up his hands in frustration, the long, silky sleeves of his court robe fluttering up and down like graceless bird wings.

His wife looked defeated for a split second, but it was not her nature, and she quickly followed up, though her voice had quieted greatly, and was far less passionate. “You have foreseen nothing?” Morgôs, barely realizing how harsh he had sounded, shook his head. “No, I am too occupied. The drill at the training fields did not go well.” He breathed deeply, stroking his sore temple again with a lazy digit as he looked down, concentrating on the intricately carven tiles of the hall floor.

“What do you mean?” queried Arlomë.

Morgôs released the answer as if he had been waiting all day to get the knowledge off his chest. “The generation that fought at my side in the last war has grown too old to serve, and, replacing them are vagrant boys who could not fire a bow or ride a horse were the very thunder of Rea behind them!” He batted the air angrily as he said this, but Arlomë took his white-knuckled hand in her own tenderly and spoke in a soothing whisper. “You exaggerate, Elrigon. Let the matter rest. After all, they are the cream of Pashtia.”

The Avari general nearly wrenched his hand from his wife’s. “That is why they are so inept!”

“Give your country some credit.” Arlomë reprimanded, more stern now, “The mortals have not centuries to learn the ways of war!” She was slighted by Morgôs’ attitude, but did not show it in any undignified way. She was passionate enough to argue the point hotly, but she did it well, in comparison to Morgôs, who’s pale cheeks had reddened with malign fire. “They should learn faster,” he cried out, “else they will get nowhere when war comes. I wonder how we’ve ever won a battle.”

“They have some spirit in them, at least, and they deserve renown for that!” She shot back.

Morgôs was about to pounce upon the statement, but he stopped himself. His flushed face paled again, as his rudeness dawned on him, and he looked down again, dejected. “Not now,” he murmured; the air of argument gone in him, “Let us not speak of these things now.” Arlome did not respond directly, but he could tell without looking at her that she agreed. At last she said: “Yes, you are right.”

Looking as if he wished to cleanse a nightmare from him, he briskly shook his head and looked to her. “I need some fresh air, this court is stifling. I shall be back shortly.”

He leaned forward and kissed Arlomë on the forehead, but very curtly, and turned away, pulling up his cumbersome robes so that he could gain some speed. He admitted that the whole affair looked foolish, in several respects, to see an Elven General clumsily maneuvering his way through a court packed with gossipy nobles, but he disregarded that and headed to the entrance, pulling himself through the highly populated area of the threshold and out, beneath the broad arch and into the open air, where he immediately felt the glimmering silver lights of stars, in all their radiant beauty, shining down upon his face. But, as he headed out, he looked up, his attention drawn by the gentle, tempting hold of the stars, and, in his haste, did not see where he was going.

It was his Elven grace alone that allowed him to slide sideways to avoid running headlong into several persons who were proceeded through the arch. The trio, led by a courtier whose garb resembled that of the guard who’d addressed him earlier, were taken aback, and halted, disconcerted. Morgôs made to apologize swiftly, saying “Excuse me, I did not see-” but he stopped, foolishly, in the middle of the sentence to look up after making an ignoble bow. He recognized the two figures standing immediately behind the palace guard.

“High Priestess Zamara, High Priest Tarkan, it is an honor. May the blessings of Rea and Rhais be upon you both” he said, bowing lower than he just had, and taking more time to do so. He did not remember ever speaking with either of these people (he did not often attend such festivities to socialize with the religious hierarchy, and he did not even know if he was correctly greeting them, by their standards), but he knew of them, and seen them many times. One could not serve the King and have not seen the two head Priests of Pashtia. Then again, he was not wholly sure of their positions. He had seen and heard of the High Priestess Zamara, but knew nothing of her ways. He had only heard the name of Tarkan, and merely assumed that he was a priest of some importance, presumably a High Priest, if he kept such ample company. After a low bow, he removed his clasped hand from his heart and stood, looking to the two figures. The situation was somewhat awkward, but this whole great banquet had become an awkward event for Morgôs, and so he was resigned to it. Quietly, he awaited a response, knowing that proper etiquette would force someone to reply, and he was again doomed to conversation, thanks, ironically, to his sudden lack of time.

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

"That one looks especially nice, milady," a timid voice pierced the near-silence of Gjeelea's bedchamber. The princess sighed as she smoothed the wrinkles out of a sapphire blue robe, doubting the truth in the words of Fahlil, her servant. She says that because she thinks she has to, Gjeelea told herself. However, the princess knew she had no time to change again - the blue would have to do for the banquet. All of her tiny braids had been pulled back into one large braid with golden ribbon intertwined with the smaller braids. Gjeelea cringed at the blue of her dress next to the tan brown of her skin and dark hazel of her eyes, but reluctantly shrugged off the distaste as the Fahlil reminded her of the press for time.

"All right, then, I think I am ready," Gjeelea murmured, mostly to herself rather than the young servant-girl. The princess dismissed Fahlil and left her room at a brisk pace through the halls of the palace.

The princess had been asked to meet her family in her father's private gardens, where they would make a grand entrance together into the banquet hall. What this served to do for appearances, Gjeelea did not know. She rarely saw her brother Siamak, and when she did the major differences between them kept the siblings from getting along much. Gjeelea had always thought he was too quiet and too sound in his opinions. He would not make a good ruler, Gjeelea thought bitterly as she walked down the corridor. The princess knew that her betrothed might not be too much better, but she also knew Lord Korak's mind well enough to know that if she became queen, her influence on Pashtia would be great. Her influence would be much greater with Lord Korak on the throne than with her brother on the throne - she knew that well enough.

Gjeelea turned the last corner and entered the private gardens of her father. She recognized the figure by the lilies immediately, and walked towards the King as he examined the flowers and other plants. King Faroz heard her steps, and turned around. "Father," Gjeelea said in greeting, a false smile illuminating her dark features.

[Firefoot]

Siamak walked through the halls, hurrying a bit when he came close enough to the banquet hall to hear sounds of pre-feast merriment and chatter. He did not want to be late; that would not do at all. He had planned to go to the courtyard first, but the beginning of the banquet was apparently much more soon than he had realized. Rather than thread through the halls, he took the more direct route through the gardens.

The outside world was bathed in a dusky twilight now that the sun had set after a final blaze of brilliant color. Had he been in less of a hurry he may have lingered for a moment and enjoyed the peaceful sound of the chirping insects and evening birds, but he feared time was short. He slowed his pace to a stately walk as he neared his father’s private gardens, approaching the arranged meeting place softly, a skill he had learned long ago to be useful for getting around unnoticed.

His first conscious thought was that his mother was not yet there: a relief since that meant he was not late. He took in the scene with a glance. His father, facing him, was standing with Gjeelea, who had her back to him, near the lilies. He was less than thrilled at seeing his sister, even though he knew she would be there. He preferred to avoid her, which wasn’t terribly hard since their interests were vastly different. Faroz saw him first, but Gjeelea was not aware of his presence until he spoke. Then she turned, elegantly but just quickly enough to know he had surprised her slightly.

“Good evening, Father,” he said with a slight incline of his head, a proper greeting from prince to king. “Gjeelea,” he said politely in acknowledgment of her.

“Siamak,” she returned, also in acknowledgment, nothing more. There was no love lost between the siblings. Siamak wasn’t sure how she did it, but somehow she always made him feel that she was better than he was, though he knew it wasn’t true. Perhaps it was because she believed it - he knew she did. He tried to shake off the feeling, and was mostly successful, except for the niggling piece that remained at the back of his mind, telling him he ought to be acquiescing to her as well. He had become much better at this as he grew older, but he had never completely mastered the skill of disregarding her opinions of him.

He turned from his sister to his father, and tried to determine his mood. It appeared to be pleasant; Siamak supposed this meant that his father had good opinions of the foreign emissary. He would keep this in mind tonight while trying to justify his own distrust. While he didn’t always agree with what his father, he held Faroz as a fair ruler, taking the best paths for the country. Siamak tried to put on a bold face, only partially succeeding. This night would tell many things.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

And which of my children, he thought, do I wish to make unhappy? It was a question that Faroz had been turning over in his mind quite often of late, as the nobility began to ask who he would name as his heir. He was young yet, and there remained to him surely many more years of life, perhaps decades. But chance or accident could not be stayed by royal decree, nor could the intrigues of his enemies. A single knife in the dark, or an untasted dish of figs could leave his kingdom leaderless and divided. He needed to appoint an heir. More importantly, he needed to take one of his children under his tutelage and instruct…him?…her?…in the stern art of ruling a kingdom. He had never been an attentive father, nor an affectionate one. The education of his children had been left to their nursemaids and governesses, as well as to their mother – although Faroz had been careful to check her influence somewhat, lest Gjeelea and Siamak had been raised with too much sympathy for their mother’s people. Faroz believed in the peace that had been forged through his marriage, but he was no fool. He knew that the enmity between his people and his wife’s was too deep rooted to be extirpated by the union of two mortal beings. Their marriage had not resolved the border disputes in the mountainous Rhasjûl region, nor had it alleviated the tense competition between them amongst their trading partners. At some point in the future, perhaps not in his lifetime but certainly within the lives of his children, Pashtia and Alanzia would be at odds once more, and he had to ensure that his heir would defend this land against her enemies.

He hid his thoughts behind a face that was well practiced in the art of diplomatic subterfuge. “Welcome my children,” he said formally, and taking a hand of each in one of his own, he raised their clasped fingers to his forehead. He dropped his hands but held on for a moment longer as he looked at his children. The girl returned his gaze steadily and somewhat coolly. The boy regarded him with an uncertain, searching eye. How easy it would be were his daughter’s spirit to reside in his son. She was the natural ruler. Like her mother, she was rational and quick minded. Supple in her ability to see many options. But she was ambitious, and soon to be married to that oaf Korak who would undoubtedly seek to assert his rights as a husband and undermine Gjeelea’s ability to rule. Were his son to become King he would need to share that rule with no-one. He would be able to govern from a position of strength, and if he needed aid, he could marry a level headed woman of position and wisdom. No matter whom he chose, however, there would be division in the kingdom for the nobility was divided in their preference. So much remained to be seen: they were both yet blossoms of the royal branch, not fully come to their fruition. Who could tell what sort of leaders they would become in the fullness of years? Before seeing that, how could he make an informed decision of who should come after him?

“Is it true you spent the day with the Emissary, father?”

Faroz drove his problems to the back of his mind and replied to his daughter’s question. “It is. We had much to speak of.”

“I am sure. Did he tell you more about the offer of the Lord…Annatar, was it?”

He could tell that she was fishing for information. “We spoke of that briefly. He assures me that his lord wishes only for friendship with us, and that he does not seek to drag us into foreign conflicts.” His manner as he concluded indicated that the subject was now closed.

His daughter was not to be so easily put off however, and she tried a different tack. “And what of the gift? Is there some special significance to the ring? It seems such a small thing between kings.”

“Do not press me about that now, my daughter,” he replied lightly, trying to brush aside the conversation. He did not know why, but mention of the ring caused him an odd anxiety, and unconsciously his hand slipped into the folds of his robe to find it. He stroked it lightly with one fingertip. “Let us play a game my children. Let us pretend that I am not your king, and you are neither prince or princess. Let us pretend for this night that we are a family having a dinner with other families.”

“That will be hard,” Siamak replied, “with all those other families calling us ‘Majesty’ and bowing as we pass.”

“Not to mention their trying to have a few hurried words with us between courses about their latest petition, or telling us about their supremely talented nephew and how perfectly suited he would be for a position at court,” said Gjeelea.

His children were speaking as he had, lightly, but to cover the awkwardness that he had introduced with his strange request. When had they ever sat down to a meal as a family? When had they ever done anything as a family? It was not possible. Faroz searched his mind for a memory of some time, some moment, in which he had felt, simply, as a father to these people, but he could not recall any. Even at their births he had been absent from the city upon state business and had received the news amongst the daily reports from the capital. The news of his daughter’s birth had been disappointing: an eldest son would have been better. When he had received news of his son’s birth it had been marred by the information that he had been born upon a highly inauspicious day. Faroz did not hold to such superstition, but he knew that many of his people would be wary of such a child. He sighed and turned back to the lilies. “Well,” he said wearily, “let us at least enjoy our meal in each other’s company. You two shall sit and tell me the petty gossip and private scandals of the palace. There are many things that never come to my ears which I am sure are whispered in yours. Divert me with them, and perhaps I can amuse you with some tale of my youth.”

It was Siamak who took up the task of relating to his father a bit of the endless gossip that filled the whispering silences of the court. He spoke of unrequited loves and infatuations, disagreements among the courtiers and of a dispute over a dish of figs that had escalated to the point of blows. As he spoke, Gjeelea remained silent but watchful, carefully eyeing her father and brother and noting in each far more than either knew. Faroz himself remained quiet through the trivial recitation, until they were interrupted by the sound of the Queen’s feet coming toward them along the graveled path.

[Imladris]

Arshalous rose from her kneeling position and made way to the banquet hall. There would be much food there, and she was not hungry. Thankfully, there would be too many people for anybody of importance to notice her rudeness when she did not eat anything. Besides, there was the Emissary to occupy everybody's full attention.

As her sandals tapped lightly on the stone courtyard, she saw a man leaning against the wall. He was robed in black and purple, dark hair fell in waves to his shoulders, his eyes were a grey blue like a river whispering on a foggy morning, and, wonders of wonders, he was beardless, though his skin was dark from the cruel sun. If she had not known better, she would have thought him of the Avari kindred.

She stopped and said, "You are the Emissary, are you not?"

He pushed himself from the wall and kissed the back of her hand. "Indeed I am, fair lady --? He glanced enquiringly at her.

"Arshalous," she said, with a small bow. She swayed uncomfortably on her feet. There was something about him....something powerful about him that she had only felt in the king during the few times she had met him. Pity that none of the other nobles had such power coursing through them.

"It is very noble that the king has prepared this banquet in my honour," the Emissary said with a smile.

"It would have been rude for us not to," Arshalous said.

He looked shrewdly at her, a light flickering in his blue grey eyes.

"I am surprised that you journeyed across the desert to us," Arshalous said as she slowly strolled toward the banqueting hall.

A smile flickered in the Emissary's face and he said, "My lord is anxious for an alliance."

"It is my opinion that alliances do not often end well. I wouldn't be surprised if our countries were at each other's throats like snarling dogs in a few hundred years," said Arshalous sourly.

The man smiled politely. "That will not happen here."

"They always say that," Arshalous replied, staring at him. "The feast is about to begin," she said abruptly. "I would invite you to sit with me, though I am assume that the King has already offered you a place by his side, since, in fact, the banquet is in your honour."

"You are correct," the Emissary said, kissing her hand once more.

As Arshalous swept down the hall toward a seat in the twilight, she thought of the Emissary, how strong and noble he looked, how confident he seemed in an alliance between the East and the West. He was so different than the nobles here -- the image of Korak flitted through her mind -- in his wisdom and his kind face.

[Novnarwen]

The blessings of Rhais, he says, the Priest thought melancholically; I would rather not have any of her blessings or anything else for that matter.. It is a wicked goddess..

All of a sudden, he felt the urge to nudge the female next to him hard in the ribs. A man had just greeted them, but Tarkan didn't know this Elf. Did Zamara? If it was her acquaintance, then she should say something, not wait for him to speak. All three of them were silent, as if petrified by the loo of each other. He gave her a reproaching look, before turning to the stranger, deciding upon doing his best to seem civilized. It was only appropriate that he should greet this man also. After all, it was great to know that someone obviously knew him without himself knowing who this elf was.

"I do not believe I've had the honour of meeting you earlier," he said quietly, not knowing if that was for the best or not. He knew though, that new acquaintances could not be bad. The Priest had always liked Elves in general. They were some fascinating creatures. They were tall and firm, had a nice body structure, usually beautiful, pointed ears and all of them expressed a certain confidence that the Priest admired. This elf was a perfect example of a typical elf. His stature was great, and knowing that, the Priest could already by then guess what his position with the King was. He was fair, yet his age seemed to have a good grasp of him. Yet his eyes, vague but blue, and his black hair reflected youth. ”I do believe I have seen you, though..." He smiled faintly, digesting all the first impressions. He continued politely, "Yes, it comes back to me now. You're the King's favourite General!" The male Priest laughed gently, acknowledging the Elf’s position, expressing admiration. Zamara didn't move; he could see her out of the corner of his eye. By the look she sent him, she seemed to be surprised by the Priest’s behaviour, so polite and merry.

"Thank you, High Priest, but you're too kind," The elf answered humbly, his cheeks turning slightly red.

The ringing tune of the elf's voice calling him 'High Priest', for the second time, made him want to get to his knees and praise Rea. He restrained himself from looking happy or surprised by this and spoke hastily; "Let us not be too solemn by using such formal names; it only emphasizes our differences rather than our similarities, which are, I believe, far more important. We must set our focus on the King today, and this Emissary,” he explained eagerly; “Tarkan will do for tonight, kind Sir." Not knowing whether he should include Zamara in the conversation or not, he grew afraid that he would appear manipulative or arrogant if he didn’t. Also worried about the fact she could point out that Tarkan had received a title he did not earn, he was hesitant whether he should giver her the chance to speak. He turned his gaze to Zamara, and found her looking at him as if in wonder.

The Priest had turned from being a cold and sorrowful man, into being a man filled with merriment. His eyes shone with pleasure and delight, expressing satisfaction, but also confidence and a certain degree of happiness. He looked questioningly at Zamara. She nodded carefully, "I do agree. At this banquet, which is held in the honour of the newly arrived Emissary, it is important to focus on the King support him."

"Now, I beg you please ... Will you tell me who this Emissary is? I have not had the privilege to meet him yet, though, I'm already very curious about his coming. Do you know what he wants with the King, or are you as ignorant about the matter as I am?" he questioned the elf as fast as he could after Zamara had closed her mouth, not allowing her to say anything further.

The Priest smiled weakly, paying attention to the male Elf who told all he knew thus far. He listened attentively, but only with one ear. The woman next to him, stood still. By the look of her, she was still surprised, but he was not convinced any longer that it was for the better. If he could have penetrated through her mind and seen her thoughts, he would have done so instantly. The two of them had never had a good relationship. The truth was that Tarkan was envious of her position in the Temple. It was not that he adored Rhais over all, such as Zamara did, but the position in itself ‘High Priest' was something he truly longed for. He was just a Priest, and so the elf had greeted Tarkan wrongly, using a formal title he did not even have. He hadn't lied, the male Priest assured himself; he had told him that his name would do; he had only chosen not to mention that he wasn't a High Priest. If the elf eventually found out, he had nothing to approach the poor creature of.

The male elf finished his sentence, letting his gaze wander uneasily around. The Priest nodded carefully; satisfied by the little info he had gained. "You seem anxious to leave. Pardon me from keeping you here; I did not mean to. Please forgive me . . ." he said, in a desperate try to get he elf moving again away from Zamara and the humiliation of being just a man without a particularly great position.

[Nurumaiel]

Korak stood in the doorway, surverying the room with a look of great disgust. He had expected enemies to be gathered here, but those he despised most were among those present, sitting, talking, laughing, and scowling. He gestured to the maid, and told her to bring his mother to a table that she wished. He did not feel like sitting, for he cared for none of these people, and the Princess was not yet present.

The Lady Arshalous was, of course, present, though he could not see her from where he stood. She had said she was prepared for the banquet, so it seemed very likely that she intended to go. He hoped he would not have to speak to her again. If she approached them he would let Morashk speak, and he would leave, on the pretence of finding his mother.

There was the Priest Tarkan. Korak had never cared much for him. There was some air about him that stirred up aversion. But, on the other hand, there was something very pleasing about him, as well. Lord Korak gathered a sense of a kindred spirit, though he knew not how. Studying the rest of the room, he thought that he should care to speak to Tarkan the most. Unless it were Zamara, for she was the least dislikeable of the present company. But she was already with Tarkan, and so he need not cause himself trouble by seeking her elsewhere.

He approached the two, Morashk following in his wake, and before them he gave a courtly bow, casting a quick and haughty glance over the Elf. "My Priest Tarkan, and Priestess Zamara," said the Lord Korak, "it is a pleasure to see you here." He did not really think it was a pleasure to see anyone there, but he could not deny that it was a pleasure to have two bearable people present, since all others he saw were hated enemies or far below him. "I give to you by greetings, as well as the kindest greetings of my Lady mother, who is grateful to you for your devoted service in the temple."

[alaklondewen]

Arlomë let her eyes follow her husband’s back until he had rounded the corner and was out of her sight. Then, she sighed. She had only just found him, and now he was gone again. Really, she should have kept her temper in check and not argued with him no matter how she felt. Elrigon needed her support and she had not given it to him just now. Concern had been written all over him, and she knew he was frustrated at this Emissary’s arrival. Maybe not his arrival, per se, but Elrigon deserved to know what this man’s intentions were and had not yet been able to meet him. She would make it up to him...yes, she nodded slightly to herself.

Turning her attention back to the filling hall, she scanned its guests for not just familiar faces, but those she respected. No Avari had entered yet, and Arlomë exhaled audibly and chewed the inside of her cheek in awkward frustration. That’s when her eyes caught sight of Lady Arshalous. The woman was not of Arlomë’s kindred, but she had a good head on her shoulders and a quick wit. Two things the elf could respect in a mortal.

Arlomë excused herself several times to pass between the finely dressed nobles who were milling around waiting for the royal family’s appearance until she reached the small round table with the lady. “Good evening to you, Arshalous.” Arlomë nodded her head in greeting.

“And to you, Arlomë,” Arshalous answered and nodded her head in turn.

“Do you mind if I sit a moment until the royal entrance?” Without waiting for a reply, Arlomë lowered herself to the small table.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

He watched as the people of this land gathered for the banquet and turned over in his mind how the day's events had proceeded. It had gone well with the King, but how could it not have done so after he accepted the Ring? He reached into his clothes and found his own Ring, the mate of the one now borne by Faroz and stroked it longingly. It had been several days since he had last worn it, and he found the temptation to slip it on once more almost too much to resist. But he had been noticed already by the lady and she was sure to tell others that he was about. To disappear now would be to call attention to himself. He sighed and closed his eyes, seeking strength from his master for the task ahead. He must cloak himself from their eyes this night, and for many days ahead. For the time, he had to put on a fair appearance.

Girding himself to the task ahead he walked out of the shadows and toward the banqueting hall. As he approached he saw the lady who had accosted him earlier seated at a table with a female Elf. He snarled despite himself and quickly turned away. His master had warned him of the Avarin, for despite their long sundering with their western kindred, they remained of the Elder race.

A cough at his back made him turn round and he came face to face with the Chamberlain. It was clear that the man did not entirely like the Emissary, and that he resented him for having taken the King away from his duties this day. "My King has said that you are to be brought to the party that will be dining at the Queen's table."

The Emissary frowned, saying, "I thought that I was to eat with the King."

"Indeed you are," was the clipped response. "The King is dining with the Queen this night. Come." Before giving the Emissary a chance to respond, the Chamberlain turned and walked toward a small group of finely dressed people who were standing close by the door that the royal family would enter through once all was ready. He ushered the Emissary into their presence, interrupting their conversation and making a series of quick introductions. The Emissary was composed throughout the little ritual, bowing slightly to each of the people in turn. Among the party was another Elf, and he was careful to meet his eye and return his look with steady confidence. Once the introductions had been made the Chamberlain began to officiously organise the party. “The King and Queen are almost ready for the entrance. They have bid me remind you General Morgôs that you and your family,” and at this he looked sidelong toward the female Elf at table with the Lady Arshalous, “are to eat with them at their table, as are you Emissary. The High Priestess Zamara and Priest Tarkan will be seated at the table next to the King and Queen. I do not know where the Prince and Princess shall be eating,” he added somewhat fussily, “for the Queen has said that they might do as they wish this night.” He clearly disapproved of the Queen’s judgement in this matter. “My lords and ladies, I must leave you now, for I must look into the kitchens.” And with that, the Chamberlain was off once more.

[Orofaniel]

Evrathol was not going to judge the Emissary before he had talked to him; that was his decision. Of curse he was going to have an opinion of him, but he wasn’t going to express it to anyone else. He kept those things to himself as he was a respected member of the Royal court. He wouldn’t dare to speak ill or unjust of anyone that were guests of His Majesty himself. Usually, Evrathol never spoke of such things in public, although no one could control his own mind. At the same time, Evrathol felt a need to have a strong opinion about him, because everyone talked about the Emissary – and only him. While looking upon The Emissary, Evrathol could, however, only see a strong character, but nothing more than that. Part of it because the Emissary stayed unchanged; he showed no particular joy for the banquet that had been prepared especially for him, nor did he show any excitement. This was Evrathol’s impression of him.

Studying him a bit closer he could perhaps spot a stubborn creature, with a strong will, but those were only wild guesses.

Feeling utterly ignorant about the stranger he wanted to approach him so that perhaps Evrathol could learn more about him. His legs however would not allow him – or was it his mind that stopped him from doing so? Towards this man he felt unconfident, and weak. How could this be? Evrathol was a confident elf, who had been raised by strong characters. He didn't know why he felt uncertain and uncomfortable with the stranger's presence, but it made him scared. He asked himself why he was doing this to himself, but he found no answer. What was this obnoxious thoughts of his? Why should he, Evrathol, feel uncomfortable in his position? This was completely idiotic. He clenched his teeth, feeling his heart pounding in his chest. His head was spinning as the thoughts of the Emissary would not leave him.

As the Emissary bowed slightly to each guest, he finally turned to Evrathol. A small bow was offered him, and Evrathol greeted him back in suitable manner; “My good lord, it is a pleasure to meet you,” Evrathol offered, as polite as he possibly could be. “Greetings to you as well, my kind elf,” the Emissary said, smiling weakly. Those were the only words exchanged between them before the Emissary moved on to the next guest.

[Imladris]

Arshalous stared at Arlomë and smiled at her. They only had a slight acquaintance but she tended to like the elven woman. Arshalous that it was especially good of her to be part of the queen's retinue considering that the queen came from Alanzia.

"Have you had a chance to speak with the Emissary?" asked Arshalous.

Arlomë shook her head and said, "I have only seen glimpses of him. Have you?"

Arshalous nodded. "He was..." she tried to find the right word. "He had a quiet power in him," she said thoughtfully. "He commands one's respect. It's a pity that our nobles are not more like him," she added bitterly.

Arlomë frowned a little and said, "You think the alliance would be good then?"

"Yes I do," said Arshalous. "We would be very foolish if we did not ally ourselves with them."

Arlomë nodded and then asked with a small laugh, "Why are you sitting in the corner?"

Arshalous narrowed her eyes in irritation and said delicately, "Parties are such annoying things and more than half the people here I do not care for. I would much rather be at home curled on a couch in my library."

"I am sorry," said Arlomë.

"Oh don't be," said Arshalous waving her hand as if she was sweeping Arlomë apology into the dustbin. "It's not your fault that most everyone here is decidedly unpleasant to be converse with."

[Bêthberry]

Bekah listened as her soft leather sandals trod the gravel path. As she neared the King's garden the sense of chill dissipated and she felt safer. Through the vine-entwined corridor which connected her garden with his, she caught sight of Faroz talking with their children. It was a sight she did not often see and in the few moments she took to compose herself she watched them and allowed herself some reminiscences.

Saimak was now a little older than his father had been when she had first seen him, but what a difference. Bekah remembered the confident, even cocky adolescent whose poise and glance had so terrified her, barely into her teens. She had never seen one of the enemy before and there he was standing in front of her, being announced as her intended husband. She had been barely able to meet his eyes and had stood shaking beside him at their wedding ceremony. Yet her prayers had been answered, for he had left with his father immediately after the banquet to return to Pashia. It was two years later she had crossed over the mountains herself with Homay and her bodyguards. It was at another banquet she saw him again, took her place at his side in her gown of glowing amber and cream. He was less contemptuous of her then. He had been a gentle husband to her, firm but not unkind, but she knew he had never loved her as she had never come to love him, despite what her father had told when she had pleaded not to be married to him. She looked at him now to see the young man she had married but saw only the distinguished shades of grey at his temples, the frim jawline which had become firmer, the anxious years in his eyes. She moved quickly towards him.

"My family," she acknowledged, kissing her daughter on both sides of her face--a salutation Gjeela had only recently agreed to renew--and placing her hands on her son's brow. To Fayez she bowed her head and offerred her hand.

"Forgive my tardiness. I stopped in my garden for a few words of prayer for our banquet tonight."

The King took her hand again in the formal salute of husband and wife. The he stopped and stared at her.

"Your final preparations have come to naught."

"Pardon, my lord?"

"The jasmine flowers in your headress have wilted and those in your belt are crushed." He plucked one from her headress and held it before her.

"How came this to happen?"

"I, I know not, my Lord. I came directly from my quarters to my garden to yours. Although in my garden I felt a most unusual air, like the cold air of the mountain snows but so much more frigid."

"You shall do without them this eveing. The guests await us." With his own hands he plucked the other flowers from her headress, feeling them still stiff with cold. Bekah herself removed those from her belt and felt a similar chill. He looked at her eyes, finding belief in her words in the touch of the flowers himself.

"Let us enter, my Lord. Siamak, Gjeela, wil you march in front of us?"

The two nodded despite grimaces.

Fayez then held his right arm out in front of him, his hand facing up. Bekah placed her left hand, palm facing down, in his and together the two marched side by side, their hands recreating the old symbol of the sun's light wrapped over the moon. "Let me meet this visitor who has so many strange stories to tell us," she said aloud.

Then, as they walked together in stately form, Bekah wispered to him.

"My Lord, none of the guards were in my garden. Have they all been called elsewhere? The Emissary is to dine with us, but what of the fifty men or so who arrived with him? Has Morgôs prepared a watch from our guard to accompany them at their own lodgings tonioght?

Faroz halted but momentarily; none would have seen it, but Bekah felt the slight hesitation of motion through his arm. They made their entrance as he was reflecting upon her words.

[alaklondewen]

"It's not your fault that most everyone here is decidedly unpleasant to be converse with." The woman was insulting the elf, and as Arshalous turned her head, Arlomë covered the smile that crept across her face. Of course the comment might have offended many people, and her ease at saying it was probably why the woman was sitting in the corner alone, but the elf was quite comfortable with herself and her conversational ability and, consequently, found the situation amusing.

A short silence fell over the two, and Arlomë looked over the hall once more. Another smile appeared on her delicate elven features when she saw Elrigon near the door and, to her surprise, the Emissary. “I think I shall become acquainted with this mysterious man myself,” the elf spoke suddenly and rose...her abrupt movement causing Arshalous to sit up. “Arshalous, as usual, this has been...interesting. I do hope we can do it again.” The woman did not answer but nodded her head, still scowling.

The Emissary’s back faced Arlomë as she approached. His long hair was not straight like the majority of Pashtian men, rather it fell in dark waves about the shoulders of his black and purple robes. The elf stepped gracefully around the stranger’s body and slipped her arm through her husband’s, smiling up at Elrigon has she stopped. She bowed her head slightly to the priest, and then more deeply to High Priestess, showing her respect to Rhais by doing so. Once the formal greetings were complete, Arlomë turned to the Emissary. She said nothing, but waited for her husband to introduce them, which he did promptly.

“It is a pleasure,” she said as her eyes met his. His gaze was steady as she took her hand in his and bowed to kiss it. “The pleasure is mine, Lady,” his voice was unwavering and confident, and then he placed his lips to her hand. As his lips touched her, a chill ran up her spine and the fine hairs raised on her neck. She pulled her hand away from him and tightened her grip on Elrigon’s arm.

It was this moment a commotion arose from the nearby and the people of Pashtia readied themselved as the Royal family began to enter the great hall. As everyone turned their attention to the King and Queen, Arlomë could not shake the intensely strange feeling that came over her when the Emissary kissed her hand. Glancing from the man to Elrigon, she wondered if she should tell her husband, or if maybe it was all in her head. Whichever, she knew she would keep her eye on this stranger from the West.

[Firefoot]

Siamak felt stiff as a board as he and Gjeelea began the entrance of the royal family. He wanted so dearly to make his father proud of him, to make him see that he was more fit for the throne than his sister. Next to him, she was all ease and grace, and Siamak felt surely he could never do better than that. He kept his head up, with an effort, though it was dreadfully uncomfortable to have all the nobles seemingly staring at him. He knew they were more likely watching his father, but that was not how it felt.

“Presenting His Majesty, King Faroz, ruler of Pashtia.” Siamak recognized the voice of the Chamberlain. “Her Majesty, Queen Bekah, and their children Princess Gjeelea and Prince Siamak.” Siamak felt his ears heating, and hoped that his face was not turning red as well. It was only made worse by his sister’s intimidating presence by his side. There were bows from the men and curtsies from the ladies as they passed, and that helped, at least a little, because it took their eyes off them for a few seconds.

His relief was immense when they finally reached the table of the king. His father sat at the head, as was customary, with his mother at his right. A space was saved for the Emissary at the king’s left, and he joined them shortly. Siamak took the seat beside his mother, honoring the wishes of his father that they sit together this night. Gjeelea sat across from him, beside the Emissary. Siamak was intrigued at his first sight of the Emissary up close. He was nothing but courteous, and there was an air of power and nobility about him. Siamak still felt wary of him, though as before he could see no reason for it. There was no reason to suspect him of malice and treachery. It confused Siamak immensely.

The few remaining places at the table were quickly filled by three Avari, who Siamak recognized readily: the General, Morgôs; his wife, Arlomë; and their son, Evrathol. He was good at remembering faces and names, and prided himself on it. He tried to recall whether he had heard that they would be dining with them, and wondered if he should not have let them have the seats closer to the king, since they were the guests. It was too late now, he supposed. Morgôs occupied the seat next to him, and Siamak greeted him saying, “Good evening to you, General Morgôs.” Siamak had never actually met the general except on formal occasions, but had found him to be pleasant: not so petty and conniving as many of the nobles were.

“And to you, Prince Siamak,” Morgôs responded politely. Siamak wasn’t exactly what to say next, but he was saved by the servants who had quickly brought out a multitude of platters holding all the finest meats and tasty sides. Siamak’s mouth watered at the scent. A glance around the banquet hall showed that the remainder of the people had seated themselves, and all were waiting for the signal that they could begin to eat.

[Bêthberry]

Bekah was pleased that the banquet did justice to the King's stature and to the skill and talent of the palace servants. The cedar and myrrh were burning in the tall standards. The food was arrayed splendidly and spoke of the variety of fleshes, both of meat and of plant, which Pashtia had to prepare. Bekah made a note to remember to commend them tomorrow, after a public acknowledgement here before the music and entertainments began.

She had watched the Emissary partake of his first eastern feast. After the polite address of bowing to her when Faroz introduced her, he had not paid her much attention, but focussed upon the King for aid in learning the various foods and manners of eating, which Faroz had been eager to give. Flat bread he had never seen, nor the variety of sweet and savory sauces in which to dip it. He was a skilled conversationalist, she saw, for he used the food as a topic of conversation, adroitly avoiding any discussion of his country or his Lord's purpose, addressing Morgòs about ancient avari breads and Faroz about the minced meat and spices wrapped in vine leaves. Fresh figs he had never seen.

"Your Majesty," he had said, "what might I expect from this delicacy? And how shall I eat it?"

The King had laughed and picked up a large fig from the platter. "You must first cut it just so," demonstrating with his knife how to make two crossed slashes. "Then, you must hold the thick skin apart and sink your teeth into the soft mushy flesh. Here." And before anyone could demonstrate how to do that, Faroz held the fig up the Emissary's mouth and bid him bite in. Bekah did not know if she should be shocked at the familiarity or applaud Faroz's skill in attempting to see if he could throw the Emissary off his calm demeanour. As a ruse, it had not worked, for the Emissary had merely taken a courteous bite, laughed, and wiped the sweet sticky juice from his chin with his fingers.

"And it is appropriate to lick them?" he had asked her, one of the rare times he had shown her any notice. Bekah had merely bowed her head in acknowledgement, her cordial set smile taking the place of words. He barely noticed her; not once did their eyes meet. Was he avoiding her? she wondered.

She sat back against the cushions which were nestled around the low table and spoke with her son. He was shy, but when spoken to he warmed to the conversation. He is a good boy, she thought to herself. He needs some kind of project which interests him where he can demonstrate his skills to his father. She looked around the room for their daughter, but in the rapid movement of servants and the bustle of voices she could not make out Gjeela. She caught the glances of the High Priestess and Priest, however, and realised that they soon should be introduced to the Emissary.

For the time being, however, she spoke a few words with Alomë, who had been so responsible in helping her overcome her fear of the avari. Public fear, that is to say. In her heart Bekah still found the elven longevity and superiority frightening and often wondering how they could stand the weakness and foibles of the lesser-lived men with whom they lived here in Pashia. When she looked back at her husband and the Emissary, she saw them engaged in a merry, light-hearted conversation into which they were attempting to draw Morgòs. Except for his rudeness in avoiding her directly, he was a charming man, Bekah realised. And her husband looked younger and happier, caught in the rapport of eager talk rather than formal manners. Yet she would never have survived in Pashtia without those manners.

[Novnarwen]

His own words roamed furiously around inside of his head. What in the almighty Rea's name had he been thinking? The moment he had seen Korak, he should have left the 'merry' company, containing Zamara, the elf and himself. He should have excused himself, and left, before that rude scoundrel had approached him and called him 'Priest'. It was his real title true enough, but the elf didn't know that. Or at least, he hadn't, before that twit had managed to ruin it all.

"Lord, Korak, what a pleasure. I'm sorry, but I think I'll have to see you by and by, as the King and the Queen have just been announced, and I am anxious to get to know this Emissary!"

How stupid was that; a pleasure to meet Korak? Such men as Korak were never a pleasure to meet. Korak had without a doubt humiliated him in front of the Elf! It was outrageous! It was absolutely devastating! The thought of him being the possible future King made the Priest want to curse loudly. As a Priest though, it was his duty not to forfeit the good opinion of others, and therefore Tarkan restrained himself for doing anything not suitable. Holding his head high, he decided not to lose his self control. He would deal with this Noble man later, if it was the last thing he did. Due to the latest events, the meeting with Korak, Tarkan didn't dare look at Zamara, who was currently sitting next to him; not after what had just happened. She was probably having the time of her life, enjoying it. She would probably take advantage of it as soon as possible, but he would be prepared. A woman would not break him. Instead of looking her way, he let his gaze wander cautiously. He recognized half the party that was gathered here, but few had he actually talked to.

The male priest sat uneasily on a soft cushion, cross-legged. He tried paying attention to conversations that were taking place in the room, as he kept still himself; he didn't really have anyone to talk to. At the time none here, except the King and the Emissary interested him. He caught a word now and then, sometimes sentences coming from the various tables surrounding him. Some whispered, meanwhile other talked loudly; some giggled to themselves, others shared their laughter with everyone. Everything was just a blur; it was downright annoying. The Priest would have gone crazy, if he hadn't realised that it was probably best to focus on someone, and not the whole room at once. He tried focusing on the conversation that was probably the most interesting yet. Glancing over at the King's table, which was just in front of him, he discovered that Faroz was busy teaching the stranger how to eat. By this, the Priest was fairly surprised. The stranger, he realised now, was not at all as he had imagined. He could not quite explain what it was, but there was something unusual about him. Unusual is probably not the best word for it, the priest thought to himself, studying every movement the stranger made; 'rare', is probably the best way to describe him. The feeling of interest and eagerness to get to know this man, this Emissary, rose violently from his chest. In his eagerness, he grew quite forgetful of the recent events, and suddenly he found himself asking the High Priestess how she thought the Stranger appeared.

"I shall see when I talk to him. For now, I will observe," she answered. By the look of her, she was just as eager to follow the man with her piercing eyes as he was. Agreeing with her, he gave a faint smile, as if thanking her for her honest answer.

[Kransha]

As King Faroz engaged in a rather silly display and conversation, designed to teach the Emissary how to eat figs, Morgôs was munching on similar fruit, which he delicately picked from a clipped vine that lay curled into a small bowl which sat before him at the decadent royal table. He shifted uncomfortably on his cushion, still trying to hoist his elaborate garb about him so that it did not get so much in the way of his movements. He was looking, involuntarily almost, upon the Emissary, out of the corner of his eye. He sensed strange things as he saw the man, and knew already that he was not alone in this feeling. His wife, Arlomë, was also unsettled by his gait and presence, and she had seemed jolted when the Emissary greeted her. Morgôs still bore a gnawing feeling in him, from the resonating shock that had come from her. Now, he did not wish to look on, or to speak with the Emissary. He had already been foolish enough. He had addressed the Priest Tarkan as a High Priest, which he was not, as revealed to him by Lord Korak, the suitor of the King's daughter, inadvertantly. The Prince, Siamak, seemed less noticing of the elder General's shortcomings, and for this, Morgôs was thankful. If there was anyone in the court of Pashtia who he thought he liked, it was young Siamak. Now, he did not dwell on his awkwardness in social matters, and ate instead, even though his appetite was small.

He heard the King and the Emissary speaking, more noisily than was appropriate, perhaps, and very jocundly at the table near him. He glanced at his wife again, subtly, trying to ignore the blather that filled his ears, streaming in from the other direction. He did not even hear a comprehensible word of the King’s conversation until his name came up, and he spun about as he heard it, to see King Faroz looking past the Emissary, at him, with a look that could be worn by any clever tempter.

“Morgôs, be not so silent. Come, talk with us.” He gestured merrily, directing Morgôs to lean closer ad join in their energetic, jovial session of talking. “As you wish, your majesty,” said Morgôs, somewhat begrudgingly, but with a typical bow of respect, “but I think I have nothing to contribute, save to listen in awe to what our mutual friend has to say.” The Emissary let his thin mouth, which was currently twisting around some variety of unknown fruit, cracked a little smile, that was meant to make Morgôs more at ease with the circumstances, and induce contentment in the General of Pashtia, but it only served to irk the military commander, though he masked his mild annoyance with a feigned smile of his own.

Faroz spoke then, and, as he did, he seemed nearly drunk off the knowledge he’d gained, and far more jovial than Morgôs had seen him in a long time. “I have told the Emissary of you, Morgôs. You need not be so hesitant in speech. The Emissary is very curious about you.” Dutifully, Morgôs scooted around the circular table, so that he was closer to the Emissary. The table was too wide for him to position himself opposite the Emissary, so he was forced to hunch over, dropping his overly clothed elbows onto the table, encircling the bowl that contained his light meal.

“So,” said the Emissary looking at him from below, for, even sitting, the Elf was a tall, prominent figure, “you are one of the Avari. I have heard of your kind, but not met one in your division, except, of course, for your lovely wife. The Elven-kind where I come from do not mingle so among simple mortals.”

Morgôs did not react to this, on the outside, but within, his heart skipped a beat, jumping for a moment. It had been a great long time since he had heard of Elves mentioned that were not Avari. At first, in his hasty decision-making, he could not conclude what elves the Emissary was speaking, or who he meant in this context. He had some vague memories of the elves in what was called, in Pashtia, the Before-Time. Histories in Pashtia, those contained in educational documents and libraries, did not entail the ‘myths’ that some of the elder Avari spoke of, and some claimed was accurate to a fault. The stories told by Elves about the Before-Time fell into the genre of religious mythos, and were not historical. Morgôs himself no longer knew if his own snippets of memory from the time before Pashtia’s rise were accurate, or simply had developed because of the myths that his people believed in. Those myths did speak of other Elves, and in those myths, those Elves were called Dark-Elves, because, it was said, they were taken away into the darkness by horsemen from the west.

This seemed ironic, at the moment, to Morgôs, since the Emissary and his men were horsemen from the west, but the Avarin myths spoke differently, and described all the circumstances far more mystically. Those legends spoke of demons and gods, but also held the roots of the adopted religion of Pashtia, that religion that was centered on Rea and Rhais. Priests and theologians studied records taken by both the first Pashtians and the Pashtian Avari first taken into mannish society. Either way, Morgôs’ curiosity was piqued, and a blink of light glinted in each of his starry eyes again, and he said to the Emissary: “Now you touch upon a thing that interests me, sir.”

“The Elves in my land, you mean?”

“Yes, that is it.” Morgôs said, nodding emphatically, “In Pashtia, we are not concerned with other Elves, and, I myself did not know that many remained on this world alive. I had…” he hesitated here, thinking on the myths that he had considered and the ideals they contained, in comparison to what this proud Emissary before him was saying, “…other perceptions of their fate when they left here and removed to the west, led by strange hopes and schemes stranger still. If they live in the west, I fear my curiosity about them will not be quelled. Tell me of them.” He looked eager to learn, just as King Faroz was, and the Emissary looked ready to please, but Morgôs had a mind that saw past the look of imparting wisdom on the Emissary’s face. He saw a speck of hesitation and of quick thinking in the Emissary’s eye, the kind of quick thinking that must be employed when one has to lie.

After very little time, the Emissary spoke. “I think that would take far too long, and is not a light topic for our meal.” He looked sorry, and was apologetic in the way he spoke, but a glimmer of suspicion very briefly aroused in Morgôs, but it was soon quelled by the sheer mildness and kindness of the foreigner’s attitude as he said, “You seem as if you know more than me of them, for, from what you say, you knew of them before I told you?” He blinked and leaned forward, not really curious, but certainly possessed of some interest, small as it might be. His mind was arranged in a manner that made it hard for Morgôs to probe it further, so he ceased trying.

“Yes, but that is also too long a tale.” Morgôs replied. He was disappointed at not gaining the information he desired, as a passionate need for it has risen and fallen in him. Now, it was but a fleeting thought, but a thought locked into place inside the Elven General, and would not leave him unless appeased. So, pressing the matter further, Morgôs said to the Emissary, “But, I beseech you; tell me of them another time. I am very interested.” The Emissary smiled again, and gestured dramatically, bowing. “I would not dare turn down the mighty General of Pashtia.” He did seem hesitant still, as if the matter of the Elves was not one he would ever relish speaking of, no matter the situation.

Faroz laughed, not loudly, but loudly enough, and then, as if he’d hit upon something, pursued the Emissary’s words. “Here is something we can discuss. Morgôs,” he exclaimed, with excitement in his royal voice, “tell the Emissary some tale about Pashtia’s wartime epics, I know you have enough stories in your mind to fill more volumes than the royal archives could bear.” The Emissary just tilted his head a little, instead of bowing his head or nodding. “Such things are more intriguing, General.” He said then to Morgôs, though the General looked hesitant, “Have you a victory song to sing, perhaps?”

“My voice is not a musical one, sir.” The Elf objected.

“Now that is strange.” Said the Emissary, frowning, “In my land, Elves sing often, and an Elf would be hard-pressed not to sing often, for it seems to many men that they were born with songs on their lips.” Faroz did not laugh, but pursed his lips and awaited a retort from the Avari, with a mere curl of his kingly brow in further curiosity. “Regardless of that,” Morgôs said, very firmly, “I am no singer, nor am I much of a talker.”

“You are talking now, are you not.” The Emissary shot back, as if he had joined a playful argument.

“When spoken to, it is polite to speak back, in Pashtia.”

“A most respectable custom indeed.”

“Respectable, yes, but it does tend to prolong conversations and wear out the voices of Pashtians. Perhaps that is why Avari do not sing; too much talking has denied them the talent.”

At this, Faroz laughed aloud, and the Emissary chuckled. After this repartee, Morgôs felt as if he was, in earnest, caught in the conversation, and might enjoy it just a bit. He was not a clever being, of wit or of tongue, and he guessed that the Emissary was the silver-tongued one at the table, and not he, but he felt good to be speaking to the man, in spite of the strange sensation he felt when he looked upon him. Faroz clapped his hand upon the table, nearly upsetting a filled-to-the-brim cup that sat near him. “That, General,” he said, “is a merrier tune you speak of now. Come, let us talk more.”

Letting his hesitation go to the stray wind, Morgôs did just that.

[Imladris]

Shortly after Arlomë had left, Arshalous had stood up abruptly and strode to the priests' table, where she selected a low seat that gave her a fair vantage point to watch the Emissary.

The king was trying to teach him how to eat a fig, and she smiled a little as she watched the pair. Even the king seemed happier in the man's presence. She traced the rim of her wine goblet as she stared into his blue grey eyes. What kind of country did he come from? What customs did they have? And...why, did such a country so far away care about little Pashtia? The question bothered her...she didn't know why. She took a quick swallow of her wine and savoured the sweet poignant flavour....how different it was from Korak's wine, she thought with bitter distaste.

A troup of musicians filed into the hall, and struck up a soft tune. Men beat a slow rhythm upon fish skinned drums, while girls played upon wooden flutes. Though the musicians did not dance, their bodies swayed to the rhythm of the music like bulrushed played by the wind upon a lazy river.

Arshalous flicked her eyes back to the Emissary as she took a small sip of wine. Did he like the music they played for the entertainment of the guests? She sincerely hoped so....it would not due to offend the Emissary, even if the offense was trivial.

The Emissary and the King had actually coaxed Morgôs, the Pashtian general, out of his usual taciturn mood. She leaned forward slightly and strained her ears so that she might hear snatches of their conversation, all the while silently cursing the merry chatter of voices around her.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

The King was enjoying himself immensely. It had been years since he had enjoyed any meal so much, not since the early days when he had been still but a young warrior, enjoying the sparse rations of a military campaign with the other young men that he had gone to war with. Those days, with their simplicity of existence, had long remained in his imagination and grown with the years to become as the thought of a distant land in which he had been happy, but would never return to again. But Ashnaz had somehow managed to recapture that time and that place for him. He felt lightheaded as though he had drunk too much wine, but he had hardly touched the cup before him, so engaged was he by the words and manner of his fair guest. He could see that he was not alone in his regard, for many about the table and within the hall looked at him with admiration. Some there were who regarded him with more caution, his General amongst them. Such a reaction did not surprise him, for it was understandable. Ashnaz had been in their company less than a day and already he had become friend and confidante to the King. Faroz knew that there were many in the hall, Lord Korak among them, who would be greatly envious of this intimacy. There were people who had spent years trying to win his favour…to see it now so liberally bestowed upon one but new to the realm would surely gall them.

The thought pleased the King greatly, and elevated his spirits.

Despite the height of his emotions, he remained attentive to the true nature of the banquet. It was his first chance to see how his people regarded the Emissary, and to gauge thereby their feelings toward the offer of alliance from the Lord Annatar. Faroz was anxious to know the opinions of his nobles, and of the religious leaders, but he did not relish the idea of asking them directly – nor did he have to. Faroz had not acquired his reputation as a strong and wise leader for nothing. Long ago he had learned the art of reading the mind in the face, and had been able thereby to determine people’s opinions without having to stoop to discuss it with them as equals. Even now, as he laughed and spoke lightly with Ashnaz, his careful eyes noted who approved of this intimacy and who did not. What he saw convinced him that he would need to be cautious in how he proceeded; there was regard for the man, but concern, distrust even, of his mission. Faroz shared the feeling. Of Ashnaz there could be no doubt; but of the Lord Annatar, there remained many things that needed answering. Thus far, the Emissary had put off the King’s inquiries, and he had been content to let that rest for the time being, for as well as being a careful observer, the King was patient. He noted Ashnaz’s reluctance to speak of the Elves in his land. Such a strange response, for he had spoken of them quite openly this afternoon. Faroz could see that the tension between his General and the Emissary was upon the point of breaking into the open, so he distracted the Elf with a request for light conversation.

“What would you have me speak of, my King? I am little versed in the niceties of the court, nor am I much involved with the intrigues of the realm. I am afraid that without knowledge of either I am sadly out of place here.”

“No more than I, Morgôs,” replied the King. “There is no-one in Kanak with less idea about the real goings on in the realm than I. Why, just as we were coming in I had to ask my son to tell me the gossip.” He looked to where Siamak sat, and he could see the boy blushing at the notice.

“Are you very much aware of the gossip, Prince?” the General asked. “I had not thought that such things were much on your mind. I see that I must increase your training at arms. If you have so much time for gossip, then surely you have more time to learn how to use a blade.”

The Prince flushed even more deeply but smiled, for there was a genuine friendship – of a kind – between himself and the Elf. “No, please, I assure you. I have more than enough training already. The only gossip I hear comes to my ears from…the servants.”

“That is still too much,” the Elf replied, not unkindly. “The lives of mortals are too brief to be wasted in idleness.”

“Now there speaks the tyrant of my youth,” Faroz exclaimed to the Emissary. “For nine generations has Morgôs trained the Princes of Pashtia, and in that time I swear he has grown more dour and strict rather than less. I remember well the hours I spent in the yard, practising over and over again my strokes with a wooden blade, before ever I was allowed to use the real thing.”

“There is no use in wielding a thing, my King, until you know how,” the General said.

“Perhaps that is why you do not sing, nor speak overmuch,” the Emissary said to the Elf with a slow smile. “You lack the ability of your tongue, and thus leave it sheathed.”

The Elf bowed stiffly from the waist. “It is as you say, Emissary.”

Ashnaz smiled thinly at the General, but turned his attention then to Siamak. “I see now why you are so afraid of gossip, my Prince. With such a teacher, I would avoid all things that did not meet his approval. But fear not, when you are King you shall be as free of gossip as is your father.” There was a slight shudder in the conversation of nearby tables as the Emissary’s words spread. Many, including the boy’s mother, looked to Siamak, who was now staring at his plate. Others sought out Gjeelea to see if she had noticed the Emissary’s first real misstep.

Faroz quickly moved to smooth out the situation, saying, “I am afraid, my friend, that the situation in Pashtia is not quite so clear as you have explained is the way in your land. Here, the son does not automatically follow the father. I must choose my heir from among my family. Siamak has an older sister.”

The Emissary appeared neither flustered nor embarrassed by what had happened. He bowed his head to the King in acknowledgement of the lesson and then toward the Prince. “My apologies, my Prince. I am new to your realm and not yet familiar with your ways. I meant nothing by my comment, and I hope that neither you nor your sister will hold it against me.”

Siamak returned the bow and made a fair response, but Faroz was barely listening, for Ashnaz’s words had given him an idea…

[Amanaduial the archer]

Catching Arlome's eye, Zamara smiled and nodded her head to the elf. She was unsure of the elves in general - their familiarity the immortals seemed to have with Rea and Rhais seemed to verge on blasphemy sometimes - but Arlome herself had been a devout worshipper for as long as Zamara could remember - longer, in fact. It made the High Priest feel slightly awed, that she held her position over one who had worshipped the goddess through thick and thin for many times Zamara's own lifetime, far beyond the time when she herself first even heard of the earth goddess and was captivated by her. But then, maybe that was the problem with the elves: there is only so much strength that rapture can hold over so many years. Arlome's husband, the General Morgos, was not, to Zamara's knowledge, a regular worshipper at either of the temples, or at the Black Oblisk and smaller shrines scattered over Pashtia - the gods had grown tired for him, Zamara guessed, as they became for many Pashtian Avari. Arlome worshipped regularly, and she knew the High Priestess quite well, having been around Rhais' Temple since Zamara was a child; but the Priestess thought now that maybe if it was to become her occupation, after more than the usual lifetimes of men, worship would lose it's flavour, perfection, wonder that made it so special for Zamara herself. It was a revelatin, the priestess thought: that everything could be tired of eventually, once the urgency of mortality was taken away.

But Arlome was certainly not jealous of Zamara's position: she was beyond such things. Unlike some. Zamara’s dark eyes flickered towards Tarkan, the movement disguised by the thick dark kohl around her eyes, and lingered momentarily on the Priest, who was pre-occupied with conversation to one of the nobles. But even so, his eyes were dark and some thought moved in them that was not, she mused, entirely caused by the other man’s conversation. She swirled the thin red wine thoughtfully (in the heat of the desert, unwatered wine was simply unpractical) and looked away from the Priest again.

"Thank you, High Priest, but you're too kind.”
“Tarkan will do for tonight, kind Sir."

The false modesty in the Priest’s voice tasted strange in Zamara’s wine as she took another sip at her glass. She did not dislike the Priest: they were as different as earth and sky, but there was a mutual respect between the two of them. But Tarkan’s reaction to Morgos’ words…He had not refuted the title: he would take it all too easily and if she had not been there, Zamara was sure he would have kept up the title as his own. The thought, more of a fact, did not upset her: but in the light of the possible building of a new temple to Rea, and the selection between Siamak and Gjeelea as heir, it nagged a little at her mind. There was more power in the balance here than she had suspected.

Arlome was still watching her, she noticed, and as Zamara returned her gaze, the elf tipped her head to the side, discreetly beckoning the High Priestess over. Zamara was slightly puzzled, but Arlome’s eyes slid over towards the Emissary where he was talking with her husband and the king. Zamara nodded and, excusing herself, she picked up her staff and unfolded herself from her kneeling, reclining position, and made her way over to the Royal Table. It was time, after all, for her to pay her respects to the Western Emissary – and to allow him to pay his respects to Rhais.

“…apologies, my Prince. I am new to your realm and not yet familiar with your ways. I meant nothing by my comment, and I hope that neither you nor your sister will hold it against me.”

The Emissary’s smooth voice sent a shiver down Zamara’s spine, although she couldn’t have said why: the comment, the tone, the light ripple of quiet, smiling laughter around the table – it was all light and innocent, no need for worry out of context. She had no time to consider it though, for, smiling, the King looked up and saw Zamara standing nearby the table, modestly waiting. She bowed deeply to him and, rising, the king replied in like, allowing the High Priestess to advance towards the monarch. Reaching towards Faroz, she touched his the top of his head lightly, saying a prayer under her breath, her eyes closed. Opening her eyes once more, she nodded her head respectfully. “Rhais bless your house, King Faroz.”

“It seems she has tonight, High Priestess,” Faroz smiled, gesturing at the merry guests. Arlome and her husband made a little space and Zamara knelt beside them, giving the elf woman a grateful smile. The nobles around the table nodded courteously to the Priestess and she murmured her thanks and greetings, before catching especially the gaze of the Emissary. He had not bowed or even inclined his head to her, a fact that was glaringly obvious; and although his grey eyes were innocent, Zamara was fairly sure it was not lack of knowledge of Pashtian customs that was stopping him from showing respect to Zamara and her goddess. But in his eyes there was a sort of respect – an admiration for the mysterious Priestess of a foreign land. She was nothing like others he had seen, and his lord had not told him of any like this: young and undoubtedly striking, the light flickering across her dark skin and in her eyes, the white strikes on her cheekbones and between her eyes and dark eye makeup making her seem strangely ethereal. And outdated, he added with a cruel inward smile. She was harmless in herself, he thought, but she commanded a lot of power over these people, especially the women, and even the elves. Religion, then, was a very certain way in…

“Good evening, priestess,” the Emissary said silkily. Zamara did not flicker at the exclusion of her full title – she barely noticed it. A server topped up a flute of wine as she laid down her staff beside her. “Good evening indeed, sir: welcome to Pashtia. I hear you were learning something about our customs?”

“And your monarchy too, Priestess.” The Emissary gave a slightly rueful smile that did not fit well on his sharp, smooth features. Zamara inclined her head with a small smile but beyond that did not slip into informality, and did not offer her own name: she had decided that to keep a more formal stance with the Emissary. He continued. “You are the priestess of the gods of Pashtia?”

As his eyes flickered up to hers, Zamara felt what seemed like a shot of lightning along her body, and her hand jerked by her side. Arlome turned quickly, her expression concerned, but Zamara did not look back at her, simply shaking her head with a considerate smile although under the table she squeezed the elf’s hand gently, and a bond of understand passed between them. At the edge of the conversation, Siamak stood inconspicuously with a few murmured words and started towards the door of the hall. Ignoring the goosepimples that suddenly adorned her bare shoulders, Zamara replied to the Emissary. “I am the High Priestess of Pashtia – I serve Rhais, the goddess of the earth. The Priest Tarkan –” she gestured towards Tarkan. “–is the Priest to Rea, the god of the sky.”

“Just 'Priest'?”

A flutter of stillness fluttered across the table and Zamara felt her fingers stiffen against Arlome’s. “What do you mean, sir?”

The Western Emissary paused, his oddly still eyes fixed on Zamara’s, then he shook his head, shrugging lightly as he took another sip of wine. “Oh…nothing, High Priestess. I merely wondered as to the difference between Rea and Rhais.” Noting Zamara’s unsure hesitation, the Emissary shook his head and rolled his eyes good-humouredly. “’Looks as if I’ve slipped again – I apologise if I have offended you, Priestess: I still have much to learn about Pashtia.”

Zamara smiled, her warmth returning to her smile. “Where the Goddess is concerned, sir, I would be glad to help you to learn. If you will all excuse me, please – I would just like to step out into the outside air for a few moments.” Picking up her staff, she followed Siamak out of the doors. She had wanted quite urgently to talk to the young prince, and this was a better time than ever to ask about Siamak’s opinion about the Emissary. First a slip up over the monarchy, now over the gods…how naïve is this Westerner, really?

[Firefoot]

After the Emissary’s slip, Siamak had largely remained quiet, his thoughts whirling. For a moment, he had allowed himself to engage in the light-hearted banter about the low table. He had forgotten his mistrust of the Emissary, becoming comfortable. This foreigner was entirely to easy to become comfortable with, his silky-smooth voice enchanting those who listened for too long and chilling those with suspicions. His error had thrown the situation back into sharp relief, however, and Siamak’s wariness had returned tenfold. He now readily understood how his father had become so taken with the Emissary. A chill ran up his back as Siamak realized how close he had come to being in the same boat as his father. This Westerner needed to be watched closely.

Siamak looked up as the High Priestess Zamara approached their table. If Siamak had been wary before, then he was certainly uncomfortable now. He held all priests and priestesses in high respect, almost fear, especially the High Priestess. They were entirely too close to Rea and Rhais, and Siamak was of the firm belief that it was best to know only as much as necessary about all religious aspects. He certainly worshiped regularly and prayed for their blessings - it would be no good to have them angry at him, after all. In some ways, priests and priestesses were as bad as nobles - worse, maybe: at least Siamak understood nobles. Siamak shifted uneasily, paying little attention to the introductions and the exchange between the High Priestess and the Emissary. When it became apparent that she intended to stick around, Siamak felt he could not handle this situation. No one was paying any attention to him, so he rose from his cushion, saying that he needed some fresh air and would return in a moment. It came out as a mumble, but he didn’t think that anyone had noticed.

He headed for the nearest exit, attracting little notice from the guests. He had walked into one of the public gardens, and he stopped just outside the door, leaning against a wall and laying the side of his head on the cool marble. It was the relief that he had needed, and he was soon ready to return to the hall. Before he could move, however, he became aware of someone else’s presence nearby. He heard rather than saw the person, and he guessed it to be a woman by the light step. She had some kind of staff, as well, judging by the irregular pattern of footfalls. He remained where he was, hoping not to be noticed.

“Prince Siamak?” There was nothing he could do but turn around after being addressed directly, and he did, coming face to face with precisely the person he had been trying to escape: the High Princess Zamara. Apparently his exit had not been so inconspicuous as he had thought. He did not let his sinking feeling show, and instead put a pleasant look on his face. Having the High Priestess upset with him would be nearly as bad as having Rea and Rhais annoyed with him.

“Good evening, High Priestess,” said Siamak, inclining his head respectfully. “May I help you?”

“Yes, actually,” she replied. Siamak waited expectantly, wondering what might be coming. “I have been wanting to speak with you. I would like to ask you about your opinion of the Emissary.” Siamak immediately went on the defensive. He had expected the question tonight, though not from the High Priestess herself. He did not answer right away, trying to decide what to answer. He knew many nobles who would have tried to wheedle the answer out of him, dodging the precise question and beating around the bush. Siamak admired her direct manner, and it was because of this that he was seriously considering answering her honestly. He put the question aside for a moment, raising his gaze to meet her eyes.

“Why would you like to know?” he asked her. It was asked as a simple question, holding no subtle innuendoes.

“Well, you are the Prince, and I would value your opinion,” she answered. He quirked his eyebrows. It was the answer that some noble would give, and while the High Priestess certainly wasn’t inept at politics, he suspected there was more to it than that. Surprising himself at his own boldness, and to the High Priestess no less, he pressed her, “Why?” Perhaps it was because she asked of a matter that touched him deep that this new streak had opened up in him, combined with the absence of judgmental eyes. There was something about this woman that had she not been the High Priestess herself, he would have felt comfortable in her presence.

It was her turn to look him over, now, before she replied, “I seek to understand this Emissary and who he is, that I might better serve Rhais and perform my duty as High Priestess.” Siamak allowed himself a small smile. That was more like an answer he would expect from a priestess, and he was satisfied that it was the whole truth.

“Very well, then,” he said. “I will tell you, though I ask that you do not spread my words around. I prefer not to speak my opinions on most matters to nobles before I am certain.” She readily agreed and Siamak continued. “Quite honestly, I do not trust this Emissary, and even less the Lord Annatar who sent him. I have no proof on which to base my opinion; it is only a feeling. He has been nothing but courteous and generous since arriving, and my father is certainly taken with him - I found out recently that the two have spent the entire afternoon in each other’s company. I am hoping to find out more about the Emissary tonight, but so far he has done nothing to confirm my opinions, though I have become increasingly suspicious. There is something... sinister about the man.” Siamak smiled at her. “Have I sufficiently answered your question?”

“Yes,” she replied, looking thoughtful.

“Good,” he replied warmly. “As long as we are out here, I would ask your own opinion of the Emissary. Since I requested your reason, I will give you mine. I want to know if my mistrust is unfounded, and whether I should be more open-minded of him, for though my opinion is strong I do not like to make unfounded decisions.”

[Nurumaiel]

Korak's face darkened as Tarkan departed. What impudence, what rudeness, to excuse himself in such an impolite way! And for the sake of meeting a foreigner. That was why he disliked Tarkan. So proud, and noble-looking, yet so cunning and rude. And yet, that was why he liked Tarkan. He could not keep back a chuckle, for he felt he had upset the Priest in some way, and it pleased him. Such people were always amusing.

The Royal Family had entered, and many were anxious to meet the Emissary. Lord Korak approached the 'Royal table' and bowed sweepingly to the King, with some humble words. And then he approached the Princess, fully aware of what a handsome sight he was that evening, and from the folds of his cloak he brought forth the gift, still wrapped, and presented it before her. "My Princess, I beg you allow me to give you some small token of my respect and affection for you," said he, and placing it into her hand, he gave another bow and departed, for he did not want to be introduced to the Emissary.

He went to his mother, and noticed with disgust and contempt that he was placed so he would sit directly opposite his Lady cousin. His mother was pleased at this arrangement, and a blush that was almost youthful was upon her cheeks, for the Lady cousin looked much like the dear sister of old. Morashk glowered when he heard of how they were to sit, and he skulked away, saying he was desirous of seeking company elsewhere. Lord Korak sat wrathfully, thinking that banquets were foolish things indeed.

"Son," said his mother, leaning towards him and speaking softly, "I beg you be at your best behaviour." He scowled defiantly, and with some tone of annoyance in her voice she added, "Perhaps the King shall see your dark face and think he should not like his daughter forever gazing upon such a face."

Lord Korak smoothed his brow, and tried to appear pleasant.

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

“It is a lovely gift, and it suits you, my lady!” Akim admired Gjeelea’s necklace. The princess nodded her thanks as the other younger ladies of court agreed with Akim. The silly grins on the faces of the young nobles stretched to show their teeth in misleading flattery. Gjeelea knew the motion well, for she had given false smiles often, to her parents as well as the petty nobles that so often spoke to her and her family. Akim tilted her head slightly to the right; her eyes focused on something behind Gjeelea’s head. Turning, the princess saw that Akim’s gaze had landed directly upon where Lord Korak sat, opposite of the Lady Arshalous. “You are very lucky, if I may be so bold, princess.”

They think I am so lucky…Gjeelea hid her smirk as thoughts ran through her head and contempt flashed for just a single moment through her eyes. They know nothing of Lord Korak but his lovely face and his soothing speech. They see no further than his dark skin and luring eyes. Silly girls.

“I am indeed very lucky; it is as you say,” Gjeelea lied bluntly to her companions (she would no sooner call them friends than she would call Korak loving) as they smiled and nodded their agreement.

Suddenly, a light wave of hushed murmurings made its way across the room. Person by person the message began to lose its meaning and truth. Every second that Gjeelea waited for the gossip to reach her circle made her more certain of the lack of credibility.

“He said that Siamak should be made King!” Majran’s voice came in heated whispers to the small circle of dignified ladies. All the eyes widened except for Gjeelea’s, who had been expecting some kind of news, and questions quickly arose from the gaggle of petty ladies.

“Who said that?”

“What?”

“The Emissary! He said that Siamak would be the next King!” Majran answered the questions with a squeal. Some of the ladies looked immediately to the princess while others cast wild looks about the room, trying to see where the Emissary was. Gjeelea did not speak until the impressionable young noblewomen had calmed into silence.

“This Emissary has many lessons to learn,” Gjeelea paused for effect, and soon all ladies in her circle turned their eyes attentively to her. Where is Siamak when I need him? She had meant to look to her brother also, to add meaning to her words, but he was nowhere to be found. “Our good Emissary shall soon learn the lesson that the son of the King is not always fit to be the next ruler. Now, if you will excuse me, I would like to find my brother.”

It was another lie, but it quelled the questions in the faces of her companions as Gjeelea left the group and went to find another. Although the princess did not seek out her brother, she did wonder where he had gone off. Her brother always seemed to disappear – the siblings never saw or spoke to one another unless absolutely necessary – and sometimes it made Gjeelea wonder what the young prince was up to.

Instead of searching for Siamak like she had told the girls, Gjeelea joined the table of her mother. There she saw her father and others speaking with the Emissary. His dark hair fell in waves – something Gjeelea was not used to seeing – and his face awkwardly clean of hair. The princess watched the Emissary and waited until there came a pause in the conversation.

“Good Emissary,” Gjeelea began, her alto voice silky and falsely hesitant. She forced out a smile. “I do not mean to interrupt. I have seen you, sir, but I do not believe we have formally met.”

[Imladris]

Arshalous stifled the scowl that struggled to her face when her cousin plopped, frowning like a toddler, into the seat opposite her. He, clearly, was not happy about the seating arrangements either. She saw her aunt lean over and whisper something into Korak's ear -- she yet again cursed the noise that hid the voice from her ears -- though she could have sworn that she heard the word "daughter." With a last sigh Korak's frown disappeared and he plastered a false smile on his face.

Arshalous leaned across the table, smirking. "Lies ill become you, Cousin Korak."

The aunt sighed and hid her eyes in her hand.

"Of course," Arshalous said, tilting her head upwards, brow raised, and finger poised on her chin, "I couldn't possibly tell you how the truth becomes you for the truth is not part of your wardrobe." She leaned back in her chair, gazing with some satisfaction through half closed eyes.

Korak glared at her but struggled to keep his calm demeanor.

Arshalous, about to taunt him further, stopped as she heard a flurry of whisperings around her.

He said that Siamak should become king! The Emissary said that the Prince should become King!.

A smile fluttered across her lips as she gazed once more at the Emissary. His wavy dark hair hid his face as he politely bowed to the Princess. A smirk poisoned the smile -- the Princess surely would not be happy with the Emissary's sentiments.

She wondered why the Emissary thought that the Prince should be king. Was it because he was keen in perception and knew him to be the better child? Or was it a tradition in the West that declared that the throne passed to the son? Of course it must be the latter, yet she hoped that a bit of the former played into his statement.

Turning back to her cousin, who was a bit pale, she said, "At least this Emissary has some sort of sense."

[Amanaduial the archer]

Zamara mused on Siamak's dark opinion and nodded, satisfied. So it is not just me who feels there is something wrong around this man...

"As long as we are out here, I would ask your own opinion of the Emissary. Since I requested your reason, I will give you mine. I want to know if my mistrust is unfounded, and whether I should be more open-minded of him, for though my opinion is strong I do not like to make unfounded decisions."

Zamara laughed quietly, but not mockingly, and her eyes glittered in the moonlight. "You ask the advice of the High Priestess? Unusual for yourself, Prince Siamak," she replied softly. Siamak blushed slightly and looked away, but only for a moment, and when he looked back his eyes were serious once more. He is taking it seriously - he is taking the Emissary quite seriously, and myself. I wonder would Gjeelea do the same?

Zamara sighed softly and pirouetted her staff around on the stone floor of the courtyard corridor as she looked out above the garden to the sky above it, her expression thoughtful, but still made distant, almost alien, by the strange makeup. Siamak was a regular worship, but she guessed that he went more out of duty than devotion: he didn't seem to feel ties to either deity, and went more to the shrines or the Oblisk than to the great temples. Unlike Gjeelea: Tarkan had already made the point to Zamara several times that the Princess was a worshipper of Rea over Rhais, and worshipped at the sky god's temple rather than Zamara's own. She realised she was subconciously stacking up the two royal children against one another and cleared the decks. She had not meant to test Siamak. Well, only a little... "I am sorry if I made you uncomfortable," she apologised, her voice sincere but warm as she flicked her eyes over towards him. "As for the Emissary…” she looked back out at the stars uncomfortably. “I am not sure I am comfortable with him either, Prince Siamak, in the same way as you. I find him hard to understand – but then, the nobles…I live in a different world much of the time; I am sheltered from political life, although that does not mean I do not know enough about the realities of it.” She saw Siamak raise his eyebrows, evidently surprised. She smiled secretively. That is right, young prince, I am not utterly cut off from the real world because I worship the Goddess… She continued. “But there is indeed a, how did you put it, a ‘sinister’ air about him. He has slipped up, yes, and this is easily forgivable, for who knows what it is like in the West – but I cannot help but feel that maybe his mistakes are not as accidental as he would have us believe. And your father…”

A sudden breeze stirred up the leaves around Zamara’s feet and she stepped back suddenly like a shying horse, surprised by the sudden movement. She would not have thought much about it, had it not been for the topic of conversation – and after all, they were at the edge of an enclosed courtyard. A chill crept up her neck and her bare arms goose-pimpled once more as she fought the sudden urge to look around. Siamak noticed and, gentlemanly, he stepped forward, reaching a hand out to her shoulder. “Priestess, it is chilly outside: maybe we should return to the company if you are cold.”

Zamara felt strangely pleased by the way the boy reached considerately towards her, but as she turned towards him he recoiled slightly, as if afraid of touching her. Zamara smiled sadly: he was still half afraid, unsure of the Priestess’ unworldly side that lay with the gods. She jutted her chin up determinedly and her eyes glittered brightly, caught between moonlight and lamplight, and the blue in them was brought out behind the silver and orange fire. “My interest must lie with the gods, Prince Siamak, but you must remember the gods are tied in with everything in Pashtia, as well your mother knows and respects. And when the Emissary entered the city, despite the splendour and obvious magnificence and importance of the statues of Rhais and Rea…they paid them no heed whatsoever.” Her voice was soft, almost a whisper, as she spoke furtively with her face close to Siamak’s. “I am not sure it bodes well.”

With a quick nod in his direction, Zamara clutched her staff tightly and left briskly, back towards the great hall where the guests feasted, leaving Siamak to follow or to muse on his – and her – thoughts.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

The Emissary bowed slightly from the waist and returned the Princess’s greetings. “I am honoured to speak with you, lady, and happy for the opportunity to apologise in person for my misstep. As I explained to your brother, I am not yet familiar with the ways of your land.”

Gjeelea inclined her head somewhat but remained icy. “Familiar or not, I do not think it wise for an ambassador to try and make policy in a strange land.”

The Emissary’s brow knitted but he did not respond at first. When he did, it was clear that he was unsure of what was happening, but that he was determined to try and carry it off as well as he could. “I assure you lady that I did not mean to make policy. I misspoke from ignorance only. I did not mean to express any preference on my part or on the part of my Lord Annatar. Far be it for me to do so, who am but new to the place!” He could see that his words were a little better received by the Princess, but that she remained coldly, politely hostile. He was not aware of the corrupted version of his words that were making their way through the hall.

As the Emissary and his daughter spoke together, Faroz took the opportunity to have a few quiet words with his wife. “Well my lady,” he said quickly, casting his voice into a lower register to avoid being overheard by those nearby, “what think you of the Emissary now?”

Bekah’s eyes strayed quickly to the man and she paused for a moment in thought before answering. When she did, Faroz could tell that she was keeping at least some portion of her opinion to herself. He was disappointed by this, for in the past his wife had always been open with him; their relations, always so formal, had at least been honest and frank. He had never understood until now how much that had meant to him. “I still think it too early to judge him fully, my lord. His manners and bearing are fair and pleasing, and he seems only to wish our friendship and goodwill.”

“And yet…” he prompted her, hoping for the full truth.

Again she looked at the Emissary, worried perhaps that he might overhear. Faroz was not concerned about that, and had in fact chosen to speak with Bekah now rather than later as he sensed already a growing silence and secrecy in the court as pertained to Ashnaz. There were too many whisperings and hidden glances already for the King’s liking. There was a time and a place for such conduct, but for the moment he wished to pierce the veils that his people were attempting to hide behind. He saw now how unwise it had been to become so openly intimate with the Emissary this day, for it had driven his people away from him. It had done nothing but foster jealousy and mistrust, and was preventing honest and open discussion of the man and of his mission. It was in part for this reason that he had turned to his wife now, as he had thought that he could depend upon her for a clear statement. He was frustrated that he had not received it immediately. “And yet,” Bekah said slowly, echoing Faroz’s words, “He seems almost too interested in garnering our good opinion, my lord. He speaks often, but does not say much about his Lord Annatar, or why he should seek to ally himself with us. I would know this before I speak further of his mission.”

Faroz nodded and, looking into his wife’s eyes as though to search them out, said, “You are offended by his words to Siamak. You do not like that he has made your son uncomfortable and driven him from the hall.” Faroz struggled to keep the disapproval that he felt at this retreat from his voice. “He is your favourite, and, I think, would be your choice for my heir, but you do not relish the idea of the Emissary’s having put our son forward in such a manner.” As he spoke, Faroz’s finger once more found its way into the folds of his clothing where he stroked the gold ring given him by Ashnaz. As he did so, his voice took on a new tenor, and he saw Bekah shiver slightly, as though a chill wind had crept into the hall and now curled its way about her.

Bekah returned his gaze. For a long moment there was a silence about them alone as the rest of the hall seemed to drop away. “Majesty,” she began formally, “I do not presume to choose the next heir to your throne,” and she inclined her head somewhat, but her eyes remained locked on his.

Faroz leaned forward, as though to kiss her once more, but instead he spoke so quietly and closely that she felt the flutter of his breath upon her brow. “The time may come, my Queen, when you will have more say in such matters than you suppose.” She looked at him in surprise, but Faroz had already turned his attention back to the hall. The sounds of the banquet came over them both once more, and they were aware of the people about them. “Where is my son?” the King asked the Chamberlain Jarult.

“He is in the courtyard, Majesty. Shall I fetch him?”

“Yes,” Faroz said. The Chamberlain disappeared but soon returned with the Prince. Faroz had seen his son departing, quickly to be followed by the High Priestess. The girl had returned alone, but Faroz had known that she had gone after Siamak to speak with him. It was an interesting thing to observe – an intimate relationship with the High Priestess could be extremely beneficial to his son.

Soon, Siamak was back at the table. He bowed to the King and resumed his seat upon the cushions but did not say anything. Faroz raised his voice to capture the attention of those about him. He did not seek to claim the attention of the entire hall, but he could tell that most of the people there were watching as he spoke. “Now that the Prince has returned and the Princess is with us, I would like to ask you all to here witness the burden of choice that I shall place upon them. You all know why my friend the Emissary has come to us. His master, the Lord Annatar, wishes to ally himself with us. I have spoken with the Emissary this day and I find him to be an honourable man, and for his part I would offer up our friendship unreservedly. But the alliance is not with him, but with his king, and it is not an alliance that I alone make, but one that I must choose for all Pashtians. It seems to me, however, that this is a choice that will be made on the behalf of those not yet born, for as the Emissary has told me, there are no wars in his land, and we ourselves are – for the time being – at a state of tranquility. Since this will be a decision that will affect the future of our realm, let it be made by the harbingers of that future. My children, to you do I give the choice of accepting or rejecting the alliance of the Lord Annatar. Take whatever counsel you wish, but be patient in doing so. When you have reached your decision you shall announce it at the court, and so shall our country be governed.”

[Firefoot]

Siamak reeled. He had not seen this announcement coming, for though he had been listening, he had still been considering the High Priestess’s words to him in the garden. He knew his own expression must be a reflection of those around him, sharing their shocked expressions. There was, of course, one major difference in the way it affected him and them; that being that he was the Prince, and this monumental decision was now up to himself and his sister. He supposed he would probably be having some lengthy discussions with his sister in the very near future, a task he did not look forward to. Already he could feel the weighty burden of this choice upon himself; it was one thing to distrust this offer of alliance, but quite another to actually be the one to accept or turn it down.

He turned to his sister, curious at how she was taking the news. Though surprised, she also looked immensely satisfied. He would not be surprised if she had already made up her mind, since she was so inclined to quick thinking and hasty decision making, while he would spend a few hours making up his mind on anything of even medium importance, considering all options. Undoubtedly, she thought he could simply be cowed into following her choice - he seldom stood up to her. Not in this, though, he vowed to himself. He would not let any decision be made unless he felt it was for the best.

He noticed how quiet it was in the large hall, and realized that the nobles were probably expecting some kind of acceptance from either himself or Gjeelea. She understood this at about the same time, and spoke up before he did, which was something of a relief to him. He was not sure he could put together any comprehensible sentences at the moment.

“We will not take this burden lightly,” Gjeelea announced in her sickly-sweet voice. “And I am sure I speak for my brother in this as well. We will consider all possibilities before reaching a decision that I’m sure will benefit Pashtia in years to come.” Siamak simply nodded, having nothing to add. He wondered if she meant what she said; though she always sounded sincere and her speech was certainly proper, he had learned not to listen to closely to her. All around the room burst into amazed chatter, discussing the king’s announcement.

Siamak turned to his own table. His father was smiling at him and Gjeelea, pleased and confident in his choice to let the two of them decide. The Emissary was alternating watching the king and the siblings, a look of intrigue upon his face. Other than general surprise, Siamak had difficulty surmising the precise opinion of each of the others. To his father, he said, “I am honored that you would entrust this decision to myself and Gjeelea, though I must admit I am rather overwhelmed. You certainly threw the entire royal court through a loop, as well,” Siamak added with a grin.

“That he did,” murmured the Emissary. It seemed as if he wanted to add more, but refrained. Siamak wondered if he had missed something while talking to the High Priestess; it did not seem like the Emissary to still his tongue if he had something to say. The Emissary was now looking slightly discomfitted. Siamak could almost hear him wondering whether such a decision on the part of the king was normal in Pashtia or wise, and Siamak found it highly likely that many of the nobles were wondering about the latter themselves.

Siamak soon recognized another responsibility that this burden would entail: in addition to discussions with the princess, there would also have to be conversations with the Emissary himself. Siamak both eagerly awaited and dreaded these visits. He would be prepared, now, for the enchanting quality of the Emissary, and he would be properly wary, so that was not a concern. He was also very curious about the Western lands, and wanted to hear what the Emissary might tell about them. In fact, he should have looked forward to these meetings very much had it not been for the warning of his intuition - always there was that.

Tentatively, he asked the Emissary, “Would tomorrow afternoon be a good time to meet? I should like to know more about your proposal of alliance before making any decisions.” He figured that the afternoon would be an ideal time, because he would have time to talk to some others first, namely his sister.

“Tomorrow afternoon would be fine,” was the Emissary’s courteous reply. Siamak realized he had left his sister out of these plans, though he wasn’t sure it mattered as she would do as she liked anyhow, and he hastily added, “Gjeelea, I trust this will be a convenient time for you as well?” She nodded impatiently. “Yes, yes, fine.” Siamak dropped out of the conversation for the most part, content to listen. His thoughts were too busy jouncing around, now that he had finally wholly grasped the enormity of the choice before them. There is something... sinister about the man. They paid the gods no heed - I am not sure it bodes well. His lord wishes only for friendship with us. When you are king...

[Bêthberry]

The strange, wafting chill which had accompanied Faroz's private discussion with her had disconcerted Bekah. For some reason she had momentarily recalled those few minutes in the garden. The chill had been dissipated only by the fluttering of Faroz's warm breath as he whispered to her before he rose to address the assembled guests. She was relieved he had understood, though, that mistrust and jealousy were spreading because of this Emissary. She was but little surprised at his announcement, however irregular it was, for she had long thought both their children needed a specific focus for their actions. Faroz had misunderstood her over that; it was not the Emissary she was annoyed with, but Siamak himself for failing to take up the conversation with the General and, once again, running out. Perhaps later she would clarify that with him. Meanwhile, while Faroz spoke, Bekah had watched the Emissary closely for his reactions.

The man's look had been keen, polite, courteously interested. He was clearly a sophisticated, even suave courtier who understood much of courtly interactions. His lord Annatar had obviously chosen one skilled in negotiation. Yet she felt this man was also accustomed to winning his own way. It had been the slightest of suggestions until Bekah had seen the jawline harden and the eyes glint at the news he must deal with others besides the King. As Faroz had announced the precedures his children should follow before making their decision known at court, the Emissary had looked away from the King, his eyebrows signaling his dissatisfaction, until his eyes found Bekah's upon his. Scorn and derision flashed over his face for the merest second and he whispered, "This is your doing." His anger startled her but it gave her her first substantive reason to mistrust this man's mission.

"My lord makes his own decisions, Emissary, yet he takes counsel from all who understand the needs of the country." A turn of his thin lips suggested the Emissary was not impressed with such policy.

"You seem not to expect women to play a role in policy, Emissary? Does your Lord Annatar allow only men at his court?"

The Emissary had not replied to this question. As quickly as his anger had appeared, he had replaced it with a bland mask of indifference towards her.

"You misunderstand me, lady. I merely seek to understand Pashtian customs. I was not aware of the role the Queen plays in ruling the country."

"My role, Emissary, is to support the King and provide the best counsel I can to ensure the country continues prosperous and peaceful."

"Which she does droitly," interrupted Faroz, when he had returned to the table, with some interest, after observing his Queen and the Emissary in the tense, private conversation.

The Emissary gave a low and formal nod with his shoulders to the words of the King and withdrew all attention from the Queen. Faroz sought his place beside Bekah, sitting so closely beside her that her hand nearly touched the folds of his clothes which held the ring. He would know what this had been about.

"You disapprove?"

"No, Majesty, on the contrary, I believe it valuable to give the Prince and Princess such a close look at the intricacies of making decisions for the nation."

Bekah turned to the Emissary. "You see, Emissary, my Lord now seeks to know my opinion of his decision."

Faroz looked questioningly at the two of them, but the Emissary was saved from a direct reply by the arrival of Siamak and Gjeelea at the table. Bekah watched closely at the faces of her children. They had handled the surprise withe composure and for the first time she felt she could see some sense of maturity and responsibility in their faces. She listened as Siamak addressed the Emissary and made plans for meetings and she tried to read the Emissary's face at his requirement now to deal with at least two others. Then she turned to Faroz.

"My Lord, the Emissary had believed I had something to do with your decision and he spoke of his surprise that the Queen would be involved in matters of state. I assured him I had not, as your words just now have proven. His land must be very different from ours. Can we not hear from him some features of his country, which he shared so eagerly with you this day?"

[Kransha]

The words of the King presented a great surprise to all in the room, though some pretended not to be flustered, and feigned full understanding. Morgôs did not need to pretend for, even though he was taken aback by Faroz’ statement, his nature did not reflect his surprise. He looked, to the wandering eye of others, to be as calm and collected as any man would be on an average day, with naught to do but be calm. Inwardly, he was reeling, his mind racing. This proclamation by the king was more than controversial, it was dangerous. Faroz, even in his ‘naïveté’ as he and the Emissary had discussed, was not inept or witless. He knew that his daughter was no firm rock in a tempest sea, nor was she any bastion of safety. Her decision might well be too wistful, too passing and fleeting, not befitting of such a crucial decision. Decisiveness was something Morgôs valued, but he always had the time to consider options, a perk of immortality. Being overly decisive was a sure path to dissolution. It was not a healthy idea to place the crown so early on his children’s head before an heir had been chosen.

Faroz’s parents had been rash as well, and Morgôs remembered his severe rejection of their choice to marry young Faroz to the heiress of Alanzia. A silly political scheme it had been, one meant to sway the fickle hearts of commoners. This was the same, a ploy, nearly condescending to many, but Morgôs saw through it. Truly, Faroz was an honest man, if not a cruelly efficient one, and this plan would work to his advantage. A transfer of regency to his children would do more than just decide the matter of the Emissary, but it would allow Faroz to glimpse his two offspring making an important decision, and how they went about it, which would help him make his own decision about who his heir would be. Also, as dank as the thought he entertained was, this might also be an easy method to shift some responsibility from the shoulders of Faroz, leaving him in power, but effectively removing the blame for any wrongness of his youthful children. But, Morgôs knew the King better than this. That was not his keenest motivation.

Either way, the situation gravely troubled General Morgôs. He trusted Prince Siamak, from what he’d heard, but did not fully allot that trust to Gjeelea, who might hold greater sway over the decision at hand because of her commanding air and strength in the court. She had the nature of a youthful woman, full of folly, as Morgôs had been told. The Elf wished that he knew more, that he had met one of the two royal progeny on one occasion, but he had not, and he regretted his avoidance of social functions. He knew too little of those who would someday rule, and did not have the time to learn, as he had with the Kings of yore, Faroz’s forefathers.

Faroz had spoke of earlier of Morgôs career, truthfully, as if the General were an antique of great value to him. Since Faroz was a boy, Morgôs had trained him in the ways of war, so that he might learn the ways of strategy, tactics, and of the military essentials that one might need to govern. Nine generations of Pashtian kings had been trained by Morgôs in those ways, tutored by him. This would be the first generation in two centuries that would not place a ruler on the throne who he intimately knew. He had not taught either Siamak or Gjeelea, and though they were both more than a decade old, he had met neither of them formally until this very night, and only knew them from hearsay, and the reports of courtiers in the King’s halls. Morgôs had not offered to tutor young Siamak, because of the long-running debate as to whether he would be King or not, and he had some qualms about teaching Gjeelea. He supposed that, whenever the King chose an heir, he would have to teach that one at least a little, to prepare him or her for the throne. He admitted that he would've liked to train Siamak, if only to know him better, but Siamak seemed gravely hesitant, which effected Morgôs adversely.

Now, Morgôs did not feel at ease with the situation. He worried for the present, and the choices that would be made. He had long hoped to secrete some manner of alliance between himself and the young Prince, who he had just now met, and this seemed a perfect time to distill a drop of his influence in the boy. The Elf fleetingly decided what he would do, a swift endeavor, hasty for him, but a promising one as well. Studiously, he leaned forward against the table’s edge and directed his gaze at Siamak. “Prince Siamak,” he said, as Queen Bekah, Faroz, and the Emissary talked of other things nearby, “may I speak with you after the banquet? I have a matter which must be discussed to speak of.”

Siamak looked at first flustered, but, after a pensive second, nodded, and looked with just concern to his father, who was mulling over a question from his wife. “If my father allows it, I would be honored.” Said the Prince, shy, but obviously interested in the prospect. He seemed to have taken to the General right away, which was a definite bonus. Without polite hesitation, Morgôs whipped around in his seat to the King and interrupted his conversation. “Your majesty?” He said, assuming that the King had heard the exchange. He had, as the Avari quickly learned.

“So long as you do not enchant the mind of my son with your sly mind, Morgôs.” Faroz said, smiling, interjecting the words as a side-note to the General before he prepared to resume his other dialogue. The General realized the nature of his rudeness, severing the King’s train of thought with his terse words. “I could not, milord.” He said quietly, not meaning to disturb the King, with an apologetic gesture, “I am too enchanted myself to attempt such a feat.” Faroz turned to him again, very patient despite the continual interruptions of his Elven commander. “I cannot control my son’s conversations, General.” He said then, “You need not gain my permission.”

With a simple motion, the Elf bowed his head, “You are as judicious as you are wise, you majesty.”

“I need not flattery from you, Morgôs,” said Faroz in response, “it does not suit you.” The king the turned to his wife and the Emissary, to resume where they’d left off, but, before he did, Queen Bekah leaned towards him and whispered something silently into his ear. He shot a glance at Morgôs as she spoke to him, and the General could not help but wonder what she said, but tried not to think of the suspicions the Queen held, or the praises, or whatever it might be that she now told the King. With a disquieted look, Faroz began to answer the question that the Queen had asked a minute ago, and Morgôs looked sharply at the Prince, who returned the look, confirming that they would parley after the festivities had concluded.

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

What was her father thinking? Gjeelea inwardly tried to calm her immense shock, disgust, and horror at the announcement her father had given. She wondered if King Faroz wanted his children to strangle each other, for surely that was the only thing that could possibly come of the two trying to work together. Gjeelea did not even know how many times she and her brother Siamak had gotten along, but she knew that if she remembered the times, they could be counted with the fingers of one hand.

On the outside, Gjeelea kept her face calm, accepting, and smiling. Her inner turmoil could never reach the outside; the princess would not allow such weakness to be shown to so many people that might manipulate her. By keeping how she really felt on the inside, her enemies saw only what she wanted them to see. Gjeelea knew all to well that her father was making some kind of test out of giving this decision to both of his children. The princess wondered at how her father needed to go to such extremes to help him decide who would be his heir.

When Siamak set up a meeting between the Emissary and the two royal children, Gjeelea wanted so badly to scowl at her younger brother. Whatever decision she made – and she would make it quickly with the grace and ease she felt any ruler should have – Gjeelea felt that she would have little trouble convincing her brother to bend to her opinion. Of course Siamak had his voice in the matter, but Gjeelea also knew how often Siamak actually used his voice to begin with. The princess had often used her brother’s introverted nature against him, much to her own advantage; this occasion would be no different.

Instead, Gjeelea nodded and hastily agreed to the time arranged, and then left the company of her meek little brother. The desert snake that hunts with cunning and craft will be sure to return home with a meal first, she thought as she lost sight of Siamak. Pashtia needed a ruler who did not need to think long to make the right decision; Siamak always seemed to need some modicum of time to mull over any kind of matter, simple or complex. Time was precious, and Gjeelea saw no point in wasting it by comparing and contrasting for the right answer.

The only weight that Gjeelea could feel holding her back when people questioned her ability to rule was the need for her to marry. Her betrothed would become king, and that gave Pashtians – most importantly King Faroz – another person who’s worth and ability needed to be contemplated. Gjeelea had doubt in the general view of Lord Korak; her father was not like the silly girls at court who fawned over his good looks. King Faroz knew deeper than appearance, as did many other important figures that would help decide who became the next ruler of Pashtia. Gjeelea had no doubt in her ability to keep great influence in matters of state if Lord Korak should become king. He was stupid and blind of intelligence. She counted on the dense folly of her future husband, even, for if she did marry someone more admirable and intelligent, she would certainly have less say in how Pashtia was ruled.

All these things pushed to the forefront of Gjeelea’s mind as she weaved through the crowds trying to find the betrothed that counted for so much in her hopes to become the ruler of Pashtia. She needed to portray a happy picture to her parents and to the court, no matter how she really felt about Lord Korak.

[Orofaniel]

Evrathol was, as everyone else, stunned by Faroz's decision. Twice, he had looked back and forth as his mother and father; His eyes were about to pop out of his head, and the worst part was that Evrathol hadn’t been aware of that such looks might seem rude and inappropriate. Morgôs, his father, had been just as surprised as his son, or so Evrathol had thought. His mother however, hadn't really shown any signs of disagreement to Faroz decision, nor had she seemed overenthusiastically. Evrathol offered Gjeela a smile as their eyes met, but he couldn't help himself thinking that the choice the two siblings were going to make, would end up like a total disaster. The two of them were as different as two siblings could possibly be, both of were young and a bit immature; Gjeela, a young lass, was sharp tongued and much enchanted by everything that could be called “gossip”. Simiak, who Evrathol favoured over Gjeela, was most likely to be oppressed by his sister as he was often seen as weak and not very confident. This meant that Simiak would probably not have much to say in the decision the two of them had to make. Evrathol concluded that the final word would be Gjeela's. Evrathol couldn't see how Faroz had placed such a decision on any of them. However, if it was the Majesty's decision and therefore it was definitely final. Evrathol accepted it and respected it, but he didn’t have to understand it or agree on anything whatsoever.

After more thought, however, Evrathol figured that this could make things even more interesting. Maybe Faroz was going to choose his heir based on the decision his children made.

Thinking about His Majesty and his announcement, he eyed the Priest Tarkan. Evrathol saw that Tarkan was watching him. Evrathol was embarrassed because he had forgotten to greet him and the High Priestess. How un-thoughtful of him. Leaving the table for a moment, smiling at his mother, he went over to Tarkan "Good evening," Evrathol said awkwardly, but not in a way that Tarkan, or anyone else for that matter, would notice it. Tarkan smiled weakly, greeting the elf. "I can see you and your family have found your way to the King's table," Tarkan muttered. Evrathol was a bit surprised over the remark of this, so he nodded humbly; "Well, Her Majesty insisted. And to be quite frank; The King and the Queen are excellent people, and I am indeed honoured to sit at their table tonight, with the Emissary himself."

Tarkan didn't respond to this. Evrathol wondered what the Priest was thinking. It was hard to say. Tarkan was indeed a hard person to read, and since Evrathol, himself, hadn't met him or spoken to him too many times, it was ever harder. They had, however, occasionally exchanged words. "So, you have met His Majesty's guest?" The priest asked Evrathol. "Barely," Evrathol muttered. Evrathol had only greeted him, nothing more. "But, your father seems to be establishing an acquaintance with the Emissary, is he not?" the priest replied immediately, looking over to the King's table; Morgôs was currently not speaking to the Emissary, but he had done so earlier that evening. "Well, I wouldn't put it that way..." Evrathol said, moving his eyes from Morgos to the Emissary. In fact; Evrathol could not tell whether his father, Morgôs, was impressed by the Emissary, nor could he tell if Emissary was impressed by his father. "What way would you put it then..?" Tarkan then continued. Evrathol shrugged. It wasn't in his nature to shrug, because he usually knew what to say, but the situation required such an action as he had no idea where Tarkan wanted with these questions. "Oh, forgive me, son; I've treated you unjustly - asking you all these questions. This is a celebration and my questions surely are inappropriate," Tarkan then said, smiling at Evrathol. Yet again, Evrathol didn't know how to respond;" No, please sir. We're all interested in the Emissary and his business here. I can't imagine another way to find out without asking questions!" he said laughing softly. The Priest joined him soon.

A woman was moving towards them; her head just visible above Tarkan's shoulders. Evrathol recognized her; it was the High priestess Zamara. "My good lady," Evrathol said politely, bowing. Zamara nodded while she smiled. "Greetings to you as well," she said looking back and forth at Tarkan and Evrathol.

"Zamara," the priest muttered.

"Tarkan," Zamara then said, nodding once again.

Evrathol had only met the High Priestess a couple of times. He would consider himself more acquainted with Tarkan than Zamzara, but it would be a good time now to expand his contacts.

[Firefoot]

Siamak was intensely curious about the General’s wish to speak with him. Obviously, he wanted to talk in private or else he would have spoken his mind during the banquet. He supposed it would probably be about the Emissary, as the General had brought it up so shortly after his father had made the announcement, but it could be something else, though Siamak did not know what it could be. Nevertheless, Siamak schooled his expression as if it were only a matter of business and turned his attention to the present. He listened with interest to what the Emissary was saying, though he was having trouble processing everything so quickly. He contributed to the conversation as necessary or when the opportunity presented itself. The hour became late and so the banquet began to draw to a close.

The ensemble of musicians who had been the entertainment for the evening wrapped up for the night and guests began to trickle out of the banquet hall, though some of the nobles lingered, chatting. Servants began to inconspicuously clear away the plates of food, many of them being empty by now. Siamak waited for as long as was proper and took his leave, bidding those remaining at the table a good night.

“General Morgôs,” he said, getting the Elf’s attention. “Take your time to finish up anything you need to here, and meet me in the courtyard.” The General nodded, and Siamak departed from the great hall. The night air was refreshingly cool, though not chilly, and the stars twinkled above. The courtyard was dimly lit with torches and the light spilling out from the banquet hall, and Siamak saw that there were a few people gathered to converse here rather than inside. He selected an out of the way location to wait for the General, and it was not long before General Morgôs emerged from the hall, spotting the prince almost immediately. After greeting each other, Siamak spoke.

“Would you prefer someplace where we could be alone to speak, or is the courtyard fine?” he asked.

“Somewhere private, if that is all right,” General Morgôs replied. Siamak nodded. “Certainly. Come with me.” He led the General through a side gate of the courtyard, silently passing through the public gardens into one of the more private ones. Like the courtyard, the only light was a few torches and the slight light of the crescent moon. The sound of trickling water attested to the nearby fountains, and night bugs were chirping.

“No one will disturb us here,” said Siamak. Unable to suppress his curiosity any longer, he asked, “Now, General, what is it that you wish to speak to me about?”

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

The Emissary smiled at the Queen and reclined at length upon his cushions. His eyes narrowed, but in a measured way rather than a menacing. He paused in contemplation of her like that, and remembered the sight of her kneeling before her useless idol earlier. His smile grew thin. “What would you like to know, Majesty?” There was the slightest emphasis upon the final word that sent shivers up Bekah’s spine.

“Given your mistake, I would be interested in hearing about the women of your land,” she replied evenly. “Particularly the role of your Queen.”

“My Lord Annatar has no wife,” the Emissary replied quickly, a brief glimpse of distaste appearing on his features.

“Oh?” the Queen queried, “that cannot be a good policy. Not unless he plans on living forever.”

This time the Emissary did not even try to hide his smile, but it was unreadable to her. Faroz, turning from his General, had heard the last exchange and now joined in. “Indeed,” he said to the man, “your lord should take a wife. I admit that I sometimes do not give my Queen the credit and acknowledgement that she deserves, but without her I daresay I could not run the kingdom.”

“Indeed,” the Emissary replied, his eyes never leaving the Queen’s. “If I might be so bold, my King, that would seem to me an unwise policy. While I am sure that the people are well served by such a pair as yourselves, is it not better for there to be one ruler? One alone whom all obey?”

Bekah pounced on this. “At last, I think I see something of your land. Your Lord Annatar is a monarch of great power, I deem. One who does not believe in sharing that power with family or nobles.”

“Where there is wisdom and strength, Majesty, there can be little need for sharing power.”

“And is your Lord Annatar so well endowed with both that he needs no help?” the Queen replied.

Faroz stepped in once more, for the tone of the conversation was becoming heated and heads were beginning to turn. “My friend,” he began. “You must forgive us, for we are a proud people – proud of our land and of our way of doing things. The ways of others, even those who are neighbours to us, seem foreign and strange.”

“And yet,” the Emissary replied, “you would know so much of your neighbour’s ways, having married your former enemy.”

Even Faroz fell silent at the audacity of the comment, and for a second it appeared as though the Emissary had finally overstepped all bounds. But with a happy laugh and a sudden movement that brought him upright, the man said, “I am sorry, Majesties, but you are not alone in your difficulty with foreign ways. I admit, that in my land women do not enjoy the power of rule as is apparent here. Nor are they partners in the King’s power. But also we do not use them to make political alliances, marrying them to an enemy for the benefit of ourselves. I do not judge, nor do I seek to offend, I merely speak as you have bid me. . .of our ways.”

“We take no offence,” the King replied before his wife could. “But perhaps we could speak of something else for the time. You said somewhat of the Elves in your land this afternoon, perhaps you could tell us more. You mentioned that there was strife between Men and Elves…?”

The Emissary’s face fell. “Indeed,” he said quietly, “it was all an unfortunate and lamentable mistake on all sides. The Elves believed that there were Men who wished to have their land, and the Men, for their part, had become distrustful of the Elves. It is said that some of the Elves who had brought the Evil from over the Sea were seeking to rebuild their kingdoms, and so perhaps there was some truth to the bad feeling felt against them.”

“What evil?” the Queen asked.

“In long ages past, my Queen, the Elves left for the West to enjoy an eternal peace, but some returned to make war on the powers of Middle-earth. For centuries they fought over a hoard of treasure that they made false claims to, and in the end they and all their works were destroyed in a mighty cataclysm that changed the face of the earth itself. It is said that some of those who fought in that war linger yet in Middle-earth and that they desire still to have vengeance upon their enemies. In their mistaken pride, they hold all Men to be their enemies.”

“All Men?” the King asked. He had heard none of this, this afternoon.

“There are some,” the Emissary replied, “who the Elves trust. But they are themselves more Elvish than Men, for in years past the Elves took into their keeping some humans and…bred with them. It is a long tale, and not a happy one.” He fell silent, and it was clear that he would say no more on the topic this night. He turned his eyes upon the Queen. “I fear I have not told you much, my Queen. . .at least, not what you were hoping to hear. What can I say that will assuage your concerns about my Lord? What assurance do you crave that he is in earnest in his request for friendship?”

[Bêthberry]

The Emissary's words of emnity between elves and men soured any and all attempts he made at polite expressions of friendly alliance, at least with Bekah. It brought back to her mind all the tales of perfidy and mistrust and hatred with which she grew up, once again making precarious her efforts to assimilate the Pashtian attitude towards elves. First his arrival had strangely changed the King's behaviour, making his people jealous and mistrustful of the strange western man. Then he had made one or two social gaffes, statements which a seasoned courtier might not have made unless he wished to sew some discord. And now his story of strife between men and elves went straight to the heart of unrest here in Pashtia against the elves and outright hatred against them in her homeland. The food which she had eaten that evening sat heavily in her stomach, making her wish she had not eaten.

"You misunderstand my interest, Emissary," she replied calmly. "I did not ask about your country in order to evaluate your Lord Annatar's claim of friendship. As a child raised in Alanzia--as you clearly point out, having learnt that fact very soon upon your arrival--and an adult who has learned the ways of Pashtia I am interested in the great variety of cultures and societies which our earth seems to hold. Cultures as well as people influence each other and so I merely wished to enquire about the ways in which your country might influence us."

If the Emissary was blandly dissuaded by her disclaimer, Faroz was not. He was too astute at understanding how his Queen sought out information from a variiety of sources to believe that she would not use the Emissary's answers to frame some kind of opinion about this unusual request.

"Yet the night wears on and I have not paid greetings to our other guests here. My Lord, and Emissary, I leave you to your conversation. I will bid good night to others and take my leave." Bekah held her hand out to Faroz, which he acknowledged with a formal display of touch, and rose from her cushions, leaving them to their thoughts.

Bekah first sought out the High Priestess and the Priest, bidding each a goodnight and marking in their eyes their thoughts at the evening's events. Tarkan, she thought, showed a keen glint whenever he spied her daughter. It would not surprise me, she thought to herself.

"Zamara, a company of weavers have delivered to me carpets which they are anxious to be displayed in the temple. Would you wish to see them tomorrow? Come in the afternoon to my quarters, after my public hour of audience."

The Hight Priestess was not often summoned to the Queen's presence and her look showed her surprise.

"Oh, I do not mean to ignore Tarkan. You will join us, also, will you not?" asked Bekah as she turned to the Priest.

"Majesty, my taste is but humble and I believe it best to leave such decisions to those who understand such matters. If you would excuse me."

Bekah made no effort to hide her smile, which, indeed, was almost a sardonic twist of her mouth.

"You follow your own counsel, of course, Tarkan. Zamara, then, shall I see you?"

The Hight Priestess, more wise to the ways of court manners, understood that more might be discussed than mere carpets. She nodded agreement. Belah placed her hand upon the Priestess's staff and bowed her head in the formal courtesy due to the woman, but at the last moment she found it hard to maintain a serious or respectful face.

Out of the corner of her eye she had glimpsed the Lord Korak with a face as dark as waters under storm of the eastern wind. She had often wondered what family alliance had prompted Faroz to offer their daughter to him in infancy. As far as she could tell, the elderly Lady Hababa had been close with Faroz's family. Whatever reason, Bekah had always made a special place in her affairs for this family, so it was not unusual that she would make a special acknowledgement of the old woman.

"Lady Hababa, I am pleased to see you looking well and so spry this evening," she crooned as she arrived at the table and took her place on some cushions beside the old woman.

"Well, I wouldn't want to miss the wedding," was the rather strange reply.

"None of us would, I'm sure," replied Bekah quickly, quite aware of the older woman's confused memory, and anxious to smooth away the look of utter disdain the Lord Korak showed towards the woman's frailty.

"The music was nice. Almost like it was when I was young, but I could not hear all the speeches."

"Nothing of any great portent was said, Mother," replied Korak, clearly wishing to cut off his cousin from any kind of retort. She, however, had stopped her tongue with the arrival of the Queen, for the Lady Arshalous could see little use in displaying family discord in front of a member of the Royal family.

"You calm your mother with unction, my Lord Korak, but I would have thought you in particular would be intrigued by the King's annoucement."

"Oh, he was, Majesty, he was," interjected Arshalous, beginning to see that some fun could be had at her cousin's expense.

Bekah allowed herself a small laugh inside as she sat back and watched the family struggle to maintain some composure while masking their animosity. It was perhaps not entirely kind of her, but this family was so hypocritical that she could not resist occassionally drawing them out. Yet she felt sincere fondness for the older woman, for the Lady Hababa had been one of the first court members to show her acceptance when she had first arrived. It was always with gentle sadness that she tried to steer the woman's conversation away from her fears of forgetfulness. Yet, after some time, Bekah found the cousins would not this night relinguish any thoughts about the Emissary or the King's decision.

"You will come to see us soon, Majesty," the elderly woman said. "Nobody comes to see me anymore."

"I will come as soon as my schedule permits, my Lady Hababa, for you are one of my favoured members of the court." Bekah tried hard not to catch the impatience in the eyes of the cousins as she bid the family a goodnight and rose to withdraw from the banquet.

Bekah signalled her attendants to escort her out, leaving the Chamberain with her request for her children. "Tell Siamak and Gjeela that I wish to see them midmorning in my quarters."

For all the captivating nature of the banquet, the feast, the scented aromas, the entertainments and music, Bekah left the affair with greater mistrust of his Emissary than she had when she arrived. Every where he placed his words, he seemed to strike some kind of discord, almost provoking controversy under a suave manner of politeness. She shivered, recalling her courtyard empty of any guards. Yet he spoke of one voice, one authority. In her heart, she worried about the King's announcement to leave the decision to their children. She wondered if they were astute enough to understand the role which had been thrust upon them. With that thought, she wound her way through the passageways to her quarters.

[Kransha]

With a thankful word to the King and Queen, and assurance to his wife and son, Morgôs left the great hall, still abuzz with noise despite the late hour. Still, the King and Queen spoke with the Emissary, but the festivities had wound to a near close when the Elven General whisked himself out of the regal palace, and into calm tranquility from whence he’d come. His lengthy robe swinging like a great mantle about him, he glided into the courtyard, his Elven eyes, sharpened and keen, saw the Prince and was greeted, and immediately pressed to the present. He did not know, as he stood, how to phrase this question he had been considering for over a year. The circumstances of the gala evening had not been what he had in mind to clarify his intentions, but he would have to make do.

“Prince Siamak…This must seem…very strange to you, and I apologize for my forwardness in this matter." Morgôs bandied his words about before he spoke, pacing in front of the Prince, who followed the Elf's movements carefully, almost studying him. "I had hoped" Morgôs went on, "to be able to speak with you informally several times before I had to address you thusly, but the fetters of our duties have withheld that option. Therefore, I must approach you now, mere hours after our first meeting, about a graver matter than I had hoped. Again, forgive me, but, in light of the Emissary’s coming and your father’s wishes, I must take counsel here.” There was no response from the Prince, but Siamak did not slowly, understanding the General’s dilemma, and curious about what he had to say. The Prince was sharp, but did not catch the flash in Morgôs’ eye as he realized he had hooked the lad.

“Long have I heard of you, young Prince. Your father may have told you of me, but I do not trust to hope, for I cannot fathom what the king tells you or your sister. Either way, I know of you somewhat, enough to know that you are a sensible lad, and one with a mind that is perhaps keener than those of your father’s courtiers. Of your sister, the Princess, I know enough as well to have chosen a favorite among the two. Many of those warriors who serve under my command know upon whom my favor shines, but you do not. Ever since your birth, I have felt, nay, known that I, as General of Pashtia, had an obligation to favor you or your sister. I dislike politics, with all my heart, but dare not evade it, for it is to me as a serpent, waiting to strike unless it is appeased, and my time has come to appease it, in what feeble way I can. So, tonight, my decision is made, and I come to you, the favored Prince.”

The Prince said nothing. Morgôs could tell that, just as he thought, Siamak was not an avid speaker. Morgôs was not either, but his civic stoicism took over, and this new political underside he’d never known he had was now exposed, intriguing him. Feeling a verbal vigor overcome him, the Elf continued, carefully exercising tact, as well as his own mischievous military strategies refashioned to apply to this conversation. “Now,” he continued brusquely, “with the Emissary from the west so close in our midst, the time has come for your decision. I am an Elf bound to my duties, and would never disobey, or question my king, but, I can set into motion events that might seat a noble son on the throne, one whom I know, and need never question. Your father, like his father before him, is a good, true, and mighty man, but I cannot say that every order given me has been relished in its carrying out, though all are fulfilled. You, Siamak, are the next gem in Pashtia’s crown.”

Siamak, at last, interjected as Morgôs paused, patience half-gone from his shaded face. “Such words would sound treasonous to most, General Morgôs.” Siamak said, not scathingly, but with more seriousness in his tone than before, though still one of great interest, “I sense your true meaning is not underhanded, but I advise you, show more care with what you say. My father is still king.” But Morgôs waved his hand, as if to brush aside such thoughts, and said, “Never, Siamak, would I question your father, or the royal family, but I must impress upon you the importance of this meeting, and what I seek from you: alliance, Prince, and unity between you and another front that could win your father’s favor. Your sister has friends in court lackeys and the petty oligarchs of Kanak, but you can have more, if you grasped that power which is rightfully yours. Grasp it with the hand of a king. Your sister is not yet married; you are in your prime. With all these choices to be made-”

Suddenly, Siamak cut him off. “And what of those choices, General?” he said quietly, apparently pensive about the General’s proposal, but wary. “Do you have some ‘wisdom’ to share with me relating to my decision about the Emissary?”

“I would not impose my wishes on you, Prince Siamak. I wish only for alliance and the chance to provide some wisdom for the man who may someday be king of this land. I only suggest that you be firm, and be the first to make your choice known. When the time comes to make the decision, step forward and force your hand, be counted. Then you shall see what the King favors in an heir. But, that is for another day. On this festive eve I must have one answer and one alone. As a delegate of Pashtian Avari, I have placed my favor, even if your father has not. Will you accept my fealty?”

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

“Your Queen, I fear, distrusts me Majesty,” the Emissary said as Bekah left. Faroz remained silent. “I hope, however, that her opinion has not swayed your own. You did call me friend today.”

“I did,” the King replied, “and so I will continue to call you. But I also have said that while I trust in you, I must take thought to your Lord’s purpose. I must admit that having heard of the discord between the Elves and men of your realm, I am more…reluctant now than previously to undertake an alliance with your Lord. Not that the decision is mine to make anymore! Did I do well, do you think, to leave it to my children?”

“That is not for me to say.”

“On the contrary, as I have asked you it is your duty as my guest to speak your mind.”

“Very well, Majesty. I am not convinced that you have done wisely this night. I am as yet unfamiliar with the ties between your people, but even I could see that your decision has caused confusion and even doubts among your people. It would have been better, I think, to make the decision yourself.”

“Ah, but then the doubts would not have been about my decision to leave the choice to my children, but of me. My people are not used to me having friendships with foreign strangers, and they are already cautious of you and your mission for the sake of the time that we have spent together this day. Were I to rule in your favour now, they would, I fear, distrust you even more, and doubt my ability to judge soundly. This way, a decision can be achieved that is best for the kingdom and in which no blame or doubt can be raised against me.”

“You assume, my King, that your children will choose as you would.”

“I am sure that they will,” he replied, “if they come to the decision as I would – by seeking the opinions of the people, and take into account the feelings of all involved.”

“Including their mother’s?”

Faroz’s eyes narrowed somewhat and he looked away from the Emissary. For the first time, he appeared to put some distance between them. “It displeases me how you and she do not get along. I do not expect my family and my friend to enjoy one another as I do, but I would hope that all could be upon kindly terms.”

“Of course your Majesty,” was the courtly reply.

Faroz stood and motioned for the Chamberlain to attend. “Jarult,” he said to the old man, “Please see the Emissary back to his villa.” He turned to the man. “My friend, I cannot tell you how I have enjoyed this day but I fear it has come to an end. Tomorrow, perhaps, you will be able to join me for an hour or two in the courtyard before the midday meal? I would speak with you about the gift of your Lord.”

Ashnaz stood and bowed elegantly. Looking significantly at the Chamberlain he said, “May I have a quiet word with you, my King, about that before I depart?” Faroz’s eyes narrowed once more, this time with inquisitiveness. He motioned for Jarult to stand off, which the old man did with his disapproval written on his face. The dark man leaned close to Faroz, so close that his breath ran across the King’s cheek as they spoke. “Do not put on the Ring in company, my King,” he said. “It is a…special thing that my Lord has sent to you, one endowed with many powerful gifts. It would be well if you were to put it on when you were alone.” Faroz leaned back and looked at his friend and nodded wordlessly, now filled with wonder and curiosity. Ashnaz bowed once more and took his leave.

* * *

The King wandered out into the courtyard, and once more his fingers sought out the ring beneath his clothes. He had wondered about it throughout the day, and his friend’s strange words only added to this feeling. He was not surprised that it was more than merely a piece of jewellery, that much had been obvious from the beginning. But the precise nature of the gift remained a tantalising mystery. The King longed to be alone and hidden from the eyes of his people so that he could put on the ring, but he had important business to attend to first. He walked toward the hidden garden where the attendants had said that his general was speaking with his son. What they had to say to one another was not entirely beyond his imagination, for he assumed that they were speaking of Ashnaz and the new responsibility that had been placed upon Siamak. Their manner when he found them, however, was odd, for as he emerged from the shadows it appeared as though Morgôs had just put some question to the Prince that had yet to be answered. The Elf’s manner was unperturbed but his son’s more open countenance flushed instantly. Faroz noted this but betrayed nothing with is own expression. He would have to keep an eye on his son and his general.

“General Morgôs” he said, “I am sorry to intrude but I need to speak with you on a matter of some importance. I am afraid that in my pleasure with the Emissary this day I have neglected to speak with you on the matter of guarding our guests during their stay here.” The unspoken matter of protecting the palace from these guests was left hanging in the air between them.

“Of course, Majesty,” the Elf replied. “I will see to it immediately. Within the hour I will have a squad of my best troops positioned throughout the palace. Would you like me to assign them guard duties to the guest’s quarters?”

Faroz thought for a second before answering. “It might be for the best. But make it clear to our new friends that this is being done for their own protection, and not to constrain their activities. They are to enjoy the full freedom of the palace and the city.” The general nodded. Faroz nodded to his son and then prepared to leave, but then turned back as though thinking of something. “Oh, I just recall that my Queen told me that she saw no guards in her private garden earlier this evening. Perhaps you could see to that? And increase the guard around the Queen herself for the time being.” The general’s eyebrows lifted ever so slightly, but again he nodded. Faroz departed, but wondered what it was that his son and his general were talking of. Not for the first time in his rule did he wish to remain and yet be unseen.

The night was beginning to advance and the moon, although only a crescent yet, shed a full clear light upon the gardens. The King moved through the complicated paths without paying attention to the paths for he had lived in the palace his whole life and knew its ways intimately. It was with surprise, then, that he found himself outside his wife’s doors for the second time this day. He would have walked off immediately, but as this would have caused even greater wonderment to the guards he indicated instead that they should knock and announce his presence. He was admitted to the Queen’s presence immediately. She had removed her head-dress and other ornaments, but other than that had not yet made ready for bed. She took one look at her husband’s expression and dismissed her attendants briefly. Faroz sat upon some cushions by the balcony.

“I am sorry for how this evening went, my wife. I was not as attentive to you as I should, nor did I give you your full due with the Emissary.” The Queen was visibly taken aback by his manner, and even Faroz was surprised by it. He clutched the ring as he proceeded. “You were quite right about the lack of guards, you know, and I have spoken with General Morgôs of the matter. He has said that you and all your places will be well guarded in the future.” He let the matter rest there.

“Thank you, my husband. But surely you have not come simply to tell me this?”

Faroz smiled mirthlessly. “How well you know me.” And then suddenly he said, “How many years have we been married? Twenty-three?”

“Twenty-four.”

“Twenty-four years,” he echoed her quietly. “I will not ask if you have been happy, for I do not think you could answer that question, even if you would do so honestly. I imagine that you have been content, for you are intelligent and adaptable, and have ever sought to help me in my rule. I wanted you to know that I appreciated that.” For a moment it seemed as though he would proceed, but then shaking his head he rose once more and, as though he were taking off a mask he put away the manner that had come over him. “You must forgive me, my wife. The Emissary has put me in an odd mood, and it is late.” He strode to the door and left without another word.

In silence he found his ways through the smaller passages to his own apartments. As soon as he arrived there he dismissed his attendants for the night and put out all the oil lamps in his room. In the dark he removed his finery and put on in their place a simple garment of white cloth that hung about him in loose folds. Taking the ring in his hand he walked out into the moonlight on the balcony. It was one of the few points in the palace that looked out from the walls rather than in toward the courtyard. It stood upon a corner at the highest level of the palace and commanded a full view of the palace grounds to the east of the Palace and, beyond them, the city stretching away into the dark. At this time of night, all that was visible were the faint lights of lamps and candles kept alight by those who watched through the night. Far off, upon the edges of sight, was the slight phosphorescence of the might river, against which he could dimly make out the silhouettes of hundreds of small ships, laden with the cargo of this kingdom. It was in moments such as this that the King felt small, and powerless. His entire world – over which he held sway – lay at his feet, but the immensity of it, the riches that it contained and – most of all – the sea of peoples that filled it overwhelmed him with a sense of his own insignificance. It frightened him that so much would look to him for guidance and control. All eyes were upon him, and all regarded him with a mixture of hope and fear, no matter how tempered with respect or admiration. Faroz had no illusions about the nature of his rule; he was neither beloved as a man nor worshipped as a demigod – that had been his father. He was just a man to his people, a powerful man, a wise man, perhaps, even a good man, but a man just the same: fallible and capable of making mistakes. There were times when he wished for his father’s presence and reputation. He had been regarded by friend and foe alike as a figure of myth more than as a person, and his failings, of which there had been many, were ignored by everyone but for those closest to him. And yet how Faroz longed to enjoy the simple humanity that set him apart from his father’s greatness. He he wished he could, for even a moment, lay aside his mask as the King and sit down to a meal as a man among men. He sighed heavily and leaned against the balustrade for support.

As he put his weight on his hands he became aware once more of the ring. He opened his fist and gazed upon it openly for the first time since that morning. Even in the wan illumination of the moon it seemed to shine with its own lustrous light. Taking it carefully in one hand he held it aloft where the red gem glowed in the starlight like a drop of fresh blood, liquid and beautiful. His own words came back to him: it is a precious gift. “Indeed it is,” he muttered under his breath, and he slipped it onto his finger.

[Amanaduial the archer]

Having bid those guests she was closer to a goodnight, until the next morning when she would see some in the temple, Zamara picked up her staff and rose, and asked one of the servants if he would be able to see to Tayfar and Sedaar. The man bowed respectfully and Zamara smiled her thanks, making her way to great doorway of the palace. Standing in the porch, the priestess hesitated, looking down the cool, stone corridor towards one of the private courtyards where she had talked to Siamak earlier.

"I do not trust this Emissary, and even less the Lord Annatar who sent him. I have no proof on which to base my opinion; it is only a feeling. He has been nothing but courteous and generous since arriving, and my father is certainly taken with him - I found out recently that the two have spent the entire afternoon in each other’s company." The prince had told Zamara something interesting with that, although he might not have noted it at the time. The king certainly was very taken with the Emissary then - but Siamak was right. Maybe they were both judging too quickly, but there was something 'sinister' about the man.

Zamara shivered, rubbing her dark upper arms with her hands and finding them suddenly goose-pimply. Not thinking anything of it, she bid her thanks to the servant as Tayfar and Sedaar greeted her, and together they passed out of the palace. The night air was cool and fresh, with hints of jasmine and sleep dozing lazily in it, and as they passed the palace walls, Zamara took a moment to close her eyes and breath deeply the flowery scent of the night that Rhais blessed the air with. Tipping her head back, she looked up at the stars. The night was clear, as was usual near the desert at this time of year, and the stars, like jewels studding the clothes of Rea, shone and winked down at the Priestess. She smiled lazily, and her gaze drifted up above the palace walls to the apartments of the king and queen. She had not been able to say goodnight to them before she left, as both Bekah and, shortly afterwards, Faroz, had retired from the banquet, taking away the Emissary at the same time. For some reason, Zamara's eyes lingered on the windows of the palace that clear night, and as she watched she saw something extraordinary-

Giving a cry, Zamara took a step sharply backwards, her hands over her mouth and her tinted eyes wide and bewildered. The two acolytes immediately stepped towards her, Tayfar steadying her arm as Sedaar stepped protectively in front of her, looking around for what had caused their Priestess to take fright so. Tayfar hushed her quietly, patting Zamara's bare arm comfortingly as she stared, concerned into the woman's dark eyes, before she followed their path with her own. Zamara immediately looked away, changing the direction of her gaze to the ground before Tayfar could focus on her eyes' target: King Faroz balcony.

"What is wrong, High Priestess? What has stung you?"

'Stung'? The scorpion of my sight, Tayfar, the wasp that bites through the use of tired eyes to confuse the weary wanderer... Zamara blinked several times, hard, and glanced across at Tayfar, laying her own hand on the girl's as she steadied herself and took a deep breath. "Stung? I..I do not know, Tayfar. Some...I do not know, the insects of the night..." She shook her head and winced a little as she put weight on her foot. She hated the pretence, but it worked. Tayfar gave a small concerned noise and glanced sympathetically at the Priestess's feet. "Oh, High Priestess - I will bathe the sting in oil when we return to the temple, to prevent any inflammation. It would hardly do to have your feet swelled up when you visit Her Majesty Queen Bekah tomorrow..."

Zamara remembered the appointment with a start and wondered how this chance sight could affect her - the Queen was a stunningly astute woman especially for an older woman. Surely she would notice if anything came of this by tomorrow - no, it was probably just Zamara's own tired eyes...surely... "No, thank you Tayfar, but I...I think it will be fine. It merely startled me - I am tired."

Tayfar nodded, relief showing in her young eyes and with a few more words, the trio started off once more towards the temple, this time the two acolytes notably staying closer to Zamara's side. But the High Priestess could not help letting her eyes dart fleetingly up to Faroz's balcony for a split second, trying to re-affirm what she had seen: but it was empty now.

To all mortal eyes.

[Firefoot]

Faroz’s arrival in the garden could not have been more timely, in Siamak’s opinion. It gave him a few moments to think, short though they were. He paid minute attention to his father’s exchange with the General - just enough to get the gist of the conversation.

He was torn by the General’s offer, and quite surprised. Morgôs wanted to swear fealty to him? His largest objection was that he did not know if it was really right, being that his father was still king. Should one swear fealty to another who was not king? He could be king, though, someday, and he supposed that changed things. Assuming that it would be right (if not quite proper), having the support of the General of the Pashtian army would be a huge advantage over his sister. He had vowed that his sister and her inept fiancé would not gain the throne, and this would be a step in achieving that goal. He did not entertain the possibility that the General could swear fealty to him yet his sister be named heir. There would be no good in worrying about it. He nodded to himself, his mind made up. He had no other reasonable choice than to accept.

His father left shortly, and the General turned his attention back to the prince. “Well? Do you accept?”

In a voice more steady than he felt, Siamak replied, “I will.” Siamak could see that Morgôs was pleased with the decision. The Elf knelt down on one knee and said, “I, Morgôs, General of the Pashtian army, do so swear fealty and service to Prince Siamak of Pashtia, to support him and to be in alliance with him.”

“And I, Siamak, Prince of Pashtia, do so accept the fealty of General Morgôs of the Pashtian army, and this alliance with him.” The words felt awkward in his mouth, but he did not regret it. He felt a new kind of feeling inside of him, a new insight to the workings of palace life. In the past, he had stayed away from formal alliances with nobles, and a new sense of direction had been awakened in him. In this one night, he had experienced many new things, and the foremost of these was his newfound ability to take matters into his own hands to shape his own future. Being named the heir to the Pashtian throne had become more than a dream; it was a reality.

Morgôs rose, the formalities having been completed, and Siamak said, “I should like to speak with you in greater depth sometime soon, tomorrow or the next day. It is late now, and tomorrow will be busy, I think. We both know that these coming days will tell many things of the future of this country, for better, or for worse.” The last was said quietly, and Siamak felt a feeling of foreboding. If he (and his sister - he could not forget her) chose ill, the entire kingdom of Pashtia could be in shambles. He hoped it was an exaggeration, but feared it was not. The responsibility was crushing, suffocating.

Morgôs nodded in both assent to meet and agreement with Siamak’s statement. “There is much that we might speak of, but, as you say, that is for another day.”

“There is. That will be all, then, for the night?” he asked. The General responded that it was, and Siamak walked with him back out to the courtyard.

“I will look forward to meeting with you again, General,” said Siamak. “Good night.”

“Good night,” replied the General. “Until we speak again.” And so they parted. Siamak entered the palace to head to his quarters for the night, but he was intersected and stopped by the Chamberlain.

“Prince Siamak, the Queen has requested that you and your sister go to speak with her in her quarters mid-morning tomorrow,” said the Chamberlain, relaying the queen’s message. Siamak did not have to wonder what it was that they would talk about - unless he was completely mistaken, it would be the Emissary and their decision.

“Thank you, Chamberlain,” answered Siamak. “Good night.”

“Good night,” Jarult replied, and then hurried off, presumably to find Gjeelea. Siamak continued on to his rooms without further interruption, his mind fully occupied with thoughts of the day. These coming weeks would indeed tell many things of the future, and a certain sense of power that was as yet uncomfortable had come over him with the knowledge that he had the ability to determine the outcome.

[Imladris]

Shortly after the King and Queen had retired, Arshalous, with a courtly (almost mocking bow) to her cousin, had slipped from the court, mounted her horse, and had trotted back to her own palace.

Collapsing onto the bed, she stared fixedly at the ceiling...staring at the mosaics that glimmered softly in the candle light. It showed details of King Faroz's father -- the man that had stepped from the musty pages of ancient myths and legends to rule with wisdom in Pashtia. He had been before her time, yet her own father (long dead from wars) had loved his king...Arshalous wondered if the King had done well in letting his children decide. Besides the obvious fact that they were as sunlight and moonlight, was it wise have let them decide on something so....weight as this alliance?

And then the Queen had come to their table to speak with Lady Hababa...Arshalous flinched as guilt pricked her. Nobody comes to see me anymore... The words echoed in her mind and she wished that she could stop remembering the wistful lines that creased Aunt Hababa's pale cheeks, the limpid eyes that had glanced sadly at herself...the Queen herself had promised to make time while her schedule allowed it...yet she could not be bothered to come, prefering the company of books to her aunt?

She rolled onto her stomach and clutched a scarlet cushion. Was it she who had scathingly denounced the shallow ways of courts, the giggling gaggles of girls who cared only for the current gossip, the courtiers of Korka's ilk that only strived to impress...how was she any better than them? Was it because she thought that she was wise and clever? How was she any different when all she cared about was her books and riling her cousin?

She curled into a tight ball and shivered, then sneezed. Her throat was sore...and she suspected that she had caught herself a small sickness. Semra padded softly in, tucking two warmed flat stones between the blankets at the foot of Arshalous's bed. "Is there anything wrong, my Lady? You look sad...distressed and thoughtful..." she added tentatively.

"Nothing is wrong," she said softly. "Go to bed and get some rest, Semra..."

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

With the dawn came a new day and a new sense of purpose. Slipping from his canopied bed and stretching his limbs out to remove the night from his joints, Faroz smiled easily at the reflection of himself in the long polished silver mirror that hung from his wall. The emptiness of that same mirror from the night before was almost hard to believe now, and the bright light of the sun as it streamed through the arches from the balcony seemed almost to make unreal what had happened. More from a sense of mischievous play than any real concern to test the reality of his memory, Faroz slipped the Ring from the light chain about his neck and put it upon his finger once more. As had happened last night he felt suddenly more solid, more real, even, than his surroundings. The very stone of the Palace became insubstantial and distant, as though seen through a fog, whereas he was bright and tall, almost terrifying in his naked presence. And yet in the mirror there was only his bed and beyond it the rich tapestries that adorned his walls. He removed the Ring and put it back on its chain before calling to his servants.

As he was being dressed and brushed, his mind wandered back to the journey of the night before. He had been startled, at first, by the High Priestess’s cry, and – not knowing what had happened and feeling only that he was the most visible being in the world – he had recoiled from the balcony. The feeling that the Ring gave him had been oddly disconcerting, and he was upon the verge of removing it when he glanced in the mirror and had been forced to stifle a cry of his own. Only then had he looked down at himself and seen nothing but the air. It had come to him in a flash what the gift of the Lord Annatar was, and what it meant. What is the King’s greatest enemy? his father had asked him, so many times that it became something of a ritual with them. The answer, so perplexing that first time the question had been posed came to Faroz as easily now as it had in all those morning lessons: secrets and lies, he could hear himself saying in his youthful voice. He looked down at where he hands should be once more and smiled. Who could keep a secret from one that walks unseen? And what lies were safe from a man who could look anywhere for the truth?

Motivated by the newfound power that was suddenly his, the King had slipped from his room and, moving through the moonlit corridors of the Palace like a spirit, he went to the apartments of the Queen. The doors were closed when he arrived and there were guards about, but he had made a noise to attract them and when they approached he had slipped in behind them and entered the room. He moved past the sleeping forms of the servants and sought out his wife’s bed chamber. He had known that she would not be sleeping, for she was restless at all times, but doubly so when she had matters to consider. And so he had found her pacing about her room in little more than a simple shift, and while her eyes had been open and aware, she had not seen him, although as he moved nearer to her she shivered and pulled a shawl about her shoulders, glancing about the room as though looking for the source of a chilling breeze.

Faroz returned to the present and dismissed the servants, bidding them send in Jarult for there was much business to be done this day. He had been dressed in simple robes of silk, for there were no official occasions this day, only private appointments. He ordered that his morning meal be brought to him in his apartments, and the food arrived just before the Chamberlain. At the King’s command they sat down to their meal together. They spoke of court matters as they ate the meal of bread and cold grains left over from the banquet. The cooks had taken the vegetable dishes, mixed them with yoghurt and reseasoned them with mint. Faroz, made hungry by his night, worked his way through three pieces of flat bread as he tore pieces to scoop up the dish. As they ate the fruit which concluded the meal, the Chamberlain told the King of his day’s appointments. “This morning, Lord, you are to meet with a delegation from the harbour guild. They have raised a great sum of money for a new wharf but would like to borrow funds from the treasury as well so that they might construct a new warehouse complex.”

“Didn’t we already pay to build a large warehouse last year?”

“Indeed, Majesty, but trade is good.” The Chamberlain spoke as though this were a troublesome fact of life. He was a decidedly old fashioned man, much like Faroz’s father, and while he grudgingly acknowledged the importance of trade to the health of his kingdom, he did not think highly of those who engaged in it. Nor did he relish the idea of having to spend time dealing with it. Because of this, his heart fell when the King said that he should meet with the guild members himself. “But my King,” he protested as mildly as he could, “they will want to speak with you themselves about the need for funds. Should we deny it to them, it will have more import coming from you.”

“You believe that we should deny them the funds, which is why you say this. Jarult, do not look down upon the traders and the guilds, for without them we may as well surrender to Alanzia today! I have read their petitions and seen their reports for the future and am inclined to advance a sum to them of approximately two-thirds the amount that they have asked. You can just as easily tell them of this decision as I.” The old man began to protest once more but the King raised a hand to forestall him. “I have a more important matter that needs attending to, and I am eager to see it done. This afternoon I am to meet with those whom I put off yesterday, and I am engaged for midday to speak with the Emissary, so this morning is all the time I will have for this.”

“May I ask what this matter entails?”

“I am considering the request of the nobles for a new temple, if you must know Jarult. I am somewhat inclined to build it, but there are people I must speak with on the matter before I decide.”

“You will want to speak with the Priest and High Priestess then,” the Chamberlain said, and he prepared to leave.

Faroz put out his hand to stay him. “Not yet, Jarult. Before I involve them I need first to speak with those whom this new temple will more directly affect.”

The Chamberlain’s face took on a look of wonder as he replied, “Who could possibly be more affected by a temple than they?”

“Well, my wife, whose piety is much greater than my own, would undoubtedly say that it would affect the people and our gods! But I was thinking of matters far less lofty. If we are to have a temple to Rea then we will need the money to build it. The royal treasury is already taxed at the moment by the demands of the military, and this new harbour project will not yield new revenue for some years at least. Besides, the people who want the temple are the nobility, and should thus be the ones to pay for it. The Lord Korak and Lady Arshalous are both wealthy and, I think, can be persuaded to support the project. For his part Korak has been voluble in his support of it, although I doubt he understands the issue fully. The Lady Arshalous is not, I think, as favourably inclined toward it, but I believe we can convince her.”

“I have heard that she is opposed to the project entirely, Majesty. Why not seek out the support of one more…amenable?”

“Would it not be more effective to have one initially opposed to the temple agree to fund it?” the King replied. “More than that, would it not be pleasing to our people for a Lady to support the new temple, as well? It might also help me quell any problems with the High Priestess Zamara. Besides, the Lady Arshalous is powerful and rich, but she remains a single woman, and an insecure one at that. It shouldn’t be hard to convince her of the…benefits of cooperating with us.” A slow smile crossed the Chamberlain’s face. He had never been overly fond of the Lady Arshalous, to whom he was distantly related through marriage. “Go Jarult, and send for the Lord Korak and Lady Arshalous. Bid them join me in my apartments within the hour.”

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

Dark clouds loomed over the countryside. Green fields changed shades with the rolling clouds or bright sunlight. Morning mist still hung in the air – dewdrops still clung to their blades of grass. She felt the fresh, crisp air hit her face and whip unmercifully at her tightly wound little braids. Gjeelea’s eyes flashed as she ran through the fields, with the colors of the sky and of the ground damp and dreary. The princess had never felt such lush, green grass beneath her feet; she reveled in the strange feeling and painless itch of flimsy blades beneath her toes and heels. She wondered where exactly she was, and just as the thought fluttered through her mind, a colorful little insect fluttered past her vision.

The butterfly could not have known it was doomed.

Gjeelea skipped lightly through the fields, chasing the funny little winged thing, wishing she could touch it. When the yellow butterfly decided to take the risk of resting on a nearby moss-covered rock, Gjeelea took her opportunity. She leapt after the butterfly, grasping for it as she landed hard and heavy on the rock. Gjeelea groaned for a moment, waiting for the pain of the landing to wear off. Then, smiling in a faint manner, she opened up her cupped hands just a sliver so that she could see what waited inside. She could feel the soft velvet of delicate wings; she knew she had caught the butterfly.

Her smile wilted when she saw the broken body and tattered wings of the dead – or dying – insect. She had crushed it.

“Life is a series of little deaths…out of which, princess, more life always seems to emerge,” Gjeelea heard the voice behind her, a deep, low-pitched voice that spoke to her softly, meekly…hesitantly. Turning around Gjeelea saw a young man, with thick dark hair and big, innocent eyes of the same color innocently staring up at her. The taller being looked so familiar; Gjeelea recognized the person...that much she knew. Still, she could not place a name to the calm, quiet face that stared directly back at her. His calm demeanor and quiet disposition reminded her of Siamak. Eyes of the deepest brown flicked up to meet Gjeelea’s own hazel eyes, startling Gjeelea as she grew disgusted holding the remains of the dead insect in her palm. The boy blinked suddenly. Upon reopening his eyes, the color had changed to the palest shade of blue that the princess had ever seen, not unlike the eyes of the foreign soldiers.

Before Gjeelea could think to say anything, another person joined them. This person Gjeelea recognized immediately; she knew her father’s face well enough, even in dream. In his presence, Gjeelea looked over at the young man and now knew the face for sure; it was indeed Siamak. The head of Faroz was bare, and in his hands the princess saw the familiar silver crown that had so often adorned her father’s head. Faroz moved closer to the two younger people and lifted the chaplet high up into the air. He let it hover in the air above the boy next to Gjeelea. After this pause he let the crown rest in the space above Gjeelea’s head. A confused look came over the king’s face, and Gjeelea wondered if he was deciding who deserved the crown more.

“Me," Gjeelea thought to herself, though Faroz lowered his gaze to hers like he had heard her hope. Instead of placing the crown on either child’s head, Faroz lowered his crown and dropped it into the grass. Then the king turned on his heels and walked away. Instead of dropping to get the crown, both children looked to each other, directly at each other, and smiled.

Shooting up from her bed quicker than the eye could blink, Gjeelea laboriously heaved air into her lungs and wiped the sweat from her brow. She fleetingly flicked her gaze about the room, and shook her head violently to clear her thoughts. The dream troubled her greatly, for she did not know the meaning of it. Why had Faroz not chosen? Why did he walk away? Most importantly, why did she and Siamak not fight or argue for it? She pondered these questions as she got ready for the day. Gjeelea had more to do than usual; she had two meetings to attend, one with her mother and one with her brother and the Emissary. Gjeelea also planned on making a visit to the temples.

Things had been set in motion by the arrival of the Emissary, that much was completely certain now to Gjeelea. She knew very well now that the question of who would be the heir to the throne was at the forefront of many people’s minds. She knew even better that Siamak was also aware of that fact.

Gjeelea fully realized her need to stay one step ahead of her brother.

[Firefoot]

Siamak woke with a yawn and a stretch in a pleasant mood. Something... important had happened yesterday, he recalled. In a few moments, the previous day’s events came crashing back to memory, and Siamak shut his eyes again and pulled the light coverlets over his head with a groan, as if to undo the entire time sequence that had been yesterday. The Emissary, his new responsibilities and power, and Morgôs’ oath to him could all go away and life would be normal again. The last, which had seemed like such a good idea last night, now seemed immensely foolish, though he remembered full well his reasons. What if his father found out? The decision that he made last night had been easy enough, but now he had to live with it.

A bird twittering away outside the window caught his attention. Siamak thought that he might like to be a bird - what did they have to worry about anyhow? It seemed like a very easy and appealing life right then.

Siamak knew that he could not escape reality, however, and resignedly rose from his bed to begin the day. Soon he would have to go and meet with his mother, but there was still plenty of time before then.

About that time Okarid slipped in through the door, saying, “M’lord Siamak? Oh, good, you’re up.” He held a covered tray with Siamak’s breakfast on it and set it down on a table in the front room.

“Unfortunately,” Siamak muttered. Out loud, he said drearily, “Yes, and I will be meeting my mother sometime this morning, and the Emissary in the afternoon, and possibly General Morgôs later on.”

“Busy day, then,” said Okarid. “The General Morgôs? I was unaware that you were acquainted with him.” Okarid began to move about the wardrobe and bedroom, selecting Siamak’s clothes for the day.

“I wasn’t... until last night. After the banquet we spoke. The General offered fealty to me, and... I accepted,” informed Siamak. Okarid raised his eyebrows, clearly surprised, but otherwise took the news in stride.

“I see,” was all he said before changing the subject. “I heard about the King’s announcement - what are you going to do?”

“Good question. Once I figure it out I’ll get back to you.” Siamak sighed. By this time he was dressed and Okarid had begun to comb his hair and carefully braid his beard. “I still don’t trust the Emissary, though. Something’s wrong.”

“I caught a glimpse of him last night,” said Okarid conversationally. “He is very... interesting. He comes across as a strong personality.” Siamak nodded mutely - both descriptions matched the Emissary perfectly. Siamak did not try to continue conversation, and Okarid took the hint. There was too much to think about for idle chatter.

Siamak was soon ready for the day and Okarid had no more tasks for the morning. Ordinarily, he would have stuck around until Siamak was ready to leave his quarters, but this morning Siamak preferred solitude and Okarid left him to his breakfast. Siamak barely tasted it, concentrating instead upon his brooding thoughts. The heightened confidence he had felt late last night had fled, along with any eagerness he had to shape his own future. He should not have expected them to remain - they weren’t really part of him, he supposed, and he could only be who he was. But who am I, really? he wondered. He was Siamak, lacking confidence and wishing to be free of duty. But he was also the Prince, a title that entailed certain responsibility. Which was he? Was it possible to be both? He did not know, and felt most unqualified to be the latter. For that matter, was Gjeelea qualified to be princess? Princess, maybe, but not queen - no more than he felt he should be king. It had to be one of the two, of course, but which? Did qualification really have anything to do with it? He wished to be free of his duties, but would not that make him even more unqualified? His station was one thing he could not change, and he supposed that meant that he would have to do the best that he could. Meaning that he would have to take charge and voice his opinions more often, and now he had come in a complete circle.

All of these thoughts were rather disturbing, and Siamak did not know whether any of it mattered, nor whether he had accomplished anything. He hoped his appointments this day would make his mind clearer, for now it was a muddled mess. He knew he had to make some decision soon, in order to have any say at all in the matter. Otherwise, his only say would be in name, and the choice would ultimately belong to Gjeelea. No good.

Siamak felt that he must surely be going insane from anticipation. He only wished that it were not quite so early; otherwise he could just head over to meet his mother already. He was fidgety; he needed something to do. Seeing no readily available activities, he sprung up from his seat and began pacing, counting steps just for something to take his mind off the present situation.

He did not know how long he paced, but after a while he became aware that it was finally late enough for him to go to his mother. He might be a little bit early, but certainly not too early. He took his time in the hallways, allowing some extra time to pass, though not much, since the way was not long. The guards let him through with a word of announcement to the Queen. Gjeelea was not there yet, nor had he expected her to be, and even though he had decided not to let himself be intimidated by her, he was still relieved by her absence.

“Good morning, Mother,” he said pleasantly.

[Bêthberry]

The sky, as it always did in Pashtia, brightened quickly once the sun sought the horizon. A clear strong blue all the way to the mountains, over which Bekah could see the usual tumbling mass of clouds. The white light of the sun caught roof tops and towers, directing a hard edge to every building in the city and then turning the very sands of the desert into a shimmering mirror which trapped all sight, blinding even from this distance. Bekah had always hated the directness of the sun, its forceful rays harshly cutting into eyes and blinding personal perception, crushing any chance for enlightenment by insisting upon its own being. Sun and lightening, she had always thought, were cruel agents of power.

[i]What has brought those thoughts to my mind now?[/i} she wondered. It had been a long, long night with all chance of sleep fled with the soft wind which brought continual whispers to her ears. Twice in one day Faroz had come to her chambers. Twice! And when had she last seen him here? Years it had been. Had she met him correctly? Had she done what was right? What was he seeking? Bekah had nearly followed him out, or held him back, to ask him what thoughts were prompting his actions. She had even toyed with the idea of seeking him out in his quarters, something unheard of. Would he have allowed it? What would have happened? She shuttered, once again fearful.

Yet something was unfraying the carefully wrought tapestry of their life and realm. All the strands seemed to be slipping out of place and wanting attention, needing mending.. That chll she felt last night, here in her very room, so like the chill in her courtyard and momentarily at the banquet. What was it? Not even her shawl could save her from it.

A knock at her bedroom door brought her out of her thoughts and Homay entering, calling her to her bath. This was her bath, for her day, not the ceremonial preparation for the formal audience with the King. She slipped into the waters and allowed Homay to scent the bath and pour more water over her. It was cooling and calming and she stretched her tired muscles through the water, feeling each pore awake to the soft sensation of the water.

It was then Bekah decided that she must not allow the Emissary to make an enemy of her. He must not come between the King and his country or between the King and his Queen. Yet she feard damage almost insurmountable had already been done, in a mere day.

Homay dried her hair and dressed her, simply in a robe of turquoise and called the other servants in with breakfast. She ate quietly with the old servant, enjoying the cool yogurt with its flavouring more intense than last night and the fruits. The bread she tore into little pieces, more to fidget with it than to eat it.

"You are quiet this morning, my Lady."

"There is much to consider."

"The new stranger has brought strange decisions and discord." It was a statement, not a question.

"Yes, Homay, he has. Or perhaps he arrives merely at the time when we have much to consider and he adds something unknown to the questions. I of all people should beware of making unfair assumptions about strangers."

"Yet you have, even knowing what you know. Perhaps you are not wrong."

"Perhaps. Still, Homay, I must guard against pushing him away before I understand him. Or rather, before I understand what he means to the King."

'I have news from your brother."

"You have? How fairs he?"

"He is well and his lady. He sends you his regards and a message."

"Written?"

"No, lady. He says he speaks to his sister with courtesy and kindness and hopes she is well. He thanks her for her gifts for his latest child and bids her know that he has chosen from the Alanzian court the child's oath-guardians."

Bekah thought quietly about the news. "So he chose not to accept me or Faroz. He is either leary of peace or unwilling to pursue it."

"I know not, Lady."

Off in the distance they could both catch the voices of the choir at the temple singing the morning' s praises. "I wish both my half-brother and my husband could listen to song. I wonder if the Emissary does," mused Bekah allowed

Homay made no reply, but had the sevants clear the breakfast away. Bekah returned to her balcony, where she watched the slow rise of the heat of the day as the noises of the markets now could be heard. She wondered what Faroz was doing and wished she could see him, privately, when they could talk, without formalities. Her thoughts were broken by a voice not unwelcome, however.

"Hello Mother"

"Siamak! Good morning to you!" Bekah greeted her son with a light caress of each side of his head and a kiss upon his forehead. "Have you slept well? Do you need refreshments?"

"No Mother, I just ate. And it was easy to sleep after a long banquet."

"It was? Ah, yes, the sleep of youth comes easily. I fear we should begin our talk with your sister. Come, see some of the tapestries we have and give ourselves over to pleasant thoughts while we wait for her."

[Novnarwen]

Tarkan

Finally the Priest had dozed off and lay silently on the cold stone floor fast asleep. He had been awake all night, sitting quietly by himself, enjoying the tranquillity, thinking. The banquet had not been what he had hoped for. He'd not taken advantage of this feast to talk to the Emissary, or approach him in any other way. Naturally, he regretted this. It bothered him that he could not yet form a fair opinion of him, as he did not yet know what he thought of him; on which ground could he trust or distrust him? He had wondered. The whole night through, he had reproached himself of not contacting with the Stranger. He could have, but he hadn't. Instead, Tarkan had watched Zamara taking the initiative he should have taken and headed over to the royal table, exchanging a few words with the newly arrived man. He himself had sat still on his cushion, as if glued to the floor.

In his dreams the images that roamed around in his head were the same; Zamara rising briskly, clutching her staff in one hand, walking with stern steps to greet the Emissary. The face of the Emissary glowed in an odd light, being surrounded with some queer figures he could not make out properly. The King, his half-brother, was talking and listening attentively to every word the stranger said, his eyes widening as soon as something of interest was being said. His body grew tense due to the curiosity; what were the King and the Emissary talking about? The image of Gjeela made him relax; she had been stunningly beautiful at the banquet. He had watched her whenever had had the chance to. He had rested his eyes on her charming face, of where her hazel brown eyes dominated. The sapphire blue robe she had worn had fitted her perfectly and the confidence she reflected was admirable. Would the King let him, the Priest, have her?

A smile passed his lips, as the rays of the sun pierced through the thick velvet curtains and woke him up. Quickly, he concluded that it was early morning, which meant that he hadn’t slept long. He rose hurriedly; he was still wearing his fine clothing he had worn at the banquet the evening before. Therefore, he sought out the dressing room where he could find something suitable for today's events. Finding a dark purple mantle, a pair of dark trousers and a white shirt, he dressed. In addition to this, he put on his finest pair of shoes; black leather boots, which nearly reached him to his knees. The priest watched himself in the mirror, tall as a tree, pale as the moon, but proud and lit with new energetic life. He blinked, seeing the reflection do the same. He did not know what it was, but he felt as light as a feather. It seemed to him that everything surrounding him was a long distance off; he was either too hungry to pay attention to anything around him, thus everything seeming so odd, or he was too tired to even realise that everything was the same.

Seeing that everything was to his satisfaction, he turned and left his apartments.

The first thing, or person, he sought out was Pelin; a man who also served at the temple, who hade become a good assistant and friend. Tarkan tasted the word 'friend', much astounded that he dared use it. Was Pelin a real friend, or was he just an asset he chose to use whenever he needed to? He frowned, not knowing the answer. Curious about this, it struck him that he didn't have any friends, or at least not any whom he knew of. Did Pelin think of him as a friend? Furthermore, what was a real friend?

He halted, stood silent for a few seconds, listening carefully with his ear glued to the door in hope to hear the sound of Pelin being awake and thus able to come with Tarkan. His eyes narrowed. He imagined hearing footsteps. Smiling faintly, he knocked excitedly at the door. Tarkan waited impatiently, soon hearing someone approach the door.

"Tarkan?!"

"Pelin, you're up!" The Priest said happily, stepping inside, pushing the man aside, slamming the door shut and locking it. "How wonderful," he continued, ignoring the expression Pelin bore in his face. (He looked immensely surprised by the unexpected visit.) Tarkan clapped his hands together, found his way to the biggest room of his 'friend's' apartment and settled down on the floor on one of the softest cushions. He looked at Pelin questioningly, expecting the man to do something. "Well . . ." he said, grinning;” get dressed! Hurry! Aren’t' you hungry?" Pelin nodded quickly, looking quite relieved that nothing seemed to be wrong. "Hurry then!" With that, the young man obeyed the Priest, but not without being slightly hesitant. It could be read in his eyes that he was greatly surprised by the Priest's behaviour. He had never shown up in Pelin's apartments like this before; it had always been the other way around, and if the priest had paid him a visit, something he almost never did, it had certainly not been this time of day.

Seeing Pelin off to get dressed, Tarkan took the advantage of this opportunity and got up from the cushion. He looked around. The young man seemed to own more than him, but even so he did not look wealthier. By the look of his furniture, tables, shelves, cushions and so forth, the man who lived her had a lack of taste. The room, and the furniture, reflected no elegance at all. Things were stowed away in the corners, as if hidden, but it was still visible for everyone's eyes to see. He made a grimace, curling his lips in distaste.

"Are you well?"

The sound of Pelin’s voice rung in his ears. The priest, busy walking around, picking up items and thinking of the man's poor taste, had not seen that Pelin had approached him. He smiled gently, not knowing what to say. Pelin's way of living was none of his business, and for a moment he wondered why he cared at all. Was this friendship, perhaps?

"All is well, Pelin. I'm just hungry," came the reply. "I see you are dressed! Excellent! Now let us leave!"

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

Gjeelea's light sandals shuffled along the tile floor of the hallway as she walked briskly to her mother's apartments. She could hardly concentrate on going the right way, for she was too busy wondering why her mother had called her and Siamak to her rooms. Gjeelea made several wrong turns, careless mistakes that she did not realize she had made until she found herself in a completely different wing than the one she meant to go to. When she finally did find her mother's apartments Gjeelea was still wondering why it weighed so heavily on her mind.

Big doors loomed in front of her, and guards stood around them with looks of complete and utter boredom on their faces. They let Gjeelea through, and the princess knocked on the polished wood, passively eyeing the intricately inlaid gold trim on the doors as she waited for it to be opened. When it finally was opened, Gjeelea was welcomed by Homay, her mother's maid. With a tight smile Homay opened the doors wide for Gjeelea to enter. The princess gave a smile in return, a smile as honest as she could make it as she stepped into the quarters of the queen. Homay led her away, and Gjeelea listened half-heartedly as the kind old woman informed her where Siamak and her mother waited for her.

Standing with her brother in the corner looking at tapestries, Gjeelea could hear her mother explaining something about the difficulties of weaving to him. Her lovely, though rather simple turquoise robe rustled with the slightest movement. Gjeelea had learned many things from her mother, and spent more time with her than she had ever spent with the king.

"Good morning, Mother," Gjeelea promted, and she watched as both her mother and brother turned from their conversation to look at her. Siamak certainly looked more like Bekah, for reasons Gjeelea could not quite place. Something about her brother reminded her of her mother, and it bothered Gjeelea that she could not figure out why. His eyes? Maybe it was his smile. The princess looked to the younger sibling. "And to you as well, dear brother."

[Kransha]

Fealty in Pashtia, and the swearing of it, was simple, but important. Unlike in certain nomadic tribes’ political structures, Pashtian fealty did not mean boundless loyalty, it simply meant “alliance” with some noticeable perks. Swearing fealty was the equivalent of promising to back someone, sponsor them financially and with what power was available. An officer of the army swearing fealty meant that he would use his power and rank to support the recipient of his fealty in his endeavors. Siamak, though, would have to be careful. He had probably not had many important persons extend their favor to him yet, since no one wanted to risk giving fealty to the child who might not be heir. According to old customs, he was not supposed to make his supporters publicly known. It was an odd custom, but one that seemed to make sense. Until the heir was chosen, all those who favored Siamak would contribute what they could to him: money, training, teaching, and whatever they could give, rather than announcing their loyalty. By the time the heir was chosen, the King’s choice might be swayed by the experience and wisdom, as well as newfound wealth, of his son – and chose him as the rightful heir. Swearing allegiance to Siamak, Morgôs was risking a great deal. If Gjeelea became Queen, he could not change his alliance, and Siamak would have to publicly implicate all of his supporters. Morgôs would be stuck as the acolyte of a bereft lord, doomed to be second to his sister, and the Queen would hold his preference against him as long as she lived. But, Morgôs knew that his strength, and tutoring, could make a man of the prince. Siamak would be king.

Suddenly, he felt underhanded. He was loyal, staunchly, to his king, but he felt as if, in some subtle way, he was manipulating the spectrum to suit his devices. He swore fealty not to the new king, but to a man who shared his opinions, and he planned to elevate in power. From what he’d heard, Gjeelea was not in favor of the Avari, generally, and he suspected Korak was not either. Siamak, on the other hand, extended his favor to men and Elven-kind alike. He could be trusted not to distance Pashtian mortals from immortals, as his mother or sister might desire. Similarly, Gjeelea seemed most untrustworthy, and everything Morgôs heard about Lord Korak implicated dissolution in the nobleman, a kind that should not be seated on a throne. If Gjeelea and Korak became the rulers of Pashtia, it would mark, almost definitely, the end of Pashtia’s golden age. For years after the death of Faroz’ father, Pashtia had been nowhere near its former heights. The father of Faroz, former king, had indulged expansion and cultivation of his land. He’d been worshipped, thought by some to be the sired child of Rea himself, but those were myths. That king, like Faroz, had supported Morgôs’ endeavors but, unlike the present monarch, he had spurred him to marvelous conquest…though Morgôs did not particularly relish conquest.

The throne could not afford a blow like this; a corrupt lord and a gossipy girl vying for it. No, it needed a strong leader, one who knew that denying the Avari there rightful place was folly, and that things had to be done, great things. Morgôs was no hound of war, no vainglorious philosopher, but his loyalty to Faroz was only dented by his dissatisfied attitude towards the man. He had enough angst to dwell on without nostalgia, and, although war was not a good thing, making too many alliances might place Pashtia in a precarious situation. The next king would need the backing of the Avari and of the army as well. Siamak could be that man, like his grandfather, but not necessarily as haughty or ambitious. Perhaps, if all went well, Morgôs could train Siamak further – not only in the ways of war. It was a manipulative, covetous thought that ran through the Elf’s mind, one which was uncharacteristic in the extreme and it soon left him but, again, he felt the bizarre pleasantry of it, and felt as if he needed to think more thoughts such as this one.

But, he was preoccupied. He instead thought of his wife and son. He had not seen them in some hours. Ever since last night’s banquet, he had been out and about, only able to bid his family farewell and wish them good night. He had ridden all through Kanak to get to the headquarters of the capital’s guards and put together a slapdash squad that was to guard the Emissary’s villa, and a small unit that was designed to guard the queen, stationed in her lavish gardens. He had then ridden, with the first squad, to the guest villa of the westerners, and explained, as King Faroz had told him, the necessity of these guards. Now, he was again riding, this time to the expansive training fields on Kanak’s western fringe. The training exercises of the Pashtian Foreguard had never been completed the day before, because of the Emissary’s arrival, and they had been rescheduled to this morning. So, Morgos was obligated to attend.

It had been trendy to be seen riding a noble beast in Kanak, a horse of good breeding, but that fad went out of style after the conclusion of the Pashtian conquests, when the alliance with Alanzia was made. The walking fashion had diffused over Kanak from Alanzia. Queen Bekah and her train did not use horses. Faroz, being polite, did not do so either, and soon, no one was. Morgôs, on the other hand, required a swift mount, as his duties took him all around the city, and outside of it, on almost a daily basis. Horses, though, were not as long-lived as Elves. Mortal soldiers might bond with the steeds that bore them through thick and thin, but Morgôs could develop no attachments. He’d ridden more than twenty steeds in all of his days, who were named in records somewhere or other. At the Battle of Keldoraz, he’d had one shot out from under him, impaled with Alanzian shafts, and another stricken while he rode through the thick of battle, the carcass of the creature nearly crushing him at the time. His current transportation was a more regal steed, groomed for speed and grace rather than war. This horse had never worn the pitted battle armor of a general’s mount, except once, four years ago, at a rather pompous parade marking the twentieth anniversary of the formation of the Pashtian-Alanzian alliance. It was a thin creature, but its mane and hide shimmered with a gentle sheen that nearly glowed in the light of the morning sun, and its head was proud, neck arched upward to the sky. It was a pretty horse, certainly, but wouldn’t last a minute in pitch battle.

Kanak was a brilliant sight to see, but not for the Elven general. He had seen things greater and more terrible. The grandeur of the city waned, though, as Morgôs reached the outskirts. The walls lowered, the roofs lowered, and the sun seemed to go higher in the sky as thick tiled streets gave way to cobblestones, covered with a few meager weeds. At last, the cobblestones became dusty dirt, with makeshift paths, and the buildings disappeared behind, leaving small structures that cluttered the fringes of Kanak. Then, new structures sprang up, with high pointed roofs that swayed, with banners and pennons fluttering in the warm Pashtian wind. Pavilions and tents, filling the eaves of the city, fenced in by a low, thin stone wall. Past the many tents lay an expansive field, also walled in behind the thick outer walls of the city. The field was composed of dirt and some patches of grass, the whole area roughly a quarter league square, huge and barren. Upon it, soldiers mulled and mustered, marching, running, and meandering to and fro across it. They were preparing for the training exercises of that day.

Morgôs easily reined his steed in as his horse pulled through the gates of training ground walls and onto a path of flattened stones, into which several other paths converged. These roads led throughout the camp og the Pashtian army. Morgôs, as his braying horse trotted neatly to a stop, was greeted by a number of armored guards, whose plated pauldrons glistened in daylight. “General, welcome.” Said one, as the other two took the reins of Morgôs’ mount and helped him from it, “The exercises will not resume for a little while yet.” The General swung himself nimbly from the horse’s back, landing with Elven grace on the earth, and moved towards the guard. “Then I am early?” he said, hopefully.

“Yes, General, but not unlawfully so. Captains Aysun, Iskender, Memnon, and Adbullar are waiting in the strategic pavilion on the training fields, and they have sent word that you should meet with them. They have an issue to discuss with you, one relating to the Emissary from the west.” Morgôs knew the guard was referring to his seconds, the various commanders of the army. They usually had something to discuss with him, so this was not unordinary. Succinctly, Morgôs followed behind the guard who, taking cue from the General, hurried off towards the commissioned officer’s strategic pavilion, which was nearby.

[Nurumaiel]

Lord Korak paced restlessly up and down, scowling darkly here and there, kicking at the rugs, and releasing his anger in any other way he found possible. His mother did not flinch when his fist came down heavily upon a table he passed, but she sat gazing at him with eyes full of sorrow, and she was as still as a stone, save her hands, which fumbled at the folds of her clothing. He cast a look at her face once, and paused for the briefest moment at her sad and gentle face, and he felt some regret at her unhappiness. A memory of sitting by her knee and letting her hand stroke his hair flitted through his mind, but he rallied himself and scowled at how sentimental she was, and he continued his pacing.

There was a silence, and then he stopped and flung his arms in the air in complete abandonment to frustration. "What a family I am cursed with!" he cried. His mother did flinch this time, and he felt a quick pang of anger towards his own self for having said such a thing in her presence. "I do not mean you, Mother," he said, hastily, and moving towards her to take her hand. "I speak of the Lady Arshalous. She has no other aim in life but to torment me with her sharp words and cunning glances. She has injured me, she has injured my most trustworthy servant, and she has injured you, too, my mother, for I see the lines of sorrow upon your face."

Lady Hababa stroked her son's hand with great tenderness. "Oh, son, my injuries are inflicted by you, not by her," she murmured.

He drew himself up stiffly, and said sharply: "What do you mean, Mother? What have I done to harm you?"

"Truly do you speak when you say that I am pained by your cousin's behaviour towards you, but it pains me more to see my son speak bitter words and laugh in cruel mockery at the daughter of my sweet sister." A tear rose to her eye, but she did not brush it away, for with both hands now she had gripped his own, and she stared earnestly into his face. "It is hard, my son, so hard to live amongst those whose only pleasure is to harm those who should be nearest and dearest to them. Do you think I do not notice how much hate fills you? I grow old, son, but wiser and keener, and yet more prone to be wounded by foolish hatreds."

"Be that as it may, Mother," said Korak, and he pulled his hand away from her, "my cousin is a poisonous snake, and I cannot help but hate her who hates me." He saw that she opened her mouth to speak, so he moved quickly to the door, saying: "I intend to go out riding, Mother, and try to calm myself with the fresh air."

"You will return to me in a better mood, I hope," she said, but there was the smallest hint of a question in her words.

He stopped at the door, and felt much annoyance that she should suggest that his mood was ill, and he turned with a sharp reply upon his lips. But his eyes fell upon her face, and he saw not only the sorrow and weariness but the maternal love in her expression, and so he replied, though with reluctance: "Yes, Mother." And then he left the room. She bowed her head and let the tear in her eye fall.

Morashk was skulking about just outside the door, and the Lord Korak turned on him with a scowl, for he had been taken by surprise by the figure hiding in the shadows. "I am going out riding, Morashk," he said. "You will stay here and be carekeeper of this home while I am gone. If the Lady Arshalous calls, as she might to spite me, tell her I am away, and send her up to my mother."

Morashk grimaced at the mention of the cousin's name, and his long, clawlike fingers curled into fists. Yet he nodded smoothly to the order, and promised obedience to fulfill them. He followed his master through the halls of magnificent stonework, and then to the stables to help him prepare his steed. Lord Korak waved aside any assistance, and saddled his horse himself, and likewise refused help to mount. He directed his mount away from the city and towards the country-land, and averted his face so it could not be seen by his servant when he said: "Morashk, I also bid you watch after my mother, and take care that she does not grow too lonely." And then he spurred his horse, and rode hard away from his home and away from his city.

[Imladris]

Arshalous was not surprised when Morashk opened the door with a slight bow and a cunning glance. "Lord Korak is out...you will have no one to loose your venom upon."

She gave him a withering glare. It was pathetic how Korak looked to Morashk for aide in the cat fights that took place between the two of them. It was...Arshalous sought for a word that would describe it....it was weak....almost, but not quite, cowardly. "Then it is good that I have not come to bandy words with Korak," she said shortly, stepping into the dim lit atrium. "No, I have come to visit Lady Hababa."

"I hope you will not wither her spirit," Morashk said snidely as he lead Arshalous into Hababa's chambers.

"Then I would be an ill niece, wouldn't I?" Arshalous said sharply. With an imperious wave of her bejeweled hand, she said, "Leave us."

Arshalous turned and saw her aunt reclining in a low couch beside the crackling fire. Her soft white hair was tied neatly into a mist green scarf and fine needle work dangled from her hands...

Kneeling beside her aunt, Arshalous gathered the small wrinkled hands into her own, kissed them, and said, "Good day, Aunt."

"Arshalous! It has been long since you have come and visited me! And so formal too!" she added, as she wrapped Arshalous in a loving embrace. "The daughter of my beloved sister," she said, putting her hand against Arshalous's cheek.

"You praise me too highly," said Arshalous softly.

"Do tell me what have you been up to?" asked Hababa, her brown eyes twinkling.

What have I been up to Arshalous repeated to herself. "Oh...nothing...of importance," said Arshalous vaguely. She didn't want to talk about the Emissary no matter how admirable she thought she was because that would be politics...and she did not want to talk about the snares of Politcs with her aunt. She was too old to care for such things anyway...

The Lady Hababa smiled softly and said, "Korak is not that bad of a man..."

Arshalous smiled politely.

A loud whinny echoed through the room and Hababa said, "Are you still riding a horse?"

Arshalous managed to snort delicately. "I am not going to quit my riding habits just because the royal family has decided to."

Hababa shrugged slightly and said with a wink, "Korak still rides as well."

That surprised Arshalous. She would have thought that he would have quit riding just to suckle up to the throne. Maybe her cousin did have a backbone after all...

[Kransha]

The strategic was the largest pavilion on the grounds, larger than all the personal tents and yurts erected for soldiers or officers. The pavilion had several stem-off rooms, and was held up by strong cords. It was the temporary strategic headquarters, for informal occasions, of Pashtian generals. The actual War Room of the captains was a marble complex, which also held munitions, supplies, training facilities, and the other necessaries, which was built integrated into the training ground walls. The strategic pavilion was large, made from the strongest, thickest cloth, the color of stone and marble, streaked with purple stripes and adorned with many regal banners bearing symbols and motifs. The inside of the tent was strangely dark, the floor carpeted with fine fur, and held many tables, cushions, and racks of weaponry, maps, scrolls, or other similar objects.

Inside the pavilion, the first to greet Morgôs was Gyges, who he’d seen the night before, his adjutant lieutenant. With a bare grin, he saluted the General properly, and Morgôs returned the gesture. Nearby, seated on a cushion beside a long, broad slab of polished wood that acted as a table, was Lieutenant Adbullar, who promptly rose and saluted as well. Adbullar was the commander of the Foreguard of the Pashtian army, the frontal cavalry division that was the forefront of all Pashtian forces in battle. Beside him sat Memnon, captain of the unit known as the Midguard, in Pashtia, which was always the focal point of the Pashtian line, a division that was also consisted primarily of cavalry, fast moving, horse-riding spearmen and lancers who backed up Pashtia’s famed cavalry archers. Captain Aysun, who was hunched over the table across from Morgôs, was the Rearguard commander, whose horse-swordsmen covered the back and flanks of the Pashtian forces. Last was Iskender, who stood to Aysun’s left, the wizened captain of the entire Pashtian infantry, units of pikemen to fend off enemy cavalry, most efficient against dealing with nomadic enemies. The only captain missing was Nesryn, who was the commander of the Pashtian artillery and an Avari like Morgôs.

“General Morgôs, I am glad you’re here.” said Adbullar, gesturing for Morgôs to sit at his appointed place at the table. He was a middle-aged mortal, stern and talkative, but intelligent enough not to be thought a fool. He was not the epitome of a man, but looked as if his lot in life should have been that of a lord in Faroz’s court. “Likewise, Adbullar.” Morgôs said solemnly and made his way to the cushion offered to him. He was still wearing his elaborate court garb, whereas his captains all wore varying military uniforms, tasseled and adorned with medals and pins of a sort, their finest probable, Self-conscious because of this, Morgôs sat in the billowing length of his robe and leaned forward onto the table as the others sat down, taking their places around the circular slab. “Now,” said the General, his voice cold, “what urgency requires my presence?”

“Nothing so pressing, sir: simply some minor repercussions.”

“Repercussions of what?” Morgôs questioned, curious and disconcerted by the way Adbullar spoke. “The westerners, General.” The captain said in reply, “Not often is the Desert of Ardûn traversed by far-wanderers. Activity such as the coming of the Emissary and his train attract attention in the Burning Sands, and from the peoples who move there. The few sedentary people will take no notice, but hostile tribes might have followed the Emissary towards Pashtia, attracted by the look of them. In the past, this has occurred many times.” Morgôs halted him here, chiding him deftly: “There is no need to remind me of the past, Adbullar, I know it better than you. Tribal warlords and their primitive minions are no match for Pashtian walls and blades. This matter should not require my attention.”

“No, sir, it should not, save for aesthetic benefits of the situation. Word has it from scouts that some overtly organized tribesmen mass in some numbers, perhaps over a hundred men but not much more, just beyond the northwestern walls of Durvelt. Their minds are unperceivable, and we can only guess that they plan to raid Durvelt in an attempt to catch up with the Emissary in Pashtia and plunder his goods as well as sack the town. Of course, even the militiamen of Durvelt could hold out against tribesmen. But, this gives a magnificent opportunity. The political situation in Kanak is one of unsettlement and, in some respects, volatile with the Emissary’s coming, but it can be soothed. An all-out military victory over the tribesmen, witness by the King, his family, and the Emissary, could prove to be the perfect salve.”

“It is overkill.”

“Precisely!” blurted Adbullar, “Instead of throwing some grand parade or military exhibition, we can take the Foreguard of Pashtia to Durvelt within the week, with the royal family and the Emissary in tow, and make a fine exhibition of our victory. The Emissary could get a glimpse of our military prowess, the troops morale would be raised, the King would be impressed, and perhaps allot more funding to the army. No matter what, we can benefit from a full-scale attack and overwhelming of the raiders on the border. ”

There was an unsteady silence. No captain spoke for a few moments, and all eyed were fixed upon Morgôs Elrigon. Soon, a deeper, thicker voice spoke up in agreement. It was Memnon’s. “General;” said the Captain, “it is indeed an efficient plan, and Adbullar is right about the benefits.” Morgôs looked at him, almost as a man betrayed, but then became curious again. “So,” he said quietly, rising in a somber fashion from his seat, “you wish for my permission.”

“No, General,” said Iskender, swiftly cutting him off as the last syllable of the General’s sentence fell from his lips, “we want you to lead the Foreguard to victory. It is no great victory, but a spectacle it shall be all the same, one that will fill Pashtia with the pride it has lost.” Morgôs waited no time before pointing out the initial flaw. “That is Adbullar’s duty.” He said, but Adbullar quickly stood, snapping to attention, and said, “I will accompany you as a lieutenant, rather than lead in your place.” Next Aysun stood up. “As will we all.” He said, “We should all be present with the present courtiers; docents for the Emissary.”

“The Captains of Pashtia reduced to tour guides?” Morgôs objected, irritated. This endeavor seemed like a flashy attempt at securing more glory for the Pashtian armies, and a waste of money for the kingdom. He looked, as if for advice, to Gyges, who had been standing conspicuously silent throughout the dialogue. Morgôs wondered about this, since Gyges was often talkative, and eager to join in conversations of this sort, but he was considering something else, something distracting. Morgôs was nearly distracted as well, if Adbullar’s voice had not snapped him back to the immediate present. “No, not so.” He said, doing little to assuage the fears of the General, “This is to procure political stability, not to make us look like fools.”

“But,” Morgôs said, “what wil it achieve.”

There was a painfully uncomfortable silence that filled the air then. The Captains had been dealt a defeating blow with this question. They could reiterate what they’d said before, but the stern wisdom of their general’s voice told them that repetition would not be a suitable reply. Instead, they stood, all risen now from their seats, pondering, searching for an answer. The wind blew gently against supple cloth that made up the pavilion, causing it to undulate gently above them, creating the sound of whispering that filled their ears. Still, all was silent – until Morgôs himself broke the tenuous calm. “It shall be done soon enough, a week perhaps.” He said, startling all of his commanders immensely, “I must sort things out in the court. The situation with the Emissary has made things…more complicated. I will try to make the proper arrangements. In the meantime, Adbullar, select squads of the Foreguard to go to Durvelt, and all of you appoint a squad of your respective commands to be representatives of their divisions, which will accompany us there.”

Again, a long silence came. Nervously, Iskender spoke up. “It is a good choice, General.”

“For now, it is.” The General acknowledged icy cold.”

Luckily for all, the uneasy conversation was closed when the voice of a lieutenant issued through the tent-flap of the pavilion. “General, Captains,” said the officer, “today’s exercises are about to begin.”

[Nurumaiel]

Lady Hababa looked tenderly down upon her niece, but the sorrow still lingered upon her face, for whenever she mentioned her son, Arshalous' face filled with spite and hate. But the Lady spoke no words to show her sorrow, and the only exterior manifestation of the sorrow was the expression upon her face. Instead she tried to speak lightly, as if no troubles came to their family. "How beautiful you looked last night at the banquet," she said. "The feasting and the music reminded me of the days when I was young and pretty. I met my husband at a banquet, you know, my dear. 'Twas the first banquet I had ever attended; before my parents always kept me at home, for the hours were too late for one so young as I. That night I went for the first time, but my mother was ill and my father determined to stay home with her. I was quite frightened and timid when I arrived at the Palace, for I did not know how to behave. My husband was a young and handsome nobleman, and full of gallantry. He was introduced to me, and allowed me to follow him about through the evening and rely on him for help."

Arshalous smiled, with some encouragement, for Lady Hababa's cheeks flushed rosily and her eyes brightened when she spoke of her husband, and a youthfulness returned to her face that grew wrinkled. "I am glad you enjoyed yourself," said Lady Arshalous.

"I did enjoy myself," said Hababa, "but, dear niece, I wish you and my son would strive to be better towards each other. I do not know how this hatred between you arose, for you were close companions when you were children, but it is a painful thing to see."

"Speaking of your son," said Lady Arshalous, airily, and avoiding an answer to her aunt's plea, "how does he take to the Emissary's words of last night? When he said that the King's son should be King?"

"He did not care overmuch," said the Lady mother. "He was upset at first, though he did not show it at the banquet. He was sulky when we came home, but he told me it does affect him much. The King's word, he says, is all that matters, and not the Emissary's own suggestions." She paused thoughtfully, and then broke out with a vehemence, but with also a deep and desparate longing. "I hope with all my heart that my son does not become King! He grows more corrupt and power-hungry each day, and if the power is given to him I fear there shall be no hope for him, and I have so longed for him to become again the gentle boy he was as a child, who loved freely. At least I hope he will not have the opportunity to inflict the actions of his faults upon the people. He has pained me enough already without extending harm to others."

[alaklondewen]

As Arlomë stepped from the palace entrance out into the city, she shaded her clear blue eyes with one slender hand taking in the hustle and bustle of Kanak in the morning. With her morning tasks for Queen Bekah completed, she wished to spend some time in the temple. The walk to the temple would be a short one, and the elf welcomed the warm sunlight on her cheeks. The wind rustled her deep purple robes and carried the voices of the people that filled the streets to her ears. Kanak was particularly busy this morning as the citizens of Pashtia still had words of the previous evening’s banquet on their lips, and they brought their activities to the market to pass along the rumors heard the night before.

As she strode gracefully along the street, Arlomë paid the human’s idle chatter no heed for she had more pressing matters traversing her mind. The King and Queen had had a heated discussion with the Emissary at the banquet. The three were so emersed in conversation they had forgotten the elven woman was so close, and Arlomë’s keen ears heard almost every word. The Emissary had spoken about the Elves of his land, and even though she had not worried about the other Elven kindreds, what he said startled her and her heart had quickened within her chest. She sorely wished Elrigon had come home after the banquet as she wished to share what she had heard with him, and she hoped she might see him coming around a corner on his noble steed. The Emissary had clearly not wished to share the turmoil between the mortals of the West and the Elves, and what was this evil the Elves brought. Arlomë shivered despite the sun’s warmth as she remembered the touch of the Emissary’s lips to her hand.

Lost in her thoughts, Arlomë was surprised to find herself at the temple’s entrance, and unfortunately no Elven General had crossed her path. The elf paused before the large wooden doors, and then slowly pushed them apart. Light streamed into the dim building from the growing crack between the doors, and the elf delicately slipped through as she watched the dust filled air dance in the rays. After letting her eyes adjust to the dimness, Arlomë shut the tall doors and walked carefully toward the sanctuary for Rhais. As she approached the beautiful statue of the goddess, she noticed the form of the High Priestess crumpled in her humbleness before Rhais. Arlomë halted, momentarily, feeling slightly uncomfortable at seeing the private moment. Silently, she stepped forward and knelt before the statue.

[Bêthberry]

"And to you, dear brother."

Gjeela not lost the art of sarcasm with her newly-granted responsibilities, that much was sure. Bekah had always marvelled how her daughter was so much more verbally sharp than her son. Her children were of equal intelligence, but such different personalities! Gjeela had always been fidgity, active, sometime flighty as her attention had been drawn from one stimulating object or idea to another. Siamak had been the reserved one, sitting calmly for long periods of time and quietly observing things. Bekah had soon learnt he was not passive, for he would always later ask questions about events and things he had seen.

"Gjeela, it is time for you--and Siamak--to leave behind your private feelings for each other and assume your royal duties."

"Mother, why do you assume I have not already?"

"Because," replied Bekah, not without some sense of irony, " I know how dear your brother is to you. In all the forms of courtly and public courtesies, where civillity and politeness are essential, you must be careful never to make a statement that is an outright lie."

"Courtiers do that all the time. And don't you, Mother?"

"Gjeela, are you going to pick a fight?" interjected Siamak.

"Of course not, dear brother. You are the better one at that than I."

"Gjeela, it is true that I often hold back my personal feelings, but that is because there are often times when my personal feelings are not what is required for the good of Pashtia. You and your brother are beginning your first public steps into the dilemma of royalty. In your person you are the country, and you must learn to speak for the country and not yourself."

"Is this why you called us here, Mother?" spoke Siamak, anxious to try to smooth things over.

"Indeed, it is, my son. Come, let us find a place where we can sit comfortably and talk. Homay, please see to the arrangment for this afternoon's affairs." With thoss words, Bekah guided her children into her private room, where a low table had been prepared with fresh fruits and water. It was close enough to her window to look out upon the city beyond the palace, but no so close that their words could be heard from the balcony. The very wind, Bekah knew, had ears to carry their conversation. Not that what she had to say was conspiratorial, but that she simply wished privacy for her children.

"So will you tell us to accept this alliance?" Gjeela asked.

"No, my daughter. I will not tell you what decision to make."

"So why are we here?"

"Impatient one! Listen and reflect and make that conclusion yourself when we are done."

Siamak would have interjected had Bekah not given him a warning glance. She did not favour him, but it is true that she more often found herself embroiled in arguments with her daughter.

"I wish to hear you discuss how you might go about making this decision, what kinds of points you might consider, who you might consult."

"I am already consulting with General Morgôs," replied Siamak, "and in fact,..."

"Find, that is good to know," quickly replied Bekah. "But I want you first to think about some of the history you have learned. Your father was always unhappy that I taught you so much of Alanzia's history. He assumed I was making you too friendly to his former enemy, but he misunderstood my purpose."

"And what was your purpose, Mother?" Gjeela asked.

"I wanted you to know how another culture thought, what its true values were, where those valuse differed from what sometimes the people think they are. I wanted you to understand that when dealing with other countries and cultures you must not assume they are like yours and will react as you do."

"Why was this important?" Siamak asked. "Couldn't you simply have told us what Alanzia was like?"

"Yes, but then that would deny you the opportunity to make your own reflections."

"Do you miss Alanzia, Mother?" asked Gjeela, suddenly.

"I did, much at first, but one important factor finally made me understand something very important about my new land."

The two children looked at her and at each other. Bekah remained silent.

"You won't tell us?" inquired Siamak. She shook her head. "Tell me what you remember about Alanzia."

"It is a strongly centrally controlled government, with all authority held closely by the King," he replied.

"The Avari are under pain of death if they enter it. Justice is swift."

"Indeed. Can you imagine what would have happened had I been a Pashtian princess sent to become a Queen of Alanzia?"

"You would have been mistrusted."

"Worse."

"Worse, Mother?" asked Gjeela.

"Worse, my daughter."

"You would have been removed once your usefulness was over, once you had born children, or the country decided you were no longer a guarantor of peace?" deicded Siamak.

"Yes. You understood your history lessons well. I wish your father could know this."

"And so what are you telling us, Mother?" Gjeela inquired, impatient that Siamak had made a deduction she had not seen.

"I am suggesting you think very hard about what the values are of your country, and learn as much as you can of the Emissary's land and purpose. Tell me, now, What do you understand about alliances between countries?"

Bekah leaned back into the cushions, chewing thoughtfully on some grapes while she waited for her two children to reply. Was she helping them grow to a royal role? She hoped she was.

[Amanaduial the archer]

Zamara, her hands held up crossed at the wrists in front of her as she prayed silently, heard the doors of the temple open and someone enter. The massive doors may have been well-oiled, but they were nonetheless heavy, and the High Priestess knew the temple well enough to detect every noise of movement inside it. And as for the newcomer, well, she knew instantly who that was as well - none could tread the stone floor quite so silently as one.

Finishing her prayer, Zamara bowed her head for a second, then unfolded herself from her kneeling position, rising smoothly to face the statue. She leant forward and flicked a small bell between the goddess's feet with her long nails and it chimed clearly throughout the temple. "Good morning, Arlome," she said, without turning around.

There was a pause. Zamara turned around and smiled at the elf, kneeling at the bottom of the steps to the statue, and Arlome returned it, still looking slightly mystified, but strangely satisfied as well, as if she was pleased that the High Priestess had known it was her. Zamara approached her and laid her hands on the elf's head, apparently confidently, and murmured a blessing on her. As she did so she seemed to get a strange shock off the elf, as if her touch was charged, and she almost jerked back in surprise, her fingers tingling, but forced herself not to, keeping her hands still and steady as she blessed Arlome. When she was finished, she offered her hand to the elf and helped her to rise. "Good morning, High Priestess."

"Arlome. You did not come this morning to the service?" It was a friendly inquiry rather than a reprimand. "Were your duties to the Queen more longsome because of the Emissary?"

A cloud passed across Arlome's face and she seemed about to speak before her flecked eyes flickered fleetingly around the dimly lit shadows behind the pools of light in the temple. Zamara shook her head, but for some reason lowered her voice anyway. "There is no one here, except Tayfar and myself. Come, I would speak with you..."

"Tayfar...." Arlome nodded slowly as they began to walk, taking one of the side corridors out towards a small courtyard: she recognised the name. The elf had a greater understanding of the temple than Zamara had thought, as her next question showed. "You intend to train her as a Priestess, don't you?"

Zamara looked across, surprised, at the elf, her eyes wide, startled.

In the temple of Rhais, there was the High Priestess, of course, and then five younger priestesses of approximately the same rank. One of these would be more closely related with the High Priestess, and was often previously an acolyte. And when the time came for the title to be passed on, it was by the High Priestess and her prime priestess that she was chosen. Indeed, if young enough, the position sometimes fell to the prime priestess, so favoured was the position. Zamara blinked a few time, still surprised at Arlome's perceptiveness. "I had thought of...well, she is young still, she had not yet seen thirteen summers, it is maybe too soon to be thinking about-"

She stopped suddenly as brisk, light footsteps approached along the stone corridor, and Tayfar herself appeared, her simple, light robes gleaming slightly in the bright sun of the courtyard. She bowed her head to Zamara and gave Arlome a respectful, slightly scared smile - she was in awe of the graceful elven woman who worked with the Queen. Zamara requested that she bring them some tea and fruit - she did not eat before the morning service and had been finishing off at the temple in the hour or so since it had ended, and suspected that Arlome had not eaten either. As Tayfar scurried off to comply, Zamara took a seat with the elf and gave her a small, curious smile as she said...

~*~

"How is it that you would guess that, Arlome? Why not Sedaar? I believe she is the one who some have guessed me to linger over for the fifth priestess."

The High Priestess's graceful voice was tinged with an edge of curiousity that, along with the mention of a familiar name, made Tayfar stop, melting into the shadow. She was naturally curious - it came normally to a girl living in a close community like the temple. The immortal who the Priestess sat with gave a short laugh that sent a shiver of delight down Tayfar's spine. "I have nothing against Sedaar. But she is not the one you rely on the most, who prepares you for feasts; the one you have spent the most time on and tutored yourself..."

"I understand, fair enough." There was the sound of a smile in Zamara's voice. Maybe...maybe I am caught here, but I will say nothing definite. I can trust you, I know. But ...well, she is still young, as I said, not yet thirteen summers - it is maybe too soon to be thinking about such things."

They are talking about me! Tayfar did a little skip-jump dance in the corridor, grinning madly. The sudden revelation, almost too good to be true, surely, for an orphan from a poor family, caused such fireworks to go off in Tayfar's stomach that she almost missed the elf's next words.

"Too soon? Priestess, everything is too soon if you are to look at it that way - your lifetimes pass 'so soon' for myself. I have seen many High Priestesses - and indeed a few High Priests - go past, but you have shown an unusual understanding of...well. I trust you will make the right choice."

"You would choose Tayfar yourself! And talking of which, have you eaten yet?" Tayfar started suddenly, remembering her bidding to fetch breakfast and she bolted silently away, a skip in her undignified half-run as the voices of two women faded to a hum behind her.

~*~

Unaware of her eavesdropping protege, Zamara continued. "And talking of choices..." she paused, her eyes flicking away from, then back to Arlome's. "I trust you are as worried as I about this Emissary?"

"You are worried also?" Arlome nodded, apparently slightly comforted by the thought. Zamara tilted her head onto one side, hesitating. It is the choices Faroz has given to his children that worries me the most...and the implications of a male-dominated alliance to Rhais. She sat back in her chair and looked out over the pleasant courtyard in front of them. "Tell me, Arlome: what do you think? And your husband? Has he said anything of immortals, of his lord's knowledge of elves?"

[Imladris]

"I hope with all my heart that my son does not become King! He grows more corrupt and power-hungry each day, and if the power is given to him I fear there shall be no hope for him, and I have so longed for him to become again the gentle boy he was as a child, who loved freely. At least I hope he will not have the opportunity to inflict the actions of his faults upon the people. He has pained me enough already without extending harm to others."

Arshalous blinked in surprise at her aunt's outburst. So many mothers were blinded wth love for their sons, yet Lady Hababa wasn't. "And that is why I don't like him," said Arshalous softly, as she kissed her aunt's cheek.

Lady Hababa just stared sadly at her niece. Arshalous bit her lip...but it was the truth. How could her aunt wish for her to make amends with her little power hungry mongrel of a cousin? The thought was absurd, ridiculous even.

Arshalous kneeled beside her aunt's bed, and whispered in her ear, "My Lady Aunt...I swear to you that I will do my utmost to keep Korak from the throne. I am powerful, I have lands, and soldiers that will march at the snap of my fingers." She could feel her aunt's mouth open in protest, but she layed her finger over her lips and murmured, "I know that that is not what you wish, but I would rather be enemies with Korak forever than have him upon the throne rather than the Prince."

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

The King scowled darkly at the air of his chambers as he thought of his soon-to-be son-in-law. The prospect of a meeting with Korak was never a pleasant one, but distasteful a duty as it might be, a duty it remained. No other noble had the money and the position to support the construction of a new High Temple, and more importantly, if he were to become King some day, he would need to gain at least some sense of how to deal with matters more important that selecting the finest silk for a new robe. Not for the first time, Faroz hoped that some misfortune would befall the man. And not for the first time his mind flitted to the idea that as King, he could see to it that some misfortune would seek him out. But he dared risk nothing against Korak, not even something secretive and dark…not yet. He was a fool, but a cunning fool. And in matters such as these, cunning and bravery could match wit and power – for a time.

He toyed with the idea of consulting Ashnaz on the matter of Korak, but rejected the idea. Some secrets were not for anyone to know, no matter how dear a friend. But at the thought of Ashnaz, Faroz remembered the Ring. With a flash a new idea occurred to him. A slow smile marred his features, and had his wife been there, she would have known that the King was contemplating something cool and terrible.

~*~*~*~

Jarult went first to the home of the Lord Korak with the idea of summoning him and sending on one of the servants there to bring the Lady Arshalous, whom he disliked with the intensity reserved for an unreasoning disapproval. So it was with no small measure of distasteful surprise that he was ushered into the presence of the Lady Arshalous and the old madwoman Hababa. He stood in the doorway, trying to look important, despite the fact that he had been sent as a messenger – a task that he felt to be far beneath the dignity of the Chamberlain. He tried to assuage himself with the reminder that his King considered this meeting to be of the utmost importance.

“Jarult!” the old woman said happily, obviously remembering the days – long past – when they had been on good terms in the court of the former King. She had been there much in those days, and he had cultivated her good opinion. Indeed, it had been one of the factors that had seen him successfully elevated to his present role. But his feelings toward her had always been self-serving rather than warm. A consummate courtier, he had always been able to fool her of the contrary.

The Lady Hababa rose and came to him, with the Lady Arshalous immediately behind. “What brings you to see me?” she asked. “Why, first Arshalous and now you, I am becoming popular.”

“I am sorry, lady, but I am not here for pleasure. My King has sent me to bid your son and, as it happens, the Lady Arshalous to attend upon him in his apartments this morning. He has a matter of some importance that he needs to discuss with them both.”

“What matter could that be?” the Lady Arshalous asked, looking faintly alarmed.

“I do not presume to speak for the King, my Lady,” the Chamberlain replied coolly.

“Of course,” the Lady replied, flushing. “I will come immediately, of course, but my cousin is gone this morning for a ride.” The Chamberlain frowned at this, as though at the rebellious behaviour of a miscreant servant.

“That is no problem,” the Lady Hababa put in. “I shall send Morashk to seek him out. My son is not very imaginative and always rides along the same route. He will soon be found. In the meantime, I will attend upon the King in his place.” And she smiled beatifically as though she had solved an intricate problem with great subtlety.

[Nurumaiel]

Lady Hababa momentarily forgot Arshalous' words, and she sent immediately for Morashk. The pale servant entered, and as he looked spitefully from Arshalous to the King's messenger, the mother realised with a pang that it was not only her family that was torn apart, but the entire household. Her son hated his cousin and was disgusted by all besides himself, and the chief servant of the house, too, hated Lady Arshalous, as also he hated this friend of the family and servant of the King.

She dispatched Morashk to find her son, and, recalling how her conversation with her niece had ended, murmured quickly in the latter's ear: "Arshalous, I pray you: whatever you do, use no means of war to keep my son from the throne. I love him still, despite his many faults, and civil war would not resolve any problems, but only bring further pain, and extend our troubles to the people." And then she moved to follow Jarult from the room.

Morashk sulked as he saddled his horse, wondering what the King needed with their family, and why he had not been invited to go, as well. He felt some worry that his master would be at a loss for words without any assistance, and with his wicked cousin saying spiteful things towards him, which would more than likely confuse him. Morashk leapt astride his horse and gave him a rather sharp kick, as a way to release his anger.

He did not have to ride far to find his master, for the Lord Korak was returning from his ride, not wanting to leave his mother too long alone, though he would not have admitted it. She was apt to grow lonely without company. His Lordship's face darkened when he heard of the request for his presence. He said nothing, but merely turned his steed in the direction of the Palace, ordering Morashk to return to the house and prepare some good wine. Then he moved his horse onward to the Palace.

Morashk turned to obey his master's orders, and under his breath he cursed the Lady Arshalous and the King Faroz.

[alaklondewen]

"Tell me, Arlomë: what do you think? And your husband? Has he said anything of immortals, of his lord's knowledge of elves?"

Arlomë pulled her eyes from the peaceful courtyard and turned them to meet Zamara’s. The memories of the night before, the strange chill, the words about the darkness and the Elves of the Emissary’s land, all flooded her mind, yet she did not speak at once. The High Priestess could see the tightness in the Elf’s eyes and the trouble that lay behind them.

“You hesitate to tell me your thoughts,” Zamara observed. “What is troubling you, Arlomë?”

“To be honest, Zamara, I am not sure.” Arlomë paused and looked at her hands. “I do not trust this Emissary.” The Elf quickly surveyed the garden, and then looked back to the High Priestess. Zamara met her gaze with furrowed brows, and silently nodded for Arlomë to continue. “I cannot say why, but when I met him...this strange...uneasiness came over me.” A look of surprise flickered in Zamara’s eyes, but she said nothing. “Maybe I am making too much of this.” Arlomë shook her head as though dismissing her confession. “In fact, I should not have said anything.”

Zamara opened her mouth to speak, but the young Tayfar entered at this moment. The young girl nervously lowered her head and presented the Elf and High Priestess with a small round tray made of a glossy clay. A fine, intricate design was carved into its center. It appeared chaotic at first, but then it became noticeable that the lines had the same source, and they grew into the earth like the great roots of a tree. Arlomë wondered at how the tray so delicately portrayed how Rhais fed all life. Zamara’s hand passed over the tray as she reached for her cup, and Arlomë was brought from her thoughts. As she looked up, the young Tayfar’s steps could be heard walking along the stone path toward the temple, and the Elf took her own cup and sipped the warm tea, smiling over the edge at the High Priestess, hoping Zamara had forgotten the confession she had made before the girl’s arrival.

[Imladris]

Arshalous felt her insides grow numb as she rode beside her aunt. What did the King want with her? As one of the most reclusive of the nobility, she had rarely been summoned. Why now?

She remembered Lady Hababa's words concerning civil war...the thought was disconcerting and certainly had not crossed her mind. Though civil war was not desirable in the least, Arshalous wondered if it would really actually happen. Korak was a fool...and she deemed him a coward in some respects and he probably would shy away from a war as an untrained horse shys away from the clash of swords against shields.

But deeming that he was pig headed enough to go to war over it...wouldn't it be better to have the war over quickly than having Korak's folly sow seeds of quarrles that would bloom forth in civil war, or even war with a foreign country? She scratched her head and put away such thoughts. The present was yet pleasant and there was no need to trouble about thoughts of war until such time as was necessary.

However, she could not stop thinking about Korak. His mother remembered with fondness when he was a loving lad. Arshalous herself wondered what had happened to that lad -- he had probably shrivelled up and died. She remembered vaguely when he had pulled her hair and had broken her favourite ring when she was young...it had been the day his father had died. She remembered that day very vaguely. She remembered that he had been sad...and that she had been trying to cheer her up...she wondered if teasing counted as cheering up. It wasn't her fault that Korak was fun to tease, she thought resentfully...And then his anger had exploded like new wine in an old skin...and he had hurt her. It was only later that she had found out about her uncle's death...had she apologized? She didn't remember.

[Firefoot]

“Usually when two countries have an alliance, they agree to support each other in war, and protect each other’s interests. They are usually trading partners,” answered Siamak. “Which is why the Emissary’s proposal of alliance seems to make little sense - the distance between the two countries are so great that none of these things are practical.” His calm expression belied his inner confusion over the issue. Gjeelea appeared to pass over this issue as trivial, though it could be she simply did not want to acknowledge the point. Siamak could never really tell with her.

“So, why else might the foreign lord look for alliance?” prompted his mother. It was a fairly familiar pattern, for this was the way his mother had always taught them: not giving them direct answers, but making them think for themselves. The situation now was rather altered than in the past, since she was not teaching them per se, but the queen’s manner was the same.

As this was the same question that had been stumping Siamak for the past day, and so he let Gjeelea answer. She was fairly forthcoming, saying, “Yesterday the Emissary said that a country can never have too many allies.”

“But why so far away?” countered Siamak softly. “Would not most rulers look to their neighboring countries first? And if he already has his the alliance of those countries nearer by, why does he want our alliance?” Though he was sharing his doubts, Siamak was careful not to show his opinions one way or the other, mostly because he wanted to get a better feel for his sister’s inclinations first.

Gjeelea seemed not to have an answer (For once, thought Siamak), but his mother encouraged them on, shifting the discussion slightly. “So why might we want an alliance with them?” This gave Siamak pause, and he realized that this was probably the better question to consider while deciding whether to accept. Certainly, it was food for thought, but right now he did not have a clear answer - he would keep it in mind while meeting with the Emissary later on.

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

Gjeelea held back a sigh, and wondered why her mother had summoned her and Siamak to this questioning. The princess wondered why Bekah felt like making certain that her children remembered her lessons before speaking to the Emissary. Siamak asked questions, but none of them prompted the discussion further. Gjeelea squinted at his lack of opinion, or distaste for showing whatever opinion he might have.

"You do not ask the right question, mother," Gjeelea murmured, avoiding her brother's gaze but meeting Bekah's glance straight on. "What bothers me is what might happen if we were to refuse such an alliance. We know very little about his country, now that I think of it. What kind of impact might a refusal to the Emissary have on Pashtia? I highly doubt that the Emissary would travel all this way if he thought that our trust could not be won - or should not be won."

For a moment, none of the family members spoke. Gjeelea did not want to speak again, leaving her question unanswered. Yet, she hoped Bekah did not speak next, knowing it would only be another question that did not solve anything. Instead the princess looked to her brother.

"What are you saying, then?" Siamak asked, breaking the long, awkward silence. He stroked his miniscule beard in a thoughtful manner, and his eyes never met Gjeelea's as he spoke. "Do you mean to say that the Emissary is humouring us while we debate over trust that he knows we will give?"

"It is a possibility," Gjeelea shrugged as she cocked one eyebrow at her brother. His own brows furrowed at his sister's retort and nestled deeper into his seat. "I do not think either of us are in such a good position that we can rule out any possibilities, Siamak..." Gjeelea's voice trailed off as she remembered something that Siamak had said earlier.

...If he already has his the alliance of those countries nearer by, why does he want our alliance?

"Something is happening that we do not know of," the princess whispered, her voice so light and airy that even she could barely hear it. Siamak and the Queen must have heard the whistle on the wind, for they both looked to Gjeelea with a question in their eyes. Still the princess mused to herself. "Something big."

"What did you say?" Siamak prompted politely. Gjeelea blinked, snapping out of her thoughts for a moment, then smirked at her brother.

"Oh, nothing, Siamak my dear," Gjeelea replied loftily, returning to her regal, impatient manner. "Just thinking to myself. Now, where were we? Do you have another question for us to answer, mother?" Gjeelea waited for one of her companions to speak.

Something is happening to the west that we know nothing of...

Was this something Gjeelea would want to share with her sibling? She wondered this over and over as she revived the conversation in her mind. It certainly was not a huge discovery, just a tidbit that Gjeelea thought rather interesting and curious. Something to bring up with the Emissary this afternoon? Gjeelea mused, a light smile playing on her lips.

[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?”

[Imladris]

Arshalous frowned into her cup and cleared her throat, shifting her gaze ever so slightly to see what her aunt thought about it. She had a perfectly calm...almost amused expression on her face.

"The High Temple would be showing unnecessary favour to an inferior," said Arshalous. "And yes, I do believe that Rae is inferior to Rhais, who is the earth mother. I do not pretend to understand how, exactly, she is the earth mother yet she is while Rae is merely the Sky God."

She darted a glance at the king, wondering how frank and blunt she should be. "If I had my way," she said tartly, "there wouldn't be another temple. The current High Temple has been enough...the gods are content with that. Why stir them to anger by giving a temple to Rae? Why curry their ill will with flattery?"

The King nodded, and asked again, "So you will refuse to give funds to it? You're cousin cannot pay for it himself."

She tipped her head slightly in assent. She was almost nettled by the question. How could he expect her to fund something that she disagreed with? It was unheard of it. She wouldn't actively oppose it, but she wasn't going to actively support it either. It reeked of weakness to pay for something merely because others wished you to do so. "It is not my problem," she added as an after thought, "if Lork Korak cannot pay for this Temple himself."

She sank back into the scarlet cushions, her eyes closed. "There is too much fuss about this temple," she said, almost to herself. "I do not understand why there is a need for it, why there is a need to change that which does not need to be changed. Unless, of course --" she opened her eyes at this -- "they want something more than a temple and that is only a mask for it. But I am likely being paranoid."

[Novnarwen]

The two men hurried down the narrow street. It was rather empty. Only the outlines of a few figures could be spotted; the figures moved quickly, casting long shadows as they went. Not a sound could be heard, except the sound of the two men’s pairs of feet against the stone floor, echoing slightly as they trotted on. The Priest went first, having Pelin just behind.

"Come now," Tarkan said suddenly, realising that the younger man probably kept his distance due to the difference between their social statuses; Pelin was only being respectful by walking behind his superior. Nevertheless, Tarkan stopped and turned, waved his hand and laid it at the man's shoulder. "Please, Pelin, why do you think I arrived at your apartments this morning?" he asked gently with a faint smile. He could see that the young man was rather surprised by being asked such a question, as it was not usual to question such things. In fact, it would have been rude if Pelin had questioned Tarkan's intentions by his coming. Tarkan watched the young man being silenced by the hesitation and insecurity that arose inside of him. Pelin gave the priest an odd look, which reflected both. By this, the Priest spoke again:" Is it that unusual for friends to have breakfast together?!"

Without letting the man answer, if he could answer, as Pelin seemed to be quite taken by this comment, the Priest hurried his pace, urging Pelin to walk faster as well. Shortly, they arrived the Temple of Rhais.

For a moment they stood silently watching it, raising their heads, gazing upwards. The huge cedar doors stood ajar, letting some of the dim light out on the street. Even though it was a Temple, raised to honour the earth goddess, Rhais, it was seemed as if it was a magical moment for Pelin, as the young man favoured Rae over Rhais, or so Tarkan chose to interpret this odd form of quiet ritual. Tarkan too though, felt something strange come over him, something which touched him and made him feel important. It didn’t after all matter that the Temple he served in was devoted to Rhais, as long as he himself was a truly devoted servant of the male God, he reminded himself of.

Suddenly, he shook his head, as if having been told to do so by some higher power. What were they standing here for, wasting time? A sudden urge to nudge the man next to him hard in his ribs, swelled up inside the Priest. He managed to restrain himself, thinking of his great accomplishment thus far. Pelin seemed to be captured in the illusion of being the Priest’s best friend. Tarkan frowned, watching Pelin standing motionless. “Tell me. Does your soul fully belong to the earth goddess, Rhais?” Pelin’s face expression changed. His eyes shifted, became dark and thoughtful, as if not knowing the answer. How can that be possible? Either you favour Rhais over Rae or the other way around! The Priest thought, feeling both annoyed and anxious. What if Pelin didn’t after all favour Rae? Whom could he turn to? Did anyone else in the Temple truly favour the sky god over the earth goddess? If he was left alone with his strong belief that Rae brought more and better to the people of Pasthia than Rhais, no new Temple would ever be built, certainly not in the honour of Rae, his God. Pelin was maybe useless after all. Tarkan alone would not be able to convince the King to build a new Temple, even if it was his half brother. Who else can I turn to? He asked himself over and over, almost forgetting, or ignoring, Pelin being present.

“Father, is it for me to answer?"

The priest's first reaction was the sudden need to slap him. Is it for me to answer...? he mimicked and repeated inside of his head.

"Dear, Son. Pelin if I may . . . I only ask because you seemed hesitant to enter, as if you didn't want to go in. What is keeping you? Is your lack of faith hindering you?" By this, Pelin opened his mouth to protest, but the Priest had his way with words and continued silently:" Pelin, Pelin, Pelin. Through my years as a Priest and a servant of the Temple, I have seen many devoted men and women leave; all of a sudden they have left and never come back. Not because they necessarily wanted to, but because their faith lessened instead of increasing! It is a pity every time to see such; souls being filled with longings to do something else. The saddest thing however about men and women like these, is that they do not realise that serving in the Temple would have been the best path to follow," he paused for a second to catch his breath. "I, not wanting to see you choose, what I call, the wrong path, merely imagined myself that you were favouring Rae over Rhais, and that this caused your hesitation for entering the Temple of Rhais. It is all right to favour one of the Gods of the other, though I do not recommend it. It will get you ill places. I know many who do though, and thus I really hope it was only this that kept you as I would not want to see you leave, as devoted as you are, and as believing in none and nothing will certainly have its effect on the human soul..”

He turned his back to him, raising an eyebrow, leaving him. Had he managed to scare him? He wondered. An evil smile appeared in the pale feminine face of his.

“Dear Father, if you let me . . .” Pelin started, tears in his eyes, as he caught up with the Priest who was about to enter the Temple. “Please know that I do not want to leave! I will never, I promise! It is true; I favour the one over the other, and that is only why I hesitated. But please, tell no one of this. People will think me crazy to serve and so spend many hours in a Temple where the honour goes solely to the earth goddess.”

The sound of Pelin’s words made Tarkan tremble. Not of fright, but of pure joy. Either, the young man truly favoured the male God, or he had been stricken with panic when Tarkan had supposedly been under the impression that he was leaving and never to serve in the Temple again. Tarkan’s mutterings about going to ill places if he believed in neither of them had probably also had a great effect on the poor man. Getting a grip of himself, as he had difficulties restraining himself for laughing out loud, he patted the man on the back. The Priest gave him an approving nod, and muttered a few comforting words under his breath. “I understand . . I understand . .”

"Now let us go inside and eat . . ."

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

The Lady Arshalous was indeed an odd mixture of cunning and naivete. She was able to perceive that there were motives other than piety at work in the nobles’ desire for a new High Temple, and yet at the same moment she brazenly denied her King’s request. It had not been a command – it could not have been. Pashtian law expressly forbade any form of indirect taxation, but everyone knew that a royal request was something not lightly to be ignored. The Lady was well within her rights to deny the King, but it was a dangerous game for her to be playing. Faroz was neither vindictive nor vengeful, and from time to time it came about that one of the nobility would defy him. Had such a thing happened in his father’s day the one foolish enough to deny his or her king would usually end up charged with treason for an offense that had hitherto been unknown. Occasionally, such niceties as this would be skipped entirely and the offending nobleman found dead in his bed within a year. In the time of Faroz’s rule, such incidents had ceased, and for a time there had been those among the nobility who had seen this as a sign of the son’s weakness. But Faroz was somewhat more imaginative than his father, and his tactics, while more subtle, were just as effective in the end. Those who denied him found themselves suddenly faced with any number of difficulties. Petitions to the Court would be delayed, sometimes for years, before being heard. Certain privileges would be curtailed, and royal appointments for the offender would not be renewed. If the noble who had denied the King had trading interests, that same noble would find new permits and trading rights hard to obtain. In this way the King was able to bring home to his people the disadvantages of not co-operating, and sooner or later, he would get his way.

It had been a long time since he had been forced to make an example of anyone, and he found the prospect of having to do so now…distasteful. For years he had ruled unquestioned and unopposed, and he did not relish the prospect of an open display of disloyalty from someone as relatively unimportant as the Lady Arshalous. It would be better if she could be convinced today. Appearing unconcerned by her refusal, the King offered the Lady more tea. She accepted and as he poured it out he said, almost conversationally, “Are you very sure you wish to make such a quick decision in this matter? You do not appear to have considered it deeply, and yet you are willing to reject my request,” he allowed an emphasis to rest on this word, “almost immediately.”

The Lady seemed to catch at least part of his meaning and asked, “What more should I consider, Majesty? Are there other factors I have not taken into account?”

“None that pertain to the Temple, Lady. I merely ask that you reconsider your answer. I do not make such a request lightly.” He paused for a second and sipped his tea, then continued. “You are quite young, Lady, and I realise not much used to an active role in the Kingdom. If you would not mind a bit of free advice, it might do you good to become more involved. It is your choice, of course, but I would think that contributing to this Temple might be just the opportunity you need to make a place for yourself – to distinguish yourself amongst the other nobility. I can understand your reservations about the project, I myself share them. Like you, I believe that there may very well be – other factors behind certain people’s support of it. But that cannot be our concern, can it? Mustn’t we make our decisions based on what we believe and want, rather than from fear of what others might be planning? Besides, Lady, we are only speaking of what might be, today. As I said, I have not decided whether or not to build it – so what harm is there in lending your support to it now?” He eyed her above the rim of his cup, and wondered if she understood the choice he was offering her…and that it would only be offered this one time.

[Imladris]

Arshalous sat up straighter, a vague feeling of fear tingling in her stomach. Too late she realized that she had blundered in giving such a straight answer to the King; that was not how the game of politics was played. She had much to learn...she had spent far too much time away from court...far more to learn that she had realized.

She knew that the King's request was almost equivalent to a command. She remembered stories of nobles who had spurned a King's decrees -- they had not come to a good end, and the King's wish had ultimately been done. But the unfortunate noble had definitely come out of the ordeal with robes splattered with mud, and cowed like an insolent puppy. The image did not appeal to her.

She set down her cup on the low table, to better hide the trembling in her hands. The fear had given way to anger. Why should she have to give her word to pay for the building of a temple she did not think was right because a King ordered her to? Why did a King command her conscience...demand of her to do what he thought was right?

He knew that there might well be a plot behind this building of a temple...why would he want her to support that? Did he think that the building of the temple was for the good of the realm? She caught her breath at the thought, remembering, from the stories that she had read, that sometimes what you wanted must be given up for the good of others...she reluctantly realized that what the king said was true...foolish fears must not hinder them...

And was she not a noble of the realm who had sworn allegiance to her King? But when did that allegiance become willful blindness?

She weighed the two problems in her minds: compromising with evil (if the building of the temple could be considered evil) or if she was merely concerned with her own preference. She did not want to suffer for a preference...that would be a waste. And her vow to serve her king must be taken into acount as well...

She clenched her silken robes in her fingers. Inclining her head in a short bow, she said thickly, "Yes...my King...I will help pay for the temple."

[Bêthberry]

And so the morning passed between the Queen and the Royal Children. Each was warily supplying ideas, half afraid the other would take the idea and make more of it than the first had initially planned. Yet at least slowly they were gaining some sense of the wide range of issues the alliance implied. The sun rose higher in the sky, its beams shining hotly into the Queen's balcony and the white heat making their heads dizzy with its brightness. Through the open window came the unmistakable sounds of the market, shrill voices of vendors and sellers, counter-offers from buyers and customers, screeches and calls and cries of caged animals, birds squawking, half-wild dogs fighting for the offal thrown out by the butchers, children shrieking with the exuberance of childhood. This was the centre of the Pashtian economy, for even the large trading ventures and the private arrangements depended upon the wealth of the open market.

Homay brought in lunch, cucumbers and yoghurt, wilted greens, shaved, roasted meat layered over bread, figs and pomegranates and apricots, hot, sweet tea. The three ate in silence, for once letting the sharp prongs of words fall by the wayside.

Finally, after the three had eaten, Bekah returned to the question of the Emissary.

"We have not considered how such an alliance might affect the alliance with Alanzia." It was a simple statement, but something about saying it brought a tenseness to the conversation.

"Would your brother-monarch object?" Siamak inquired. He had always been curious about this uncle of his who he had never seen.

"He might. He might question if it would bring him into an alliance with this Annatar, without the benefit of choice," replied Bekah.

"Are we not free to make our own alliances?" asked Gjeela

"We are. Your father is," replied Bekah, "but, still, alliances can turn a country's interests in different dirctions. Siamak, has Morgôs mentioned if we have any scouts who can report to us about the western lands beyond the desert?"

"Not yet, but I can ask," the Prince replied.

"Surely that would take too long," objected the Princess. "Do we know how long the Emissary will stay?"

"A good question, Gjeela. I have not been told."

"What does he offer us?" Siamak asked.

"That I do not know either," Bekah replied, "although, it is said he did offer a gift, a magnificent gift. Have either of you seen it?"

"I saw a black pouch, a velvet bag, I think, and a flash of gold," replied the Prince.

"But it has not been displayed, has it? It has not been publically acknowledged and placed on display in the court?" Bekah tried to mask her interest in this, but her children could tell she was intrigued by this.

"Should it have been?" inquired Gjeela.

"It depends upon the terms of the offer of the alliance. Was the gift offerred to Pashtia in the person of her King? Or to the King personally?" Bekah became lost in thought and her children began to fidget. Their complaints over some of the food brought back her attention. "Well, I have kept you long enough, my children. I'm sure you have business of your own to conclude. My thanks for your patience and your attention."

Each child rose, offering Bekah a kiss on her cheek, a ritual each observed in private as well as in public. She remained seated as Homay showed the children out. Faroz has not shown me the gift. He has not displayed it to the court. Is it offered to him alone? Does this Annatar wish Faroz's alliance and not Pashtia's? She sat a long time wondering if she should ask the King about the gift privately, or challenge the Emissary publically about it. Then she roused herself, knowing she had other matters to discuss later with the High Priestess.

[Orofaniel]

The morning had slowly passed over to mid-day. It was time for Evrathol to visit the temple. He knew that his mother, Arlomë was there, but this time it would not be the reason of his going; Evarthol wanted to see Tarkan. Some way or the other, he had been feeling restless since the meeting with Tarkan the evening before. He felt a bit guilty for not offering Tarkan the thoughts the Priest deserved. Yesterday Evrathol realised that he been too cold and restricted at the meeting with the Priest. Evrathol somehow wanted to visit him, to see if Evarthol had broken, or weakened the small "friendship" between them – if there even existed such a “friendship”. If so, he wondered if it had been ruined by Evarthol’s coldness. Hopefully, Tarkan wouldn't have noticed anything. Evarthol could have been over doing the whole scene, but he decided to pay Tarkan a visit anyhow.

The Temple rose before him like a noble, well served statue.

Taking a step inside, he realised that he hadn't been at the Temple for quite some time now.

Evarthol heard low voices. Looking just behind the corner he didn't see anyone. He reckoned it was his mother's voice. The corridor went slightly forwards then it took a turn. Evarthol followed it. The country yard that the corridor led too, also led to his mother...and Zamara - the High Priestess. Evarthol wondered if had come in a bad time since both of them seemed occupied with the heavy debate going on between the two of them. Feeling slightly embarrassed, he decided to stand there for a moment, listening. He realised then that it might seem that he was eavesdropping, something that was quite unsuitable for his noble character. Slowly, he straightened his tunic, walking swiftly out in the country yard. The two women were caught of guard and both of them seemed very much surprised to see the young elf there. "I apologise for coming unannounced. It was certainly not my intention. Please do forgive me," Evrathol said, in the most polite manner.

Arlomë looked at The High Priestess, as she was looking for approval, or so Evrathol thought. The High Priestess turned her eyes to Evrathol, as followed Arlomë. "No need to apologise, son," Arlomë began. "I'm just surprised to see you here, as you don't usually visit the temple. Please note that I'm very surprised, but not at all unhappy to see you. Quite on the contrary; It's delightful to see you here," Arlomë said, walking some steps towards him, before she stopped. Zamzara came from behind; her steps were far longer than Arlome's. "Indeed. I hoped to get a better look at you son after yesterday evening," Zamara said to Arlomë. The elf smiled weakly. Evrathol offered a short laugh, before he greeted both of them properly.

"So, mother, may I ask what you two were discussing?" he asked Arlomë. Arlomë remained quiet for a moment. "Well, what else is there to discuss than the Emissary these days?" She replied. "I should have known," Evarthol then said, smiling at Zamara. "It is not only the politicians who are curious, or even - should I say, worried - is it?" he asked Zamara quietly. The High Priestess looked at Evrathol, but didn’t answer.

"Now, Evarthol, dear, what is the reason of this pleasant surprise?" Arlomë then said, turning the discussion n a different path.

"Oh well, I have no other intensions than to please you, mother," Evrathol replied, smiling at Arlomë. She laughed joyously, but Zamara kept quiet. "No, dear, is that so?" Arlomë then asked, grinning. "Well, yes. I knew that you'd be here, and I thought I'd might pay you a short visit. Besides, I didn't get to talk with The High Priestess properly yesterday, so I wanted to make up for it," he said, looking at Zamara. "Well, I'm very glad you came. The Banquet was wonderful, wasn't it?" Zamara then said. "Indeed it was. I'm highly curious about the decision that his Majesty’s children are going to make," Evrathol said, without showing any lack of trust that the King had made the right decision when he had told the attendants at the banquet that it would be the Prince and the Princess who would decide whether they should be an alliance between the two countries. "Yes, that will indeed be very interesting," The High Priestess answered.

Their conversation was interrupted by the Priest. He was now standing in the country yard with his friend, and servant in the temple, Pelin. Feeling obliged to greet him, and also becoming aware of his true meaning of being here at the Temple, Evarthol decided to leave the two women. "Good day to both of you," Evrathol said, kissing the hands of both ladies.

Tarkan and Pelin were now on their way into the corridor, where Evrathol caught up with them. "Greetings, both of you," Evarthol said. "Ah, it's Evrathol, isn't it?" Tarkan said, looking at Pelin. "Indeed," Evrathol said, smiling. "We were about to eat, would you care to join us?" Tarkan then asked. "More than anything," Evrathol replied.

[Nurumaiel]

Lord Korak, standing in the doorway, could not resist a little smile of smugness, and he went to Arshalous and bowed courteously before her, saying: "Lady Cousin, how kind it is of you to aid me in this endeavour." Then he bowed also to the King, and he kissed his mother's hand. "Your pardon, Majesty, for arriving late. I rode with all haste, but I regret deeply I was out riding at all."

"You could not have known that his Majesty would send for us, son," said Lady Hababa, patting Korak's hand. "I have taken your place in your absence. You have arrived most quickly."

He gave her a fleeting smile, and wondered why she talked so much. She was, no doubt, pleased that the two cousins would join forces on one subject, and more than likely she hoped that it would bring them together. Observing Arshalous' sharp face, full of spite, he could not think that there was any chance of it.

"You know what we're discussing, Lord Korak?" the King questioned.

"Yes, Majesty," said Korak, "or, at least, I believe I do. I heard my cousin's last words to you, and I gather that you are discussing the temple, and also that she has agreed to help pay for it. It is good news to my ears, to hear that I will be assisted in this venture, especially by my charming cousin." However well he concealed with mockery and spite in his voice, it could not escape his mother's ears, who knew him better than all others, and at once her hopes of a reconciliation were dashed, and she bowed her head sorrowfully.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

With the arrival of Lord Korak and the assent of Lady Arshalous the conversation turned to more practical matters of finance. The King spent the morning speaking with them both of schedules and supplies, materials and money. Throughout the conversations it became clear that there was a strange dynamic at work between the two cousins. The Lady, while opposed to the idea of the Temple, was intelligent and quick-witted about it. She demonstrated an innate grasp of the issues, and despite her lack of practical knowledge about construction, leant many good suggestions. The Lord, on the other hand, showed little more than enthusiasm for the High Temple, and clear malicious glee at the Lady’s having been forced to agree to it. In all other matters, his slow mind was useless to the King, and he found himself gradually turning entirely to the Lady Arshalous for counsel. Faroz at first thought that the animosity was entirely on one side, but within a couple of hours it became clear that the Lady had as little affection for her cousin as the other way around. The King was careful to hide his own interest in this, for the seed of a plan was beginning to form in his innermost thoughts. The hold that the Lord Korak had over him had galled him for too many years. With the Ring, there was now something that he could do about that, but the did not remove the danger of upsetting the delicate balance he had established in his kingdom with the promise of marriage between his daughter and Korak. Were he to do anything to upset that balance he had to make sure that there would be someone beyond the immediate circles of the Court to help him re-establish it. He realised that perhaps the Lady Arshalous would be the one to do that for him. He had cowed her with his threats, but not brought her to him. She was obviously loyal, and dutiful, but for his plans to succeed, he would need to find some way to bind her to him more fiercely.

The Lady Hababa was nodding in her cushions, and Korak’s attempts to appear interested in the discussions were becoming increasingly sporadic, when the Chamberlain Jarult entered to announce that the Emissary had arrived. The King noted with keen interest the sudden light that flashed from the Lady Arshalous’s eyes. Faroz eagerly bade the Emissary to join them upon the balcony, and ordered that the midday meal be served to them all out there.

Ashnaz came to them, resplendent in some of the clothes that the King had ordered taken to him that morning. Like a member of the Pashtian nobility he was clad in long robes of flowing material that hung to and swayed about his unseen feet. The clothes that he had chosen were, however, entirely black and there was neither ornament nor refinement to them. The light seemed to pass through his form leaving only a rich black shadow. His face, rising almost mysteriously above the material, was lit with a warm smile, and his handsome eyes glinted at them. His hair had been carefully brushed and swept back from his face, and Faroz could tell that he had oiled it after the fashion of Pashtia. It was clear that his friend had gone to some effort to close the distance between his own foreign nature and the ways of this realm. Rising to greet him, the King said, “You look well in those robes. I am happy to see you dressing in the manner of my realm. I have no doubt that you were warm enough yesterday in that close-fitting tunic! Is not this kind of dress more suited to my land?”

The Emissary bowed his head and placed his hand on his chest. Faroz could sense that hidden beneath his clothes where his hand lay was Ashnaz’s own Ring, and for some reason the King’s mind went back to his experience last night. Even at the memory the Emissary looked into his eyes and it flew into Faroz’s mind that somehow his friend knew all of what had passed. They gazed at one another in silence for a moment so brief that none there noticed it, but in that brief space of time, no more than a heartbeat, they exchanged a special kind of greeting, sealing a compact of a sort.

The servants came out with a meal of stewed fruits and slow-roasted vegetables, with several platters of fragrant rice. The King and his friend sat down upon the cushions with the others, and the Emissary apologised if he had come too soon upon the hour he had been appointed. “Not at all my friend,” Faroz replied. “You have arrived in good time. I only was so caught up in conversation on an important matter that I neglected to note the passing of time.” He turned to the others and once more resumed his duties as host. “I do not think that you have met the Lord Korak or the Ladies Arshalous and Hababa?”

“On the contrary, Majesty, I did have the opportunity of greeting the Lord Korak last night, and the pleasure of meeting the Lady Arshalous, although I am glad to do so again.” There was a moment of formal greeting between them all. The King noted the keen interest in his friend displayed by Arshalous, as well as the bored manner of Korak. The Lady Hababa shook herself awake for the introduction and after being reminded of who the stranger was, made a fair reply to his greeting. When his was accomplished, Ashnaz asked them what matter had kept them in discussion for the morning.

“We have been discussing the construction of a new High Temple in honour of the god Rae,” Faroz replied as he accepted a plate from one of the servants.

“Indeed?” the Emissary replied. “I regret that one of the things about which I am most ignorant is your religion, my King. I believe that you worship two gods? A male and a female, if I am right?”

It was the Lady Arshalous who answered him, telling him about Rae and Rhais as they ate. The Emissary asked many questions about them both, but it became clear that he was more interested in learning of Rae and of his role in their world. He seemed surprised that the sky god was not regarded as highly as the goddess of the Earth, and he asked why this was so. “The goddess Rhais is supreme over the god Rae,” Arshalous explained, “as it is from the Earth that life comes to us in the form of food and water. Without her, there would be no existence. It is also from her that we have the metals that we adorn ourselves with, and that allow us to fashion the tools that we use.”

The Emissary replied to the Lady. “But do you not owe light and life to your sky god, Rae? Is he not also one who gives you rain and sustenance for your crops?”

The Lady frowned at this, quite prettily. “Rain? Indeed, Rae will sometimes send us water from the sky, but it comes only once or twice a year, and always it is a cause for woe. The rains here are too heavy for our crops and wash them into the river. No, our crops depend upon the river and the water that we are able to divert from it to our farms. In ancient days, people believed that the river came directly from Rhais where she dwelt in the mountains, crying for the loss of her children who were killed by Rae. But we have long since learned that the waters spring from the icy fields that lie atop the mountains, and from the more gentle rains that fall upon their lower slopes.”

“Ah,” the Emissary said with mild triumph, “so you do acknowledge that it is to the sky that you owe water and life for your crops!”

“I never denied it,” Arshalous replied lightly, “but the rains that Rae sends are destructive. It is only the presence of Rhais’s mountains, and her goodness in diverting that rain to us in the Great River, that means we can use the water safely.”

Faroz laughed. “There you are my friend!” he said to the Emissary. “Such is the piety of the Lady Arshalous and many like her. Do not attempt to sway her!”

The Emissary smiled back and replied, “Never would I seek to alter one’s view of their gods, my King. I ask only because in my own kingdom, we too worship a god much like your Rae. I had hoped that by learning a bit more about Him, we might together find that we have more in common than we supposed.”

“And what is the name of your god of the sky?” the Lady Hababa asked, surprising them all that she had been alert during the conversation.

The Emissary turned his attention to the old woman for the first time since greeting her. “His name, my Lady, is Melkor, which means in the tongue of old, ‘he who arises in might.’ He is the greatest of all the gods, and so we worship Him and Him alone.”

[Novnarwen]

Tarkan

And so things had taken an interesting turn. It was obvious that Evrathol had something on his mind; why else had he come? Tarkan was overly convinced that the elf’s visit was not caused by his sudden urge to pray in the temple to the Goddess, as the elf seldom had been here. Nor was it very likely that he was here to really see his mother, as he had been pretty short with her and Zamara. Tarkan doubted Evrathol had all of a sudden turned very religious, and so, already, the Priest concluded that the elf had come to see him. At the banquet, the previous night, Tarkan couldn't help noticing the elf casting long glances his way; the elf had seemed very eager to catch his attention. Remembering this, the Priest's eyes lit up, now kindling with a strange light. He guessed what the Elf was thinking of; the Emissary. This would probably be the subject of their conversation. Greatly excited by this, what seemed like newly gained popularity; Tarkan invited the young elf to eat breakfast with himself and Pelin. Politely, the fair creature accepted.

Pelin and Evrathol settled themselves on two gigantic cushions; meanwhile the Priest placed himself, cross-legged, on the low divan in front of them. It was only fair that he did so. To them, in the Temple, he was their superior; he was their Priest. Shortly after, a young girl came trotting in, holding a tray laden with bread and fruits. Tea was also brought to them, smelling deliciously of various herbs. The three men accepted gladly.

"So, my dear Evrathol.. Have you come here to join the midday prayer?" Tarkan asked, being almost certain that it was not so. He tried to study the elf's reaction towards this blunt question, but he wasn't able to, as the dim light made it impossible to make out his fair face's true features. Instead, not even being slightly annoyed by this, as he was confident that the elf was thinking of the Emissary rather than the midday prayers, he sipped his tea. By the sound coming from Pelin, Tarkan judged he did the same.

"I must admit that I haven't," the elf replied calmly, after a moment's silence. Just as I guessed.. the priest thought to himself, holding his mask. Evrathol's voice was shaking slightly as if embarrassed by the Priest's inquiry. Tarkan frowned; he hoped he hadn't been too frank with him, but it didn’t matter in the long run care. (Evrathol would never be useful to him, so why care?) He had only been polite, trying to start a conversation. Curious, but polite. He didn't after all mind that Evrathol was here. In fact, he would be rather happy if he had joined the prayers, but the Priest knew that there was something else.

No one spoke for a few moments. It was as if none of them dared to speak, afraid that a secret that none of them would want to take part in, and keep secret, was going to be revealed. The strange feeling that had risen inside the Priest’s chest, when first seeing Evrathol, came streaming back. He felt petty where he sat, having no control over anything whatsoever. He had no idea what he was supposed to say, and he certainly didn't know anything of Evrathol's doings here; only that the most probable was that the Emissary’s visit to Pasthia was constantly on the elf’s mind, and that he thought the Priest could help him. Could he? He wondered. Could he help him? He had not himself been able to form an opinion of the stranger, and he had no idea when he would be given the chance either. His Brother seemed to have no interest in his thoughts on the matter; of the Emissary’s coming. Was it not natural to take council with friends, families and religious leaders? Realising this, Tarakn frowned in disgust. Again, he had been ignored.

"I must speak with you, about the Banquet.. and about my mother, Arlomë.."

Caught of guard by this sudden statement, coming from the man whose outlines he couldn't see properly, he felt his body tremble with anxiety to know what the elf was speaking of. Being absolutely stricken, not knowing what to say or do, he swallowed and said to himself: This has indeed taken an interesting turn..

[Firefoot]

Siamak was endlessly relieved to have a break between the meeting with his mother and the meeting with the Emissary. He had forgotten just how wearing a conversation with his sister could be - all her “brother dear-ing” and subtly condescending manner had given him a headache and reminded him of the precise reason that he avoided extended conversation with her. And now he would have to spend even more time with her during the meeting with the Emissary, which was looming up only too quickly.

The meeting had not been without use, however; in fact, it had been very helpful. He had several new issues to consider, and though he was no closer to reaching a decision, his mind was clearer. He also had a better idea of the types of questions to bring up with the Emissary later on.

In an attempt to relieve the dull throb in his head and better his mood, Siamak decided to take a walk through the gardens. The sun shone clearly, and the day was warm but not uncomfortable for those accustomed to the desert climate. He confined himself to the more private gardens and saw no other people, thankfully. His walk had the desired calming effect and Siamak was soon ready if uneager to go through another round. He returned to his own quarters, wondering how long he would have to wait. He wanted to get it over with on one hand, but on the other he wished he didn’t have to do it at all. Duty again.

Gjeelea showed up first, looking refreshed and stately as ever. “Good to see you again, Siamak dear,” she said. Siamak could feel the headache returning already. He answered as politely as he could and showed Gjeelea to his reception room. When she saw that the Emissary was not yet present, the princess muttered something unintelligible; the only words Siamak caught were “Emissary” and “late.” Siamak sat on a low couch and Gjeelea followed suit, reclining nearby. He was uneasy in his sister’s presence, and she seemed to enjoy is discomfort. Siamak felt like a mouse being stared at by a cat who had decided a bit of sport was in order. Though tempted to feel intimidated, in a new wash of boldness Siamak returned her gaze with a glare of his own. Gjeelea appeared somewhat taken aback, but her expression spoke volumes, as if she were simply humoring him. Siamak wished he could speak out against her and show her that he would not be under her sway in this or any other decision, but he couldn’t. Right then, he hated her, hated her for her impregnable mental strength, and hated himself for not being able to stand up to her.

He was saved by a knock on the door heralding the Emissary’s arrival. Siamak collected himself as best he could as the Emissary was shown in. After one last look at him, Gjeelea turned her attention to the Emissary. Immediately, Siamak noticed that the foreigner had changed his manner of dress to Pashtia’s. It only made Siamak more wary. He would not be won over by the Emissary nearly so easily as his father had been.

“My apologies for being late. I was finishing up a fascination discussion with the king and some nobles over your religion,” said the Emissary. Siamak nodded absently.

“Emissary, my sister and I have not had the convenience of hearing all you have told our father, so I would ask that you would go over the terms of your offer of alliance again with us. Also, I am curious to know why your lord takes such interest in an alliance with a country so far away from his own,” said Siamak. He listened carefully to the Emissary’s answer, paying especial heed to his manner. His response was nothing Siamak had not expected, and though it seemed straightforward, Siamak could not dislodge the suspicion that in every seed of truth there was a grain of lie.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

With the departure of his friend, much of the life went out of the conversation for Faroz. He spoke idly with the women and Korak for a few minutes more, but ever his mind drifted away from where they sat upon the balcony, following Ashnaz through the corridors toward Gjeelea and Siamak. In just over an hour, the King would have to bathe and go to the great hall where he would hear petitions throughout the afternoon. His mind ached at the thought of these, and he longed for a time of respite before they began. For a while he was able to speak with the others about this god of the West, Melkor, but soon he excused himself. Rising, the Ladies Hababa and Arshalous bowed and took their leave, but Korak lingered for a moment. As soon as the Ladies had disappeared, the oaf began. “Majesty. I do not wish to demand, but I must ask when the marriage between myself and your daughter might take place. She is of age now, and I have waited many years.”

Faroz’s eyes narrowed. “Is there any reason for haste, Korak?” In private, he did not bother with pleasantries and formalities. Korak knew the King’s opinion of him.

Korak looked like a child who thought he was being very sly. “The people are beginning to wonder if you are sincere in your desire that we be wed, Khamul. I am afraid that if we remain unmarried very much longer, it will send a dangerous signal to those who oppose the match.”

“You will have your marriage in good time, Korak. I am not about to die any time soon.” Unspoken was the idea that delaying the marriage of his daughter to this man was, at least in part, an extra piece of insurance against his own untimely demise. He motioned for the Lord to depart, but Korak resisted.

“Khamul,” he said again, this time almost wheedling. “I must insist. I fear that if I am not married to Gjeelea soon, I will be forced to conclude only that you no longer intend to honour our…arrangement. I would hate to think that…”

Faroz fought down the desire to call the guards and have the fool thrown into chains. Fighting through the rage in his throat he said. “All right, Korak, you have my permission to speak to my daughter of this. You and she shall together settle upon a date at your earliest convenience. And now, I must rest.” Korak grinned like a dog just handed a large portion of meat. Bowing low he departed in a wave of self-satisfaction.

The King scowled at the wall and thought once more of how much he would like a misfortune to befall the oaf, and as before his mind went immediately to his friend and the Ring. He longed to speak with Ashnaz and take counsel with him – or, at the very least, to be in his company. An idea flashed into his mind, and almost as quickly as the thought itself he acted. Slipping his hand beneath his clothes his finger found the Ring and he put it on. As before, he felt suddenly much more solid in a shadowy world, but he was prepared this time and was not so disoriented as he had been last night. Moving quickly and quietly he left his chambers and stalked the corridors of the Palace. He passed several people, but his soft slippers made no noise, and if they noticed him at all, it was only as a chill beneath their skin.

Finding his son’s apartments, he entered as softly as the wind, and was thankful that none was nearby to see the door quietly opening and closing on its own. He followed the sound of voices and came upon Ashnaz and his children in conference. “The reasons for my Lord Annatar’s request are many, Prince Siamak. Your kingdom is rich in many crops and works of hand that are unknown in the West. My King and his friends would like to sample these goods. To do this, however, we must establish trade and, more importantly, a reliable trade route. This will require time and effort on both our parts. And there are other things to be gained by congress between our realms. Pashtia is well known for its art and philosophy – is it not a mark of wisdom that such knowledge can be exchanged? You may find that we in the West have lore of our own worth the knowing. But beyond all these considerations is the one that my Lord holds most dear, and it is the one I told you all but yesterday when I arrived. Is it not wise, in an uncertain world such as ours, to have as many friends as we can?”

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

The primary silence in Siamak's room felt awkward for a moment, but Gjeelea adjusted to the tenseness that had settled over her and her brother. In the moments before the Emissary entered, Gjeelea wondered how things had become so estranged between her and Siamak. She almost felt as if there had always been an animosity between them. Gjeelea had been three years old when Siamak was born, and she remembered little of that time.

Gjeelea snapped out of her thoughts when the Emissary arrived, so she smiled pleasantly and put on her usual business-like façade.

Siamak took control of the conversation immediately. Gjeelea did not show her surprise in her brother’s suddenly straightforward manner, but the younger sibling had impressed her ever so slightly. He is learning, Gjeelea thought absently as the Emissary began to respond to the Prince’s questioning. But poor Siamak still has to learn, and he is learning too slowly. Father will have to choose between a slow learner and one who already knows.

The Princess expected the sort of answer given by the Emissary - it answered Siamak's question, but vaguely in a sort of rough, outlining thesis. It was the kind of answer Gjeelea had used many times in response to questions she did not like; questions that especially had answers that she knew were less than desirable in total truth. The Emissary spoke of trade mostly, and then he spoke of friendship in an uncertain world.

It would be foolish to just ask 'why?'...Gjeelea thought, musing on what she might say in response to the Emissary's words.

"How is our world uncertain, Emissary, that we need to have alliances with as many nations as possible?" Gjeelea pondered aloud, not meaning to sound so vague but unsure for a moment how to phrase her question and unwilling to spend more time rewording in her mind. "Surely there are times in life...which, perhaps, require more preparedness than others. Those times when one needs to be prepared for the worst in any situation. Those are the times when we are uncertain of which outcome will occur, knowing the best or the worst could happen. Yet, I think, you speak of a danger that we know nothing about at this time. Or perhaps I take your words too literally?"

[Orofaniel]

Evrathol noticed a sudden interest in Tarkan's eyes. It was as if they were lit up. Tarkan looked upon him with great excitement and curiosity. Then his face expression changed; Tarkan suddenly looked anxiously at him, he was probably wondering whether the elf was going to continue and tell him about his concerns regarding his mother and the Banquet or if Evrathol would hold his silence. Evrathol however sat quietly, not knowing exactly what to say or where exactly to begin. Pelin looked questioned at the Priest and not Evrathol, which would have been expected. Pelin sighed a little, just to show the Priest that he was still present.

"Pelin, my friend, please leave us for a moment, will you?" Tarkan asked the man, however he didn’t take his eyes of Evrathol. Pelin nodded quickly; but he didn’t see insulted or angry. Pelin had eaten well and drank enough, and he was more than willing to do what the Priest wished. "It's been a pleasure, sir," he gestured at Evrahol. Evrathol replied quickly; "The pleasure was all mine.” With that, Pelin parted from them. Tarkan and Evrathol were now left alone. Tarkan had by now gotten up from his seat on the divan. His paces were long and it didn’t take him ling to reach the door. He closed it quickly; he was most eager to get back to his seat, or so it seemed. He then found his way back to the divan and seated. This time he didn’t seem as comfortable as he had done before.

"Now," Tarkan began. "It's only you and I, Evrathol," he continued. "I did get the impression that you wanted to speak with me...alone..?" Tarkan then said. Evrathol knew Tarkan was pointing to the event where he had asked Pelin to leave them. "Well, yes," Evrathol replied after a short pause.

"First, will you let me apologise for my very rude behaviour towards you last evening?" Evrathol asked, quietly, but with a certain sternness in his voice. "What is this you speak of?" Tarkan then replied, looking very much surprised. Evrathol didn't know for certain if Tarkan pretended to be untouched by yesterday's events or if Evrathol had been exaggerating. Perhaps he had. By looking at Tarkan - his eyes- he seemed sincere, but the Priest might be fooling him. Oh, what a dreadful thought. Why would a Priest try to fool him?

"Well, I was a bit short with you last night. I may have been a bit arrogant and restricted - and now I'm here to ask for your forgiveness..." Evrathol continued. His voice was, as always, full of self confidence, but somehow, Evrathol seemed blunt. Maybe he was. Maybe the Priest wouldn't notice.

"Don't be silly, my friend," the Priest said, while smirking. Evrathol said naught; and there was a short moment with silence. "Let's hear what you really wanted to talk to me about...shall we?" the Priest suggested eagerly. Evrathol hesitated. Was he going to share his concerns with Tarkan? A Priest he hardly knew? Well, they knew each other well enough to speak in civil conversations in public as well as in private. But the topic Evrathol was about to share seemed like foolish thing to bring up. However, Evrathol knew it was too late to turn now and that the Priest wouldn't let him go just like that.

"I'm worried....or, not worried, maybe just curious," Evrathol began slowly. "As you probably know, my mother spends quite some time in the temple...with The High Priestess," Evrathol continued. He noticed that the Priest's eyes lit up of curiosity and excitement as Evrathol mentioned the High Priestess. "That I know," Trakan then let out. "Well, I'm not quite sure, but I do feel that The High Priestess has....a great...." Evrathol then said. He was looking for a words; the correct word. "Impact," Evrathol then said after a moment. "I think The Priestess has a great impact on my mother Arlomë. I'm not of the opinion that The Priestess is untrustworthy and uncivilized. I'm just not quite sure that this 'impact' she has on my mother is good for her...." Evrathol then concluded. Tarkan listened very carefully without any interruptions. But now as Evrathol had finished, Tarkan cleared his throat; "Are you inquiring that The Priestess is somehow using your mother to achieve....something?" The Priest asked suspiciously. "No," Evarathol replied quickly. "I'm not inquiring anything except for that I'm not certain that the relationship between the two of them is as it should be...." Evrathol knew how odd it might sound for the listener, any listener for that matter. He took a grape from the dish and swallowed it without even tasting the bitter sweet taste of it.

"When I arrived earlier, they were both in a heavy debate, but both were silenced as I entered the county yard. As for eavesdropping; no I'm not the kind, but I must be honest and say that I did hear some talk of the Emissary...." Evrathol spoke quickly, not taking a single breath. "I see..." Tarkan nodded and before he could say anything Evrathol was at his feet.

"I must be going," Evrathol then said. He knew he had been in the temple too long, and his father was probably anxious too see him. "Thank you for everything, and farewell," Evrathol said, waving his good byes to the Priest. "All so soon?" Tarkan then said, while his face expression fell. "I'm afraid so," Evrathol muttered. "Well, at least let me look into....it. Your concerns, I mean," Tarkan then muttered. "That is what I hoped for. Thank you," Evrathol then answered politely, smiling.

Taking his leave, Tarkan was left alone in the room. Evrathol went through the door, meeting Pelin just outside. "Farewell Pelin," Evrathol said quickly. "Sir," he said, bowing humbly.

[Amanaduial the archer]

The midday bells rang through the capital city, chiming duskily from both ends, calling for a break to labours as the sun reached it's peak. Outside, for those in the fields, it was necessary for a break of an hour or two: when the sky god held the sun at it's very highest point, his glory spread far and beat down strongly on those who worked at Rhais' earth.

Did that mean the gods were in opposition? Zamara let the idle thought slip into her mind as her eyes drifted up to the face of the earth goddess above her where she knelt. It was an question without an answer, and thus Zamara let it rest: her goddess did not answer all her questions at her every whim, and it was best that way. She was closer to Rhais than anyone else in the city, but what would the goddess be if there was not still some seperation between them.

Zamara hummed softly to herself as she rose, a melancholy melody - a sung prayer to the goddess, a plainsong chant that would be sung this evening by the acolytes. The words slipped slowly from her lips, surrounding her as she stood in front of the goddess' statue, her hands, still patterned with henna, held together in front of her, her dark eyes half closed. She drew the chant to an end, sighed contentedly, and turned around to see two men standing at the top of the long central aisle between the pillars. They wore agricultural clothing, but still looked nervous, twisting their hats between their hands. One man looked to be in his mid years, the other, a taller, gangly individual, maybe a year or two younger than Zamara herself. As she approached, both men bowed in the form of the Temple, showing themselves to be familiar with Rhais - but by their nervousness, and the fact Zamara did not recognise them, she guessed they were from outside the city walls.

"May Rhais bless your fields and families," she murmured, her hands stretched to them. The older man rose at this, and the younger man followed suit hesitantly, as if not sure he was doing the right thing. Zamara smiled and nodded her head to both of them. "Good morrow, sirs. The Temple is free to worship in."

The younger man looked slightly panic-stricken, but the older man took charge quickly, his ruddy face serious. "It isn't for worship that we come today, High Priestess. We came...well, to speak to yourself, if it isn't too much trouble.

Zamara motioned for him to continue, and the farmer continued hastily. "My name is Farron, and this is Hastif, my nephew. We..well, we appear to have something of a situation at Hastif's father's farm. There is..." he seemed lost for words and the younger man butted in.

"A demon!" he whispered fiercely, reverently.

There was a pause, then Farron gave an irritated sigh, glaring at the younger. "Yes, yes, alright, thankyou Hastif." Having quelled his nephew, Farron returned his gaze to Zamara. "Unfortunately, High Priestess, that it one of the conclusions some of us have come to. It seems to be some kind of earth creature, but what sort we have no idea - none of us have seen the like before, not even the village elders. We are in no way saying it is demonic, as you might say-"

"Speak for yourself, Uncle, you han't seen the critter!" Hastif burst out again, then seemed to remember the High Priestess and redenned sharply. "S-sorry, High Priestess," he stammered, focusing his gaze on her ruby medallion. "I...well, me and my brothers saw the creature a few nights ago, having heard some sort of creaking noises across the farm. Isn't a creature around that makes such a noise, far as we know!"

"What does this 'creature' look like?"

"Look like...hrm." Hastif paused. "It's about...well, somewhat taller than myself, High Priestess, somewhat taller indeed - say three feet taller - but then, it did seem to be sort of...stooping. As for girth, I'd say 'tis a good two feet wide all around as well."

Zamara's eyes widened at the size of the creature, but something about the farmer's phrasing caught her attention. "'All around', you say. What do you mean?"

"Well, that's the thing, Priestess - strange thing it is, seems to be pretty much round. It was hunched in a corner, likesay, somewhat stooping. It's skin, or fur, or covering, is rough and dark brown, sorta dappled like, but that may have just been the torchlight. And the strangest thing about it..." Hastif leant forward fearfully, conspiratorially. "It...it seems to be almost entirely covered in leaves! Attached to it's body! And from in them, there are these two, glowing eyes....And these creaking noises..."

"Oh, I've heard them for m'self as well, Priestess," Farron butted in, shuddering. Strangest noises you ever did hear, and echoing for a mile around - like a barn creaking under terrible weight, like a huge tree about to be pulled down... Horrible."

"Worse some nights than others - some nights it's loud, and quite...horrible. But other nights it is...softer, like; quiet, so's you would hardly hear it, like it could let you drift off to sleep; almost like...almost like a sort of singing, Priestess," Hastif finished thoughtfully, his earnest eyes finding Zamara's.

Farron rolled his eyes again. "Bleedin' singing...'moment ago you were saying it was a demon, nephew! But please, Priestess: have ye any idea what it is?"

Zamara narrowed her eyes and shook her head slowly. "I'm not sure, Farron. Where is it that this creature is?"

"Some miles outside the capital, Priestess: Zatrin-a-Rhais?"

Zamara nodded: the village was well known to her. "I will come this afternoon: I have some business at the palace with Queen Bekah, but afterwards, I shall come, and try to identify what manner of being this is."

Both farmers nodded, grateful smiles coming onto their ruddy faces as they ducked their heads, twisting their hats again. "Thank you, High Priestess, thank you indeed. We'll...we'll be ready for you."

Zamara nodded. "Blessings of Rhais upon you, gentlemen, and a safe journey home."

Still murmuring their thanks, the pair ducked and bowed their way down the aisle and hurried out of the door, leaving Zamara to watch them go, her expression thoughtful. Truth be told, she had no idea what this creature could be: covered in leaves, round in girth, stooping and creaking, with glowing red eyes.... She frowned. Sounded like rural jiggery-pokery exaggeration to her. But her curiousity was piqued - she would go, most certainly, but not alone.

Turning around, she saw Tayfar at the top of the steps, dusting the feet of the goddess very busily. She regarded the acolyte's back with raised eyebrows for a few seconds: the girl had heard everything, she had no doubt. Devoted acolyte she may have been, but she was also an extraordinarily good eavesdropper. Ignoring this, she decided to leave the girl in suspense by ignoring the issue. "Tayfar, come, I need to prepare to go to the palace: my cloak and staff are in my quarters."

Tayfar scurried away with a silent nod and Zamara looked up thoughtfully at Rhais' face again, a questioning smile on her dark, handsome features. "What do you have in store, Goddess?" she murmured, softly.

[Bêthberry]

Apprehension worked on Bekah's thoughts like a dog worrying a bone. All the careful balancing of her life seemed about to collapse, a house of cards after all. At least, that is what she feared as she watched the heat of noon shimmer over the rooftops and buildings from her balcony. She sat at her small desk, writing and rewriting.

My beloved Brother-Monarch,

How pleased my husband and I were to hear of the birth of your child and the safe delivery of your wife. It augurs well that your blood and mine will flow like the life-giving river through time.

What news have you heard of the outside world or are you too ...

She gave up, drumming the desk with her quill and watching the small splatters of ink. Then she began again.

My Lord Faroz,

In the festivities of welcoming this Emissary of the Lord Annatar, we have not considered announching his arrival to our other alliances. Will you grant me permisison to write to Alanzia and ...

This, too, she soon gave up. These were the second and third attempts she had made to address this thought. Should her brother be told of this visitor? Was this suitable only for Pashtian discussion? Could she raise the point with Faroz and not be thought false to her Pastian role? Surely the nomadic tribes will have seen the Emissary's party travel across the land and with them news flew faster than vultures over a carcass. She rose and brought her oil lamp to her desk, setting it down carefully on her desk. Its scent of jasmine filled the room and might perhaps mask the odour of the burning paper. Bekah held each paper, twisted like a taper, over the flame, until each caught and then turned each upright, moving the papers back and forth slightly, watching the flames sway until only ashes were left, falling into the lamp itself. She jerked her hand, as she was too slow with dropping the last taper and the smallest flicker of its final flame touched her nail and singed it. As she sucked upon her finger, cooling the burn with her tongue and saliva, she could taste the ash and melted nail. Strangely, she knew the taste. Old, stale walnuts soaked in brine, with crushed wormwood. Or was she imagining it? How could it ressemble the burnt offerings from victory rituals of her long ago childhood in Alanzia?

She sat back upon her cushions and lay still, eyes closed, listening to the cicadas chirp and wondering if the other tiny noises she heard were other insects. It was not yet time for her ritual bath. Why were she and Faroz always limited to formal public interviews of courtly business? Could she not seek him in private, as he had come twice now in one day? Never before had the Queen entered the King's private quarters. Would she be admitted? Would Faroz's guards accept such an unusual act?

She rose, changing her tunic to lilac and covering her head and body with her outer garment of purple, her rajiba, the cloak denoting regal stature and masking her privacy by leaving only her eyes seen. Leaving her private bedchamber, she sought Homay and explainded her intent. Homay only looked at her closely, and said nothing. Without so much as a notice of her guards, Bekah left her room by her private door and wandered the short passage way to the King's rooms.

Bekah strode with deliberation, each step marking a soft soosh-soosh of her leather sandals upon the corridor's cool stone. Her feet were cold, a contrast to the slight burn on her hand. The guards looked up and stood to attention, saluting her with the royal address of "Majesty."

"These are days of much deliberation. We have court business and foreign affairs and matters of the private affairs of the Royal Children. I would speak with his Majesty about our daughter's marriage." She spoke with assurance and command, her manner suggesting such a request was normal rather than unusual. The guards bows and demurred to her, opening the door with an announcement, "The Queen wishes to seek an audience with his Majesty. She attends upon him now"

With those words, Bekah walked over the threshold she had never before crossed and into the private quarters of her husband. It was a world, a view, a life she had not expected to see, unlike what she had imagined Faroz would prefer. But such thoughts she put away as she sought him out, running through her mind the words she would say to him. Thinking of what she wanted to say, she at first did not realise that she was looking around for him, that he was not there to greet her. Then it dawned upon her. He was absent. She searched his balcony, peered behind the curtains of his deeply curtained bed, looked into his closets. Khamul was not here. She finally found her voice, "Majesty, Majesty, My lord Faroz."

She called not to him, but in a voice which she knew the guards whould hear. They arrived momentarily.

"The King is not here. You have missent me. Tell me where I may find him." The two guards rushed forwards, searching the rooms as she had done. Then an alarm went out.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

“I think you misunderstand me Princess,” the Emissary replied. “I blame myself. I come from a land in which we have known war and strife for far too long, and it has coloured our view of the world. The peace that you in Pashtia have enjoyed for almost a generation now is but newly established in our realms, and as a result my Lord and his people are ever wary of new conflict. There is no specific threat that we fear, nor do we perceive any such to be directed at you. Perhaps it might help if I explain somewhat of our more recent history…?” The Prince and Princess seemed interested in what Ashnaz would have to say on this matter, and even Faroz, who had heard much of that the day before, became intrigued by the possibility of new revelations.

Ashnaz asked if he might be seated before settling himself upon his cushions. He took a moment in arranging his robes about him. Faroz seized the opportunity to move further into the room. As he passed by his daughter he saw her shiver and glance about, and for a sliver of time Faroz was afraid that she might be able to see him, but as she glanced in his direction her eyes were fixed upon nothingness. Faroz indulged in another smile. He slipped by her and stood by a window where he could enjoy the sun, but its light and heat passed through him, leaving him chilled. Siamak turned toward the window, as though noticing the dimming of the light and his face took on an expression of faint alarm. Faroz followed his son’s eyes and noticed for the first time that in the full light of Rae’s glory he was casting a very faint shadow, like that which might be found beneath a thorn-bush upon a moonless but starry night. Siamak moved toward the window to investigate, but Faroz stepped aside into the shade once more.

“Is there something wrong Prince Siamak?” Ashnaz called out.

Siamak shook his head slowly, although is face still bore a thoughtful expression. “No, Emissary. I only thought I saw…nothing.”

“Well then,” the Westerner began, “to give you in brief the tale of my people…” He then began a narrative in which he retailed the story of the Lord Annatar, of how he had, alone among the Men of the West, sought out the friendship of the Elves, offering to teach them how to craft things of great worth. He told them of the wars between the Elves and Dwarves – a strange race of stunted men who lived beneath tall mountains and hoarded their wealth – and of how these wars had decimated the realms of both. An estrangement had grown between the Elves and the Lord Annatar, and then there had been invaders from the East and North, and hordes of monsters which he called orks emerged from their maggot holes to harry all. “As you can see,” he concluded, “there has been no end of conflict in my Lord’s realms, and all of it between races that could live in peace if only there could be understanding between them. Division and disunity have been the downfall of the West. At one time, in the distant past, there was but One who ruled all: the god Melkor. In his time there was neither war nor strife, nor any conflict between peoples. But then strangers from across the Western Sea came, bringing with them war and destruction.”

“I heard somewhat of this last night, Emissary,” Gjeelea put in. “These strangers from across the Sea were Elves, you said?”

“Aye, but not such Elves as you know here. These folk had been across the ocean to dwell with a mighty race of giants who gave them knowledge that is not fit for people of this world to possess. Having given them this knowledge and taught them how to make magical items of terrible power, these giants allowed the Elves – hardly Elves any longer in their pride – to return to Middle-earth. But those wars are long since over. For many years after their conclusion there was great enmity between all the peoples of the West, but my Lord Annatar has sought ever to mend these wounds, and to work for a time of peace like that enjoyed under the God Melkor.”

“You mean, your King seeks to unite all peoples under a single rule?” Siamak cried.

“No, no, my Prince! Those days are now long gone. Should there ever arise a King worthy of the role, then we can only hope that he would be chosen by the people of their own will, but until that time, we can make peace in the only way we can: through friendships, and alliances. This is why I am here. To ask for the alliance of Pashtia so that we can begin to spread this vision of universal accord throughout all the lands and not just the West!”

Gjeelea picked up an apricot and took an idle bite from it as she asked, “And what of Alanzia? Are they to be included in your new order?”

This caught the attention of Faroz. He had begun to wonder this himself, but had been reluctant to ask his friend for fear of the answer. If they were not to form alliance with Alanzia as well, that would present difficulties to the delicate balance between the two powers. If the Lord Annatar was to offer Alanzia an alliance, then would that included another Ring for its King? Faroz did not relish the idea of a rival monarch with the same power as he himself now enjoyed… “We can only hope,” Ashnaz replied, “that in time all nations will be united in peace. But as you yourself have said it is a mighty step we have made in approaching even a single realm so far from our own. My Lord wishes to see how things will fare with Pashtia.” It was a cunning answer, one that let them know that for the time being, Pashtia had been singled out, but it contained the slightest hint of a threat as well – if the Lord Annatar could not find alliance here, he might be willing to seek it with Alanzia.

Clamouring of feet and the clash of arms in the corridors drew their attention, and even as they began to wonder what was happening the guards rushed into the room crying out, “The King is missing, Majesties! You must come with us!”

Gjeelea and Siamak sprang to their feet with cries of alarm, demanding to be told more and why they must leave the apartment. “The Queen has ordered that the royal family be taken to a safe place until the King can be found. She fears that there is ill work afoot!” The guard who spoke could not hide the very quick glance that he shot toward the Emissary.

Faroz cursed. He knew instantly how the alarm had been raised: someone had come to his apartments to seek him out and found him gone – but who? There were few who were allowed access to his chambers, and none who would enter unless he had sent for them. The guards would never have permitted anyone to pass, on pain of their lives, except perhaps… The answer flashed into his mind at once. Bekah. Only she would be allowed to enter his rooms by the guards. She had come to seek him out. After all these years, why would she have chosen this particular time? He was furious with his wife, and had he been with her at that moment he might even have struck her for her impudence.

Faroz was shocked that the idea had come to him at all, and horrified at how…satisfying…it had seemed to him.

The clamour was growing and the King could hear panic growing in all the rooms of the Palace and spreading like an out of control contagion. He had but a few minutes in which to act before the situation would get completely out of control. He moved toward the door, intending to slip out, remove the Ring, and then re-enter. But as he neared the exit, the guards rushed forward to escort the Prince and Princess from the room, and one of them nearly collided with him. Faroz fell away from them and hit a wall, and a few eyes turned toward the sound. More guards arrived, making access to the door even more difficult. Through the window, Faroz could see riders pounding along the roadway from the Palace and he knew that within moments the news of his disappearance would hit the City. He no longer had any time, and reaching for the Ring he prepared to remove it despite the crowd.

Ashnaz stepped forward and spoke to the guards in a commanding tone that stilled them all. “Hold!” he cried. “Have you lost your senses? You are in the presence of your Prince and Princess, do not think to drag them from the room! Stand back, and let them proceed with you in dignity!” The guards looked upon his noble face and something in his eyes quelled them. In silence they fell away from the door. Ashnaz immediately stepped before the Prince and Princess, blocking their way, and bowing low said, “I am sorry to hear of this. If there is any aid that I or my men can lend you, we will of course do so!”

Faroz seized the chance that his friend had given him and rushed from the room. As he moved out the door he glanced back. Ashnaz had ceased to speak and was standing behind Gjeelea and Siamak and for a second it seemed as though he was looking directly into Faroz’s eyes. The idea thrilled the King. The corridors of the Palace were now full of people rushing to and fro, and it was difficult for the King to find a quiet corner. He finally found a place to be alone in a small passageway reserved for the passage of servants and he immediately removed the Ring. The instant he slipped it away beneath his robes a kitchen maid appeared from around the corner and stopped dead, her eyes growing wide with shock. She turned about as though to flee, but Faroz stayed her with a command. “What is happening in my Palace?” he demanded fiercely. “Have my people gone mad?”

The maid looked as though she would drop dead from the fear of being spoken to directly by her King. Doing her best to curtsey she stammered out, “The King is missing! Or, rather sir – Majesty! – they all thought you were missing. The alarm has gone out and the guards are tearing the Palace apart! Cook will be so angry at the mess they’ve made in the kitchen…”

“Silence,” he commanded, not roughly but it was enough to send the poor girl past the brink of tears. “Run along back to the kitchen now and tell cook that I shall send him whatever aid he needs in clearing up the mess. Now go.”

Crying now with relief the girl ran past him and disappeared into a small door. Faroz left the passageway and went to find his wife so that he could put an end to this madness.

[Kransha]

The training exercises did not go well, as Morgôs had expected. Wet-behind-the-ears lads, weighted down by dress uniforms and blades too heavy for their undeveloped muscles, did not an army make. Only a few seasoned veterans lingered quietly in the armies of Pashtia, and they seemed content to use their lengthy résumés to gain ranks by leaps and bounds, until they were all captains with cushy political assignments. The Elven officers and enlistees, the only ones that Morgôs deeply trusted besides his lieutenants, seemed far more comfortable in other units, segregated from the mortal men. For this prejudicial nature, Morgôs was further embittered against his own people. If they could not overcome the racial barrier, how could they expect the mortals to do their part and balance the equation?

Disregarding all this with a metaphoric wave of his hand, Morgôs returned his thoughts to riding. A glint lit his eye as the neat tiled road gave wave to reveal his an arching path which led, past a forested wall into his front garden and his estate, which lay spread out like a beauteous valley before him.

The house of Morgôs Elrigon was the largest estate belonging to a non-noble in all of Kanak. It had first been a smaller guard post, near the palace, but Faroz’ great-grandfather had had it renovated and expanded for Morgôs’ use, and turned it into a lavish villa to honor him for his achievements. Its size did not comfort Morgôs, or bring him joy, but it accommodated his hobbies; one of which he wished to practice. Steadily, he hitched up his horse outside, rather than in the stable on the villa’s western side, and rushed, a little too eagerly, into the structure. He hurried through it, his feet barely touching the marble floor and colorful carpeting as he traversed the complex halls until he had reached a delicate stairwell, where he descended to the place he most desired to be rapidly.

His library was, as a matter of fact, the part of Morgôs’ home which he most loved, and spent most of his time in. He would often become consumed by it, in a sense, and be so involved in reading, writing, translating, and drawing that he would remain cooped up in the archival vault for hours on end. Every once in a while, he might even spend full days inside, and correspond with his lieutenants via messenger. His wife would often show concern about his addicted habits, though his son was always oddly unaffected. It was a huge room, in comparison to most of the villa’s cells, with a vaulted roof and the look of an endless catacomb, with the peculiar musk of dry papyrus permeating the air within. It was lined, apparently, with veritable pews; narrow paths that stemmed from the single colonnade that led through the center of the room. The multiple rows were flanked by bookshelves that sprung up to the high ceiling, all brimming with books and parchment stuffed haphazardly into every orifice available.

All in the span of a minute he had reached the room, and now he knew not what to do in it. The world slowed to a calmer pace as he lost track of the speed or slowness of time. Slowly, he meandered down each row of books and shelves until he came to a quiet, secluded little cell at the end of one row, where several desks and tables sat, strewn with papers. Very slowly, as if undergoing some delicate operation, Morgos swung his cumbersome armor into an aged wooden chair, worn away and discolored by time. With tender, hesitant fingers, the general reached onto the desk and picked up the one book that was there. Feeling tranquility, he moved his gauntleted hand over the embossed leather covering, bound with iron like some impregnable tome, and began to pry it open, feeling the weak but faithful pages of vellum, two hundred or more, within. This contained, surprisingly, something he hated, but something that gave him comfort to do, for it was an addiction which bound him to this place.

Here was the true root of his obsession, his habitual solitary nature in the library. He studied a great many things, but all his studies strove towards one goal; to make a discovery, one that he had always felt he needed to make. The past of Morgôs Elrigon was not the happiest history, which was why he dwelled upon it in excess. Morgôs was an ancient elf indeed and had lived far longer than most others. In reality, he himself did not know his own age, as he had not kept exact track, but he knew he had been fully grown at the time of the building of Kanak by the first primitive Pashtian monarchs, which had been a little over 2000 years ago. He had some veiled memories of times before that, but not had stood the test of time, which was why he always copied the contents of every dream, petty vision, and flash of memory he had into journals of mad lore. Avarin History books gave him much information, pages forged by Elves before his first memories and passed to him, or rather, gathered by him together into this compendium of knowledge he possessed. But still, he could not find links to the one vague memory which most haunted his dreams – and dominated his nightmares.

Suddenly, Morgôs snapped himself from his contemplation, instead, for a change, of someone else doing it for him. He had to locate his wife, and his son as well. It was not often that he flew about in such a mad gait, flitting hither and thither with no purpose, and he feared his dear Arlomë might have become concerned. She was not in the house, which was odd, considering Bekah’s retinue (or most of it) had been dismissed today because of the ruckus involving the Emissary. There were only a few places which Arlomë frequented – that he knew of – and the palace was where she spent much of her time, even in off hours. With a prickling brow and a grave look about him, Morgôs hurled the dusty volume onto the desk he’d taken it from, where it landed with a thump and hastened out of the library and back to where he’d bound his horse, at a conveniently located hitching post that jutted from the southerly veranda. Without delay, he headed to the palace, which was not far.

[Imladris]

A tense awkward feeling descended upon the room shortly after the Emissary left the chambers. Arshalous drained the rest of the chilled tea in one gulp and glanced at Korak. There was a small attempt at conversation, but Arshalous was not in the mood for talking. Neither, apparently, was anybody else. She wished impulsively that she could just fall asleep like her aunt and avoid things like this.

She should just stand up and go, she told herself...but she wasn't sure if that would be considered rude by the king...and she did not want to do that. Thankfully the king himself took the innitiative and excused himself. Arshalous and Hababa bowed and went to find their mounts.

As Arshalous was swinging herself in her saddle, Korak stumped out of the castle, an absurd puppy grin on his face. It irked her that he was happy...but of course the foolish always were happy because they were not burdened by serious thoughts. She herself was still a bit ruffled that she had to help with the silly temple, but she could not help feeling pleased with building in and of itself. Besides matters of finance, the king and herself (Korak, of course, had taken no interest) had touched upon the appearance of the temple. Marbled supporting pillars, mosaic floors that told of the god's deeds...it indeed would be lovely. Pity that Rae was not more deserving.

The thought of Rae reminded her of the Emissary and she smiled to herself. That had been the gleam of light with the visit. He was intelligent, willing to learn...it was a pity that he worshipped this...Melkor, who was much like Rae. Yet who would want to worship a destructive god that was like Rae? Unless...unless his might was greater than Rae's -- maybe his might had a nobleness that Rae lacked. She would like to ask the Emissary about this new god.

[Amanaduial the archer]

Wearing a light veil over her head against the heat of the sun, Zamara walked slowly through the city, almost alone in the streets: the workers had hurried home, or to shelter's at their workplaces, to rest for the hour around midday when it was too hot to work. As the High Priestess made her way through the streets, she noted that although empty, they did not seem deserted. After all, children did not heed the fiesta at midday - another adult rule to be disregarded, a chance to be free to do what they would while their parents and tutors were otherwise occupied. The children of the nobles, of course, remained inside, stifled by the heat and their studies; but outside, for a while, the urchins ruled.

Zamara paused in the shade of a house, watching a group of three small children as they played out some complex game. One child, a scruffy, sharp eyed girl of about nine, dropped two dice into a circle drawn in the dirt, and, along with the two other girls she was playing with, she watched eagerly for the result. Apparently it was a good result for the first girl, for she gave a whoop and clapped her hands together, grinning, as the other two turned to face each other, their hands on their knees. They whispered a few words, their high voices rising in volume until they ended with a shriek, threw up their hands, and pelted away in opposite directions, away from the circle. The girl who had dropped the dice, still seated, covered her eyes, and began to count loudly.

Zamara, unnoticed and unheeded, smiled to herself. How much simpler the world would be if run by children. A city of innocents. But even here, she noted, there were politics: between the girl's fingers, the High Priestess noted a slither of white as the girl turned her head. She was peeking. Zamara raised her eyebrows and couldn't help her smile turning to a grin, her white teeth peeking out themselves from her dark lips. The seeker, apparently noting that she was being watched, that she had been caught cheating, whirled around quickly, her hands coming off her eyes, and her eyes settled suspiciously on Zamara. The High Priestess held them impassively, then nodded solemnly to the girl. With surprising solemnity herself, the latter replied in turn, then, without a second glance at Zamara, she covered her eyes again and resumed counting. Then, with a sudden triumphant yell and without further ado, she sprang to her feet and ran away, calling out after her companions, seeking them, her bare feet slapping against the dusty cobbles. Yes, Zamara thought to herself, looking after her young friend under the veil. I could deal with a city of children.

The street lay empty now, and Zamara moved on, the clicking of the metal at the base of her staff the only sound, the sudden darts of light through her medallion as it swung on her chest the only sudden movements. As Zamara walked, she thought to herself. She had much to talk to the Queen about, and she had been frankly relieved when Tarkan had declined the offer of joining them to discuss the furnishings for the Temple: it would be easier to talk with the Queen alone. Not that Zamara wished Tarkan ill, far from it - but she was not sure Tarkan would say the same. The way he had acted last night had showed that, the way he had assumed the title of 'High Priest' rather than denying.

Zamara childed herself inwardly, pausing as the street widened into a large, cobbled courtyard, centred by a fountain whose water fell gently, idly, onto itself and around itself, it's playful sounds at odds to the serious thoughts of it's observer. Petty things, petty things...such things were not meant to be the essence of worshipping the gods, they were not meant to get in the way. But... the young woman's brow creased slightly and the lines deeped around her mouth as she watched the fountain fiercely. But they do get in the way.

She sighed, loosening her suddenly tight grip on the staff and moving on. Plans for the Temple to Rae troubled her: she knew not what this new building would hold in store for her. Whether, in fact, it would hold anything in store for her. How many times the power balance between the deities of Pashtia had changed she knew not, but Rhais had been 'superior' for many years - what would happen when that changed? Ritual, tradition, worship - were they to change also? Zamara worried.

And, of course, the Emissary. The young woman smiled ruefully to herself. Of course. One could not forget him when talking to Bekah - not even if she tried. What were his preferences in all of this? It was hard to say...who were the gods of the West? Zamar felt suddenly hopelessly ignorant - she had absolutely no idea. Did they even have gods? Surely every sentient being felt the need to pay heed to something that had created them, that sustained them, that laid them eventually to rest - surely even these blue eyed, pale haired men from those war-torn lands would feel the prescence of Rae and Rhais in some way?Zamara's eyes narrowed subconciously. She was still not sure she fully trusted this Emissary. The more she knew, the better.

And Siamak. He, also, makes a rather intriguing topic of conversatin.

Zamara smiled to herself thoughtfully. Yes, indeed; the young prince was a very intriguing topic...

Having arrived at the palace, Zamara climbed the steps smoothly, lowering her veil to be like a veil across her arms. She knocked on the door with the tip of her staff three times and waited for a few seconds - an unusual wait in a palace full of attendants. Eventually a flustered young man wrenched open the door, his eyes widening as he noted Zamara, her medallion and her robes in quick succession. He bowed briefly, and showed her in. "I come to see Her Majesty the Queen," Zamara requested. The man opened his mouth as if to say something else, then bit his lip and nodded stiffly

"As you say, High Priestess," he murmured respectfully. "I shall notify the Queen of your arrival." Nodding yet again, the young man excused himself (rather hastily, Zamara thought, puzzledly), leaving Zamara alone in an antechamber to wait.

[Novnarwen]

Their conversation ended. Tarkan had remained motionless during most of the time Evrathol had spoken, only muttering a few words now and then to assure the elf that he was still listening, (quite attentively, I might add ). After a few moments silence, the elf had left hurriedly, saying his farewells to the Priest, who promised the elf to look into the matter. "We will talk again soon," he had said politely and smiled faintly as he took the elf’s hand in his and pressed it. Thus, he had left, leaving Tarkan immobile and alone. It had indeed been an interesting conversation which had taken an unexpected, but interesting, turn as it developed. Simultaneously as Tarkan had heard the elf speak, ideas were being formed inside of the Priest’s head; ideas which he were eager to keep to himself until he was ready to share them with the ‘right’ people. He sat down, his mouth halfway open. Already, he knew that Pelin supported him in building a new Temple in honour of the sky God, but did Evrathol support him as well? He frowned. The elf did so indirectly, Tarkan supposed, as he didn't seem to like Zamara, who was the most faithful and basically the only true representative of the goddess. This can prove interesting ... Tarkan thought to himself, sipping the rest of his tea.

Sitting comfortably, he was still uneasy by the words that were constantly being repeated inside of his head.

"When I arrived earlier, they were both in a heavy debate, but both were silenced as I entered the county yard. As for eavesdropping; no I'm not the kind, but I must be honest and say that I did hear some talk of the Emissary...."

Evrathol's words were in a way highly disturbing. They were all the same unimportant, he concluded fast. The priest couldn't really expect people to talk about other things; certainly not today, the day after the banquet, which had been held in the honour of the newly arrived guest, the Emissary. Tarkan too, would also probably have chosen this topic in a conversation, if of course; he had anyone to discuss it with him.

The expression the elf bore while saying it though, was probably the thing that bothered the priest the most. It was a worried expression, as if afraid that by the word 'Emissary' his head would explode. All right, the Priest thought to himself, knowing that he was exaggerating . . . just slightly. Tarkan was always being accused for exaggerating about things, but this was nevertheless different. Tarkan was only trying to digest what he had witnessed. One had to admit that it was highly unusual that someone came to him and told him of their concern of his very own colleague. Yes, Zamara, the High Priestess was a colleague. They didn’t have to like each other to be. It was even odder, if not awkward, that this person, in this case the male elf, had expressed his concerns when it came to his mother. His very own mother, Arlomë. And in best of all, Evrathol and himself were only acquaintances who had barely met! Tarkan swallowed. Was he being fooled?

Despite of the last terrifying thought, he could not help think about the elf’s sudden haste to leave. It must be taken into consideration though, that he left so hurriedly after confession about hearing his mother and the Priestess discuss the Emissary. Maybe he regretted telling me? Why?

[Kransha]

The ride to the palace was short, since Morgôs’ estate was so close to it. He stowed his horse at the royal stables, near the elegant, well-groomed steeds of the royal family, and headed into the palace, though the lack of guards and servants bustling about was somewhat alarming. Disconcerted, the General made his way to the main entrance and into the antechamber to find it, very oddly, empty, save for one figure; the High Priestess Zamara. Her presence took him aback, but he chided himself a moment later for being surprised. Her sort oft had business with royalty, probably relating to the temple building nowadays.

“General.” She said, bowing her head.

“High Priestess.” He said back, doing the same.

An awkward silence fell upon the two unmoving figures in the room. Morgôs tried to keep himself from shooting nervous glances at the High Priestess. He always felt peculiar around religious folk, though his spouse did not. They did not make him nervous, but his taste for them and their antics had been soured by past experiences. Still, the silence was irking him all the more. A whirring din thrived in halls just beyond the antechamber, rattling, clanging, and all sorts of confused sounds. They made Morgôs uneasy. After some minutes, he could not help but turn to the priestess and speak up. “I must apologize for last night.” He said, suddenly, but with the proper amount of grace in his smooth voice. The Priestess turned to him, unfazed by the sudden words, and spoke to him unsure of what he meant. “Apologize for what?” she patiently inquired.

“I addressed your colleague…” the elf searched for the name, memorable as it was, “Tarkan, as a High Priest. I assigned triviality to your station with a slip of my tongue, and for that I am sorry. My wits were not with me.” He gave a little apologetic nod, but Zamara waved her hand pleasantly, indicating that he should not do so. “Such things happen, General,” she said, “it is no blasphemy. You need not be sorry.”

Morgôs’ Elven eyes saw a strange brightness in her face, one he had seen before. She was a faithful woman, and a clever one; he could see this much simply by looking at her. He felt as if he should smile in return, but could not. Instead, he murmured a quiet acknowledgement of her kindness weakly. “You are…much more forgiving…than some others who share your profession.” Again she looked at him weirdly.

“Rhais is always forgiving;” she responded, “of those who uproot her earth and tear the trees’ roots from her, for she knows that it is their faith in her that is important. She gives us what we need regardless of our wrongs.” She did not blink as she spoke, and her gentle but enigmatic eyes lay open for Morgôs to peer into, but he knew it was rude to stare so foolishly upon one of her caliber. He wondered, for a moment, if she actually believed that tidbit. It was an archaic proverb, which might not be part of her branch of worship. Perhaps it was just a candid politeness on her part. He did know that Rae, the Sky God, was always pictured as vengeful and destructive, so Rhais, Rae’s technical opposite, would probably be aptly described as a forgiving, generous matriarch of a deity.

“What you say is true.” He said at last, “You have great wisdom.”

“My wisdom is that of the Goddess, General.”

Another proverb. Morgôs’ lip curled in distaste, but he stifled his annoyance, since his curiosity was far greater. She was probably full of these arcane words, and was no doubt supposed to say them as often as he could. The Elven General mulled over the situation, but did not try to understand the things that faith obligated one to do. He was about to turn away and continue his silent waiting, but Zamara’s voice hindered him. “What did you mean” she said to him, “about me being more forgiving than others who ‘share my profession?’”

“I was not referring to anyone you know.” Morgôs responded sharply, realizing that he’d made a mistake in his praise. He hoped Zamara would let the subject quickly drop, but she persisted. “Than who?” her voice intoned politely; so politely that Morgôs could not accuse her of prying, “Do I not know those who share my faith?” Morgos shook his head vigorously. “No, I meant your predecessors.” Said the General with simple bluntness, obviously trying to end the conversation, “I knew many of them; before your time, I think.”

The High Priestess, still unaffected, took the hint, saying only, “Ah.”

Silence between the two settled again, but was broken by Zamara for the second time. She whirled on the General. “I have forgotten myself. General, I met with your wife this morning.” Morgôs was, of course, surprised, and somewhat relieved to here this, but also annoyed further. “Did you now?” he said, his tone apparently fueled by that annoyance, but Zamara spoke too quickly to detect the change.

“Yes. She wished to speak with me.” The High Priestess looked as if she was going to continue, but Morgôs cut her off. “Tell me not what of,” he blurted, a little harshly, “for I do not wish to infringe upon her privacy…or yours.” He added.

“If you insist.” Zamara seemed to realize that not all was well with Morgôs, and she was right. The General looked away, saying only “I do.” in a cold, more raspy voice. And silence fell again.

Now that Morgôs knew where his wife was (or had been), he should’ve left, but did not. He had business with the Prince that he could attend to. He looked forward to seeing his “pupil” once again, and making the first of many plans for the boy’s future.

[Novnarwen]

“Father?”

The priest turned around, being surprised by seeing the kind and innocent face of the young Pelin.

“I saw the elf leave..” Pelin continued being uncertain.

Tarkan, who had almost forgotten about his ‘dear friend’ after the interesting conversation with the elf, begged him come in. Pelin obeyed. This was not an ideal situation he found himself in. He would much rather be alone at this point, thinking it all through, especially taking the last bit of the conversation into careful consideration. He cursed under his breath. Was his brother doing it on purpose? Was the King not going to invite him to meet the Emissary? Would he, Tarkan, have to take things into his own hand?! It was outrageous; a Priest with his position, being the King's half brother, should have been invited to meet the Emissary when he came. Not a day or two later! He wanted to know who this so-called guest was! If Arlomë knew the Emissary enough to speak of him with Zamara, he was being ridiculed. He managed to restrain himself, seeing that Pelin looked at him, as if penetrating his mind to see what he was thinking. Tarkan ignored him for a moment, letting his thoughts float and touch the matter that concerned the High Priestess.

If Zamara had a bad influence on Evrathol’s mother, Arlomë, it would surely be a good reason to investigate her. Did the High Priestess use her position to influence people in a wrong manner? Would this be good enough reason to have her followed and watched by the authorities? Surely, if a woman like herself was taking advantage of people through her profession, it would not be supported by . . . anyone!?! With this rather calming resolution, which he intended, and was already very eager, to pursue, he remembered the Queen. She had invited Zamara and himself to the Palace to discuss matters concerning furniture in the Temple. The previous evening he had not accepted the invitation; most humbly, he had declined. Now, to his annoyance, he regretted. He thought for a moment, feeling an even stronger need to be alone, to think and come to a conclusion that would be to his satisfaction, but furthermore to act on what he already knew. He wanted to see Zamara; he wanted plan how he would present it to his brother and meet him, the King.

“I’m truly sorry, Pelin,” Tarkan said suddenly and rose from the comfortable divan. “I just remembered that I have an appointment with the Queen. Oh, I am terribly sorry,” he said, looking at the man as if he was devastated of leaving him. “Oh, that reminds me.. The High Priestess will also be there, so that leaves you in charge here.” Pelin looked surprised, but didn’t say anything. “It is needless to think that that will be any problem, am I correct?” the Priest said, smiling. “Now, off I go. Cheers!”

With stern steps he walked left the little room where they had eaten breakfast, grabbing his mantle on his way. Knowing that he would probably be quite late, he hurried out of the Temple extremely excited about what this would bring. Would they be surprised by him showing up? Was it rude first to decline and then to come after all? It did not matter, he concluded. The Queen and Zamara were welcome to think ill of him if they were comfortable with that; he did not care, as long as it would be his victory in the end, which seemed quite probable now as things had developed as they had.

[alaklondewen]

The hard, stone floor felt cool against the Elf’s knees as she knelt on the temple’s floor. Her smooth face was upturned toward the face of the goddess, and her cool, blue eyes tightened as though she were in deep reflection. Arlomë could not shake the uneasiness that came over her the night before when she met the Emissary and overheard the conversation about the Elves of his land. Now her son’s sudden appearance at the temple only added to the troubles in her mind. What would her son want with the Rae’s priest? Evrathol had never shown an interest in the gods, although not for lack of education of them. Arlomë had been sure to teach him, as a child, the ways in which Rhais brought them life and cared for them, but as he grew he become separated from the temple and chose a path that more closely resembled the faith choices of his father. She wondered if Evrathol’s meeting with Tarkan involved the Emissary’s arrival, but she could not fathom what the two of them would have in common to discuss.

The soft thud of one of the doors that led into the main worship room brought Arlomë from her thoughts, and she listened momentarily to the swish of the silk robes worn by the one who had entered. With the silence only one of Elven kindred could use, the general’s wife rose and turned, watching the figure walking quickly around the rear of the temple toward the outer doors.

“Greetings to you once more, my son,” Arlomë’s voice was calm, but it reverberated throughout the temple’s walls.

Startled, Evrathol stopped just before reaching the heavy outer doors. “Well, Mother, I did not realize you were in here. I hope I did not interrupt your meeting with the High Priestess.”

“Not at all, dear. She had to leave for an appointment, but I wished to stay a few minutes to seek Rhais’ council.” As her last words left her mouth, she noted a spark of nervousness in his eyes, but he quickly masked it and smiled. “Did you find what you sought, Mother?” He asked. “Not yet,” Arlomë glanced over her shoulder at the statue, then brought her eyes back to her son. “But I know she will not let me down.”

At this, Arlomë turned and knelt once more to honor her goddess, and then she rose and crossed the temple. “I would like a word with you, Evrathol.” As she spoke, she slipped her arm through her son’s. “I do hope you will walk with me back to the estate.”

[Firefoot]

“Now,” said Siamak, “would you care to tell us what is going on?” He felt little patience with the panicked guards who had interrupted their meeting and sent the whole palace into an uproar.

“The King has gone missing!” declared one of the guards.

“We know that,” snapped Gjeelea. “What else can you tell us?” Siamak privately agreed with her; this was ridiculous. How could a man whose chambers were constantly guarded simply disappear?

The guard in front who appeared to be in charge bowed. “Apologies, Prince, Princess. I am not sure what has happened, nor is anyone else in the palace. All I know is that the Queen went to seek an audience with the King, but he was not in his apartments even though no one saw him leave. And so we were ordered to take you some place safe.” Siamak frowned in mild concern. Surely there was a logical explanation for all this.

“Are you sure this is really necessary?” asked Siamak. His father would show up soon, and the whole episode would soon be dismissed as a mistake, probably on account of the guards. Siamak was not so sure, and he had a feeling that the guards were right: something evil was afoot. This was no mere coincidence, Siamak was sure; too many strange things had happened of late. That eerie shadow by his window, for instance. He had seen something, but what?

“Our orders...” began the guard uneasily. The Emissary interjected, “Perhaps you should go with them, until the King is found.” Siamak glanced at him reproachfully, having forgotten the Emissary was still standing there. Siamak sighed, and was about ready to acquiesce to the guards’ request when a messenger appeared down the hallway.

“The King is fine!” he announced. There was a collective sigh of relief from the guards. “The Queen sends word that the guards should go back to their posts.” And then he was gone to spread the word throughout the palace. “See? There was no need for such panic,” said Siamak. After another bow and a muttered apology their captain issued orders and the guards dispersed.

“If you don’t mind, I will return to my own rooms now,” said the Emissary. “If there is anything else you should like to know we can speak of it later.” Siamak nodded, “until we meet again, then.” With that, the Emissary departed. Gjeelea followed soon afterwards with barely a word his way, and Siamak was blessedly alone.

Siamak had grown weary of this meeting - everything the Emissary said sounded good: too good. From his mother’s teachings he knew that there were two sides to every war. While the Emissary painted pictures with words of how his lord’s motives were nothing but benevolent, Siamak readily accepted the words as only somewhat true. The Elves and... Dwarves? would have a different story. The hard part was figuring out how much and which parts were true. He had a feeling that the basic history was true, if somewhat shaded. He wondered about the Emissary’s god - Melkor - and these other Elves who had come from across the western sea. He wondered if any of these things had been heard of in Pashtia, long ago. Perhaps he would ask General Morgôs next time he saw him. Siamak wasn’t sure exactly how long the Elf had been living, but he knew it was several generations.

Siamak bit thoughtfully into a peach. He trusted the Emissary no more than he ever had, but he was feeling inclined toward accepting the offer. The threat of an emissary being sent to Alanzia if they declined had not been lost on him, and if the alliance did not precisely help Pashtia, it didn’t seem likely to hurt the country either.

At a knock on the door, Siamak stifled a grimace and called out, “Yes?” He had no desire to see anyone at the moment. A guard poked his head in the door and announced, “The General Morgôs wishes to see you. Shall I let him in?” Siamak nodded impatiently. “Yes, please do.”

The General entered and bowed slightly, fist to heart. Siamak smiled, saying, “General Morgôs, come on in and sit down.” He did so, reclining on the same couch that the Emissary had recently occupied.

“I had hoped you would come today,” said Siamak. “You see, the Emissary was here recently, and he mentioned some things about the Elves of the early days, and a god of his, Melkor.” Briefly Siamak described the Emissary’s words and finished with, “You have lived much longer than any mortal. Do you know of any of these things? Were such ideas known in Pashtia at one time, long ago?”

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

How did I end up here?

Stalking hastily down the hall, Gjeelea felt a headache at the way things had so quickly gone from annoying to unbearable. Without a word from her the meeting and the chaos had ceased, and the princess now wandered aimlessly down the halls that had become so strangely part of her daily routine.

It ended too fast...

The sound of her sandals trudging along the marble halls echoed but was soon drowned out by the scuffling of guards from one wing of the palace to another. Gjeelea put a slender hand to her right temple and she winced at the blood rushing to her head. She closed her eyes and paused in the middle of the hallway for just a moment, rubbing her temple and trying to sort out the events of that morning.

She could not figure out why everyone felt so shifty around the Emissary. Gjeelea sensed Siamak's discomfort throughout the entire meeting. She knew the gossip of the palace all to well; she knew the nervousness of everyone regarding the Emissary. What Gjeelea could not figure out was why everyone felt so nervous around the Emissary. He had provided answers to every question - answers that satisfied Gjeelea because of the diplomatic manner of each one. The Emissary always gave just enough of an answer to please the inquiring mind but keep secret what needed to be secret. It was just the sort of way Gjeelea would have dealt with such a questioning.

Gjeelea snapped out of her thoughts, realizing that she was still stationary in the middle of the hall. She continued walking through the palace, not quite sure of any destination. Her hazel eyes focused on the intricate tiling of the walkway, she did not even see the person walking straight up to her until she bumped into him.

Looking up, Gjeelea prepared herself for some kind of trivial talk with a jittery maid or a guard that would apologize for bumping her. She lifted the corners of her mouth, ready to give a bright, half-hearted smile. This faltered into a slight frown when she saw who stood before her.

"Lord Korak," Gjeelea greeted the man she had run in to. The headache she had felt earlier rose once more to her forehead. Why now? The day could not get any worse. Gjeelea feebly lifted her lips into a polite smile. Her betrothed certainly did not look in the mood, his face grim and moody like it so often was in Gjeelea's presence. Why me? Gjeelea wondered again. "What brings you to the palace, Korak?"

[Nurumaiel]

Lord Korak saw the darkening of Gjeelea's face, but he did not care. It did not matter what she thought of him, as long she would become his wife. Something deep inside of him shrank in disgust at this, and he recalled with what fondness Lady Hababa always spoke of her dead husband. She said they had loved each other. And how happy days had been at that time. Would it matter if both he and his future bride were alive, if they did not love each other? Perhaps their lives would be miserable, and the lives of their children. What would his own childhood had been if his parents hadn't loved each other? He did not love the Princess; he suspected strongly that she did not love him.

"Your father asked for me, Princess," he said coolly, casting aside those thoughts that rose to his mind. "There were some small matters to be discussed." He watched her keenly, and she gave a little wave of her hand as if to dismiss further conversation and continue on her way. "One of the subjects was our upcoming wedding," he added. "I desire to set a definite day for its happening."

"Oh," she said, her voice light, but a light coming to her eye. It was a look of interest, and something that was not quite fear nor anger, but more akin to revulsion. But he knew she did not think well of him, so he paid this look no mind, but rather fixed his attention upon answering her question of: "Have you decided a day, then?"

"No, Princess," he said. "Your father the King has left it for the two of us to decide. I come to settle the matter with you."

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

Oh dear…Gjeelea thought, trying hard to hide the apprehension from her face. She had wondered from time to time when Korak would finally be fed up with the stalling of their wedding. The man seemed so fitful, and Gjeelea knew that all he wanted the power that might come to his disposal if she became queen of Pashtia. I should have expected this long ago.

The Princess would be dishonest in saying that she loved Korak by any means; she hardly even liked him, if she liked him at all. Gjeelea also realized that a marriage to Korak would be more of a ‘smart match’ than anything else. There had always been times when she had pondered the woman’s ability to deny an arranged marriage. Still, she also knew that Korak was a powerful man; he could influence many things in court matters.

“Well, princess?” Korak brought the princess from her thoughts once more, an impatient look on his face. Why is he always so unhappy? Gjeelea wondered fleetingly. How will I ever be able to live with him? How could I even think of having children? How could I be queen if I cannot even think to have children with my husband? Why must the men rule? Why was I born a girl?

“Could we maybe speak of this at a later time?” Gjeelea spoke calmly, despite all the questions and doubts flashing in her mind. “I…well, I…I have things to attend to and…”

“Actually, I was rather hoping we could take care of this now,” Korak nearly snapped at his betrothed as he interrupted her, and she took a step back from him. “I am tired of waiting.”

Well, I am tired of dealing with you entirely…Gjeelea thought, blinking to hide the eye rolling that she could not control in the presence of Korak. He should not speak to me that way. I could so easily deny him the wedding he so desperately wants. The thought struck Gjeelea, because she knew deep in her heart that it would not be easy to call of all marriage arrangements with Korak. Her chances of becoming queen without a husband were slim to none, and she knew that well enough to have to put up with Korak.

“Well…when would you like to hold the wedding?” Gjeelea asked softly, upset at the invisible restraint on her freedom. She hated feeling like she had no way out. No easy way out. “I suppose we should get this taken care of.”

[Kransha]

This was certainly not what Morgôs had wanted to talk about. In fact, it was something he avoided mentioning in any conversation. But, as bad luck would have it, it had not simply come up in conversation, in had come as a question from the Prince he’d sworn allegiance to a day before. He was more than just obligated to answer. “My Prince,” he said, his words coming slowly, “this is…a complicated matter, to say the least. You have read tomes of history, and have been tutored by the cream of Pashtian scholars, the finest money can buy or years of accumulated wisdom can procure. But, I am not sure your knowledge is quite adequate to understand my answer. Perhaps we should talk of something lighter, something simpler, yes?”

“I know little about you, General, besides what my father and his courtiers tell me. If you are to be my chief backer, I must trust you. If I am to trust you, I must know you.”

Morgôs could not tell whether this was wisdom or careful cleverness used by the Prince to manipulate him into answering him. Either way, he was trapped; he could not refuse to respond. Anyway, the Prince was right. He probably knew next to nothing about Morgôs – the general was sure he knew more about the young Prince. So, begrudgingly, the Elven General began a familiar long-winded yarn, one he’d told many of his kindred, and Siamak’s own father, but he shortened it severely now as he spoke.

“I have lived a great long time, Siamak; longer than even I know. Alas, my age in years is not known to me, but I can venture to guess. What I am sure of is that I have been alive longer than two thousand years, centuries of life, I suppose. Beyond that, my memory is blurred by time and cruel winds of the unknown. Past the foundation of Pashtia, I can remember little besides wandering in a land of barbarous tribesmen. Many of those savages still roam the boundless edges of our deserts and have nations in the north and south, but Pashtia rarely encounters them for they are very secretive nowadays, and, though some are hostile, do not attack us or make any war upon us. My memory has but a few baubles remaining from the time before Pashtia, and also few of Pashtia’s beginnings.”

As he paused for breath and to let the word sink in, Siamak lifted his hand with a halting gesture and spoke. “Forgive me if I sound impolite,” he said tactfully, “but I do not mean to know in excess of your age or years. My question is more specific, and begs an answer.” Morgôs gave an astute nod, understanding how boring his lengthy tales had been to Faroz when he was a boy and his father before him when they had asked similar questions. “Of course,” he apologetically replied, “it is I who is sorry. Sometimes my rambling is excessive, and becomes monotonous, or so I am told.”

But Siamak shook his head with boyish energy. “No, it is not tedious. Merely seek through your wells of memory to answer. Did Pashtians ever worship such a deity as this Melkor spoken of by the enemy?” Morgos certainly appreciated the Prince’s candor, even if there was a hint of polite dishonesty, but he could not aptly answer. “Melkor,” he murmured, dwelling on that sharp-sounding name in an unfamiliar tongue, “…I know not the name, though there is some vague familiarity. Enlighten me.” Siamak hurried to interpret, saying, “He is like Rae, said the Emissary. His name is in an old language, and it means, ‘he who arises in might.’ He is apparently benevolent, a lord of the sky and chief of all gods in the Emissary’s lands.”

“‘He who arises in might?’” mused the General, “A mighty name, certainly, but not one in a tongue I recognize. There were archaic gods in a time before your fathers ruled, when the kingdom was more an anarchy than a monarchy. But, there was no such god as this Melkor. There were more then there are today and separate patrons for Avari and Men, and different clans that traversed the sands. I believe that Rae and Rhais were primarily inspired by a mixture of Mannish and Avarin faith.”

Here Siamak spoke, sounding confused and mildly fazed. “A mixture? You make it sound as if it was concocted?” Morgôs knew that his mistakes this day were ceaseless seeming, and tried to correct himself to avoid seeming heretical. Nay, Prince Siamak.” he swiftly assured his would-be pupil, “I meant merely that our faith today was found through unity. It is hard to keep ecumenical politics in mind when speaking of such things. Your question is a deep one. I shall have to consult my own books, but the information will return to you through me. I would not withhold Avarin lore from my Prince.” He halted, satisfied, hoping that the Prince was satiated and would bring up something else.

Unfortunately, the something he brought up was a more dangerous conversation topic than the last.

“The Emissary said many things about Elves as well.” said Siamak, knowing this would arouse a spark in the General, “He spoke much of the Elven-kind in his home.” Suddenly Morgôs was hooked like a hapless fish on a barb and the Prince did not even need to reel him in to extract that fish from his comfortable peace and leave him flopping about out of water. Morgôs leaned it so quickly that Siamak jumped a little, and a grim light filled the eyes of the Elf. “W-what did he say of them?” The General said quickly, his voice raspy with anticipation and a nervous stutter developed therein. Siamak let a chuckle fall through as he saw the renewed eagerness of the General. “Now you wish to talk?” He said sarcastically, but Morgôs didn’t care.

“Yes yes, now tell me, what said he of Elves?” He was leaning closer, and Siamak saw the old glow of his face, paler than before. Taken aback, he replied. “He said that the Elves of his lands once lived across a great, far sea, on an island where they went centuries before. They lived alongside giant enchanters, who gave them arcane and terrible knowledge that singed them. I do fear that they are not as fair as Avarin Elves, those Elves of the West.”

Morgôs leapt at this, almost literally. His excitement grew greater, just as his tranquility decreased. He looked manic to the Prince. “Giants!” cried Morgôs, his voice suddenly filling the room, “What of the giants?” Morgôs had left the couch where had been and was practically hovering over the young Prince, who was repulsed by the new verve of the Avari. “He said very little;” Siamak replied with hurried defensiveness, “barely anything.” But Morgôs was no longer a hooked fish, but a insatiable predator in his own right. “He must have said something!” Morgôs cried out, “Tell me!”

Siamak recoiled fully. “General!” He said, trying calm the Elf, but to no avail. Morgôs’ hands, enveloped in scale-mail gauntlets, clapped down on Siamak’s shoulders. He nearly shook the Prince, his eyes alight. “Tell me!” He yelled, and his voice, lower and more menacing than before, boomed like thunder for a moment, and then died in his throat like a cough. The light left his eyes and his eyes left Siamak.

And then, all of a sudden, he fell back. Morgôs teetered and slumped on the couch behind, taking deep breaths. He clapped his hand to his breast and fell silent, leaving Siamak to stare, bewildered, at him from his seat. Of all the mistakes he had made this day, this was the most grievous of them all. He had assaulted the Prince of Pashtia! Was he mad? What had incurred this insanity in him that was so far beyond his control? He lay, trying to seize reality and draw it back to him. Slowly, he pushed himself off the couch and landed, on his knees, on the carpeted floor.

“My good Prince,” he said meekly, “I beg your forgiveness. I do not know what came over me, truly.” He looked, hoping the best but expecting the worst, to the Prince for forgiveness. He’d come seeking a willing pupil, and now had a good chance of having made, instead, a dire enemy. He only hoped that Siamak could understand that this was no common spasm, but a unique burst of madness, which he would never let happen again.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

By the time he reached his wife’s apartments the sounds of chaos has died in the Palace and order was well on the way to being restored. A seemingly endless stream of courtiers and soldiers came to speak with Faroz as he made his way, as though to reassure themselves that he had indeed been found. He brushed aside their questions with a wave of his hand, refusing to answer, and none dared press him any further. He did not enter Bekah’s rooms but sent word to her through the guards that he was well. He bid them tell her that he would speak with her of this incident at her official audience this afternoon.

The King made his way to his own rooms where he was hurriedly dressed by his servants in his robes of state. Long, richly flowing gowns of silk hung about him and his head was bowed beneath the weight of the thick silver crown of the Pashtian monarch by the time he reached his audience chamber, just a few minutes after the time he was due. The applicants and supplicants for the day were all there ahead of him, standing nervously against the walls, some of them in small groups, others laden with papers, and some few anxiously fidgeting on their own. The King was separated from them by a score of his personal guard, who took up their stations at the foot of the low dais upon which he reclined. The only person permitted to join him upon this was the Chamberlain Jarult, who stood hovering nearby throughout the afternoon, ready to answer any question and lend whatever counsel his King required.

The first petitions were those that he had put of yesterday, and they were all dull matters of trade. The King understood the importance of trade for his people, and he had worked hard to become conversant in the ways and manner of it (and in this, his Queen had been very helpful), but it bored him still. After these came a number of requests from various guilds and some members of the nobility. The one interesting moment in the afternoon came when he had to decide a dispute between two powerful lords. There was a question of ownership over a piece of land in the mountains and the law was unclear. In such a case, royal wisdom was the only recourse. Faroz listened to both petitioners, asked Jarult for a clarification of the law, and then questioned a number of witnesses procured by both sides. In the end he rendered the kind of decision that he had become master of: one with which neither side was entirely happy, but which they could live with.

Throughout the waning hours of the day his mind turned insistently to Ashnaz, and to the King’s own family. He wondered what decision his children would make concerning the alliance. The Emissary’s answers at the interview with the Prince and Princess had been fair and courteous, and Faroz had no doubt what his decision would be, were it still his. He wondered further about Gjeelea and her marriage to Korak, and how he was to handle his all-too-soon-to-be son-in-law. His mind sharpened as he again considered the difficult issue of whom he should name heir. Something would have to be done about that, and soon. He was sure that the panic which had gripped the Palace when he had been thought lost had been exacerbated by the confusion of who would take his place. He knew who he would want to take his place, should anything untimely befall him, but he knew as well how difficult such a decision would be to justify…

At last, the day’s petitions were over. Faroz ordered the guards to clear the room and to attend him in the corridor. He thanked Jarult for his service that day and asked him to leave as well. The King was alone while he waited for his wife to arrive for her audience…and he wondered what they would have to say to one another.

[Bêthberry]

Bekah had been rigid with fear and incomprehension when she could not find Faroz anywhere in his rooms. How was it possible for his whereabouts not to be known? Or had he deliberately sought privacy? It was impossible to believe that, yet lately Faroz had been so various, so petulant, so unlike his old self. The guards had been terrified that they had not seen him leave or had not been told what he was doing. Their alarm had placed the entire palace in a state of pandemonium, but clearly they were prompted not only by the absence of the king but also by their fear for themselvs. If the King had been harmed, they would be the first to be blamed. It was easy, Bekah knew, to point public fingers in order to placate general fears.
It was Jarult who had seen that matters were more decently controlled. He was a marvel of tact and discretion and understood protocol. He had come to her quietly, ascertained her discovery--or, rather, lack of discovery, and begun diiscussing with the palace staff alternate explanations even while he directed guards to search for the King. Then he had returned to speak with her in her quarters, where she had gone under double protection, and where the Prince and Princess were to be brought.

"Majesty, your presence in the King's quarters is itself a remarkable event." He looked her clearly in the eye but without any manner of insinuation or condemnation.

"It is, Chamberlain. Yet events recently have forced us to reconsider our habits."

"May I enquire how so, Majesty?"

"The presence of the Emissary seems to have upset people's expectations and altered their sense of duty and understanding of events. "

"And so," the chamberlain calmly replied.

Bekah looked at him, knowing how essential he was to the running of the palace and the kingdom.

"You believe I acted irresponsibly, Jarult?"

"I did not say anything of the sort, Majesty."

"No, you did not," Bekah replied with a slight smile, "but you are a master of masked meaning."

He stood quietly and did not comment on this characterisation of him, but waited for the Queen to continue.

"There are matters of state which I feel must be considered as we come to terms with the Emissary's offer. Matters which I felt I could not address in the King's public audience. For some reason, I am made apprehensive and sometimes have a feeling of dread pass over me. I sought the one person who I felt I could turn to, even if it was highly unusual."

Jarult nodded, but before he could reply, word came that Faroz was found, or, rather, that he had found those who searched for him and dismissed them.

"Majesty, I must withdraw to attend to the King, with your leave. But I will speak with him of your concerns and how they prompt you."

Bekah nodded, and Jarult bowed and withdrew, leaving her alone, but with a doubled guard at her door. She wondered why she was feeling more and more drawn to demanding hightened security. It was as if she were back in Alanzia and falling into its frame of mind again, believing that security comes from surveillance and policing. This was her reaction to the Emissary? How could she fault Faroz for reacting also, but in his own way?

Homay came and began the elaborate preparations for her public audience with the King. Bekah was apprehensive. He had stormed passed her quarters and left a curt message. She felt she no longer knew this man and could not tell what to expect. She passively accepted Homay's attentions until she was ready.

Waking this time with two guards behind her, Bekah sought out the small antechamber beside the audience room where she could always observe the King's actions and decisions but was not seen by those petitioning him. Suddenly, the audience was at an end and Faroz dismissed everyone. Her feet became clammy with stiffness and Bekah found herself fearful of Faroz for the first time in many, many years.

She forced her feat forward and entered the empty audience room with her usuall address and waited for Faroz to speak to her. Would Jarult have spoken to him of their conversation, she wondered.

[Orofaniel]

Evrahol was caught slightly of guard as he saw his mother. She was, surprisingly, still in the temple. She wanted him to walk with her back to the estate. Evrathol had no excuse to do otherwise so he would have to accept. It was a cruel thought; Evrathol had always enjoyed the company of his mother Arlomë. But lately, it was as if things had changed. After Evrathol's meeting with the Priest, he wasn’t sure if he would be able to concentrate and stay focused. Their conversation, where Evrathol had done most of the talking however, had made a great effect on him than he had thought in the first place. Even though Evrathol had been busy talking, it didn’t mean that he wasn’t able to watch and observe Tarkan; indeed, Evrathol had been observing the Priest closely and the Priest had been, after Evrathol’s calculations, fairly interested - Evrathol could tell by the Priest's eyes that had lit up all of a sudden when he mentioned the conversation between Arlomë and Zamara regarding the Emissary. When Evrathol took the conversation between the two women under more consideration, however, it didn't seem like anything at all. The subject on everyone’s lips these days was the Emissary and only him. But why then had they stopped as he entered the country yard and not mentioned anything of their previous subject as long as he was accompanying them? Yet again Evrathol thought about previous events, which were the main reason of concern. He had mentioned little of them to the Priest though, but for now it had been enough. Evrathol’s worries of Zamara the High Priestess, great impact on Arlomë remained secret – almost at least.

"Let us walk" his mother begged softly.

Evrathol forced a smile.

"I'm very sorry if I interrupted anything between you and..." Evrathol began once again.

"No, no, by all means," she interrupted. “That is not what I wanted to talk to you about,” she muttered.

The thick heavy doors leading out from the temple was no just in front of them. Evrathhol walked one further step and opened it. Arlomë passed him graciously, but on her way out, she stopped and looked around. Her head turned to all directions; her eyes could barely follow as she was moving quicker than usual. She then turned completely; her back against the door, her eyes turning to the alter. It was as if she was looking for something. "Mother...?" Evrathol whispered. "Oh," she muttered, without looking at him.

The world outside the Temple had moved on; it was no longer morning, and Evrathol realized for the second time that day that he had spent too much time in the temple; his duties demanded attention. He hoped he would be able to hasten his pace, with his mother following, but it looked like as if it was his mother who was in the lead; their pace was slowly and calm.

"As I said, I wanted a word with you...."

[Firefoot]

Siamak, utterly confounded by the General’s behavior, stared at the repentant figure kneeling before him. Clearly the topic of the foreign Elves was a much more sensitive subject that he had realized. Morgôs had been the General of the Pashtian army for many generations; outbursts like this must be rare, or even singular. No one was acting themselves with the Emissary’s visit and strange tidings. Though still shaken, Siamak realized that the General was still a powerful ally.

“Yes, General, I forgive you. But, please, do try to contain yourself - I really have told you all I know. The Emissary spoke very little of these times long past,” said Siamak hesitantly.

“Thank you, my Prince,” said Morgôs, rising slowly back to his couch. Siamak could still see traces of desire of the knowledge written on the General’s face, controlled though it was. He almost wished he did have more information to offer. Judging by the General’s actions, Siamak knew the General had more than idle curiosity of the distant Elves. Just what it was, Siamak wasn’t sure, and he wasn’t about to ask. He decided the best course of action would be simply to change the subject and let the episode pass. His own questions had been more or less answered, even if the answers had left him less clear than he had hoped.

“I am sure you did not come to discuss such ancient knowledge," said Siamak with a slight grin. "Why is it, then?" In truth, Siamak already had a few ideas, but he did not enjoy guessing games. He had always preferred to jump straight to the heart of the matter, rather than bandy words about. Direct questions gave people less room to wiggle out, especially those who would give an answer yet evade the true intent of the question. It was not always necessary, but it had become habit. Siamak looked in curiosity toward the General, waiting for a response.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

“Why did you come to my apartments?” Faroz had not intended to be angry with his wife. But to have her there before him, so obviously afraid of him for the first time in decades was…intoxicating. He was aware, even as he spoke, of the injustice in his attack, for had he not himself visited her in her rooms? But somehow it made no difference to him. She had interposed where she had no place and where she was not wanted, and she had caused a panic in the Palace that would have all tongues wagging for weeks on end. There was no possible explanation for his disappearance from his rooms, and he was sure that there would be any number of theories. Faroz had already decided that it would be easy to blame the laziness of his guards, and to that end he would order that those who had been on duty be whipped for dereliction of duty. Such a punishment, while harsh, was not unusual for soldiers of Pashtia. He would order only ten lashes each, enough to put them to their pallets for a few days and to give them some scars, but that was all.

Bekah looked up at him. He could see that she was wondering about the Hall’s emptiness and that this made her nervous. For some reason, he felt that same disquieting surge of violence that had come over him earlier. He stilled the shaking of his hand by clutching at the Ring, and his wife noted this. When she spoke, she met his eyes and her voice was firm. “I felt, Khamul, that there were matters that we needed to discuss in private…”

“Yes yes, Jarult has already told me of your ‘concerns’ about the Emissary. I fail to understand why you feel the need to discuss them in private.”

Bekah’s eyes flashed at his tone and manner. She was a proud and noble woman, descended of a long line of warriors. Her fear and anxiety was quickly being replaced with something much sterner as she felt herself being confronted by her husband so openly. “And yet,” she said evenly, “you have cleared the Hall.”

Husband and wife gazed at one another in silence, as both pondered the subtle shift that had just occurred in their relationship. It was as though a small key had slipped its place in a lock – but whether to open or close something was as yet unclear to both. Never before had Faroz attacked his wife with such mockery or disregard. And never before had Bekah confronted him in so open a manner, or with so hard a countenance. They were opponents in this conversation, and the realisation of this came to each at the same time. Bekah shifted slightly in her clothes, concerned by what had happened. Faroz settled into his cushions, unconsciously mimicking Ashnaz. He did not ask his wife to sit. For a second longer, the tense stillness continued. Faroz did not know what to say to his wife, but as he stroked the Ring words came to him. “My wife,” he said in what appeared to be a conciliatory tone, “it has been a taxing couple of days for all of us. I realise that the coming of the Emissary has upset you, and I have no doubt that you find my behaviour difficult to understand. In truth, I am myself in wonder of how I have behaved. I am not one to explain myself, but as you are my mate, I shall say this to you: I believe that I have found something with the Emissary that I had never hoped for with any man – I believe that I have found a friend. Friendship such as this is something that I had not thought to enjoy as a King, and I fear that perhaps it has left me a bit…out of balance.” He finished, and Bekah knew that he would say no more on the matter. “Now,” he continued in a more business-like tone, “sit, and open your heart to me. What is it about the Emissary that concerns you?”

[Nurumaiel]

"I have no fixed day to name," said Lord Korak, "but, if possible, within the month. I desire to have this done as soon as it is possible."

"Do you have any particular reason for hurrying so?" the Princess asked.

Lord Korak looked into her eyes. Did she not know? No doubt she did realise his hopes of rising to become King, but he would not give her this reason. Why should he? It would be most unlike him. "My mother grows aged," he said, unashamed at his brazen lie, for he had never considered his mother, "and I do not know how much longer she will live. Every day brings her death closer. I would wish her to be present at the wedding, as my father cannot."

She said nothing, and he wondered if she sensed his lie. It was of no matter. Whether she knew he was lying or not was not important. It was important that he didn't tell her the truth. She could not hold his words against him and try to escape the match.

"Do you have any objections to setting the day for sometime before the end of next month?"

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

Every bone and nerve in Gjeelea’s body told her to cry out ‘Yes! I have a problem with it! I do not want to marry you at all! Not now, not ever!’ Yet still the princess held her tongue for a moment, considering her words carefully. Besides the fact that she did not want to marry Korak to begin with, she wondered if she actually had any issues with marriage in the next month.

There are some things I need to straighten out with him…Gjeelea thought, looking at her future husband and seeing past his handsome exterior to his lying, deceiving inner motives. It might be too bold to come outright, and tell him that I know he only wishes to marry so he could be king. I hope he does not think I am stupid enough not to realize what he really wants. Gjeelea wondered if Korak fully understood that just marrying her did not mean he would become king. His atrocious attitude turned off so many people from liking him at all, and the princess sought to remedy that – for she knew that if she and Korak were not presentable to the public and her family then neither of them would rule.

“Might I speak with you in private?” Gjeelea asked of her betrothed. Korak looked down at his feet for just a moment, and then fidgeted like debating over the choices. “I assure you it is very important and has to do with our future – the future after our marriage.”

After another indecisive pause Korak nodded his agreement. With a sly smile Gjeelea took his big hand and led him away from their former spot in the middle of the hall. She dragged Korak back to her quarters, where she bade the servants to leave and give them privacy. Korak sat on one of the low couches, leaning back on the embroidered cushions and waiting for Gjeelea to speak. In his eyes Gjeelea could almost hear his thoughts screaming something to the extent of, this better be worth my time, princess.

“Marrying me does not mean that I will be named heir and that you will become King, Korak,” Gjeelea stated simply. She decided to be blunt in her conversation, as blunt and as honest as she could have been with the man she would marry but probably never love in any way. She paused in her speech, for she knew that her words had stated a fact Korak already knew. The princess almost feared to say what she had planned to tell Korak next, afraid that he would come up with a hurtful rebuttal to which she would have to show no hurt reaction. She turned away from Korak and looked out the curtains of her window. “All you want is to become King – for the riches, the title, I assume – all I want is to become queen. If you had not noticed, our marriage is not a popular idea to very many people.”

Gjeelea hated to say that the naming of Faroz’s heir was a popularity contest, but she knew that was what it really came down to. The princess knew that even if Faroz wanted her to be queen, he could not name her queen if it would cause a political and social uproar from the citizens of Pashtia. The same deal went for Siamak – Faroz could not (would not, as far as Gjeelea could tell) name Siamak his heir unless his son had achieved some amount of approval from the people. Turning to Korak, Gjeelea walked up to where he reclined and sighed, wishing things could be different.

“It comes down to who the people like more,” the princess murmured to her betrothed. “Unfortunately, Siamak only has to account for his own actions. My becoming queen depends on both of us.”

There came a long pause between the two. Gjeelea knew she was regurgitating information that Korak might have already contemplated in his own time. What the princess hoped to accomplish was to make the thoughts into reality for Korak. She hoped he would take seriously the words that she said to him.

“Korak, you are a good liar,” Gjeelea finally said outright. “Do you think you could pretend to be happy sometime? Pretend that you want to be king for reasons other than the riches and the lifestyle? We need to show Pashtia that we care – even if you actually do not.”

Another pause. Korak opened his mouth to speak, but he did not and the princess wondered if his words caught in his throat, or if he had something to say but thought better of it. Gjeelea went to the door of her bedroom and opened it, gesturing for Korak to make a gallant exit. He stood, still waiting for an answer about their marriage.

“How does next month sound?” Gjeelea asked silkily, her voice soft and calm – the persuasive voice she seemed to use all to often. “We need to spend more time together – not just for our sake either. We need to show everyone that this is right, that this marriage is good. Next month, or soon into the month after? Does that please you?”

Gjeelea hoped so – she was not in the mood for negotiations.

[Nurumaiel]

Lord Korak reflected. What the Princess said made sense, but he wondered if she meant it. Perhaps she really did love him (he was handsome, after all) and was using this as an excuse to convince him to give her pretty speeches. Yet it did not matter what her real motive was, as long as it accomplished his purpose. And his purpose was to become king.

If only he had better purposes!

He hurled the thought from his mind with great force. It was something his mother was always saying, whenever he would speak of his plans and hopes to her. Hope was hardly the right word for such plots. Ambition was better. That was something else she told him, one day when she was angry. How she looked when she was angry! He had a lurking suspicion that for all her frailty and weakness of old womanhood, she was much stronger than he. If he struck her on the cheek she would fall, and a blow from her would feel as nothing, yet she seemed to have the power to harm him in a way that he could not recover from, or refrain from harming him. And she refrained.

Why did he always think of her at times like this? Why did her annoying speeches of morality come into his mind?

His mother did not matter. What mattered at the moment was that Pashtia saw they cared - even if they didn't. He stood and went to the Princess, and, taking her hand, kissed it, and said: "Whatever you say, my love."

[Bêthberry]

Bekah knew better than to be influenced by the conciliatory tone which Faroz had finally adopted. Usually he employed it, after his anger, to lull an opponent into an unwary disclosure, which he would then turn to his own account in recompense for the initial error. Yet he had never, ever used this method with her. But he was now and even worse he seemed to be enjoying her discomfort. How much the arrival of this Emissary had changed him. Or brought out something in him that had usually been quiescent. She watched him stroke this ring that others had spoken off and saw a flicker of something cross his face as his tone changed. She felt a chill of fear rise in her along with anger that she should be so treated.

Her discovery of his absence must have angered him greatly. That must mean, she thought, that it not a legitimate absence. He must have been hiding something or somewhere, for his whereabouts not to be known. He had refused to account for himself. A king, of course, need not account for himself, yet the event here was of such surprising moment that, under previous circumstances, she felt sure he would have explained himself to her. Yet he had not. And had chosen to blame her. How dare he!

But Bekah bit her tongue, as she always did when she felt overwhelmed by her emotions. The sharp prick of slight pain worked to calm her, as she knew it would. She sought for precious few moments in which to construct a reply which would placate her husband without provoking him. She forced down the snear which had threatened to break out on her face and she recalled how common a response that had been in her father in Alanzia. How long ago she had learnt that anger and violence only incited greater fury! Yet here she was now tempted to return to the old ways. Well, she would resist them, especially as it seemed Faroz was somehow wanting her to display those old traits. She would not give him the satisfaction.


"With your leave, Khamul, you misunderstand my concern. Or rather, we have not had the opportunity to discuss the matter. It is not with the Emissary himself that my concern lies. I am happy for you that you find in him a pleasing cordiality. I know how onerous are the duties and responsibilites inherent in balancing affairs of state and welcome your opportunity for friendship."

"What concerns me, my lord, is how this offer intrudes upon the careful peace which you have so cunningly constructed for Pashia. The land now prospers in no small measure due to your efforts to over come years of desolation from war. I feared to speak publically of this as I know many here still remember me as a Princess of Alanzia, an enemy come into the heart of the country. I fear what this offer of alliance will do to upset the accord with Alanzia. I fear what my brother-monarch might be tempted to do if he should hear from other ears that you have sought an alliance with another country."

"You are always thinking of Alanzia. Alanzia!" he retorted. "You have even filled out children's heads with stories of the country."

Bekah bristled at the unfairness of his claim but she kept a tight hold on her feelings. Her head would rule, she determined.

"My lord, what monarch can rule in his country's best interests if he does not know what lies beyond his own borders? Shall our children be at the mercy of their uncle's understanding of the affairs of state? I came here ignorant of your ways and terrified that I would be treated as an enemy. Instead I found a king and a husband and a country which did not demand power so much as enterprise and proserity. My lord, you listened before you made your decrees and ever sought a balance between conflicting desires. This was not the way I had been raised and I learned the merit of your way. I wanted our children to appreciate that merit. They could do so only by understanding a way that lacked such kingly vision."

Faroz settled back into his pillows, absent mindedly toying with the ring again. He still did not invite her to sit down.

" I wished to ask you how to proceed in this matter in my private correspondence with my brother. You had not yet directed me how to inform him of the Emissary's arrival and I felt that such an announcement needed to be made. He should not be able to claim that I had hidden the matter from him. Yet only you could appreciate fully--or I felt could appreciate fully--the delicate balance of the situation, for only you and two of our courtiers know of my correspondence with him."

Bekah stopped. If he would not invite her to sit down, she would stand as tall and as proudly as she could. Her fear she masked, for she felt that would only incite him more. She dared not tell him bluntly that she felt he was betraying matters of state by his own reckless personal behaviour. It was the first time she had felt unable to be honest with him. That in itself was a chilling as the strange feeling which kept haunting her whenever he moved to touch this ring.

[Novnarwen]

Tarkan

It is a rather fine Palace, Tarkan thought to himself while climbing the stairs. It was built of hewn stone and reflected strength and steadfastness. It rose proudly up from the ground, stretching high upwards, almost touching the white clouds, which floated restlessly over his head. Tarkan gazed at it, thinking of the riches that lay within these strong walls. It was almost unimaginable to think that his very own half-brother lived in this luxurious way, meanwhile he himself hardly had anything at all. How ill fortune he had witnessed, how unfair it was. Tarkan bit his lip, in bitterness, and hurried up the last steps and went inside. It couldn't be avoided the feeling that rose up inside of him; he was always slightly pained by seeing how his brother lived compared to himself. The walls were covered with beautiful tapestries in glorious colours. Pictures, painted and drawn, of sceneries so green and pure hung side by side. The soft splendidly weaved carpets lay as if scattered on the floor; there were cushions and divans along the walls in the Hall, and the servants seemed to do their very best in keeping those who sat there pleased by bringing them cool drinks and fruits of various kind.

With an obvious jealous expression on his face, he waited to announce his errand. As a servant was passing by, (Tarkan loosing his patience by now,) he grabbed a hold of him.

"I am here to meet the Queen. I believe that she is unfamiliar with my coming though."

The servant pointed straight ahead to a door, an antechamber where he could wait.

"So, not invited?" the man asked suddenly, seeing that Taran was not to release him just yet. "Oh, sorry! I meant not expected , as in if you were not expected" he continued hastily, emphasising the word 'expected' the first time it was mentioned to make up his mistake.

The Priest, thunder stricken by the rude behaviour, tried to hold his mask. He was certainly going to report this, but to whom, he did not know.

"Whom do you work for?" His voice was filled with anger, as he did not manage to hide his utter disgust of the man in front of him.

"The King, sir."

"The King?!? Don't be smart with me," he said. His face was turning red as he said this. The anger he felt swelling up inside of him could be reflected in his dark eyes, which seemed to suddenly light up with a burning fire; a fire of hate and disgust. His jealousness had taken command. The thick vein which was abnormally visible in his forehead, turned purple. The priest's figure seemed to enlarge where he stood, and his figure cast a large shadow which laid the room into darkness. Everything was silent. The people who were present stood immobile and watched, surprised and bewildered by such an event taking place in the Palace's Main Hall.

The Priest bit his lip. The last sentence could be misinterpreted by people; he understood that much. He had not wanted to imply that no one were to work for the King, as if against him; he'd just wanted to report the servant's behaviour to his superior, who dealt with the staff and their business. He frowned, still holding the servant by the arm. "Who deals with the staff around here?" he asked again, this time choosing his words with care. "I want to talk to your superior! I will not take this rudeness from you! I refuse! Now, fetch me your superior! If you don’t find him this instant, I promise you, " he lowered his voice," I’ll make you wish you had!"

If the servant boy had had the chance to loosen himself from the priest’s grip, this would be the time; Tarkan’s anger seemed to have reached it’s definite height. Yet the boy, who had probably not reached his twenties; he certainly didn’t look like he was older, moreover younger; he was slender and short, and his face bore the features of an innocent child, stood motionless.

"I’ll go," the boy managed to press forwards at last. "I’ll fetch him!"

"The King?"

"No, you just told me to ..."

Tarkan interrupted. "Let the King know that I would like to meet him after my meeting with the Queen. Tell him that it’s urgent!"

The priest released the servant from his grip, waving him off. "Silly boy, be gone before I change my mind and do make you fetch your superior!!"

Tarkan watched the boy run as fast as his legs could bear him out of the Hall. He hoped he would deliver the message to the King; if not personally, then deliver the message orally to someone else who could. Tarkan wondered whether his brother would decline a meeting with him. It would not surprise him. The two of them had in fact never been too close, yet, they had never shown, in public that is, any real signs of dislike of one another. Tarkan let his gaze wander, discovering that people were casting glances his way. This Palace is filled with incompetent poultry, he thought to himself, the King will lose face if he doesn’t do anything… With a sly smile on his thin womanly lips, he cast the mantle he wore backwards and entered the antechamber the boy had directed him to.

[Kransha]

The Prince was obviously either too befuddled or too weak to consider prosecuting Morgôs for his assault. It had not been very violent, but any physical attack on royalty was a crime worthy of imprisonment. Siamak probably did not realize it, but he now held something over the General. Morgôs knew he would have to be gravely wary. He sat down again, allowing the tension of the situation to be slowly assuaged by a brief passage of time, and then spoke again, trying to be as tactful as possible as he answered. Quietly, clasping his hands together carefully, he said, “I have sworn to you fealty, Prince Siamak.” in a gentle tone of voice.

“This much I know.” Siamak retorted, “You need not be coy now.”

“Of course.” Morgôs spoke apologetically, looking dejected, but then perked up suddenly, arching his back and budding forward, his keen eyes looking into the youthful, curious eyes of the Prince. “You, Siamak, are the first son of the royal family for over five generations that has not been placed under my wing as a student. Your father was both a protégé and a philosophical acolyte of mine, until the age came that his father began to personally groom him for the throne. You have not known me during your lifetime, and I did not teach you as I taught your father and his father. The reason for this, I suspect, is because it is unsure whether you will be King or not. Your sister, Gjeelea, was, at one time, recommended to be my student by your father, but the plan was rejected before she even knew of it because of the turmoil such an action might create. Now, though, I have chosen he who I think would be the greater monarch.”

This was a great admission by the General, but Siamak knew it was merely repetition, and, looking unimpressed, said simply, “I am honored, but you still speak of things I know.”

“I want to teach you.” Morgôs shot, curtly, taking Siamak a little aback, but not much, “No offense meant,” he continued, “but I have heard tell of your noncommittal position in the court, your lack of frequent political action. If you are to be King, you must be taught the ways of Kings, the old laws, philosophy and theology; things untaught by your carefully scanned royal teachers, censored scholars who would not dare tell you in excess of any failures your ancestors made. You must learn of the guidelines of kingship, so you may take the throne from the grasp of your sister, who seems to have a firmer hold on it than you.”

There was an ill silence that diffused over the two, and Siamak seemed to consider. It was a whole minute or more before he spoke up again, and when he did, all he said was a repetition of Morgôs’ proposal. “So,” he murmured, contemplative, “I have accepted your allegiance, now you wish me to accept your tutelage?”

“Yes.” Morgos was launched. “If you accept, I will return regularly to the Palace and share wisdom that I can with you. I will teach you the ways of war and politics, but more than what you’ve been taught. I, unlike your teachers, have lived most of the history granted you in tomes of lore. Your father was able to respect this tutelage, but did not fully grasp it. Your grandfather embraced it and became one of the greatest monarchs Pashtia has known in centuries. I can make you into that, Siamak.” Morgos realized the danger of saying this, but it was crucial. He did have to rear the Prince if he wanted the right Pashtian on the throne. He had to make Siamak strong, even if that meant guiding him every step of the way. It was far better than allowing Gjeelea and Korak to gain the throne, dooming his people and, possibly, the country. His speech was fueled by eager intensity, and he continued with avid Elven grace. “I can make you a King, but beyond that. I can make you greater than your grandfather, if you fully take in what I teach you, without revealing the extent of the teachings to your parents.” He was again energized, but careful not to become excited, for fear of accidentally becoming mad again. He simply spoke, using his oratory prowess, projecting grand rhetoric throughout the lavish room. “I can tell you far more than I’ve told any King before you,” he said in conclusion, brandishing his fist for illustration, “and give you the grooming of a true King of Pashtia, a mighty lord with the power of an immortal mind behind him.”

[Novnarwen]

Tarkan

The sight that met him, once inside the antechamber, was not exactly surprising, yet it was still highly uncomfortable. Tarkan had realised when closing the door that he had been just slightly harsh towards the boy, and perhaps he'd spoken too loudly. It had not been wise of him. Nothing that could make others believe him cruel and coarse was good; not if he were to succeed in life. He hoped the word of his strictness, or cruelty as some most likely would say, would not reach any others than those who had been present. However, knowing that gossip was a common interest amongst most of the people who worked here, and others, he knew he was being naïve; the word would spread and he would be accused for treating the boy in an inappropriate manner. Was he going to deny this if he was confronted? At the time, in the Hall, he was overly convinced that how he was approaching this young boy, was perfectly appropriate; he knew he could have been calmer and not as rash, but he'd only acted as he saw fit. Surely there was no doubt the boy had been rude, both in appearance and how he had spoken; his grin was definitely one of a silly youngster, trying to be smart with adults or of those of higher rank and he had also been aware of his words, which were almost words of mocking.

Now facing the Priestess, he wondered whether Zamara had heard or seen what had been going on in the Hall for the past five minutes. Positively sure that he didn’t want to find out, whether she had heard or not, as he would most definitely not benefit from anything she might hold against him someday, Tarkan tried his very best to act as normal. He gave a faint smile as he turned away from the door and approached silently.

"High Priestess Zamara," he said and nodded politely. When seeing the surprise in her face, probably of his coming, it occurred to Tarkan how embarrassing this was. Why had he changed his mind? To avoid Pelin? To think about the conversation he had had with Evrathol? Now after this, he would probably have even more to think through; the incident with that oaf of a boy in the Hall for instance, was one thing. And if this wasn't enough, he didn't know what this meeting with the Queen and the High Priestess would bring. He frowned; at least now he would be able to observe Zamara. He'd never thought about this before; the way Evrathol had out it, talked about her as if a sly snake. He was exaggerating again, but did not care. He would watch her every move during their session with the Queen. However, when taking it into consideration, he knew that if Zamara was how Evrathol had describes, it was not very likely she acted the same way with the Queen. The Queen was different. It was how Zamara treated, and manipulated, normal people, like Arlomë, that counted. Realising this, he knew that all of this would be in vain. His coming to the Palace was a complete waste of time.

"Tarkan," he heard The High Priestess say after a while, interrupting.

It took you a while, he thought to himself rather amazed. Do you greet all in this way? He gave a faint smile to emphasize that he'd heard it, but it was probably so faint that it was impossible for anyone to see it.

The meeting with the Queen, his decision to come after having decline, was terrible mistake. He wanted to jump to his feet and run. Only the slightest hope of being able to meet the King later gave him the strength to stay.

[alaklondewen]

Arlomë slowed her pace as soon as she and Evrathol were past the temple, and once again, she slipped her arm gently through her son’s. "As I said, I wanted a word with you...." She paused as she collected her thoughts and figured out how she would start. An accusatory tone would only prove to distance her son from her...that would never do. Lifting her eyes, she looked into her son’s handsome face. He looked so much like his father. Arlomë smiled and lovingly patted his arm with her free hand. “I hope you had a pleasant time last night at the banquet.”

“Yes, Mother, I enjoyed myself.” Evrathol looked at his mother and tilted his head, raising an eyebrow in the process. “And you? Did you have a nice evening?”

Arlomë looked away into a vague distance. “Yes, it was nice. Have you seen your father yet today?”

“No, I have not seen him, Mother.”

Nodding, Arlomë continued, “Nor I. I had hoped to speak with him...” Her voice trailed off, and the pair walked in silence for a few minutes. Another Avari passed them on the street, and they both nodded their heads in greeting. “I overheard the Emissary talking about the Elves in his kingdom...” She spoke quickly and only looked at Evrathol when she’d finished. “He spoke of them like they were the enemies of Men.”

“Really, did he say how?”

“No, just that they brought some great Evil to their land...his words troubled me, my son.” Evrathol just looked ahead. His brows furrowed in thought. “I wish to speak more with your father about it.” Her son nodded but said nothing. “Now, Evrathol, what business had you in the temple this morning? I have tried my best to teach you about the deities, but this is a sudden interest...” Arlomë’s tone changed and her words were soaked in motherly concern.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

“You flatter me, my wife, and seek to distract me from your Alanzian interests with this talk of my…of our realm. You claim to be acting only for Pashtia, and yet you come before me to ask how we should inform our greatest rivals of a proposed alliance with another power!”

“I did not know,” Bekah’s voice was calm and level – steely, even, “that we still considered Alanzia to be a rival. Are Pashtia and Alanzia not allies now as well? Are not we married to one another, my lord, and have we not brought into the world two children who shall unite the interests of both kingdoms when one of them takes the throne?”

Faroz sighed. “Such a history as we share with Alanzia is not simply put aside in the course of a single generation, lady, nor are such animosities removed with a single marriage, no matter how…productive. This is something that you have never understood. You have done an excellent job with the education of our children and either one could be a capable monarch given time and experience. Our son, I fear, lacks ambition sufficient to the tasks of rule and our daughter has too much. But they are young yet and there is time still to hone either one of them into keenness.”

“Has your majesty been taking thought or counsel as to whom you will name heir?” Bekah was quick to ask. Despite the sudden shift in the King’s thinking, she had been eager to put the question to him.

“No,” he replied somewhat brusquely. “But you have asked me how we are to proceed with your brother. You fear that he will take offence should we ally ourselves with the Lord Annatar. But what you fail to grasp, lady, is that the situation is somewhat different now.” The Queen merely looked at him, allowing only the faintest hint of curiosity to intrude into her features. The King suddenly waved his hand at her and in an impatient tone and manner said “Oh do sit down, lady. You look like a statue there, rigid with such formality!” The Queen seemed to pause for a moment before settling herself upon her cushions. The King continued. “I have passed the decision of alliance to our children – the children, as you have stated, of Pashtia and Alanzia. Your brother is well aware of your lessons to them about your homeland, and he has – no doubt – entertained hopes for many years that they will prove more…tractable…to his demands when one of them assumes power. How then can he blame me, or fear that I am making a decision against him, when that decision is being made by his own niece and nephew?” Bekah’s eyes grew somewhat wider as she realised the care that had gone into the King’s decision, and she wondered at the nicety of his acumen. “So you see, my Queen, it matters not to me what you tell your brother-King so long as it is you who tells him. So long as he is assured that this decision is being taken by Siamak and Gjeelea, under the careful advice and guidance of yourself, what has he to fear from it?”

The Queen bowed her head slightly, saying, “You have already accused me of flattery, lord, so I know not how to reply to this other than to say that your reasoning would appear sound.”

Faroz smiled indulgently at his wife and seized the Ring in his hand. He caught himself toying at it with his fingertip and had to pull his hand away, for he realised that he was on the verge of allowing it to slip onto his finger. Bekah saw the sudden motion and said in an innocent enough tone, “Is that the ring given you by the Emissary, lord? Might I see it?”

Faroz had to quell a sudden revulsion at the idea of showing it to his wife. He clutched it as though to hide it from her, but then thought better of it. To deny the request would be to call more attention to the Ring than he wished. He smiled as easily as he could and slipped the Ring from its chain. “Of course you may, my Queen.” He held it out to her and said, “You may approach.” Rising from her place at the foot of the dais, the Queen ascended the few low steps to where the King reclined. She kneeled at the top of the stairs and bowed her head to him formally, then reached for the Ring. In that moment Faroz had to fight down a gasp of horror, for instead of his wife he saw before him an aged and ragged crone, grasping at him with gnarled fingers tipped with red-dripping claws. In his revulsion he pulled his hand back just as she touched the Ring, and it slipped from his grasp. It fell to the stone of the dais, where it rang like a bell as it bounced once before the King snatched it up once more. His heart was pounding with terror, and sweat beaded upon his forehead as he clutched it.

The Queen looked at him with alarm. Faroz forced a smile but on his pale face it appeared as a grimace of pain. “You must excuse me, lady. It was a sudden fatigue that came over me. I am afraid that I perhaps have overextended myself in the last couple of days.”

Bekah nodded and said something comforting, but she left her hand outstretched. With an effort of will, Faroz returned her gaze and was relieved to find that his wife was once more as she had ever been, and no longer the nightmare figure she had become. It was only with the greatest of effort that he managed to pass the Ring over to her, and as soon as it left his fingers he desired it with a physical longing unlike any he had ever known.

[Firefoot]

Siamak studied the General carefully. He did not know why he was hesitating so. Everything Morgôs had said was true, though it was rather dispiriting to hear some of them aloud. Siamak realized that this must be how his father viewed him and his sister, and this viewpoint made his desire for the kingship very distant indeed. He wondered if it was really worth trying - he could not change who he was. Siamak did not necessarily want to be great - the Morgôs’ mention of his grandfather sounded rather ominous. Siamak had known his grandfather hardly at all, and whenever he heard tell of him it was generally with reverence little less than that of the gods. And yet... the idea of Gjeelea and Korak on the throne was unspeakable, and in the end this was the deciding factor. Siamak felt a burning desire to oust his sister in this. Always, always had she dominated in social and court matters. Siamak wanted it to be different, but he honestly wasn’t sure how - if the General thought he could change this, Siamak was willing to let him do so.

Siamak nodded. “Yes.” Now that his mind was made up, he spoke firmly. “You may teach me.”

Morgôs’ face was warmed by a slight smile, and Siamak noted a glint of approval in his gray eyes. “I will make you into a king, Siamak,” he said, and the edge of enthusiasm was impossible to miss - in fact, in was catching. Siamak could not help but grin.

“When do you wish to begin?” asked Siamak, barely unable to contain his curiosity. He wanted to know exactly what it was that the General would teach him, and just how different such lessons would be.

“Very soon,” answered Morgôs. “I would say now, except that the day is drawing late. Would the day after tomorrow be agreeable to you?”

“That would be well,” said Siamak. He, too, wished it might be sooner, but both he and the General had other responsibilities as well. Morgôs rose from his couch, as did Siamak.

“I must be going, now,” he said. “I will see you soon, and be ready for a lesson unlike any you have had before.” The words were said lightly, but Siamak knew them to be true. He did not know Morgôs well, but he was beginning to understand his intense personality. Beginning to.

“I will be, General,” said Siamak, showing Morgôs out. “Good evening.” Finally, Siamak shut the door on who he hoped was the last visitor. It had been an interesting day, and he knew that with his upcoming lessons with the General that there would be many more of those days to come.

[Orofaniel]

Evrathol was by no means surprised over his mother's question. She had tried many times to encourage Evrathol to join her visits in the Temple. Evrathol had however, showed no interest - well, until recent event. He knew his mother would be curious, he had been expecting it. If it was him in Arlomë's position, he would have done the very same thing.

He couldn’t quite find an answer to her question. Then again, it might have not been a real question, merely a statement. It required no answer just yet. What really concerned Evrathol at the moment was how the Emissary had spoken of his kind. The elves - Enemies in his kingdom? He didn't quite understand. Evrathol understood why it troubled his mother so because it troubled him as well. The Emissary had been taken into the warmth of the King Faroz, and what if he had a greater impact on the King than any one would have guessed? What did the relationship between their King and this foreigner mean?

"You should tell father about this," Evrathol then almost whispered, as if in a trance. His eyes were distant and cold. He was weighing his thoughts against each other, but couldn't find anything that equalized it.

"Pardon?" Arlöme asked her son, looking at him straight in the eyes. "What you heard," he muttered, now breaking the trance. "You should tell Môrgos immediately," Evrathol continued, his pulse raising. "Why in such a hurry?" Arlöme then asked, with a slight of suspicion in her voice. "Hurry?" Evrathol repeated.

"Yes, son, you seem...upset?" She inquired. "No, not at all. I'm just...tired," Evrathol replied quickly. "But the sunset is still far away," she augmented. "You're not feeling ill, are you Evrathol?" she then asked quickly.

"No, I'm fine mother." The words crawled slowly out from his mouth. His voice was calm and motionless. He seemed however, hesitant by the weary face expression.

"We'll soon be back at the estate. I'll get some rest when we return," Evrathol then said. His mother eyes met his, and he could tell that she was worried.

They walked in silence for a while feeling the soft wind against their foreheads.

"I wouldn't want to pressure you, son, but my curiosity will not let go of me. Will you not tell me what you were doing in the Temple earlier?"

Evrathol looked away, hesitating again. "I wanted to apologise for my behaviour towards Tarkan at the banquet last night," Evrathol began. He sensed a certain embarrassment for saying it out loud, but would not admit it. "Apologise? To whom?" Arlomë questioned. Her voice seemed a bit disappointed. Evrathol knew she would feel that way because she would have hoped he had other reasons of going to the Temple than to apologise for something he certainly wouldn't have been guilty of doing. "You didn't do anything that required an apology?" Arlome then burst out. "Apparently not," Evrathol then said. "It's nothing to worry about. I just wanted to talk to Tarkan, and apologise to him that I didn't have time to speak with him at the banquet," Evrathol then continued Evrathol forced a smile, which was surprisingly, quite natural. A short sigh was heard from Arlöme. Then she laughed joyously, not knowing how to correspond to the small "trick" Evrathol had just played her.

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

The princess could hear the lie in his voice as he named her his love. She could see the lie in his eyes as Korak lifted his gaze to meet hers. She could feel the lie in his kiss, simple and devious as it met her hand. Deceit not so obvious to any who did not know what to look for, which gave Gjeelea hope that none would know that their love was a complete act. Some would think less of her at first if they thought she had 'fallen' for an oaf like Korak. Still, the princess knew that if people saw Korak in a different light - even a false light - they would eventually think differently of him.

As Korak let go of her hand, Gjeelea considered his words. "Whatever you say, my love..." Could Korak truly be so easily swayed? The princess wondered if her betrothed was just stupid and blindly following her lead (at least he would be following a good lead, if that were the case) or if Korak was smart enough to know the gravity of the situation. Certainly, if Korak listened to her so easily then Gjeelea would have no trouble being the dominant ruler if the two were crowned king and queen.

She looked at her husband, his handsome face, and wondered why so many girls in court desired him. If only I could be like those girls, Gjeelea thought. If I cared only for Korak's face as they do, then marrying him would not bother me so. Those who might pity me would call me stupid to marry him, yet in my position they would see few other alternatives. Those who envy me are stupid .

The princess had a clear idea of her goals - a goal clearer than any she had ever had in her life. She could see herself as queen. She knew she was willing to marry Korak if it meant becoming queen and having her chance to be the ruler she knew she could be. Gjeelea did not wish to be a political risk-taker, unsure of the results of her efforts, but she was willing to wage a silent war against Siamak in order to achieve her goal.

"We should arrange another meeting, then," Gjeelea murmured, bored of the awkward silence that had enveloped the room. "Sometime soon. To the temples, perhaps - the common people might like to see their future rulers. Or perhaps I could speak with your mother, know her better...you understand, we must do this," the princess sighed, feeling the headache return. "I assure you, it will all be worth your time in the end."

[Bêthberry]

Bekah had felt a chilling, lightning-like sensation at the brief touch of the ring before Faroz had pulled his hand back, but she had not really understood the sensation, so startled was she by the pained expression of her husband's visage.

Now the ring lay inert in her hand, a simple gold band embellished by a single gemstone, which flickered in the late afternoon light of a waning day. It was beautifully crafted, pure in its form and understated in its decoration. She closed her fingers over it and hefted it in her hand, trying to imagine its weight in gold. She had ignored Faroz's offer to be seated as a way of maintaining some authority herself in the face of his obvious displeasure with her.

"What pray tell are you doing with it?" inquired Faroz, clearly disturbed but dissembling his concern by trying to imply her fault yet again.

"Merely trying to determine its weight. Is it pure or false gold? Have you tried to bite it? Some thin golds go soft in the desert heat." Bekah was sincerely curious about this object, as both an item of diplomacy and an object of great appeal to Faroz. She wanted to know why it had grabbed his fancy so quickly. What was its appeal? She wondered. She knew he would never tell her directly, so she determined to test its attraction for him. She lifted the ring to her lips as if to bite the gold.

"You toy with its value and would mar its beauty," Faroz responded. "You don't appreciate the delicate nature of this diplomacy." He reached out to take it but Bakah pulled her hand away.

"No, my lord," she remarked. "I merely wished to ascertain the value of this Annatar's regard for you. You are not usually swayed by material concerns.?"

"It is not the ring which influences me," he claimed, wanting to take it from her but for the time being not wishing to divulge that feeling, or perhaps even admit it to himself.

Bekah wondered at this. She realised she had the opportunity to understand how powerful this gift was if she pressed the matter. Could she? Dare she? Her life in Pashtia had been devoted to soothing relations between her homeland and her adopted land but now she sensed that matters were moving beyond her ken or ability to direct or move them. Faroz had ever been her staunchest collaborator; she had no other ally or confidant as close as he in Pashtia. And now he was melting away from her, butter in the heat of the day. She was profoundly disturbed by this turn of events.

"You have said the Emissary offers you a friendship greater than any you have ever known. Yet rings mark fealty, confederation, coalition. They signify obligation and vows to others, an embargo of sorts on freedom What has he offered you? What has this Annatar promised that is greater than the allegiances of the peoples of this area. What is the West to us?"

Faroz relaxed somewhat, directing his thoughts to the discussion at hand. He sat back upon his cushions, still longing for the ring, and eyed his wife, marveling at her appearance now and the vision he had had of the old crone. Was that her true heart? He wondered. She had always masked herself to him, a guileful woman like all her kind. Or was that her future? Will she become so frightful and terrible? The King began to ruminate upon the other possible abilities this ring might provide him in addition to making him invisible. Will it foretell the future for him? Would it allow him to see true motivations? The thoughts intrigued him and he became once again more withdrawn from his wife.

"What a limited mind you have, what a small vision, if you cannot imagine what wealth might lie beyond our knowing. You, who proclaimed that a king must know what lies beyond his boundaries." He stopped himself from speaking further, running his hand over his face in an effort to control this unaccountable urge to rebuff her.

"A king must also know himself. Do you?" Bekah dared reply, as she looked from him to the ring and rolled it around in her hand.

He was taken aback at the freedoms she was taking with the ring as much as by her impudence.

"You have such little regard for gifts of state?"

He rose from his cushions and took two steps towards her.

Bekah stepped back, bringing her hand up and spreading her fingers, so the ring showed clearly upon her palm. It cast a strange feeling over her and she almost sensed it was changing, becoming smaller.

"Shall I try to wear it so I can improve my understanding?" she asked. Her arm was becoming heavy and she felt she was drowning in waters she did not know, but she would persist in learning as much as she could of this affair.

With a roar, Faroz lunged towards her, grabbing her hand by the wrist and twisting it, turning her arm. He reached over and caught the ring as it nearly fell a second time. Feeling it once again within his grasp he felt a surge of anger at her and a supreme sense of power over her. He pushed her arm more until she was pulled over and a look of pain crossed over her face. Could he hear her bone snap? The thought pleased him and then shocked him. He could not imagine how he had come to relish the thought but he did. He let go her arm, which fell by her side, bruised already and swelling.

Bekah uttered not a word, nor cried out in her shock. Never before had he struck her or even threatened her. She staggered, slightly, as she fought to gain control of the pain and reached out with her uninjured arm to lift and hold the injured one against her. She raised her head and looked straight at him. For his part, Faroz stepped back from her, feeling an immense relief at having the ring back in his possession. Breathing heavily, he held it tightly and then slowly returned it to his pocket. Only then did he look at Bekah's face and her arm. Suddenly, he was overwhelmed with a sense of remorse. He must be under greater stress than he had imagined.

Behind the dias, hidden in the curtains, someone stood silently, struck with horror at the event he had just witnessed. Jarult the chamberlain.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Faroz calmed the pounding of his heart with an effort of will. Now that the Ring was once more pressed against his body, he felt the rage and anxiety that had seized him like a madness flow from him as wine from a broken vessel. Not wine, he corrected himself, like filthy water from a ditch. What have I done? He gazed upon his wife, and saw the one person in his world upon whom he had depended through all the trials of rule, and he saw the rage and pain in her expression. Her arm hung by her side like a broken thing, raw and raging with her suppressed fury. Faroz felt shame for what he had done, and he found it difficult to meet her eyes. He reached out to her with his own hand, but the Queen flinched away. Faroz felt the rebuke of her gesture, and his shame only grew. “I am sorry, my wife,” he said, using a more tender tone to her than any he had used in years. “I do not know what came over me.” Liar, you do know, you know well what it was… “I have already said that it has been a taxing day. It would appear that it was more taxing than I thought.” He passed his hand before his eyes and seemed to sag. “I grow tired, lady.”

“Perhaps his majesty should seek his bed then.” Bekah’s words were as jagged stones, cold and unyielding.

“It is not the fatigue of this day, lady. I fear that I begin to feel the weight of the crown more heavily. Perhaps it is the talk of naming my heir, or perhaps it is just the years of having been King, but I find myself more and more contemplating the rest of my life with…” he searched for a word.

“With what, my lord?” Bekah asked, curious despite her hurt and her rage.

“With I know not what,” he ended quickly, his attention once more reverting to his wife. “I am selfish, selfish and cruel. I have hurt you and all I can think of are my own troubles. Sit, my wife, please I beg you, and let me send for doctors to see to your hurt.”

“No Khamul,” she replied. “It would be best if no-one knew of this…incident. Should word go forth of this…attack,” he could see how she struggled to say the word, as though it gave a new reality to what had just happened, “think of how it would be received by our children, or by my brother. I will say that I fell upon the stairs to my apartments.” Saying so, she moved to place her clothes over the arm so as to hide the violence done to it, but she had difficulty doing so for the hurt. Faroz moved to help her, but she once more moved away from him, her eyes blazing, and she completed the task, painfully, on her own.

Faroz felt moved to try once more. “Please, my wife, accept my apologies and give me forgiveness. I have never raised my hand to you before, and I swear now by Rhais and Rae that never shall I do so again.” Unless. . . “Never,” he said aloud, as though speaking to someone else. “And may the vengeance of the gods come upon me should I break this vow.”

Bekah remained impassive and impenetrable. Bowing formally she said only, “I accept the apology of the King, and for my part I swear that I shall seek neither retribution nor revenge for his act. But now,” she added quickly, as though to forestall any further conversation, “may I have your permission to depart, lord? For I would like to return to my apartments and call the physicians after my accident.”

Faroz simply nodded dumbly, and watched his wife depart. Almost as soon as she had gone the Chamberlain entered the room, a little too quickly. His face was unreadable, but Faroz wondered if perhaps he had seen what had transpired. Jarult’s expression betrayed nothing, however, as he announced that Priest Tarkan was in the outer room, waiting to speak with the King. Faroz hid the look of distaste that he felt beneath his skin and bid the Priest be allowed to enter. Jarult bowed and departed once more to fetch the Priest in. When Tarkan arrived at the far end of the Hall he bowed to the King, who had resumed his place atop the dais, and scurried forward.

“Welcome my brother,” Faroz began formally. “What is it that brings you to the Palace?” Tarkan smiled nervously and licked his lips before starting. He was not an impressive figure, for all that he was the bastard son of the former King. Despite their close connection, Faroz knew little of Tarkan, but what he did know was less than satisfactory. He was an ambitious, yet strangely apathetic man, who kept more or less to himself, indulging, no doubt, in such schemes as he could for his advancement, and yet never moving openly with them. It was not without a certain amount of irony, then, that Faroz looked upon the man.

For though the Priest knew it not, Tarkan was the rightful King of Pashtia.

[Amanaduial the archer]

The Priestess was a patient woman, but her patience was being sorely tried as she waited outside the Queen's apartments, so eager was she to talk to Bekah. But she controlled her impatience and waited in the awkward, stuffy silence of the palace antechamber, unsure of what to say to Tarkan. The Priest, however, didn't feel the need to talk much, after some initial small talk - he seemed caught up in his own thoughts. So, after finishing off with pleasantries, the two descended into silence. Well, if you could call it that. Sound as muffled throughout the palace, despite it being an open, stone building, by the tapestries and rich rugs all over the palace, so very little noise pervaded the antechamber; but Zamara couldn't help noticing that Tarkan's breathing really was very loud.

After several rather uncomfortable minutes in which the Priest seemed rather disinclined to talk, the sound of a servant's feet were heard coming down the corridor. Zamara stood in anticipation. Tarkan sent her a condescending, superior look, then rose slowly and almost regally - and maybe it would have worked on anyone else, Zamara thought disapprovingly. The Priest was just about the least majestic individual she knew...

"The King will see you know, Priest Tarkan," the servant said nervously, eyeing the Priest with nervousness as if he was about to run. Zamara wondered about this - Tarkan had never struck her as being particularly terrifying. Sneaky, maybe, but terrifying...not so much. Tarkan smiled and, with a last, almost mock-courteous bow to Zamara, he left, radiating self-satisfaction at being called up first. The servant sent the Priestess an apologetic glance, then scurried after him.

Zamara narrowed her eyes after Tarkan. Of all the cheek, why had he been called first? Realising she was being petty, Zamara rose abruptly and turned to the tapestries on the wall behind her, inwardly seething. Tarkan had been sniffy with her today, almost as if she was beneath his notice, and what with that performance at the banquet in addition to that...Zamara shook her head, her eyes barely focusing on the delicate, angular figures in the tapestries. It seemed many people were changing, whether because of the Emissary or not. Evrathol's visit to the temple, the General Morgos' apology... And then there was the other matter, the matter of what Zamara had seen the other night, on the way back from the banquet, as she had chanced to look up at a balcony of the palace.

The priestess pursed her lips, her brow furrowing as she stared intently at the tapestries. Her eyes were indeed turning slightly blue, an unnatural colour for the Pashtians - she was not sure if others had noticed, but Zamara, although she didn't know what it was, had realised early last year that it was affecting her sight. But she was so sure of what she had seen...

One minute the king was there, the next....vanished!

Sinking into these worrying thoughts, Zamara's eyes suddenly caught on a detail of the tapestry. It seemed to be an early history of Pashtia, and was quite faded, but Zamara could still clearly see the images of a large group of people marching - or were they running? - away from a green, grassy land, women, children and all. But there were rather few children, and the weaver had caught the expressions of the people quite vividly: they wore faces of weariness and aged wisdom. Avari? It was what the pictures looked remarkably like, but there were far more of the elves that Zamara thought were in the city in the present age. At the front of them, one particularly elf stood out, his stance defiant, his face shaded by a silver-grey helmet with a magnificent white plume - obviously a leader of some sort. And behind...a damp stain marred the picture, making it hard to see who stood on the grassy land, making it was an indistinct mass of black, jagged shapes. But one figure the Priestess could see quite clearly: a tall, dark figure, his hand raised high, holding a sword, his dark face completely shadowed by a terrible helmet.

There was something about this figure that made the Priestess stop, and a shiver traced down her neck, the fine hairs at the nape rising as if in warning, despite the heat of the antechamber. But despite the way this figure stood out, he was like no elf she had ever seen - he seemed mannish, but somehow all-powerful... She wondered at how a picture, faded as it was, could convey such strength.

The writing beneath the figure was obscured by the damp, so Zamara moved on. She narrowed her eyes, bending down slightly, her long dark fingers tracing the pictures back in sequence until she came to the image a few frames that made her stop: a battle scene. She could see the defiant Avarin leader standing frozen, looking up at something as if in horror, and, following his gaze, saw...

Drat! Confound these stains! The picture was blurred, the dyes running into each other, but still, some details remained clear in the object of the elf's attention: the dark figure. His hand was held high still, but this time holding not a sword but something smaller, that glistened somehow, but was so tiny. Zamara leant in closer to see if she could work out what it was...

The sound of light, quick footsteps caught Zamara off guard and she spun around, her robes rustling softly. The sound must have caught the visitor's attention, for the footsteps stopped - a visitor with most astute hearing indeed then! She wondered whether it was one of the Avarin. Stepping forward so she could see around the corner into the corridor, Zamara smiled at Morgos himself, who stood with the expression of a trapped rabbit.

"Good day, General," Zamara said warmly, smiling at the elf.I was just thinking about you... "I was not aware you were visiting the King today?"

"Oh...no, no, I came to see the Prince," the General replied, seeming distracted. As soon as he had said the words, he somehow seemed to regret it, snapping off the end of the last word as if trying to take it back. His stern, wary gaze rested on the High Priestess, and then flickered past her to the tapestry - he must have noticed her looking at it before, she guessed. Had he seen this tapestry before? Zamara deliberated on whether or not to tell him about it - sure, what harm could it do? He had surely seen something like this before...

"General Morgos, later in the day, it is necessary for me to leave the city and go to some of the farms to the East. I wondered if I would be able to borrow an escort of a few of your soldiers?"

Morgos frowned briefly. "May I ask what this visit is about, that you might need protection?"

Zamara shrugged her shoulders lightly. "There are many strangers to the city of late, General, many changes." Her eyes rested on his as she hesitated, then added, "It is...a strange matter. Some villagers think they have seen a...a demon."

It was all the elf could do not to raise his eyebrows, Zamara noticed with slightly amusement. "A demon?" he repeated impassively.

"It is what they said. A strange creature, round in girth and larger than a man, without fur but apparently covered almost entirely in leaves, from which...eyes could be seen. And apparently creaking, almost like a song." She shrugged again. The General's intense, unbinking stare made her feel slightly self-concious. But there was a change in his expression now, which had come about as she was speaking, and he had taken a step forward when she mentioned the leaves. "Cr...creaking, you say, Priestess?" he said slowly.

Zamara nodded. "It is what was told to me. Why, have you any idea of what this creature could be?"

The elf hesitated, then shook his head hastily. "I shall arrange a guard for you. Was there anything else you wished to speak to me about?"

Zamara made up her mind. Stepping back, she angled herself slightly towards the tapestry behind her. "General Morgos, are you familiar with-"

A sound that Zamara recognised as the Queen's voice came from within her appartments, muffled by the silks on the doors so that the Priestess could not hear the exact words; it was closely followed by the commanding voice of what sounded like a chamberlain. Her call to enter, she presumed. She took a step away from the tapestry, almost guiltily. "Excuse me please, General-"

"Of course. Good day, High Priestess." With that abrupt dismissal, the elf was gone, striding away down the corridor. Zamara watched him for a second, then looked towards the tapestry thoughtfully...before dispelling all thoughts of it from her head and pushing open the door of Bekah's chambers to enter. Little did the Priestess know how important the faded, worn pictures of the bright elf's battle with this dark, godly figure would turn out to be...

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Jarult awoke with a start, and immediately the coughing was upon him. Every morning this happened, and he sat upon the edge of his bed, his thin frame wracked with spasmodic pain as he hacked and wheezed, until it was over. Each day, it seemed, the attack grew a bit longer and a bit more ferocious and someday soon, he knew, it would end in his death. He did not regard the thought with any emotion, only acceptance. He had lived his life well and done good service to the King and to the King before him. He would go to the seat of Rhais with confidence.

When he was finally able to stand, the aged Chamberlain went out of his bedroom and into the courtyard of the small villa sheltered beneath the imposing wall of the Palace. It was, he had been told, an abode far beneath his station but he liked it all the same. It was small and bare and comfortable. He took a slight breakfast in the grey light of pre-dawn and collected his thoughts for the day ahead.

It had been just over a month since the coming of the Emissary, and still the courtier from the West remained a mystery to the old man. The meetings between the Emissary and the King had dwindled of late, which was good, but the King had taken to retiring to bed early and not allowing any visitors to his chambers at night. Jarult was made uneasy by this, for the memory of what he had seen pass between the King and Queen was still raw in his memory. He had watched both keenly since then, but on the surface they appeared unchanged by the encounter. In general, the uproar caused by the appearance of the Emissary had subsided, until the presence of the Man from the West had become part of the background to life in Pashtia.

This change had been helped by new and disturbing developments much closer to home. The new High Temple to Rae had been approved by the King and was already being built close by the Temple to Rhais. More disturbingly to Jarult was the news – or, rather, the lack of news – from Alanzia. Commerce with their northern rivals had always been sporadic, but of late it had ceased altogether. It had been weeks since any traveller or news had arrived from there. Even the Queen’s correspondence with her brother had ceased.

Jarult felt the touch of a cool breeze run down his thin neck and he shivered, drawing his cloak more tightly about him. Soon it will be the cool season, he reflected. The nights will grow chill and the winds will come from the mountains, perhaps bringing rain. He quickly uttered a prayer to Rae that he withhold the fury of the water that fell so unnaturally from the sky.

The thought of rain turned his mind to other, even stranger matters. Reports there were abroad of demons and monsters. Strange beings like the giants of old, the peasants said, were stalking about the farmlands. Others who ventured into the desert returned with tales of monstrous man-like fiends who travelled in packs like wild dogs, ravening and destroying what they could find. Most harrowing to Jarult, though, were the tales of ghosts. Whispers there were of creatures which passed unseen in the night, freezing those who felt them with terror. From within the Palace itself there had come rumour of doors that opened on their own, and of curtains moving when there was no wind. Some of the servants had even claimed to have heard footsteps along empty hallways in the dead of night, and one impressionable girl had sworn that she had felt a touch like that of a man’s cloak brushing up against her. Jarult knew better than to believe such gossip, but it worried him still, for such news could not augur well…

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

The morning sun brought tingling warmth to Gjeelea’s face as she walked through the marketplace of Kanak. She had spent more time in the city and out of the palace since her conference with Korak about a month earlier, usually with her betrothed in hopes that the people would see them happily together before their marriage. Gjeelea had also gone more often to the temples since the Emissary’s arrival. She visited both the construction site of the new temple of Rae and the standing temple of Rhais. The latter was her destination that morning.

Her daily walks comforted Gjeelea from the stresses she found harrowing in the palace – dealing with her brother, with Korak, with the gossiping court ladies. She hardly ever got headaches since she had started perusing the city, even when speaking to Siamak or arguing with Korak.

“Oh, my lady! Princess Gjeelea!” The bookkeeper’s wife called to the princess from the little shop off the main market way. A bright smile lit on her pudgy face, a smile that was returned half-heartedly by Gjeelea as she walked over to the stocky little lady.

“Good morning, Rafiqa,” Gjeelea greeted the aging woman, bowing her head slightly. Rafiqa did the same and gestured for Gjeelea to enter her home. The princess stepped gingerly into the sunlit entryway, looking left to see a large room filled with shelves that were in turned filled with books and parchments. To the right Gjeelea saw Basit the bookkeeper, Rafiqa’s husband, sitting at a desk piled high with thick volumes. Basit lifted his head and stood when he saw the princess. With a deep bow he greeted her.

“How wonderful it is to see you again, my lady,” Basit said, waving his arm. “Welcome again to my humble home – you are free, as always, to make yourself at home as well…” he paused. His brows furrowed together. “You are not with the Lord Korak this morning?”

“No, Korak is spending the morning with his mother,” Gjeelea replied, though it was a lie. She did not know where Korak had gone off to that morning. “But thank you, Basit, and good day to you,” Gjeelea murmured, nodding to both Basit and Rafiqa before turning into the huge, book-filled room to her left. The princess had come to Basit’s bookshop at least once a week in the past month, to read the tomes of knowledge and visit Basit’s family. It was just one more activity that Gjeelea looked forward to outside of the palace.

The princess weaved her way around short aisles of shelves, not quite sure what she was searching for. She stopped as she turned a corner and caught sight of a little girl sitting on a stool next to one of the shelves, reading a long stretch of parchment. The girl looked up when she heard Gjeelea, and with a toothy grin the child beckoned for the princess to join her.

“How are you this morning, Tendai?” Gjeelea addressed the girl as she pushed back her white headscarf and kneeled down on the floor next to her.

“Very good, princess!” Tendai informed Gjeelea, nodding to the parchment in her hand. “Last night I climbed to the top of father’s ladder, and found this on the top shelf. It is very good, but I am almost finished, and I am afraid to climb to the top again and find a new one.”

“I will get a new story for you before I leave,” the princess promised as she peaked at the words on Tendai’s page. “What is this story about?”

“A noble lady,” Tendai explained. “Her father arranges to have her marry his friend. She is in love with her best friend.”

“I see,” Gjeelea mused. If I had a best friend, I would rather be in love with him than Korak any day. “What happens, then?”

“Well, her best friend is only a cook in her house,” Tendai continued with the story. “And the girl does not want to make her father sad. But she decided to run away with her best friend rather than say no to her father, or marry someone she did not love. They have run away, and I have not finished, but I think that they get away safe in the end. What a brave girl, leaving her father, right?”

“Right,” Gjeelea agreed softly. “Very brave.”

“Princess?”

“Yes?”

“Do you love Lord Korak?” Tendai asked the question in an offhand manner, peering anxiously at the top of the nearest shelf. Gjeelea stood, brushing slight specs of dirt off of her white gown. She moved to the bookshelf and reached to the highest ledge, picking through some of the books as she thought of how to answer the question.

“Of course I do,” Gjeelea lied.

“That is good, then,” Tendai replied, satisfied. The princess handed her a new book to read and said farewell before turning away and leaving the room. Gjeelea thanked Basit and Rafiqa for their hospitality and left the bookshop, continuing on her way to the temple of Rhais. Some citizens gave the princess a warm smile, a slight bow, or perhaps a good-natured wave if they chanced to recognize her. Gjeelea wondered how things would be if she became queen, or how they felt about Korak.

When Gjeelea finally reached the temple of Rhais, she stood still for a moment outside the temple, admiring the monument. The princess knew that the temple of Rae could not compare to the architecture of the home of the Earth-goddess. Surely construction had improved bit by bit since the building of Rhais’ home, but Gjeelea almost felt that the division over Rae’s temple and the controversy might affect the building of it. Something about the intricacy and beauty of the temple of Rhais made Gjeelea feel safe and comforted.

The princess would never argue for one deity over the other – it would not be good politics. She carefully skated around divine discussion, never willing to trample on someone else’s view of Rae or Rhais. Gjeelea had grown up revering both Rae and Rhais, and she would show no favor towards either; were they not both divine anyway? Still, Gjeelea knew that the reasoning behind building a superior temple to Rae was wrong. The only popularity contest Gjeelea wanted to deal with was between her and Siamak. Her thoughts of competition dwindled as she entered the temple, searching for the High Priestess.

Gjeelea rarely spoke to Zamara. Today, though, the princess sought to speak to the High Priestess about the Emissary. Gjeelea and Siamak had not come to a conclusion on the Emissary and his offer for an alliance, nor had the two agreed much in their conversations. The tension between brother and sister had likewise come between their ability to negotiate and speak calmly to one another. There were many things that the princess had yet to say to Siamak about the matter of the Emissary, and yet Gjeelea also sought the opinion of valued Pashtian citizens. Zamara, Tarkan, Lady Hababa – Gjeelea had yet to converse with these people on their views of the Emissary.

Taking further steps into the temple, Gjeelea found Zamara kneeling before the statue of Rhais.

“High Priestess?” Gjeelea prompted softly.

[Imladris]

Arshalous stood overlooking the building of the new temple. Her arms were folded, the slim golden bracelets glittering in the sun. She spent most of her days here now...if her money was being spent on a temple she did not agree with then she could at least over see it and make sure that it was beautiful. It was much more than Korak would do, she thought with distaste, a sneer flickering across her face. The man had only done it for political purposes, of that she was sure.

She moodily thought of the "romance" between the princess and her cousin. How could the king arrange for his daughter to marry that excuse for a man was far beyond her. And she thought it disgusting how Korak could pretend to love her...it was despicable that a noble should lie like that...she frowned and spat the dust between her sandled feet.

She saw the Princess Gjeelea pause in front of the Temple of the Earth-Goddess. Arshalous wondered again what the royal siblings were going to decide about the Emissary. She bit her lip, wondering what their misgivings were...she herself had seen nothing but good character from the Emissary.

The lack of communication from Alanzia was odd, but she did not find it as disturbing as others. If there was trouble between the two nations it was better this way instead of firey words...she herself wished that it was that way for herself and Korak. Of course, maybe the silence of Alanzia was caused by something dire...but why conjecture the worst when there was no reason to believe that something horrid had happened?

She shifted uneasily on her feet, the rumours of demons and ghosts and giant, ravaging men that roamed the country side gnawed at her...she could not pass it off as mere superstition...

She smiled softly to herself. The creatures that had fallen into the mists of the forgotten had arisen...and was that not a thrilling thought?

[Nurumaiel]

The building site for the new temple was not empty that day. Lord Korak arrived upon his horse, and swept a glance over it all. The temple he had strove for was coming into being at last. He could see the money he relinquished building up before his eyes in the form of a majestic building. Yet... if he had been in charge of the building, and not just the funding, he would have made it more majestic than it was. Especially that one spot that he could see from the corner of his eye.

It was then he noticed the Lady Arshalous. His lips turned downwards in a deep frown, and for a moment he considered returning to his home. But, no! He recalled swiftly that when the two of them stood upon this ground, he stood as the victor. The Lady Arshalous, who so opposed the idea of the new temple, was also funding it. She was working alongside him, working for something she did not want. He held the upper hand here. And he thought in passing that the one spot did not look so very bad after all, but it was simply the Lady Arshalous' presence by it, fouling it and making it look dark and dreary.

Lord Korak dismounted and moved towards his Lady Cousin, leading his horse along by the reins. Perhaps it did not occur to him that horses were disapproved of by the King, or perhaps he was merely being defiant. Morashk, lurking in the shadows, wondered this. Of course Korak knew that the King disapproved, but perhaps he did not know that he really did disapprove, and it was not merely a show. Lord Korak was always putting on shows himself. Disloyalty? Morashk laughed at the thought. He would die for his master, but he would not refrain from thinking of him as he would.

"My Lady Cousin," said Korak, bowing slightly. He wondered what would happen if he kissed her hand. She would probably strike him. That would never do in public, when he could not strike back. For the Lord Korak would have no qualms about striking back... if there were not many eyes watching.

He turned then, and looked at on-going temple with approving eyes. "It is a magnificent prospect we see before us," he said. "And it could not have been if you had not been so gracious as to give some of your wealth for it. Perhaps it is odd that we are working together, or perhaps it is merely a usual occurrence in fate. Nevertheless, we are working together, and achieving a temple to the sky god. You are achieving a temple to the sky god, dear cousin."

[Novnarwen]

Tarkan

Storing his last belongings in piles on the floor, he let his gaze wander around in the empty room. To Tarkan’s satisfaction, everything had been systematized; he was ready to go. Calling for Pelin with a merry voice, the Priest waited for the young man to join him. It had been about less than a month since he had spoken with the King and received news of the new Temple that was going to be built; a new Temple in the honour of Rae, the Sky God. Already, the constructors and the workers had managed to build the apartments that followed with the Temple. Although it was not far from here, where his current apartment was situated, he thought it only appropriate to move; he was a servant of the Temple of Rae, and should thus live where he could best be at service of his God, Rae. Living here, amongst the petty men and women who adored the sky Goddess, was just plainly wrong.

After a few moments, Tarkan could hear the light steps of his fellow brother in belief. Pelin popped his head inside the door and looked curiously around. The priest eyed him immediately, and gave him an approving sign to enter.

"I see you’re ready," Pelin said, stepping into the Hall-way. Slowly, he went into the small living room, where all of Tarkan's belongings were spread, or stored, out on the floor. With a greatly surprised look, he looked questioningly at the Priest. Tarkan only nodded as to confirm that everything was indeed his. Then, the Priest turned away and looked out of the window, as if ignoring the newly arrived man. Silently, he stood watching the Temple of Rhais, which rose up in font of him. He looked at it with disgust and turned his head slightly to see the new building that was being built in honour of the Sky God. Smiling to himself, he imagined the new building overshadowing the old Temple as is it rose majestically from the ground. Finally, he could be a true servant of the Sky God and he would finally be a, or rather ‘the’, High Priest. Deep in thought, he did not notice that Pelin was moving towards a pile of books that lay on the floor. Seeming rather curious, Pelin grabbed a little brown book and read its title. “Kings of our Time,” he read aloud. “Religious literature?” he asked Tarkan and opened it, reading the first lines.

“Put that down,” Tarkan said instantly, turning brusquely, seeing and recognizing the book that Pelin had found.

“But this is rather interesting, Father,” Pelin said, his full attention turned towards the book. “It says here in the Prologue that the book is filled with historic facts, which still remains to be revealed concerning the Kings of Pasthia! And look, here is a piece of parchment!” he said, while unfolding it hurriedly, his lips moving as he read.

Greatly angered by hearing Pelin read aloud from a book and the piece of parchment he had never showed anyone, he rushed over and grabbed the book from Pelin’s grasp. He looked at Pelin with an almost threatening look, making the man almost jump into the air. Taking the book, Tarkan closed it shut with a snap, put the letter inside and hid both the book and the letter quickly away under his mantle. A horrified look appeared in the priest’s face, but it was most likely outdone by the expression that Pelin now wore. As if frightened by the Priest’s sudden anger, he took a few steps backwards, growing paler and paler. Thoughtfully, Tarkan turned away again, fearing to see the man in the eyes again. He had to pretend as nothing. He realised that he should not have been so rash. Unfortunately, the damage had already been done. The task that he now faced was to cover it up with some silly story, or just forget about it. He chose the latter.

“Well, are you ready?” With a smile so false that it almost seemed real, he turned on his heal and passed Pelin on the way out. Entering the Hall-way, he looked over his shoulder to see if the young man was following. To his relief, Tarkan could see Pelin's hesitance and reluctance, turning into willingness. Shortly after, he could hear his footsteps behind him. “Are you expecting a weary old man to carry all his belongings himself?” Tarkan said suddenly, when noticing that Pelin wasn’t carrying anything from the living room.

“Please Father…” Pelin said filled with regret, turning in a hurry.

“Take as much as you can carry and meet me in the new apartments!”

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

The morning sun was already above the horizon when Faroz returned to his rooms. He crept through the archway neatly timing his entrance to coincide with the slight breeze that was sending ripples through the curtain that covered it so that none could see. He had ordered his door removed and replaced with a simple curtain some weeks ago, as he had found getting past the guards night after night increasingly difficult. Now, with no door to open, it was relatively easy.

As after most nights that he spent with Ashnaz he felt exhausted but somehow exhilarated as well. This night, they had spent almost three hours in silence, clutching each other’s hands and reaching outward with their minds, far into the West, in search of the Lord Annatar. His friend had assured him that the power of their Rings would allow them to commune with his lord at any distance, and that it was only a matter of time until he, Faroz, would learn how. Faroz was at first sceptical, but Ashnaz had shown him how the Ring allowed the two of them to speak without uttering any words, and Faroz had believed. How greatly he had come to anticipate those nightly conferences with his friend, as they sat together not saying a word aloud, lost in each other’s thoughts. Faroz had learned much of Ashnaz and of the Lord Annatar, and he desired – almost needed – to know more. So great a lord as Annatar was, he had much that he could teach Faroz. At the same time, the King could tell that Annatar desired much of him. There was much in Pashtia that those in the west did not know, and Annatar was ever thirsty for more knowledge. As yet, Faroz had not touched the mind of his brother king, so far away, but he had begun to glimpse a figure in his nightly wanderings with Ashnaz: distant and light, like the star of the evening just breaking the horizon in the early dusk.

The latter part of the night had been less than satisfactory. As they had been doing every night for a week now, Ashnaz and Faroz had stolen into the villa of Korak and searched where they could for the letter. Faroz had only seen it once, years ago, but he was sure that he would recognise it immediately were he to see it again. It had been much more difficult than he had thought, finding that letter. In the first flush of excitement in realising the power of the Ring he had foolishly attempted to recover the letter on his own, without the aid of Ashnaz. But it had all almost ended in ruin when he had inadvertently stumbled into the chambers of the old woman, Korak’s mother, Hababa. She had been awake and had seen her door open and then close of its own accord. She had sent out an immediate alarm and Faroz had been able to escape through a window barely in time, for the rush of servants and guards was such that no Ring could have kept him from discovery for very long. It was after this incident that he had opened his heart to Ashnaz and requested his friend’s help. Of course he had asked Faroz what was in the letter and the King had told him. When he had finished, Ashnaz only said, “This is indeed a grave and delicate matter, my friend, and I am honoured that you have confided in me. Needless to say, I will breathe never a word of this to anyone.”

What had at first seemed such an easy task had turned out to be much more difficult, for Korak’s villa was large and he had many servants, but Faroz was sure that in time he and Ashnaz would find what they were looking for…

[Amanaduial the archer]

I ask for your blessing, Goddess, and for strength to endure what will come ahead...what is happening in your land, my lady? The creatures, these leafy 'mothers'...they must be in your care, Rhais: what do they mean? What do all these changes mean?

Zamara's prayers had a slightly desperate, urgent note in them as she directed her thoughts up at the statue of the goddess, much as she tried to conceal it. But try as she might, the tension all around her was getting to her: the Priestess was, as always elegant and serene, but those who paid close attention and looked more closely might note that she looked more pinched and tired than usual, her serenity disturbed. In the month that had passed since the Emissary had first arrived, many things had happened, many changes had come about, and for the first time in years, Zamara felt that she couldn't understand what was happening beneath the surface. And there were indeed things beneath the surface: Zamara called to mind her meeting with the Queen nearly a month ago, a meeting that still troubled her.

"...but I do not suppose that will be necessary, Your majesty!"

Zamara's tone was half-joking as she smiled almost conspiratorially at the Queen where she reclined amid a pile of cushions. Bekah smiled with her, the expression lighting her face as she leant forward towards Zamara, moving her arm towards the Priestess as if she intended to touch the other woman's arm. But as she did so, the pillow beneath her arm slipped, and it fell awkwardly off, twisting at an unnatural angle. The Queen gave a sharp, muted cry of pain as she seized her arm with the other; Zamara, out of concern, darted forward quickly, staying the Queen's hand as it fell. As she did so, she felt something seem to snap beneath her dark fingers, light though her touch was, and she recoiled as if Bekah's arm was white hot to touch, her dark eyes widening. "Queen Bekah, what has...I-"

"It was not you, High Priestess," Bekah replied quickly, cutting the other off, her voice sharp with pain. From behind, one of Bekah's handmaidens made to come forward, panicked at her mistress's pain, scurrying to Bekah's side.

Zamara watched the Queen, thoughtfulness and worry creeping into her expression alongside the initial shock. "Your majesty, what has happened to your arm?"

Bekah's expression was troubled but she replied instantaneously, almost too quickly. "A fall, High Priestess. Just a fall."

"High Priestess?" The repeat of the words from her thoughts startled Zamara although the voice that spoke them was soft, and her eyes opened quickly as she was called back from the palace and Bekah, to the cold stone floor beneath her knees, her beautiful temple to Rhais...and, more surprisingly, Princess Gjeelea. So shocked was Zamara that she finished her prayer rather more hastily than usual, knowing she would return later. She needed to speak to her goddess, to ask more about these strange matters, both political, natural and, worryingly, religious.

Bowing in the traditional way, Zamara turned around to face the Princess as nodded her head in respect to the young woman. The princess had visited more often recently than before, but had rarely come directly to Zamara. "Princess Gjeelea, good morning to you," she said, smiling politely and with some warmth at the princess. She had a feeling that Gjeelea had come to speak to her, bearing in mind the way in which she had approached her, but thought it not polite to ask directly if it was to speak to her that the princess had come. "Have you come to worship?"

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

“Well…yes…but…” Gjeelea’s voice trailed off as she looked to the statue of Rhais behind Zamara. Turning to meet the High Priestess’ gaze Gjeelea could see that the woman had asked a question she already knew the answer to. “I had hoped to worship, of course, but I also wished to know your opinion on certain matters that have been troubling me lately.”

“My opinion?” Zamara prompted in lofty voice. Gjeelea paused, unsure of how to continue in the conversation. Surely there were things that the High Priestess need not know, musings of the princess’ mind that did not need to be revealed yet. Still, Gjeelea so desperately wished to know how others felt about the Emissary and the new temple – she wanted to know how to tread in the future with such delicate issues.

“Of course, High Priestess,” the princess let an airy, barely-there smile lift the corners of her lips. “I value your opinion, and I know that you of all people could help me see the true path – you know many things,” Gjeelea paused and peeked once more past Zamara to the lovely statue of Rhais behind her. “I trust you.”

Zamara nodded at the exaggeration that Gjeelea had given, and gestured toward a white stone bench across the wide room. Leaves and flowers had been carved into the legs of the bench while stone vines adorned with little berries lined the seat. Zamara took a seat, and Gjeelea sat next to her. Gjeelea was not afraid to seem meek and child-like in front of the High Priestess. The princess decided that perhaps the best way to seek the opinion of Zamara would be to act younger than she really was – act as if she were in search of spiritual guidance, almost. Gjeelea knew that the face she wore with Siamak or Korak or Bekah did not have to be the same face she wore with Zamara.

“What troubles you, princess?” Zamara inquired.

“Oh, many things, High Priestess,” Gjeelea began with a heaving sigh, trying to portray the feeling of a weighty decision. She shook her head slightly, like a mother upset with her children. “The choice of whether to accept or to deny the Emissary’s offer of an alliance weighs heavy on my heart and mind. My worst fear is that Siamak and I will make the wrong decision. I wished to gain the aid of Rhais; I came more often to the temple, but I fear also that I have been abandoned. I hope now to gain your opinion of the Emissary…” Gjeelea paused, and watched as Zamara nodded to herself and waited for a continuation. “Also…it worries me that the King must choose between Siamak and myself. I worry that it will create a rift between us!” The princess tried hard not to choke on the words, for she knew that a rift had long existed between her and her brother.

“I see,” Zamara said quietly. She looked up, staring right into Gjeelea’s eyes with her own strangely blue tinted eyes, and the princess turned quickly away for the look penetrated too deeply for her taste. “Does aught else bother you, princess?”

“Well…there is something else,” Gjeelea murmured softly. She met Zamara’s gaze quickly, ready to tell a lie. “I hope that you will not reveal what I tell you in confidence?”

“No, of course not,” came the reply, and Gjeelea tried to read the level of honesty in Zamara’s voice.

“I have been pondering lately the role of women in our society – this issue that I felt closest to Rhais. It is unfair that we are not bound by law to marry or to accept an arranged marriage and yet there is society between equality and us women. I am not being forced to marry Lord Korak…I am allowed to refuse,” – and many think that I should, Gjeelea thought – “Yet I know that my chances of becoming queen are slim if I do not marry someone. I know that refusing Korak would mean shame and distrust from his powerful family forever. Society creates unwritten rules where the kings do not wish to.”

A silent pause came between the two women.

“Can you help me – comfort me – High Priestess?” Gjeelea tried to appear as helpless as possible – as child-like as she could.

[Amanaduial the archer]

Zamara may have had the weakness of always finding the best in people, but she was not stupid. She saw through Gjeelea's act immediately, and knew why she was doing it. She just couldn't fathom what she actually intented to achieve....

She couldn't conceal her surprise at what the princess asked her though, and felt a pang of concern despite her skepticism. Gjeelea actually seemed in earnest in what she asked: she seemed to truly want Zamara's opinion, not only on the Emissary, which was to be expected, but on the role of women in Pashtia. But then the princess looked quickly away from her, avoiding her gaze and looking down almost coyly and sighing prettily. “Can you help me – comfort me – High Priestess?”

Zamara's compassion nearly vanished at the return of this exaggerated act. The princess's questions still stood - but Gjeelea's acting was such that a dangerous thought came to her now also: the question as to what Gjeelea's motives and intentions were for asking her these things about Korak. It seemed to Zamara that the young princess, although publicly stating any preference between the two deities, had always favoured Rae, a source of smugness for Tarkan. Zamara mused what Tarkan thought of Gjeelea's sudden change of preference; she had not spoken to the Priest for quite some time. Gjeelea's confusion also concerned Zamara: it was a difficult, and rather serious worry, for any of Rhais' believers but most especially for one of the royal family and possible future monarch, to think that the goddess had 'abandoned' her. She rose, taking a few steps away from the bench as she mused on these things, fingering the ruby medal thoughtfully. Zamara had become priestess for her devotion: politics had not been her realm for long, unlike the princess, who had been embroiled in for her entire life. What if she already has an alliance with Korak? Maybe she is trying to turn my words against me, to throw me...?

Zamara almost laughed at herself as she caught the thought. Absurd. Spinning around, she fixed Gjeelea with a straight, frank stare, and the princess almost seemed to flinch. "Princess Gjeelea, there will always be unwritten rules, no matter what society you are in; even in the temple, there are always hidden rules. And if you will allow me to speak frankly, while you must not try to aggravate these rules...there are some which you may sometimes be better leaving alone or skirting around. I believe that you would be a powerful leader, Princess, as much as any man; our society is such that you show this power." She hesitated, then continued, not sure if she was pushing the line. "It...it is up to you, Your Majesty, to use your powerful nature well."

"So...so you think I should not marry Korak?" Gjeelea stood quickly, stepping closer to Zamara, her eyes glittering in the light of the lanterns that lit the corners of the Temple. Zamara did not avoid her eyes: it was not in her nature. Her voice was neutral. "An alliance with a powerful family like the Lord Korak's would be most beneficial politically, Princess. But you must be open with yourself, and allow that to develop as well. And as for Rhais..." Zamara shrugged lightly. "The Goddess will never abandon you as long as you are true."

She smiled suddenly, the expression at odds to her serious tone, as she realised that she was only about seven years older than Gjeelea. Then she realised the other matter that Gjeelea had no doubt come about, and her smile faltered slightly. Inwardly, she sighed heavily, but her smile remained outwardly as she tilted her head slightly to the side, beginning to walk down the illumined walkway along the carved wall of the temple, Gjeelea walking beside her. "Was there aught else that you wished to ask me about, Princess?"

[Novnarwen]

Pelin

Outisde, it was a terrible day; it was almost depressing. The sky was covered with thick dark clouds, and even the most ignorant person would be able to guess that rain was coming. Looking out of the window, he watched the Priest turn to the left, following the narrow street which eventually would lead to the newly built apartments, which were closely situated by the Temple that was being built.

Had Pelin known that it would end up like this, that he was to carry Tarkan’s things, all of them, he would never have joined Tarkan when he had called just half an hour earlier. Yet, he didn’t give this too much thought. What lingered in his mind was the book he had found. He had never seen this book or the letter which had lain within before, even though he had searched through the priest’s bookshelf numerous of times looking for religious literature, which could be helpful when doing his religious studies. He frowned in annoyance. In appearance, the old piece of parchment had reminded him an awful lot of a will. The contents could of course be somewhat like a will, but what did this have to do with Tarkan? Who left their will in a book named ‘Kings of our Time’ which claimed to possess secrets about the Royal Bloodline none knew of. The thing that bothered him the most was the feeling of secrecy. Surly, the priest hadn’t gone all of a sudden angry for nothing. It meant something; both the letter and the book were probably significant in their meaning. Rising an eyebrow, being surprised by how many conclusions and ideas that were taking form inside of his head, he grew almost wild thinking of how he would be torn by his curiosity of not being able to find out exactly what all of this was about. Did Tarkan really hide something? If so, what was it?

He was caught off guard by a strange shadow that rose in front of him, silently moving along the floor. He turned around quickly, his body shaking. He didn’t know why this had come over him, but the sensation of being witness to something, something that could be dangerous, made him almost shaking uncontrollably; he was relieved to see one of the King’s well known servants.

“Have I come in an inappropriate time?” the servant asked politely, giving Pelin a faint smile.

Pelin shook his head quickly, swallowing. “I was just packing the last of the Priest’s things. He.. I mean both of us, are going to move into the new apartments which follows with the new Temple.

“I see,” the servant replied silently. “So, the Priest is gone?”

“He is indeed. I am just about to pack up things here and meet him in his new apartments. Is there anything I can do for you?” Pelin said as calmly as he could manage. With this visitor’s arrival, Pelin’s theories were confirmed. It must have something to do with the King, he thought to himself. It made sense in an odd sort of way. Tarkan and the King were half-brothers, but he could not understand how the roll of parchment, the book, Tarkan and the King could be connected and therefore he couldn’t let go of the feeling that he was only being paranoid. Was he just looking for trouble, imagining things? Surely, for what he knew, the book had always been in Tarkan’s bookshelf, he’d just been a fool to miss it.

“Will you inform the Priest that the King wishes to see him.” Pelin nodded as the servant continued, giving a few instructions before he hurriedly took his leave.

Shortly after, Pelin himself took his leave. In a miraculously short time he managed all the priest’s belongings into something which could remind of a wheelbarrow and trotted off.

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

Zamara tried to hide it, but Gjeelea saw the flash of dismay in the High Priestess’ eye at the manner in which the princess had spoken to her. The princess knew she had played the wrong card. No matter, Gjeelea thought smugly. Now I know better than to play that game with her. The princess knew that she needed to figure out the High Priestess and how to retrieve information from her. Gjeelea had not been completely dishonest or joking in her speech to the High Priestess, either, so she felt no distress in the failure of her act on Zamara.

“No, High Priestess,” the princess shook her head and let a smile slip before bowing her head to the woman. Zamara had not answered all of Gjeelea’s questions, but the princess knew better than to push the matter further than it had already gone. Gjeelea would come back some other time and speak with Zamara – more frankly – about current issues. Zamara was a smart woman and Gjeelea had always known that; now the princess knew how perceptive the High Priestess was. “Thank you for your reassuring words.”

With that Gjeelea nodded once more to the woman and stepped quietly up to the statue of Rhais. After bowing she knelt down low before the statue of the lovely earth Goddess. Gjeelea closed her eyes, feeling Zamara’s presence still in the room but knowing that the large hall was otherwise empty.

Blessed Goddess, I ask only for you to help me in the days ahead. It is not the nature of your ways to be vengeful, nor is it your way to inflict pain or hate upon others. I know this well, and I ask not for you to help me over my brother – only to guide both of us to the rightful path, wherever that may be. My place may not be the throne and if that is the case, I ask for help in learning my true place. I ask also for guidance in the matter of judging the Emissary. I am quick to judge on so many levels – I feel perceptive but I know that it might also be my weakness. Help me to see things clearly in all lights. This is much to ask of you and I thank you in all that you do for this wondrous earth…

Her prayer felt almost scripted or recited to perfection. Gjeelea knew no other way to speak to someone who had never spoken back to her before. The princess stood and bowed the ceremonial bow. She moved back towards the entrance of the temple to make her exit. Looking back over her shoulder, Gjeelea saw Zamara moving towards the statue of Rhais.

“High Priestess?” Gjeelea called, dropping the childish, innocent voice for a more informal tone. Zamara turned to the voice. Her brow rose in question, waiting for the princess to continue. “Have no doubt for my truth…only hope. I will return tomorrow.”

Without another word Gjeelea left the temple and returned to the streets of Kanak. The sky had darkened significantly since she had entered Rhais’ home, and where once little grey clouds had flown now sifted blackening smog. She had hoped to spend time with Korak that day; their wedding was fast approaching and Gjeelea disliked the stares she received from the city people when she walked alone. Besides that, the princess still questioned her decision to continue with the wedding and hoped to know Korak better. If he truly was as stupid and impressionable as she thought, then he would be easily controlled and his façade of strength and cunning would soon fade for her. Even so, Gjeelea did not like the idea of spending the rest of her nights and days lonely despite being ‘happily’ married. In her hope for finding Korak, Gjeelea decided to search first the site of the new temple to Rae. She knew that Korak funded the endeavor along with Lady Arshalous, and the princess hoped that was where he would be.

Ambling down the road Gjeelea turned a corner on her way to the nearby temple. The princess cried out as she tripped right over a young man with a little wheelbarrow stopped in the middle of the street. She felt her heart stop and begin to beat out of time just as she hit the ground.

“Oh, my, are you all right?” the man piped, looking over to the princess. Frightened more than anything else and not hurt at all, Gjeelea nodded vigorously to the man and got to her knees. “I was just picking up my things – they fell out of my wheelbarrow!”

Gjeelea nodded without a word and moved to help the man pick up the rolls of parchments and other small trinkets and replace them in the cart. The man helped Gjeelea to her feet and both proceeded to brush the dust off their clothing. When her white gown had been sufficiently freed of dust the princess took a good look at the man. He looked quite familiar, like she had seen him often before but never learned his name. It took her a moment of examining before she realized that the man was likewise examining her.

“Princess?” the man bowed from his waist.

“I recognize you…” Gjeelea murmured, not wanting to guess his name and be terribly wrong. The man lifted his head. Yes, I know this man…I think.

“I am Pelin, my lady,” the man said, and it indeed helped Gjeelea to remember.

“You are the one who is always with the Priest?” Gjeelea asked, and Pelin nodded.

“I am going now with his things to the new temple,” he replied, gesturing to the wheelbarrow filled to the brim with little odds and ends. “We are moving in to the new apartments.”

“Really…” the princess mused for just a moment before continuing. I had been meaning to speak to the Priest anyway, she thought. When I am done there, I can look for Korak. “Pelin, would you be so kind as to escort me there, then? Escort me to the Priest?”

[Novnarwen]

Tarkan

With a sly smile on his face, he approached the new Temple, which was still under construction; it was the Temple of Rae. Seeing it, he realised that it would turn out rather beautifully, in fact, better than he had expected in advance. It was not yet done, but hopefully within a few weeks, maybe even less, it would be ready for his use. The feeling of great satisfaction came over him and touched his inner ego. Finally he would be High Priest; he would no longer be the person stuck playing second fiddle; finally, he would have success! He’d waited a long time for this, too long. Now, seeing the workers put all their energy into building the Temple that would serve the sky god Rae, and him alone, he almost trembled with delight. How long it had taken for the King and the others to understand that Rhais was history. It was Rae who was worthy of worshipping, it was he who was the present and the future; the earth goddess was weak; her time had passed.

The new Temple was not the only reason why he smiled today. Grabbing the letter and the book he’d hid inside of his cloak in his inner pocket, he opened it and grinned. Pelin had outdone himself again with his incredible naivety. At this moment, Pelin was probably biting his head off, angered for not having read all of it, as the little he had read, had intrigued him and had tingled his curiosity. Tarkan didn’t mind though. Pelin had certainly read more than what he’d read aloud, and this had probably been more than enough for him to understand. The Priest looked at the letter partly opening it. If Pelin hadn’t had the chance to read it all, it certainly looked like some sort of will, he concluded. Yes, the thing was actually that one wouldn’t have to be bright to understand that it was not just any will that lay within a book called “Kings of our time.” This was probably the part about the whole scheme Tarkan enjoyed the most; the brilliance of the title of the book.

He’d bought the book on a market sale a few weeks ago. The title had certainly caught his eye, and when seeing that the first pages in the book were blank, he saw his opportunity. This book needs a Prologue, he had thought to himself, seeing that the chance he had been waiting for seemed to finally draw near.

In addition to having seen the letter, Tarkan was sure that Pelin had read the prologue, which claimed to possess secrets of the Royal Bloodline. Pelin hadn’t missed this. Pretty soon, the priest would also be sure to let the poor youngster get wind of something concerning Tarkan’s true identity, and if he succeeded, Pelin would, as quickly as a hawk fly, understand everything. He would without a doubt take the book and the piece of parchment as true evidence of what he had heard. Thinking all of this through, Tarkan was surprised by how much he had accomplished by writing a few sentences on a piece of parchment and placed a book with a highly interesting title on the floor. In this way, evidence which he did not have had been printed with ink; not only on the blank pages in the book, but hopefully also in Pelin’s mind. Now, he was only waiting for the next right moment to strike; Tarkan would give him a hint about the true identity he had recovered on his father’s deathbed, when the King had called him and told him the truth about his Royal Blood; that he in fact was the rightful heir to the throne, and without knowing it, Pelin would be a part of his little game. It was a dangerous game, which Tarkan intended to play until he had won. From this day on, Pelin would be his secret helper and this he had accomplished without Pelin even knowing it himself!

The Priest chuckled silently to himself, being surprised by how brilliant the plan had been and even more surprised by its success! Unfolding the letter fully, he recognized his own handwriting and read what it said:

On my deathbed I have called on my son to reveal the truth that no one knows and will never know, until the day when wrongs are put right.

With this letter, I, King of Pasthia, confirm that my one and only true son, Tarkan, is the rightful heir to the throne.

It was amazing what one could do when one was smart, he concluded, placing he book and the parchment safely into his pocket again.

Looking around, he noticed a familiar figure just outside of the Temple of Rhais. The short glimpse of her, before she disappeared through the steady doors, was enough to make his heart beat violently in his chest. He bit his lip. An idea popped into his head, an amazing idea which he hadn’t thought of before; he hadn’t dared think it. Could it be that he and… He smirked. Yes, yes. Gjeelea, Korak may not be good enough for you, but I am. I really am.. A lost King, reclaiming his rightful throne; what is better than that?

[Kransha]

It was going to rain soon. Morgôs Elrigon did not need the ominous darkness of the sky to tell him this.

The room was silent he sat in, but for a quite scribbling. The feather of some desert bird, tipped with a bubble of ground ink, clutched in a hand pale for lack of sun and thin for lack of food, scratched against weary parchment, carving a highly intricate image. This was how Morgos wiled away his many hours in the dank, torch lit vault that was his personal library and archive. He scribbled sketches, drew drawing, and wrote all that came into his head. He consulted his own works and those of countless other Pashtian and Avari authors pertaining to the past, primarily distant. No image entered the General’s head that did not find its way to a thin manuscript of vellum in one of his volumes, no word left unwritten. He was a dedicated Elf, perhaps even an obsessive one, and had been involved in the same sketch for hours, letting the single image overlap onto other papers that lay strewn across his work-desk, lain over an open book. His shoulders were stooped, his sable hair dripping onto the hardwood desk. He was ghastly-white, having not seen the sun in a long time, and his eyes were bloodshot from staring at the page. He was in a trance, which could only be disrupted by something from outside, which was exactly what interrupted his concentration, just as it always did.

“Elrigon?”

The voice was stirring, since it was the first lively sound to resonate in the room since days ago. Recognizing the gentle concern of his wife, Morgós hastily slid all the messy papers back into the open tome and slammed shut the dusty volume, shoving himself up from his chair and pushing the book aside with less grace than he usually exhibited. “What?” he said, sounding half-panicked as he spoke, “What is it?” He looked up and forward with greyer eyes to where his spouse Arlomë was, descending into the shady room. She neared him slowly, examining his nervous, whitened face and lessened demeanor. “You have been walled up in here for nearly two days now.” She said softly, “You shall waste away into nothing if you do not come out of this cell you have entombed yourself in. You are needed.”

“By whom?” Morgôs knew he sounded caustic, as well as very raspy. He had not taken a drink in hours, as his forgotten chalice of wine had been emptied hours before and he had not sought food or drink since then. The General’s eyes thinned, their starlit gleaming diminished severely. Arlomë was not for a moment lost in the question, and shot an answer back barely a moment after he’d delivered the question. “By your Lieutenants, who send dispatches daily; by the king, who seeks your counsel often; by Pashtia, which requires your guidance,” she paused here, looking away from him, “…and by me, and Evrathol.”

Morgôs’ cold form softened and was warmed again. He walked forward and took her hand. “I am sorry, Arlomë, I was busy.” He was honestly apologetic. This was not the first time he’d become lost in his library, and he knew the repercussions, but Arlomë was not satiated. She looked upon him again, her eyes peering coolly into his. “With what?” she asked sternly, “Elrigon, what could draw you from the world and into the dark recesses of your mind, where none can enter? What occupies your thoughts and keeps you bound to that table?” She was always far too serious for Morgôs’ liking when discussing this matter.

The Avari General released his wife’s hand. “It is nothing, my dear, but a fleeting exercise.”

“Fleeting?” she persisted, trying to follow his gaze as it fell solemnly to the floor, “You have been indulging this ‘fleeting exercise’ constantly. It is no simple practice.” Morgôs turned back upon her, dazed and irate. “For years I have indulged it!” he proclaimed, loudly enough for the vaulted chamber to shoot the same words back at him as a lifeless echo, “There is no reason to distance myself from a practice that has eased my mind for half a century.” He eased up again, turning towards the desk where he had sat and placing his hands on its edges. He looked as if he were merely stooped over the table in contemplation, but he was really seeking stabilization; he had not walked in two days. “I admit,” he conceded, “I do become greatly involved at times, but not so much that I no longer live and breath and speak.”

Arlomë’s hand pulled him around, almost sending him to his knees, but he did not stumble and concealed his weariness as Arlomë goaded him to face her. “And what practice is that? Alchemy? Dwimmer-crafting?” Morgôs shot back quickly, “You know as well as I what it is.” It was the truth. She knew what occupied his time, but that retort was not the final word. Arlomë pressed the issue, her keen gaze piercing Morgôs where he stood. Her mind was sharp and wise, and she knew even he would let slip something. “I know,” she said then, “but not as well as you do. Writing may be an admirable art, but you have practically abjured the society of the outside. Why do you dissemble, Elrigon? Your intentions could not be so dark that you must continually conceal them from me.”

Morgôs was tired of this discourse now. It was a repetition of many he had had with her, and, in his opinion, a useless endeavor. “What good is there in redundancy?” he snapped, “We oft converse like this, but all is shortly forgotten once I have conceded to your will, and all is well again. When again I resume, you come upon me again with the same words. Let the matter die where it lies, so that I may have peace.” The last word echoed as well, as if to drive home the message or at least allude to finality, but Arlomë was not to be outdone. “Every time you steal away into this catacomb,” she replied, “I ask the same question, and every time you give no response. You are my husband, Elrigon, not a sinister enigma. I will cease today, but next time my efforts will be doubled.”

“And my heart shall be doubly hardened against them.” The General snarled, his tired face twisting, if only for a moment, into a dark grimace. Then, it sagged and became weary again, and the great figure staggered and nearly fell. His wife hurried to his aide, helping him to stand. It dawned on him as she aided him what words he had said and the harshness of them. This was not madness, just folly. As he regained his composure, he grasped her hands again, returning to himself.

“Forgive me, my love. You know how I become in these periods of seclusion. It is my own fault. If not for you, I would be locked away in this place. I am sorry to be angry with you.” Arlomë seemed to understand. “You were not yourself – as you rarely are these days.” She could not help but add the final section, but Morgôs ignored it and spoke calmly. “I will not venture here again for a great time, I swear. I rebuke these pages and books and their tempting spells, for I would be more at peace with you.” He embraced her, and a smile managed to appear, albeit small, on his grim face.

There was a pause and a silence in the room, broken by Arlomë’s curious question that came a minute later. “Would you rebuke them eternally?”

“Why do you ask questions to which you already know the answers?”

[Novnarwen]

“Father, Tarkan?”

Almost startled by being interrupted, he eyed Pelin coming towards him. There he is. Like a servant he runs my errands, like poultry he obeys me and as far as his curiosity goes, he’s like a child… Inside, the Priest was laughing wildly, madly in love with the idea of having Pelin act more as a disciple than a fellow brother in faith. Pelin had been nothing but kind and gentle towards the Priest and ever since they had met, Pelin had been admiring the Priest more than the King himself. He had been fully devoted to the Priest, who had treated him with strictness, but also a form of respect. Yet, the priest, too self obsessed, did not have any feelings for someone who was weak, someone like Pelin. Poor Pelin; if it was up to the priest, Pelin would never know his own part in this play, not before it would be too late.

Smiling faintly, (whether it was of a mocking character or if it was sincere, it was difficult to tell,) the Priest came to meet him. “What took you so long?” he asked the young man, being unexpectedly strict. Narrowing his eyes, he tried reading the man’s thoughts. Was he already obsessed with the book and the letter? Was he to wait a bit more before he did something; let Pelin get even more curious? With wrinkled brows, Tarkan cast a simple look at the wheelbarrow which Pelin had brought with him containing all of Tarkan’s belongings, trying to avoid eye contact. Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a figure moving. As a woman took a step forward, the Priest instantly recognized her as the Princess Gjeelea. Seeing her, he was stricken with a numbness he barely knew existed.

“Princess,” Tarkan muttered and bowed in respect. “How can I help you, my lady?” he asked politely, being insecure, feeling his cheeks getting redder and redder. All he could think of now, embarrassed by the situation he found himself in, was how he were to make Pelin’s life miserable after this. Pelin should have known that this was not the time do make arrangements with the Royal family. He frowned, looking at the Princess, thinking. Had she come on her own initiative maybe?

[Under construction. Only to extend paragraphs, not to go further in events.]

[alaklondewen]

“Why do you ask questions to which you already know the answers?”

Arlomë pulled back from the General’s embrace and looked up, searchingly, into his face. His graceful features were pale and lined with weariness. Her long slender hand rose and gently touched his cheek, tracing the shape of his cheekbone with her thumb. “Hope,” she said simply to answer his question, and then let her hand drop. As she turned from Elrigon to move closer to his desk, he repeated the word, dripping with sarcasm. Silence settled over the couple once more, and Arlomë let her eyes roam over the length of Morgôs’ desk. He had not left any of his work uncovered, but had quickly stashed his documents when she called him a few minutes ago. She slowly touched the hardwood, then lifted her fingertips and examined the dust which had transferred to her pale skin. Then she quickly rubbed them together and broke the long silence. “When this first began, Elrigon, I thought it was simply a phase that would shortly disappear.” She paused, gathering her thoughts. She could feel Morgôs turn his eyes upon her, but she continued to look at the desk. “As the years passed, I continued to hope that this interest would pass.” Arlomë waved her arm over the desk and toward the surrounding shelves. “Now, each time you let...whatever this is...consume you...” She stopped, taking a breath, then turned toward her husband again. Her eyes flashed with fury. “I can see what this does to you. I ask...and will never stop asking, Elrigon, because I will not give up hope that one day you will surprise me.”

“I have sworn to you that I will not venture here. What else can I do?” The sarcasm had left the General’s voice, and it seem to Arlomë that he was apologetic.

“You swore only to let these pages go for a time. I would wish for you to leave them forever.” Arlomë held his gaze steady, but Morgôs looked away, staring vaguely toward his shelves. “I cannot promise you that,” his voice was low, yet sincere. He held himself straight, but Arlomë could still see the weariness in his limbs from not being used. She hated seeing him like this, and so she answered, “Then I cannot promise to leave you with it in peace.”

“You do not understand...” The General began again, turning his grey eyes on his wife, but she did not allow him to continue. “You are right,” she said softly. “I do not understand. You say this eases your mind, yet it seems to me it places a greater strain on your mind than the other things in your life. Maybe if I could understand.” Arlomë leaned on the desk and scanned it, before reaching for the great tome that took so much of her husband’s time and sliding it across the desk toward her. “May I see?”

[Firefoot]

Being free of any meetings or responsibilities during this morning, Siamak had decided to take a walk about the city, despite the gathering clouds typical of the season. Making himself better known in the city had actually been one of the General's 'words of advice' to ousting his sister in achieving the throne of Pashtia one day. Morgôs had visited the palace fairly regularly in the past month, though not in the past few days, and the lessons had always been interesting. Morgôs was an interesting teacher and Siamak was quick to understand, though putting some of the things into practice had been more difficult, at least at first. Slowly, he had begun asserting himself more politically and socially, though he still had a long way to go.

This growing boldness was one contributing factor to the lack of decision between himself and Gjeelea concerning the emissary. He knew they would have to decide something soon, but instead of gaining progress most of their meetings seemed to have the opposite effect. For himself, he still wasn't sure whether or not accepting would be a good idea, and he was fairly confident that Gjeelea was in the same situatiion of indecision. Instead of working toward that end, however, they tended to end up arguing over it, and usually she won. It achieved nothing however, and it was almost as if they had reached a decision not to decide. Siamak supposed that once he had made his own decision (and she hers) it would go better. He wished he knew who he could trust to ask for advice. He had toyed with the idea of asking the General for quite some time, but he had never brought up the topic for fear of invoking another episode such as the one which had occurred more than a month ago now.

Walking past the construction site of the new temple, it occurred to him that he had not talked to the High Priestess since the night of the banquet. She had seemed fairly trustworthy, and perceptive at that. She also had a much closer connection with Rhais than he was comfortable with, but surely the gods should be consulted in this decision? Maybe she would have some words of wisdom for him. With that in mind he changed his course to head for the temple of Rhais. It occurred to him that he might talk to the Priest Tarkan as well, but he quickly dismissed the idea. He had met the man only briefly, and had no desire to seek out such a meeting again. There was something about him, nothing tangible, that Siamak did not like. He made the impression of knowing something (a little too much?), combined with the fact that he was a Priest. His discomfort with a close connection to the gods was one idiosyncracy that Siamak would likely never overcome.

Siamak reached the temple shortly and hesitated for only the barest moment before entering. His eyes soon adjusted to the dim light and he made out the figure of the High Priestess standing near the large statue of Rhais. Though her back was to him, she appeared thoughtful by her stance, and Siamak wondered if it might be a bad time. He wasn't quite sure what kind of meditating the Priestess did to talk with Rhais, nor had he ever inquired. He was here now, though, and he spoke up softly, though his voice carried in the empty space. "High Priestess?"

She turned and smiled. "Good morning, Prince Siamak," she greeted. "Have you come to worship?" Siamak supposed that they had to ask that question, and so he didn't feel bad to deny it.

"Not exactly," he answered. "The truth is, I had hoped to talk to you. If you're not busy, that is." Her expression let him know that she was listening, and he continued. "It's about the Emissary. My sister and I are having some trouble reaching a consensus, and I remembered our conversation at the banquet a while ago..." He looked for confirmation that she recalled it.

She nodded, "I remember."

"The point is," said Siamak, "I was wondering if the Goddess has imparted you with any wisdom concerning our decision. I seek your advice." Though the concept of such divine intervention was uncomfortable to him, it was the honest truth, and he trusted Zamara with such spiritual matters. If anyone could give him this answer, it would be her.

[Kransha]

Morgôs was taken aback, but did not show it. He had not expected this question. Arlome had never before shown such an interest, since Morgôs always indicated that the work he did was of little value to him and would be less so to her, and most of it might be upsetting. As long as he remained a functioning participant in the world’s machinations, she did not bother to inquire after his work. He was very unprepared to make the transition to having his work screened by her – he feared it might frighten or confuse her, and cause the advent of more dogged questions which he would be loathe to answer. Nervously, he fished for words to reply with. “This is not the best time for such a question.” he said at last.

“When will the time come, then?”

Not knowing how to respond, Morgôs did not. Arlome continued. “Elrigon, in the last month you have spent more time in here than you have in some years. You are not who you were. What has affected this change?” she walked towards him again, slowly, with a mournful somberness in her, her eyes filled with a degree of hope, but also of confused sadness. “Tell me this at least.”

The pause that fell upon the Elven General was unsteady and dark, but, after a minute, he begrudgingly gave the answer. He knew it could not be hidden forever. “The Emissary.” Arlomë had a subtle reaction, and Morgôs guessed that she did not comprehend what he meant – or she was trying not to. “What about him?” she inquired with tranquil nonchalance. Morgôs sighed quietly and replied with a grave tone. “He brought word of our kindred, other Elves in the west, as you may know.”

Still, Arlomë looked unaffected. She made an unnoticeable noncommital noise, and an unseen look of troubled recognition fell upon her face for a moment, but the General did not see. Morgôs took another deep breath, he knew she must have been told of this, but she did not know as much as he. While in communication with the Prince, Morgôs’ had, in his subtle Elven way, discerned or drawn out more. Calmly, the General was prepared to admit this now, or he knew he would get no peace from his spouse. “The Emissary told much more about the West-Elves to Prince Siamak, apparently.” He added, softly and meekly. Arlomë was at last jolted from her state of graceful serenity.

“What makes you think thus?” She said curiously.

“He told me.”

There was a pause again. Arlomë knew, actually, that Morgôs had communicated with Siamak at the festivities a month ago in honor of the Emissary’s arrival, but she did not know of his frequent talks with the young Prince of Pashtia since then, and had good reason to be a bit suspicious, since he had told her of no such thing, and he usually told her anything important that occurred. Arlomë moved closer to her husband as he turned away, trying to evade the full extent of the question that had not yet been asked, but was clearly written on his wife’s face. Morgôs sat tiredly in his chair and slumped into it, laying one arm on the desk before it, and spoke again.

“Siamak told me some of what the Emissary said to him, information which, I assume, is unbeknownst to all others save him. Siamak is not the most careful person when it comes to letting certain things slip out. His tongue is not yet trained to remain silent when it should be.” This bout of information was a trove he had not intended to let slip for quite a while yet, but it was coming out now, and he could not stop himself. He was unable to consider his wife’s next question before his mind automatically initiated an answer. “What did he tell you.” She asked, and he dutifully replied. “Not much, but enough to explain some of my own scribbles, and confirm the accuracy of others. It was also enough to cause some forgotten facts to come into my mind. If they were once forgotten, I certainly could not allow them to be forgotten again, so…” he trailed off, and gestured at the pile of newly written volumes stacked on and around his desk.

There was no reply from the other party again. Morgôs had kept his eyes from looking to Arlomë during his monologue, but looked at her now. She was unemotional, upsettingly so. This meant she was unwilling to convey whatever emotion was inundating her. Morgôs turned away again and leaned down, sliding one leather-bound book from the pile next to his desk. No dust had collected on it. He lifted it and hefted it in his hand; it was not necessarily heavy or weighty, just above average size. The General new what this book contained by heart; it was the most harmless of his volumes.

The tome contained drawings and some remembered descriptions of landscapes, as well as amateur maps forged by himself, an amateur cartographer. Most pictures depicted a place he did not know much of, but had numerous memories of floating around in the deep darkness of his mind. It was a lake he remembered, the contours of which occupied most drawings, and a forested shore-land beside it. Drawings of trees and landforms foreign to Pashtia were in the book, different forms of plant and some animal life that his mind had constructed images of from memory. They were mystical, more so than they were realistic, and so alien to Pashtian lands that they could be thought of as fantastic. Morgôs did not know where the images came from, but he guessed that he had known them at one time long, long ago, before the establishment of Pashtia. It was an interesting record and set of sketches, but utterly watered-down, unlike some other books.

He pushed himself up from the chair and extended the book to his wife. “Here,” he said, “quench your thirst with this. I must to the palace to take counsel with Prince Siamak. I do not believe I shall be long. I hope that, when I return, your questions will be lessened. Farewell.” He did not even let her open the book before he had swept himself past her, pulling his trailing cloak behind him, and left the room.

[Imladris]

Arshalous glared at Korak before looking again at the construction of the temple. She could see what he was thinking, could see the mean glint of victory like some rat who had outsmarted a cat for a little crumb of cheese without realizing that the cat actually had the whole piece between her paws. "You think you have won cousin, triumphed over me in some petty way," she said, "but you actually haven't."

He laughed at her then his handsome face contorting in disbelief. "Not only are we working together but we are working together for a cause you vehemently disagree with! How have I not won?"

She smiled softly and played with a pebble with her sandled foot. "Because, dear cousin, my helping you build this temple is proof that you simply were not rich enough to do it." She stopped, relishing the look of his face paling, and then turning purple red. "It means that I had to help you...I had to help you get what you want. You couldn't have done this without me. Without me, this temple wouldn't even exist -- or else the sky god would have had to wait a much longer time for his temple. If anything, Cousin," she added, narrowing her eyes, "you should be thanking me, instead of gloating."

She looked at him for a moment, her lips turning into a smirk. "Oh look!" she said suddenly, her eyes pointing at the departing form of the Princess. "There goes your lady love! Will you hasten after her, adoring the very ground her sandals touch, and proclaim your love again before the watching public?" She scoffed. "It disgusts me," she hissed, "the way you pretend to love her."

"Who says it is a pretend love?" asked Korak angrilly.

"Oh do not recite your lies to me, Korak. The people will see soon enough that the only thing you desire is the throne. And if they do not see it and if they welcome you as King then they are fools." She would have gone on to say that the King was a fool for even letting it take place -- for even considering Korak an heir when he had a perfectly good son, but she realized that such rash words spoken before Korak would turn her into a fool and end in a traitor's death.

[Nurumaiel]

Korak clamped his teeth together and bit back an angry retort. His mother once told him that if he grew angry and defensive at an accusation of another, it meant he was guilty of what he had been accused of. If the scheme was to work, he must pretend to all, even Lady Arshalous, that he loved the Princess.

Morashk, still skulking in the shadows, noticed that his master was refraining from answering. Good, good! He had seen many sharp words exchanged between the Lord Korak and the Lady Arshalous, and in all of them Korak had answered without thinking. But if only he could keep his face from speaking! The way he coloured, the way he paled, the way he scowled, the way fear slipped slowly in... his face was too expressive. Morashk resolved he would bring it up. Was he not his master's advisor?

"What of the fact that you are helping me?" said Korak, drawing himself up. Ah, now he towered above her! It gave him a feeling of strength. "You live in a world of illusion. You think the fact that I accepted your help means I am stooping. This is not so. I told the King I would fund the building of the temple, and never spoke a word to ask you for help. I was not even present when you agreed to assist me." He was standing in the doorway, true, but what did that matter? "'Twas the King asked your help, not I. You consented. And I, as a gracious, noble act, accepted your offer of help. I see nothing humbling about this."

Morashk was creeping closer. The Lady Arshalous would have a reply ready. She was not one to give in to defeated rage, as her cousin was. The Lord Korak would perhaps need assistance.

But Korak gave his cousin no time to answer. It was an effective way, he thought, to end words with the victory on his side. He had the last word, whether she wanted to speak her not. He bowed slightly at the waist, with a cruel, mocking smile. "I bid you good day, cousin," he said. "Your assistance in building the temple earns my utter thanks. 'Tis a pity that the King so called you to do what you vehemently opposed. But, my lady, it is a good cause, as all things you oppose are." And then he turned and strode away to find the Princess Gjeelea.

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

What a strange man, Gjeelea thought as the Priest greeted her. She had seen Tarkan on many occasions though rarely did the princess address him directly or have proper conversation with him. His awkwardly flustered and feminine facial features made a funny combination, Gjeelea decided.

“Is this a bad time, Priest?” the princess asked, looking at the wheelbarrow full of odds and ends. She looked up to the red-cheeked Priest. “If you are busy I could come at another time.”

Catching Tarkan’s flickering gaze, Gjeelea peered at the man. He truly was an eerily strange man – the princess did not know a thinner man, or a taller one. Tarkan’s greasy black hair, matched with his pale skin, gave him the look of a dying man.

“Oh, no…no, of course not, princess,” Tarkan sought to control his faltering voice. “I can always spare a moment. What is it you need?”

“I had hoped, Priest, to learn your feelings on the Emissary,” Gjeelea began. “My brother and I have a difficult decision to make, and I seek not just to please our own desires in the matter but to reach a decision that works for everyone.”

[Imladris]

"Your assistance in building the temple earns my utter thanks. 'Tis a pity that the King so called you to do what you vehemently opposed. But, my lady, it is a good cause, as all things you oppose are."

Arshalous stepped back as if Korak had slapped her cheek. Her dark eyes flashed as Korak strode back on his heel, his slinking servant accompanying him. She would ignore his poisoned insult, but she would not let him disillusion himself further upon certain other matters. She dashed over to him and stopped in front of him, forcing him to stop. "You said that I helped you," she whispered softly. "Let me tell you now that I do not help you. I help the King. I do this for the King. Not for you. But because he asked me to."

With a glance of disdain, she strode away from him. The wind pulled her hair and made her bracelets tinkle merrily. She wished that she could shush their voices, for they laughed when they should weep.

And why should they weep, she asked herself mockingly. Because her cousin had insulted her? But he had never said that before. Had he? Or had she been deaf to it.

She twisted the rings that sparkled on her fingers. Korak was no man -- all his courage, all his wit, all his rude leavings stemmed from his servant. He was no noble. He was no better than she.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

The Chamberlain found the King awaiting him in the private audience chamber of his apartments. It was rare that Faroz would be there before Jarult, but the King had been an early riser of late. In fact, the Chamberlain suspected some days that the King had not slept at all the night before, and yet he did not seem fatigued. The King rose and came toward him, and his face – so taciturn these last weeks – bore the trace of a smile. "Come my Chamberlain, be seated. Shall I pour us some tea?"

Jarult’s composure remained intact. "Thank you Khamul, but I am afraid that I cannot take tea in the morning anymore. My stomach…"

"Yes, Chamberlain, I remember. I have ordered that tea be brought that is made of certain herbs from the gardens. It is, they say, wholesome drink and should not upset you."

Jarult doubted there was any tea that he could drink so early, but he did not contradict his King. "Thank you Khamul," he said, settling himself upon a few narrow cushions while Faroz poured them out two steaming cups. They drank together in silence for a time before the King spoke. The Chamberlain could tell that there was an issue of great importance the King wished to discuss. Jarult knew from his King’s manner as well that the issue was one that Faroz had already decided upon, and that the conversation was to be about implementation rather than counsel.

"Tell me," the King began, "do you know aught of the Emissary’s god, Melkor?" Jarult merely raised his eyebrows slightly and shook his head. "He and I have been speaking of Him. He sounds not unlike Rae. The Emissary would have me believe that they are the same, and that we have merely perceived Melkor incorrectly."

At this Jarult could not contain his surprise. "Indeed?" he said. "And in what ways are we mistaken in our faith?" The King seemed not to notice the Chamberlain’s tone. Jarult was not an overly pious man, but he did have faith in the old ways and the gods. The idea that they were being criticised by a foreigner did not sit well with him. The thought that these criticisms might be having an impact on the King alarmed him.

"Melkor is not only the god of the sky, but the god of all," the King proceeded as though repeating a lesson. "He is the bringer of freedom, and a mighty teacher. It is said in the Emissary’s land that Melkor gives the Kings who worship him the ability to create wonderful objects, and the wisdom to use them in their rule.”

“He sounds mighty indeed,” Jarult said in response, setting the half finished cup of tea on the table. Already, his stomach was griping up and he knew that he would feel uncomfortable all morning. “But what of Rhais? Is she entirely unknown in the West?”

“She is known, but by another name. Elbereth they call her, but she is not worshipped by Men, for she is the handmaiden of Melkor. The Emissary says that the Elves in his land pay the goddess great tribute, though. He believes that it is the Elves of this land who have made Rhais the equal of Rae.”

The Chamberlain, distracted by the growing discomfort of his stomach replied without thinking. “Many believe that Rhais is supreme, Khamul.” He winced at his lack of discretion, but the King barely seemed to notice the gaffe. His gaze was now on a point somewhere above, or perhaps behind, the Chamberlain’s head, and his hand stroked the Ring that Jarult knew lay beneath the fabric of his robes. “Yes, yes,” the King acknowledged almost dreamily, “I do not dispute it…” He shook his head as though to wake himself and then smiled, saying. “But it is too early for theological debates. Tell me, have the Lady Arshalous and Priest Tarkan arrived yet, for we have important matters to discuss about the new Temple.”

Chamberlain Jarult, happy for the excuse to get away from the tea before his King bid him to drink more, rose to his feet. “I will see if they have arrived, Khamul.” Bowing deeply he left the room, his sandaled feet making a dry whisper across the stone as he went.

Alone once more, the King smiled at an empty corner of the room and said, “You should be going too, should you not?” Ashnaz removed his Ring and stepped forward.

“You are becoming ever more perceptive, my friend. You saw me almost as soon as I arrived.”

“I knew you were coming,” the King said. “I felt you.” The Emissary smiled before departing.

Now truly alone, the King settled back upon his cushions and let the memory of his dream take hold of him once more. It had come to him in the few hours of sleep that he had each night before Ashnaz came to fetch him for their forays into Korak’s villa. It had come to him seven nights in a row now. There had been a figure of light calling to him from the West amid a gathering of cloud and shadows. Howls, high and fierce, like the despairing cries of lost things had filled the air, and he had covered his ears and quailed. But then a voice, strong, melodious and pleasing had been heard, and the howls had become as voices in a chorus, harmonious with the song of the Voice. He repeated the words of the song to himself now, just beneath his breath, the strange syllables dribbling from his lips like honey:

Ash nazg durbatuluk, ash nazg gimbatul,
Ash nazg thrakatuluk, agh burzum-ishi krimpatul.

[Orofaniel]

He had noticed the weary looks his mother had sent him the last couple of days. But at the same time Evrathol felt that this was no new phenomenon. He managed to see why his mother was worried, because she always acted like this when her husband retired to this one room. Evarthol wasn't quite sure what kept the man there for such long periods at a time, but it seemed like nothing could disturb him there, as if he was in another world where not even his family had the power to bring him back...home.

The door was closed. Evarthol knew Arlöme was trying to convince Môrgos that it was time to show that his other cases were equally prioritised. The hallway was rather dark considering the early hour. Evrathol closed up, and felt a short quiver as he walked. The ruthless coldness the hallway showed at this particular hour was something Evrathol had never noticed before.

Evrathol was going to do something totally out of character; eavesdrop- Like he did when he was a child knowing no other way to gain the information he was looking for.

The conversation was flowing gradually between the two of them, Evrathol could hear that much. Arlome was concerned about her husband as he had walled himself up for two whole days not thinking about the outside world and the people that depended on him. "Irresponsible and…..," Evrathol thought. He was then filled with regrets. He didn’t want to think ill of his own father - his flesh and blood. How could he be so ungrateful? Môrgos had been an excellent and most noble father for him, and he still was, even though Evrathol was old enough to take care of himself. They were still father and son however, which meant that they had a special bond – or so he’d always thought a relationship between a father and a son would be. He might have been wrong though. They were like to drops of water. This however was only in the appearance. Their personality and views on many things were surprisingly different from one and other. Evrathol believed he had the spirit of his mother. His loyalty however, lied with both, and he wouldn’t do anything that would offend them.

He'd almost forgotten that he was here to find out more about the situation, as he was caught up in his own thoughts and theories.

He heard quick footsteps and knew that one of them were one their way out. His head spun. He didn’t want them to find out that he'd eavesdropped. It was such a foul thing to do for a character like himself. His childish actions didn’t suit his character at all, nor was it acceptable to go on doing this. He needed to confront them. However this was not the most suitable time to think this through as the footsteps were getting closer. The door was opening. Evrathol stood behind it, holding his breathe.

His father's faint figure disappeared quickly as he made his way through the hallway, not even offering the door another glance. Evrathol could spot him through a tiny crack. He sighed with relief. He pushed the door slightly. Within moments the door was once again shut. His mother was on the other side of the door. What she was doing Evrathol could only guess. Strengthening his velvet tunic he made his way back through the dark hallway, not feeling any wiser than when he’d first entered it.

[Nurumaiel]

Foolish Lady Arshalous! Korak smiled in a satisfied manner at her retreating back. So she had strove to get the last word, and so she had got it. He had said something that bothered her, something that flew to that shrivelled heart of hers like an arrow and pierced it, to make her bewildered and anger. Ah, yes, he had hurt her, somehow. If he had not she would have made a sharp, cunning answer that pierced him. But her answer merely made him laugh. Helping the King? Did the dear sweet cousin possibly think that he, the Lord Korak, wanted her, the Lady Arshalous, to help him? No, let her help the King! He wanted no help from her. It satisfied him that she did it at the King's request. She was forced into alliance with him, and he had not been made to even ask her. Forced she must have been. She would never consent to something she so bitterly opposed just because the King said it would please him. No, it would be close to an order, or a threat, that would make her consent.

Morashk had crept to his master's side, and he, too, was gazing after the Lady Arshalous, though not with a triumphant smirk, like Korak. His expression was one of twisted bitterness. His hands clenched at his sides, his eyes smouldered with resentment and hatred. Yes, hatred... how he hated her! Poisonous, cunning serpant of a woman! To think that in days gone by he had not hated her. To think that he had actually...

"Morashk, it is good to see you here," said Korak, and the servant's thoughts were interrupted. "I could have used your assistance in my recent conversation with my cousin. I should have known better than to approach her without you by my side. I held my own well," he said, with another smirk, "but in such times I consider you most precious."

"My Lord is too gracious," said Morashk. Gracious, the Lord Korak? Pah! He was never gracious. He was amiable now because he had won a contest of spiteful words, and wanted to spread his triumph to those nearest to him... which was far away. But gracious... never.

"Now, come, Morashk, and let us find the Princess," said Lord Korak. "I saw her pass by not too long ago, and I want to find her and speak to her."

[Kransha]

Even riding a horse was strenuous to Morgôs these days. Cantering on horseback was not as easy as it appeared, and the stern haunches, proud and upheld, of the General’s steed continued to jut out sharply as it trod the road, throwing Morgôs’ weak legs up and down violently. His stomach felt unusual, but not so much that the pain denoted sickness, merely profuse weariness and lack of exercise. He felt dreadfully pathetic, leaning again the ironclad mane of the animal and breathing hard when he had once been able to ride a horse back and forth for hours, dodging enemy warriors and their brazen weaponry. What had he been reduced to?

This ride was not helping his situation. The strain did re-accustom him to pain and conditioned him into his former state of desensitization, but he was weak and pale, less strong than he had been. Luckily, there were few people on the street to see his degenerate state, since ominous storm clouds were brewing, swirling above and preparing to rain down on the city of Kanak. Morgôs thanked his lucky stars for this and continued, his own unsteady swaying and rocking forcing the horse he rode on to sway from side to side and meander unstably. The General, though, was slowly recovering his familiar technique, and managed to keep the horse reined in as he moved down the road. Before him, the road widened, and the roofline of houses grew higher until the tall, shimmering stone of the Temple of Rhais loomed, arching over him. It glowed with great, powerful light, but its beauty was dimmed by the clouded sky.

Morgôs was not religious, not at all, but spiritual enlightenment was something that could be very settling, even if it was not really enlightenment, in the literal sense. Morgôs was not a praying Elf, he did not consult religious texts or seek communication with higher beings. He was content to live and be well-off in most regards, just as he was. Today, though, was abnormal. He could think of few things that might grant him peace and lift him from his stupor. He did not plan to perform any weird rituals or strange rites to appease gods of whose existence he was unsure of, but he did plan to relax and find some tranquility, for he knew the temple promoted meditation of the sort, though most was meant to offer prayer to the Goddess. Morgôs was willing to offer prayer – he was willing to do anything that it took to shake his soul’s sickness from him.

The General stables his horse at one of the public hitching posts outside, Morgôs proceeded up the wide steps of the Temple and into it, only to meet two familiar faces as he approached the statue of Rhais. Speaking there, was none other than Prince Siamak and the High Priestess Zamara. Morgôs had expected to see Zamara, as she did spend most of her time here, but not Siamak. Perhaps he was a regular worshipper, but, from what Morgôs had learned of Siamak from his teaching sessions, the Prince was not immensely religious. The Elf admitted that the surprise was pleasant, rather than unpleasant, and walked towards the two, addressing the Prince. Both noticed him as he spoke.

“Prince Siamak, good morning.”

Siamak smiled, though there was little feeling in the look. He obviously had something on his mind. He did, however, reply, “And to you, General.” and nodded his stately head accordingly. Morgôs did not give the meeting further thought and turned back towards the statue, but the intoning voice of Zamara stopped him with his foot nearly in mid-air. “General,” she said, her voice sounding as if it had been laden with false bemusement, “I have not seen you at this temple before. What brings you to the Temple of Rhais?”

Morgôs noticed an immediate trend in his meetings with the Priestess. She was tactful, but possessed of mortal curiosity and wit, the kind that few people in Pashtia held. It was an admirable quality, but one that irked him greatly. Turning his head and upper body, without fully turning to face her, he spoke soberly. “My mind is not at ease this day, and no place is better than this for settlement.”

Zamara’s lip curled in a subtle grin. “I did not know you were an advocate of Rhais.” Morgôs knew this was a baiting question, since most Avari in the realm worshipped Rhais, since the worship of her was based in their own old ways, and the answer was somewhat obvious, but he indulged her, turning his body towards her. “I, like most of my kinsmen,” he quietly said, “am an advocate of the Goddess. But, I do not pray to her.” He was about to turn again when the High Priestess stabbed with another question.

“You are here for meditation, then?” She questioned.

He spun a little faster this time, his voice very meagerly hostile. “I am here for peace, High Priestess.” He informed her, with masking serenity, “The only thing I pray for is that I shall find it.” He turned again, but a second voice, less prompt than the first, intoned to halt him in his tracks – that of Prince Siamak. “General,” said the Prince, seemingly unaware of the ill mood of the General, “perhaps today is an appropriate time for one of your lessons.” He sounded polite and unobtrusive, and Morgôs did not dare voice his annoyance or hostility to the youthful prince who, to his knowledge, had only good intentions in mind.

“Yes, certainly.” He replied, bowing his head, “Join me outside after you have finished speaking to the Priestess. We will conduct today’s lesson outside.” Finally, he turned and, with a spring in his step to put distance between himself and further questions.

[Imladris]

Korak said that I did not appreciate good things....that's what he said....why did he say that? Arshalous reigned in her white mare and buried her face in the course mane. Why was this bothering her so? He was a little worm. He was a lying snake. He was lying when he had said that. She fidgeted uncomfortably. Had he?

Suspicion slithered into her mind and whispered softly in her ear. She had never yet been concerned with her lack of friends or that she had never been invited to one any of the parties that the nobles occasionally threw. But...but maybe this was why.

What did it matter what others thought of her? Korak was lying. That was all there was to it. Did she not care for honour? Did she not care for true nobility? Were those not good things? But did she care about them because they were good, or because she thought caring about those things made her better than Korak?

Was she just like Korak? Was she shallow, a scrabbler for what she thought was best without a care in the world for anything else? Did she just do what she wanted without a thought? No! She couldn't be like Korak!

She straightened and urged her steed towards Korak's court. He wouldn't be home yet...he would be gloating over the temple or proclaiming his false love to the Princess. But his mother was there....the Lady Hababa...she had promised to visit her every so often. Now would be an excellent time...nobody unpleasant was home.

Somewhat pleased with the thought of meeting her aunt, she heard her name called and realized that it was the Chamberlain. "Lady Arshalous!" he called. "The King requests your presence for there are matters respecting the Temple that he wishes to discuss with you."

Arshalous frowned, disappointed and annoyed that she had to go and talk about the Temple. Since it was about the temple, Korak would probably be there too and she did not want to see him gloating over his victory. Cringing, she mutely turned the horse around, tied her to a post, and followed the Chamberlain to the King's presence. She noticed that Korak was not with the King and even though she was happy that he was absent, the fact also puzzled her.

Bowing to the King, she said softly, "Greetings, my lord."

[Kransha]

Moving away from the two, Morgôs neared the statue of Rhais, which rose before him. It was not, however, an ominous visage to him, but a very gentle one, tendered with the look of a solemn matriarch. Unaccustomed to the situation, Morgôs sat, and then shifted onto his knees and back again, trying to find a comfortable and appropriate position. He ended up sitting on his legs, awkwardly shifting about still, and looked up with little real reverence at the statue. He felt odd, sit-kneeling there on the floor, wondering if Siamak and Zamara might be watching from where they stood. The Elf looked down at the floor, glancing occasionally at the feet of the statue, trying to think of something to think or something to say, but nothing came. This technique was definitely not working, nor was it effective in the least. He decided to try and speak, but did not do so out loud. Instead, he formed words in his mind and spoke them within, rather than thinking their purpose. He focused on the statue.

‘Rhais, or whoever you are. I have not before called upon you or yours, nor have you called upon me and mine. I am not your follower, nor am I your detractor. I do not expect signs or revelations, but doing this will at least clear my conscious, and I will know that I have tried everything. If, by some bizarre chance, you do exist, and you do hear this wherever you dwell, I apologize for not meaning what I say. If you really are what I have been led to believe, you know that this prayer is illegitimate, but the thought behind it is virtuous.’

He felt ridiculous; extremely ridiculous. He heard nothing (not that he expected the statue to speak), and it made him feel worse about the predicament. He glanced up at the apex of the statuary, but saw no light of truth, and let his head fall again, taking a moment to rub his lithe fingers against a sore brow, pained by an ache in his head. With a groaning sigh, he slumped, and tried again. ‘I realize,’ he thought, ‘that you are not present, here, now, with me, nor do you have reason to care about me. If I believed in you, you might, but my text indicate that you are no more than a myth of my people, an explanatory legend. I do not believe in you, Goddess, if that is what you are, but I am searching for something to believe in that can distract me from what I believe in now. Though your following may not be the correct one, or the true one, or the right one, I need a solution and, right now, you are it. Count yourself lucky that I am not at the gate of Rae, seeking his wisdom. You are my choice.’ Morgôs felt strange as he thought this. He had used these words before, before swearing fealty to Siamak, and the memory sensation that filled him was disconcerting, but he continued. ‘If you are capable of hearing me, then hear me out. If you are there, beyond the girdle of this realm, looking down on me; I offer you this prayer.’

And then he heard it.

“Elen síla lúmenn' omentielvo, Elerrinon.”

It was a beautiful voice, whose melodious chords rang in his ears like wondrous thunder. Yet, it sounded like no more than the whispering wind, all words contained in the blink of an eye, the wisp of a cloud in passing. The preternatural serenity of it relaxed him, lulling him for a split-second into a state of confused but thankful catatonia, freezing his blood in his veins, but it fell from him less than an instant later. The whole experience was so strange that he did not comprehend it and, after it was over, its beauty diminished so much that he barely realized it had happened. The words, in a tongue he did not know, seemed like no words at all. Each held an emotion, neither happy nor sad, but simply neutral, as if they each floated individually in some nether of nonexistence. It was ecstasy, all bottled up into one second that flew by and left no record of itself. As soon as the voice concluded, Morgôs barely knew it had happened, and was left in confused silence.

Since it passed so quickly, Morgôs could not help but dismiss it as a sudden mental spasm. A little shaky and uneasy, he remained seated; satisfied that he had done what he could. Recollection of the voice faded fast, but a bare imprint was left, puzzling the Elf, but not truly daunting him. Quietly he knelt, wondering what to do next. He was done with his attempt at prayer, and was ready to engage a lesson with Siamak, but the Prince was not done speaking to the High Priestess.

In fact, the words being exchanged were fully audible to Morgôs. Though they were no speaking to quietly for mortal ears, Morgôs’ attuned senses heard them perfectly. He was not an eavesdropper, but he could not help but hear them, and he was comfortably seated and did not feel like rising. So, with an underhanded feeling gnawing guiltily at his mind, he waited, pretending to be in deep thought, and listened to Siamak and Zamara speak.

[alaklondewen]

The villa of the general of the Pashtian army was silent but for the soft melody that floated from the formal living area. A young servant busily dusted the heavy furniture. Her light mood was reflected in the tune she hummed. Kashana had not served the Avari family until very recently and was still very much intimidated, and awed, by the ageless Elves, but her father thought it was an honorable opportunity to work for a family of this status in Kanak. The young girl added a little bounce to her step as she continued to sing. She had seen the General leave a little while ago, so she felt more comfortable in the house. He was so serious and stuffy that she tried to distance herself from him. Although lately, that had not been a problem as he spent days at a time locked up in his library. Kashana cared not what the General did…she was just glad she did not have to directly talk to him very often. His wife was kind, to a point, but she was so beautiful that the young girl always felt like she was staring…and then she would become nervous and a little clumsy. She felt the most comfortable around Evrathol. He had been kind to her when she started, and he was terribly handsome. Kashana giggled when the thought crossed her mind, and then she quickly covered her mouth to stifle the sound.

Just as she put her heavy cloth back down on the dark wood a knock reverberated down the hallway of the main entrance. Kashana dropped her rag on the table and started toward the door. She then thought that if whoever was at the door came into the living area…he or she would see the rag, so she quickly turned on her heels and grabbed the fallen cloth before scrambling for the door. Her hurriedness caused her to lose her breath by the time she reached the entrance, and another resounding knock occurred just as she swung the heavy door open.

Kashana suppressed a surprised squeal when she saw who it was that graced the doorstep…the Emissary. The young girl had only seen the man once, when he and his guard arrived a month ago. It had been so exciting, and now he stood before her. She stared, wide-eyed, at his smooth face and light eyes. She was so in shock, in fact, that she forgot to greet the man, and only after he cleared his throat, did she remember her duty. “Oh! I am so sorry, sir…Emissary, sir.” She stumbled. “I am afraid the General is not at home today. Would you like me to tell him that…” The Emissary motioned with his hand for her to stop talking, and she obeyed. “I have come to speak with the Lady Arlomë.” Kashana’s eyes widened again. “Oh, I apologize, sir. I will tell her you are here.” The servant, then, stepped away from the door and started to close it, before realizing the Emissary was still on the step. Quickly, she swung the door open again, and while profusely apologizing, she invited the Emissary into the villa.

Cursing herself as she went for being so childish, the young servant hurried through the hallways of the estate until she reached the General’s library. Earlier she had seen Lady Arlomë enter the room, and Kashana hoped she would still be there. Knocking softly on the door, Kashana slowly opened it and called the Lady’s name.

“Yes, Kashana?” Arlomë answered distractedly. She sat at her husband’s desk carefully studying the sketches that filled the book that was sprawled open on the desktop.

“I am sorry to interrupt, my lady, but you have a visitor.” Kashana stepped through the door of the library, but only barely, and she kept her head lowered, not looking at the Elven lady.

“A visitor?” Arlomë questioned softly, almost to herself. “Who is it, Kashana?”

Kashana looked up and answered with an expression of wonderment. “The Emissary, my lady. He asks for you.”

Arlomë was quite surprised and her shock momentarily flashed across her face before she caught herself. “Thank you, Kashana. Ensure his comfort and I will arrive shortly.” The young servant nodded and slipped out of the library. Why the Emissary would call for her, Arlomë knew not, and she felt her spirit troubled by the situation. After closing the Morgôs’ book, the Elf straightened her silk robe and strode to the large sitting room that set near the home’s entrance.

The Emissary rose when she entered the room. “Lady Arlomë, it is a pleasure to see you again.” The man wore a charming smile, but Arlomë could see hesitancy in his eyes as he stepped forward and took her hand in greeting. “And you, Emissary.” She nodded her head to him.

“I apologize for not sending a messenger before my arrival.”

Shaking her head, Arlomë answered, “There is no need for apologies. What can I do for you this morning?”

“I have been told that many of the plants, here in Pashtia, are used for medicinal purposes, and when I inquired about their properties, I was told that you, my lady, have more knowledge on the subject than anyone in Kanak.”

Arlomë looked curiously at the Emissary, studying his face as he spoke. He was very charming, but something told her he was not keen on the idea of dealing with her. “I have studied the plants of Pashtia for many years. If you are interested, please join me in my personal gardens, and I will tell you what you wish to know.”

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Faroz bid the Lady Arshalous sit upon the cushions that had been left for her at the base of his divan. In this, his private audience chamber, the scale was not so grand or intimidating as in the main hall, but the room was still arranged with due sense to the primacy of the King. He sat somewhat above the Lady then, as she settled down. He offered her tea and the Lady accepted, apparently happy for the diversion. Tea was brought and Faroz poured it out for them, and while Arshalous was as familiar with the ritual as she was with the contents of her own closet, to see the King pouring out her drink still thrilled her somewhat.

When they had both taken the first sips of their tea they sat in silence for a time. The private chamber was high up in the Palace, built in the inner wall to overlook the garden. The clouds that had been threatening rain all day roiled above their heads but still the birds of the garden continued their calls. A chill wind blew through the arches and swirled about them both, lifting the corners of the tapestries that hung about. The King took another sip of his tea before fixing the Lady with his gaze. “You are not, I believe, a friend to your cousin Korak?”

The suddenness of the question startled the Lady, and before she could prevent herself the truth escaped her lips. “I am not, majesty.”

The King nodded at his, accepting it for the dangerous thing that it was. “May I ask why you and he are at odds?”

The Lady looked confused for a moment, flushing deeply, whether with discomfort or shame he could not tell. When she did reply, however, it was in an even tone. Her composure impressed the King. “It is difficult to know, Khamul. He and I were once close, when we were children, but times and people change. I cannot say at what moment we parted, but…such a moment has come.” She paused, gathering strength for her next question, and the King gave her the time she needed. “May I ask, majesty, why you inquire about this?”

The King fell into a silence and looked away from her. “To answer that my Lady Arshalous, I must tell you a story…

“It is a story of love and betrayal, as so many stories are, but I am afraid that is it not yet finished so it may be an unsatisfactory tale for all that it is composed of the things that we want from our stories. There was a King once who was powerful and beloved by his people, but who in private was stern and heartless, perhaps even cruel – yes, let us say that he was cruel – to his wife. The King and his wife had little love for each other, as their marriage had been forged in the furnace of war and he had taken her to assert his claim over the lands of a mighty rival. One day the Queen met another man. He was gentle, perhaps, and kind. Or perhaps he was handsome and winning in his ways. I do not know. Whatever charm it was that he possessed however, he was able to capture the Queen’s heart. They would meet in private, fearful, no doubt – even terrified – of disclosure for they both well knew the terrible wrath of the King. After a time the Queen realised that she was with child, and knowing that it could not be the King’s, for he had been away at war during the spring, she panicked. Or, perhaps, she did not panic, but merely came to her senses. Maybe even it was her lover who decided that the risk was too great and forsook her…I do not know… I can tell by the look in your eye, my Lady, that my story-telling is far from masterly. I apologise, but as I said, it is a tale still in the writing and I do not yet know its full shape. It is why I have called you here today.

“However it ended, it was over, and the Queen was with child. The baby was born hard upon the beginning of the cold season. A chilling wind was howling that day, and it is said that in the temple of Rhais a fire began of its own accord in the goddess’s brazier: a sign, no doubt, that the child would be the heir that the King had so long desired. The Queen lied to the King and said that the child had not been expected for at least another month and the King, deluded, perhaps, by his own lust for a male child, was fooled. He accepted the boy as his own. The Queen never told the King or her child the truth.

“The boy thrived and grew into manhood and in the fullness of time his father passed and he assumed the throne. He took a wife to himself, and like his father the match was a political one, undertaken for the safety of his people. He might have gone on in this manner the rest of his days but for an ambitious noble. Somehow, this noble had acquired a letter – a love letter. It was from the Queen and addressed to her lover, whom she did not call by name but referred to only as the Lord of her Heart: a pun, no doubt, on her husband’s title as the Lord of her Hand. In this letter she wrote of their child, assuring her lover that the King did not know the babe was not his own, and assuring him that she would take the secret to her grave to ensure the safety of her son. He was her only child, for her husband – having seen to the production of an heir – had taken to visiting mistresses in the city. One of them even bore him a son whom the King made sure to install as a priest in the temple of Rae. The noble who had this letter was a fool, and more dangerous still, a greedy fool. He saw in the letter only a way to further his own ambitions. He said that if the King agreed to unite him in marriage to the princess, then the noble would keep the letter safe. Safe, that is, for as long as the noble was alive. Should anything happen to him, the letter would be published abroad.

“The King pleaded – yes, pleaded – with the noble, trying to get him to look beyond his own petty ambitions and to pay regard to the needs of the people and the good of the kingdom. If it were to become known that the King were not the true heir, then the King’s enemies to the North, who had allied themselves to him in marriage, would be furious at the deception and the peace that had been wrought would fall. The Northern enemies had thought they were marrying their princess to the son of the King and the true heir of the kingdom – to reveal that it had all been a lie would have been to invoke ruin on them all! But the king was unable to convince the noble, and he was forced finally to agree that the noble could marry the princess. The King knew that this was but the first demand, and that eventually the noble would want to be named heir. But what could the King do? To refuse the terms of the deal offered him by the noble would be to risk publication of the letter and the destruction of his world.”

Faroz looked at Arshalous with an intensity that frightened her. His hand had moved beneath his clothes and he clutched at something hidden and terrible. It radiated a menace throughout the hall, filling her with loathing and dread and it seemed as though the clouds above them thickened, plunging the room into darkness. In the distance there came the dry rumble of thunder, and she knew that rain was coming. The King resumed speaking. “But then one day the King found a way to retrieve the letter. It would take time and patience, but eventually he knew that he could get it. When he did, then he would no longer be under the sway of the noble and would be free to act against him. The king dared not do anything against the lord openly, for even with the letter gone the noble could still cause trouble. Perhaps the noble knows more than he says? Perhaps there were other documents, and maybe – even – he knew who the King’s real father was. No, the risks of openly attacking the noble are too great. A more delicate solution is required. And the King is nothing if not…delicate…in such matters. But even a mighty King such as he, even one with the power of life and death over his subjects, requires allies in such matters. So he turned to a powerful lady of the city, one who is cousin to the noble, one who is isolated from the other nobility, one whom he can trust because she has nowhere else to turn, and one whom he knows despises their common enemy. The King summoned her to his presence and asked her if she would aid her King in the preservation of her kingdom. He asked if, when the time came for him to move against Korak, would she be willing to help him in the downfall of her cousin?”

[Novnarwen]

Tarkan

“I had hoped, Priest, to learn your feelings on the Emissary. My brother and I have a difficult decision to make, and I seek not just to please our own desires in the matter but to reach a decision that works for everyone.”

He looked at the Princess, not certain how to respond. He had expected this question, but not from her. Seeing her standing in front of him though, he realised that it was only natural that the King’s children turned to religious leaders for guidance in serious matters. He hoped he was correct in assuming this, yet he could not be certain of anything. Had the Princess asked the High Priestess Zamara the same question, or was she testing him? Feeling uncomfortable by Gjeelea’s big, beautiful, penetrating eyes, he tried avoiding her gaze. Instead, his eyes met Pelin’s. The young servant of the new temple stood shuffling his feet, his whole figure being evidence of his uneasiness. Usually not caring about other people’s feelings, or anything that had anything to do with others, the Priest couldn’t help wondering though, why Pelin seemed so worried. Was Pelin listening to his conversation with the Princess, and in some way trying to hinder him from answering the princess? Or maybe, he was trying to get his attention, thus getting Gjeelea’s attention. Slightly disturbed by this thought, he shook his head and tried focusing on what to answer. What Pelin did or didn’t do was none of his concern, as long as it didn’t ruin his own plans of course.

“Pelin, will you take my belongings to the apartments?” Tarkan asked, suddenly caring. He wanted to have Pelin out of the way. He deemed it unnecessary for Pelin to eavesdrop or disturb the two of them in any other way.

Coming over, the young man stared intensely at the priest. “I need a word with you first,” he said calmly in a squeaking voice.

Sighing, the priest said with a fierce voice: ”Did I not tell you to take my belongings to the newly built apartments? . . . Please,” he said, emphasising the word ‘please,’ as he was starting to realise his mistake. Taking a step towards the young man, who was as glued to the wheelbarrow, he whispered: ”Are you intending to stand here forever to make my life miserable?”

Hearing this, the Princess opened her eyes wide. It did not only seem to shock her, these words spoken by the Priest, it seemed to have such a great affect on her that she hardly could stand still. Seeing the priest in this mood, she only said silently: ”If my coming was in any way inconvenient, I will come by tomorrow.”

The Priest ignored the Princess, still staring hard at Pelin, reproaching himself for letting his anger take control of him in front of a woman he intended to make his wife.

“It’s important, Father.”

Taking a step aside, excusing himself, he made Pelin follow. With this last comment, or what had seemed more like a request, Tarkan had had enough. No one was ordering him, or telling him what was important. Was the Princess not important, maybe? What could possibly be more important than her? Tarkan watched the Princess standing still, as if frightened, paces away; the distance between them was just enough for Pelin and Tarkan to talk quietly to each other without being heard,

“Pelin, Pelin, Pelin… You have disrespected me. Not just in public, but in the presence of the princess, and probably my Queen to come!” He listened to himself and heard how stupid it sounded. He had been inches from saying ‘wife’, but had luckily managed to utter the word ‘Queen.’ Swallowing, he knew that Pelin was not ready for another bit of his story; he was the rightful king to the throne, and Pelin probably knew that much. But if the young man also got to know his secret intentions about making Gjeelea his wife, it would most likely be too much for him, and what he had worked for would be put to ruin. Gazing into Pelin’s grey questioning eyes, he continued: ”I will have no of this, no more! Do you hear me! You will go and take my belongings to the apartments now, and you will do so without hesitating. Is that understood?!?”

Pelin nodded. “But… which apartment?”

“Which?!? Which?!? Are you mocking me? Tell me, Pelin.. Who am I?” Tarkan said sternly, his mouth twitching with anger. His face was so turned and so twisted that one could hardly recognise the Priest, whose figure seemed to grow in size where he stood. It seemed that the Priest’s anger had taken control of not only him, but Pelin as well. Trembling, the young man could do nothing but stand still like a helpless child who was facing an angry drunkard of a father. “I am Tarkan, Priest of the Temple of Rhais, but no more. Who am I now, from this day on?” Smiling cruelly, he continued:” You didn’t honestly believe you were going to be High Priest of the Temple, did you? I will tell you this as plainly and simply as I can: You will not be High priest; not in this Temple, not anywhere. I will and thus, I will have the apartment which is rightfully mine by title, and you know just as well as I, which apartment that is! Now, get moving. And if you so much as dear to approach the Princess again by getting my attention, I will make you wish you’d never met me.”

“The King wishes to see you instantly.” With these words, expressed in a most petty voice, Pelin turned on his heals and left the wheelbarrow standing in front of the Priest, who stood somewhat regretfully behind.

Biting his lips, he paced over to the Princess again, pretending that everything was fine. "The King, your father, wishes to see me," he started. His voice was clear. He watched the Princess furrowing her brow, most likely expecting him to say something more, as there had been a reason ofher visit. "When it comes to your question," he said, smiling faintly, seeing that her eyes brightened up, "I cannot give you a proper answer. I have not had the chance to get to know this Emissary well enough to make an opinion of him. I do believe however, that you, my Princess, will be able to make a decision that will please both your father and the people of Pasthia." He breathed heavily and muttered under his breath: "May the Mighty Rae . . . . and of course Rhais. . . be to your help making this burdensome choice. Now, I must leave you and do some errands before I see your father."

[Amanaduial the archer]

While the dark clouds of the forming of new alliances moved through the palace, all remained still and peaceful in the ancient Temple of Rhais. Despite Morgôs' pretty blatant rudeness to her, she remained her usual unruffled self, and she put aside her natural curiosity as to why exactly the elf was actually in the temple: even mortals, despite the hustle bustle which they seemed to rely on in a city to survive, needed peace to pray once every so often. Maybe the elves did as well: just because Morgôs had fought so effectively and for so long in battles for Pashtia's good, this did not mean he did not have to fight his own demons, she supposed, just like everyone else...

The elf fights a battle... The words jolted Zamara. They reminded her suddenly of something that she had not conciously thought of for some time, yet which had been in her mind for the past month, on and off. She glanced anxiously across at Morgôs where he had taken up a position in front of Rhais, then looked away hurriedly, back at Siamak. The prince was also watching the elf, but with a deep, thoughtful look in his young eyes.

"Everyone needs time to pray, in peace and on their own," she said softly to him, bringing his attention back to her.

Siamak nodded slowly. "And everyone may have their own concerns about those prayers," he replied enigmatically. The Priestess looked at him hard for a second, wondering what, if any, the alterior meaning of that comment was. Then she shook her head, blinking a few times. "My apologies, Prince Siamak, I have had many thoughts and several unexpected visitors now today-"

"How so?" Siamak's reply was whiplash quick. Zamara grinned inwardly at the speed with which he had picked up on the comment as being possibly significant. The quiet, shy prince was apparently becoming more politically minded. "Yourself, if you don't mind my saying so; General Morgôs, of course, who I think I may have seen maybe once in the Temple before; and earlier, your sister, Princess Gjeelea, came to see me. She was asking about pretty much the same things as you," she continued smoothly, anticipating Siamak's next question as he tensed. "Tell me, Prince Siamak: with the current situation, is there still..." she stopped, and mentally rephrased her question so that it would appear less blatant or rude. "Have you and the Princess reached an accord on the matter of the Emissary?"

Siamak remained silent, and his brown eyes flickered away from Zamara's after a second, reaching up to see Rhais'. Zamara nodded ruefully. "My...my apologies, your majesty, I did not mean to pry. I simply wondered, as your sister came in here earlier asking me also about the goddess and her devices..."

"What did you tell her?" he asked softly.

Zamara hesitated, remembering Gjeelea's strange words, and decided not to mention to her brother everything that the Princess had said. Her views on Gjeelea were changing, despite the childish facade that she had attempted to fool the priestess with: she was a most exceptional individual indeed. The High Priestess fixed Siamak with her steady gaze so that he, like his sister, was forced to meet her strangely blueish eyes. She saw his brow crease slightly but spoke before he said anything. "Prince Siamak, I have spoken to the goddess on this matter, as I am sure the priests have consulted Rae about it. I...I am not sure, on this topic, what..." she trailed off, apparently distressed, and looked away. She had almost revealed a great fear to the Prince, a fear that could never be voiced. Taking a deep breath, she continued. "You must pray to the goddess and ask for her guidance yourself, Prince Siamak, if you want my advice. You have never, it seems, taken a side between one deity or the other, and as the people seem more and more to turn away from Rhais, I do not think this will be missed. She will watch for you, if you will watch for her, Prince Siamak."

The Prince looked like he was about to say something more, before he pressed his lips together and nodded curtly. "Thank you, High Priestess Zamara." He nodded again politely, and began to turn away. Zamara leant forward quickly and laid a hand on his arm, her dark fingers brushing the rich fabric of his sleeve lightly. Siamak paused and turned back to her, by his expression probably guessing at some blessing. But Zamara's gaze was somewhat more intimate than that. She leant forward so that her loose, wavy hair was almost touching his face as she murmured into his ear, her voice seeming strangely breathy, as if it was not quite her own. "Times are changing, Siamak. The time of Rae is coming, but those faithful to Rhais... the Priestess will pray for you, be sure of it. Peace be with you: watch out for those who would value the power of steel over the peace of the earth."

Zamara leant away, and something about her seemed to relax. Siamak hesitated for a second, confused, then, nodding quickly, he turned away and left the temple. Zamara blinked a few times and rubbed her forehead, trying to regain her train of thought. She hoped she had left Siamak with something to think about, but rather thought that she hadn't been much advice at all...

Hearing a movement behind her, the Priestess saw Morgos standing, also watching Siamak leave, and he began to follow, but Zamara stopped him, moving towards him swiftly, her white robes gently brushing the stone floor and her sandals silent. "General Morgos, please, would I be able to talk to you for a moment?"

Morgos almost seemed to sag, his expression weary as he reluctantly tore his eyes from the retreating prince's back to look at Zamara, even as he took a step of his own towards the exit. "Priestess, I have many things to attend to and-"

"It is about the elves, General."

Zamara did not know what urgency compelled her, or why she felt such a strong need to find out about this, but the thoughts that had been brewing in her mind needed clarification, and Morgos could help her more than any, she was willing to bet. Her heart was thumping in her chest as the elf froze mid-step and turned towards her quickly. "The elves? What about the elves, which? What do you know about them, Priestess, why is it that you bring them up?" Morgos's eyes were strangely bright.

Zamara cocked her head on one side thoughtfully, resisting the urge to back away as the elf took a step towards her so he was dangerously close, and she noticed out of the corner of her gaze that his fists were tightly clenched. She also noted how thin and pale he suddenly seemed to her. Hesitating, she murmured a few words then turned and mounted the steps to the statue of Rhais and spoke softly to Tayfar where she was trimming the lamps around Rhais' feet. The girl nodded respectfully at Zamara's request, and scurried away to do as the High Priestess had requested. Turning back to Morgos, Zamara descended the steps swiftly and slipped her hand through the elf's arm to lead him behind the statue to the courtyard where she had often spoken with his wife before. Taking a deep breath to steady herself, she began. "Morgos...may I ask you what you know of the elves' arrival in Pashtia?"

[Imladris]

Arshalous stared at the king, rigid with shock, seething with horror as she realized what the king might ask her to do, loathing at the unpleasant prospects, and fear of the dark doom that had fallen into the room, of the taste of...sneaking and plottings that filled her mouth. Lightening flickered across the tapestried walls, thunder clashed, and a dark presense pressed heavily upon her. The king looked intensely at her and he clutched at something against his chest.

Rising to her feet, Arshalous stood and faced the wall. "This powerful lady," she said softly, "was shocked when she heard the king's story. Though she held no love for her cousin and wished to see him fall, she feared what the king might ask of her. She knew that dark things were being whispered, plots that might very well end up unhappily, leaving nothing but regret and sorrow in its wake."

Slowly she turned, staring into the king's eyes. "The king was right when he said that the lady had no where to turn. The lady could feel the walls of a prison enclosing her, could feel the shackles clanging shut. She knew it would not be wise to refuse her king, and besides, the thought of bringing her cousin down into the dust was like sweet wine laced with poison. Trapped between desire and fear, she knew that there was but one answer she could make. She told the king that she would help him when the time came. And that, my lord, is all that I know of this story of love and betrayal."

[Orofaniel]

Someone entered the door. Evrathol heard the voice of their servant Kashana, and another voice he did not recognize. Who could it be visiting them at this hour? Usually, their visitors came for one reason; to meet the General. Now as Morgos wasn't here… Someone close to Arlomë perhaps? Or maybe a someone waiting for him? He doubted the last option. But at the same time, he thought of Perkan. There hadn’t been much time for friendly conversations concerning politics or other matters lately. Evrathol smiled.

He eyes Kashana in the hallway. "Who was at the door, Kashana?" Evrathol requested. "The E-emissary, sir," Kashana replied quickly. Evrathol's eyes blazed. What was he doing here, was the only thought that struck him. His eyebrow raised as if suspicious. "Really...?" He muttered. "And did you tell him that the General is not here?" Evrathol continued. "Yes, yes, I did," the servant said. "And..?" Evrathol then said. Kashana felt a bit uncomfortable as the questions continued. "Well, the Emissary is here for another cause, sir. He wanted to speak with your mother. I invited him in and Arlome should be with him any moment now," Kashana then explained. Evarthol was confused by these words. What would the Emissary want with his mother? What could it possibly be? Evrathol stood there in his own thoughts, while Kashana looked at him not knowing what else to say; "I'm sorry, I'm still not finished cleaning, so if you'll excuse me."

"Oh, I apologise. It wasn't my intention to stall you. Please go back to your work," Evrathol said smiling weakly. The servant nodded and did a humble courtesy before leaving.

[Kransha]

Morgôs was visibly jolted by the High Priestess’ inquiry. This marked the third time this month that someone had asked him a particularly out-of-the-ordinary question; first Siamak about the Old Gods, his wife about his books, and now Zamara. Zamara, though, sounded as if here question would be doggedly asked, even if it was only an offhand query (Morgôs had guessed that that was the sort of person she was) and was asked with hidden intentions in mind. His look of strange obsession turned to mired adulation, Morgôs spoke, asking: “You mean their first coming to Pashtia, yes?” The phrasing had confused him as well. “Yes.” She calmly replied. Walking cautiously through the courtyard, he answered, stammering a bit.

“This is not an easy question to answer.” Zamara looked at him patiently as he stopped walking. “I have the time to hear it.”

Morgôs, sighing in defeat, was about to begin, when his tuft of an eyebrow rose delicately, as if he had had a very minor epiphany. “Did the Prince put you up to this?” Zamara shot him a strange look and shook her head. “No. Whatever do you mean?” Morgôs took a healthy, deep breath, saying, “Nothing, I suppose. Very well, I shall tell you what little I know. It has been a very long story since I have told my version of the story to anyone, especially a mortal.” He stood now, stock still, peering down at the pristine ground, and readied himself for brief oratory. Like the finest of speechmakers, he began.”

“The truth is, I may well have been there when it happened, but after a thousand years, one’s memory becomes hazy. I do remember a great many events that occurred during that time, but exact memories have all been blurred by time. It was the Elves who found mortal men beneath the pale slopes of the Red Mountains. They were most curious at the time, not as civilized as one might think. They had built many villages, and some towns, but were otherwise primitive. The Elves, my kindred, were at that time nomadic, and let themselves be allowed into sedentary mortal society, becoming part of the sovereign nation of Pashtia, just named and founded by a chieftain, who proclaimed himself a lord of men. Many tribes refused the rulership of the chieftain, but my kin accepted it and advised the King for years, becoming part of the society that swelled about them. They were revered by some, but hated by others, and, though the chieftain thought highly of them, or should I say, us, others whom he gave power did not. When the chieftain died, without leaving an heir, a dissolute one took his place and...” he trailed off dolefully, turning his eyes down again, “Well, you know the rest.”

“Yes,” Zamara replied with a cool demeanor, even though she knew how touchy a subject this might be for such an ancient Elf, “the Elves were enslaved.” Morgôs nodded, his features frozen stiff, “That is all in Pashtian history books, as are the annals of Pashtia’s chaotic origins. Why have you asked these questions? I am sure that you, in your wisdom, could have uncovered the answers without my help.” Again, Zamara replied with an air half-aloof, as if she was detached from his words, but still curious.

“Yes, I could have. But, General, could you tell me more?”

Morgôs spoke coldly. “What more do you need?” Zamara’s detachment ended instantly as she persaistently maneuvered. “Just more.” She said, emphasizing the word, “You say you were there, you must no more than just those bland facts. Many things about Pashtia’s history have been lost, but you stand before me, a living witness to events which most men have forgotten. This is information of great value, which has probably not remained intact over the hundreds of years. All I ask is that you shed some light on the matter. Surely-”

The Elven General cut her off suddenly, his face losing a shade of color as he did so.

“Fine, if you must know.” He seemed unable to ready for the speech, and was launched into it before he could stop himself. He felt his mouth moving, a words issuing from it, but he did not have time to consider them before they came out. “We were roaming the land, homeless and without food or shelter. Our kin, wise and strong, had gone from us to their doom, tantalized into leaving by a creature of which we no longer speak, who took them to the west. After that day, terrible storms blew down upon us from the sea, thunder from the heavens and quakes from the earth.” Slowly, he was becoming less himself, and again his eyes darkened vilely as he spoke, and his voice trembled, with either spite or anger. “Our troubles increased a hundred fold and we knew not why. We could no fathom why the world was changing so, and it hurt us deep within, for it was our world that was being rent asunder, perhaps by your precious Rhais indeed!” He snapped this at Zamara, who was unprepared as Morgôs’ presence swelled and became shadowy like the night. “The stars we loved were blotted from the sky and waves crashed against our homeland. We fled the paradise we had nurtured for so long, and all went into darkness. We were lost.”

He paused for barely a moment, becoming energetic in his speech, and Zamara hastened to pacify him. “I am sorry.” She said, but Morgôs was unaffected, instead replying with a spiteful bite. “You should be.” He cried out, “It is your fault!”

This completely disoriented Zamara. “How is it my fault, General?” Morgôs, his regal eyes narrowed like those of a desert predator, replied with icy rage filling him very slowly. “It is the fault of man!” he shot back, “The coming of mortals lost me my homeland and many of my brethren. It cost me my stars and my sky, replacing the beauty I knew with a vessel that, to mortals is called golden and sunny, but to me is no more than a celestial fraud.” He growled the words terribly, his face twisting into a snarling expression, “All because your God saw fit to make your creation a grand affair, and destroy my home as she made you.”

The High Priestess seemed both skeptical and concerned as she interjected. “How can you know this?”

“When we came to Pashtia, a primitive calendar had been created, so the mortals knew how much time had passed since their birth on the world. They were coeval to the disaster that took my home and my brothers, they had come into existence at that moment, or very shortly afterward if not then. Many of us refused to believe that one event had anything to do with the other, but I knew it was no coincidence. Either the thing who created mortals, in our image,” he added, angrily, “thought it would be best to destroy the old peoples before forging the new, or it was simply trying to issue grandiose fanfare about its creation. That is how it is your fault.”

As the last word died on his tongue, he relaxed, but, unlike before, did not stagger or collapse. He swayed slightly, and Zamara saw the change in him, his sudden fatigue and loss of wind, “I did not know, General.” She said, with possible genuine apology in her voice, but, as she moved towards Morgôs to help him (just as Arlomë had) he waved her off. “You could not have known.” He paused as he regained himself and looked towards her, now rueful, still weary, “Nobody knew. I have never told any mortal the truth.” He breathed distortedly, as if he was short of breath, half gasping for air, but Zamara was now too curious to see his discomfort. “Then why did you tell me?”

“I do not know.” Morgôs shook his head, coughing, but managed to settle himself. Zamara grasped his arm as he swayed more, but he instead took hers and leaned in towards her, whispering in a conspiratorial manner. “You see, when we came to Pashtia, we resolved to look our best for these newcomers, and take them under our wing, so we concealed the truth of our survival. They did not know we were lost and helpless, many of our kind slain by the elements. We did no many more things than they, so we could convince them that we were wise and powerful, from a mighty land from which we had left to seek the far horizon. They believed us willingly and we became lords among them. For millennia, the secret was kept, though some have been told. No noble or lord or king has ever learned the fact, for that tale holds darker truths as well, those that I cannot reveal to you, even after you know all this.” He released her arm, and stepped back weakly.

After another moment of breathing deeply, he had fully returned to normal, and stood stiffly up. It seemed as if he had never been anything other than what he was at the moment; serene and serious.

“Now then, I have a question for you. Why have you asked all these questions?”

[Firefoot]

Siamak paused once outside the temple. It had been a disappointing visit. Well, not wholly. The information that Gjeelea, too, was talking to different people was interesting. But this was not what he had hoped to find. He had wanted advice from the High Priestess and found none save that he should remain loyal to Rhais and pray to her directly for counsel. A thought occurred to him. Surely, had the goddess disclosed Zamara with advice, she would have informed him. But why would the goddess not have imparted wisdom concerning an issue that would impact Pashtia so greatly? Surely the goddess would not abandon the people in their hour of need. And, if the High Priestess did not know, how was he to find out? Siamak was now certain that he and Gjeelea would have to decide this issue on their own, without divine intervention.

Siamak sighed impatiently. Morgôs had seen him leave, surely, and had said that they would meet outside. Fat raindrops began to fall from the sky. The General had also said that they would conduct the lesson outside, but Siamak saw little chance of that. He was grateful to the overhang covering the entrance to the temple; it kept him dry. So where was Morgôs? He had been kneeling when Siamak left, but Siamak had never thought the General was much for religion, and this thought was only solidified by some of the subtle hints in the General's manner of speaking. Not that religion was a major topic in their meetings, but deciphering small hints in people's words had been one thing which Siamak had picked up on quickly, and it surprised him that he had not figured it out before. Now that he understood, talking with the nobles was no longer a threatening ordeal.

Siamak moved closer to the doors, half tempted to go find out what was keeping the General. He did not think that he could actually go in, not after coming right out, and anyway, it might seem rude to be so impatient. No sooner had he edged closer to the door than he heard the sound of voices, muffled by the distance. One of them, Siamak recognized it as Morgôs', was quite loud, in fact. Siamak could not make out anything save the tone, and it was clear that the General was worked up about something. There was only one topic that Siamak had ever seen Morgôs get truly passionate about: Elves of long ago. He backed away from the door hastily, feeling slightly guilty for listening in, though he reasoned that it could not really be eavesdropping since he had not actually heard any words. His interest was piqued, however, especially since he supposed it must be the High Priestess he was speaking to since there was no one else in the temple. He would never actually inquire about it, but he was intrigued nonetheless. At any rate, he now knew the mood of the General and how best to act with him.

Siamak sighed again. Not too much longer, he hoped. Well, he didn't have anything that needed doing anyhow and leaned against a broad pillar to wait, watching the steady drip, drop of the rain.

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

[To be added when Tarkan answers the princess…]

-

After she had turned and left Tarkan, Gjeelea smiled smugly as she stalked out of the rooms. It was almost funny to Gjeelea that these ‘valued citizens’ and ‘important Pashtians’ might believe her when she told them their opinion mattered to her. The princess had made her decision about the Emissary as soon as King Faroz had left the burden to her and Siamak. The trips around the city to speak with dignified citizens was meant only to soothe the minds of Pashtia – Gjeelea knew everyone would feel better if they thought the princess actually cared about their opinion of the Emissary.

She had not taken five steps out into the street before seeing Korak walking towards her. Gjeelea stopped and waited for the man, glancing idly at the sky and wondering if and when it would rain.

“What are you doing here?” Korak snapped, and Gjeelea raised a brow. He does not talk to me like that, the princess thought defiantly. No man talks to me like that. “Darling,” he added between clenched teeth.

“I was speaking with the Priest,” Gjeelea informed her betrothed. Korak took steps closer to her, and Gjeelea peered up at him, surprised at how tall he was compared to her. “I could ask the same of you, Lord Korak. What brings you to this part of your business investment?”

“I had hoped to find you.”

“That is strange,” Gjeelea murmured, flashing Korak a coy smile. “Where were you this morning? I had hoped to take the morning walk with you, but you were not at your estate when the messengers sent. Were you out riding? Perhaps you were overseeing the temple?”

Gjeelea wondered when she would run out of things to say to Korak.

[Nurumaiel]

"Yes, I was indeed overseeing the temple," said Korak, and fell silent. He had been waiting for quite some time for the opportunity to see the Princess, and now he found he had nothing to say to her. He struggled for words. It would be easy to run into a long train of conversation that amounted to nothing, but he suddenly felt cautious. Perhaps he had a suspicion that Lady Arshalous was still near. Perhaps he had a suspicion that the Princess would report whatever he said to her father. Whatever it was, he felt that he must choose his words carefully. He wouldn't want to say anything that would put him in a dangerous position.

"I still am overseeing the temple," he went on, trying to sound smooth, and not strained as he felt, "though I intend to leave before too long, and return to my mother. She grows lonely when she is left all alone." He wondered if she were laughing at this strange sympathy for his mother, and he also wondered if he did not actually harbour some feelings for his mother that did not like him to leave her alone for very long. He coughed, and went on.

"It looks to be a magnificent achievement, do you not think?" A thought occurred to him... what if the Princess was opposed to the building of the temple? He would refrain from showing any triumph over the fact that it was being built. And so he could think of nothing to say. He fell into silence. It was terribly awkward, this business of pretending love. He could think of nothing to say.

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

"Indeed, Lord Korak," Gjeelea agreed with Korak. The building would certainly come out beautifully. "Your money is well spent on a lovely temple." The princess flinched when she saw the pleasure in Korak's gleaming eyes. "Though I fear that the earth was not meant to be a battle ground for the gods. Competition between Rae and Rhais is not done."

Gjeelea smiled up at Korak, who had averted his eyes. For all the wealths Korak had inherited, there were so many things he did not have - things that Gjeelea could not give him. Korak had not an ounce of love in his body; his judgement of people was not moral wealth but purely based on pecuniary matters. The princess wondered if she had earned such a horrible man to wed; was it somehow her fault, her bad acts in the past, that had brought this unfairness upon her? Gjeelea did not know.

"Korak, why do you marry me?" The princess asked. He looked at her, shocked, like the answer should be so obvious. Maybe it is, Gjeelea thought, then she wondered if Korak even knew what he had gotten himself into. "You have so much already, and it is a gamble to marry one who might not be queen. If Siamak becomes king you will have nothing more than you have now. I have many enemies, perhaps more than enemies than even you have amounted in your life."

Korak said naught in reply. Did the comment sting where she hoped it would?

"No matter what happens - whether you are lucky enough to become king or unlucky enough to have just me and your current financial status," Gjeelea continued, "You will live and die with a wife whom you do not love and who does not love you back. You will die a rather lonely man, Lord Korak."

Once more, Korak did not speak. The princess saw something in his eye, but she could not place it. She could not tell if his gaze held anger, or understanding...Gjeelea was not even certain that he had heard her words. Perhaps he dismissed the words of his future wife.

"I should like to see your mother," Gjeelea murmured after a long, awkward silence between them. "It will be good to see her again. Shall we go?"

[Bêthberry]

The clouds streamed overhead like merchants off to work at the market, intent on their business and without a meandering glance to the side or elsewhere. Some blew quickly out of the frame of Bekah's vision; others massed more solidly overhead, sending shadows inking down over roof and tower and wall. It would rain soon, Bekah thought, the kind which falls heavily and quickly and which puddles deeply on the streets and gullies, falling so quickly the earth cannot contain it, and then, just as quickly, disappearing. For now, the shadows boxed around the new construction, darting forth and back, as if climbing this paen to the sky god ahead of everyone else. As she watched the tower?s construction, daily, growing taller and taller, Bekah wondered what had prompted this sudden desire to rival Rhais. Zamara had been too busy with these events, talking among those who revered Rhais, to visit her daily and help with her correspondence after her injury but Bekah knew the High Priestess was concerned.

It had been a fall, Bekah ruminated, a fall of remarkable proportions, although not her own, but the King's. She had as yet been unable to suggest as much to the High Priestess, and so her metaphor remained in the eyes of the court the literal truth. In the past month Bekah had often played over in her mind the events of her last audience with Khamul, becoming more firmly convinced in her mind that the King was no longer capable of attending to the best interests of his own nation, so firmly drawn was he to this Emissary. Or was it that ring, which he had been willing to harm her over, to regain possession? "Who or what has possessed Faroz?" Bekah asked, over and over.

Also over the past month, she had considered who she might turn to to express her concerns, with Zamara unable to respond to her request for help with the correspondence. Arlomë had disappeared behind the walls of her own estate, where Morgôs was apparently yet again lost in the kind of ritual seclusion which he more and more was retreating to. "The Avari hold themselves to be a higher kind," Bekah thought to herself, "yet they seem so little involved with their responsibilities to the affairs of this world." She worried that the nation's chief officer of the army was so absent. "No wonder people wished to limit the Avari's time of service," she thought. Yet who could she turn to? Arshalous was a vain and petty woman, more concerned with the rivalries of her house than those of state. Her children had not once returned to speak with her of events or their monumental decision. Tarkan was a brooding question who had never yet shown any discipline or strength and Bekah mistrusted him as one of the architects of this tower to Rae. Korak? Was that her only recourse? Bekah turned away from her thoughts to watch the construction again.

The workers looked like scarabs, scurrying back and forth, overshadowned now by the tower to Rae itself. Bekah became mesmerised watching the movement of worker and cloud, the second overshadowing the first, swirling like tea leaves over a sugar cube until it is lost to sight. The light seemed to slink away and she was overcome with cold and her senses dulled. Something appeared over the tower, forming out of the clouds. An eye? Was that it? Tall battlements very far away came into focus, with strange creatures flying around it. A red flaming eye pierced her thought and gloated over her;she felt herself fermenting with intense hatred and cruelty. She would have swooned had Homay not appeared at her side, to lead her gently towards the cushionss of her meeting room.

The old nurse watched as her old charge slowly came round, the yellow patches of her face dissipating into the caramel colour of her tawny skin.

"You have had the same experience, again." she murmured to the Queen.

Bekah nodded and waited for her breath to return. "This time, more clearly. It is this Melkor, I am certain. He has overtaken our god Rae and wishes to destroy our faith in Rhais."

"The healer is here, Majesty, to attend to your arm. Perhaps you can talk of this with her." Bekah assented and collected herself, willing her body into a more formal deportment and whispering silent prayer to Rhais.

Rather than becoming shorter and fewer, these visits with Dahliyah the healer had become longer and more frequent. With the loss of contacts from the nomadic trading tribes and the cessation of communication from her brother the King of Alanzia, Bekah found another voice which kept her informed of events. Dahliyah was not the only healer in the royal city but she was one of the foremost, welcomed in the poorest hut as well as the palace. She said it improved her art, to learn as broadly of illness as possible, and, indeed, she had been instrumental in warding off a plague some years ago when she recognised its breeding grounds. At that time, she had saved Siamak from the fever and had won Bekah's grateful respect and thanks. The healing arts as well were interesting to Bekah, for she often surmised that more was involved than simply the application of herbs and poltices, balms and unguents.

And so it was that Bekah herself felt drawn to Dahliyah when the Healer was called in to attend to her injury. The soft and warm hands of Dahliyah gently touching the skin of her arm had soothed and calmed her and in return the Healer had found in the Queen a woman of similar age with a mind similarly keen and perceptive. And so it came about that after Dahliyah reset the splint on Bekah's arm, cleansing the skin with scented waters and soothing oils, she would often stay and talk over tea and sweet pastries which Tabari the maid always brought out in fine array.

The first visit had given Dahliyah ample opportunity to surmise the nature of the Queen's injury but she did not become a healer to the royal palace without understanding the nature and need for discretion. Perhaps it was this innate sense of discretion which allowed certain topics to be raised. Whatever it was, Dayliyah and the Queen came to talk often of the Emissary, the gift to the King, and the new context in which Pashtia found itself. Through her Bekah learnt that the people were made uneasy by this unexpected visitor and by the rapid changes in their normally placid routine. Bekah in fact learnt many things that were swept under the carpets and not discussed openly. This visit today brought many disclosures, Bekah describing her strange visions of fiery creatures and seething hatred as she watched the construction of the Tower and Dahliyah herself sharing her concerns, for this day she was greatly uneasy herself.

"You will be careful and not fall again, Majesty," Dahliyah advised as she finished the last tape which bound the Queen's arm, looking up into Bekah's eyes.

"I shall, Healer. Now I know how dangerous is the ground I tread and I will step more carefully," acknowledged the patient.

"The King will be pleased with that. I am sure he regretted your pain."

"He did, in his way. Yet he is much distracted these days. From all reports, he has other affairs to attend to."

A frown passed almost imperceptibly over Dahliyah's face, yet it did not pass unobserved.

"You are ill at ease yourself today, Healer. May a friend inquire what causes your discomfort?"

The woman leaned back in the cushions upon which they reclined and wished in her heart she could rid herself of her wound as easily as she helped relieve those of others. Yet there were others, many others, some much younger than she, who also were as pained to the point of being poisoned as she. Dahliyah decided it must be told, for a code of secrecy would only allow the beastial cruelties to continue.

"There are indeed many things happening in our city, many dark deeds which cry out for justice. Almost every day one hears stories not only of women, but of young girls who disappear or who have endured an unspeakable wound which poisons their life. Children fear to go out at night and parents watch fretfully at the door."

"Children attacked? Children? Many? I have heard nothing of this. What quarter of the city?"

"That is the troubling issue, Majesty, in that mostly the assaults occur in the poorer sections of the city. And some..." Dahliyah hesitated.

"Do not hesitate to speak the truth of what you know, my friend. We are facing so many momentous decisions that we cannot afford to silence any issue."

The Healer nodded. "At first the affronts were limited to the Aquaba quarter and then they spread to the nearby Halava section. Then, a week ago, there were two assaults near the villa of the Emissary, where he and his attendants are staying. The girls were badly harmed and as yet are mute with fear and shame."

"The Emissary's attendants. Fifty men with nothing to do. Yet are they not watched by our soldiers? "

"Majesty, our General has not been seen for some time. Our guards grow inattentive."

"And these men of the West are free to roam to satisfy their bestial urges."

Dayliyah shuddered; it was a movement the Queen could not ignore.

"You know something in particular of this? You are intimately involved? Speak, my friend, that I may offer some solace such as you have given me."

"Of the guards, no. I have merely been asked to attend to some of the families. But Majesty, the guards are not alone in their indignities."

Bekah looked directly in Dahliyah's face, her mouth forming the name that she dared not speak aloud, the name that, like The King, was spoken of with the formal address of the definite article.

Dahliyah closed her eyes, hung her head, her entire body slack with anguish. "I am a mature woman; I know life; yet never have I had my wishes ignored, my being denigrated, my self subjected to physical defilement. Except by this man who claims to be bringing peace and allegiance to our land." She opened her eyes and looked up at the Queen.

"I was returning home late, late one night, almost early morn, from attending a difficult birthing. At first, I saw nothing in the streets, but felt a cold, whispering wind, as if the walls had secrets they wanted to tell. Then behind me suddenly he appeared, a sneer on his face, a glowing sense of power in his eyes. He gloated; he grabbed me, and then he fling me aside, with a knock to the head. I awoke later, as the sun rose over the wall, and found myself bruised and bleeding."

"And now, how are you?"

"I will recover. Others will not. This cannot continue."

"Nor will it," said the Queen.

At that moment, Homay entered bearing Tabari's trays of sweets and tea. Homay's eyes showed her awareness of the conversation but her manner was the manner of all faithful servants who understand when and where to raise questions. With a nod from Bekah, she remained to share the afternoon repast, and the conversation drew on to other matters. Then, Tabari appeared, announcing that the Emissary was seen arriving at the Palace, summoned no doubt by the King.

Dahliyah rose. "I must return to my other patients."

Bekah rose also with her. "I ask you, my friend, to speak to my other friend, the High Priestess, of these matters. We must find a way to curb this influence of this false god, this Melkor."

Dahliyah bowed and withdrew, Tabari showing her out. "Tabari," called the Queen, "please send word to the Emissary that I wish to see him, if he has time." Tabari bowed acknowedgement and went out in search of him.

"Homay, you have heard the story. We must move discretely, but carefully, as the King places great trust in this man."

Homay nodded. "I will deliver what messages you wish."

"First, speak discretely to Korak of this matter, leaving out the name of the Healer but not that of the villian. We must arouse concern for our children. And ensure that the High Priestess hears as well. I would want Arlome to know as well, for perhaps she can persuade the General of the seriousness of this matter where I cannot. And, perhaps, if events prove terrible, my brother must know as well." Homay left the audience room by the Queen's private rooms, taking the private stairway which few knew of. None would know, in later days, how the Queen's concern for these events made its way around the city, for the voices of Dahliyah and Homay were protected, but it did, for always the stories of others will come to be told, however forcefully or cruelly some promote their own story as the only one.

At that moment, Tabari appeared, announcing the presence of the Emissary himself.

"You do me a great courtesy, Emissary, in finding time to speak with me when the King has called for you."

"I have learnt that in your city the influence and power of women is respected, and I come to pay my respects." The Emissary spoke these words smoothly, without a trace of sneer or irony in his voice, for he was apprehensive over the apparent rift between the King and Queen. Neither his Lord Annatar nor he had counted upon the Queen having such influence and he wished his mission to proceed successfully.

"You speak of respect for women. Your words are aptly made, for that is the subject I wished to address with you." As Bekah spoke with the man she watched him idly fingering something in his pocket, a mannerism she had recently seen Faroz take up. Is it possible there are two rings? She wondered. Does this foreign Lord earn homage and fealty through an object? In the background thunder could be heard and the clouds overhead massed to block the rays of sunlight which had flooded into the Queen's audience room. Bekah could feel the earlier ferment of hatred and fear return, creating icy prickles in her hands, arms, feet.

"There are reports of indignities visited upon our women. Troubling reports."

"Are these new reports?" commented the Emissary. "Surely such things are always with any culture."

"That would appear to be your understanding of people. Your god Melkor seems to favour brutality and cruelty. Our goddess does not. Nor our god." Bekah was not sure this was the best approach to take with the Emissary, but it was one she felt compelled to for some reason. And it was not, at least, the approach which in the short term resolved matters between them. For his part, as the interview grew more and more hostile, the Emissary began privately to curse to himself that Faroz was a fool for making an adversary of his wife instead of a helpmate. When she confronted him with his own involvement in events, he could contain his anger no longer.

"You fool. What do you know of events that are approaching? What concern is it of yours?"

"A concern of my people, whom I serve." At this point, Beka felt a blue rage of anger for this man who was destroyed everything she had spent her adult life trying to create.

"A former enemy? Serves her people?" He laughed, and as he did so the storm clouds broke and the tower was engulfed with a dark mist which seeped into the royal palace. Ashnaz felt an arrogant power stream into him as the thought that this woman could not be silenced with words entered his mind. He tightened his grip on the ring hidden under the folds of his tunic and he walked towards her menacingly. Bekah took two steps back towards the table which held the remains of the afternoon tea. When the Emissary lunged at her, she grabbed a knife and thrust it at his face, aiming for his eye. She barely missed, but left instead a deep trail of cut flesh down his face from forehead to jawline. He reached for her wounded arm, but she repeatedly slashed and stabbed with the knife, cutting his shoulder, his arm, his chest, until finally she had rent his tunic so much that the pocket was torn. The ring fell to the marble floor with a hollow ping and rolled away under the cushions.

Ashnaz roared with fury and heartbreak at the loss of his ring, but his howls were lost in the thunder. Eyes red with rage he stormed the smaller women, bringing his hands to her throat, his long fingers digging deeply into her flesh, cutting off her voice. She fell backwards and he overtop of her, energy surging into his hands as they pressed down, breaking bone, cartilage, windpipe. Bekah could at first see into his eyes, see a manical evil light them. Then as her vision dimmed she appealed to her goddess. "Rhais, Rhais, do not allow these male gods to win. They will enslave us. They will kill us. They will destroy you. Rhais."

How long Ashnaz lay there, his hands tight around Bekah's neck, he did not know. A streak of lightning burst through his senses and he climbed to his knees, searching desperately for his ring. Finding it finally, he struggled, his hands shaking, to put it on, his silent sobs subsiding once he felt the oneness with Annatar. Clarity broke through into his mind and he thought swiftly of what he must do. He tidied the scene, arranging the cushions, returning the knife to the table. His blood which had spattered was now, like himself, invisible, but his wounds remained.

He looked around, saw out the balcony window an opportunity, and decided upon it. He lifted Bekah's body, feeling it still warm and soft and supple and smelling the light scents of her perfumes and bathwaters lingering over her. He breathed deeply. She had been a handsome woman. Then he staggered to the railing, calling upon the powers of his Lord Annatar and his god Melkor, and knocked some pieces of stonework over. He threw the body of the Queen after them. She landed arms outstretched, a sandal knocked off her foot, in her garden, at the foot of the statue to Rhais, where he had once watched her worship. He swore, cursed the feeble flesh of woman, and disappeared into the secret reaches of the palace which Khamal had disclosed to him.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

The rain was pouring from the roofs of the Palace in cataracts as Rae visited his fury upon the hapless form of Rhais. His water carved deep channels through the earth, washing away whole banks of the River, causing it to twist about and shift, like a serpent in its own death throes. The sands of the dessert, just beyond the frail verdant strip of land that clung to the edges of the River, was turned to mud that slipped and sucked at the feet of those travelers unfortunate enough to be caught in the open by the deluge. In the streets and ways of Kanak, people ran for shelter in doorways and beneath such trees as they could find, but the waters rose and the streets became small rivers of muddy water. In the poorer quarters, entire households had their earth-packed floors become slippery muck that ruined their goods. In the richer homes, the torrent flooded the central courtyards and servants were hurriedly dispatched to bail away the waters before they breached the homes and ruined the silks and furniture of the nobility. The fury of the storm was great, and many in the City cast their eyes to the new Temple. Some felt that the God was angered in some way, while others hoped that He might see the new structure and take pity on them.

From out of the west there raced a solitary horseman. The animal had been cruelly driven beyond the endurance of mortal flesh, and its sides streamed with a thick foam of sweat that withstood even the punishment of the rain. His rider bore armour upon his back that had been rent and tattered almost beyond recognition, and his eyes were as red and ragged as his mounts. Those who still remained out of doors paused in wonderment as the rider tore along the road toward the City, the hooves of his tormented horse creating an endless series of geysers as they charged through the water that churned toward the River, seeking there the welcome embrace of Rhais after its torment by Rae.

In the Palace, the wailing of women could be heard even above the roar of the wind and of the water that fell in droves upon the garden. A sodden form, its humanity still lingering but slowly fading by the moment, lay upon the floor of the grand hall. About it there spread a pool of gentle pink as the rain from its garments mixed with the blood, forming a puddle upon the marble floor. The old woman Homay knelt by the form, beating her breast and crying out a grief that none there could understand, for she spoke now in her tongue of old. It was the first time that any had dared speak the language of Alanazia in that hall, but no-one tried to stop her. Beside her knelt the healer Dahliyah, gazing down, her own lamentations mixing with those of the aged Nurse. She had come immediately but there had never been any hope for the wretched wreck of humanity that they had brought before her. One look at her neck had told her the tale of violence that had unfolded. Behind the women stood two more forms: the aged Chamberlain Jarult gazed downward as though he had seen the end of the world, his hand mechanically making the old sign of warding against evil, over and over again. Beside him was the Lady Arshalous, and though she was soundless her eyes were large with terror at what had befallen. Surrounding these few figures, removed by a slight distance as though in respect or fear, were dozens of courtiers, soldiers and servants. Neither rank nor privilege was observed as they ranged about the ragged form: noble stood shoulder to shoulder with serving girl, and soldiers shed tears while aged women looked on dry-eyed with shock.

In a far corner, lost almost in the shadows that clung there, was the lone form of the King. He crouched into himself, his cloak cast about his head. Neither guilt nor terror nor grief had penetrated his mind yet, for at the sight of his wife’s body, ravaged and shattered, his world had become a mighty white blank and all he could feel was the overwhelming numbness of a loss unlooked for, and incomprehensible. He repeated to himself over and over, he did not know why, “I did not love her. I did not love her.” It was a confession. It was a lament. It was an accusation.

After a time a hand touched him upon the shoulder and he turned to look into the eyes of the healer. Her gaze was hard and she was speaking to the King, but he could not hear her for the roar of the rain – or perhaps it was the pounding of his heart. She spoke again, firmly but not unkindly. “Khamul,” she said, “your wife needs you.”

“What?” he stammered stupidly.

“She requires the final purification, majesty. The day is already well advanced and with this rain it will be difficult to build a sufficient pyre by morning. We must begin immediately.”

“Yes,” he said as though he were a statue new come to life. “The pyre. We must build the pyre by tomorrow. She cannot wait longer than that.”

“No,” she said soothingly, taking him by the hand and leading him through the crowd toward the Queen. “We women shall prepare her for the journey, but her husband must begin the purification. Oil has been brought, all you need do is anoint her eyes. Then we shall wash her and wrap her in silk, the pyre shall be built and tomorrow your children will lay her upon it.” She spoke these home truths to calm the King, and to give him something familiar to cling to. She knew how important these rites became to those who had to go through them. At the time of loss, the mind shuts down and refuses to act – only ritual gave it any form or movement. As she led the King forward she felt the familiar listlessness of grief in his arm, but she noted that his other hand clutched at his heart in a fist so tight that his tunic was bunched into a painful knot. She sensed then a terrible coldness radiating from the King, and centered upon whatever it was that lay beneath the folds of his silk. It was a familiar sensation, and painfully so, for she had felt the same when she had been attacked by the Emissary. The shock of recognition was so great that her step faltered and she almost let go the King’s hand but she composed herself in time and led him on.

The crowd parted and Faroz went toward Bekah. She was cold to the touch now and he knelt down to look at her. She was still lovely, and in the moment that he regarded her the lifetime that they had spent together came to him clearly. He had not loved her, but he had depended upon her and respected her. The memory of the last time that they had been so close came to him like a knife in the chest, and his eyes lingered upon the splints that were wrapped about her arm. In that second he felt as though he were responsible for her death and could almost have leapt to his feet and confessed to the crime, but for the weight of the Ring about his neck which bore him down. A small plain bowl with some oil in it had been placed upon the floor near her head, and he reached out to put some on his finger. His gaze went to the hideous marks upon her throat, the shape of her murderer’s hands clearly outlined in black upon her skin. Her eyes were still open and they stared at him, but he felt in them neither reproach nor forgiveness, for they were as lifeless as stone. He closed them, and anointed the lids with the cleansing oil to prepare her for her journey. He spoke the ritual words: “Farewell my wife, and my Lady. May you find peace and honour among the dead as you did in life. Those of us who remain will ever remember you and turn to your shade for guidance. Watch over our children, and await me in the next world when I shall come to you and enclose you in my arms once more.” His eyes closed and the first tears came. “Forgive me, Bekah.”

[Nurumaiel]

Lord Korak led the Princess into his mother's chamber, where she stood by the fire. She turned when she saw them, and hastened to them. She curtsied to the Princess, and Korak leaned forward to kiss her cheek briefly. She looked the two of them up and down. "You're both quite wet from this rain," she said. "Korak, hasten to your room at once and change into something dry. Highness, perhaps you would not object to wearing some gown of mine... we will hang your own by the fire to dry."

"What foul weather," said Korak, his voice low and grumbling. "This will certainly delay the builders."

"But aside from that, you are light-hearted, son?" Lady Hababa questioned.

"Aside from that, I am light-hearted," he replied, and he departed, wondering if it were really true. What was there to bother him? All things were going the way he wanted them to go. The temple was being built, he was to marry the Princess soon, and he had, for once in his life, spoken to Arshalous in a way which left her room only for feeble answers. Yet he seemed caught in a mire, sinking slowly, yet steadily.

Lady Hababa turned to the Princess with a shudder. "My heart is not light," she said. "I fear that some great evil will fall upon us. I feel that some great evil has already befallen." She sank onto a chair, and sat there shivering for some time, while Gjeelea went into the inner chamber to change. When the Princess returned, clad in one of the old woman's loose gowns, she brightened somewhat and took the wet clothes from the Princess' arms, draping them over the back of a chair by the fire. Then she gestured for the Princess to sit down, while she flitted here and there, straightening things up. "It is always a great comfort to me to work," she said. "It keeps my mind occupied, and banishes, for a time at least, the thought of dark things."

"You fear that dark things are at hand?" said Princess Gjeelea.

"I do, at times," said Lady Hababa. "Yet, Highness, you mustn't listen to the worries of a tottering old woman. My mind is always uneasy in a storm, and when my son is away I worry for him. Perhaps it is the fact that he has spoken to the Lady Arshalous more often lately. Their spiteful words are certainly not music to my ears! Nay, my fears are groundless, I am sure, and merely brought by my recent worries. Now let us talk of cheerier things, for I hear my son's step in hallway."

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

Lady Hababa brought a smile to Gjeelea's face; something about the woman was unbelievably kind and warm. For a moment the princess wondered why Lord Korak grew to be a man of such grim bitterness. Lord Korak entered and sat on the other side of the room, away from Gjeelea. A slightly perplexed look came across Lady Hababa's aging face, but she dismissed it and sat on a cushioned chair between the betrothed couple.

"It is cheery news indeed, Lady Hababa, that we should be married within the month," Gjeelea murmured, looking down at her lap as she spoke. Her voice was indifferent and uncaring. What other current affairs could be considered as 'cheery'? The princess wondered at the lack of actual happiness in her life. "Surely it pleases Korak?"

"Indeed," Korak uttered the simple agreement in a low grumble, an impatient grunt that brought Gjeelea's gaze flickering upward to meet his. Outside, a similarly low, almost inaudible rumble could be heard. Thunder? Gjeelea worried suddenly.

"Oh, this weather is truly dreadful," Lady Hababa complained, glancing over at the chair upon which Gjeelea's wet clothes were hung to dry. Then she looked to Gjeelea. "You really should stay until the storm is over."

"If it does not trouble you," Gjeelea said with a false smile. "I would very much enjoy your company until the storm passes."

"That is well then," Lady Hababa smiled as well. She looked at her son. "When will the wedding take place?"

[Imladris]

Arshalous shivered in the rain and wiped her dripping hair from her face. At her feet was the body of the queen -- her queen. Stone was scattered about her limp form as if the balcony had crumbled beneath her, letting her fall to the ground below. Thunder clapped and lightening flickered in the darkened sky. Arshalous' heart chilled as she saw the red marks that stained the queen's fine throat. No...she had not met her death that way...she had fallen. Doubt gnawed at her as she stared at the marks...but then she turned away. She must not think of that and she must not find out if her suspicions were true. Such knowledge would be deadly she was sure...

She turned away and rushed to her home. She was weary, she was frightened by the events of the day. She refused to think of her aunt, the mother of Korak...she cringed at the thought of grief that would surely be on Hababa's face when she discovered the plottings that had been whispered in the dark.

But right now she did not want to think about the plots, the deception, the strangeness of the Queen's death. The haunted, cold lump in her stomach was going to be ignored, washed away by a cup of soothing tea. Semra made such excellent tea...

"Semra!" she called, wringing her sodden garments at the door step. Her call echoed in the vast halls of her villa and there was no patter of footsteps or the answering call of her servant.

Arshalous licked her lips. Semra had never ignored her before she had always been a faithful servant. "Semra!" Maybe she had fallen alseep or was buried in a story that Arshalous had given her leave to read...Arshalous hurried to Semra's small bedroom but found it empty. "Semra!" she shouted, trying to stifle the vague feeling of concern.

Arshalous stared at the pouring rain, trying not to think of the rumours that were whispered of monsters of stories now arisen praying upon children and women. Surely one would not dare enter the house of noble. But...and she could not shake this gnawing thought...but what if one of them had been responsible for the queen's death?

With a surge of fear, Arshalous darted outside, running, trying to find Semra. She calmed her pace, laughing at herself. She was being a fool, letting the wild imaginings of children take hold of her.

She heard a moan, and she turned. Semra was there, lying in a puddle. Mud streaked her pallid cheeks, a tear trembled on her eyelash. She was as cold, oh so very cold.

"Semra!" Arshalous whispered, taking the girl in her arms and kissing her forehead. "What happened to you?"

Arshalous carried Semra into the villa, washed her face, made her warm. Soon Semra's eyes flickered open and she whimpered softly. "It was horrible my lady....there was a shadow darker than the blackest night and he came near to me, and I felt a chill wind that seeped into my body, driving all warmth from it. I was filled with fear, and...and the next I knew you were there and I was here. But it was so terrible my lady...it was as if I could feel an echo of the thing's being, and it was...devoid of all good thing..."

Arshalous stared at the wall and paced before the fire. "Oh Rhais," she whispered, "what has become of us?"

[Nurumaiel]

"The precise date is not yet settled, Mother," said Korak, drawing his gaze from the fire to her face. Something was stirring within him. He felt restless, nervous. Was it merely because he found himself under the scrutiny of both his mother and the Princess? Perhaps the ominous rumbling of the thunder put him ill at ease. "We must speak with her father the King, of course," he went on, keeping his voice even with great effort, "and we must also speak the matter over with you. We want to ascertain that both her family and my own are able to attend on the day we set. But, as my Princess says, it will certainly be within the month." He glanced at her from the corner of his eye.

Lady Hababa saw the glance, and saw also that it contained no tender love in it, not even an emotion concealed deep within. His possessive use of the word 'Princess' rang false, as if he were merely putting on a show. Lady Hababa started. Was he merely putting on a show? She had known for a long time that his first reason to marry the Princess was to put himself in a position to be King, but it had never occurred to her that he cared nothing for her, save that she should put him in power by her lineage. Lady Hababa felt a wave of what was almost anger pass through her. If he married the Princess he would make his life miserable, and her life miserable as well. He could not be happy wed to one he did not love. She resolved to speak to the Princess about the matter as soon as they had a moment alone.

There was a silence. The fire crackled and sparked, the one cheery thing in the room. A gloom seemed to have settled upon all. Gjeelea looked very ill at ease; Korak fidgeted restlessly in his chair and cast nervous glances here and there; Lady Hababa sat tall and straight and pale.

"Confound the weather!" Lord Korak burst out, standing up and beginning to pace back and forth. "How uneasy it makes me! I feel as if a host of dark creatures were pounding at my door and bidding me let them in so they could cast me into pits of despair." He cast himself in the chair again, but only a few moments had passed before he was on his feet and pacing again. Lady Hababa sat motionless and silent, unable to think of one word of cheer. Cheer, and all hopes of it, had vanished, and only a dark, creeping gloom remained.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

The rider achieved the Palace only to find it in uproar. Servants and courtiers alike were streaming from the building, braving even the fury of Rae, to spill forth their news upon the City. It came to him in snatches, fragmentary words that flew by him in the howling rain like the cries of nightmare. The Queen was dead, murdered in her own chambers by an invisible terror that none could find. The King had ordered that the Palace be searched and that the City itself be sealed. Even as the rider handed the reins of his shattered mount to a trembling servant, the stables were emptying as messengers were dispatched to all corners of Kanak. The Port was to be closed, the great gates shut. The nobles with estates in the countryside raced to get out of the city before all escape was denied them, but the messengers of the Court rode like men possessed, and few would be able to return to their beds this night. The message of the outrage spread through the city like flame, leaping from rooftop to rooftop almost without the benefit of tongues to give it voice, and as the rain intensified in its fury, the City of Kanak gathered itself beneath the funereal pall of the clouds and awaited the hammerstroke of doom.

The rider staggered into the great hall, directed there by the guards who recognised immediately the token that he bore. With a glance he took in the full horror that had come over his world. The Queen was being taken from the room upon a bier by the women who would tend her this night, while the King sat upon his divan looking at no-one and saying nothing. The Chamberlain was stooped before Khamul, as though awaiting orders that might never come. Few others remained, for a mad panic had seemed to grip the Court and having no other direction, the people fled back to their homes like frightened animals. The rider knew his duty, however, and he strode toward the dais, his left hand holding aloft the broken sword that was his token, and in his right hand he clutched a filthy canvas bag in which something of rough shape dangled like a grotesque fruit.

The King’s eyes took in the sight of the shattered weapon that the messenger bore. He looked at the rider’s mud- and blood-spattered raiment and he knew that this day’s feast of horrors had not yet come to an end. The rider fell to his knees at the foot of the dais and laid the sword upon the lowest step. At the same time, he set the bag with its contents upon the floor next to him, and those who saw the motion noted how he seemed to avoid contact with it as much as he could. “Hail Khamul!” the rider croaked through a throat made raw with the dust and toil of many hard miles ridden at great speed. “I am Barak, son of Arghal, third arant of the Viper battalion.”

The King’s own voice was raw and naked as he made the customary reply. “Greetings Barak, son of Arghal. What news from the Vipers?”

“None, my King, for the dead send no news.” The young man, for young he was, his beard was but little more than a long stubble upon his chin, faltered in his message.

“The dead?” the King echoed, but this time with more animation. “He who bears the broken sword should not speak in riddles. What has happened to the Vipers?”

“They are destroyed, Khamul. Only myself and three others remain, and they were too sorely wounded to make the journey with me to speak of our doom. I brought them as far as the town of Carthan and left them there with the women.” The court fell silent. An entire battalion? The thought swept through everyone there and all eyes turned to the King.

Faroz sat up straight, and his eyes fired with rage. “You lie!” he cried in despair.

“No,” the young man’s voice cracked and tears began to mingle with the rainwater that streaked his face. “I do not, Majesty. We were attacked by a horde of…of monsters! They were many, and they fought like…like nothing I’ve ever seen! Animals show more care for their well being. But these creatures came at us again and again with such reckless hate. We slew them in their hundreds but still they came, seeming only to become angered by their losses to greater fury. They killed everyone, majesty, I alone and my companions escaped to warn you of these demons!”

The King rose up and strode down from his seat to strike the rider across the face. The sound of the blow echoed through the chamber like a thunderclap. The young man’s eyes grew wide with terror. “Command yourself!” the King said sternly. “You speak of demons and monsters, but I know the truth. Your battalion was waylaid by nomads of the desert and you fled in terror for your lives.”

“No, my King!” the rider cried. “Behold the truth of my tale!” he snatched up the bag and opened it, but before he could draw forth its contents the material slipped from his grasp and fell to the floor and its terrible cargo spilled forth. A bloody mass rolled a few feet and then stopped against the lowest step of the dais, right by the King’s foot. It was a head, but the face upon that head was certainly not human. Glaring yellow eyes and sharpened fangs leered up at those who looked at it. Even dead and wretched as it was, the cruelty and malice that had driven it in life was evident in its features. The Court recoiled in terror at the sight.

Faroz kneeled to look more closely at the creature. He spoke softly to Barak. “You have not told us all that you saw yet.”

“No,” he replied. “These beasts were not alone, Khamul. There were Men there with them. Men who did not fight, but who drove the monsters on, lashing them and screaming at them to fight, though such efforts hardly seemed necessary…”

“These men,” Faroz said, “you recognised them?”

“Yes, Khamul. They were Alanzian soldiers.”

There was a deep and resonant silence in the great hall as the King and his people took this in. The rain poured on in the courtyard ceaselessly and the clouds rolled overhead. When the King spoke, his words, though quiet, carried to all corners of the room. “Jarult, summon my children, they must be told of their mother’s death. Send also for the High Priest and Priestess for they must prepare my wife’s funeral. The entire city shall observe the Mourning Watch this night: see to it that all homes burn a censor of incense to her memory, and order that all women do lamentation for their departed Mother.” The Chamberlain bowed and began to go, but the King spoke one more command to him. “Call also for my General, and all nobles of the first rank. We shall prepare a Council for War.”

[Kransha]

“You have an answer to my question, High Priestess?”

Morgôs Elrigon felt as if he had been waiting hours for Zamara to answer, in reality, he had no idea how long it had been since he posed his question, for the passage of time seemed warped. Outside, the ominous day had turned into a monumental storm, rain beating on the marble roof of the temple like ironclad stones beating against supple huts in the wilderness. Thunder clapped furiously, summoning a whirlwind to whistle noisily as each clap stirred up the other members of the cosmic audience to stir into a cacophonous standing ovation. Lightning forks jutted across the sky and, though Morgôs could not see those bolts through the temple ceiling, he sensed their livid movements throughout the heavens. On sky and on earth, something was wrong. Whatever gods existed beyond the sphere of mortal understanding were very, very angry.

Even though it had taken some time for any response to come, the High Priestess still hesitated before her reply came. “Not at this time, no.” She said at last, but was subdued. Morgôs, looking at her with a mixture of interest, annoyance, and sudden concern realized that she knew, just as he did, that something was terribly wrong in the world. She, though, did not wince painfully as he did when each roll of thunder boomed, and the elf’s frame was continually racked with half-convulsions as the storm grew worse. His ears felt a searing heat and he tried to hide the many lances of pain that had suddenly begun to spin in his head and lurch in his stomach, but he could no longer appear intimidating. Still, he felt he owed the High Priestess something for all the shadowy memories she had forced him to relive.

The two of them had now entered a broad hallway that led from the courtyard back into the main room of the temple and antechamber, one lined with elegant statues of Rhais in several poses, or of former religious figures (all smaller than the great statue in the main room). Here, as they stopped before one looming piece of statuary, Morgôs spoke darkly. “You would pursue me with questions of such a personal nature for no reason?” He said, his demeanor falsely calm, but Zamara, still looking away, shook her head weakly, which surprised the General. “No; not for no reason. I have one, but think it best if it remains my own. I will ask no more.” She was very subdued, so much that Morgôs was confused by her change of attitude and altered state. Feeling as if her own nature had infected him, he baited her again.

“What, no more persistence?” He said, a grim laugh coming from him, “You have chased me this far, will you chase no further. I hope I have not finally eluded the huntress of Rhais.” Zamara looked at him then, and he stopped, his mouth still half open. In her eyes, he saw a look of detachment. The storm was drawing her attention, and perhaps some prayer. Quietly, she said, “General, please, no more of this.” And turned away, looking to the other side of the hall. Morgôs’ look soured again.

“Your god is displeased, I see, and is venting her anger on us through rain.” He gestured to the roof, though naught could be seen through it, “Perhaps it is I who is angering her. I will not occupy any more of your precious time.” He said this spitefully, but kept his voice down. The Elf had to admit, he felt strange, almost sick. He ached all over, and his mood was so erratic even he could not predict his next actions. Trying to bottle up the cavalcade of feelings flowing in and out, he also turned and began to head down the hall.

“I am sorry you are so offended.” Zamara’s voice, apologetic but still detached, stopped him. The General wanted to leave, he was desperate to, and he knew that saying another word might doom him, but he could not move. His legs were not his anymore and, though his eyes still saw, they saw not for him, but for another being. The mighty elf of great and terrible power could not push himself down the hall. Though his soul screamed for him to be silent, he spoke again. “Nay,” he said, “I am not offended by you or your audacity.” He drifted off, as if into an eerie dream, “It is something else that gnaws at me.”

“And what is that?”

Morgôs was just about done, he had meant to bait her, but he had forgotten that he might be successful. Now, this new thing that had possessed him kept him here against his will. The conversation had tired him out so much that he felt as if he would go to sleep when he arrived at home and slumber for days. He would certainly postpone his lesson with Siamak, indeed, for the rain outside was of a kind that he had never heard before in temperate Pashtia, and the storm was not auspicious for riding or travel of any kind. The weary General of Pashtia resolved to answer swiftly and head back to his estate to rest; he sorely needed some moments of tranquility after the level of intensity he had poured into his talks with Zamara. If only he could get out of this forsaken temple. His last nerve wavering unsteadily, ready to snap, Morgôs turned back to Zamara with an icy look and opened his mouth to speak.

Before he could say anything he was interrupted by a sound that chilled him to the bone…

He barely had time to look up as the statue standing atop the pedestal beside him emitted a horrific creaking sound and toppled from its hold on the mount, staggering forward like a living being, its shadow engulfing both elf and priestess. Without time to think, Morgôs threw himself forward, ramming into the completely bewildered High Priestess, and thrust himself and her a good distance away, skidding to a stop on the tiles. As Morgôs felt the cold floor shoved up beneath him, it shook, and an explosion of dust burst above and below him. Everything happened in an instant and, before the Elf knew what was happening, the earth had been rattled, and a terrific thunder clap from above sounded.

Without actually considering his actions, Morgôs jumped to his feet, looking around frantically. He waved his arms to clear the dust, coughing and wheezing as it filled his lungs. His keen eyes moved to the site of the fallen statue’s foundation involuntarily, and he saw another dark sight. Behind the crumbled pedestal, a shadowy figure stood, it’s back hunched. In the smog, Morgôs could barely make out the figure’s silhouette, and he batted the waves of dust aside, hurrying towards it. As he neared it, it became clearer, taking real shape – mannish shape. It was a black-clad thing, hunched over at a pivotal position behind the statue’s ruined form. This man must have sawed at the statue’s foundation, for it was far too sturdy to fall over on its own. Blinking the debris from his red-rimmed eyes, Morgôs tried to focus on the figure in the mist, his legs carrying him towards it at a great speed. Without even trying, he leapt over the great slabs of broken marble and alabaster, but slowed suddenly as he saw a pale gleam, a shaft of light burst from the figure and stream through the curtain of settling dust, heading straight for him.

He did not feel the shaft of light pierce him when it did, he only saw it. As his vision finally became clear, and the dust fell to the floor in heaps around him, the shaft took shape – it was a dagger, embedded in the flesh of his upper left arm. The area was numb, as was all of his body, and as the crimson blood flooded from the wound, he felt no loss of life blood in his arm. He felt nothing at all. The General did not see his own hand move to the dagger in his arm and yank it out with cold efficiency. He did not realize his legs were moving, or that he was gripping the dagger’s bloodstained metal hilt firmly in his fist. He did not feel his legs push up and send him into a mad lunge at the figure behind the pedestal. No thought or sight or smell or feeling of any kind ran through him as the Elven General flew through the air and landed, the dagger coated with his own blood turned down, atop the dark figure. As the shadowy silhouette rushed up to meet him, he saw only blackness, and felt no more…

…Morgôs’ eyes opened and became his again several seconds later, and he found himself leaning against the broken pedestal, liquid gules seeping between his open lips. Pain was real again, as was his body and soul. He was again in possession of himself. He felt as if he should be relieved, but, with his form his own, he felt all the pain he had not felt before, and was overwhelmed by a terrific explosion of agony, radiating from his wound to the rest of him. He shuddered, and drifted down the pedestal until he was half-sitting, half-lying on the floor, staring blankly forward.

On the floor, several feet away, lay the dark figure, though he was no longer dark in appearance. His ragged cloak and black attire had been stripped away, torn to ribbons, revealing a mortal man beneath the layers of cloth concealment. The man lay on his back in a pool of his own blood, many great wounds in his chest and a long gash through his neck. His upper half had been rendered totally bare by a struggle and the wounds in him so deep that they reached through his whole form and out the other side of him. Morgôs grimaced at the sight, and looked fearfully at his own hand, that which held the dagger, only to see what he’d expected: The dagger, his hand, and almost all of his arm was soaked with wet crimson, and not his own.

His eyes, vision now very blurred, turned back upon the body. He saw nothing noticeable about the man, no special features, save one. On his bare arm was a symbol, tattooed into the willing flesh there. It was a black sun, rimmed with knife-points that surrounded the sun like its rays. All this was encompassed in a mystical lozenge. Morgos recognized the symbol. It was the device of a coven of assassins whom he had dealt with before, but not for over a century. He had never expected to see their kind again, for they hailed from the one place he thought would dare not send hired assassins to kill the people who were now their allies.

“Alanzia.” He whispered, through another river of blood, and slumped into unconsciousness.

[Firefoot]

As the storm had picked up, flooding the streets and pounding on the roofs of Kanak, Siamak had stepped back inside the temple. To his surprise neither Morgôs nor Zamara were in sight, and he was alone in the large room. Perhaps the two had had more important matters to discuss than he had realized and wanted some privacy. Intriguing, indeed.

At that moment a messenger, soaked through from the rain, pushed through the temple doors. “High Priestess?” he called out, not so loud as to be improper in the temple but certainly loud enough to be heard should the High Priestess be anywhere nearby. There was no response. Then the messenger caught sight of Siamak, saying, “Oh, my Prince, you are needed at the palace, too. Evil things have befallen this day!” Siamak took the man in quickly. He was genuinely distraught, and a feeling of dread fell over Siamak.

“What has happened? Speak quickly!” he ordered.

“The queen... she has been murdered,” cried the man. An icy shock ran over Siamak. His mother - dead? How could this be?

“How did this come about?” demanded Siamak, feeling rather short of breath. A shadow passed over the man’s face.

“I do not know. She was found only a short while ago,” he answered. “But there is more.” The man was cut off sharply by a loud sound resounding through the temple. This wasn’t right. The messenger’s news could wait - Siamak had to find out what was wrong.

“Come with me,” said Siamak, and strode off toward the back of the temple. The man hastened after, nearly jogging to keep the pace. Siamak randomly selected a door at the back of the temple and plunged through it. He was met by a cloud of dust, irritating his eyes and making him cough. He could not tell which direction it was coming from.

“You go that way,” Siamak told the messenger. “Try to find the High Priestess. General Morgôs is with her.” The messenger obeyed and Siamak took the other direction. Rounding a corner, he found the source of the noise. The scene was almost too much to take in. It seemed a fight had taken place. A large marble statue had been overturned and broken, its pieces shattered. Behind it lay a darkly-clad man, his upper arm tattooed. Siamak vaguely recognized the symbol but could not place it. He realized the man was dead, spattered in his own blood. Nearby, lay the General. Siamak dropped down beside him, making sure he lived. Siamak was relieved to find it was so, but even in his lack of medical knowledge, he knew that Morgôs needed help quickly. He was covered in blood, whether his own or that of the dead man, Siamak was unsure. Siamak realized it was Morgôs’ arm that was wounded, and that he was losing blood quickly. He looked around frantically for something to stop the flow. His gaze lit on the dead man and the cloak which had been torn from his body. It was shredded, but Siamak was desperate and he hastened to retrieve any usable cloth from the dead man’s clothing. He wrapped the cloth tightly about the General’s arm, and though the black cloth was quickly bloodied, Siamak hoped that the blood flow would slow. He needed help. Where was that messenger? And where was the High Priestess?

Siamak sat back on his heels, unsure of what to do. Who would attack a temple? His eyes strayed again to the strange man’s tattoo. Black sun... knives... He knew he had heard of it somewhere. But where? Had the messenger come to warn him of attack? Suddenly Siamak feared that there might be more of these men hiding somewhere. Having no weapon of his own with him, Siamak pried the bloody knife from Morgôs’ grip, strong even in unconsciousness. Now armed, Siamak rose from his crouched position. The messenger had still not returned, and he needed to find help. Before leaving, though, he looked around once more, and a figure which had previously eluded his sight caught his eye. It was Zamara, lying on the tile floor. Siamak hurried over.

She was slightly dazed, but seemingly unhurt. Siamak had no time to waste, and he told her, “I’m going for help,” and hurried off. He passed through the hallways, heedless of the various statues lining the walls. Up ahead, he spotted the messenger and called out to him.

“Have you found them?” the man asked. Siamak nodded briskly. “The General is wounded, badly, I think, but the Priestess is seemingly all right. They were attacked.”

“Dear Rhais,” breathed the man. “Has Alanzia come even to your temple?” Siamak looked to the man sharply. He knew that symbol on the man’s arm was familiar! It belonged to Alanzian culture. That war was long over! What was happening to the world?

“Quickly, now, what was the rest of your news?” asked Siamak, fearing the worst.

“Our army was attacked by Alanzia. They are aided by strange monsters as none have ever seen,” answered the man. Fear was in his eyes. “We prepare for war.” Siamak closed his eyes, breathing deeply. Dear Rhais... What was he to do?

“Listen closely,” said Siamak with much more assurance than he felt. “I will go on to the palace to get help. I am needed there, and I will send a healer. The General and the High Priestess are that way.” He pointed. “Help them as best you can. I do not think there are any more Alanzians around, but be wary. Take this knife.” He handed the messenger the knife, and in doing so Siamak realized it was actually Alanzian craft and not the General’s as he had before assumed.

“Yes, my Prince,” said the man and hurried off with a brief bow.

Hoping he had made the right decision, Siamak departed from the temple. He took the messenger’s horse, tied outside the temple. He rode as hard as he dared in the treacherous footing, and then a little faster. The storm howled about him, and he was quickly soaked. He was numb to all emotion. His mother was dead and Pashtia was without a queen and all in the same day Alanzia had attacked them, seemingly without cause. Were the two connected? He would have to think it through later, when there was time to think. Now he had no time for anything but action.

As he came closer to the palace he saw more and more people despite the raging storm, most heading away from the palace. The snatches of rumor that met his ears were outrageous. The queen and king, not to mention himself and Gjeelea, were all dead, the whole army had been destroyed in a surprise attack, trade had been stopped, and monsters were descending upon the city to make it out from their tales. Even the Emissary, who had previously been mostly forgotten by common folk, had made it into some people’s tales. There was no telling where fact and fiction met.

The palace itself was only slightly less chaotic than the streets. He dismounted, handing the reins to a nearby servant, and hurried on into the palace. Guards were everywhere, and none of the servants appeared to be going about their business. He headed straight as he could to the great hall. He needed help for the General, to tell the King of his news, and to find out what was going on. Yes, he thought, the world really has turned up-side down this day.

[alaklondewen]

A bright flash illuminated the sitting room where Arlomë paced across the luxurious rug that ran its length. Rolling thunder followed and the elf rubbed the chill from her arms. “I tell you, Evrathol, something is not right.” Arlomë paused momentarily to look over her son who was nestled in the pillows of the long sofa that faced the fire. Evrathol said nothing, and she continued her course. This had been a strange day indeed. First, her confrontation with Morgôs had led to her first glances of the images that haunted her husband’s mind, but she had not had the time to truly consider the implications of these sketches, however, due to the unexpected visit from the Emissary. That man was dark…and cold. He was a brilliant performer…she could not deny that, but underneath, in the recesses that lay behind his bright eyes, a power the likes of which the elf had not seen for many lifetimes of men rolled and intensely filled him like smoke fills a bottle. The elf ran the meeting through her mind and wondered at the keen interest and knowledge the Emissary had dealing with the properties of the flora that were contained within her garden. More specifically, he asked her about several interactions the plants might have when heated or their extracts combined. Arlomë stopped again, this time in front of the large picture window that overlooked the courtyard. Spinning on her heel, she said, “I do not believe, for a moment, that man had a healthy interest in how our plants might lead to new medicines in his country. He is hiding something. The truth was not what he presented, but something dark.”

“I do not disagree with you, mother.” Evrathol sat forward, putting his elbows on his knees. “There is something else, I believe, that is going on. Do you feel it?”

“I do,” she said softly. Her eyes drifted down to her slender hands as she nervously ran her thumbs across the tops of her fingernails. After only half of an hour had passed in the gardens, the Emissary had suddenly behaved very strangely. The sky was darkening and it seemed rain was imminent, when he sharply turned his head toward the darkest clouds and narrowed his eyes as though he was reading or making out words from far away. Almost immediately afterward he jolted from the bench, thanking Arlomë quickly, and rather ungraciously, and then bolted from the estate, saying he had a meeting with the King. As though the whole affair did not make her uneasy enough, shortly after his departure, a feeling of dread had fallen on the Avari estate. At first, Arlomë had shaken it off as resulting from the terrible storm that began to rage outside, and she wondered at how Rae repaid the people of Kanak for building a temple to him. At this moment, however, she felt as though some evil was at work, although she knew not how or what actions had fallen upon the city.

“I can go out and seek word if anything has happened this day.” Evrathol offered.

“No, no, son. I would not wish you to brave this storm.” Arlomë turned toward the window again and watched the water beat her beautiful plants and fill the puddles of her pathways.

“I am not afraid of the storm, mother, and I might be able to discover what is causing this alarm that fills us both.” Arlomë turned from the window and searched Evrathol’s face. He was so handsome and brave as he sat before her. She could see the passion in his eyes.

The elf began to walk slowly toward Evrathol as she spoke. “My son, I know you are brave and are able to handle yourself, but I would hope for you to stay with me here.” Her voice was calm, but showed a small amount of vulnerability. “Your presence is calming to me…please stay.” Arlomë knelt and took her son’s hand, gently squeezing it. “I need you here, Evrathol.” She patted his hand and her eyes wondered to the window as she spoke almost under her breath. “If only Elrigon would return to the safety of his home.”

As the name of her husband fell from her lips, Arlomë’s eyes widened and a look of horror passed over her face. Mist covered her eyes and she collapsed at her son’s feet. “Elrigon!” She cried as she fell. Evrathol’s voice calling her name sounded as though it came from a far distance, but she could not respond to him. The veil that lay before her eyes rose momentarily, and she saw that it was not a mist, but dust that was settling. At her feet, Morgôs’ limp body was sprawled out. Tears ran down Arlomë’s cheeks as she fell to her knees and touch his face. Her eyes ran over him and she saw the blood that covered his arm. “Elrigon, this is not your time.” Her voice was firm through her tears. “You are not leaving me, my love.”

“Mother! Wake up! Mother!”

The vision was gone, and Arlomë opened her eyes and gazed into her son’s anxious face. “Evrathol, your father!” Her words were fragmented between labored breaths. “He is in danger…”

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

His son was the first to arrive and Faroz had to admit to himself his disappointment in this. At this moment, it was the strength and resolute determination of his daughter that he needed, even though it came now at the price of Korak’s loathsome presence. Siamak presented himself to the King with proper decorum, making sure to do his obeisance at the foot of the dais, but then for a moment it appeared as though he was about to come up to his father for some further gesture. The moment, Faroz knew, was filled with emotion for the boy but at no time could he allow one, even his son, to transgress the proper forms and rites of the court. To forestall the action of his child, Faroz came down the few steps and took his son by the shoulders. He spoke quietly, but clear enough that the others who remained about him could hear. “Your mother is murdered, my son, and Pashtia has been attacked by the Alanzians. I will need you to be strong in the days ahead…you and your sister both.” And as he spoke of Gjeelea he shot the Chamberlain Jarult a guarded look that told the aged man of the King’s displeasure that his daughter had not come yet. The old servitor bowed slightly and hurried off once more to fetch her to the Court directly.

Siamak was speaking once more, and though he tried to command his voice it was clear that he was trembling with some terrible anxiety. He was worried, and a bit frightened. “Khamul,” he began, “there is yet more for you to know. The General Morgôs has been attacked and even now lies gravely wounded in the Temple of Rhais.”

A gasp of horror ran through the court, and the senseless panic, which had only just now begun to subside, once again began to threaten to break loose. To quell it, Faroz spoke quickly, demanding to hear the full tale. Siamak told what he had seen and of his actions. Faroz was pleased with his son’s bravery in confronting such an unknown circumstance, and the good sense he had shown in dealing with the aftermath. These feelings were apparent when he spoke next. “You have done well, my son, and done credit to me and…” he faltered in the formulaic phrase, which should have continued with and to your mother. In the silence that followed he said simply, “Your mother always told me that there was a strength in you, as yet untested and thus unseen. It gladdens me to see that she was right in this, as in so many other things.”

Something in the King’s tone made Siamak realise for the first time that his mother was truly gone, and bowing his head he sought to hide his tears. Faroz bade him to hold his head up high, “for such a cause of weeping has not been known in my court for many a year, and I would not have you be ashamed of a grief that is manly. But let us not allow our own feelings to distract us from our duty either. You have done much for the General already, but there is more to do.” Faroz turned to a nearby soldier, one whom he recognised as a chief lieutenant to Morgôs. “Go to the Temple of Rhais and have the General brought here to the Palace. Let him be borne into the Royal House of Healing and tended there. Send also for his wife and son, and let them know what has happened. The Lady Arlomë will no doubt wish to see her husband, but you must remind her that her first duty this night is to her Queen, for my wife must be prepared for her funeral tomorrow morning.” The lieutenant bowed and then rushed from the hall to do his King’s bidding. “In the meantime,” Faroz continued, “in the absence of my daughter my son and I must now take counsel to the matter of the Lord Annatar's offer of allegiance. The Emissary has spoken to me often of a race of beings in his land who are the enemy of Men. He has called these creatures orcs and his descriptions of them well match what we have seen and heard here this day.” And at this, all eyes fell upon the hideous head where it lay upon the dais, once again wrapped in its dirty canvas bundle. “The Emissary and his fellows have great experience of these beings and I believe would be of great use to us if we are to fight them, but to ask their aid in this is impossible unless there is a formal alliance between our realms. My son, the time has come for you and your sister to make a decision in this matter, for it was to you both that I laid the charge of deciding whether or not to accept this alliance. What say you?”

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

Over the pounding of the rain and occassional boom of thunder Gjeelea thought to clear the awkward silence. Before she could open her mouth, the servant of the house, Morashk, entered the room with a rain-soaked young man. Korak stood swiftly, seeming almost relieved at the interruption. Lady Hababa turned to see who had entered, and when she saw the stranger next to the servant her eyes widened.

"My lady, my lord," Morashk began, looking to Lady Hababa and Korak. Turning to Gjeelea he bowed his head. "Princess, this messenger bids you go with him to the palace."

"Why do you interrupt my visit so?" Gjeelea commanded of the messenger, giving him a stone-cold glare that might have chilled him more than the rain that soaked him - or more than the news he carried.

"My Princess," the man bowed deep from the waist. "Several events have unfolded that require you to be present with the King and the Prince Siamak. I humbly request that you come with me at once; it is the King's orders."

"I see," Gjeelea stood and went to Lady Hababa. Moving to kiss the old woman's cheek, the princess whispered in her ear. "If dark things have unfolded this day, I will right them, lady." She then moved to go to Korak, but stopped herself and instead went to the waiting messenger. Gjeelea looked to Korak and gave a nod. "I shall see you soon."

"Wait!" Korak controlled his voice so that it did not come out as a shout. "As an upstanding member of the court, I will come with you."

Gjeelea's heart fell; she had gotten through enough time with him to make her sick to her stomach. The princess did not want to spend more time with Korak than was completely necessary. Sighing, the princess nodded again. "If it pleases you," she paused, searching for the right way to address Korak. His station was beneath her - there was no need to call him 'Lord Korak'. He was not her husband yet, and no justification to name him so. It made her heart hurt to call him her love, for he was most certainly not. "Yes, if it pleases you, Korak."

After preparing as best they could for the terrible rain, the trio left the home of Lady Hababa and Lord Korak, trying their best to keep as dry as possible in the pounding of the rain. Robes, coats, and all other attempts to keep comfortable and dry failed miserably, and Gjeelea was left with the deafening sound of rain and her own dark thoughts. What did it mean that Lady Hababa could feel the evil of the day? Gjeelea still did not know what had transpired that prompted her father to call a messenger out for her. Had the rain and thunder not impeded all communication between the three travelers, the princess might have asked the messenger.

After what felt like days out in the rain, the group finally reached the palace. Dismissing the messenger Gjeelea lead her betrothed through the halls. As they neared the hall of the King's dias, Gjeelea could hear whispers echoing against the walls and through the air. When the two entered the great room, they were greeted by the sight of court people gathered around Siamak and the King.

"What say you?" Gjeelea heard as she stepped further into the room. Nobles moved from her as she walked closer to her father and brother. Korak followed behind her. When they had approached the king both knelt low before him. After this, Gjeelea stood first and looked to where her brother stood, his eyes glistening in a way the princess had not seen since he had been a little boy crying for his mother.

"Father," she addressed the king directly, her eyes meeting his. His eyes held some emotion she had never seen before in her father. Her gaze left Faroz for a moment and she caught the faces of the nobles and others gathered in the room - their faces holding the same anxiety that welled up in her father's eyes. "What has happened this day that causes such panic and chaos?"

[Firefoot]

Siamak swallowed hard. Had the messenger sent to his sister been so inept as not to tell Gjeelea what was going on? Had not his sister asked? In his own grief he felt contemptuous (rightfully so or not) at Gjeelea for not being more knowledgeable of the situation. Something needed to be done; there was not time to be standing around explaining the situation. If he thought about it, though, Siamak would have known that this was not a fair outlook at all; however, his new thirst for action was an escape from thinking. Careful thinker as he was, thoughts of his mother would tear him apart. He had loved her, in his way; he had not spent much time with her in recent times but always she was there, the comforting presence that ran the palace while his father dealt with more important affairs. No, despite his earlier desire for time to think, no longer did he want such time. Nevertheless, he held himself together as his father explained to Gjeelea.

“Daughter, your mother was murdered earlier today in her apartments. We do not know by whom or how.” The king paused a moment for Gjeelea to digest this information. It stung worse every time Siamak heard it. Faroz continued, “Also, word has come that Pashtia is being attacked by Alanzians. They were aided by creatures as we have never seen before; however, they match the description provided by the Emissary of an enemy race from his lands called orcs. The aid of the Lord Annatar’s people would be of great aid to us in dealing with these creatures, but we can not ask for such help unless an alliance has been established between our nations. The time has come for you and Siamak to decide in this matter of alliance. What say you?” the king repeated.

Siamak jumped in before Gjeelea had opportunity to respond. He had been sitting the fence before, but no longer in light of this new information. Forgotten was his uneasiness around the Emissary, forgotten were all doubts. He had finally heard some evidence that accepting or declining the offer would directly affect Pashtia. His choice now was clear. He addressed himself to Gjeelea, though he knew the whole court could hear. “Gjeelea, we have considered this offer long and hard. I think that Father is right; the Emissary’s aid in dealing with such a foe would be helpful indeed. As far as I can tell, there is only one decision we can make.” As he spoke, he slowly gathered his emotions in and his voice steadied. Thinking about the Alanzians and the Emissary was not so hard. “I think we should accept the Lord Annatar’s offer of alliance.”

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

The princess cursed her brother for having a faster response than she for the first time in forever. She sent him a sharp glance, one that he most likely missed in the heat of his own 'moment'. For once, Siamak had spoken the right way at the right time. Would it make up for all the other times when the younger son had to have time to consider his answer thoroughly and patiently? Gjeelea knew that so many waited for her to slip up and her brother to finally earn the throne that might be his. It was most certainly not the time for Siamak to finally grow a backbone, though Gjeelea figured that some people might need a tragedy to pull them together.

A tragedy? The princess was almost shocked at her own thought. Her mother's death was certainly strange enough and horrid enough - yet somehow Gjeelea did not think it merited the name of tragedy. If any knew of Gjeelea's lack of emotion for her mother's murder, surely they would think her heartless and cruel. The princess had certainly liked her mother and enjoyed her company at the few times it was given, but there was little loss for someone who was rarely there in Gjeelea's life to begin with. Surely I will miss her once I notice the subtle ways in which things change.

"You think too much, brother," Gjeelea said, loudly for all the people of the court to hear. "We might have made this decision a long time ago if you had not wasted your time considering our only option. I know we must accept Lord Annatar's offer of alliance, as I have known since hearing of the Emissary's plight." Had she spoken too boldly? As it was no time for Siamak to learn strength, it was also not the time for the princess to doubt herself. Instead, Gjeelea turned to her father and met his gaze and nodded. "Siamak and I are in agreement to accept the offer of alliance, father."

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Faroz felt no joy in the decision of his children, but only grim satisfaction. For, indeed, what other choice was there? Still, he commended them both for the wisdom that they had shown. “Send to the Emissary,” he ordered. “Tell him that the offer of the Lord Annatar has been accepted and that we will meet with him in the morning to discuss the formal rites of alliance. If the General is able to speak this night, let the Emissary be sent for so that he and General Morgôs can plan how best we can use the fifty men that the Emissary has with him.” A messenger bowed deeply and left the court.

The King sat back upon his divan and his exhaustion was apparent to all. He lowered his head into his hand and sat like that for a time before speaking once more. “See to it, my children, that all preparations are made for your mother’s journey.” Again he paused. “I will retire to my chambers until tomorrow so that I may take counsel with my heart about this day. Let it be known that any who disturb me shall receive the direst punishment.” A slight ripple in the room confirmed that all present understood what he meant. Rising once more the King descended and left the court, and as he passed he looked neither left nor right as his people did him obeisance.

He passed quickly through the darkened corridors of the Palace. In the panic, the routine of the household had been neglected and servants had failed in their duty to light the lamps. At any other time, Faroz would immediately have sent for the housekeeper and reprimanded him, but this night his eyes were glad for the dark. He achieved his apartments and passed within like a shadow melting into night. The rain was finally beginning to abate, but the clouds were still thick and the sun was setting behind them, casting the late afternoon into an unnaturally early night. The air was thick and chill with water and he shivered. Searching out a heavy cloak he cast it about his shoulders and fell to the cushions by the balcony. Faroz watched the storm churn through the sky below the city, now heading downriver to spend its fury upon the sea. The streets of Kanak were beginning to drain, and there were signs below of his people emerging from their shelter. They came forth once more like small animals, casting nervous glances about before scurrying for the comfort of home. He knew how they felt.

His mind was blank, for the horrors of the day had left him spent. He knew that the King’s place at this moment was in his council chamber, discussing matters of war and alliance, but he felt unequal to the task. There was time to wait until morning. Let his nobles speak amongst themselves this night, and let his children prepare their mother for her final journey. Was it not the tradition in Pashtia that a widower pass his first night without his wife, alone, in prayer? Though he had not sought his chambers for such a purpose, his actions this night were in keeping with the demands of custom and tradition, and none would dare condemn him. Let him remain here, then, alone…

His isolation came over him like a thick choking blanket. How many times had he sat upon this balcony and felt his separation from those about him? He had never known, until this very moment, that his only connection to the human life of his people had been made through his wife. Through all the years and trials, she had always and ever been the one to speak to him of his children or the nobility as individuals. She had taken the time to forge bonds, even friendships, allowing him to think only in terms of power and political groupings. She had been, he realised with a sobbing gasp, his only friend – and he had never told her as much in life.

A panic came over him, like a hunted deer suddenly bereft of the pack. The dangers of the world flew toward him like wolves, ravening and red-tongued. Unaware of his own act, Faroz’s hand moved toward the Ring, but something stayed him. There was, at first, a slight glimmer, barely seen from the corner of his eye, more like a lightening in the darkness than a light itself. He turned to look at it, but is slipped and turned to the other side of his face. He turned once more, but still it eluded him, the lightness, appearing only in the very corner of his vision. He fixed his stare on the blank darkness of the night, but kept his attention upon the glimmer. He felt a cool touch upon his cheek, like a gentle wind, and the wind became as a voice, whispering his name to him. He sucked in his breath with shock, for he recognised the voice as that of his wife. “Bekah?” he said aloud.

My husband.

“Where are you?”

Where you are not, and where you cannot be.

“What do you mean?”

What I have ever meant, my husband. Always you have looked and looked but never have you seen. Ever have you gazed ahead, while truth, so clear, but glimmered in the corner of your eye, seen but not regarded.

“You are right. You had much to offer me that I did not take. Many things to say that I did not hear. I was not a good husband.”

You were a good King.

“I feel your reproach. I can sense your despair. Why have you not found peace? You were a noble woman in life: honourable and wise. I shall miss you.”

Too late. Too late.

“Yes. But at least now, at last, I have realised your worth.”

Too late. Too late.

Faroz made to speak again but he felt her slipping away, like a mist before a great wind that blew upon the balcony from the West. His hand slipped to his chest and the Ring was on his finger before he knew what had happened, and before him appeared a figure clothed in light. Tall he was, and beautiful, and in his face and bearing was a nobility that made Faroz feel as he had felt before his father when he had been but the smallest lad. There was love and benevolence in the gaze of the one before him, and pity of a great lord for a man in need of strength. “My Lord Annatar!” Faroz whispered.

“Khamûl. You are grieved. Let me comfort you.”

Faroz felt a despair well up from his heart where his hand lay with the Ring upon it. It burned like hardest ice through his blood and seized his brain. His eyes became stone, and he felt his mouth open wide to release the depth of his suffering. A shriek, terrible and high, like the cry of some lonely thing upon the edge of the world shattered the quiet of the night, stabbing into it like a dagger into cloth. Faroz felt himself diminish and the shriek of his agony became his all. On and on it went, taking with it his despair, his agony and his sadness, as though it were purging these weaknesses from his body. It ended and he lurched to his feet, gasping for air. Annatar was there, his arms out, and he caught up in them the staggering form of the King. Faroz felt himself enfolded in light and he closed his eyes, but within he could still see the beautiful face of the one who held him like a lover. A voice, the Voice, whispered in his mind. “Let me comfort you, Khamûl. Let me relieve you of your agony.”

“How?” Faroz asked. “How can I be so relieved?”

“I shall tell you, Khamûl. I shall tell you. Listen…”

[Kransha]

A dark figure pranced about, its silhouette against a dark horizon, careless of those who saw or did not see it.

He was there again; in a place he had been but once before, and prayed he would never be again. He felt, with remembered disgust, the blood-caked plains of sandy earth beneath his bare feet, the scorching sun shining onto him from above, a golden ember whose fire filled him with a dark foreboding as its glimmer dwindled with each passing moment and the grave warmth of it became dank cold. The clouds grew great and took upon them many shapes, but all ill shapes. Horned beasts moved across the sky with tainted grace, their glowing shards of eyes gleaming like frozen blood, redder than rubies in the desert or the rays of the sun. Those eyes peered down as the azure sky turned black as death and burned.

Elrigon wanted to flee, but he could not again. He was not reliving the nightmare; he was witnessing it, and could do naught to change it. He wanted to shut his eyes, but he could not. Just as he remembered, his eyes remained stuck open as the clouds focused themselves into a whirlpool of wind, which all centered around a spot on the ground in the distance, overshadowing the horizon. Doom and its sound boomed in the heavens and the shadow beyond moved with the speed of the wind itself towards him, turning the blazing sands to fire that could only be likened to some hellish inferno in another plane of existence. The open desert became a hall of flame and death, from which sprouted tendrils of shadow, great tentacles of sable mist that shot high up and obscured even the darkened sky from view.

The Rider bore down upon him, engulfing the world in his blackness. The Rider’s terrible visage filled Elrigon with dread just as it had the first time he saw it. All life died in an instant, all beauty decayed. The nightmare was relived in an instant – every bit of it. The Shadow, the Rider, the deaths and cries and wailing of his comrades, his kinsmen; stolen from him by this creature from the twisting nether. And, in that same instant, the web of lies and of deceit strung about him became clear and was torn asunder, for now he knew the truth as he saw the Rider of Shadow filling his mind and his heart with agony. He knew the truth! In the form of the Rider, bleak and barren of compassion, he saw many names take shape. Names that fell from the tongue like blood and could not be spoken without a lance of horror following. One name he recognized and one alone.

The horror of the event rang in him, a colossal bell whose toll struck a chord, singing a song of darkness, one unrivaled in heaven and earth in its terrifying beauty, tempting and yet revolting. Elrigon, watching himself and the Rider, knew in that moment all that had transpired, fueled by a greater force that had imbued him with this revelation. As he looked deep into those terrible crimson eyes, he saw a face he knew...two faces he knew.

His eyes opened and he sat bolt upright, gasping for air and covered with icy sweat. He looked around quickly with intent to deduce where he was. He instantly recognized a medical chamber of wing of the palace. The lights of torches and lamps around were dim, barely illuminating the height of the room or its narrow inlets. The marble chamber was empty but for him, the bed he lay upon, and one figure nearby, at the bedside. His head snapped sideways to look upon the figure. Beside his bed stood a very young handmaiden, looking at him in a state of mild shock. Morgôs did not hesitate to shift upon his bed towards her and speak with great urgency, crying out swiftly, “Where is the King?!” He ignored the remnants of pain in his arm, encased in a bandage which stood as the only garment on his upper body. He had to divulge his new epiphany before it escaped him, for he now knew a terrible secret that weighed upon his mind, but was lightening up fast as it decayed. The memory would not last long in him.

Flustered, the handmaiden spoke, “He has retired to his chambers, Gener-” He cut her off without delay. “Fetch the king, now!” He cried, and swung his legs over the side of the bed, kicking some thin sheets off of his sweat-soaked form. The girl looked at him with concern, but a hint of fear induced by his manic behavior. She shook her head apologetically. “It cannot be done, General, not this moment.”

Morgôs was not appeased and continued to cry out, trying to rise from his bed. “You must bring him to me! You must tell him!” His eyes, bloodshot and weary, were also wide and dilating rapidly. The girl took a fearful step back as he tried to rise at first, but then hesitantly moved and began to help him stand. “Tell him what?” She asked, helping him to his feet. Suddenly, his weak arms became strong, and grasped her own arms tightly as he hauled himself bodily upward, his wide eyes shrinking into deep slits. “You must tell him that I know who the Emissary is!” he demanded harshly, “I know what Annatar is!”

“Milord,” the maid gasped, “you are not yourself.”

“No, I am not.” He spat, “I know the truth now.” His fingers, icy cold, coiled like snakes around the maid’s arm and his voice rasped terribly as he cried out. “We must not join with Annatar!” he ordered, “We must not join with him!” The urgent volume in his voice grew out of control, and each syllable caused the handmaiden to wince and pull back, but the maddened Elf would not release her, and his grip became stronger still, his dark eyes staring blankly at her from beneath a shadowy veil. Finally, she answered. “General,” she said, and paused, “…We already have. The Prince and Princess have made their decision.”

Morgôs’ hands softened and released the girl. Quietly, his eyes suddenly returning to their normal size and his eyelids sagging miserably, he staggered back and fell into a sitting position on the bed. “No…” he murmured once, his voice a meager whisper as his head sank and his gaze turned to stare at nothing. Then, he repeated the words as if crushed by them, then again, and a fourth and fifth time, until they faded on his barely moving lips. The truth was within his grasp, but now, as he was refuted by this terrible knowledge, his own knowledge began to fade from him. He was forgetting it as fast as it had come to him. If the decision had been made, the truth was useless to him and to all else. His loyalty bound him to that decision, and his rejection of it was no more than a fool’s dissent. The handmaiden moved hesitantly towards him. “General, what has upset you so?” she asked, but Morgôs responded quickly, rising again. The handmaiden retreated instantly. “I cannot say.” Spoke Morgôs, advancing and issuing a stern order as if he was speaking to a soldier, “Call my lieutenants to me, and my wife, else we all fall into shadow.” He spoke the last words with grim anger, moving towards the maid expectantly, but she merely looked at him, wide-eyed. “You must rest first.” She said, with little hope in her meek voice, but Morgôs would have none of it.

“Rest?” he actually laughed, but not a merry laugh – a grave laugh such as a man might laugh after he has killed a man. “I will not rest. You think such a peck as this can harm me?” he gestured to his bandaged arm, flexing it deftly despite the pain, “Now, call them!” He kept moving forward, and she kept moving backward until she had neared the wall of the noiseless, empty chamber. She did not budge to heed Morgôs’ order and he moved on, angrily, until she was up against the wall of the room, obviously fearful for herself. “You are ill.” She said, trembling slightly where she stood.

“No,” he bellowed at her a moment later, moving drastically forward and grasping the arm of the handmaiden again, “I am cured of my illness, no thanks to you.” Enraged by her disobedience, he wrenched her arm painfully, pushing it upwards against its proper course so that the girl cried out in pain herself. She finally showed sign of resistance, but this merely angered him more. “Call them!” He was so caught up in the urgency of the matter and his rage at being disobeyed that he paid no heed to the girl’s protests. “General, please,” she gasped, “you are hurting me.” But still he did not release her and instead, with his other hand, took her by the throat, closing his fist about the young girl’s neck. “Have you not heard me?” He cried maliciously, “Call them now or I will slay you where you stand! Now!”

All of a sudden, he released her, and watched the girl fall to the ground, sobbing and rubbing her reddened throat, gasping for air and crying all at once. Morgôs’ arm stung again, and mild pain became throbbing and debilitating. With a sort of cough and gasp, the Elf turned and bolted at the door of the room. Without waiting to clothe himself or see to the girl’s injured arm, he rushed down the hall that stemmed from the chamber, into a long colonnade (one of many), running as fast as his graceful Elven legs could carry him. But, before he had gone halfway down the hallway, he stopped in his tracks and those Elven legs withered beneath him. Morgôs fell onto his weak knees, let his head fall into his waiting hands, and wept.

“Traitorous Rhais,” he moaned, “What have you done to me?”

As he spoke, the memory of his dream faded from him. Just so, his mind was wiped of its knowledge and slumbered for an instant. The knowledge of Annatar’s identity was whisked away from him in a flash of dark light, as was his immediate memory of what had occurred. His madness was shed from him like a second skin, and the recollection of it as well. He found himself teary-eyed, for no known reason, on the ice-cold marble, sitting, with very little garb to clothe his wounded form. Confused and dazed, he rose to his feet and began to make his way down the hall, hoping he could find someone who would explain to him what had happened.

[Orofaniel]

"He is in danger.."

"What is it that you speak of, mother?" Evrathol asked her curiously while falling to his knees. He felt the slightest scent of weariness as he looked into his mother's eyes. They were not the same. She had seen or sensed something that he could not understand it. "He is in great danger, Evrathol," she repeated as if in a trance. "But, mother, what danger is it that you speak of? What danger?" Evrathol now continued. He felt his palms getting wet. He was sweating. He tried to help Arlomeë up from the floor, but her weight seemed so heavy at this point. "Mother!" Evrathol burst out trying to figure out the reason of such a collapse.

"You must go, my son. You must leave," his mother then said, here eyes filled with tears.

"Save what you still might be able to save, although I do believe the life of your father is... ," Arlomë said while looked deeply into his eyes. Her voice faded and then she was quiet. Evrathol's frustration took him by surprise as he got up. "What is it you speak of?" Evrathol said full of frustration. "I will not leave you mother," he then said softly, as he looked at her again.

"My lady! What has happened?" Kashana shrieked. The servant had entered the room. She had heard strange noises and loud voices and was now curious about what the two of them were doing. She hurried towards Arlomë, and got the lady back on her feet and onto a comfortable chair. "Are you feeling ill my lady?" she asked, seeming worried about Arlomë’s condition. Arlomë did not reply. "I don't want to seem careless, but there is a messenger. He wishes to see you. He says he has ill news, but he would not tell more than that. Apparently it is for your ears only..." Kashana said quickly. Arlome's eyes blazed. "It is not the Emissary, is it?" she asked. All of a sudden she was tense and uncomfortable. It seemed that only the mentioning of the man frightened her.

"No, no...It’s just a messenger. I'll let him in."

"No, wait. Do not let him in. My mother is not feeling well. I will go and see him," Evrathol said, gesturing in his mother's direction as he was stopping her from saying anything. Evrathol told Kashana to stay with his mother while he would go out and speak to this messenger. The servant obeyed.

The long and rather dull hallway, led to a huge wooden door. The messenger had not been let in, so he opened it carefully. "Sir, I must speak with you," the messenger said right away, without even greeting Evrathol. Evrathol however, did not pay any attention to that, as he so was relieved to see that it was not the Emissary who standing at the threshold.

Evrathol invited the man in, but the messenger answered quickly;" There is no time. You must follow me to the Palace at once."

Evrathol didn't know if he'd heard correctly, so he excused himself and asked what serious matters would bring him to the Palace in such terrible weather. "Your father, the General, has been attacked. He is wounded. I'm sorry to bring you this ill news of your father, but I'm afraid there is more. I have news that the lady of the house must hear as well. Let me speak to the lady of the house, please. I beg you sir. She must know what has happened," the messenger said. Evrathol gazed. Who had attacked his father? Then the next thought hit him; it was as Arlomë had foreseen. She had told him that Morgos was in danger. She had told him herself, but it had been too complicated for him to understand. He was out of breath, panicking. Would the General die? Was it serious?

"Please..." the messenger begged again, as Evrathol had shown no sign of movement. "Of course," Evrathol then muttered, as he had come to his senses. "I will bring her," Evrathol continued. He turned, and his feet carried him towards the room where his mother was with the servant. He felt heavy hearted as he went, because this was indeed ill news. It would devastate his mother if he told her that she had been right earlier. But there was no way out. The messenger obviously had something else to share with Arlomë and it demanded great haste.

"Kashana, leave us," Evrathol said at once when he re-entered the room The servant looked confused, but obeyed as she always did.

When they were alone, Evrathol sat beside his mother and told her what the messenger had said about her husband. She did not seem surprised, but Evrathol could still see how grieved she was. It also occurred to him that Arlomë understood what she had foreseen had been true, and not some kind of illusion. "Mother, this is not the time. The messenger has something to tell you. Come with me," Evrathol then said. He seemed cruel not to let his mother digest the ill news, but he had a feeling that something much worse was awaiting them.

[Firefoot]

It took all of Siamak’s willpower to remain standing there firmly after Gjeelea’s cutting remark. Was that what she thought of him? Had she played him for a fool, always knowing that they should be accepting of the alliance? But no, the High Priestess had said that Gjeelea had been seeking advice, same as he, only that morning. So why, then, the swift jab? And in front of the whole court! He yearned to simply slink away unnoticed. Wait! Could that be what she wanted? To humiliate him, to make him flee as she so often had? Why? To what end? He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. She was so strong, so confident. Could it be... that she felt threatened by him? Preposterous.

“...See to it, my children, that all preparations are made for your mother’s journey.” His father had been talking. Siamak hoped he had missed nothing important. “I will retire to my chambers until tomorrow so that I may take counsel with my heart about this day. Let it be known that any who disturb me shall receive the direst punishment.” He watched his father descend from the dais and leave the room. Now what? he wondered uneasily. He did not have much to do for his mother’s preparation until the actual funeral; most of what needed to be done was for the women. He wished he had a plausible reason to leave the great hall immediately - though he thought he understood his sister more, it changed his reaction little. More seeds of self-doubt had been sown, and already they were taking root. If that was how his sister saw him, how did the rest of the court view him? Had the choice to accept the alliance been so clear to all of them, too?

Only his sense of duty and his newly-acquired knowledge from the General kept him in the court for as long as was proper. He mingled among the rest of the nobles, accepting their condolences and doing his best to assure them that the conflict with Alanzia would be settled quickly, and that there would be no such war as there had been only a quarter of a century before, even though he could promise no such thing, only hope for it. Finally, Siamak felt he could properly take his leave. Few remained in the hall, and none marked his passage as anything unusual. Once alone, however, he wandered the corridors of the palace like a lost dog, knowing not where to go. He did not want to go to his chambers, for there he would be utterly alone. Yet, he did not want the company of others either. So he kept walking, staying to the lesser-used hallways and passages that he knew so well. It was dark, for the torches had not been lit, but Siamak cared not. He could not reconcile it to himself that his mother - beautiful, regal, and queen in every sense of the word - was dead, cruelly killed by an unknown murderer.

His feet wandered aimlessly, it seemed to him, until he came to the gardens. Not the public ones, either, but the private ones restricted to all but a few. And finally, it seemed he had a stroke of luck: in the chaos of the palace, the guards did not hold their usual positions. He did not heed the still-pouring rain and went out, going quickly and directly to his mother’s gardens. Beneath her window high above there were a few small stone statues, broken, as if they had been pushed from the window. A reddish tint could be seen in the puddles. He had not heard it before, but it seemed to him that his mother had been thrown bodily from her rooms. It made his heart sick.

Only now, in the solitude of his mother’s gardens, did Siamak let his grief go. He fell kneeling before the statue of Rhais, as his mother so often had, his body shaking with silent sobs.

A message came unbidden to his mind. You are strong, Siamak, stronger than you know. The voice was comforting, its tones smooth and strong; familiar, somehow. Use that strength, my son. And be wary...

“Mother?” asked Siamak aloud. But the voice had gone. He was alone.

[Amanaduial the archer]

In rooms darkened by the storm outside, all was still in Zamara's quarters. But all was not peaceful. Sudden bursts of lightning shattered the stillness of the room and sent the veils across the wide windows streaming wildly, and the only other illumination came from a dim lamp beside the bed where a figure lay stretched, her form strewn across the mattress under the thin covers. She lay perfectly still, even her breathing barely visible, and the acolytes had left her: indeed, she lay as still and as alone as the dead...

A shadow stirs...darkness incarnate, it moves with the slow inevitability of evil through the sparsely furnished rooms: it knew the way to the Priestess's quarters. The doors are rarely locked...it knows it's way...

Zamara stirred slightly, her eyelids flickering across as her blind gaze trace the ceiling fitfully.

Past the painting of the trees, the symbol of Rhais. The shadow hesitates, pausing for a moment as it looks towards the one, central tree which stands defiantly tall, stretching across the whole wall. One hand - and it is indeed a hand, for this creature appears humanoid - stretches out towards the wall, faltering slightly as it reaches towards the ruby at the centre of the knot of the tree's roots.

Her breathing was shallower now, and her lips moved slightly, as if mouthing silent words: but no words that would be recognised by any Pashtian - except maybe the elves. These are words brought from a faraway land, brought across the seas by a brave people following the gods they knew to be true against a dark unknown evil; a people who also believed in the significance of one tree...

Otso eleni ar otso ondor
ar minë ninquë alda.

The statue turns it's head towards the room of the High Priestess, cocking it slightly to the side in a bestial motion as if listening for the very movement of her thoughts. In the dark shadow of it's face, it grins, if a silhouette can grin; and in one fierce motion plunged it's hand towards the ruby-red stone at the base of the tree-

"Rhais!"

Zamara's scream formed the one single word as the lightning flashed and she sat up suddenly, her eyes wide in terror, the covers clenched tightly around her chest. In the lightning's illumination they seemed to burn a bright, unnatural blue, the blue of a different world across the desert. She stared straight forward, her terrified, ragged breathing the only human sound to be heard against the constant pounding of the rain, then a sound caught her attention, a sound from her chambers outside. Her eyes flickered across and, despite her fear, the fear of a little girl afraid of the storm, the Priestess whirled out of bed in a sudden motion, grabbing the oil lamp from the side in shaking hands and stumbling out of the door into the main room of the chambers. She waved the lamp high, it's flame flickering, a small defence against the darkness.

"I know you are in here!" she called, her voice ragged and hoarse. "You, the enemy of the elves, the bringer of darkness upon my people - leave! Leave here now! You do not scare me, and you do not scare my goddess! The 'Huntress of Rhais' will drive you out!"

The darkness seemed to grow around Rhais, and she could feel something coming towards her. Stumbling backwards, the light of her little lamp faltering, Zamara held up her free hand, shaking though it was, and stared fiercely into the space ahead of her: she could feel a prescence, no matter what her eyes were telling her. Her shaking hands dropped the lamp and it spluttered on the floor, but she continued to hold the ruby medallion in front of her as the thunder and lightning tore at her sight and sound, and she yelled once more: "You do not scare me!"

"High Priestess!"

Zamara's wild gaze spun around the the entrance to her rooms. But no demon stood there - just the reassuring figure of Tayfar, frozen in shock. The acolyte rushed forward to her mistress's side, leaving the door open as she did so - and unnoticed by both women, something slipped out, spreading it's darkness into the night. Zamara was hunched against the wall, wearing only a thin slip beside the ruby medallion, and she seemed terrified to Tayfar. As the girl tried to coax her upright and away from the wall, she caught a sudden glimpse of Zamara's eyes, and almost let go of the older woman: they shone blue. In an instant the effect was gone, and Tayfar blinked quickly against it. Looking at the woman in wonder, she murmured, "What happened?"

Zamara's breathing was calmer now, and she loosened her grip on the medallion although she kept a tight grip on Tayfar's hands. Meeting the girl's eyes, she replied, "Light the candles and lamps. All of them, throughout the temple." Tayfar nodded and made to go, but Zamara stopped her. "No! Just...just around my rooms for now."

Slowly easing her fingers off Tayfar's hand, the Priestess took several deep breaths to steady herself and flexed her fingers to relieve the stiffness from being so tightly clenched: looking at her palms in wonder, she saw that they were marked with four little crescent markings each - her nails had dug in so tightly that they had almost cut into the skin. Feeling a spin of woozyness, she touched her forehead lightly and, bringing her hand back down, saw blood on her fingers. The events of the evening came back to her: Morgos coming to the temple, his questions, the statue falling, he pushing her out of the way...and nothing.

"Morgos - where is he?"

"The General, the elf?" Tayfar shook her head. "I'm not sure, Priestess. He was taken away by the healers I think - but he's a dangerous being, that elf: he pushed you right to the floor, knocked you out. Dangerous..." Tayfar shook her head, shaking out the match as she lit the last of the candles.

Zamara frowned. Knocked her out? No...Morgos had been angry, but.... She shook her head, trying to clear out the muzzy cotton wool that confused her thoughts. She couldn't clearly remember anything, of her conversation with the elf, of what had happened when the statue was pushed over, or of her dream...yes, her dream. Closing her eyes tightly, the priestess tried to remember, but nothing seemed to stand out - nothing but one face. Bekah's. But what had she to do with any of this...

"Bekah - I mean, the Queen, was she at the temple when Morgos was?"

Tayfar hesitated. Zamara could not see her expression as her back was to her, but she sensed the acolyte's anxiousness. She turned around slowly, walking to Zamara, her face anxious and saddened. Taking her hand, she said quietly, "Queen Bekah has been murdered, Zamara."

Zamara looked at her in incomprehending confusion. Her lips moved silently for a second, her expression changing rapidly, her face falling, as her unblinking eyes searched Tayfar's face. "Murdered?" she whispered. Tayfar nodded silently, tears coming to her own eyes as they came to Zamara's. The priestess's hands twisted into tight fists as they fell to her sides, and she shook her head as she turned away from Tayfar, heading towards the balcony. "No...no, it cannot be..."

"She was found outside her apartments earlier this evening, Zamara. She had been strangled-"

"No!" Zamara's drawn out yell echoed across the city, a mourning cry that sent a shiver through the dark and deserted streets. She stood hunched over the balcony for several moments, her fingers curled white-tight around the rail, not heeding the rain and the wind that howled around her. After a minute she turned around again having finally regained her composure, but Tayfar could not tell if it was tears or rain that streaked her face so. She spoke quietly, calmly, a woman trying to keep control as the reins spun out of her reach.

"Tayfar, get me my robe and cloak, and my staff. We are to go to the palace immediately, but - are there any guards on the Temple doors?"

"No, High Priestess, they were recalled to the palace-"

"We shall have to risk it then." Zamara's voice was grim as she cut over the end of Tayfar's sentence. "Every light in the Temple is to be lit: every candle, every lamp, every torch - everything. And prayers - prayers sent and incense burned, the very finest. I know it is hardly perfect, but Bekah is to be honoured as she deserves - there is to be nothing spared, do you understand?" Tayfar nodded mutely and turned into Zamara's room to fetch her things. Zamara turned her head and stared into the grey, empty streets, before she added one last note. "One more thing, Tayfar: none of you are to do anything alone. Do you understand me? None of you are to do anything alone, and certainly you are not to leave the temple. Spread that message." Her eyes burned fiercely as she straightened up, glaring into the night at an invisible foe. "They will have none of my priestesses or acolytes..."

[Orofaniel]

“My lady,” the messenger began. “I’m afraid to tell you that her Majesty the Queen has passed away.”

Evrathol spotted that Arlomë was near falling to the floor again. He supported her in the back, trying to keep her body up straight. “What is this?” she said out loud, breathing heavily. “What you tell me can’t honestly be true!” she then continued. Evrathol tried to calm her down, but to no use.

“I’m afraid it is, my lady,” the messenger said gravely. It seemed that he also was greatly affected by this evening’s terrible events. “How?” Evrathol then let out. “Yes, what happened?” Arlomë then said. Evrathol saw that his mother was now shedding tears over the deceased Queen. “There is no good way of telling this; but she has been murdered,” the messenger explained.

This was the last drop. Arlomë did not know how to reply to these news. “Her Majesty’s funeral will be tomorrow, and pardon me if this seems heartless, I mean with your husband and all- but the King wants you to help him and the others prepare for the Queen’s funeral tomorrow,” the messenger said. Arlomë nodded. “But,” Evrathol started; he did not finished as he was interrupted by the messenger.

“Come, I’ll take you to the Palace. We must hurry!” The messenger then said, now allowing another word from either of them.

“Hold on a moment, will you,” Evrathol then said after a moment. “Mother, take your coat and follow me,” Evratho said, walking further down the hallway. “But, sir!” the messenger cried. Evrathol ignored him. “We will be at the Palace in fifteen minutes time,” Evrathol said to the messenger letting the door close behind him.

“Son, what is this? What are you doing? We must go immediately. It is our duty,” Arlomë said, holding her son back. It was typical of his mother; putting others in front of herself. “It is,” Evrathol said. “But first, let me tell you about the night’s most peculiar events.”

“Imagine, the Emissary here to night. In our gardens. We have talked about his odd appearances and most suspicious actions, have we not? You said it yourself earlier; something is not right. There is something most mischievous going on in Pashtia. He left rather hurriedly, did he not? He said he had a meeting with the King,” Evrathol explained. Arlomë followed his ever word closely, and nodded; “Yes, son, but I’m not quite following….”

“Don’t you feel it’s rather suspicious that the Emissary pays you, or us, a visit today? And when he first visits us, it’s because of plants and their characteristics…He then leaves without saying properly goodbye and then the next thing we know our most beloved Queen is dead…” Evrathol said. His voice was filled with suspicious and it seemed stern. “And, if that wasn’t enough…Her Majesty was murdered.”

Arlomë let out a short shriek. Her eyes filled with tears again. She was now aware of Evrathol’s suspicion, and for now it seemed as if everything had fallen to place in the pattern Evrathol had brought to her notice. It couldn’t possibly be, could it?

“We must warn the King!”

[Novnarwen]

After the Princess had left, Tarkan had smiled broadly to himself. Everything was indeed how it was supposed to be. Slightly curious about why the King wished to see him, he decided nevertheless to put the matters with the King on hold until he had settled his other business. My dear brother can wait with announcing me High Priest for another hour or so. When it comes to my little secret, I know that the King would be willing to have his tongue cut off for ever asking his servant to come get me. Yes, that is how much you will regret your stupidity, my brother Faroz... But don’t worry, your hour shall come soon enough… and I will claim what is rightfully mine…

He called for a man standing nearby, and ordered to take the wheelbarrow with his belongings to his newly built apartments. The man, who discovered that it was the priest who had called him, swallowed hurriedly before running to the wheelbarrow to carry out the priest’s orders. The priest himself followed with stern steps until the two of them parted in the hallway; the stranger went to the right, aiming for the finest apartments, which was particularly appointed to the High priest of the Temple of Rae, and Tarkan went to the left, aiming for Pelin’s apartments.

Arriving there, the door was open. The priest knocked lightly, for the sake of customs, but customs only, and waited. “Pelin?!” he called, with a mild voice. With the smile he bore on his face, one could almost get the impression that the Priest came with good intentions. It was of course not so; in fact, not so at all. The Priest was well aware of what he had done just earlier. He had intentionally acted unfairly with Pelin, getting him upset. Tarkan had said things that Pelin would never forgive, or rather, Pelin would probably forgive, but he would never forget. The priest smirked to himself. Exactly, Pelin would never forget! It seemed already that everything would work out in the best way he could ever imagine; Pelin seemed to be even too upset to open the door and to lock it. If this was indeed so, the priest would without a doubt succeed.

Entering, the Priest froze, thinking of the last conversation with Pelin. Inside of his head, he repeated what had been said.

He restrained himself from laughing at his own words and the pettiness pf Pelin, remembering that he was inside of Pelin’s apartments, and had not come to make Pelin feel worse, but to be ‘forgiven’. “Pelin!?” he called again, before advancing into the small living room. The curtains were drawn, and only the light from an oil lamp shone faintly, giving the nearly empty room a rather ghastly atmosphere. Letting his gaze wander, he discovered Pelin sitting motionless on a bright coloured cushion on the floor. “Pelin,” Tarkan said, running towards him. The young man didn’t move. His eyes were red and weary; he had cried. If it hadn’t been for the fact that Tarkan needed to ‘make up’ with Pelin to succeed in his somewhat vicious plan, he would have laughed out loud and pointed at this man, who seemed so petty and lost. Instead, knowing that this would be the final step of his brilliant plan, and that this by all means had to succeed, he sat down.

“My dear Pelin,” he started. “Look at me,” Tarkan said, breathing heavily. Pelin still didn’t move; he only kept staring into the air, showing no sign whatsoever that he was aware of Tarkan’s presence. The Priest made a grimace; it was only just hidden from Pelin’s sight. This was unbelievable. Pelin was ignoring him. Him!?! The High Priest?!? Sighing, appearing to the man next to him as if being out of words, but in truth being horrified by what he though was absolutely distasteful behaviour, Tarkan knew hat he could only make Pelin satisfied by saying something highly humiliating - like presenting an apology to the young man. Takan swallowed, knowing that for his sake, this so called apology would take yet some time. The Priest had never imagined that Pelin could be so out of place; he was acting as if being in the position of asking a Priest, in fact the coming High priest, to apologise!

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

Her father had left, her brother had fled, and Gjeelea was left to her own devices in the great hall. The gathered citizens watched her, waited for her to speak or to take charge. Another chance for me, Gjeelea thought, looking at Korak and then to the rest of the court. Her mother's death had created enough discord to send the people of Pashtia into complete chaos. Bekah's death made a state of distrust throughout the palace and realm - a situation that needed to be remedied.

"Jarult?" Gjeelea called to the chamberlain, her voice commanding and loud. Her tone reeked of strength and courage that betrayed her actual uncertainty. "Find High Priestess Zamara. See to it also that Lady Arshalous and Lady Arlomë come to the palace as soon as possible, if they do not already know of my mother's death." Jarult complied with a swift nod. Gjeelea turned to address the people gathered in the hall. "All of you, go to your homes and see to it that your families are safe. Light all your lamps for your queen - spare nothing," Gjeelea paused. When none of the people moved, she frowned. "Go! Now!" She ordered, and like stone statues suddenly come to life, the folk moved briskly to the doorway.

Homay and Tabari, personal maids to Bekah, remained in the corner. Behind them stood the healer Dahliyah, who glanced somberly at her own feet. Gjeelea moved from her spot at the steps of the dias to speak with the ladies. The princess knew her duties. When learning about courtly matters and workings Gjeelea joked about ever having to bathe and dress her mother for funeral - was not her mother invincible? The princess, though she knew it to be naive and childish, never imagined that her mother might pass, or furthermore what the effects of her death might bring.

"Homay -" Gjeelea began, her voice suddenly soft and gentle. The princess knew all too well how to change her face or act in what way she saw fit.

"My princess," Homay began, speaking before Gjeelea could continue. "It is vital that I speak with Lord Korak of private matters." The princess was taken aback, though she did not let it show upon her face. "If it pleases you, I will speak with him now, and join the women in the queen's bedchamber for the ceremonies."

"Very well," the princess said in a pleasant manner. Looking behind her shoulder she saw Korak moving to the door with the last of the onlookers. "My Lord Korak," Gjeelea called, causing him to pause midstep. Oh, the power of words, Gjeelea smiled to herself. "Homay wishes to speak with you privately." Korak nodded and Homay nodded her head low to the princess before going to him. Turning to Tabari and Dahliya, Gjeelea put a hand on each of their shoulders. "Come with me now, we will be with Bekah while we wait for the rest of the women."

The three women walked slowly towards the queen's chambers.

[Imladris]

Arshalous stood before the fire, feeling her skin tighten as it baked in the heat. Her gaze was fixed on Semra who now slept soundly on the couch, wrapped in crimson covers, a silken pillow under her head.

The Queen murdered, my servant assaulted by Shadow, and I caught in the a net of plots for the demise of my cousin. Arshalous's stomach tightened around an numb ball of fear and dread.

Another servant entered the room and said, "Your presence is requested at the palace, my lady."

Arshalous glared at the man, angry at that she had been summoned. Why was she at the beck and call of the royal family? She had problems of her own that must be dealt with...Semra had been hurt...hurt grievously. But she could not deny the summons of the royal family.

"Why do they want me?" she asked.

"They did not say, my lady."

"I suppose to watch over the body of the Queen," she murmured. Tedious custom...

The servant breathed deeply and said, "I think there might be much more to it than that. I was told that Pashtia has been attacked by Alanzia and when news of that reached the royal children, they agreed to alliance themselves with the Emmisarry."

Alanzia breaking the treaty? The news came to Arshalous like a slap to the face. Why would they do that? How could they be so foolish? So treacherous...Queen Bekah was one of their own...did they believe that a Pashtian had assinated her? Conjectures and confusion swirled in her mind and she wished that she could shut it out, hide in her library surrounded by her books of tales..."Thank you....you may go now," she said stiffly.

Arshalous shook Semra by the shoulder and said, "Wake up, we must leave. I have been summoned to the palace and you will go with me. I do not want to leave you here in this condition."

It was difficult to wake up the girl, so in the end Arshalous carried Semra out the door and settled her as comfortably as she could in front of her on the horse.

They arrived soon enough to the palace. Thankfully the jolting gate of the trot had woken Semra up enough so that Arshalous did not feel the need to carry her inside the palace. A servant brought them to the Princess and Arshalous said, "How may I be of service, my lady?"

[Amanaduial the archer]

The temple rested in the darkness of the night, but inside, all shadows were dispelled. Lamps glowed, candles flickered, torches blazed in their brackets and the sweet, haunting scent of incense pervaded the entire temple. Nothing was spared in Zamara's honouring of the Queen - and he explusion of darkness.

Striding down the centre of the temple, Zamara herself could not help pausing for a moment beside Rhais, the edge of her cloak brushing the face of her goddess. Tugging the cloak to one side, she hesitated, looking down at the female face, peaceful and serene, the face alone the size of Zamara: a face that, as her eyesight faded and the tint of blue became ever more prominent, had faded to her eyes. Leaning down slowly, she knelt beside the Goddess, the grimness of her face softening as she reached out her fingers hesitantly and slowly stroked the side of the stone face with her fingertips, tracing the path of where a tear would have fallen on the face. The features were as she had ever remembered them, no matter how they dimmed: the face of a kindly mother but a strong woman nonetheless.

Bekah's face.

Zamara shuddered slightly as sighed deeply, fighting back tears and closing her eyes as if in prayer. Not one but two queens had fallen this dreadful day... Zamara squeezed her eyes tightly shut, like a child making a wish, then stood, making sure that the folds of the thick, black cloak did not fall on the Goddess's face. Nodding briefly to Tayfar beside her, Zamara strode down the central aisle of the Temple, a picture of determination and strength. The thick cloak of midnight velvet billowed slightly behind her, black an unusual colour in Pashtia, in the temple of all places: a sign of sobriety and mourning, both professional and personal. Zamara's white robes were entirely smothered from sight beneath it, and she wore, for once, no golden jewellery, save the medallion; a black bangle of onyx graced each slim wrist and her makeup consisted only of thick, black kohl starkly outlining the smooth curve of her eyes, giving an impression of them being huge, black and sombre. And it covered the redness of her tears. Almost.

A knock on the closed double doors as she approached it made Tayfar jump like a scared rabbit beside the Priestess, but Zamara managed to restrain her own jumpiness, although she did hesitate. Lifting her chin, she nodded to two of the acolytes, who scurried forward and opened the two doors, swinging them open silently on well-oiled hinges. The two soldiers who stood in the storm were immediately arrested by the sight of the woman in front of them: a statue of dark stone, unmoving and magnificent in the middle of the aisle in front of them. Despite the raging storm outside, the two young soldiers did not hurry in, but stepped in more slowly and reverently, confused by this sight - and as one of them suddenly caught sight of the fallen statue behind Zamara, he gasped inadvertently, his hand coming to his mouth. "Rhais," he whispered, horrified. "She has fallen..."

"The Goddess has not fallen," Zamara spoke suddenly, her voice quiet and steady. "She cannot be contained in a statue." The two men looked towards her and her dark eyes remained fixed on them, flickering from one to the other as she greeted them. "Blessings of Rhais upon you in these dark times, gentlemen. You have come from the palace?"

The older of the two nodded, bowing slightly, and Zamara stepped forward to take his hand lightly, nodding in reply. "I shall come immediately. Are you on horseback or walking?"

The soldier looked slightly uncomfortable. "We...we were riding, High Priestess, because of the storm. We were bidden to send for others also to give the message to..." He shifted, looking away from Zamara's dark gaze. She nodded, unperturbed by the news that they would be unescorted through the city. "Lady Arlome, she will be told?"

"And the Lady Arshalous, High Priestess," he replied, nodding in agreement. "The guard who are here will escort you and your following, do not worry-"

Zamara paused, her brow creasing and her grip inadvertently tightening on the soldier's hand. "The guard who are..." She hesitated, then nodded, massaging her temples were one hand as she continued, "Of course, of course. My apologies: it has been a tiring day and I am much grieved from this...sad news." She faltered a little, then cleared her throat, shrugging away the sign of weakness. Looking up at the soldier once more, she patted his hand lightly, almost informally, and nodded briefly. "We shall come immediately, officer. I thank you." The two soldiers turned to go, hurrying out of the door, but Zamara's last parting words stopped them in their tracks. "Travel safely, gentlemen: the night is dangerous for the loyal of Pashtia."

The two young soldiers looked at her strangely, the words of curiosity as to her meaning perched on their lips, but they restrained them, as they had been taught and, with a last fearful glance at the fallen statue and her cloaked keeper, they hurried away into the darkness. A few seconds later, the sound of hooves could be heard. It was only when this sound had become indistinguishable from the falling rain that Zamara moved, turning suddenly to the main hall of the temple, addressing the foremost of the women nearby, who stepped forward when she spoke to her. "Sedaar, close the doors behind us: do not bolt them, but open only one at a time if need be - large numbers of...people cannot be admitted in at once. When news spreads around the city, the people will come to grieve for the loss of their queen: but there are to be no arms inside the Temple. Do you understand me?" Sedaar nodded, looking slightly stunned. Zamara gave her a tired smile, an expression that had been lost from the Priestess's face since she had heard the news of Bekah's murder. "They are but precautions, Sedaar: people can get jumpy at news like this, and in these times..." She pursed her lips. "I will take no chances."

Turning away once more, Zamara lifted her hood over her head so that her face was shaded and only the curves of the lower half of her face were visible beneath the deep hood, and took her staff from Tayfar. Gripping it tightly, she nodded to Tayfar and stepped towards the still-open temple doors, striding forward briskly. Tayfar scurried beside her, but Zamara noted how the girl tried to stand taller and walk in a more steady fashion, as Zamara herself did. She leant in and spoke furtively to the older woman. "Priestess, there are no guards in the temple-"

"I know."

Tayfar looked anxious. "But you said to those two soldiers that-"

"The soldiers were apparently recalled to the Palace, Tayfar; yet those soldiers have come straight from the Queen's side and knew nothing of those orders. That says something very suspicious, Tayfar: that speaks of more than one set of orders being given. But if the Queen is dead, her children grieving and the King unlikely to be contradicting himself in his own orders," she continued, looking across at the girl. "then who is giving the second set of orders?"

Tayfar looked uncertain, then troubled. Looking up at Zamara, she said quietly, "Then who is to guide us through the storm to the palace?"

Zamara paused at the top of the Temple steps, just out of the rain, her face lit strangely from one side from the bright lights from inside the Temple and the other side entirelt shrouded in shadow, and a word suddenly darted into Tayfar's mind: ethereal. Distant and sacred.

"There is more than one way to the Palace," she replied. "There is a more covered and quicker route which we can take, but whether we should..." Zamara trailed off, frowning to herself, her expression unseen by her young charge. But there was no time for uncertainty: setting her jaw grimly, the clutched her staff resolutely and nodded. "Yes. Yes, we shall take that route. Stay close by me, Tayfar, keep a hold on my cloak so I know you are not going anywhere, and stay as quiet as you can." Zamara nodded again, this time almost to herself, as is striking off a checklist into her mind. Stepping into the wild, frantic rain of the storm, she took one last look back into the Temple, her Temple, the Temple of Rhais, and her eyes met the cold stone ones of the fallen statue.

Rhais, keep us safe. Queen Bekah, I come to you...

[Nurumaiel]

Korak gazed rather absently at the ground, a frown darkening his brow. The death of the Queen had been no tragedy to him, as it had been to her family. To him it meant only that the King might step from the throne sooner, perhaps despairing. Yet, it did pose a problem, it most certainly did. A young woman generally does not care to be married soon after her mother has been murdered. Would the marriage be postponed further? And if it was... if the King did leave his throne to one of his children very soon, and the marriage was delayed, chances were increased that the Prince would take the throne. And that would never do... it went against all the plans.

Perhaps Morashk would think of something that could be done. If the Princess showed reluctance to be married so soon to her mother's murder, Lord Korak could press her, saying that either they wed now or did not. It would be a gamble, but he felt that she was equally eager to take the throne, and he knew her chances were slim if she were not married.

And the simple fact that the Queen had been murdered disturbed him. A murder was not a pleasant thing, no matter who it was, and this was the Queen. What other dangers could be about? Were they all in danger? Dark clouds were gathering in the distance, and they brought ill will.

Homay still had said nothing. Perhaps she realised that Korak was deep in thought, but it annoyed the wealthy lord. He looked up sharply. "Homay, if you have anything to say, I would bid you say it," he said. "I do not have as much time as you seem to think I do, and with such dark things lurking, I feel I must soon return to my mother."

And to Morashk, to discuss the problem of the wedding. But he would not, of course, say that.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Two figures crouched in conspiratorial whispers, their words but dimly heard. They cast nervous glances about themselves, winking and devious in the low light of their den. They are plotting…planning, seeking out the time to attack him and his friends. They are enemies.

“Who are they?”

“I show you your enemies, Faroz. They are gathering about you, and you are blind to it.”

One of them turns and he sees her face. It is sharp and pointed, and he wonders that he has never noted its ugliness. The ears, misshaped and hideous, the eyes bright and deadly with years of cunning and secrets kept for their own kind. Her cub is at her side, his own mouth twisted into a smile of wolfish glee at the prospect of moving against the Men he hates.

“I know them! They are the wife and child of my General. They plot against me now. They blame me for the death of my beloved wife and Queen.”

He lies in a broken heap upon the stone, struck down by the power of the One Lord for his blasphemy. He has forgotten know, but the visions hover still about his mind like the stench of offal in the heat of the sun. His fear is that of the weak who hate and envy the strong. He desires only to throw down that which is good and powerful. He is the enemy of Men, the opponent of Annatar, the servant of violence and death. An innocent girl clutches the wounds that he has inflicted upon her.

“He dares to wound the innocent! I had not thought it possible for Morgôs to be so wicked. I must protect my people from him and his kind. I must find some way to prevent their envy of us from destroying the world of Men.”

The Elf is speaking with his son. They are huddled together in a corner, casting envious eyes upon him, and plotting his overthrow. The boy, his eyes wide with youthful innocence, is growing monstrous and twisted, becoming as they are. His features are human but his soul is corrupted with the taint of the immortals. He is being corrupted, has been corrupted, is corrupt. There is not hope for him. It will be a kindness now to see that he shares the fate of his corrupter.

“My son, my son! They have turned you against me! My gentle boy, the one who I had hoped to follow me to the throne…you are overthrown and drawn into the webs of my enemies! Thus do they work and conspire. I have known it always, but never have I seen.”

She strides through the streets and at her throat is a terrible emblem of fire and blood, a stone that stabs his mind and shows the evil that she intends. Her soul is rank with the converse she had enjoyed with demons. She claims to speak with the goddess, but she is in league with the powers of darkness. She preaches against him, telling those who follow her in their ignorance that Pashtia is ill, when it is her own soul that has been infected with doubt. Her hands will stain the flesh of his wife with her impurity. She will defile the good of his beloved.

“If the servant of Rhais is such, then what is the goddess? A demon! We have been misled by the priestesses to worship the shadow when the light shone clear above for us to see. Her time will come, yes, it will come. When the temple of the One Lord is completed I will have the house of the pretender pulled down brick by brick, and all Pashtians shall be brought to the light of the true faith. They shall be saved, and those who follow the false goddess will drown in the blood of her false prophets!”

“I am sorry to have caused you such pain, my friend. But sometimes truth is sadness.”

“No, no, I am glad that you have shown me these things my friend. I see now that I have been blind and weak. My enemies are almost upon me, but now I see them and will be ready for them. It will be difficult, but I can counter them if I move quickly.”

“How can you counter such enmity, such betrayal? Your friends are few.”

“In that I have you to thank, Lord Annatar, for I am not wholly alone. Your servants are here in the City and will aid me for the sake of the love that we share. As to the others, where love fails, there is always self-interest, vanity, greed and ambition. It is with these that I shall bind up my rule and save my people from those who wish to destroy it. My daughter and the Lord Korak crave power and dominion, but only I can offer it to them. They will join with me against my enemies, for if I fall, then they are to fall with me. My brother is greedy and foolish beyond all else, and thus easy clay to my managing. The One Lord will require a Priest, so that my people may be brought to the truth. Tarkan will snap up that dainty as a dog scrambles for a ragged piece of meat dropped from the table of his masters. Yes, yes…yes…they shall do nicely. Yes, they shall help me.”

“But you have forgotten one thing, my friend. Your wife is dead. It is not seemly that you should be alone in your trials. Your people will need to see that you have someone at your side. For the King to rule, there must be a Queen. You cannot hold your throne without a mate”

“Indeed! And she must be a Pashtian so that all can see I am not swayed to the part of our enemies…”

“You are cunning my friend, cunning and sly. You have already thought of a replacement to your wife. You have already settled your mind upon another.”

“I have. But I cannot say summon her yet, not yet. It would not be seemly. But soon, I shall. Very soon.”

[Bêthberry]

It was a considerable crowd which milled about the Great Hall, watching the King's announcement and then departure, murmuring amongst themselves over the manner of the two royal children, watching to see what fate lay in store for their country. Palace attendants mingled with wealthy citizens of influence and power, while noble men and women spoke among themselves. Homay had quietly withdrawn to the sidelines at the news of the attack of the Alanzians, unsure of how she would be regarded in the face of this shocking news. On one side she heard a small gasp from the maid Tabari with the whispered words, "Alanzia, Alanzia." Tabari looked at Homay with frightened eyes and the older woman wondered if she now was being viewed as a possible collaborator with the enemy, for Tabari had known of the correspondence which she had run for the Queen with the foreign king. Yet on her other side Homay felt a gentle passing of the outside of hand over hers and she knew that Dahliyah understood her quandry.

The old woman played over and over in her mind the news of Siamak's and Gjeela's agreement to accept alliance with the Emissary. Oh, if only one of them had come to their mother's quarters, had come to seek her out, what she could have told them. Now, now it was too late. Yet she was bound by honour and trust to respect her mistress's last request. She stood on the spot, unmoving, until she heard the Princess's commands and saw both Tabari and Dahliyah swept away in the entourage towards the Queen's chambers and with trembling she made her request Gjeela.

And now the dark, scowling face of Lord Korak peered into her face, impatiently. Was he in agreement with this alliance she wondered? Did he share Gjeela's political feelings? She did not know, but decided on the spot, looking at his face, that she would tread carefully, very carefully.

"Lord Korak, it is awkward at this time, at the death of my mistress, to speak of everything she wished me to say to you, her presumed future son-in-law." Homay raised her voice, and some of the nobles who remained in the room ceased their murmuring and strained to catch some of the conversation.

"What could you possibly have to say to me?" Lord Korak retorted, impatient with this crone.

"I see you are impatient with the hesitancy of an old attendant unused to the ways of the court. I will not keep you now, my lord, but merely let you know that the Queen wished to show her future son-in-law certain curtesies and to bring him into her confidence as the Princess's mother. Let us speak again later, when matters of the marriage can be more fittingly discussed."

Korak would have scoffed aloud had something in the old woman's manner not appealed to his vanity. What would the Queen have wanted with him? he wondered, his devious mind immediately trying to ascertain what leverage him might acquire, even after the Queen's death. He did not wish to be controlled by that royal vixen Djeela and would not be unwilling to seek out his own alliances. His mother, after all, had been close friends with the Queen.

"I shall return now to console my mother, the Lady Habiba, over this terrible news of the death of her friend. When the time is more appropriate, I will seek your words about this marriage which I have long desired. Good night, old woman."

Homay curtsied and then withdrew, certain that as yet no word of her true intent could have been passed on in gossip. She left the Great Hall and followed the long, wide corridor through which Djeela and the other woman had passed towards the Queen's quarters. On her way, she came upon Jarult returning with his arms full of candles and oil lamps.

"I have stumbled upon just the person who can help me with these for the night's vigil," he intoned to Homay. His eyes told her there were more he wished to convey with her then mere wax. Homay stepped to his side. Their two heads nodded close together and any one watching them would have seen two ordinary servants going about the mundane business of the palace. Yet now it was that Jarult whispered to Homay what he had observed a month ago between Bekah and the King. Without stopping to make any display, Homay took in this information and decided that, Lord Korak notwithstanding, she would divulge her own knowledge to the old chamberlain. Thus it was that slowly and quietly the truth of events would become known, not among the great and powerful upon whom the Emissary spied with his Ring and his other abilities, but among those who neither the Emissary nor his Lord Annatar would ever have given any moment of thought to. And so Faroz was never swayed to mistrust his servants Jarult and Homay as he was turned away from his General, his Priestess, his faith, by the foul machinations of Ashnaz and Annatar.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Kanak had become a city of frightened whispers.

The cold season had come and gone, but the return of the dry winds from the mountains brought no relief, only the dry and sterile hissing of air between stone. To the naked eye, the land appeared to be in plenty, for the rains had been gentle for most of the season, and the River had swollen gradually, flooding the farmlands and enriching them with their fertile cargo of silt and mud. Grain grew and fattened beneath the sun, the fields came to harvest and the new lambs were weaned. Trees grew and orchards ripened and nature seemed to have been blessed where those who depended upon it for sustenance were cursed.

Jarult’s back bowed beneath the weight of that curse as he limped homeward from a day spent ordering the unloading of goods at the new wharf. He crept along the narrow street in which he lived and felt as he never had when he had been a servant of the King’s what it was to be old and unnecessary. His dismissal from the court had been expected, but unwelcome for that all the same, for as deeply as he now distrusted Khamul – feared him even – he had known no other life than that of service. And even now, with the terms of that service having been so changed, he little knew how to endure the pain of its loss.

A crash and clash of uncouth tongues and ragged metal drove him back to the bitter present, and like the few people still abroad at this hour he hurried from the street to seek the shelter of a narrow doorway. Pressing himself into the shadows, he prayed to the Goddess that he might be invisible to the creatures’ eyes as they passed him by. They appeared from around the bend, squat and bowlegged, their red eyes raging with a hatred like that which fills the heart of no Man, their yellowed fangs glistening in the last light of the setting sun. They called it a “patrol” but what they were patrolling for, and against what they sought to defend the citizens of the city, none could tell. The party came abreast of where Jarult cowered and rushed past him, roaring at those they saw to get indoors, bellowing about the curfew. One of them saw the old man cowering in his robes, and the meanness of the creature’s imagination was seized by the thought of some play. “Hey lads!” it cried, “here’s one who thinks he doesn’t have to obey curfew! Tell us old man, why aren’t you at home and safe in your bed? Don’t you know it’s dangerous to be out at night.”

Jarult stepped down into the street and was soon surrounded by the orcs. He wished for the strength that had been his of old, for the strength that might have let him speak out against these creatures the words he felt in his heart. He longed to accuse them of staining his beautiful city with their foul skins and breath, and of corrupting his beloved King. Instead, he bowed his head before the ferocity of their rage and mumbled an excuse. They mocked him then, but they let him go and he rushed to his home, where he locked himself in for the night.

An hour later he lay in his bed, his meager supper of porridge slowly curdling in his stomach, and his mind drifted back, trying to pinpoint the exact moment when his world had begun to fall apart. For the longest time he had thought it was the sight of the orc army marching toward Kanak with his own King, Khamul the glorious, riding at its head, clad from head to toe in the black plate steel armour that he had ordered forged for him in mimicry of the arms borne by the Emissary from the West. The story of the King’s miraculous victory in the war with Alanzia had reached the city days before – how he had emerged from his tent upon the eve of battle encased in his new armour, and how his own men had fallen away from him in terror of the immense power that he wielded. He had spoken to the army, and whether it was the exaggeration of soldier’s tales or if there were some truth to the magic that they claimed he held, his voice had been heard by the full ten thousand of his troops. He had urged them on to slaughter and war, to blood and ruin, though the enemy which lay encamped upon the opposite side of the River was five times their size, and composed almost entirely of the terrible orcs from the West. The soldiers had taken up his cry, and seized by a power they hardly understood, they had flung themselves upon their enemy. But hardly had the battle been joined when the King flew into the front of the lists, and wielding his sword above his head he called to the orcs to hearken to his voice, and he had exhorted them to lay down their weapons. The King’s own men had faltered in their fear for him, struck dumb by his folly, but the orcs had faltered. It was then, if the stories were to be believed, that the King had taken out the Ring that had been the gift of the Emissary. Speaking to the orcs in a voice of terrible authority he had commanded them to join him against the Alanzians, and to follow him. The creatures had laughed, but those who heard those cries reported that the beasts had been afraid too, of the Ring that Khamul had held aloft and that now glowed with a baleful light.

The orcs wavered and the battle was stilled. All watched as the King put the Ring upon his finger and vanished from the sight of mortal eye. But while he could not be seen, his presence was there before them all, like a terrible shadow vast and deep, and from it there came a voice. “Enemies of Pashtia,” it cried. “Hearken unto me and turn thy swords to my service. Lay yourselves down in fealty to me or face my uttermost wrath!” And then the orcs had been driven into a frenzy. Some slew themselves in fear and awe, but most turned to the service of the King and destroyed their Alanzian allies. The King’s Men, seized with the bloodlust of battle, had joined the orcs in the slaughter. The next day the joint army marched upon the capital of Alanzia and the king of that land had sued for mercy, pledging to become a tributary to Pashtia for all time, if only Khamul would save the people of Alanzia from the fangs of the orcs, his erstwhile allies.

Khamul had agreed to the request, but the king of Alanzia had been forced to bow to him, and to lay aside his crown. No word had been spoken between them of the death of Bekah, and while there were many of the King’s officers who longed to ask of it, none dared it in the hearing of their King.

The return of Khamul at the head of that monstrous army, and that army’s subsequent barracking within the walls of Kanak, had been a terrible day, but Jarult had begun of late to think of other, less dramatic moments, as the well-spring of his woe. The command soon after Khamul’s return that the new temple to Rae be dedicated to the god Morgoth, whom Khamul claimed was responsible for their miraculous victory, was one such moment. The order soon after, that the temple to Rhais be destroyed, and that all reference to the Goddess be wiped from the people’s practice and memory, had been – if it were possible – even more of a blow.

But despite this list of horrors, Jarult was convinced that the worst day was much earlier. It was the day that he and Homay had come to speak of together many times, and to play over in their conversations again and again, for of all those he had known at the palace, she was the only one who still came to visit him in this poor quarter of the city. It was the day that had burned itself into his mind so clearly that even now he could see it, even in the waking light. His King, Khamul, striking the Queen Bekah; seizing her arm and bending her to his will. It has been that moment, he now realized, which had begun the transformation of his world.

Where that transformation was leading he could not imagine. But he feared that when it was through, he would not be able to recognized the land he loved more than his own life.

[Imladris]

Arshalous wrapped her cloak tightly around her as she leaned against a courtyard pillar. The chill wind embraced her, twirled her silver-flecked raven hair, whispered secrets in her ear.

Her once green grasslands were desolate and brown, her vineyards, which had stretched across the land like a rolling sea, were shriveled skeletal sticks -- a mere wasteland.

The stables no longer smelled pleasantly of hay and horse for the animals had all been sold because of the poor harvests. The servants had been let go...only Semra remained.

Dust plumed upon the road, the tramp of boots chanted through the air. Arshalous cringed and ducked inside, locking the door behind her. She didn't want to see their hideous leering faces, yellowed fangs dripping with spittle...she shuddered, wondering how on earth such creatures ever came to welcomed into Pashtia. Goddess help them....

And she wept....wept for what had faded, what had been destroyed, wept for the name that she was no longer allowed to speak...

[Firefoot]

Siamak was sitting in his chambers, lost deep in thought. He had been doing a lot of thinking in the past months. Pashtia was far from what it had been. Kanak once had been filled with bustling people, laughing, chatting people, but now those who did go out in the streets went quietly, and only at need, trying to avoid the attention of the monsters that now patrolled the streets. More noticeable to him, though, was the change in the palace. It was not so evident, perhaps, as the change in the streets, but all the more stark to one familiar with it. Daily business still went on, but not with the same fluidness which had been when his mother was alive and Jarult still the Chamberlain. It was like wagon wheels that needed to be sanded and oiled: they still worked, but the movement was lacking refinement. And like in the streets, people, Siamak inculded, tried to avoid notice, mostly of the king.

The few times he had seen his father, there seemed to be some madness about him, evident both in his manner and the decrees he had recently passed. Siamak also felt certain that his father no longer trusted him, even suspected him. He did not know the cause precisely, but he thought that it was probably rooted in the same place as all their other problems: the Emissary, and his lord Annatar. At first, Siamak had thought that the problems had started that day when his mother was killed and word of Alanzia’s attack reached Kanak. Now, however, he saw that it was not so, and that the start had been before that, on the very day when the Emissary crossed the Great Desert into Pashtia. Through his servant Okarid he learned all that happened in the palace, and much in the city, from the mouths of both servants and guards. Slowly, he had pieced together events, creating a larger understanding of the whole. He suspected that, while only evident in recent months, his father’s madness had also begun before then. He recalled now the day when he and his sister had met with the Emissary, and he thought he had seen a flicker of a shadow by the window. It had been the same day his father had been missing; the two events were connected, Siamak thought: he had seen his father’s shadow perhaps, since the ring of his apparently granted invisibility. How many other times had his father attended conversations unheeded by the speakers? What other hidden powers might he now have?

There must be some connection between the orcs and the ring, Siamak mused. It seemed to have cowed the orcs into doing his father’s bidding during the war, and now the hideous monsters answered to few, if any, save his father. This was concerning, for how would the ring have anything to do with the orcs, unless the orcs too had come from the western lands? The Emissary had called them enemies of Men, which could be true enough, but if his father had control of them here, would this Annatar also have control of them in the west? For surely he would have some kind of magic ring as well, and if the orcs would not attack Pashtians, why would they attack those in the west? He knew that these orcs must be a primary key in the puzzle, but which lock it fit into he had yet to figure out.

Siamak was deeply worried for the future of Pashtia, yet he was afraid to do anything. He was afraid of what his father might do next in his further descent into madness. He needed to do something, though; he was, after all, the prince, and he had more power than many. He had few allies, but he thought there were some he could take to his side: Zamara, the High Priestess soon to be without a temple, the Lady Arshalous, who had been hit hard by the changes in Pashtia, and, however useful he may be, the former Chamberlain Jarult, who had known the inner workings of the palace better than all, perhaps, and one who had known his father well. And there was Morgôs, of course, the meetings with whom had been more secret than ever. It was an odd assortment, but he thought they would be trustworthy, and together perhaps they could manage to do something. Just what, he was not sure, but, afraid or not, something did need to be done, if he was to save his country from the madness of his father.

[Kransha]

It was a nice day, a calm, warm day in Kanak. In the quaint little chamber, though, it was cold. Nowadays, the palace was always cold. Not icy cold like a blade or chilly like a windy day – just cold. The walls of the chamber had been wrought over with ebony stone that glistened dimly in the light of blue-tinted torches, casting a blazing whitened shadow against sable stone, grimacing arches and lifeless statuary. At one end of the chamber lay a small, stool-like tablet flanking a long, overly polished slab of gleaming ebony, like the glinting material that made up the walls. Rhythmic tapping sounded, echoing like a consistent beat, rapping tentatively against the slab. Fingers drummed the makeshift table, drowning out the other sound that filled the room – singing.

It was amazing, really – a stroke of luck – that Morgôs had not been exiled from the court of the King, even after six long months of total chaos and fluctuation in Pashtia. After six months of pain and war, Morgôs was still General of Pashtia, albeit not the elf he once was. He had not been demoted, but his position was entirely ceremonial.

He remembered the day it had all changed. An attempt was made on his life, not a truly abnormal thing in wartime, but it had jogged his senses. He had been gravely ill, and became steadily sicker during that day and the coming weeks, losing much of his stamina. The Elf had found out, on that very same day that Bekah was dead and Pashtia was at war. He would’ve, under normal circumstances, jumped at this opportunity to dive back into himself and become the furious War-lord, Morgôs, once again, but his form was diminished and frail. He was to weak to attend the council of that war, and his adjutant Gyges went in his stead. When Faroz, now called Khamûl, took the armies of Pashtia to war, Morgôs was given command of several battalions and ordered to annihilate the tribesmen who had been attacking Durvelt – the task he’d shirked for a month.

When he returned to Pashtia, triumphant, his arrival was overshadowed by the grandeur brought by Khamûl, who came with a terrible horde in his thrall and a force that had overwhelmed Pashtia’s most ancient enemy. On that day Morgôs felt terrible resentment. It had been his charge to wipe out Alanzia. Alanzia had cost him countless kinsmen and fought him in combat for millennia. Khamûl was no more than a yawning pup compared to him and yet he, clad in ebony armor whose passionate light glowed brighter and more powerfully than Morgôs’ silver panoply ever had, wielded a greater power and the unflinching allegiance, and fear, of thousands. But, that resentment decayed and disappeared. Morgôs held on doggedly to his allegiance to Khamûl, and it was only rewarded by Khamûl’s allowing him to remain in his court.

Now Morgôs had no real job, only a shadow of one. He did not control the things that ruled the streets or the armies. He felt, though, that he had no reason to turn from the rule of Khamûl. He may be deluded, but many kings had been. Someday, Faroz would die, and Gjeelea or Siamak would take over. Certainly neither of them would bow into the will of their father, and would distance themselves from this vile change. He held nothing against these beasts that roamed Pashtia, called orcs, and saw in them only rank brutality and stupidity, rather than untainted evil. Others told him he was blind not to loathe them, but something in him saw them as hounds, and no more than that, who did man’s bidding. The ejection of countless courtiers from Khamûl’s court was unexpected and unfortunate, but not terrible. Even though Morgôs’ own position had lost potency, at least he retained it. He had, though, been addressed on several occasions about resigning.

The one thing he couldn’t do.

As long as Khamûl reigned, Morgôs would be at his side. This was his doom, by choice of his own; his everlasting doom, which would ride him until the end of his days. He followed Khamûl still, not blindly, but without protest as the world became a stranger place than any world Morgôs had ever known. Several of his Elven kin had approached him about resigning in the wake of the change. Some were calling it the Cataclysm of Pashtia, a terrible event. Others hailed it as the nation’s Golden Age. His kindred though, Elven and mortal, close to him, seemed to agree more with the former. Morgôs, though, could not agree with them. He continued to go to the palace every day and wait for something, anything, to happen. He was loaded with political duties relating to the military: rationing, recruiting, volunteer numbers. Nothing his former occupation had entailed.

Morgôs remembered when he’d been called Warlord, the title of Army Commander used before everything in Pashtia was “modernized” by Khamûl’s grandfather. He’d been “Karandûn, the Warlord of Pashtia, Garok of the East, Mightiest of the Mighty.” Then he was “General of Pashtia, Hero of Pashtia.” Now, he was no more than Morgôs, the highest ranking non-commissioned officer with no real purpose in all the land: depressing. His frequent bouts of madness had not stopped either, leaving him sicker and sicker daily.

He’d attacked a soldier while camped outside of Durvelt, a serving girl who’d tended to him when he returned, and a courtier in the Palace. Since, each time, he almost immediately forgot his actions; the matters were not further pursued. The young girl who he’d injured on the day of Bekah’s death brought the issue to the King, but, since it was Morgôs’ word (what he thought had been an honest word) against hers, he won out. Strangely, though, the King had not seemed affected by the accusation, as if he had some preternatural knowledge of it. Still, he’d dismissed it without expressing concern. Some had commented on Morgôs’ behavioral alterations, but none many. Most were more worried about Pashtia’s alterations.

All that Morgôs was worried about at the moment was his work. He was not doing any official business, as he was supposed to, but rather consulting his own volumes, which he had brought to the Palace with him. Since he really had nothing else to do, this seemed logical. Ever since the end of what was now called “The War of the Orc” he had doggedly examined his archives. He found no evidence of any creature resembling orcs, or any other modern happenings that related to his lost memories. He was instead met in the tomes with more fantastical beasts, not these simple creatures or their smaller kin that patrolled Kanak and all of Pashtia in roughhousing gangs of armed thugs. Though he searched without end, he found nothing save for the familiar hauntings that plagued him before, but even more now. Nothing but pain…

“Cuiva, Ellerinon, cuiva!”

…and voices, as well. Recurrently, for months, he’d suffered another plague. Weekly, for the most part, but sometimes for days in a row he was pestered by the voice that had come to him on that day kneeling before the statue of Rhais. He’d forgotten about it, so the next time it came he was taken off guard. But that was the time that he was ill with the fever of war, so he dismissed the nonsensical voice as a hallucination. Then, it came again, and again, and again, all within days. He dismissed these to as freak occurrences, random side-effects of the bizarre happenings. As his detachment from himself grew, the voice, becoming clearer and stronger day by day, continued to berate him. The General no longer saw the serene beauty in the foreign words or the melodic sing-song of the spirit’s voice; he only felt the annoyance of one plagued by a gnat.

“Not now,” Morgôs growled mentally, “I’m not in the mood.” After two months of enduring the voice and trying to find meaning to it or its unknown tongue, he stopped looking for signs and either ignored it or argued it down. He found that it at least knew when he was “speaking” to it, and did not interrupt, so he could carry on conversations with it, though its words were not translatable. Lately, he simply tried to drive it away whenever it came, rather then let it continue to whisper into his mind. The voice was never satiated immediately and, as Morgôs predicted, it continued. “Á tulta tuolya,” It scolded brusquely.

“Quiet,” Morgôs shot back in his mind, but the voice ignored him altogether, as it often did. “An mauya mahta.” Morgôs had entertained the idea that he was mad, and the idea that he was literally being haunted, and many other theories. None held sway, and all fell short, so he gave the voice no name and let it attack him as an anonymous assailant, daily, weekly, or monthly. With a snarl in his mentally manufactured voice, he spat at the voice. “Go away.” He thought, simmering, but still the voice remained present. He could feel it.

“Á lasta!” Trying to be patient, he thought more calmly. “Have you not pestered me enough?” He asked.

“Haryal úruva fëa! Áva tinta ormë ilfirin óressë!” Declaimed the voice, with sudden reserved anger in it and, frustrated, Morgôs responded similarly, lowering his head wearily into his ready hands, “Why do you speak so that I can hear but cannot tell what you are saying?” He moaned, kneading his brow, elbows pushed against the paper-strewn slab of a table, “What purpose lies in this but to drive me away? Speak a tongue I know or begone!”

“Ellerinon,” the tone of the voice calmed and turned to a familiar whisper, “Ánin anta estelya.”

“GO AWAY!” The sound of the General’s voice boomed in his head, shattering the whisper.

To Morgôs’ great relief, the voice died, and he quietly resumed his work as he always did.

[Amanaduial the archer]

While the patrol finally let Jarult go, to hurry home, there were others who did not obey the curfew so strictly, no matter who was patrolling the night. Where she might have been tucked up in bed, like a good little girl, Zamara was not ready to give in so easily to the dark powers that possessed her city.

In a room that resembled a house of mourning, the walls covered in black, the balcony windows lay wide open into the night and in front of them Zamara stood as if frozen. Similarly draped in black, her arms were crossed over the long, plain velvet tunic she was now obliged to wear over her white robes: a floor length, long sleeved garment that hid the Priestess's shape. It's wide, heavy hood, designed the shade her face and hair, lay redundant on her back now though, and she had left the tunic front open, despite the cool of the evening air: as she looked out into the night, the medallion of Rhais glinted dully on top of her white robes, the brightness like a reminder of hope against the darkness that surrounded it. And if there was one thing that Pashtia needed now, it was hope. Her beautiful features were now gaunt and her dark skin and hair dull, for she had been under house arrest in the redundant temple for nearly four months, pending her 'trial'; they strove, it seemed, to break her down both in body as passage to her mind, and she had been getting by on what very little they cared to give her. But despite her outward condition, her eyes still shone with that strange blue inner light, and her mind was ever working, working, working against impossible odds in a society that she could not reach. Trapped in what had been her haven.

A knock sounded on the door behind her and it opened almost immediately afterwards, as if Zamara's permission to enter was not required. The Priestess did not turn, simply closed her eyes and drew the tunic slowly over her chest as if suddenly exposed to a chill breeze, covering the medallion. Covering her only ray of hope.

"Good evening, Lady Zamara." Both familiar and dangerous, a mellifluous and soft, self possessed voice greeted the woman from the doorway, it's owner stepping forward towards her slowly, taking his time as if the clock belonged to him. Like everything else in this now accursed city.

Zamara did not respond, opening her eyes and looking straight forward out of the balcony window, her teeth clenched tightly together. She would not respond to a title that was not hers. A sigh sounded, a sound carefully crafted to irritate and set the teeth on edge, and Zamara sensed rather than heard the man come forward: she had long learned that the Emissary walked more silently than any elf. As he came to stand beside her, the Western man looked into the Priestess's proud, noble face and laughed softly, condescendingly, almost cruelly. "Still silent, Zamara? But you talked so freely to the king, did you not? I should like to hear you speak again - such fire, such pitiful bravado..." his voice was filled with mock admiration that covered lavish pity. Zamara did not respond, forcing herself to remain silent. The Emissary smiled smugly and leant towards her. "Not to worry, I have no fear that you shall sing again when your trial comes, Zamara. To think it, a Priestess on trial for treason, for blasphemy, for...sorcery."

"I am no witch, snake, and you know it." Zamara's reply was sharp and quiet, but full of restrained fury, and she did not deign to look at the Emissary, her gaze remaining striving into a night where the moon's light was smothered by clouds.

"Ah, so you are still alive then, sorceress? I thought maybe you had made some treaty with your demon goddess to leave this world - take the easy way out rather than face trial." The Emissary laughed, his grey eyes glinting wickedly in the sparse candlelight. Looking Zamara over greedily, he flicked at her hood lightly with long fingers, tsking quietly. "You promised to wear this up, Zamara-"

"I promised nothing of the sort, snake," the woman snapped, jerking away from the Emissary's hands, her black eyes glinting themselves but with fury rather than amusement. As she did so, her tunic fell open and the medallion came into full view. The Emissary's eyes widened in shock, then he threw back his head and laughed loudly. Regaining his composure, he raised an eyebrow at Zamara. "Oh, Zamara, what is that now? Your comfort blanket, your trinket against the darkness? What use are trinkets now, my Lady, when your so-called goddess has been exposed for what she really is?" He took a step forward and, despite herself, Zamara took an uneasy step backwards, away from him.

"It is not what she really is! Rhais has always been the goddess of Pashtia-"

"The voices of demons spoke through you, witch, no goddess!"

"No! That is not true!" Despite herself, Zamara's voice had taken on a slightly desperate edge and her anger was showing through, her frustration bursting out of her like an overflowing dam.

"You led your king astray and now you shall pay for it!"

"No!"

"Yes!" The Emissary's cruel eyes shone with enjoyment as he relished the word, hissing it like the namesake that Zamara had given him. He continued to advance on her, backing her up against a wall. "You knew it, Zamara, you knew it and now Khamul knows, he shall destroy you as I know he should. The pitiful idols of this city shall fall and in their place shall reign the one true god, my lord Morgoth! You have worshipped like heathens for long enough your pathetic idols, and now all shall come right - what female god could ever compete, you foolish-"

The sound of Zamara's hand as she slapped the Emissary's face rang through her quarters for what seemed like an hour. Stunned, he took a step away from the Priestess as he raised one hand to his face where the unnaturally pale skin was already darkening to an angry shade of red. Zamara glared at him with the ferosity of a cornered animal. "You're a monster," she hissed. Clenching her fists, she took a sudden step forward, raising her hand again to strike the Emissary. "You monster!"

The man's hand snaked out with unnatural speed, catching her wrist before she made contact with his face. Pitilessly, he twisted her wrist around and, with a gasp of pain, the Priestess sank to her knees, her arm wrenched up behind her back.

"You are nothing, Zamara and now, before all who once worshipped you, I shall show that." The Emissary pressed his mouth close to her ear as he almost spat the words at her in a sinister hiss. "By the city you loved and served, you shall be destroyed!"

With a last, vicious twist of the woman's wrist, the Emissary pushed Zamara so that she crumpled against the wall as he got to his feet. Looking down at her disdainfully, the man gave a brief snort of laughter, as if she was too worthless even to consider, then turned and left the room without another word. Zamara flexed her fingers experimentally as she massaged her wrist, fighting away the tears of anger that sprung to her eyes as she ran her delicate fingers over the deep red welts that his fingers hand left, so hard had they dug into her skin.

When she looked up again, the Emissary had vanished.

~*~

The time of waiting had passed. Zamara would not wait, a prisoner, any more. Guarded during the days, the risk of the orcish patrols during the night: these fears were nothing to her any more. The Emissary or one of the others of his company had come every day since the beginning of her captivity, and Zamara would not wait for the next time. Despite her bravery, despite her stubborness and determination, despite her very nature, tonight she had been truly scared of the man who had forced her to the ground. Never before had any man laid a hand on Zamara with such terrifying force, and she had felt that every bone in her arm would break like match-sticks under his grasp. Remembering Bekah's crumpled body, everything now made sense to the Priestess, the gaps filled. He did not have her murdered by one of his minions, and it was no accident the way Bekah died. The snake did it himself...

Zamara gulped back her fear, rearranging her disshevelled clothing as she stood, taking hasty breaths of air, attempting to slow her racing heart. There was not an instant to lose. She had thought to wait, to bide her time, but one way or the other, this ruthless western murderer would take care of her sooner or later if she was to stay. No, the time had come. The time was now.

She would risk the patrols: even the guards retreated to their homes at night, for who would be foolish enough to try to escape even under a death sentence when a breathing, walking, slavering death sentence in a different form was travelling the city in packs? But that was just something Zamara would have to risk; climbing over the balcony rail and scrabbling with her feet until they contacted the solid surface of the roof below, the former High Priestess of Pashtia began her escape into the dangerous, yellow fanged night.

And where to go? Well, how many people remained in the city with both their wits and their power still about them? One reply sprung to mind, one pair that could still recieve her, but was it too dangerous a solution?

After all, on whose side were the royal children now?

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

Though it was hardly like Zamara to change according to what might be popular at any given moment, Gjeelea had long ago decided to wait for the right moment to release herself from the chains of the new, dark Pashtia. Nearly everyone in Kanak except for her own father knew that times needed to change – change for the better. Still, Khamul had come to be feared more than even the orcish regiments at his disposal. Arguments that once arose about who would be the heir to the throne now seemed very far-gone. Discussions over the building of a new temple for Rae had long since passed into nothingness. Days that were once spent contemplating the allegiance of the westerners became days, hours, and even minutes, which Gjeelea desperately wanted back.

Oh, and how the princess so fiercely wished to have that one moment back. Many months before, she had thought quickly to prove that allegiance with the Emissary’s king had been her idea all along. Now she hated herself – and her brother – for making the worst decision of their lives. At first she almost thought to place the blame on Siamak for how Pashtia had so quickly changed from a bustling nation of knowledge and culture into a dark, evil place that had become a prison. Then Gjeelea realized that it did not matter whose fault it was that things had changed – it mattered only if things could be returned to how they once were, or changed for the better.

Her marriage to Korak had been a falsely joyous event. It occurred just before the ‘great’ and ‘wondrous’ victory over Alanzia. If anyone was happy at the wedding, it was only Korak for having gained what he had lusted after for so long: the chance to become the next king. Gjeelea did not smile, or, if she had smiled, she had long forgotten it for there had been no real happiness in her on that day. Khamul did not smile either, and spoke only when it was necessary for the ceremony to proceed – there were no words of cheer or glee between father and daughter, and nothing between father and new son. After the wedding Gjeelea withdrew from Korak, rarely speaking to him, though she imagined that Korak preferred her silent anyway.

Many of Gjeelea’s days were spent inside the palace, fearful of what Kanak had become. She missed her walks out into the town, when she could go and read at Basit’s bookshop and talk with Rafiqa…or read to their daughter, Tendai. Gjeelea regretted that she had rarely spoken to people like Zamara, or Arshalous, or Arlomë, or even Morgôs, because they had been so wise and it seemed as though all of them suspected something before the cloak of evil had fallen upon Pashtia. Some days, when Gjeelea had spent hours on end with only her own thoughts as company, Gjeelea missed when she and Siamak were young. When they were young, neither of them thought much about competing to be crowned – mostly because it had seemed so far a way. For a few years, youth kept them together.

Most of all, Gjeelea missed her mother.

Bekah had kept everything together in Pashtia, and Gjeelea hardly noticed it until months after she had died. If Bekah had not been murdered – oh, how things would have been different.

The princess had spent long years competing against Siamak. Popularity was always on Gjeelea’s side, for in social matters she had always been fearless and bold. Now, when everything else had fallen apart, Gjeelea knew of no one she could trust. What did it mean that all the years had come down to this? Gjeelea knew what had to be done to fix the path Pashtia had been taken on. She had contemplated it many times.

Khamul could not continue to rule.

The Emissary’s whisperings into Khamul’s ears needed to be stopped.

Morgoth could not make his reign in Pashtia.

Most of all (Gjeelea had known it since she had learned of her betrothal)…

…Korak could not be king.

--

Long nights were often – if not always – spent alone. Gjeelea, essentially, had no one to be with. She no longer wished for the company of the maids, and besides them, who did she know who would spend long hours conversing about the evil that had spread through Kanak? Siamak did not speak with Gjeelea, and Gjeelea did not seek his company. Korak wanted little of Gjeelea except for her to become queen one day. The princess had not spoken to Khamul in many weeks – maybe even months. On several occasions, the Emissary visited Gjeelea, but the discussions were tense and restless. Gjeelea wanted so badly to strangle the Emissary for all he had brought to Pashtia. She wanted to slaughter him for riding up on his horse that one day, so many months ago, with all his shiny-armored soldiers and alliance proposals.

This night, Gjeelea had decided to spend her time in the garden of the palace. She went there often, and yet every time she visited the flowers and fountains, she recalled only one memory. The only thing she could think of when she came to the gardens was the night of the Emissary’s welcoming feast. Gjeelea remembered it all. She remembered who of the royal family arrived first, second, third, and fourth. She recalled all the words exchanged. She remembered where she and Siamak had stood; Gjeelea even remembered what flowers Bekah had placed in her headdress.

From next to the bench on which she sat, Gjeelea picked a jasmine bloom and smelled it, remembering how things had been before Bekah had died.

[Nurumaiel]

"My Lord Korak..."

Korak raised his gaze from the floor, which he had been studying absently as he lay in a leisurely fashion on the cushions in his room. Morashk was standing at the door, as pale and skulking as ever, but perhaps more pale since these dark times had come. He was fumbling with his hands, his eyes darting here and there, keen and observing.

"Well, speak up!" said Korak sharply. "Why have you bothered me?"

"Your mother is asking to see you, m'lord," Morashk mumbled, and then withdrew.

Korak heaved a deep sigh and stood, scowling impatiently. His mother was always wanting to see him, to ask him if he was all right, to implore him not to leave the safety of their home, to ask him to stay with her and make sure no harm befell her. Wasn't it enough that Gjeelea was always there? Must she call him again and again, when he'd much rather be left alone?

Much had changed in the past months. Korak and Gjeelea had been married, and their affection for one another was no stronger than it had been the day they were first betrothed. The dark shadows that had descended upon their home had affected the Lady Hababa the most, for she had grown pale and sickly and now spent her days lying nervously in her bed. Gjeelea was often there with her, for the only other place to go to find human comradeship without leaving the house was to Korak and Morashk, and, though human, they showed no hints of comradeship. Morashk had because a nervous, flitting figure, though as sharp in words and glance as ever. And Korak was always annoyed at the sight of his wife. He had never cared much for her, but the fact that he did not become King at the moment he became her husband made him resentful against her.

He cast her a scowling look as he entered his mother's room, where she lay trembling. Gjeelea did not raise her eyes to his face to catch his look towards her, but merely kept them fixed on the frail old woman in the bed. Yet Korak could tell that Gjeelea's eyes were not cast down to hide their dancing at the joy of his presence.

"Ah, son," said Lady Hababa, stretching out her thin arms. Her appearance had changed greatly, but her gracious manner of actions and speech had not changed at all. Through all her fear and suffering, she retained the air of the lady that she was, and the heart of the good mother that she felt, while thinking upon Korak, she had not been.

Korak bent to brush his lips against her hair, and then cast a disapproving look around the room. "Where are your maids?" he demanded.

"Gjeelea is here," said the Lady, with a fond smile directed at that one. "She has just come in from the garden to sit with me."

"I do not care if she is here or not," Korak snapped. "I asked where the maids were."

The look of brightness that had come over the Lady's face when her son entered the room was instantly subdued, but she lost none of her fondness of manner. She lifted soft eyes and gazed steadily into Korak's face, her expression a mixture of devotion and sorrow. The months had not improved Korak, but had worsened him, and, though his smiles had been seldom before, they were hardly ever seen now... except when Hababa happened to speak of Lady Arshalous, and worry over her. Then Korak would smile a malicious smile, and say: "No need to wonder, Mother. I'm sure she's worse than us."

A little, timid voice piped up from the doorway to the room. "I am here, m'lord," it said.

He turned, and glared heavily at the white-faced little maid, who dropped her eyes in a frightened manner and began to tremble. "Why," he demanded, "are you not here attending your mistress, as you should be doing?"

"She gave me leave to go," the maid murmured. "I went to the dining room, where there was a fire. That is where my sister is now. It is so cold in here, m'lord."

"It is cold because you did not start a fire," he said. "Rather than work a little to start one here, you leave to find one that will already warm you, and leave your mistress to be cold."

"But, m'lord!" she cried in feeble protest, raising her eyes for a moment and then dropping them again when she met his own stormy ones. "I do not know how to make a fire."

"Ignorant little creature!" he cried. "Go fetch your sister, and then come back here to attend to your mistress. I do not care what she tells you. I insist that you do not leave her."

The little maid hastened from the room.

"Please," said the Lady Hababa, weakly, from her bed. "Do not be harsh on my little maids. It is true that they do not know how to make a fire. They were trained to fix hair and such things. And they are just barely past childhood... they are not as strong as I, son, and the cold would harm them more."

"Strong?" said Korak, and he sat down heavily. His mother was mad to think she was strong. She was as weak a woman as he had ever seen. But had he ever seen anyone who was strong? Perhaps he could love Gjeelea if she were strong. But she was weak. Morashk was weak, as well. In olden days he had had some strength, for all his skulking ways, but he had lost that strength years ago, the day when he met Arshalous.

"My father was strong," Korak muttered, and then glanced hastily at his mother and wife to make sure they had not heard.

The little maid and her sister came scurrying in, not daring to look at Lord Korak, and hastened to sit by Lady Hababa and the Princess, awaiting a command. They, and Morashk, were the only servants who were still in the house. The others had fled. Morashk had stayed because of his strange devotion to his master. The little maids had stayed because, as Hababa said, they were just barely past childhood and they were much too frightened to go out into that terrible, dark world.

Nothing that had happened had effected Korak very much. He did not live under the reign of fear. His only thought was that it was very inconvenient to have to do without servants. And... he wondered if the King, being in such a strange mood of late, would be less likely to favour him now.

[Imladris]

Arshalous did not know why she decided to visit the royal court...she missed the quiet bustle of her own home now that it was as still as a forlorn tomb...maybe she wished to see if the court was poisoned with fear as the townsman and villagers were. She wandered about the outskirts of the royal palace, Semra by her side, noticing that it too was tensely quiet.

Once she caught a glimpse of the Emissary as he glided about his business. It seemed that he too had changed, just like her king. The power that seemed to course through him did not glow with nobility as she had first thought, but with dark menace. Why had she not noticed it before? She remembered that day so long ago when she had dined with the Emissary and she had told him of his god Melkor...she snorted in disgust. That should have been the first warning...

It was then that she had noticed that Semra was trembing, her eyes closed tightly. "What is the matter?" Arshalous asked.

"That man...he seemed to be an echo of that thing that touched me when you found me that night in the pool," she whispered.

Dread formed in Arshalous, a cold knot in the pit of her stomach. Wrapping her arm around the girl's shoulders, she led her away from the royal palace. "I want to visit Lady Hababa," Arshalous told Semra as they mounted -- Arshalous on her white mare and Semra on a little brown pony. "I have not seen her for many days and I fear that she grows lonely, which is no surprise as Korak certainly isn't the best of company," she said bitterly.

In almost no time at all, they arrived at Korak's place. It too was lacking in servants, and Arshalous wondered if they had been let go as well. She had only let her own go because they had wished to go to their distant homes to protect them from the darkness that festered in the city.

Semra and Arshalous found that Korak, the Princess, and the few servants that remained were gathered in the same room. Arshalous curled her lip in annoyance. She did not want to banter words with Korak today.

"Good day, Lady Cousin," Korak said stiffly, glancing at his ailing mother.

Arshalous smiled softly to herself, pleased to see that he was restrained by his aunt's presense. "Semra and I heard you in the passageway," she said. "I thought that you sounded rather unreasonable which really isn't becoming you know. So why don't you go away and leave us women be?"

With a smirk, she turned her back on Korak, took up Lady Hababa's hand and said, "Forgive me, dear Aunt, for being so late in coming. I have had many problems, but so, I believe have you. With no servants to till the land, it fairs rather badly does it not? And," she added with a small, joyless smile, "if the orcs are not inclined to go around a field that is in their way they do not hesitate to trample over it, do they?"

Lady Hababa nodded weakly and Arshalous pressed her hand sympathetically. She, indeed, suffered worse than Arshalous, for what could be worse than being imprisoned in one's own bed?

Turning to the Gjeelea, she said, "How do you fair, Princess?"

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

"I have faired well, thank you," Gjeelea replied softly, her eyes on Arshalous' hand where it rested upon Hababa's. "I have faired better than many in these past six months. How have you been, Arshalous? I have not seen you in a while, I know, though I can guess how the state of your home has changed."

The princess did not quite listen to whatever reply Arshalous gave her. Her eyes met the noble woman's, and from time to time as the lady spoke Gjeelea would nod. However, behind the nonchalant gaze Gjeelea pondered many things. How long would it take for change to come? What would happen if everyone who could change things did nothing? What could be done to change the state of Pashtia as it stood? What would Lord Annatar in the west do if the Emissary were cast out? Could the Emissary even be beaten? These thoughts and many more flashed through Gjeelea's mind. How long could Pashtia wait for someone to take action?

After six months of fear, change, and evil, Gjeelea was no longer in the mood to wait out whatever reign the Emissary had over her father. She knew she could not be the only one willing to do something - anything. At one point in her life, Gjeelea's only goal had been to become queen. Now that that point had long since come and gone, she wanted nothing more than her old home back.

She had grown sick of the Emissary many months before.

"Arshalous, might I speak with you in private?" Gjeelea suddenly asked. Arshalous cocked one brow. "There were matters I had wished to discuss with you long ago. I had forgotten since the last time I saw you. Now seems as good a time as any, do you agree?"

"Certainly," Arshalous agreed, her gaze perplexed and her voice uncertain.

The two women walked into a back hallway, one that, as Gjeelea had learned in her many visits, led to the kitchen. Arshalous opened her mouth to speak, to question, but Gjeelea lifted a finger to her own lips to signify silence.

"Arshalous," Gjeelea said quietly, solemnly. "Answer me one question, please?" Arshalous nodded slowly, suspicion and curiosity in her eyes. "Do you trust the Emissary?"

Gjeelea hoped that Arshalous' answer would be the one she was looking for. The princess had, for many years, made social maneuvers and shifted courtly actions. Now was the time, she knew, to initiate another change. This change, however, required help. Gjeelea hoped Arshalous would be able to help. After this inquiry, Gjeelea wanted to go to the palace, and find others that she knew would help her in her plans.

[Imladris]

Arshalous tightened, and glanced sharply at the Princess. She could not help but wonder if this was some sort of trap that would, in some way, condemn her with treason. She breathed quickly, shallowly. She wished to tell the truth, and hoped that the princess also felt the same.

But what if she didn't?

If she laughed, brushed the question off with a smile and a quick change of subject, what would be accomplished? Nothing...absolutely nothing. Things would continue to spiral wildly in decline and Pashtia would be ravished with corruption until it became an evil ruin, an twisted echo of what it had once been. Taking a deep breath she turned toward the Princess, and said, "When I first saw the Emissary, I admired him, for he seemed noble and kind -- something which none of our noble men seemed to be anymore. He seemed to be a person stepping from the stories, the myths, and legends. But, I have noticed how he has become the king's shadow, always near even though sometimes we cannot see him. Now, when I look upon him, I see evil, corruption, lust...I do not know why I did not see it before. I do not trust him, I loathe him. These...yellow fanged monsters come from the West -- it is said that the King bent them to his will with the gift of the Emissary...I cannot but wonder whether the Emissary is a lord of sorts to these vile creatures..."

She looked once more at the princess, hoping that the princess herself felt the same way. If not, there was nothing to look forward to but death...yet how could the Princess not agree with her? Yet people were strange, as stable as a wind swept sea. And if the Princess did agree with Arshalous, the nobly lady earnestly hoped that something would be done about the Emissary for he was evil dressed fairly...the most awful of all evils.

And the King, what would become of him? Arshalous desperately wished that he was merely blinded, led astray by the whisperings of the Emissary. She could not shake the nagging thought that said that there was no hope for the King. People were who they were...there was no changing them. If the King's heart was now so inclined to corruption and delights in evil deeds, then surely he had always been inclined to such things...maybe that part of him had been dormant, but now that it was awake, could they trust that it would once more sleep when the Emissary was removed? Maybe that was why he had enlisted her aide to eliminate Korak...She froze at the thought, waves of fear drowning her. What if he called upon that oath?

Was an oath obligated to be kept no matter what the cirumstances? What a fool she had been...

[Amanaduial the archer]

Under cover of darkness, a lone figure stole through the Kanak, the streets deserted by all to whom the city truly belonged whilst yellow fanged usurpers prowled the streets. As the sound of feet - or were they claws? - came close, a street away, the figure paused, suddenly feeling all too obvious in the dim, starless sidestreet. Flattening herself in a doorway, Zamara desperately tried to meld into the stonework, staying as still as was humanly possible and praying to Rhais that the patrol would pass on.

The steps at the opening of the alleyway faltered as one of it's members hesitated, looking down the sidestreet and giving a guttural grunt to the others to wait. It emitted a long, drawn out sniffing, like a dog sniffing underneath a door for some small mouse or rat, and Zamara's heart seemed to stop within her chest, her blood freezing in the chill of fear. Slow, menacing footsteps came forward, one....two...three...steady and unrelenting as death as the orc started down the sidestreet.

"Come out, little mouse....we know you're here somewhere, come out, come out..." the orc crooned mockingly, it's fellows sniggering. They spread out along the street, one on each side checking the walls. The leader gave a cruel yellow-fanged grin. "Some naughty little girl or boy doesn't like the curfew? Should stay inside of an evening - you never know who might be out in the darkness..."

The orcs sniggered nastily, adding their own jeers, before the leader silenced them suddenly. Giving a low growl, he sniffed along the wall, taking short, violent inhalations, suddenly seeming even more eager and urgent, as if he had picked up on Zamara's scent. Shrinking down in her doorway, the priestess felt inside the shapeless cloak, barely shifting it, finding her medallion as she squeezed her eyes tight shut, like a little girl willing a nightmare to go away. The orc could not be more than a few feet away from her now, she was sure, sniffing all along the wall like a dog picking up on a scent, and the only sound in the starless city seemed to be those terrible, vicious sniffs and the pounding of Zamara's heart in her chest. She had never seen the orcs close up before, and the face which replaced the animal features of the orcish leader was the Emissary's: smug, calculating and smooth, smiling wickedly with those cold grey eyes as he destroyed her city around her. It was he, even more than the patrol, that Zamara feared. Please, take them away, don't let them find me here...

A crash at the end of the alleyway seemed to assail the darkness, the sound of a slate falling off a roof. The sound of it shattering seemed the loudest thing Zamara had ever heard, but what came after it was more terrible still: the sound of a human voice swearing.

The sound that saved Zamara's life.

The orcs' instant reaction covered Zamara's whimper as all heads turned towards the end of the alley, distracted from the game they were playing with Zamara. The leader set off immediately at a run with a yell that was more like a wolf's bay than any human sound, and they all responded and followed suit, thundering past Zamara's hiding place like a pack of wolves, baying with bloodlust as they pursued the poor unfortunate who had broken curfew. In her doorway, her back pressed so hard in that she could feel every individual stone cold through her clothes, Zamara huddled under the black velvet cloak that the Emissary had forced her to wear and which had now provided a perfect cover for her - any other time, the irony would have made her laugh, but the Priestess felt so numb that she was barely capable of moving.

The inclination would have been to stay there all night, never to leave that doorway and to remain until dawn stock still. As if an open doorway provided any safety from the orcs. Forcing herself into action with the thought, her powerful self will and the fear of discovery being all that kept her moving, Zamara held her cloak around her body and set off at a run. As her sandals slapped against the ground, she hopped on one foot then the other as she removed them and slipped them into the cloak pocket; she would run barefoot, despite the gravelly ground. Stealthily jogging through the darkness, stopping now and then as she crossed streets, Zamara warily made the hellish journey through the network of Kanak's streets towards the palace. But there was one obstacle she had not thought through.

The fountain courtyard.

The very place where the King had stood six months ago to welcome the Emissary to Pashtia: an open, paved square about twenty metres long and wide, centred by a magificent, three tiered fountain. Zamara gazed up now at the fountain which lay silent and still in the shrouded moonlight, it's white stone shining with faded magnificence: the water did not flow at night and lay instead tranquil in the stone pools. Beyond it sat the palace, hunched and foreboding, a dark place these days and, to Zamara, an impossible distance away.

The Priestess could have cried. How, how could she have come so far only to have this set in front of her? The square was bordered on all sides by unusually large roads, and if one of the orcs happened to look along one into the courtyard, she didn't stand a chance; or if, pausing for a moment to take in the city by night, a soldier in the palace looked out, she would be instantly spotted. If anyone was to see her, she may as well light a beacon and order a band.

But Zamara was a determined woman. A straight, twenty metre run across the courtyard without being seen? Improbable, but not impossible. In a city where one man's poisonous words could cause one of the greatest kings in Pashtian history to forsake all his forefathers before him had done, nothing was impossible. Clenching her fists, Zamara squeezed her eyes shut and uttered a soft sigh, crouching like a runner at the starting block...then, like an arrow froma taught bow, shot from the tributary pathway and sprinted at full pelt across the courtyard.

As she ran, every cell in Zamara's body seemed alive, seemed to twitch and scream it's prescence to all around, and her hood slipped down off her head, revealing hair that, although the gold braiding had been removed, seemed to wave frantically to all around, swinging in an ungainly salute to all around her head. Every breath was a smith's bellows in volume, every footstep a gunshot, every movement or thought torment in uncertainty.

Let me make it, Goddess...

...and an age later, throwing herself under the eaves of a gateway, she did.

Kneeling with her back pressed against the filigree of the gate, Zamara lay crouched and panting for several long moments, staring back at what she had just accomplished. Leaning back, she dropped to a sitting position and slumped against the gateway, offering thanks to her goddess - or to whatever had got her across that impossible mile, whether herself or Rhais, she wasn't exactly in the mindset to argue right at that moment. But her trials, it seemed, were not yet over.

"Who goes there?"

The terrified false bravado of the whispered voice pierced Zamara and she almost called out before a hand shot through the gate and covered her mouth. The woman struggled for only a second though, before a knife came to her throat, halting her movements and forcing her to sit still. The bearer of the knife paused momentarily and then, with sudden urgency, fierce, agile fingers left her mouth and groped their way to her neck, below the blade, where they found the medallion's chain. Lifting it with shocked, eager reverence, Zamara's assailant raised the medallion from her clothing and, as the clouds slipped lazily from the moon in a moment's respite, the ruby of Rhais hung glinting in it's light.

The dagger dropped from Zamara's throat and the footsteps backed up away from the gate. The Priestess scrambled to her feet quickly, hands raised but her face clearly visible to the pair of servants in the garden: barefoot and pale she may have been, but she was instantly recognised. The elder of the two, a weatherbeaten, leathery man of about fifty, stared in amazement and his jaw dropped open. "High Prieste-"

"Sh-hh!" Zamara flapped her hands desperately at the pair, looking franticallyn around the square for any sign of the orc patrols. The second servant, a young woman not much older than Tayfar, still did not move, but the man came forward, grasping Zamara's hand and running his fingers over it in awe as if to make sure she was real, not simply some spectre of moonlight, some shadow of starlight. Convinced that she was real, he gave a shocked, relieved grin, almost laughing, and unlocked the gate quickly. The hinges swung open with barely a squeak and Zamara slipped through quickly, closing the portal as quickly. The servant man still looked completely incredulous and, as if suddenly remembering, he bowed his head quickly to Zamara, gesturing for the servant girl to do the same. Zamara shook her head impatiently, grasping the man by his shoulders. "We have no time, sir, no time at all-" she hesitated, looking into the man's shocked eyes, then found the perfect solution to gaining his every co-operation. "You...your wife was a regular worshipper, was she not? You did not come so often because of commitments at the palace, but she...she came often..." Zamara narrowed her eyes, looking into the man's, then clicked her fingers, a sound muffled by the velvet cloak. "Reafin, am I right?"

The man looked as if the Goddess himself had recognised him. "Indeed, ma'am, indeed!" he replied, then hastily hushed his voice. "But quick, we cannot stand here gawking - come inside, Priestess, quick!"

Once inside the silent kitchens - it was near midnight and even the kitchen staff, a species who seemed almost nocturnal to others in the palace, had retired to bed - Zamara expressed her need to see Siamak. Reafin was doubtful, as he had a right to be, and Zamara continued urgently in a desperate whisper. "Please, Reafin, I...I must see the Prince, urgently. I can get myself through the palace most of the way, but to find exactly where Siamak's rooms are...well, I am not sure of the exact way..." she trailed off, her eyes pleading with the man's in almost desperation. "Please..."

The man barely needed to hesitate. As Zamara had correctly remembered, his wife, Rhais rest her memory, had been a devout follower of the Goddess - a fact which had led to her dismissal, although the given excuse had been an ongoing illness which caused stiffness of her fingers and slow movement; an illness that had eventually, quite recently, led to her death. As his thumb moved over the plain gold band on his ring-finger, Reafin made up his mind. The Emissary may have held sway over the city as a whole, but individuals still had their own minds. He nodded to the silent servant girl. "Nadda, take the Priestess to Siamak's rooms - be as quiet as you can, disturb no one and light no torches. You can find your way in the dark, can't you?"

Nadda nodded mutely then apparently felt the need for some vocal consent and curtseyed clumsily to Zamara as she squeaked her affirmation. Zamara breathed a sigh of relief and clasped Reafin's hand gratefully. "Rhais bless you, thank you, Reafin. I may owe my life to you, thank-"

The old man waved away her words with a leathery hand, shooing her out like a fond grandmother chasing a child. "No time, no time, go!"

Zamara gave him another brief smile then, gathering her cloak and robes so that they did not rustle on the floor, she followed Nadda, scurrying off into the dangerous dark of the palace...

[Firefoot]

Siamak started slightly at a soft knock on his door. It was late, past the new curfew; who would be coming to see him? He stood and walked toward the door as a servant stepped inside. Her features were fearful and her eyes darted about. Once, Siamak might have thought these signs unusual, but not so anymore - going about at night was asking for trouble. Still, the girl’s purpose was clearly important.

“What is it?” he asked her softly, not wanting to rouse anyone else who might be around.

“Prince Siamak, it is the High Priestess. She is here to see you,” she answered in equally soft tones. Sure enough, there was Zamara standing in the shadows of the hallway, previously unseen by him. Surprise flicked across his face, but he hurriedly motioned her inside and closed the door behind her. “High Priestess, come in; it’s not safe to be seen in the halls at this time of night anymore.” He thought he heard her murmur, “Or anywhere else,” but he passed the comment by, knowing full well the veracity of it.

“Stay here, please,” said Siamak turning again to the servant. “We may need your service again. Your name is...?”

“Nadda, my Prince,” she answered.

“Nadda,” he repeated. “Just stay in this room here; sit down if you like. I don’t know how long this will be.” She nodded.

He turned again to Zamara. In the brighter light of his rooms, she appeared troubled, but there was a determined air about her. “Come with me,” he said, and led her into his reception room. He motioned for her to sit and sat down himself. Now, finally, he could find out about her reason for being here, at this time. She was one of those he had wanted to talk to, but this was quite unexpected, and soon. He wondered how blunt he should be. Zamara would probably be on his side, but if she was not? Treason was a deadly charge, especially now in these days of doubt.

“High Priestess,” he began, the use of her proper title intentional, “I must say, I am surprised by your visit. Very few people can get past the patrols at night.” He smiled grimly. “I am glad you did. Now, why is it you have come?”

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Khamûl was weeping.

He sat in the dark of his apartments and wept for the poetry that would no longer come. He had been trying all this day to recall but one of the poems or songs that he had written in the long years of his solitude, but all were absent from his heart. The words were still there, written on his mind, but they were empty now – empty and meaningless, bled dry of their passion and feeling. For his cares were many and growing daily. He knew of the treachery that surrounded him, and of the evil that stalked his streets. Rarely now did he remove the Ring; only when the demands of kingship were such that he had to be seen by his people. For the rest of the time he wrapped himself in the comforting shadows of the Lord Annatar’s power where he took counsel with his distant brother monarch. He hard learned much from Annatar, about the Ring. He was able now to see goings and comings of his subjects, but what he saw only increased his woe for everywhere the people who had formerly loved him now plotted against him. At this very moment, he could feel his son and the demoness priestess herself meeting in secret to discuss how best to remove him from his throne. Such madness! Who would they put there in his place? Siamak no doubt sought the role for himself, and formerly the King would have given it to his son gladly, but now that he had fallen under the spell of Morgôs… Kamûl would rather his kingdom burn than fall into the hands of that mad Elf. The violence of the General was well known to the King, and he had been careful to remove the Elf from the centre of power.

And if not Siamak, Gjeelea and her husband Korak? Worse and worse choices for the realm. A vain girl who craved power for its own sake, little understanding the rigours of responsible rule, and a stupid man who had come to within a single step of the throne through the luck of fate which had put the secret of Khamûl’s birth into his hands.

Neither of his children would ever rule Pashtia – nor need they. For among the other gifts of the Ring was that of long life. Ashnaz had revealed already his own great age. To look at the fair visage of the Man of the West, one would think him no more than two score years of age, and yet he was almost two centuries old! And such longevity would belong to Khamûl for as long as he possessed the Ring. Already the King felt himself expanding, growing larger like the shadow cast upon the wall by a man who walked toward the flame. For he knew now that the One Lord Morgoth was the true source of light in the world, and to him was he dedicated, heart and soul.

But to whom could he turn? He had no allies, save one, and the time had come to bind himself to her more firmly. Already, he could feel her wavering in her pledge to him; already, he knew, she was faltering in her own loyalties. He did not condemn her for this, for he knew how subtle his enemies were, and how fair they could appear to those they would delude. He cast his mind toward the house of Korak and felt Gjeelea seeking to ensnare the Lady Arhsalous in her vain webs. His daughter, he knew, sought an ally of her own to help her to the throne. Through his tears, the King managed a wry smile at the thought of her disappointment – for when she was old and wrinkled and ugly, and all hope of power and memory of beauty was gone from her, he would be very much as he was this day. If anything, he would be more powerful even – filled as he would be with the grace and love of Morgoth.

Confident as he was, however, there was still the need for action. He could not sit idly by by his own family plotted his overthrow. He strode from his chambers, hidden from all eyes by the power of the Ring, and his passing was as the wind of winter. Little heeding those who fell away in nameless dread of his unknown and unseen presence, he left the Palace and walked the streets of Kanak. A patrol rounded a corner and fell back immediately in terror of him. He barely noticed them as he passed, so used had he become to the presence of the orcs. It irked him that they were required now, but he knew that he could not trust the army, riddled as it was by traitorous allies of the General. The time would soon come, however, when the army would be purged, and then he could dispense with the vile orcs and see them destroyed like the vermin that they were.

He soon arrived at the house of Lord Korak. Removing the Ring he passed through the door and came face to face with a startled, and terrified, servant who fell to her knees before him, trembling. “Majesty!” she stammered at him from between whitened lips. “You are here!”

Khamûl did not acknowledge the idiocy of her claim. He merely sighed at her terror. Reaching down to her, he helped her to her feet and he spoke to her is fair and comforting tones. “Do not be afraid, lass. I know that there is much that has changed in our realm, and that the enemies of Pashtia come about us thick as flies. But I promise you, I will not allow them to destroy us and all that we have built. It will be difficult, but I will cleanse our land of their evil, and prepare us for the glorious destiny that is our birthright.” The girl merely curtsied before scrambling away to announce his presence. He seized her by the arm to stay her. “I have not come to speak with your lord or his wife,” he said. “I some seeking the Lady Arshalous. You may tell Korak that I am here, however; but I will speak with the Lady first.” The girl ran away with the messages.

Guided by the Ring, Khamûl found Arshalous in conversation with his daughter. As he approached he moved silently, and once more slipped on the Ring so that they were unaware of him. He thus overheard their conversation, and he smiled at it. Apparently, he had arrived only just in time to prevent his daughter from corrupting Arshalous completely. Removing the Ring and stepping into the hallway he greeted them both, curious as to how they would explain their presence here together.

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

"Your highness," Arshalous greeted slowly. Where had the king come from? Gjeelea said nothing to her father, only followed his eyes defiantly. When Khamul nodded to Arshalous and stepped closer to the women, Gjeelea looked to his hand, where his clenched fist encased what she suspected was the ring he had been given many months before. The look in his eyes...the princess feared him fully for the first time. It was a strange sort of fear...a fear that Gjeelea could not explain in words but knew all to well in her heart. She feared not for herself anymore, and that in itself felt strange to the princess. When so many years of her life had been spent looking out for her own reputation against her brother, Gjeelea felt overwhelmed when face-to-face with her father now, the reason for her feelings of selflessness.

"I was just talking to Arshalous about her estate," Gjeelea explained to Khamul, trying to give - as she had done so many times before in her life - the appearance of undaunted strength. She had not quite lied completely, for she had originally been discussing recent life in Pashtia with Korak's cousin.

"Really?" Khamul sounded interested, but his face showed otherwise. "I was not aware that such a humble subject should be discussed in the back hallway of a kitchen."

Gjeelea tried to avoid giving a blank stare - the stare a child gives when she has been caught eating sweets before a healthy dinner. She hoped Arshalous would be able to supply a decent excuse, for Gjeelea had certainly given her father the wrong answer. It was almost as if he knew what the ladies had been talking about before he had arrived. As this thought crossed Gjeelea's mind, she gave a fleeting glance once more to Khamul's clenched fist.

"There is hardly anywhere private in this house to speak, my Lord," Arshalous explained after a quick moment of thoughtful consideration. "Surely it is not the business of Korak's servants how my estate has been fairing of late."

"Is there something we can do for you, father?" Gjeelea asked quickly, wondering what lie her father would give to the ladies.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Khamûl fought rage at his daughter’s impertinence in asking him for an explanation of his presence. Her rebelliousness grows the Voice said, and he had to check his own nod of agreement. It was becoming a problem, his ready acknowledgement of the Voice. Its counsel and advice was so consistent a part of his life now that at times he forgot that it was a gift given to him alone by the power of Annatar, and that all others were deaf to it. He frowned darkly upon the women, projecting his displeasure at them both.

The Lady Arshalous was wary of him, he could see, perhaps even fearful. He thought to himself that perhaps it was too late for her to be redeemed; perhaps her corruption had been too far advanced. But the Voice counselled otherwise. There is yet hope for her in your strength, it sang sweetly in his ears. She is swaying in her loyalties, for though she is true she is weak. Do not judge her! She suffers only from the weakness of her female flesh. Pity her instead, and raise her up by the power of your hand.

He did pity her. Of all those whom he had formerly accounted his allies she was the last one who had yet to plot against him – the last one to hold by her oaths. Khamûl looked at his daughter and knew that he had come not a moment too soon. “I have come to speak with the Lady Arshalous upon an important matter,” he said, “but you need not depart, my daughter, for it concerns you closely. I have need of a Queen.” It was a simple statement of fact, and as he said it, he directed his gaze upon Arshalous. “I do not flatter myself that you would wish to see yourself allied to me through any great love or affection, Lady. Nor shall I lie to you and say that such a union will bring you comfort and ease. It is a burden that I am asking you to bear for the good of our people. You have suffered reverses of late, but you are still rich and command many servants. You are respected by many in the City for your patronage of the new temple, and you bring the added benefit of having avoided all intrigues and factions within the nobility. Your very isolation, so long a trial for you, makes you an ideal choice for queen. But above all these concerns, potent as they might be, there is the fact that you are a sensible and intelligent woman whose counsel I would welcome.”

There was a shocked silence as Arshalous looked down, her breath now coming quickly. Gjeelea spoke out, and in her voice was none of her usual cunning and diplomacy. “My King! My mother’s ashes were spread to the winds but six months ago! It is not seemly for you to take a new wife so soon!”

“These are terrible times,” he snapped at his daughter, and as he did so, his eyes seemed to darken and it was as though a vast shadow slid out from him. “I cannot bear the weight of the crown alone, and unaided. My counsellors desert me. My General is mad, or worse. Even my children no longer heed only my voice! I am a king, my daughter, a king. Do you know yet what that means? I do not have the luxury that some do to waste my time in an empty show of courtship and affection so that I might catch the fickle eye of the mob!” He turned from his daughter, as though the very act wiped her from existence, and addressed the Lady Arshalous. “I apologise for my daughter’s outburst, Lady. She is yet young, and though she deems herself wise and capable of rule, she has much to learn of the ways of power.”

He paused for a response, prompting Arshalous to mutter formulaically, “I take no offence, Majesty.”

“Good! It does you credit. I know that ladies in your position do not dream of a proposal such as this. I should be clad in silver and mounted upon a fiery white steed, with a troupe of singers at my back. I should speak to you with honey on my tongue and poetry in my heart – but we both know how empty such foppery would be here. Instead I offer myself to you as I am: a plain man and a powerful king in need of a wife. What say you?”

[Imladris]

What say you? Indeed, did she have any choice in the matter? If he had wanted to avoid foppery all together he would have simply ordered her to become his bride...did he really think that she was so naieve that she did not know that she could do nothing but accept? She could almost see the iron cage enclose around her, feel the golden shackles snapping closed about her wrist binding her to a king she feared and loathed.

She glanced helplessly at the Princess, but she knew very well that Gjeelea could do nothing. What could any of them do against the King. It was as if he was everywhere, as if he knew all and heard all, no matter if it was proclaimed upon the streets, or whispered in a cloister at the darkest hour.

She wondered how she could help him -- did not this Emissary provide all the help that he needed? The thought that there was another reason, the true reason, gnawed at her like a rat. Like a blob of clay in a potter's hand, she knew that he was trying to form her into his tool, his pawn. But how could she prevent this if she didn't know how he was doing it? It was like knowing that there were traps on the ground, yet she was unable to avoid them because they were so cunningly hidden.

Taking a deep breath she faced the king, and said, "My lord, I will accept your offer."

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

She felt her blood rush to her temples in a cacophonous flood of sound. Gjeelea tried harder than she had ever tried to remain calm, even defiant, before her father. Now, though, how could she maintain her composure when everything had fallen apart within five minutes? Gjeelea had never found it so hard to conceal her emotions. Her heart fell to the pit of her stomach, and her hands went icy cold.

"You know not what you do," She whispered, to both her father and Arshalous. What had happened to Arshalous' strength? Did she not know that Khamul and the Emissary would pollute her mind with evil? Anger welled up within Gjeelea, yet she felt tears form behind her eyes. What could she do now?

Gjeelea shifted where she stood, and without another word, she fled the hallway. She stormed out through the kitchen and into the darkness of the night, leaving the home of her husband where all the evils of Pashtia seemed to have chosen for their gathering place that night. Gjeelea could not bear to see her plans fall to pieces - her fear of failure was a weakness of hers she had never bothered to overcome.

She followed her heart to the only place where she might find different help...the palace.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Khamul was pleased to see his daughter flee before Arshalous's righteousness, and her retreat confirmed his opinion of her: she was too far gone in treachery to be saved. His face fell into sadness and he passed a hand across his brow. He suddenly felt weak and his knees sagged, obliging him to catch himself against a wall. "Majesty?" Arshalous said, alarmed at the suddenness of his collapse, but though she was his affianced bride, she remained rigidly still, not moving to support him.

The King held himself against the wall, and said lowly, "I am all right. It is but a passing fatigue. The concerns of my rule are great, and sometimes they bear me over. I fear I have placed a terrible burden upon you."

"I am sure that I am not up to the task, Khamul."

"Nobody is. But we must all do what we are required."

He sought to right himself, forcing from his mind the memory of what had overcome him -- for as he had lamented the evil of his daughter, he had felt the presence of Bekah, as though she were standing at his back, and he had felt the force of her pity. He had almost thought, for a slice of time smaller than that which exists between heartbeats, that it was her gentle hand which had caught him as he fell, supporting him to the wall. But why she would come to him now, and why she would pity him, he could not imagine. . .

Straightening, he faced Arshalous, who said squared her shoulders with a new and grim resolution. "When are we to be wed, Khamul?"

"Soon. I see no need for a protracted engagement. And I have need of your counsel now, with little time to divert myself with other matters."

"It will be as you wish, Majesty."

"There is another matter we need to discuss, Arshalous. It concerns your dowry."

"My dowry?" she said, surprised, and a bit angered. Was not her wealth enough dowry?

"I do not refer to anything as crass as gold, Lady," Khamul replied, and she felt a chill upon her neck as it appeared once again as though he were reading her mind. "I am well provided in wealth already. Indeed, with the tribute now paid me by Alanzia I am the wealthiest King in the history of Pashtia." There was neither boasting nor pride in the statement. "I speak of something more valuable than all the goods of my treasury. We spoke once of the hold that the Lord Korak has over me, and of the letter that he would use to put himself upon the throne. I fear that with my remarriage he might fear I seek to produce a new heir that would supplant his hopes, and that this might drive him to an act of. . .desperation. I have tried to regain the letter but cannot. It occurs to me, however, that you might be more successful than I."

"Me, majesty? How am I to succeed where you have failed. I do not possess your royal power!"

"No, but you do have a power which I lack. You can come and go in this house without arousing suspicion and, most importantly, you can speak with the Lady Hababa more openly and clearly than I. Perhaps she knows something of the letter and could be. . .convinced to help us regain it. I know that Korak has no love for you, or you for him, but you are a family member and a companion of his childhood. I am sure that there are things about Korak and his family, and about this house, known only to yourself and a few others. All of which should make it easy for you to locate that letter and bring it to me, such is the dowry that I will demand of you." Arshalous merely bowed her head, her face insrcutable. "But tell me, Lady," Khamul continued in a lighter tone, "what wedding gift would you have of me? I am an old-fashioned man in many ways, and will follow our traditions scrupulously. I will grant you whatever gift you may ask of me, so long as it be both honourable and within my power to give it you."

[Nurumaiel]

Morashk stood a few moments longer in the shadows of the corridor, and then turned and hastened away before the Lady Arshalous made any reply to the King. Anger and resentment, nay, hatred, swelled up within him, but something was there that he did not expect, and did not welcome... a strange sorrow. Faint though it may be, 'twas there, and he hated himself for being so weak.

Lord Korak was pacing up and down in his room impatiently, muttering curses under his breath, and scowling heavily. When he saw Morashk enter the room he hardly noticed how pale and trembling his servant was, for wasn't Morashk always pale and trembling? He did not pause in his pacing, but neither did he hesitate a moment before snapping out: "Well, are they finished yet?" And he went on, muttering, before Morashk could reply. "Curse the Lady Arshalous for her impudence in my own household. What right has she to come about and order me about? And curse Gjeelea for seeming pleased at the idea." He fell silent then, for he would not yet curse his mother.

"My Lord Korak," said Morashk, straight and stiff yet sagging against the wall at the same time, "the King has just been speaking with Lady Arshalous."

"The King, here?" cried Lord Korak, and he ceased his walking and stared wide-eyed for a moment. Then the scowl returned to his face. "Curse my cousin and my wife! Did they not have the good sense to tell me? If the King comes to my home, what will he think if the master of the house does not greet him, but merely lets him be?"

"My Lord Korak!" Morashk gasped, and Korak noticed for the first time how distraught his servant was. Morashk had always been a nervous sort of man, but his actions now were not nervous. He seemed excited, in a very unpleasant way.

"What is it?" Korak demanded. "Speak up, man! Did they say anything... significant?"

"Yes, they did," said Morashk, and his trembling suddenly ceased, and his mouth set in a hard, bitter line. "The King and the Lady Arshalous are to be wed."

For a few moments, Korak was struck into amazed silence, and then he smiled easily. "Why do I care?" he said. He turned away from Morashk and strode to the other side of the room, looking out the window to survey what lands he could see, despite their dark and shriveled appearance. "I was afraid that he had said something about the Prince succeeding him. But... Morashk, do you think my cousin will influence the King against me?"

There was no answer. Korak turned, and saw that Morashk was no longer there.

Down the corridor Morashk staggered, putting his hands against the walls for support, and mumbling almost inaudibly to himself. "I do not care, I do not care, I do not care." He stopped, reflected upon what he had just heard the King and Arshalous say, and he cried: "I do not care!"

The little maid, who had been uncertainly scouring the house for wood for the fire, paused and gazed at him in surprise. Morashk was well-known as a very quiet man who saw much with his eyes, and this sudden outburst startled her. She hesitated for a moment, then went closer to him, and looked up at him with worry written on her brow.

"Is there anything wrong, sir?" she questioned. Though Morashk was a servant just as she, it had long been known that he held a higher position in the house as the others, as one favoured by the Lord Korak, and his fellow servants never failed to show proper respect towards him.

Morashk turned keen eyes to her. "Wrong?" he demanded. "For the King and the Lady Arshalous, perhaps nothing is wrong. The King is a sneaking, low-down worm who thinks nothing of power."

"Oh, hush!" the maid cried, her eyes growing wide with terror. "Don't say such things."

"It is true," said Morashk, "and my master is no better."

"Hush!" the maid cried again, seeming more violently disturbed at these words against Lord Korak than the words about the King.

"I hold to my master because I am his servant, and I am loyal to him," said Morashk, disregarding her pleas entirely. "He is harsh, and a brute, but he is good to those who are loyal to him."

"Yes, yes," said the maid hastily, "and I am certain the King is, too."

"I do not know of the King," said Morashk, "but I do know of Lady Arshalous!" At the name he spat on the ground, but at the same time he paled and dropped his head and began to violently tremble.

The maid hesitated uncertainly. Was Morashk's mind wandering, the way he spoke of the King, of the Lord Korak, of the King again, and now the Lord Korak's cousin? She had never seen Morashk act and speak in such a way before, and she wished she did not have to see it now. It stirred up fear in her.

"How can she wed him?" Morashk said, his head still bowed. "How can she wed him, being such a brute as my master, if not more so, when she would not... I - I... I was once a strong, noble, upright..." He trailed off and was silent for a few moment, and then his eyes flashed. "I have hated her ever since! I have hated her more than my Lord Korak hates her, and he hates her bitterly. I have helped my Lord Korak to catch her with words, delighting in the look of confusion and anger on her face. I have hated her as I could hate no one else!"

The maid drew back, and the rosy flush of health that had already paled in her cheeks during the troublesome months was gone completely now. Morashk turned his eyes to her, gazed at her for a few moments, and then, once again retaining his usual skulking posture, free of distress, he gestured her away. "Go to the Lady Hababa," he said. "It is possible she is need of company. The King made his proposal when the ladies were all gathered in the Lady Hababa's room, and there the Lady Arshalous made... her fiendish acceptance. Curse her!" And he continued on down the corridor, skulking for a little while, and then staggering again, alternating between self-control and an utter lack of it.

The maid stared after him for a moment, and then fled as swiftly as she could to the Lady Hababa's chamber.

[Imladris]

A knot of naseating sickness welled inside Arshalous as she heard the Princess whispered words, as she watched her flee their presence. She should have refused...the King would ask nothing but evil of her...what if she was corrupted as he had been? But she pushed the thought away....the princess did not know how she was bound by the King, how she had had no choice but to accept. After all, how could she be of use to anybody if she was dead or poor and an outcast? Maybe she should not have agreed to help him with his plots against Korak...but...she didn't have a choice. Nobody did when the king asked something of them, did they? She breathed quickly, wishing that the dark shadow had not fallen over Pashtia.

And then he asked her what she would like as a wedding gift...what could she say? Gold was crass as he had said, shallow and useless -- the toys of ladies who thought of nothing but of hair and jewels...she did not want gold -- she was not like them. She wanted love, but not his love. What could she ask that he could bestow? "This is what I want of you," she whispered softly, forcing herself to stare deep inside his eyes, "it is but a little thing, easily granted. Hidden in twilight shrowded rooms are scrolls that tell of the forming of this country and of this earth. Read them, my lord...glean their wisdom if they have some. What better way to be a king," she said, "than to learn from the deeds of other kings?"

She could not ask him to learn the lore of the elves for they were not welcome in his eyes anymore. But, maybe, he would read these and learn, and maybe he would realize that all was not well in his realm, and that he was not the king that he once was. She smiled at him then, as winning a smile that she could summon under the present conditions.

The king nodded, and said, "An easy gift it is, lady."

Bowing, Arshalous said, "I ask permission to leave, my lord. There is much to be done, and I still have not properly visited my aunt which is the only reason I come here."

The King nodded and, with a bow, Arshalous slipped from his presence. Oh, yes, there was much to be done...she must make contact with the Princess, let her know that she was not on the King's side, that she would not fall under his corruption. Corruption was a choice -- this she was sure -- and she would not make that choice...she would not fall. Still, she could not help but wonder that, before the Emissary had arrived, the King would have said the exact same things that she was telling herself now. She must not think of that...she must not. There was always a choice. Always.

When she reached the Lady Hababa's chambers, she found that she was sleeping and that a maid was in attendance. Smiling a little at her, she kneeled beside the bed and took her aunt's hand. She was afraid, so very afraid...She must help the Princess, yet she could not let the King know of it...yet how could she do that when he heard all, saw all...What if the King discovered her purposes?

Arshalous slapped herself, forcing herself to see reason. The king was not all powerful, he had no power to see into her mind, read her thoughts...the only thoughts that he could read were the ones that people allowed him to see, or those left carelessly about for the very clever and cunning to work out...

"Fetch me pen and paper," she told the maid. Dropping a short curtsey, the girl hastened to bring them. When she returned, Arshalous wrote this:

My lady,

I must say that the King's proposal today surprised me as much it surprised you...I have never fancied myself a queen...in fact I know that I will not make a good queen but the King thinks otherwise. He said that I was wise, imagine that! I who am so foolish, who was stuck in my world of legends and stories, oblivious to the going ons around me...I, who have only wished to see my cousin brought low before my feet...it is such foolishness...

But I suppose that he sees that I have changed, that I don't care about that any more, that I don't care for gold or for petty court intrigues, or for power. As a noble, I must be concerned with the good of Pashtia -- if that means becoming queen then so be it...I will do my utmost to help...it will be my honour.

I am afraid though that I do not have the courage to be a queen....for a queen cannot hide when there are troubles, when whispering connivers seek to force the the realm astray for their own benefits...And if the realm was lost to evil doers, I would hope that I would have the strength and courage to fight against them...

Arshalous


The lady dropped the pen, and read the letter again. It was vague, perhaps too much so...but the Princess was a smart girl -- surely she would see the subtle hint that Arshalous was not going to let the realm be overrun with evil without a fight, even though the King had crushed the first step.

Arshalous frowned, wishing that she was better at the art of subtlety and deception...but this would have to do.

Sealing the letter, she noticed that her aunt stirred a little. "I will return shortly, my lady aunt," Arshalous whispered in her ear. Hastening down the corridor, deep in thought about what was to come, trying to keep the fear and dread at bay, she almost collided head long with Morashk.

The little weasel! What was he doing here? Arshalous narrowed her eyes at him, wishing that she had not run into him. Despite her claims in the letter, Arshalous did still care about taunting and angering her cousin though it was no longer a top priority. In fact, she often wondered who she disliked the most: Korak for having Morashk poison his words for him or Morashk for serving Korak so faithfully in the first place. And, oh did Morashk have a vile tongue inside that head of his. The thought flickered through Arshalous' head that, if Korak were smarter, he would ask Morashk for his opinion more often instead of keeping him as a convenient champion when he was unable to fight his own battles...

He seemed distracted, but so was she. She must speak to Hababa, especially since they might have a chance to speak privately with Korak off somewhere and the Princess off on her own as well. "Morashk! I need you to give this letter to the Princess when she returns." She held the letter out to him, hoping that he would realize that he was a servant after all...she did not wish to take the time to play any games he might have in mind.

[Amanaduial the archer]

“High Priestess,” he began, the use of her proper title intentional, “I must say, I am surprised by your visit. Very few people can get past the patrols at night.” He smiled grimly. “I am glad you did. Now, why is it you have come?”

Zamara smiled gratefully at the use of her full name and pulled back her hood from her face, pushing her dark out so that it feel free across her shoulders and back. Free. As she was now - or closer, at least, to that impossible goal than she had been but an hour earlier. Looking around, still uneasy, she checked that the door was closed, then walked further in, walking to the shuttered window - she had little worry about anyone seeing her from there, now that the curfew had been imposed. Her fingers fidgetting over each other as she stared out of the window into the utterly still night and after a long moment's hesitation, she turned to Siamak. "I had no choice, Prince Siamak," she replied, her voice soft but her answer frank.

“What do you….” The young man frowned slightly, gesturing for the woman to sit on on one of the low couches around his room. Sitting stiffly, Zamara perched among the rich finery of the cushions, so different from what she had become used to in her sparse apartments, and faced Siamak. Had he given in to the Emissary's dark powers? Zamara had no way of knowing what had become of the alliances that had been set in Pashtia since she had been placed under unofficial house arrest - the Snake had told her some things about the movements of the nobles, but who knew if what he had said was true, or just more poison? She twitched her head to one side, taking a sharp intake of breath and looking away from Siamak suddenly. The prince leant towards her concerned. “Priestess, are you alright? If you are feeling overtired, maybe you need to rest?”

Zamara froze, then looked up slowly at Siamak. “Need to…rest?” she replied incredulously. Gritting her teeth angrily, she fixed Siamak with her straight, no-nonsense gaze. “Prince Siamak, what were you told about my withdrawal from the public eye four months ago?”

The young man seemed uncomfortable, and shifted slightly in his seat, averting her eyes from the woman’s. “You withdrew very suddenly, High Priestess – it all seemed very suspicious at the time. But Khamul – my father – ” he corrected himself, as if having to remind himself of the fact. “issued a statement saying that due to the destruction of the Temple and…other stresses…you had become…ill. Because of your illness you were unable, for a time, to complete your duties…” he faltered and finally trailed off uncertainly under Zamara’s sceptical gaze. She raised one eyebrow. “They said I had gone mad,” she stated frankly. Siamak did not reply, and his silence was answer enough. Zamara gave an angry snort and looked away, rising from her seat and striding towards the window. “Yes, well, maybe they were right after all – to escape from the Temple under the eyes of the Snake and his guards and walk through streets infested with monsters – yes, maybe that is madness indeed…”

Siamak frowned. “’Escape’?” he answered questioningly.

Zamara turned to look at the young prince, her silhouette, cloaked in black, seeming to meld into the starry night. For the first time, the prince noted how her indomitable energy seemed to be lacking, the wildness in her sleepless eyes, the new lines on her youthful face – lines of worry, of pain, of grief. She bit her lip and rubbed at her tired eyes with the heel of one hand, then sighed and looked away out of the window again. “Yes, Siamak, escaped, for that is the only word for it.”

Turning, the erstwhile Priestess of Rhais slowly resumed her position on the cushions, sagging into them. “Let me explain, your majesty. I do not, I fear, have time to check your alliances, for my story shall be long enough in the telling. Just know this: I have always been loyal to my country, and I have always been loyal to your family – both Khamul and Queen Bekah.” She sighed sadly, averting her eyes from Siamak’s, and her tone softened. “Yes, Queen Bekah...I would have followed her leadership no matter where it took me. Your mother was a brave woman, Siamak, and a good leader, although she never had true chance to show it for herself. She was a wise woman…”

Siamak inclined his head as thanks for her words. “Is that why you are wearing black, Priestess? Mourning clothes…”

Zamara gave a harsh laugh and shook her head bitterly. “I would wear mourning clothes for your mother in any case, Prince, but these? No, these clothes are forced upon me as a sort of penitence for my wicked deeds,” she spat sarcastically. Seeing Siamak’s confusion, she added, “Why, did you not know, Siamak? Less than three months after your mother’s death and funeral, I was tending the Temple, as usual. Attendance was already starting to flag, and the regular services were more often or not cancelled – the thanks for that can go to our distinguished guest the Snake,” she added bitterly. “Apparently more time needed to be spent on the Temple to Rae-” she paused, looking at Siamak with a ghost of a smile on her lips. “Did Tarkan get his coveted title of High Priest in the end?”

Despite her attempt at dry humour, Siamak simply looked trouble, and motioned for her to continue her story. Her worry increasing, Zamara did so.

“I had not had the statue in the temple replaced – despite my attempts, help was refused, as all manpower was to be spent on the building of the temple and, it was rumoured, on the build-up of an army, although for what cause I did not know.” Siamak once more looked unhappy, but Zamara persevered. “So instead a number of smaller statues had been placed around the temple. As was befitting the death of a Queen, the period of mourning was still in process – incense was burnt around the Temple almost constantly.

“But it was these things that were to be my downfall. As I prepared the Temple for the evening’s worshippers, a terrible banging sounded on the door and it was demanded that entrance was granted to the king’s men. They…they said they had come charged with rooting out treachery and treason against the crown of Pashtia…”

Astounded, Zamara signalled for the door to be opened, and from that wet and windy night emerged not two, or three, or four soldiers, but about a score, and all led by one of the Westerners, one of the Emissary’s men. It was he who marched down the aisle of the Temple without paying any heed or respect to the Temple, approaching Zamara directly. The man’s arrogance and lack of courtesy in the house of the Goddess frankly appalled her, and the High Priestess turned to fully face the man, drawing herself up furiously. “Gentlemen, what is the meaning of this behaviour in the Temple of Rhais?”

Like a flash of thunder in the storm outside, the Westerner threw back his head and laughed. He actually laughed. Tossing his pale hair arrogantly, he looked disdainfully around the Temple as if what he saw was below him: as if he was amazed, amused, pitying. Tearing his eyes away from the pathetic toys of the temple, the Westerner looked back at Zamara and signalled to two Pashtian soldiers to come forward – soldiers Zamara knew, men who she had seen before and conversed with in lighter days. Drawing out a scroll from under his cloak, the man began to read sanctimoniously and pompously. “You are under arrest on counts of treason against the King of Pashtia; what is more, you are accused by the crown and allies of the crown of witchcraft and sorcery, and of deliberately leading astray civilians with whose care you were entrusted; with abusing your position; with abusing your relationship with the crown and allies of the crown; and of the worship of demons and spectres. From now, you shall be stripped of your title until your trial before the Glorious King Khamul of Pashtia, at a time deemed worthy. Have you anything to say in your defence?”

The words struck Zamara again and again, a thousand blows in a single shot, pummelling and winding her, leaving her breathless and speechless as her world seemed to close in. As the two soldiers came to either side of her, Zamara smacked their hands away like a being irritated with flies and gathered herself against this attack. “Tr…treason? And ‘witchcraft’ and ‘worship of demons’? What sort of foul joke is this?” she demanded, attempting to regain her ferocity, to quell this foreigner – to quell the fear in her heart. But the man remained unmoved. “If you fight, things will become worse for you,” he replied stiffly. Anger flashed through Zamara’s eyes, the otherwordly blue in them glinting dangerously beyond the surface. “Become worse?” she thundered. “You profess to destroy my entire world, you, who came but a few months ago to this country. How could things get worse than these libellous accusations and lies?”

The Westerner took a step back, gasping and raising on hand to his throat as he held the other up as if to ward her away. “Stay away, sorceress!” he choked as if something tried to strangle him. “I can see the madness that moves through your eyes – you will not take me into your power –”

Zamara sneered, folding her arms, disgusted at this melodramatic act – but the soldiers, it seemed, were lapping it up, and even the acolytes seemed uncertain. The Westerner instantly jumped on this act of ‘open rebellion’. “See how she sneers at the name of the king, at the face of those who try to help the civilians!” he announced triumphantly to the Temple as a whole. Turning back to Zamara, his eyes glinting with glee, he hissed, “Traitor!”

This was too much: Zamara took an angry step forward towards the Westerner – and was instantly seized by the two soldiers at the other man’s signal. Trying to fight against their firm grip, Zamara glared at the Westerner furiously and called harshly out to him – before realising her duty still extended to this position. Halting her desperate actions, the High Priestess became still in the arms of the two soldiers and, dignified to the last, the walked herself out haughtily before them.

Having finished her tale, Zamara was now once again standing by the window. Seating herself slowly in the cushions, her demeanout that of an injured queen, she leant forward wearily, her head resting on one hand as she murmured sardonically, “And thus came the fall of the High Priestess of Pashtia.”

Siamak remained silent for a moment, apparently stunned by what he had heard. Leaning forward towards Zamara, he reached out a hand to her and rested it on hers. “Priestess-”

“I believe it is just plain ‘Zamara’ now, your majesty,” came the bitter reply. Siamak hesitated, then began again, self possessed and strong. “Priestess,” he repeated. “Whatever has been said against you, this was one of a great many injuries done against the people of Pashtia since the Emissary arrived. Surely if-“

“What other injuries?”

Siamak looked sorrowful. “There are a great many to tell, Priestess Zamara, if we only had – what was that?” his voice dropped to a murmur as he interrupted himself. Zamara looked up, her eyes alert and watchful and she glanced towards the door. A voice, muffled through the wood and full of restrained anger, was speaking to Nadda – a female voice, directly outside their door. Siamak signalled desperately at Zamara to hide somewhere, but it was too late: she door opened suddenly and there, looking wild yet somehow triumphant in the doorway…was Gjeelea.

[Novnarwen]

Tarkan

He gasped for breath as he sat up in his bed. The images in his dream were still floating in his head. Had this been a vision? As a young boy, he had had visions, but when becoming older they had disappeared. There was little difference between a dream and a vision, but he was able to distinct the two, having much experience with both in the past. It struck him as odd that these images could be a vision though, but thinking of the credibility of these images in a time such as now, he realised that they could in fact be true.

The Priest heard the sound of the silent snores coming from Pelin. Since the day that Tarkan had told him of his heritage, that he was in truth the real King of Pasthia, Pelin had in some way come to like him more. Tarkan didn't know whether it was due to the fact that he hoped for a good position at his court when (or if) becoming King, or if his new form of respect really reflected their friendship. Tarkan didn't at all mind Pelin's company anymore; he had proved himself a trustworthy fellow; not once had he even approached the King with Tarkan's secret. There were of course several reasons for that, among them: the fact that the King had grown so powerful and the darkening of Pasthia. Not even Tarkan dared approach his brother any longer, not that he had any chance to either. Once, his whole plan had depended on Pelin's disobedience, (that he would indeed tell the King of Tarkan), but this didn't bother him now. Things had been moving in such a pace lately, that the always watchful priest hadn't been able to keep up. It seemed nearly impossible to grasp the throne now, as Gjeelea was married with the ‘honourable’ Korak, and the King had the mysterious Emissary at his side as his councillor. At this time, he didn't need the throne though. There were, if possible, far worse things that needed to be taken care of.

"Pelin, you must awake." Getting out of his bed he nudged the tiny fellow that lay on the floor. Slowly, Pelin opened his grey, weary eyes. The two of them had been fasting for several weeks in a row, and their intense praying for aid in the madness of the King had set mark on both of them. Pelin, who had been a rather handsome man, with green sparkling eyes and always a nice tanned colour in his face, had large, dark rings under his eyes. The last bit also counted for Priest himself. During the last weeks, their skinny bodies had turned ungainly, and both of them looked as if they would fall apart and break into thousands of pieces if anyone came near and touched them. Their faces had a ghostly appearance; pale and withering, and they were the very images of unhealthy, sick and soon to die men. On top of it all, neither of them had the chance to visit the temple very often, having to stay inside after curfew and avoiding the foul creatures that patrolled the streets, and thus, the lack of fresh air hung as a grey cloud over their heads.

"Morning already?" Pelin asked, being in the good belief that he would finally get something to eat. Fasting didn’t mean not eating at all; they ate dried bread before the sun rose, which meant early in the morning, and just after the sun had set, in the early evening. Sometimes they poured themselves a goblet of wine, to dip their breads in, to give it a better taste, but richly drinks and foods were becoming seldom in the Kingdom of Pasthia.

"No. I'm sorry to wake you up, but I think I had a vision. Oh... What horrors await us if this is true." It was unlike Tarkan to seem so lost, and if the Priest had said this half a year ago, people would wonder of what illness he suffered.

With questioning eyes, Pelin rose and seated himself opposite of Tarkan. "So it is true?"

"Have you seen it too?" The Priest asked amazed. Pelin nodded. Seeing Pelin in front of him, having shared this vision with him and probably being just as surprised as himself by what seemed like a miracle, Tarkan's eyes lit up. It had been a long time since he had smiled, but in the early hours of this day, he finally did. Pelin forced a smile too, realising what Tarkan thought; Rae or Rhais, or both of them, had paid them for their devotion and belief that their Gods would help them and now they had.

"The priestess Zamara is alive and well. I knew it. I knew the King was lying. It was just an excuse to ruin her." It was humanity who spoke, humanity that had lain hidden, closed behind bars in his soul for all this time. Discussing this with Pelin, and the other aspects of their vision, which included the King proposing to a mysterious woman that neither of them had caught the name of, Gjeelea fleeing in front of the King's eyes and the Prince talking to the Priestess, they knew that the ruin of these Lands were close if nothing was done.

It was time to unite the powers that still remained. The priestess Zamara still had followers, and if the two of them, plus Pelin, could find a way to work together, that would be the only solution. He and Zamara had to put the past aside, and think of the future, if there was still one that awaited them. They had to confront each other and confront the truth that the two of them were the only two who could bring the Kingdom on the right path again. Already, the Priestess had good connections with the Princess and the Prince. Could not the four of them take control, even if it meant taking Faroz down from the throne and placing him in a tomb? Yes, this had to be it; a union of people in Pasthia who still had some power, and use this power to drive the shadow that possessed the King far, far away.

[Firefoot]

A shot of panic raced through Siamak at the sight of Gjeelea. Why had he not thought to go someplace less known? Anyone seeking him would come to his rooms! But what was she doing here? And why now? He could think of few worse people to show up; namely his father or the Emissary, but for all he knew Gjeelea was on their side anyway. At any rate, she would not be on his side - but maybe, just maybe, she would have reasons to keep this meeting secret. He had seen very little of his sister in the past months; beyond her marriage to Korak he knew little of her activities, and so did not know where she stood.

Nevertheless, he kept his features even. Gjeelea would receive no edge on him by means of the emotions betrayed on his face. He stood stiffly; Zamara was similarly rigid behind him.

Looking distraught, Nadda pushed her way indignantly past Gjeelea. “Prince, I tried to keep the Princess back, truly; I told her you would not see her now, but she would not listen to me.” Siamak sighed. Of course Gjeelea would not listen to the servant. “You did your best,” he said, with an annoyed glance at Gjeelea. “Just try to give us some warning next time.” Nadda nodded, dipped a curtsy, and returned to the entrance room.

He now returned his attention to his sister, who had clearly taken stock of the situation. Gjeelea looked unusually disheveled, and that, combined with the late hour, set off warning bells in his head. Something would be wrong; to him, she had always been the picture of unassailable strength. Perhaps she had been hit harder than he had realized by the changes in Pashtia - but now something drastic must have happened. Actually, she looked worse now than she had the day Bekah had been murdered.

He did not sit, however, nor did he invite his sister to do so. He greeted her coolly. “Gjeelea, I have not seen you for a while. Why now?” There was a flicker of something, worry, perhaps, on Gjeelea’s face. It was just enough to remind Siamak that Gjeelea was human, too, and whether or not they had been friendly in the past, maybe it was time to change. She had, after all, come here on her own, so maybe it would be foolish to think that she was on their father's side. “Is something very wrong?”

[Nurumaiel]

Morashk stood silent for a moment, then he lowered his fiercely burning eyes and snatched the letter. He paused, waiting for any further orders, but seeing there were none, he turned and hurried away.

It was odd that he should hate her. Once in days gone by he would have died before he would hate her, though he would have hated willingly anyone who spoke ill of her. Perhaps that was why he still felt scorn and contempt for his master, overruled only by his loyalty. Lord Korak had always said ill of the Lady Arshalous, and once Morashk had hated him bitterly for it. Now it was what drew them together, so Lord Korak considered Morashk his chief servant. But the hatred for Korak had not vanished completely, but had only lessened. He still felt no fondness for his master.

And he felt no fondness for the Lady Arshalous. Then why was he so upset at her acceptance of the King? Well, it was, after all, a mere dream he loved, for the Lady Arshalous had never been what he thought she was. He had learned that when he heard her lashing words, her anger that a servant had presumed to tell her... But now, with her acceptance of the King, all last flittings of that shadowy dream were disappearing, and that was painful to him.

Since she had scorned his love so long ago, it was a relief to be able to hate her bitterly now.

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

“Oh, yes, Siamak…something truly terrible has happened,” Gjeelea wanted so desperately to cry, but she could not – would not – not in front of her brother or the Priestess Zamara. The feeling of overwhelming defeat had long since washed over her, and for the first time ever, Gjeelea did not know how to push the feeling away. She stifled a whimper and smoothed the wrinkles of her disheveled robe. Her brother and the Priestess looked at her expectantly, but the princess waited a moment so that she could regain inner composure before speaking. “I know not what we can do, Siamak, to change this.”

“What has happened, Gjeelea?” Zamara asked calmly, her voice soft. Gjeelea wondered if she was ready to handle the news that she had brought. The princess wondered how Siamak and the Priestess would react.

“I was with the lady Hababa and…and my husband,” Gjeelea began. “Then Lady Arshalous came to visit, and we spoke of many things. We spoke of the darkening of Pashtia, and the evils that have settled here among us.” The princess gazed over at her brother, letting her eyes meet his. At first, doubt had consumed her – she wondered if her brother would help her. Yet surely if he was meeting with Zamara, he would find the news horrifying as well. “Then, even as we spoke, Khamul arrived from no where – truly it was as if he had risen from the shadows.”

“And?” Siamak prompted, his voice passive but his eyes betraying other emotions of discomfort and impatience.

“He…Khamul…the king – my father, our father – he asked Arshalous to marry him,” Gjeelea murmured, her heart sinking even as she retold the story to her brother and Zamara. “And Arshalous consented – it is to happen as soon as possible.”

[Kransha]

Quill on paper – quill on paper – quill in ink – quill on paper

Repetition was not boredom to Morgôs, it was torture. He had never been able to endure it. Every campaign of his unique, every stratagem one and only, every tactic different from the one devised before or after it. Doing the same thing again and again was a curse. He wrote nothing but numbers and words equally inconsequential in between, scratching his feathered quill spitefully against parchment, carving out what he’d been ordered to. After a brief vocal discharge (in his mind, at least) all was silent but for that terrible scratching. The palace seemed empty, a great ghostly vault, haunted by noiseless beings that left only the echoing noise of their footsteps and nothing else. Morgôs found himself yearning for company.

Being immortal eventually instilled an indelible sense of time in one, and a total immunity to impatience, but sitting at a desk for months, day after day, hour after hour, word after horrible word, left the Elven former General feeling sicker than he was. He waited, contemplating, hoping for many things. He hoped someone would come by to make the hours go quicker, he hoped the King would favor him again, he hoped for hope itself. Skeptical as he was of Faroz-Khamûl, he wished more for his favor than his anger, and greatly desired that favor to fall upon him again. The days of his glory were gone, his passion and prowess waned. What had become of Morgôs Elrigon, he thought with mournful irritation and confusion.

“General?”

Morgôs, realizing that his head was drooping, long, grayed hair unfurling onto the desk-slab, snapped upward, feeling the bones in his back crack stiffly. His head arched and inclined, his body maneuvering sideways on his seat to see a young page in the heraldic garb of the court standing nearby, a number of thickly-laden scrolls bunched up under his arm. “Yes?” he murmured, fumbling to pull the parchment he was scribbling on in his now illegible chicken scratch towards him, “What is it?” A depressing thought flashed through his mind. He was actually afraid of what the page might say about his work habit to the King – afraid of the gossiping words of a meager courtier, no more than twenty years old.

“Have you filled out the recruit ledgers, sir?” Recruit ledgers, yes. Morgôs had been passing merry, merry hours filling out ledgers that recruited this month’s recruits from the populace. Technically, there were no “recruits” since most of the Pashtian army consisted of orcs, but Morgôs still had to rewrite the crude, foreign names of the orcs month-by-month, as well as transcribing their pompous titles. Torture. “Yes, lad, I have.”

“The King appreciates your services.” The boy smiled dimly and advanced. Morgôs willingly, but with a foul look on his face, organized his parchment into piles and shoved them across the slick stone table towards the page. He took them, stuffing them under his arm with the other papers. As he gathered them up neatly, Morgôs leaned forward on his chair, looking towards the page with enigmatic intent in his eyes. The look of an Elf was always mysterious to mortal kind, and most especially to the young who did not understand it, or had little real experience of it that they could draw upon in context. “Your predecessor said the same to me the other day. I wonder now if it is true.” The boy halted; his work slowing as he shot a quizzical glance of the Avari. “My...predecessor?” he wondered allowed, looking uncouth with lack of experience as he did. Morgôs gave a similarly grim nod. “Yes, the page who came to me the day before. He said, word for word, what you have said today. And his predecessor said the same before him, and so on. You all say it, but I do not think the king appreciates my services at all.” His face was serious and grave, but the remark he tossed off sounded almost glib. Still, the page shook his head as if he knew. “Milord, I am sure he does. I do not know, I admit, but still-”

“I don’t need your condolences, child. Go to your master.” Morgôs shooed the boy away disdainfully, but the page hesitated, and barely budged. He looked at Morgôs confusedly. “Milord,” he muttered, half under his breath as if he thought Morgôs did not need to hear it, but was saying it to him anyway, “You are my master.” The General’s shoulder arched a little as a half-grey eyebrow on his forehead rose. “What do you mean? The King is your master.”

“No, sir. The pages who collect your ledgers are assigned to you. We all serve the king, but my prime duty is to you, as long as you reside in the palace for your daily hours. Technically, it is a loophole in the structure of my service, but most courtiers indulge it. All the nobles in court have pages and servants, though we consider ourselves assistants more than menial laborers.” The speech sounded rehearsed, even though Morgôs could not imagine the boy had ever used it before. Perhaps, though, he had practiced it if the occasion ever presented itself to him. “So,” he ventured, raising his hand with a questioning, affirming gesture, “I command your duties?” The page nodded without hesitation. “Very well.” Morgôs considered this, leaning back against the cold, sturdy back of the seat, letting his billowing cloak sag like a misty cloud over the black stone. “Then I command you to remain here. You can take the ledgers to his majesty later in the day. For now, I have another task for you.” Though he remained dark in mood, an eerie, satisfied glint beamed from the bottomless orb of his eye. He lay his hand and arm upon the table, sweeping several sheets of blank vellum from the slab, and leaned forward, placing his gloved hand beneath his chin and positioning the armored elbow of that arm on the table.

“Sing me a song.”

The boy looked at him, awestruck. “What?” He almost choked. Morgôs clucked his tongue, “You heard me lad. All Pashtians can sing, and Pashtia has many songs. Sing me one.” The boy gawked at him for a moment more, then nodded dumbly, knowing not what else to do. He coughed again, several times, clearing his throat in a melodramatic fashion as Morgôs’ fingers tapped impatiently on the stone, and, eventually, began.

“The songs are sung in Kanak of the day that Khamûl won,
The Lord of all the windswept lands beneath the golden sun,
With sword and shield, spear, blade, and bow,
The strength and power of his will grow
On the day that Khamûl won, oh-”

The passionate, grandiose verse was cut off by a protesting grunt and words from the General. The page stuttered to a fumbling halt. “Not that one, by Rae’s blue sky, that is not the song for me.” The page looked at him with apology written all over his face. “I am sorry, milord. It is a well-liked song in Kanak these days.” But Morgôs snarled deeply, under his audible breath and voice so that the page did not detect it. “Do you know, boy, any older songs? Any songs of battles in the time before King Khamûl, if such a thing is possible these days. Something less anthematic, perhaps, and a bit more rousing.” The boy nodded a dumb nod again, saying, meekly, “Yes, General, I do, but I fear it is not as rousing as you might like…” he paused, hesitant in a fearful way, “It is about you, milord.”

“Good,” Morgos said resolutely, “sing.” With considerably more hesitation, the page began, singing softly at first, trying to sound far from “anthematic.” His verse was steady and slow continually, with as hint of mournful emotion deep within its clouded, vague metaphors and winding words…

“Ah Karandûn, in the twilight of the sands,
The beacon of the stars your way alights,
Into the valley, to the shadow of the bladed night,
The reaping dark is at last conquered.”

“Ah-lara Karandun, in the sunset of the sands,
Grim-looked night its toll may take,
But all men’s souls shall not be shaken till the day has come,
Golden day shall come again…”

The boy’s voice faded, though his mouth remained open as his eyes widened and looked towards the general.

Morgôs sat, upright in his chair, eyes half-closed; mouth quivering strangely, a peculiar glow welled up beneath his thick eyelids. He hands, lay on the table before him, twitching like those of a seizing man. The page was about to venture a question, to ask if the General was alright, but before he could, a wind blew through the windowless room, and a gentle, wafting sound filled the air, seeming to permeate the area like a cloud of wonder. Words formed from nothingness and the blowing of the sparkling wind took shape, forming single, articulate sounds. “Aure entuluva…”

The beautiful, magical silence was shattered a moment later by manmade thunder, as Morgôs’ clenched fist slammed down on the table so hard that the stone splintered and cracked, chips of it whistling in several directions. The slab sagged beneath the mighty fist, empowered by some unknown source. The page, shot backward, startled out of his wits, and fell to the floor. The beautiful moment, so perfect, was now filled with Elven fire. The General, not even paying heed to his hand, severely bruised from the action, stalked away from the table and past the fallen page, murmuring cold, emotionless words as he left the room.

“Take your accurséd ledgers and begone. I must speak with the King.”

[Firefoot]

“But... but Mother...” The words died on his lips. How could this be? His mother was but six months dead. Not only was this new action of Khamul - his father - entirely improper, but it was also an insult to his mother’s memory. Why? He met Gjeelea’s eyes, and for the first time that he could remember he found not scorn or disdain, but understanding. She understood, because she had already had these thoughts.

“He is mad.” Siamak spoke quietly but with conviction. Gjeelea nodded mutely.

“Come sit down,” said Siamak, momentarily diverting them from the subject and reminding Siamak of Zamara’s presence. Here, Priestess he thought, remembering her earlier query. Here is one of those many injuries that Pashtia has sustained.

Having settled on to the couches, though none of them quite comfortably due to the thick tension of the situation, Siamak asked, “Was Arshalous willing, do you think? Or did she have no other option?”

Gjeelea paused for a moment, thinking. “She said she did not trust the Emissary. I did not think she would accept if she had the chance. But she had no strength of will while talking with Kham- our father. She made no resistance at all.”

“So whose side is she on? Can she be trusted?” asked Zamara, seeing where Siamak was headed.

“I would like to say so... but I think we will have to wait and see,” answered Gjeelea.

“‘Wait and see,’”repeated Siamak. “That’s what we’ve been doing this whole time, haven’t we? Waiting and hoping that maybe it would get better, but it’s gotten worse. Pashtia grows darker as Khamul’s - and the Emissary’s - power heightens.” As he spoke, the irony that the one called “Shining One” should be the one to bring about the darkness of the country occurred to him. “If we wait any more, Pashtia will be beyond saving. We need to do something - now.” He paused. Dare he say it? “We need to drive out the Emissary and his influence - and to do that, we may need to drive out Khamul himself.” He wondered if this could really be his father that he was talking about so calmly. But this man was not his father save in name only. If the real Faroz was still there, he had been buried in the madness of Khamul. Siamak had made the distinction and committed himself to it. He would not look back.

[Amanaduial the archer]

"I would like to say so...but I think we shall have to wait and see." Gjeelea's words were careful, and struck a bitter chord: the actions of even those such as Arshalous could no longer be certain. Zamara rose from her seat, a sudden, violnt motion, and headed for the window, her arms crossed and hands tucked into the black cloak, and her expression angry.

"Foolish woman!" she spat furiously, surprising both the royal siblings although she was ranting to herself as much as them. "How...how could she do this? Arshalous is a wise woman, she is certainly not stupid - and she was loyal to Bekah! Why, she was one of the women who annointed the Queen after her death..." she stared out of the window, her expression pensive, nibbling her lip, before she looked away sharply, clenching her jaw angrily.

Gjeelea rose behind her. "I do not think she really had a choice, Zamara..." she said quietly. Zamara did not respond, and after a moment, Siamak continued.

“‘Wait and see." His voice was almost mocking of his sister, although both the women knew that it was not Gjeelea who he was angry at. "That’s what we’ve been doing this whole time, haven’t we? Waiting and hoping that maybe it would get better, but it’s gotten worse. Pashtia grows darker as Khamul’s - and the Emissary’s - power heightens. If we wait any more, Pashtia will be beyond saving. We need to do something - now." As he hesitated, Zamara looked across at the young man, speaking with such calm self possesion and assurance. He was five, maybe six years younger than she, only in his late teens, but he spoke like a king himself. She willed him to go on, knowing what he was about to say, what he needed to say, but not sure if he could. Go on...

"We need to drive out the Emissary and his influence - and to do that, we may need to drive out Khamul himself."

Gjeelea gasped quietly, but Zamara felt herself smile, an action that felt almost unfamiliar to her after her forced period of mourning. She nodded slowly, approvingly as she eyed the young prince. You have spoken our worst fears, the very root of our problem as all can see it - but you have been the first to say out loud the solution..."

Zamara walked slowly away from the window until she stood in front of the prince where he sat, looking down at the young man. Then, very deliberately, she knelt in front of him, lowering her head. "Prince Siamak, I offer you a pledge of my allegiance as long as you follow this cause."

"And I, Siamak, Prince of Pashtia, do so accept the allegiance of the High Priestess Zamara and this alliance with her." Siamak's respond was quick and fluid, almost as if he had been practising...or as if he had done this before recently. Lifting her head, Zamara raised an eyebrow more informally. "May I ask you a question, Siamak?"

Siamak almost visibly braced himself.

"Who else recently swore allegiance to you?" The question appeared to catch Siamak off guard, as he blinked suddenly in surprise, but otherwise his face remained emotionless - a talent that the Prince had that Zamara was quickly becoming familiar with. She smiled gently. "I merely inquire for the interests of knowing exactly who else will be coming with us."

"I do not think-" he began stiffly.

"Please, my lord?" Zamara interrupted firmly. That probably counts as treason as well, she thought ironically. But it worked. Siamak stared at her hard for a long second, then nodded. "General Morgos," he replied quietly. "Several months ago, after the banquet." His lip twisted wryly. "The banquet to 'honour the emissary'," he added bitterly. Zamara nodded, sitting back. "I thought as mu-"

An urgent knocking on the door caused all three in the room the jump, startled. Zamara got to her feet quickly, tensed to run as she looked around for somewhere to hide. But the door opened before she could do anything, and it was Nadda's head that poked around the doorway. "Your majesties, there are footsteps coming down the adjacent corridor - I looked and it is a man I do not recognise although he wears servants' livery."

"Description?" Gjeelea ordered stiffly.

"Tall, dark, somewhat...oily looking..." Nadda began uncertainly.

"Morashk...?" the princess murmured to herself. Looking to her brother, she added, "A servant of my husband's household, and a most unpleasant one at that, if it is indeed he." She caught Zamara's eyes. "You need to hide."

Zamara looked hopelessly at both of them - but through the crack of the doorway they themselves could now hear the footsteps as well, approaching distinctly down the corridor. Soon he would no doubt be speaking to Nadda... Siamak signalled urgently towards a screened doorway leading out of the room and Zamara headed as quietly as could towards it, slipping through and positioning herself just within the dark room, hidden but able to hear. Standing frozen and pressed against a wall for the second time that night, Zamara felt the rush of fear of discovery once more thrill through her veins. Frozen in the darkness, she heard a man's voice speaking indistinctly with Nadda outside, closed her eyes, and waited...

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Ashnaz was waiting for him at the assigned place. Khamûl removed the Ring and stepped into the small enclosure formed by the tall hedges of his private garden, his feet making hardly a sound even upon the dry gravel of the pathway. He had learned how to move quietly and quickly, flitting from place to place like a wraith in the night, for even though the power of Annatar’s gift shielded him from men’s eyes, he could still be heard and felt. So accustomed was he now to walking upon the balls of his feet that it had become habit, and even when visible he would often be upon people before they knew he was there.

“How did it go?” the Emissary asked him, his lips curling into a handsome smile.

“As we foresaw,” he replied, his heart settling once more in his chest. Of late, he had become anxious when apart from his friend for more than a few hours. So much had he come to depend upon the wisdom of his counsel and the comfort of his presence that he felt its absence like the gaping of an open wound. He resisted the urge to take Ashnaz by the hand.

“So the Lady Arshalous is to be your wife.”

“Aye, that she is.”

“And did she seem pleased at the prospect?” Ashnaz smiled again, and Khamûl’s heart lightened as though it were the dawn.

“Not very,” he replied. “Although she was more pliable than we had anticipated. Perhaps she truly can be saved…?”

Ashnaz shook his head sadly and reached out to take the King by his shoulder. His hand was warm and strong, even through the heavy leather of his glove. “I do hope so, my friend, for her sake as much as for our own. But where did you find her? With whom was she speaking when you made your intentions known?”

“So you saw,” the King said. “I should have known that you were watching me from afar.”

“You never leave my sight, my friend. Never. My thought and my will, and that of my lord, is ever upon you. You know that.”

“And great comfort I take from it, too.” He paused to return his friend’s gentle look of concern. “It is too late for her then, isn’t it?”

“You saw with your own eyes: she was deep in the treacherous plottings of your daughter. You found her at the house of your great rival, the worm who would keep you from the throne that is yours by the right of your own strength. I would counsel hope, but I fear that prudence leads me to warn you against the Lady Arshalous.”

The King felt tears come to his eyes, and his head bowed. For a moment, just a moment, his will sagged and his shoulders slumped. In that instant, if there had been any there to see the King who had known and loved Faroz in foregone days, they would have seen the change that had been wrought upon him by the power of the Ring and the honeyed lies of Its lord: for in that moment he appeared as an old, tired, and worn out man; as though he were bent beneath a terrible burden he staggered toward the Emissary, and perhaps by some trick of the light, it seemed as though he faded somewhat as he come into the embrace of his friend, as though he were putting on the Ring, though it was still in his pocket. “Oh what am I to do?” he gasped between his sobs. “Is there nobody I can trust? Is there no-one I can turn to?”

The Emissary held him like a child. “You are not friendless, Khamûl. You know that.”

“No,” he said, “I know. But you, who have ever enjoyed the love and trust of the lord Annatar, you cannot imagine what it is to be so steeped in the mud of treachery that the very smell of it makes you blind with revulsion. At times I think it would be better for me simply to flee with you back to your land, and to leave Pashtia to its own fate.”

“A lesser man might seek that route, but you are the King in this land, and you bear the burden of its care. You cannot abandon it to those who would defile it with their sin.”

“You are right, of course, as always, my friend. But my heart quakes at what I must do. Is there really no other way?” The only response he got was a slight tightening of the Emissary’s arms about his shoulders. “Very well,” the King murmured into the dark of the night. “I am prepared to do what I must. The sin that threatens my kingdom must be destroyed. I must be merciless and purge the state of those who plot against it. All who oppose me will die.”

“Even your children? And your affianced wife?”

“Yes. Even them. They have their part to play yet, but when they have fulfilled their roles, they will join their allies in the nameless place where they shall howl out their agony until the Final End.”

[Firefoot]

This time, Siamak felt only dull surprise at another unexpected visitor. Like moths to a candle...

"If it is that Morashk, what reason might he have for coming here?" Siamak asked his sister. "Could he have followed you?"

"He may have. It is some time since I have left, though, and I do not know how he would know to come here."

Siamak frowned. "Hm. Perhaps it is not him, then. There are many in the city who might fit that description." He heard the door open and close, and Nadda's voice talking with another. "Shall we find out?" Gjeelea assented, and Siamak led the way into the outer room.

Nadda and the other turned to them upon hearing their entrance. Siamak looked the newcomer over. He was as Nadda had described: tall, rather dark, and oily looking. No ordinary servant, Siamak thought as he noted the way the man's manner did somehow not fit with the servant's clothes he wore. He looked familiar, but then Siamak supposed he may have seen the man before: Gjeelea's wedding, perhaps, should it be Morashk. He turned a questioning look to Nadda.

"He would tell me neither his name nor his business, majesties," Nadda explained.

Siamak turned the look to the man. "Well? Who are you, and what is your business here?"

[Nurumaiel]

Morashk was not accustomed to be spoken to in such a tone. He had considered his position elevated because of the favourable way his master looked upon him, and when his master had married the daughter of the King, he had considered his position further elevated. He straightened his back and looked steadily into the Prince's eyes.

"My name is Morashk," he replied, "and I come bearing a letter for the Princess Gjeelea, wife of my master." He intentionally described her thus, and noted with some satisfaction the expression of distaste that crossed her face. "The letter is from the Lady Arshalous."

He looked from one to the other, and then took a keen glance about the room.

"I have further been instructed by my master," he went on, "to escort the Princess back to his home at her earliest convenience. He... fears for her safety." The mocking tone in Morashk's voice was not disguised. Princess Gjeelea already suspected, at the least, that his opinion was not high of the Lord Korak, whatever his feelings of loyalty might be. "If she is busy at the moment, I will wait for her."

[Bêthberry]

While the lords and ladies of the realm talked and plotted and dithered and while Khamul fell ever more under his terrible obsession with the Ring and Ashnaz and the Lord Annatar, the people of Pashtia and its capital city came to experience at first hand the true effects of the dark evil which was dominating their land.

The tribute that was filling the King's coffers did not trickle down to the people. For instance, damage caused by the monsoon season's heavy rains was not repaired. Damns, dikes, the stone culverts could no longer carry the previously abundant quantity of water and irrigation. Crops, which had at first sprung up well, were dying in the fields and the city's water supply was dwindling. Roads and fields which were damaged by the brutal war were not restored, with the consequence that trade, interrupted by the war, was slow to pick up. Supplies in the city were being depleted and not replaced. And the orcs which marauded around the city cared little what damage they caused; in fact, they seemed to delight in spreading destruction and fear. Khamul's attention was being drawn to events that did not aid his country's economy but served only the vile interests of the dark lord.

As always, it was the poorest citizens who faced the truth of Khamul's rule first. Jarult, for instance, the old Chamberlain who had been dismissed so abruptly, saw evidence around him daily of want and deprivation. He had at first been able to seek some solace in the furtive friendship with old Homay, but suddenly she stopped coming, shortly after a series of riots were brutually put down by the orcs. Jarult had snuck around to the room which she had found when she had been dismissed from the Palace, but no one answered his knock, not even a harried landlord or landlady. He had asked around for her, but frightened looks on people's faces reminded him that she was remembered as an Alanzian, an enemy.

He was at his wits end with worry when Dilayah, the healer stole into his small building one day, and called to him. They met, even during daylight, furtively in a small passage behind large bins of garbage and refuse.

"How are you Jarult? You look not well."

"None of us look well these days, healer. A disease is spreading amongst us which appears to be robbing us of our well being."

He cautiously directed her to a small corner, where the sun for now was shining and providing them with some warmth. His face looked sallow, but so did that of the healer.

They sat quietly together for some time and then began to speak of those who were missing. There were many, but Jarault's mind turned mainly on Homay.

"I have not seen her since the riots."

Dilayah nodded her head. "They caught us off guard. We were talking by the well, and the crowd came storming in. I was pushed aside and was able to crawl out of the way. Homay was recognised."

"She was named as an Alanzian?"

"I heard several shout that, calling her an enemy and a traiter. One voice even claimed she had killed the Queen."

"No! No! Not after everything we knew and tried to speak of!"

"Our words fell on deaf ears."

"Was she taken?"

"I could not see. The crowd was surging all around me, and then the orcs struck."

"I heard. I mean that literally, healer. I could hear the cries and screams and even the crushing of bones and spilling of breath."

"Even after it was over, they would not let us take our dead."

"Was she among the dead?"

"I never found her body."

"But many were taken and never seen again."

"There are strange fires burning in some of the smithies. The air is sickening. Not many speak of it."

"I do not believe that the Lord Korak ever contacted her."

"He didn't? So, there is no hope in rousing at least some degree of interest?" The old Chamberlain slumped against the dry, dusty wall, his face as dull as the faded mud bricks.

"I believe the High Priestess struggles to maintain the old faith, but her lines of communication are cut, and there are whispers everywhere that the wind carries words beyond their intended."

From her pocket, the healer drew out a small package, wrapped carefully in palm leaves. It held two wafers, the kind of small sweet which she knew Jarult enjoyed. She would have given both to him, but he refused, insisting that they share the small ritual of hospitality. A small trickle of tear ran down his face, leaving a dark streak of dust on his face. Homay had become a dearer companion in his exile than he had admited, and she had been his last hope.

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

Snatching the parchment from Morashk, Gjeelea wondered what Arshalous had written. I had not given her much chance, the princess realized as Morashk waited for her to speak.

"I am not yet finished with my business here -" Gjeelea began, sending a backward glance to her brother.

"Then I shall wait for you..." Morashk interrupted.

"No," Gjeelea snapped. She was not in the mood to deal with Morashk, and she did not need him slithering around gathering information for Korak. "No, Morashk, you will return to your master and inform him that I wish to remain here at the palace for an extended period of time."

"But my lady, I received strict orders -" Morashk was a mask of calmness as he tried to refute Gjeelea's orders.

"You will go and you will inform your master that I will return at a later time," the princess said, in a commanding and angry manner. "My husband will understand that I am just as safe here as I would be at his home."

"As you say, my lady," Morashk was led out by Nadda.

Gjeelea looked to her brother, who in turn went to bring Zamara back into the room. Letter in hand, Gjeelea pulled at the creases and gently pulled it open. Her hazel eyes flicked across the page, reading the handwriting and grasping the information given in the letter.

"What does it say?" Zamara asked as she and Siamak reentered the room.

"Arshalous writes of her fears and doubts for becoming queen," Gjeelea replied softly. "Then she goes on to say something about the good of Pashtia..." the princess tried to conceal the confused look on her face. "Read this," she handed the letter to Siamak and Zamara. As they read it over, Gjeelea thought over and over again about the letter. "Do you think she is trying to tell us something? Something she could not write in the letter in case it did not reach me first?"

[Firefoot]

Siamak nodded, thinking. "It sounds so. It is almost as if she were writing the letter in a reply, based on information we already have..." In a flash of insight, he clarified, "You were with her, right, when Khamul proposed? What were you talking about before he came?"

"The Emissary. She said he was... evil." It was clear that Gjeelea had made the same connection as he.

"Perhaps, then, the Emissary and his following are the evil-doers she mentions? We will need to make sure, but I think Arshalous is trying to tell us she is on your - our - side." He smiled slightly and handed the letter back to Gjeelea. "Let's hope. She will have power in her position as queen. She may be of help."

"If she has the courage," commented Zamara, almost to herself.

All of us will need that, thought Siamak. But he said, "Yes, that will have to be proven. But for now, we will have to find out if she is with us, if that was truly what she meant to imply. I think we should also look for allies elsewhere - I will talk to General Morgôs - but tomorrow, or maybe it is today now. The night is growing old. But now - Gjeelea, you told Morashk that you would be staying at the palace, and that will probably be common knowledge before long. But, you, Priestess, you called your temple quarters little more than a prison. So am I correct that you do not wish to return there? I am sure we could find someplace that you could - stay."

[Amanaduial the archer]

Hide, you mean, Zamara replied silently, her lip curling slightly. But what other choice did she have? Stay, hide, it was all one: one must what one must, that was what she had always been taught; and what she must do now, whether she liked it or not, was hide.

But Zamara had also been taught that no matter how dark the situation seemed, there is always another choice, another path that can be taken, however shrouded. The darkness that crept over the kingdom allowed little light to fall now on the choices of even the highest nobles, and Arshalous had, it seemed to Zamara, leapt to the one choice that she probably felt she was forced to make; but even in times so dark, a shred of light still crept through from the cracks in th floor of the heavens, a shred of light that illuminated Zamara's ultimate choice - and Arshalous's. I will not hide forever...

The Priestess nodded, showing no sign of her inner turmoil, although at the mention of her house-arrest, she couldn't help but glance anxiously out of the window. "I do not think I could return there if I wanted; no doubt it would 'sorcery' could be the explanation for my escape, and just another reason to condemn me. Maybe escaping seems to have made things worse, but I could not have stayed a minute longer..." she shuddered slightly, remembering the Emissary's cold, relentless grip on her arm as he forced her to her knees, effectively forced her to bow to him. Shaking away the memory, Zamara nodded to Siamak, a shadow of a smile gracing her expression. "My thanks, Prince Siamak, Princess Gjeelea." She extended her grace to the princess not out of diplomacy, but for the change that seemed to have come about in the woman: a new strength, but also a quietness. A fear that even Gjeelea could not entirely hide. She must have married Korak after all, Zamara noted resignedly as she spied the gold band on the princess's finger. And for the first time in how many hundred years, the marriage must have been performed in the Temple of Rae... A sudden, more frightening thought came to Zamara, and she started slightly at it.

"The gods..." Zamara looked anxiously at the royal siblings. "He really did have them destroyed, did he not?"

Gjeelea looked shaken at the wording used by the Priestess. "The emissary effectively closed the temples, and the Temple of Rae was transformed into a temple for the...the new God." Here she glanced sharply at Zamara, as if unsure of how the Priestess would take this, then seeing Zamara's simple, impassive expression, she continued quickly, "But I would not say he has 'destroyed' Rhais or Rae..."

"Destroy the worshippers and you destroy the gods," Zamara replied softly. Looking down, she sighed softly, closing her eyes for a moment as she shook her head. The snake had told her mockingly one day of the downfall of the old gods; had told her that the people now shunned her petty, false gods, to worship the true One... She had ignored him, had shut her ears to his laughter and mockery, waving it aside as false. But now to find the truth in the statement? Zamara squeezed her eyes tightly shut, then looked up again at Gjeelea, bright eyed. "And the name of this one god?"

"His name...his name is Morgoth."

"Morion...i yára úmëa..."

The words slipped from Zamara's lips so softly that they were like a mere whisper of wind, softer than the glimmering of a distant star - distant as the voice of a faraway god. Both the prince and princess felt a shiver up the back of their necks as they watched the Priestess gazing out of the window. As if fearing to break a spell, Gjeelea replied almost in a whisper, "What did you say?"

Zamara looked around suddenly, as if awoken from a dream, and blinked. Shaking her head, she frowned slightly. "I..nothing. It does not matter." Shaking off the strange, creeping feeling at the back of her neck, Zamara blinked a few more times and turned to the children together, opening her mouth to speak, before something outside the door creaked: nothing more than a rogue floorboard, but nonetheless the sound made all three jump and Zamara almost bolted for the doorway again. Feeling foolish, Zamara gave a small, nervous smile despite the tension, and turned to Siamak again. "Your majesty, you were saying something about a hiding place? Have you anywhere in mind?"

[alaklondewen]

In the course of several months, life had changed dramatically for the General’s wife. Before the fateful day of Beckah’s death, Arlomë had been a respected and active member of Pashtian society. Now she rarely left her estate unless absolutely necessary, and then, only in the heart of the day, when the disgusting Orc soldiers did less harm and the Elves in Kanak were treated with slightly more respect than after the instated curfues. Her faithful mornings spent in the temple of Rhais were no more as the goddess’ worshipers had been forced from the temple and threatened if they were to praise her in public. Arlomë, with her son’s aid, built a small alter in the North-east corner of the home, where the Elf now performed her daily meditation and prayer.

Then…there was Morgôs. Arlomë had watched her husband deteriorate into a shadow of his former stature. She did what she could to keep him physically healthy, but something else what eating away at him and he would not let her in to help him as she may. She had strength…enough for both of them (so she thought), but he would have to open up to her. He did not speak of it often, but she knew it hurt him to be placed in an ornamental position, filling out papers instead of using his wit and instinct to lead men on the battlefield.

Yes, her world was changed. The elf reflected as she closed her eyes tightly and let the warm evening breeze lift her hair loosely from her shoulders before it continued around the garden swaying the long tree branches and making their leaves dance. So much had happened, and more was to come. She knew not which way fate would move, but something was going to come to pass that would change the course of her life and those that were close to her. She could feel it in her bones.

[Firefoot]

Siamak thought for a moment before responding. Zamara’s hiding place would have to be somewhere that could be easily accessed without causing suspicion, yet it could not be anyplace where people, servants or nobles, regularly went. He was thinking that it also ought to have more than one exit, so that she would not be trapped should her location be discovered. She had to be able to escape. Tricky requirements... then he had it. It was so absurdly simple, he almost laughed: who would think to hide Zamara in a guest’s chambers? Not very many were currently being used; few people visited the palace nowadays. As for exits, he now recalled the old servants’ entrances which led into nearly all the rooms in the palace - his own chambers had one. They were unused now, and had been unused for any conventional purposes for several generations now.

“Yes,” he said. “I know of a place. I can take you there now, if you like.” Zamara agreed and she and Gjeelea both made for the door.

“No, not that way,” said Siamak, heading into the room where Zamara had previously hid. “This way.” Remembering Nadda in the entry room, he called for her to come as well. After all, the fewer the people who knew the better, and someone would need to bring Zamara meals and such.

Looking slightly puzzled, the three women followed him to the inobtrusive door, designed to blend in with the room. He tried the door; it creaked softly as it was opened. “The old servants’ entrance,” Siamak explained for Zamara’s benefit. “It’s not really in use anymore.” After they filed through, he shut the door to, leaving it slightly ajar so that it would not be hard to find. He took a moment to orient himself. He had only been back here a handful of times, and not once in several years. Left goes towards Khamul’s rooms... right towards the guest rooms, and then a dead end. Right it is.

The passageway was plain, unlike the richly decorated hallways that were more commonly used. The walls were plain stone, and several doors lined them until the way turned out of sight. He concentrated on the number of doors they passed, trying with mild difficulty to remember where each led. Finally, he stopped. If he was correct, the room was about the same distance away from his and Gjeelea’s apartments. Out of the way, but not completely obscure in location. The door opened with more trouble than the one in his own rooms had, but it squeaked less.

It was exactly the type of place he had wanted: these rooms would not be used by any prominant palace guest, so they were smaller, but certainly they were a finer place than one would normally think to hide an accused traitor. Here, the servant’s door opened directly into the bedroom, so the two entrances to the room were not visible to each other.

“What do you think?” he asked. “You have two exits - three, if you count the window - though I doubt anyone will look for you here.”

[Orofaniel]

"The garden is not the same, is it mother?"

The whispering did not affect his mother; she stood there, steady as a rock, but Evrathol knew she was feeling weaker than in her earlier days.

Months had passed since the death of Queen Bekah. Evrathol remembered it like it had been yesterday. His eyes had seen much throughout his long immortal life, but the events of that day that he had witnessed would stay with him forever. He could remember how the Emissary had come to his mother's gardens. The cold and ruthless man that had disturbed the peace in Pashtia had been standing here, on this very spot. Evrathol shivered by the thought of it.

It was Evrathol's suspicion that the Emissary had killed Queen Bekah with his own hands that had been the greatest terror of them all. But how could he prove it? Evrathol was not to keen to go against the Emissary and his men alone. He knew he would not be strong enough to do so. But why hadn't Morgos, the general, taken more responsibility? He wondered what role the Princess and the Prince played in all this. Where they still mourning, perhaps, he wondered. The questions regarding the future of Pashtia tormented him, for he had no answers. He knew little of what was really going on in the Palace as he had not been there after the Queen's death. However, he had no wish of going there, because he was afraid the sight of it would weaken his hopes for a new and better Pashtia.

Oh, these ill events that has taken place in Pashtia...." Evrathol sighed. Indeed, many ill events had taken place.

He looked at his mother. She was grave and paler than usual. His mother had been devastated after the Priestess Zamara had withdrawn from her duties, and apparently gone mad. The Temple that had been a place for peace and quiet and his mother had used this as a place to collect her thoughts. Now however, she had arranged a small alter in her own home with Evrathol’s help. Nevertheless, Evrathol knew it was not the same.

"No, the gardens are different, I'm afraid," Arlomë then said quietly.

"But Mother, your plants....they need to be looked after," Evrathol said softly. "Many of them have already withered and died...Will you not see to the few that are left?" Evrathol continued. Arlomë remained quiet. "I have tried to look after them for you, but I do not share your knowledge and wisdom. Please, you must not let all of them wither. You used to..."

"That time has passed, son," Arlomë then interrupted. "The Pashtia we knew before is fading away…withering....But I feel that something is going to change. I do not know what it is. Do you feel it?"

Evrathol looked at her, amazed by her last words. His mother hadn’t been so enthusiastic about anything in a long time. However, he still sensed weariness in her voice. "I do not know what I feel. I just know that this Pashtia is nothing like it used to be - the evry same thing you are saying, in other words. It cannot continue like this. We must do something. Like we said we would do after the death of the Queen. Remember? Remember my suspicion?”

"Speak naught of it, son, because I dare not remember it. But please, let us speak with your father. He knows more about the events inside the place, don't you think?"

[Amanaduial the archer]

Zamara looked in astonishment around the room, clean, airy and devoid of black: more pleasant than her own quarters had been in several months, since her imposed withdrawal. She almost laughed, her face splitting into a grin as she turned back to Siamak and nodded enthusiastically, approving. "It is perfect, your majesty - more than perfect." She laughed, but the joyful sound was muted so as not to attract attention; a joy snuffed and muted for fear, as all now seemed to be in Pashtia. "Thank you, Siamak, thank you indeed."

The prince smiled back graciously and gave a stiff little nod to the Priestess before he turned to Nadda. "You will be in charge of the High Priestess's welfare; see that she has her meals on time and the like - but do it absolutely secretly, do you understand me?" Nadda shrunk a little before Siamak's direct, commanding tone, but nodded. "Of course, sir. But...but so many of the servants follow the old ways still-" she blurted out.

"I know, and their time to help shall come," Zamara answered swiftly. Nadda seemed about to say something before her manners when speaking to noblemen caught up with her and she shut her mouth sharply as if slightly mortified with her speaking out of turn. Zamara smiled to her and took the servant girl's hands. "Your time shall come, Nadda; but you must be patient. Do not mention my coming here to anyone, anyone at all. Only Reafin knows other than you - it must stay that way, alright? It must." Her words were urgent, but she managed to keep her desperation out of them, coming across as intense but unruffled - she hoped - as she held the girl's hands tightly in her own. Nadda nodded quickly, her eyes saucer-wide. Zamara smiled and let go, leaving Siamak to dismiss her. As the servant girl scurried away through the labyrinth of tunnels that Siamak had illuminated to them, Zamara took a deep sigh and looked around her 'new room'. As she did so, she suddenly felt such a swell of gratitude that was only matched by her weariness, and she stifled a yawn as she turned back to the royal children. But before she could speak, Gjeelea stepped in. "No more talk for now, Zamara; you must rest. And so must we, brother," she added, turning to Siamak. The prince gave her a slightly curious look but it was well masked. "You will be sleeping in the palace tonight, Gjeelea?"

The princess nodded. "I would not disturb my husband at this time," she replied, the words stiff as if they sounded false in her mouth. "I will return in the morning."

Siamak did not comment. After both her and Gjeelea had bid her good night and departed, Zamara turned back into her room and, without further ado, crossed the room to the bed and lay, exhausted with the night's adventures. The crisp, cool white covers felt exquisite against her skin as she slipped out of her thick dark cloak and then, after a moment's thoughts, out of the white robes, but even as she tried to relax in this haven, her mind kept working. Had her vanishing trick been noticed by Pashtia's 'occupiers' yet? If not, it would not be long before it was - and then what? Her trial was already a postponed death sentence, she had no doubt, and once it was found that she had mysteriously escaped and vanished into the night without a trace - why, it would no doubt simply harden the evidence in the minds of her enemies. And she seemed to have so many enemies now.

Closing her eyes tightly, Zamara sighed deeply, feeling suddenly sadness rather than anger against the city that had turned its back on her. Since the Emissary's arrival...or was it? It seemed that everything had gone downhill from there, since the building of the new temple and the death of Queen Bekah, but was it then that things had started? Maybe her downfall had begun before then and the Emissary was merely a catalyst; had her time simply come, the time for the old gods to fall?

No. No, she knew it could not be true. There were followers still, those who would stand behind her even now - Reafin, the servant who had even this night risked his job - her very life - in getting her into the palace rather than calling the patrols upon her. And the royal children - they went against their father and plotted his downfall for her safety and for the ways of life that she stood to uphold, as they themselves did. They were not moving on on the side of the Snake, corrupted as Faroz had been; they were making a stand, quietly, oh so quietly - but even the smallest whisper can make a change, even the smallest grain of rice can tip the balance. And indeed, Zamara wondered about the warmth which Gjeelea's tone had almost had when she had spoken to Siamak - it was not something that had been there before. Were things changing even at that level? In times of trouble, such small differences were all that it took to shift the pebbles, the boulders, the mountains. And to destroy the corruption of the Snake and his strange, mysterious 'one god', mountains would have to be shifted. Maybe...maybe even now, when all seemed dark, the light could yet be found, the candle yet illuminated.

There was hope for the West yet. As long as human decency strove to prevail over the darkness and unfeeling politics of those who didn't care for the state they governed; as long as there were some with backbone; as long as one voice could stand to raise another, another, another; as soon as a thousand voices stood to make a stand, brought about by one pebble shifting in the landslide... as long as faith, courage and hope remained, there was hope for the West yet.

Checking the door was locked, just in case, Zamara closed her eyes and went to sleep with the voice of a kindly goddess echoing in her thoughts.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

The sun rose red, spilling light across the parched fields like blood and spilling onto the sands of the desert which soaked it up, taking it into itself and preparing to unleash it later as a scalding heat that burnt the very air. In the Palace, Khamûl awoke from his nightmares of black, nameless things clawing at him, and of the echoing Voice that raged against him. He came to consciousness quickly, as he always did, but as he opened his eyes it was as though some vestige of his night’s visions remained with him, for against the light of the archway which lead to the balcony he thought, for the briefest sliver of time, that he saw a pale form. It was shaped as his wife had been, and it was as a cool cloud of silver before the angry red of dawn. It seemed for a moment as though the figure raised its hand to him, but then the morning wind came in through the arch and blew the form away into shadow. There was a sound just below hearing very much like a sigh, and Khamûl felt a touch upon his neck – firm, and not malicious, but neither comforting nor tender. It was as though the shade that passed by him were trying to tell him something. He held on to the thought and placed his own hand at his neck where he had felt the touch, and as he did so he felt his throat constrict and tighten. He started up, his breath catching in his throat and for a terrible heartbeat he thought that he beheld the face of his friend Ashnaz bending over him, and he could feel talons ripping at his throat.

But then the vision was gone, to be replaced by the smiling face of his friend. They had taken to sharing the Royal chamber so that Khamûl could benefit from Ashnaz’s presence at all times. At first, the Emissary had slept upon a low pallet beside the King’s bed, but the mattress was large and there was room upon it for several men, and so the Emissary had made up his bedroll upon it with the King. This had not seemed at all strange or alien to the King, although he did still take care that none of the servants would see it.

They arose, and took their breakfast, and as the sun rose and lost some of its crimson, the King’s mood improved. They ate in silence, but still they conversed with one another through their inner eyes. It was how Khamûl had come to think of the Ring; for he saw it in his mind now at all times as a burning wheel which gazed at him with command and love. From it he could see the mind of Ashnaz and as they took their food they exchanged their night’s dreams. As usual, Ashnaz’s were of far lands of green landscapes, well-ordered and governed with might fortresses and many peoples working toward one goal, one god and one future. Over these lands there ruled the one lord, benevolent and careful with the peoples he commanded, and they worshipped him for his greater wisdom and might. These visions calmed Khamuûl, and with the help of his friend he brushed from his mind the memory of the terrifying vision of his wife that had come to him with the dawn.

Their meal was interrupted by a frantic messenger who was shown in by the orc guards. The man’s face was filled with loathing for the creatures who had escorted him, and he was trembling with terror…of what, Khamûl could not imagine. “Majesty,” he began shakily, “I have come from the quarters of the High Priestess…” he caught the look in the Emissary’s eye, “I mean, of the former High Priestess Zamara.” He paused there.

“Very well,” the King snapped, “and what news have you of the withch?”

“She…she is gone, my King.”

“Gone! How, where what do you mean?” the King raged. He was terrified by the news, for it had come as a surprise. The Ring had given him such powers of sight, that he had convinced himself that there could be no more surprises for him, but as he cast his mind forth he realised that over Zamara there was some kind of mist hiding her from his view. He grew frantic, pacing about the room and he cast his mind to his children, holding the Ring now in his hand so tightly that its gem bit into his fingers drawing blood, but they too were gone – disappeared behind a veil of fog much like that which he had seen at his window this morning. And at the idea there was a touch at his throat once more, and his breath caught. He whirled about locking his eyes with Ashnaz but the look in his friend’s face came like a blow, for instead of calm confidence he saw that he too was confounded by something. They opened their minds to one another and it became clear in an instant that neither of them could see as clearly or as far as they had the night before.

“Find her!” the King cried to the soldier. “Scour the city for her. Spare no house or building – she must be found! I have been lenient so far, too lenient, in allowing her trial to wait for so long, but no more. As soon as she is brought before me in chains I shall pronounce her doom!” The soldier rushed from the room with the orcs grinning at his heels like dogs.

Ashnaz placed a hand upon the King’s shoulder to calm his rage. “You are right, of course, my friend to be enraged. But do not proceed so hastily. The witch has many deluded followers in the City and she cannot be brought to justice without offending them. Let it be known abroad that she is mad; she has clearly run away from her caretakers in a fit of wildness that can only present a danger to herself and to those who might help her out of a misguided pity. Let the people know this, and it will be easier to pass the judgement against her that we know she deserves.”

Panting with the effect of his emotion the King placed his hand upon the Emissary’s own. “You are right, my friend, of course. As always, you are wise and right. Let it be so known.” But the Emissary did not depart right away. “There is more you wish to discuss?”

“Yes, Khamûl, it is the Elves.”

“The Elves?” he asked. “What have they to do with this? Do you suspect them of having aided Zamara in her escape?”

“No,” was the slow reply, “but they have ever been the supporters of the old religion – by the accounts of your own archives it was their myths that gave birth to the heresies that Zamara preached. It is likely that they will resent her being brought to heel. You have already seen how they openly speak out against your orcs. There have even been clashes between Elves and orcs. For their own safety, then, as much as for the safety of your throne, do you not think it wise to bring them where they can be looked after?”

“You have often spoken of such a plan. What do you mean by it?”

“Let there be a special part of the City set aside for the Elves. Have them brought there where they can live apart from Pashtian society and have their culture without it endangering the beliefs of your people. There, too, we can keep them under guard in case their resentment against the orcs leads them to violence.”

“You speak truth, my friend. Let that be done as well. But,” he added after a thought, “let the General Morgôs remain at the Palace where I may keep an eye upon him. He will be a useful tool for me in this. No doubt the other Elves will resent being displaced, and it may assuage them somewhat to see that their most noble hero remains at my side. Have the orcs bring his family to the Palace as well. We shall keep them all here…as our guests.”

The Emissary bowed. “Majesty, I will see that this is all done.”

[Amanaduial the archer]

The lake was smooth and calm, wider and vaster even than the desert, stretching so far into the distance that it terrified Zamara. And it was unlike any lake she had even heard of, for along it's surface ran small ripples, moving as if with some purpose although the air was still and there was no wind. Reaching out with one bare foot, Zamara stretched out her toes towards the water, trembling slightly. The water lapped up towards her, and she leapt backwards from it as it chased her feet up the soft white sand. Smiling foolishly, the woman realised that she was not really afraid of the waves, although the vast lake's strangeness confused her greatly; for this, undoubtedly, was the Sea, an almost immeasurable expanse of waters that those nomads who had travelled farthest spoke of; an expanse of waters that stretched so far that anything could lie beyond it... Zamara smiled serenely, looking out across the waters with her hand shaded across her eyes.

And in the distance, something stirred.

Puzzlement in her blue-brown eyes, Zamara watched the horizon, watched for this movement: a shadow that stirred across the water. And it was getting larger now, she saw. As if it was coming nearer to shore. Her smile flickered as she watched it, and she rubbed her arms as a chill seemed to creep up from nowhere, a chill bound to shore by no wind, for the air still remained deathly still. Taking a hesitant step backwards, her anxiousness increasing to fear, Zamara could not understand the feeling that the shadow brought; the images of fear and pain that seemed to dance at the edge of her vision, cracking like whips as they taunted her. And the shadow seemed to taunt her too, for in a second it was almost upon her, the blackness covering the beach, shrouding her vision all around in fog and mist, in a sense of hopelessness that could never be removed. She felt tears well up in her eyes, but fought the urge to run as the shadow whipped around her, stirring up a wind in the air, whipping a vicious tumult up upon the waters. A wind that seemed to whisper her name. But the priestess did not move, staring straight into the blackness although even the very sand around her seemed to shrink before it and every sense in her body told her to run. She stared it out, the blue in her eyes shining fiercely as she willed herself not to move, to have the strength not to break down.

Horsemen...there were horsemen riding upon the shadow, seven of them, shades of men, cloaked and covered from head to toe in black, each bearing a sword in one hand. And on the other hand...on the other hand, shining as brightly as a star with but with subtle fierceness of a hidden snake, something burned, some small object set alight and burning fiercer than the sun...

And before their ride, the very earth began to tremor beneath Zamara's feet. "I will not yield to you," she bellowed fiercely into the shadow, injecting into her words a confidence that she did not feel as she struggled to remain upright; but her voice seemed futile, tinny, muffled by the black fog that now closed in, enveloping her, suffocating. "I will not yield to you..." Again, the wind whispered her name, a sibilant, insinuating hiss...

With a yell, Zamara struck out with one arm, flinging herself forward...into Nadda. The woman's unexpected strength and the fierceness of her reaction from sleep surprised Nadda and the servant girl found herself slammed against the wall in an instant, the furious High Priestess's hands pinning her shoulders to the wall. Unaccustomed to sleepwalkers or anything of the type, the girl yelped then quailed against the wall, terrified of the monster that Zamara had become. A second that seemed like an age passed in total silence and stillness before Zamara finally seemed to see what she beheld, and she blinked and stepped away hurriedly from Nadda, rubbing one eye with the heel of her hand as she took a long, shaky breath and blinked a few more times, truly coming too. Yawning, she looked apologetically at the servant girl who still cowered against the wall then looked away, mortified by her sudden rage. "My apologies, Nadda, I...I did not...you startled me from a dream, that is all. I was-" she stopped abruptly, suddenly sensing that relaying her dream may not be the wisest thing to do. Why, she was not sure; for if you tell a nightmare to someone, it does not come true. Isn't that what her mother had told her?

Shaking muddled childhood supersticions from her mind, Zamara collected her thoughts and took another deep breath, more controlled this time, and set Nadda with her straight, no-nonsense gaze - with eyes that seemed bluer by the day. "No matter, it was merely a dream. That...that is all." She nodded, half to herself, and not for the first time, wondered if she really was as mad as the Emissary had made her out to be. Certainly from the fear in the servant girl's wide dark eyes, Nadda seemed to have very little doubt of that. Smiling, she bid the girl a more proper good morning, but Nadda's barely reply, uncharacteristically skimping on ceremony for the first time in her career at the palace, almost bursting as she was with her news.

"High Priestess, I have bad news, I'm afraid: it is the Emissary, he...he made an announcement this morning." Despite herself, Nadda hesitated, eyeing Zamara almost warily. The Emissary's persuasive words had been so convincing, and although she had not believed it before, the girl was now having trouble considering that all he had said was untrue - the actions of the calm, collected woman in front of her barely a moment ago were surely not the actions of a sane women.

Zamara drew herself up a little, as if bracing herself for a blow. When Nadda hesitated, she croaked softly, "What did he say?"

Nadda paused for a moment longer, but could not contain herself. "He has said you are mad and-"

"-that your execution shall be carried out as soon as you are found. Good morning Zamara, and it does seem a shame to greet a new day with such grim news." Siamak's matter-of-fact tone was at odds to Nadda's exciteable voice and Zamara turned slowly to greet him. The question of how long he had been standing there, hands calmly clasped behind his back, standing erectly by the doorway, crossed her mind non-too-briefly. She smiled haplessly, raising her eyebrows. "My...execution?" she replied carefully. "And my trial...?"

Siamak clenched his jaw and, for once, dropped his eyes so her was looking just to the side of her face, avoiding her eyes. "Why does a madwoman who runs from her caretakers with the help of demons need a trial?"

Zamara's swift intake of breath was short as a pistol shot as it cut through the silence of the room. Then she gave a small snort of laughter and shook her head, causing both prince and servant to look at her in blatant surprise. But the laughter was short lived, and Zamara's face fell once again, melancholy and resignation settling on her features as she turned away from Siamak and went towards the window, although she did not go too close for fear of being seen - although it was unlikely that anyone would look up into this quietly concealed window from the pathways below. Not half a mile from where she stood in a forgotten, disused guest bedroom, the owner of the palace paced uneasily in his own quarters, hesitating only to look out of the window, seeing the same view as Zamara herself now gazed upon. It would little have comforted either of them, fallen priestess or falling king, to know that the other was suffering the same as they themselves were - voices and visions that came not only in night but in daylight too, the premonitions and fears made semi-solid creeping out of the cracks and crannies that surrounded their dwellings in a land that could be Paradise...The shadow comes closer from across the waters...

"Does Gjeelea know?"

Behind her, Zamara heard the rustle of Siamak's clothing as he shrugged, a spontaneous movement performed even though its intended reciever was not looking at him. "I have not yet spoken to my sister; I do not know if she has yet returned to Korak's house," he replied. "But Zamara, it was made as an announcement - I regret to say that the entire city knows. And as for the elves... well, there is bad news for them as well."

Zamara's head twitched suddenly as she raised her chin defiantly against the very sunlight outside as she prepared herself. "Tell me," she commanded softly.

[Novnarwen]

After the long conversation, Pelin had fallen back to sleep again. Tarkan on the other hand, had staid up. Rather uneasily, the Priest was walking around in the room, back and forth, muttering words of both prayer and despair. He couldn’t recall ever having been so insecure about something before. The feeling of being clueless and helpless had thus far been nothing but a distant feeling that had not dared touch him. Now, he felt it penetrating his mind, disturbing his thoughts and leaving him absolutely shaking with fear. Something had to be done; he knew that much, but what it was, he was still unsure of. How could he, a simple Priest, do anything now? The Orcs were swarming around in the city; a city that was beyond recognition. It had changed too much, and unfortunately for all of them, all of the changes had been for the worse! Ever since the Emissary had arrived, everything had gone wrong. The Queen’s death, he had to admit, was probably the greatest factor to why things had changed so drastically. Even though not a personal acquaintance of hers, he knew that nothing of this would have happened is she was alive. The accusations against the High priestess, the ruining of the Temples and the replacement of both Rae and Rhais were all in an odd way connected to the Emissary and his coming to Pasthia. It was particularly difficult though, to figure out what exactly had happened to the king. Was he only showing his true self, or was the Emissary responsible for driving the King to madness as well? It was obvious that the wild creatures roaming in the streets was also an effect of the cold-blooded murder of her Highness. Oh yes, he knew. It was a murder. When speculating in who the killer had been, he was disgusted by thinking that it was probably someone the king had hired, if it was not his half-brother himself.

He bit his lip. The lack of sleep and the worries that hung over him as a dark cloud had certainly had a great affect on him. Outside the sun was finally up; its rays reaching for him through the closed windows. For a few months ago, the Priest would have departed from his apartments by now with his head held high, and in his own odd manner, he would have found great pleasure in the nice weather. Currently, however, the once so proud Priest sat only silently to himself, and sighed when remembering what had passed. How ironic everything was; a few months ago he had dreamed of the life ahead, where he would be High priest of the new Temple, but when finally being here, present in the life that long had awaited him, he longed for what already was gone.

“Did you sit up all night, Father?” It was Pelin who had awakened from his slumber. He clapped his hands together, as if eager. It was nevertheless obvious that he was dreading this day; what had Tarkan decided?

When replying, it seemed that he was at loss for words. His tongue denied him to let it out, and he felt as if swallowing what he had first intended to say. How could he, a Priest, who was supposed to be a councillor, deny Pelin the decision he was waiting for, which ultimately was the answer to their troubles?

“Pelin, my good friend,” he started at last, urging Pelin to come sit next to himself before continuing. “It is true. I sat up all night…You have been such a good friend to me, even when I condemned you and acted unreasonably toward you. You have never deserved the treatment and the hard times I have given you, and I…. I, have never deserved your friendship.. and yet, you are here… You are here, and waiting for me to make a decision… when in truth, I’m not fit for that task… I cannot do it, because I don’t know what to do.” While talking, he looked down, studying the fabrics of the carpet that covered the stone floor. He felt ashamed, but he felt that it was the only thing he could do; for once he wasn’t telling lies or covering up his own feelings, he was talking from his true self that he had hid away for so many years. The feeling was indescribable; he felt neither good nor bad… just empty. Eying Pelin out of the corner of his eye, he started again:” I must talk to the priestess, but I don’t know how to… she is an escaped convict, and thus, I cannot approach her openly ...”

It was then that Pelin spoke. With lightening eyes, he calmed the Priest. “Leave this to me. I have an idea…” Tarkan opened his mouth to speak, but said nothing as Pelin rose hurriedly and aimed for the door. “Expect me back in a few hours. I promise that the news I’ll bring will be nothing but good. ”

Hearing his friend say this, he knew that Pelin had indeed forgiven him.

Feeling the strength and the steadfastness returning, two of the qualities that seemed to have gone missing the last couple of weeks, Tarkan eyed at last hope in the heavy darkness that was suppressing Pasthia into nothingness.

[Firefoot]

Siamak smiled internally at Zamara's response. It was becoming ever clearer to him why Khamûl would want to get rid of her; she had held a position of high repute, and had the personality to match it. She was scared, perhaps, but she did not back down. He was glad indeed that she was on his side.

His mood was sobered again as he explained the elves' situation: "It was not announced in these words, of course, but they are to be displaced from their homes and set apart in a special part of the city. Ever have they been speaking out against the changes being made, the occupation of the orcs in particular, and now I suppose the idea is to get them so that they can be watched more carefully. They are telling everyone it is so that they may practice their own beliefs in peace, but..."

Zamara's reaction was subtle, but Siamak caught a slight stiffening of her figure. After her own experiences, Siamak imagined that she understood all to clearly how it was to be caged in and watched carefully. "Surely their resentment will only grow?" she answered.

"It seems that Khamûl has thought of that, as well. Morgôs and his family are to stay here at the palace, as 'guests,' for what good it will do," said Siamak. "But even so, I don't imagine they will be able to do a whole lot - otherwise things could get nasty... not that it won't anyway," he added, almost to himself. "I think we can expect their support, when the time comes." Almost he was glad for the continuing worsening of Pashtia, for though the best case scenario would be for his father to return from madness and restore the kingdom, if he made the people even more unhappy they would be more the ready for change and more supporting of the ever-more probability of Khamûl's overthrow. Siamak doubted they would need to look far for support; the problem would be the immense opposition.

"So there is some good news in this," said Zamara.

"Small though it is, yes. And also: soldiers have been commanded to scour the city for you, but not yet has anyone imagined that you might be here in the palace itself. I think you will be safe for a little while yet." This was not much reassuring, to either him or Zamara. It would only be a matter of time, and Siamak did not know if they had enough. And if time was what they lacked, he could not afford to spend much more here with Zamara, if there was nothing else to go over.

He beckoned to Nadda who had been standing by, listening. "Have word sent to General Morgôs that I would speak with him today. Do not speak with him directly; give the message to one of his pages. I would not have you associated with this business by others if it can be avoided."

She acquiesced and departed from the room. Siamak again turned to Zamara. "I have no more news, good or bad. Is there anything else that you would speak with me about before I go?"

[Novnarwen]

The walk to the Palace was a rather uneventful affair. Despite the beautiful weather, people seemed to stay hid inside. Surely, there were obvious reasons why people preferred this, but it was still a pity; it was no longer possible for the average man to enjoy the simplicity of the weather as it seemed that all things were all other than gay. Still, one man, dressed in long black robes, was out and about. Entering the courtyard of the Palace, he halted for a moment, enjoying the tranquillity of the place that had always been filled with life. It certainly felt like ages since he had last been here, when the Emissary had first arrived. The King had thrown a banquet in his honour, as a welcoming gesture. Highly ranked citizens of Pasthia had all been invited to take part to drink and eat. The religious leaders, the former High priestess Zamara and Tarkan, had been there, as well as the nobles, Korak and Arshalous Even Môrgos and his family, the elves, had enjoyed the banquet in the King's hall. He, on the other hand, had enjoyed the gathering through a window.

In the early hours of that evening, he had located the perfect spot: a window, where he could watch the ongoing feast without being seen himself. All night he had stood there, his face glued to the cold window glass and his body leaning against the hard stone wall. Pleased by the accomplishment of the night, where he had learned of the King's decision, he was about to leave himself, when someone came up from behind and surprised him. At last, he had been spotted.

"Who're you?!" The gruff voice startled him. While day dreaming, he had almost forgotten why he was here!

"No one is being let in. Go away, beggar, or..."

The man in question interrupted;" I'm no beggar, and you will let me in." His eyes lit up as he said this, and with a sign the guard recognised, he let the black-robed man pass without further questioning. Followed by his dark shadow, he hurriedly climbed the stairs and went in.

The hall was almost unrecognisable in the dark. Squinting, he got used to the lack of light, and made his way to the end of it, where a door stood ajar. He didn't hesitate about entering; he would walk around in the Palace until he found someone who could help him deliver the message from Tarkan. His footsteps echoed in the empty room as he advanced from hallway to hallway. After almost ten minutes had passed, he finally met someone.

"Can I help you?"

"Can you deliver a message to the Prince and the Princess?" The figure asked immediately.

The young woman nodded, seeming confused. "I am just about to.. to….. the General," she said. Instantly, she looked uneasy, as if having said something wrong. He chose to ignore this, and asked again. After a moment, she nodded.

"You must promise me to tell no one of this, other than the people intended of course." Not waiting for the woman to reply, he continued.” I work for, or with, Tarkan, the priest." He spoke slowly, almost whispering. He took a step closer, making sure she could hear him clearly. "We know... We know about the priestess Zamara.." By the sound of her name, the servant jumped, looking terrified. "H-h-how..?" she pressed forwards, but the man didn't listen. Instead he took her by the arm and led her around the corner. "Listen to me. Tarkan is a wise man; by the help of the Gods he can see things; things that are, as you just confirmed, true. Now, don't think any more about that. Just listen. If you don't do as I say, it might prove fatal; fatal for you, the priestess, yes, even the Kingdom itself."

Hearing these words, the woman seemed to understand that she had just been involved in something she had never intended. The man studied her, hoping that she would do as he told her. In a brief second he thought he had done the ultimate mistake trusting her with this, but hearing her sigh, he knew that he had succeeded after all. What remained was the message itself.

"The priest must see Zamara. They must meet. At what time and where, I don't know, but Tarkan has something to tell Zamara; something of great importance. Now, off with you, and tell the Prince and the Princess precisely what I have told you. They may not send word for me, I have other business to attend to, but a messenger should be sent to Tarkan's residence as quickly as possible with the appropriate time and place."

He waved her off, and was about leave, when she stopped him. "May I ask who you are?" she said.

It suddenly occurred to him that he had in fact not introduced himself, but seeing the situation he found himself in, he realised that he had been wise. Being asked now, he could nothing but smile. "I am a servant, as you are ....?"

"Nadda," she said eagerly.

He left as quickly as he had come.

[Firefoot]

Only minutes since she had left, Nadda again stepped into the room with Siamak and Zamara. "Back so soon?" asked Siamak, puzzled. There was almost no way she could have been to Morgôs and back.

"Well... I didn't actually go to the General yet," explained Nadda, hurrying on before Siamak could say anything. "I was interrupted by another servant, he did not give his name, but he had a message for you and the Princess... and you, High Priestess. He came from the High Priest. Somehow, they know... know you are here. He said it was a dream, or something. But he insisted that the priest meet with you, High Priestess. He said a message should be sent back declaring the time and place. I came back here right away, as it seemed more important than your message to the General. I hope I have not done ill?"

"You did right," answered Siamak, both troubled and puzzled by this news. "This is indeed more important; I will have to talk to Morgôs later. Forget that message for now. My sister should be alerted of this; tell her to come here. That is, if there is no more to your message?"

Immense relief was etched on Nadda's face. "No, that is all he said."

"Very well. Go quickly to Gjeelea." He turned now to Zamara. "What do you think of this news? It is disturbing, I should say. I fear a trap. Do you think you shall go? I would go with you; it would be better that you are not alone."

[Kransha]

Morgôs didn’t feel well. He rarely felt well these days, but today he felt particularly bad: the sort of bad that portends infectious disease and illness, the sort of bad that forces the stomach to tie itself up into knots, the sort of bad that induced great pangs of agony…the sort of bad that Elves were not supposed to feel. He coughed silently, clapping a fisted hand to his dry, blue-lipped mouth to stifle the already miniscule noise even more. He felt oddly self-conscious, which was also very unusual for him, but he had a good reason. Everything around him seemed as stifling as his sickly and chronic coughing, dark and barren. The usual air of strength that filled him was gracelessly dimmed, its energy sapped. His only consolation was his reasoning. At least, thought the semi-General, his motives were well based.

The King was either mad or ingenious, and both options included a sub-clause portending mental instability. Khamûl’s newest orders were most outrageous, and news of his edict was already spreading through the land. Some might accept it as a righteous course of action, but who besides his mad zealots and those he had installed in seats of power actually agreed with him anymore? The power of Pashtia’s ruler was simply too great to challenge, so no one dared to, save for straggling resistance movements. Rebellion was expected during any campaign of change or reign of an unpopular king, but the rebellion that was bandied about to rival Khamûl’s orc hordes was so motley and so feeble it could not have crushed the regime of a tyrannical gardener. Pathetic was a word that might be applicable, but Morgôs tried not to think about rebellion at all. Getting involved in such a thing, for better or worse, would be bad for him. If he ever came into contact with revolutionaries, it would probably be in battle, with his blade dealing death to them at every turn. Such an order might well come from Khamûl. In reality, any order might come from the King in this twisted state, but Morgôs didn’t care now what came. He only hoped that the King would give him some order, just so he could restore the magistrate’s faith in him.

As the General meandered down the halls of Kanak’s royal palace, he began to piece together what had happened over the past weeks. The Emissary was now, officially, allied with Pashtia, he and his mighty sovereign Annatar. At one fleeting moment in all this time, after a bizarre and painful epiphany just before the sundering of reality occurred, Morgôs had known that this was a dark pact, his terrible dream revealing the fact to him. But suddenly his mind lay clouded and he could not grasp the fact any longer. He knew, and, with grim ease, accepted the alliance as he considered it. Whatever the decision of the King was, or his opinion, he had to accept the word of Khamûl as he had the word of his father and his father’s father before him. Once, he might’ve felt a vague spirit swelling in him, one of dogged rebellion and willingness to arouse, to rise and be counted with his own words. Today, as he wandered, the icy cold of the palace marble chilling his calloused, bare feet, he felt none of this. Instead, he heard a distant voice in his mind – his own – speaking quietly; thinking hard.

His wife and son would be at the palace soon, and a suite of some fashion was being furnished for his family. He almost laughed cynically – a suite, a set of rooms, when once he had had a mansion! Arlome would not be pleased, but she would accept it. Her adjustment would be hardest. Evrathol might have an easier time of it, but not by far. Morgôs would have to send envoys to get the books in his library and bring them by the wagon-load, if the King might allow it. What if the King said no? His thoughts lay as they were whisked from his mind on the wrinkled pages of every tome; they were of dire importance to him. If the King denied him this request, could he challenge this denial?

No, he could not refute the king. Doing so would mean death, even if the king spared his mortal life. His soul would be damned without question, not by the king or the law, but by his own past foolishness. Morgôs had never been impulsive, except on one occasion, and the words he’d spoken then haunted him now, as they sometimes did. He never dwelled on the decision he’d made…he could barely remember how long ago it had been. The General had never realized before that the decision would so alter his life as it had, but, as he contemplated, he was forced to admit that the decision had, in fact, had profited far more than it had been a detriment. If he still knew what he’d known before, he would be far more alarmed by the resonance of that past choice he made, but since the memory had evaporated, he was left with only gnawing regret.

The gnaw became a voice again, but not one he was used to, even though it was familiar.

“My lord, do not do this, I beg of you.”

The voice was familiar; his own. It sounded vaguely younger, but far darker in retrospect, and full of a terrified consternation. The next voice that rang coolly in the blank darkness was young, but spoke with an archaic, ancient style of nobility and regality, like a figure of old lore or literature might. “Wouldst thou betray me, my brother?” stabbed the voice into the expanse of night, sounding mortified, “I trusted your kind; saw them through the woes done unto them by my forefathers. I liberated them. Is this my reward?” There was little real anger or rage in the voice, but a betrayed vocal tone rode it. The first voice responded pleadingly. “Your cousin’s senses fly from him, lord – he may no more be looked to for aid or counsel. He is the consul of a dark thing, a fell and dark behemoth. He deceives you with his shadowed words.” – A dark warning.

“O’er time thou hast spoke truth to me, Warlord,” reprimanded the second voice, with caustic sting in its tongue, “and I have not turned from thine advice, but today the shadows dissemble in my hall. Join them, if thou wishest, but speak not to me of such evil.” The first voice interjected readily, diving in with no thought before doing so. “By my life and yours,” the second voice exclaimed, “do this not, for if you do you shall doom us all. Know you not what they call your kinsman? ‘The Black’ is his rank, and terror is his title. Leave him to his demise and live in his stead.” This dread word forced the second voice to rattle and tremble, but it spoke with a cold, sardonic voice instead. “And what assurances have I, Warlord my brother?” said it, using a similarly archaic acknowledgement, “If my kinsman is on the path to victory, what can I glean from this? Thou hast naught to dissuade me.” The challenge was swiftly answered. “I have my service, King of Kings,” retorted the first voice after a willowy pause, “for all time.”

There was hesitation then in the second voice. “For all my children?” it questioned, “And theirs after them? Grant me this, and thou shalt have thy way.” It affirmed at last. There was no pause in the first voice. “I shall.” Spoke that voice, not eagerly, but all truthful and willing. A grin could be seen through the pale darkness on the lips of the second speaker as he continued. “Warlord Morgôs Karandûn, if thou shalt render thy services to my sons forever after, and serve the throne unbidden, then I may rest in my grave assured of the safety of my sons. But, thou must only serve the true King of Kings, and no false lord or regent but the true heir of my house. If so, I shall be at peace - my dynasty preserved by thee in battle and in peace, for I have known your service to be of infinite value. Vow, Morgôs, that thou shalt not shirk this sacred duty to me, and my cousin will make his foolhardy way across the Sea of Ice alone.”

Again, no hesitation on the part of the first voice, though the words came with a terrible strained reluctance, as if there were millennia in between each resounding syllable. “To this end,” it said, “I will bind myself to them.” The second voice quickly bore up the banner of these words. “Be warned, Warlord,” it said, “I know you to be deathless. Until the day thou art slain, your service must not end. Thou art fettered to my line and shall uphold it in the highest until it falls…And if it falls, Warlord, thou shalt fall with it.”

“Forever shall I serve you, King of Kings.”

“Very well. Word shall be sent to the west of my dissuasion.”

“Thank you, my lord. Your wisdom is as deep as your armies are strong”

“And they shall be far stronger in time, my brother, thanks to you.”

Shaking uncontrollably by now, Morgôs staggered towards the halls that allowed entrance to the King’s meeting chambers, heavily guarded in this savage time. The time for drastic action had come, if he was to keep his promise and not be condemned to some sort of dark domain after life had ended for his disloyalty.

[Amanaduial the archer]

Zamara tried to think, her mind whirring and calculating as she stared almost angrily out of the window, her arms crossed and on forefinger thoughtfully tapping out a steady rhythm on her opposite forearm: keeping her thoughts steady and calm, trying to stop herself from panicking. Maybe the news of her death sentence and it's true horror had not yet sunk in; maybe it would not until too late. Either way, the Priestess seemed calm and collected when she next replied.

"Disturbing indeed, Prince Siamak," she murmured, frowning slightly. She sighed, almost dreamily. "I do wish Nadda had got this servant's name, just for something to make it less suspicious, even if one cannot cling to anything in these times..." Turning fluidly, Zamara looked at Siamak. "What do you think, Siamak? Should we risk it?"

Siamak frowned, shaking his head as he thought. "I think there is more to this message than meets the eye, Priestess. This servant...he did not give a name, and he then delivered a brief, mysterious message to a servant directly rather than sending the message through a chamberlain as would be more proper. An altogether secretive affair. What is more, while he did not give a name of his own-"

"- he now knows Nadda's," Zamara finished, nodding, her tone regretful. "And he knows I am here as well - she is young and easily swayed, Siamak, a trait that has been useful for us but which, I have no doubt, means that this servant left in no doubt that I am indeed here." She sighed, shaking her head, almost angrily. Nadda was perfect for the tasks they needed - simply to send messages to and fro, and to bring her what she needed discreetly. But when she was directly questioned? The young servant girl had no experience to dodge the questions as an older staff member would. But who of the older servants could be trusted now? Some had served the royal family their entire life: their livelivehood and even their lives depended on that set way of thinking. But then...but then, the older servants had grown up with the old gods and worshipped them their whole lives, worshipped, brought offerings, joined in the festivals, even got married or had family members laid to rest by the Priests and Priestesses of the old gods. And the weight that this sort of legacy had could not be ignored. The Priestess smiled slightly, heartened against the odds that maybe, if the time came, some would come to her aid.

But the more specific questions were currently pressing, and the smile faded within a second from Zamara's fine features as she once more considered this strange visitor. Something here stinks...the stench of incense on a funeral pyre. The question is: whose funeral is it? She shuddered slightly, tightening her jaw, and turned back to Siamak. "Firstly, we need someone else who can help us. Another of the servants. I am aware of the risk this has," she continued, holding up a hand as the young man began to voice his concerns. "But we need someone who can be trusted to keep our secrets and get out of the palace into the city maybe, if the need comes. One of the chamberlains maybe?" A figure sprung to mind and Zamara clicked her fingers as she remembered the name an instant later. "Jarult! Was that his name? A chamerlain here, I remember seeing him when I came to speak to your mother, and at the banquet... What?"

Siamak was shaking his head. "No good. Jarult was dismissed some months ago, along with several other members of my mother's train."

"Surely not all of them?" the Priestess replied incredulously. "That old nurse, the woman who helped with Bekah's funeral proceedings, an...Alanzian." Realisation hit Zamara and she stopped, resignation streaming over her features. "She is gone as well, isn't she?"

Siamak nodded grimly. "Homay has gone as well; a rebellion against the palace some time ag..." At Zamara's alarmed face, Siamak halted, shaking his head hurriedly. "Never mind, I shall talk to you of that later maybe, now is not the time to be deviating. What do you think of the priest's supposed proposition?" Siamak's tone told Zamara of the prince's obviously dubiousness on the matter, but despite the young royal's uncertainty, she could not shake the hope that maybe, just maybe, this was something she could trust. When fear is flowing steadily through the cracks, one grabs any bucket that one can and prepares to bail like hell - sometimes regardless of what one might miss in the frenzy.

"I...I would like to meet him, Siamak."

The prince paused for a second, trying to arrange his next sentence respectfully: a strange role reversal bearing in mind he was potentially in line for the throne and she was a doomed fugitive. After a moment's diplomatic mental shuffling, he replied carefully, "Do you think that wise, Zamara?"

Zamara sighed deeply, shrugging her shoulders as she folded her arms tightly as if against a breeze, and turned back to the window, where no breeze stirred outside the window. It was quite early morning, several hours still to go until midday. Time for morning prayer, she thought, but her thoughts seemed almost detached from the reality of the silence where the singing of the priestesses and acolytes and the answering chants of Rea's priests should have wafted on the breeze to the palace on the soft spring breeze. But spring seemed not to have alighted on the city this year: the gay, gentle breeze did not stir the deadly still trees that now drooped in the Pashtian sun, and even the very birds, normally ready to come from as far as Alanzia simply to sing their harmless, cheerful tunes through the streets and courtyards seemed to have forgotten. Or been silenced.

After a silence so long that Siamak was about to prompt the Priestess for an answer, she replied, her voice like that of a school teacher. "Do you know, Siamak, of the great plague that hit Pashtia some two or three centuries ago? Nearly half the city was wiped out by it, and the arguements still rage about what caused such a terrible disaster. But whatever the cause, many cures were tried out: poultices of goats' milk and herbs, bandages of nettles, spells, prayers, chants... But do you know what it was that was found to work?" She turned her head to look straight at Siamak. "Rancid fat."

Zamara seemed to smile to herself slightly, turning back to the window as Siamak remained silent and puzzled at this bizarre, rather foul punchline. After a second, she continued, matter of fact yet thoughtful. "You see, Siamak, it seems that in times of direst trouble, it is not always beautiful and shining cures that can work - sometimes one has to try shadier and somewhat, may I saw, more dubious cures, in the hopes that maybe, just maybe...a solution just might be found."

The pair were quiet for a moment and Zamara turned fully to Siamak once more, smiling slightly at him in the silence where the birds and the bells should have echoed through the city. A moment later, Siamak grinned. "Rancid fat it is then, Priestess."

[Firefoot]

"Rancid fat it is then, Priestess." Foolhardy though it may be, Siamak was persuaded that maybe there was some hope in such a venture. "So on to the time and place, since Tarkan left to us to decide. Though it would be risky to leave the palace, I think Tarkan would probably noted were he to come. And should we be discovered, we would not be able to escape the palace."

Zamara thought for a moment, then nodded. "Then the time should be in the evening, when people are returning home from their jobs. Two or three more cloaked figures on the street would not be marked at that time."

"Then, or a little before so that we do not return overlate," agreed Siamak. They would not want to be caught on the streets after curfew; then they really would be easy targets. "But where? Someplace where you would not be sought. What of the Temple of Rhais? Surely no one would think to find us in the place from which you fled?"

"Everyone who enters the Temple of the goddess is watched. We cannot go there," said Zamara.

Slowly they exhausted several options, from down by the wharf to the less-frequented inns to an alley in the market place. All had some faults: too crowded, no way out should they be discovered, too obvious... the list went on.

"Then I have but one more idea," said Siamak, clearly hesitant on the idea. "We could go directly to Tarkan, in the guise of worshippers to the temple." He was not sure he liked it; surely such a place would be full of the Emissary's men and other supporters of the king.

"Do you think that wise?" Zamara dubiously echoed Siamak's earlier question.

"I don't know. We are sending word to Tarkan anyway; perhaps we could ask him how safe such a venture would be," answered Siamak. Is this pushing luck too far? "We can also wait until Gjeelea gets here to send any kind of message; she may have a different perspective."

"That would be well," answered Zamara.

Neither of them said anything for a moment. Siamak was thinking about what Zamara had said about needing another servant's help. Abruptly, he asked, "Weren't you helped by another servant last night?"

"Yes, a man. Raefin."

"He's older, right? More loyal to the old ways?" asked Siamak.

Zamara seemed to realize what he was driving at. "Yes; I think we could rely on his help. He already knows I am here, so we need not risk telling more people."

"That's what I was thinking," Siamak said. "Once Nadda gets back, we can have her go find him."

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Khamûl listened to the creature’s report intently. “The filthy Elves have all been rounded up and sent to their new homes,” it was saying. “There were some as wanted to protest their treatment but we stopped their mouths.”

“Surely you did not kill them?” the King was startled.

The orc shifted his eyes uneasily toward the Emissary who stood in his customary place behind the King’s shoulder. Watching the dark Man, the orc replied slowly as though reciting a speech that had been written for him. “There were some, majesty, who showed us violence as we escorted them. While every attempt was made to apprehend them, some gave us no choice and we were forced to slay them.” The creature’s voice as it said this speech was oddly strangled, but at its conclusion the beast let out a great sigh and shifted his eyes from Ashnaz’s, relieved at his release. “We got them all there in the end, at any rate,” it continued in its normal tone and manner.

“Good,” the King replied. “It is lamentable that some chose destruction rather than accept our protection. I wonder why they would make such a choice? Elves have ever been a mystery to me.…” He trailed off into silence. The quiet went on, filling up the corners of the Great Hall, now greatly changed from before. The banners had been torn and beslobbered with the filth of the orcs, and the cushions had been removed from the dais. Upon the high stone there now sat an iron throne, and if any but the orcs and the Emissary were allowed into the court it would have caused all Pashtians great confusion, none of whom were used to chairs or furniture other than a low divan or pallet. The King slumped in the throne, made rather smaller by its size. He wore the Ring now openly upon the chain at his breast and his hand clutched at it unceasingly. He wore his ceremonial crown of gold despite the weight of that massy metal.

Finally, he waved his hands and dismissed the orcs, who dragged themselves from the room grumbling and spitting in their debased tongue. When they were gone, Khamûl spoke to his friend without turning around, so that his eyes gazed off into space. “I would speak with my general. I must find some way to stop these ridiculous rebellions.”

“I would advise against that, Majesty,” the Emissary replied softly. “The reports of him are increasingly alarming. He has grown violent and insular. Some say that he is mad.”

Khamûl felt the wisdom of his friend’s words, and was about to turn away from the idea, but then there came a touch upon his neck, cold fingers that brushed him gently but insistently. His hands moved to his flesh, “What?” he spoke aloud, and the Emissary stiffened and looked at the air about the King’s head as though gazing at an enemy.

“Come my King,” he said quickly, taking Khamûl by the shoulders, “let us take a turn about the garden.”

But the touch of the fingers at his throat grew tight and the King was forced to remain where he was. There was a tickling at his ear as though someone were whispering to him, but there were no words. Instead he only felt as clearly as though she were there with him the presence of his wife. “Bekah!” he said, and at the word the Emissary drew in a quick breath that hissed between his teeth like a serpent. Drawn by the sound, the King turned about quickly and saw a look in his friend’s face that he had never seen before. It was like a black mask of hate and malice, gazing into the space about the King’s head, and his hands were raised like claws. Ashnaz was muttering something beneath his breath in a tongue of the West, and Khamûl felt the power of the words crackle about him. There was a pressure then, against his chest, and he knew that his friend was seeking to banish the shade of his wife.

He was caught in that moment more painfully than a small animal in a trap. He did not know whom he wanted to prevail in this contest, for while Ashnas was his one true friend and ally, surely his wife would not have come back to him for no purpose. Perhaps she had come to tell him who had killed her? At the thought he felt the grip of her fingers tighten upon his throat and he gasped for air. Ashnaz’s face grew wild with rage and he thrust his hands outward, violently buffeting the air, and the presence of Bekah fled. But as it did so, it managed one word for the ears of the King. Morgôs

The King fell back into the weight of his throne and Ashnaz was instantly there. “Are you well, my friend? She is a powerful spirit and it took much of my strength but you are safe now. Did she – say anything to you?”

Khamûl was at the very point of answering his friend, and whether it was the remaining influence of the visitation or some small part of his former self that had been fanned into new life by it – or perhaps some combination of them both – something bid him withhold the truth from the Emissary. “No,” he replied. “She tried, but thanks to you she was not able.” He placed his hand upon his friend’s shoulder.

The King rose from the throne and walked down the dais, waving his friend away with one hand. “No no,” he said, “You need not come with me, I am fine. I just need to lie down for a time. I need you to look into the search for the priestess, it is taking far too long to find her.” Ashnaz paused momentarily, but then bowed and left the chamber.

The King waited until his friend was gone, and then went looking for his General.

[Nurumaiel]

Lady Hababa lay in her room, her hands fidgeting restlessly with the bed-covers and her face troubled. It was awful to be always in her room, unable to get up and move about. She knew that things were ill with the world outside, but she could not know what was happening unless Korak told her. She had no way to prepare for disaster, or to try to stop it. She would not see it until it had already fallen.

She feared much for her son. Arshalous, his own cousin, hated him. If his own cousin hated him, surely there were countless others. And these were days where murder would seem such a little thing. Even Gjeelea...

Hababa was so fond of Gjeelea. She had to care for her simply because she was her son's wife; but she also loved her for herself. But she could not deny that Gjeelea detested Korak. She had married him so she would have a husband. But she cared nothing for him. There were so many, from so many different places... how many enemies there were!

"I would not care if they killed me," she said aloud, but in a murmur. "I almost wish they would. But I could not bear for them to kill my son! I cannot believe it would be better if he were dead."

She was weary. She lay her head back with a little sigh and closed her eyes.

[Bêthberry]

All of Pashtia, all of the Royal City, reeled under the terrible conditions brought to the people by the horrid alliance with the Emissary and his dark lord while the nobles and the wealthy dallied with how to meet the situation and save their skin. They fiddled while Pashia burned.

The war with Alanzia had done much to destroy the wealth of the farmlands, most of which lay in decay without proper planting and strewn with the detritus of war, blades, axes, poleyards, broken wagons, rotting corpses, dead horses. So great was the horror of death and the stench that even the well springs of the water were turned foul and harboured unseen the founts of disease and pestilence, which weakened and brought down vast numbers of people.

Then the orcs did their worst, butchering citizens and elves indiscriminantly, terrorising the populace with their blood thirsty slaughter and cruel bullying, destroying hope wherever it might raise its head. Jarult would have died a slow wasting death of despair, forgotten in his small corner of a room, mummified in the dry heat, had he not had Daliyah to cheer his spirits and keep up his strength despite his physical decline. And she, she would have been unable to bear the indignities and repulsive events she was called upon to fulfil had she not been able to speak with him from time to time.

Yes, the Healer had been recognized by the invading hoard. When orcs had been wounded in skirmish, in putting down rebellion, in forcing themselves upon the populace, she had been called in to minister to their hurts. Such care was loathsome to her. To be in the same room with them brought vile odours to her nose; to be brought into close proximity with their stinking bodies nearly made her faint with revulsion. And to touch them was the vilest form of desecration known to her art. Yet somehow Daliyah found the strength of character to control the turmoil in her stomach which would have rebelled and spoken unwillingly of her disgust, spewing its contents over the orcs as they spread their filth among her people. And she willed her hands to hold steady as they sutured wounds and cleansed the pustulence which she was sure flowed through the orcish veins. And her face she held rigid as a stone mask carved on the new temple to the usurping god, not risking a quiver of nostril nor a quirk of muscle nor a blanch of horrified countenance.

Was she a traitor? Each time she was called upon to heal an orc’s hurts she shuddered inside, asking herself that question. Was she simply saving a cruel beast to go out and perform greater harms upon her people? Yet if she had refused, and been despoiled and beaten and tortured cruelly to the death , would her people have benefited? Would others have stepped into her absence and healed her people? It was this possibility which hardened her spirit into a morose stone automaton so she was able to go forth again and again amongst her people. In fact, Daliyeh won a small victory of sorts, for by her ministrations amongst the orcs and the Emissary’s army she became known and accepted to the invaders. Soon, her venturing forth on the streets and alleys and byways became invisible to them and her ways were no longer scrutinized as were those of the ordinary citizen. From being first an object of ridicule and derision, she became a sort of ghost, walking forth where others could not and no longer noticed. And so she reached more of her people and so she passed beyond the ken of the evil which sullied her land.

This day she came to the house of Korak to see his ailing mother the Lady Hababa, for servants had sent whispered words that the old lady was tired and ill and needed solace and herbs to ease her pain. Daliyeh brought with her oils to soothe the paper-thin flesh, flavoured liquids to coat the dry mouth and cracked lips, herbs to strengthen faith and bitter berries pounded with honey to sweeten pain. If she found any of the wasting fever, she would be forced to require the ancient Lady to withdraw to the Hospice where the chance of spread of disease would be lessened. Few followed her into the Hospice for there those with the Black Fever spent their final days, their tongues rolling out of their mouths in delirium, their eyes rolling back into their heads, and their skin bursting with pustules and black splotches. No one followed Daliyeh as she brought those patients to their final bed of rest. Would Hababa be one of those, Dalieyeh wondered? She hoped not, for she remembered the old woman fondly and bore some friendship for her.