Shadow of the West

[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.