[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.”