Shadow of the West

[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..."