[Firefoot]

Siamak was quiet for a moment after hearing Zamara’s account. As amazing as her story was, it was her manner that intrigued him more. It was as if that joy that he could only feel in a small part of his mind was present in full measure in Zamara. Indeed, the whole city felt full of it. He wondered tiredly how it was that he felt mostly mournful while the whole rest of the city rejoiced. He pushed the thought from his mind momentarily.

“Then General Morgôs… he lives?” Siamak inquired, and feeling some ray of hopeful joy at this thought.

For the first time, a flicker of a shadow passed over Zamara’s features. “I do not know; I have not seen him since the initial charge.” The light returned to her eyes. “I am sure he live somewhere in this city, though. He is an able leader and a skilled swordsman – and of the Avari, besides.”

Siamak nodded, not voicing his retort: It takes but one arrow – or sword-stroke – to slay the mightiest of warriors.

By this time, the pair had reached the temple and Siamak could see definite signs of a struggle. A handful of soldiers was gathered around, with most of their attention directed at a single form – the Lady Arshalous.

“What happened here?” asked Siamak.

“We are unsure,” said one of the soldiers, bowing slightly. “She burns with a fever like we have never seen before, though we can see no cause for it. The only mark on her is the burn on her neck. There are some who report that the Lord Korak and High Priest-” the soldier hesitated, clearly unsure of the proper title, before continuing, “-Tarkan had been held here as well. They are gone, now; presumably they escaped in the confusion of the battle. We think that they were to be executed,” he added with a nod towards the gallows.

Siamak’s brow creased. Tarkan was to be executed? Had he not led them into a trap? But if Tarkan lived still… perhaps he would find out. Perhaps not. Now Arshalous demanded attention. “Take the Lady Arshalous up the palace to be cared for. Send also for the healer Daliyeh.” And he gave instructions on where to find the old healer. “The old chamberlain, Jarult, is also welcome back at the palace.” If the soldier was confused by any of this, he did not mention it but accepted the orders with grace.

“Well,” commented Siamak, “now we know somewhat of Tarkan’s fate – it seems the only important thing left to find out is what happened to Gjeelea.”

“And it seems that shall not be unknown for long; look!” Siamak turned to where Zamara was facing and felt his own face pale at the sight. Some soldiers carried a makeshift stretcher, and even at that distance Siamak felt no doubt that the still form upon it was his sister. In the same instant he and Zamara hurried off in that direction; Siamak prayed they were not too late. He went straight up to the closest soldier, asking, “Is Gjeelea all right? Is she living?”

The soldier had sorrow in his eyes. “She lives, yes; the wound on her is fresh. But I have seen enough wounds to know when one is fatal. The princess will not live long.”

“For Rhais’ sake, then, let me see my sister!” said Siamak. Surely this was not true…

The soldiers did not dare argue and lowered the stretcher gently to the ground. Gjeelea’s eyes flickered open and she smiled slightly. “Ah, Siamak… Khamul’s gone, isn’t he.” She seemed to be having difficulty breathing.

Siamak nodded. “Yes… he – and the Emissary, and the Orcs – all fled at dawn. They’re gone.” Gjeelea smiled, but there was sorrow on her face as well. For the second time in as many days – as many years, even – Siamak found understanding with his sister.

“I heard… the sounds of the battle… and I knew that it was you… and Zamara,” she added looking to the Priestess. “I knew that you would do it… I tried to come…” Gjeelea’s breathing had become more ragged and her eyes now drifted shut. As much as he wanted to deny it, he knew that his sister was dying. So much death…

Abruptly, she spoke again. “You’ll be king, of course… Farewell, brother dear... Priestess…” And Siamak smiled a little, hearing the nickname she had always before used in scorn now used in affection. Then the message registered with him: you’ll be king, of course. He wondered that he had not thought of it before, and then turned his attention back to his sister. Her eyes shut again as her chest rose and fell, then rose no more. Siamak knew she was gone. Farewell, dear sister. Alas that they had not resolved their differences sooner, that it had taken a war to bring them together. He sighed, supposing that late was better than never.

Siamak rose from his kneeling position and addressed the soldiers. “Have her body taken up to the palace, that the necessary preparations might be made.” It seemed to him that he heard someone else talk, for the steady voice certainly did not match his turbulent state of mind. He gave the soldiers no more mind as his thoughts drifted. Was this the price of war? The price of peace? Or were they one and the same? Maybe it did not matter, for much good had happened as well – ultimately, more good than evil, for the evil had been banished. And through his sorrow, Siamak felt that flicker of joy grow stronger, for the evil and its sorrow would remain in the past, becoming only distant memory, while joy – and life – went on.