[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.