Shadow of the West

[Bêthberry]

"And to you, dear brother."

Gjeela not lost the art of sarcasm with her newly-granted responsibilities, that much was sure. Bekah had always marvelled how her daughter was so much more verbally sharp than her son. Her children were of equal intelligence, but such different personalities! Gjeela had always been fidgity, active, sometime flighty as her attention had been drawn from one stimulating object or idea to another. Siamak had been the reserved one, sitting calmly for long periods of time and quietly observing things. Bekah had soon learnt he was not passive, for he would always later ask questions about events and things he had seen.

"Gjeela, it is time for you--and Siamak--to leave behind your private feelings for each other and assume your royal duties."

"Mother, why do you assume I have not already?"

"Because," replied Bekah, not without some sense of irony, " I know how dear your brother is to you. In all the forms of courtly and public courtesies, where civillity and politeness are essential, you must be careful never to make a statement that is an outright lie."

"Courtiers do that all the time. And don't you, Mother?"

"Gjeela, are you going to pick a fight?" interjected Siamak.

"Of course not, dear brother. You are the better one at that than I."

"Gjeela, it is true that I often hold back my personal feelings, but that is because there are often times when my personal feelings are not what is required for the good of Pashtia. You and your brother are beginning your first public steps into the dilemma of royalty. In your person you are the country, and you must learn to speak for the country and not yourself."

"Is this why you called us here, Mother?" spoke Siamak, anxious to try to smooth things over.

"Indeed, it is, my son. Come, let us find a place where we can sit comfortably and talk. Homay, please see to the arrangment for this afternoon's affairs." With thoss words, Bekah guided her children into her private room, where a low table had been prepared with fresh fruits and water. It was close enough to her window to look out upon the city beyond the palace, but no so close that their words could be heard from the balcony. The very wind, Bekah knew, had ears to carry their conversation. Not that what she had to say was conspiratorial, but that she simply wished privacy for her children.

"So will you tell us to accept this alliance?" Gjeela asked.

"No, my daughter. I will not tell you what decision to make."

"So why are we here?"

"Impatient one! Listen and reflect and make that conclusion yourself when we are done."

Siamak would have interjected had Bekah not given him a warning glance. She did not favour him, but it is true that she more often found herself embroiled in arguments with her daughter.

"I wish to hear you discuss how you might go about making this decision, what kinds of points you might consider, who you might consult."

"I am already consulting with General Morgôs," replied Siamak, "and in fact,..."

"Find, that is good to know," quickly replied Bekah. "But I want you first to think about some of the history you have learned. Your father was always unhappy that I taught you so much of Alanzia's history. He assumed I was making you too friendly to his former enemy, but he misunderstood my purpose."

"And what was your purpose, Mother?" Gjeela asked.

"I wanted you to know how another culture thought, what its true values were, where those valuse differed from what sometimes the people think they are. I wanted you to understand that when dealing with other countries and cultures you must not assume they are like yours and will react as you do."

"Why was this important?" Siamak asked. "Couldn't you simply have told us what Alanzia was like?"

"Yes, but then that would deny you the opportunity to make your own reflections."

"Do you miss Alanzia, Mother?" asked Gjeela, suddenly.

"I did, much at first, but one important factor finally made me understand something very important about my new land."

The two children looked at her and at each other. Bekah remained silent.

"You won't tell us?" inquired Siamak. She shook her head. "Tell me what you remember about Alanzia."

"It is a strongly centrally controlled government, with all authority held closely by the King," he replied.

"The Avari are under pain of death if they enter it. Justice is swift."

"Indeed. Can you imagine what would have happened had I been a Pashtian princess sent to become a Queen of Alanzia?"

"You would have been mistrusted."

"Worse."

"Worse, Mother?" asked Gjeela.

"Worse, my daughter."

"You would have been removed once your usefulness was over, once you had born children, or the country decided you were no longer a guarantor of peace?" deicded Siamak.

"Yes. You understood your history lessons well. I wish your father could know this."

"And so what are you telling us, Mother?" Gjeela inquired, impatient that Siamak had made a deduction she had not seen.

"I am suggesting you think very hard about what the values are of your country, and learn as much as you can of the Emissary's land and purpose. Tell me, now, What do you understand about alliances between countries?"

Bekah leaned back into the cushions, chewing thoughtfully on some grapes while she waited for her two children to reply. Was she helping them grow to a royal role? She hoped she was.

[Amanaduial the archer]

Zamara, her hands held up crossed at the wrists in front of her as she prayed silently, heard the doors of the temple open and someone enter. The massive doors may have been well-oiled, but they were nonetheless heavy, and the High Priestess knew the temple well enough to detect every noise of movement inside it. And as for the newcomer, well, she knew instantly who that was as well - none could tread the stone floor quite so silently as one.

Finishing her prayer, Zamara bowed her head for a second, then unfolded herself from her kneeling position, rising smoothly to face the statue. She leant forward and flicked a small bell between the goddess's feet with her long nails and it chimed clearly throughout the temple. "Good morning, Arlome," she said, without turning around.

There was a pause. Zamara turned around and smiled at the elf, kneeling at the bottom of the steps to the statue, and Arlome returned it, still looking slightly mystified, but strangely satisfied as well, as if she was pleased that the High Priestess had known it was her. Zamara approached her and laid her hands on the elf's head, apparently confidently, and murmured a blessing on her. As she did so she seemed to get a strange shock off the elf, as if her touch was charged, and she almost jerked back in surprise, her fingers tingling, but forced herself not to, keeping her hands still and steady as she blessed Arlome. When she was finished, she offered her hand to the elf and helped her to rise. "Good morning, High Priestess."

"Arlome. You did not come this morning to the service?" It was a friendly inquiry rather than a reprimand. "Were your duties to the Queen more longsome because of the Emissary?"

A cloud passed across Arlome's face and she seemed about to speak before her flecked eyes flickered fleetingly around the dimly lit shadows behind the pools of light in the temple. Zamara shook her head, but for some reason lowered her voice anyway. "There is no one here, except Tayfar and myself. Come, I would speak with you..."

"Tayfar...." Arlome nodded slowly as they began to walk, taking one of the side corridors out towards a small courtyard: she recognised the name. The elf had a greater understanding of the temple than Zamara had thought, as her next question showed. "You intend to train her as a Priestess, don't you?"

Zamara looked across, surprised, at the elf, her eyes wide, startled.

In the temple of Rhais, there was the High Priestess, of course, and then five younger priestesses of approximately the same rank. One of these would be more closely related with the High Priestess, and was often previously an acolyte. And when the time came for the title to be passed on, it was by the High Priestess and her prime priestess that she was chosen. Indeed, if young enough, the position sometimes fell to the prime priestess, so favoured was the position. Zamara blinked a few time, still surprised at Arlome's perceptiveness. "I had thought of...well, she is young still, she had not yet seen thirteen summers, it is maybe too soon to be thinking about-"

She stopped suddenly as brisk, light footsteps approached along the stone corridor, and Tayfar herself appeared, her simple, light robes gleaming slightly in the bright sun of the courtyard. She bowed her head to Zamara and gave Arlome a respectful, slightly scared smile - she was in awe of the graceful elven woman who worked with the Queen. Zamara requested that she bring them some tea and fruit - she did not eat before the morning service and had been finishing off at the temple in the hour or so since it had ended, and suspected that Arlome had not eaten either. As Tayfar scurried off to comply, Zamara took a seat with the elf and gave her a small, curious smile as she said...

~*~

"How is it that you would guess that, Arlome? Why not Sedaar? I believe she is the one who some have guessed me to linger over for the fifth priestess."

The High Priestess's graceful voice was tinged with an edge of curiousity that, along with the mention of a familiar name, made Tayfar stop, melting into the shadow. She was naturally curious - it came normally to a girl living in a close community like the temple. The immortal who the Priestess sat with gave a short laugh that sent a shiver of delight down Tayfar's spine. "I have nothing against Sedaar. But she is not the one you rely on the most, who prepares you for feasts; the one you have spent the most time on and tutored yourself..."

"I understand, fair enough." There was the sound of a smile in Zamara's voice. Maybe...maybe I am caught here, but I will say nothing definite. I can trust you, I know. But ...well, she is still young, as I said, not yet thirteen summers - it is maybe too soon to be thinking about such things."

They are talking about me! Tayfar did a little skip-jump dance in the corridor, grinning madly. The sudden revelation, almost too good to be true, surely, for an orphan from a poor family, caused such fireworks to go off in Tayfar's stomach that she almost missed the elf's next words.

"Too soon? Priestess, everything is too soon if you are to look at it that way - your lifetimes pass 'so soon' for myself. I have seen many High Priestesses - and indeed a few High Priests - go past, but you have shown an unusual understanding of...well. I trust you will make the right choice."

"You would choose Tayfar yourself! And talking of which, have you eaten yet?" Tayfar started suddenly, remembering her bidding to fetch breakfast and she bolted silently away, a skip in her undignified half-run as the voices of two women faded to a hum behind her.

~*~

Unaware of her eavesdropping protege, Zamara continued. "And talking of choices..." she paused, her eyes flicking away from, then back to Arlome's. "I trust you are as worried as I about this Emissary?"

"You are worried also?" Arlome nodded, apparently slightly comforted by the thought. Zamara tilted her head onto one side, hesitating. It is the choices Faroz has given to his children that worries me the most...and the implications of a male-dominated alliance to Rhais. She sat back in her chair and looked out over the pleasant courtyard in front of them. "Tell me, Arlome: what do you think? And your husband? Has he said anything of immortals, of his lord's knowledge of elves?"

[Imladris]

"I hope with all my heart that my son does not become King! He grows more corrupt and power-hungry each day, and if the power is given to him I fear there shall be no hope for him, and I have so longed for him to become again the gentle boy he was as a child, who loved freely. At least I hope he will not have the opportunity to inflict the actions of his faults upon the people. He has pained me enough already without extending harm to others."

Arshalous blinked in surprise at her aunt's outburst. So many mothers were blinded wth love for their sons, yet Lady Hababa wasn't. "And that is why I don't like him," said Arshalous softly, as she kissed her aunt's cheek.

Lady Hababa just stared sadly at her niece. Arshalous bit her lip...but it was the truth. How could her aunt wish for her to make amends with her little power hungry mongrel of a cousin? The thought was absurd, ridiculous even.

Arshalous kneeled beside her aunt's bed, and whispered in her ear, "My Lady Aunt...I swear to you that I will do my utmost to keep Korak from the throne. I am powerful, I have lands, and soldiers that will march at the snap of my fingers." She could feel her aunt's mouth open in protest, but she layed her finger over her lips and murmured, "I know that that is not what you wish, but I would rather be enemies with Korak forever than have him upon the throne rather than the Prince."

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

The King scowled darkly at the air of his chambers as he thought of his soon-to-be son-in-law. The prospect of a meeting with Korak was never a pleasant one, but distasteful a duty as it might be, a duty it remained. No other noble had the money and the position to support the construction of a new High Temple, and more importantly, if he were to become King some day, he would need to gain at least some sense of how to deal with matters more important that selecting the finest silk for a new robe. Not for the first time, Faroz hoped that some misfortune would befall the man. And not for the first time his mind flitted to the idea that as King, he could see to it that some misfortune would seek him out. But he dared risk nothing against Korak, not even something secretive and dark…not yet. He was a fool, but a cunning fool. And in matters such as these, cunning and bravery could match wit and power – for a time.

He toyed with the idea of consulting Ashnaz on the matter of Korak, but rejected the idea. Some secrets were not for anyone to know, no matter how dear a friend. But at the thought of Ashnaz, Faroz remembered the Ring. With a flash a new idea occurred to him. A slow smile marred his features, and had his wife been there, she would have known that the King was contemplating something cool and terrible.

~*~*~*~

Jarult went first to the home of the Lord Korak with the idea of summoning him and sending on one of the servants there to bring the Lady Arshalous, whom he disliked with the intensity reserved for an unreasoning disapproval. So it was with no small measure of distasteful surprise that he was ushered into the presence of the Lady Arshalous and the old madwoman Hababa. He stood in the doorway, trying to look important, despite the fact that he had been sent as a messenger – a task that he felt to be far beneath the dignity of the Chamberlain. He tried to assuage himself with the reminder that his King considered this meeting to be of the utmost importance.

“Jarult!” the old woman said happily, obviously remembering the days – long past – when they had been on good terms in the court of the former King. She had been there much in those days, and he had cultivated her good opinion. Indeed, it had been one of the factors that had seen him successfully elevated to his present role. But his feelings toward her had always been self-serving rather than warm. A consummate courtier, he had always been able to fool her of the contrary.

The Lady Hababa rose and came to him, with the Lady Arshalous immediately behind. “What brings you to see me?” she asked. “Why, first Arshalous and now you, I am becoming popular.”

“I am sorry, lady, but I am not here for pleasure. My King has sent me to bid your son and, as it happens, the Lady Arshalous to attend upon him in his apartments this morning. He has a matter of some importance that he needs to discuss with them both.”

“What matter could that be?” the Lady Arshalous asked, looking faintly alarmed.

“I do not presume to speak for the King, my Lady,” the Chamberlain replied coolly.

“Of course,” the Lady replied, flushing. “I will come immediately, of course, but my cousin is gone this morning for a ride.” The Chamberlain frowned at this, as though at the rebellious behaviour of a miscreant servant.

“That is no problem,” the Lady Hababa put in. “I shall send Morashk to seek him out. My son is not very imaginative and always rides along the same route. He will soon be found. In the meantime, I will attend upon the King in his place.” And she smiled beatifically as though she had solved an intricate problem with great subtlety.

[Nurumaiel]

Lady Hababa momentarily forgot Arshalous' words, and she sent immediately for Morashk. The pale servant entered, and as he looked spitefully from Arshalous to the King's messenger, the mother realised with a pang that it was not only her family that was torn apart, but the entire household. Her son hated his cousin and was disgusted by all besides himself, and the chief servant of the house, too, hated Lady Arshalous, as also he hated this friend of the family and servant of the King.

She dispatched Morashk to find her son, and, recalling how her conversation with her niece had ended, murmured quickly in the latter's ear: "Arshalous, I pray you: whatever you do, use no means of war to keep my son from the throne. I love him still, despite his many faults, and civil war would not resolve any problems, but only bring further pain, and extend our troubles to the people." And then she moved to follow Jarult from the room.

Morashk sulked as he saddled his horse, wondering what the King needed with their family, and why he had not been invited to go, as well. He felt some worry that his master would be at a loss for words without any assistance, and with his wicked cousin saying spiteful things towards him, which would more than likely confuse him. Morashk leapt astride his horse and gave him a rather sharp kick, as a way to release his anger.

He did not have to ride far to find his master, for the Lord Korak was returning from his ride, not wanting to leave his mother too long alone, though he would not have admitted it. She was apt to grow lonely without company. His Lordship's face darkened when he heard of the request for his presence. He said nothing, but merely turned his steed in the direction of the Palace, ordering Morashk to return to the house and prepare some good wine. Then he moved his horse onward to the Palace.

Morashk turned to obey his master's orders, and under his breath he cursed the Lady Arshalous and the King Faroz.

[alaklondewen]

"Tell me, Arlomë: what do you think? And your husband? Has he said anything of immortals, of his lord's knowledge of elves?"

Arlomë pulled her eyes from the peaceful courtyard and turned them to meet Zamara’s. The memories of the night before, the strange chill, the words about the darkness and the Elves of the Emissary’s land, all flooded her mind, yet she did not speak at once. The High Priestess could see the tightness in the Elf’s eyes and the trouble that lay behind them.

“You hesitate to tell me your thoughts,” Zamara observed. “What is troubling you, Arlomë?”

“To be honest, Zamara, I am not sure.” Arlomë paused and looked at her hands. “I do not trust this Emissary.” The Elf quickly surveyed the garden, and then looked back to the High Priestess. Zamara met her gaze with furrowed brows, and silently nodded for Arlomë to continue. “I cannot say why, but when I met him...this strange...uneasiness came over me.” A look of surprise flickered in Zamara’s eyes, but she said nothing. “Maybe I am making too much of this.” Arlomë shook her head as though dismissing her confession. “In fact, I should not have said anything.”

Zamara opened her mouth to speak, but the young Tayfar entered at this moment. The young girl nervously lowered her head and presented the Elf and High Priestess with a small round tray made of a glossy clay. A fine, intricate design was carved into its center. It appeared chaotic at first, but then it became noticeable that the lines had the same source, and they grew into the earth like the great roots of a tree. Arlomë wondered at how the tray so delicately portrayed how Rhais fed all life. Zamara’s hand passed over the tray as she reached for her cup, and Arlomë was brought from her thoughts. As she looked up, the young Tayfar’s steps could be heard walking along the stone path toward the temple, and the Elf took her own cup and sipped the warm tea, smiling over the edge at the High Priestess, hoping Zamara had forgotten the confession she had made before the girl’s arrival.

[Imladris]

Arshalous felt her insides grow numb as she rode beside her aunt. What did the King want with her? As one of the most reclusive of the nobility, she had rarely been summoned. Why now?

She remembered Lady Hababa's words concerning civil war...the thought was disconcerting and certainly had not crossed her mind. Though civil war was not desirable in the least, Arshalous wondered if it would really actually happen. Korak was a fool...and she deemed him a coward in some respects and he probably would shy away from a war as an untrained horse shys away from the clash of swords against shields.

But deeming that he was pig headed enough to go to war over it...wouldn't it be better to have the war over quickly than having Korak's folly sow seeds of quarrles that would bloom forth in civil war, or even war with a foreign country? She scratched her head and put away such thoughts. The present was yet pleasant and there was no need to trouble about thoughts of war until such time as was necessary.

However, she could not stop thinking about Korak. His mother remembered with fondness when he was a loving lad. Arshalous herself wondered what had happened to that lad -- he had probably shrivelled up and died. She remembered vaguely when he had pulled her hair and had broken her favourite ring when she was young...it had been the day his father had died. She remembered that day very vaguely. She remembered that he had been sad...and that she had been trying to cheer her up...she wondered if teasing counted as cheering up. It wasn't her fault that Korak was fun to tease, she thought resentfully...And then his anger had exploded like new wine in an old skin...and he had hurt her. It was only later that she had found out about her uncle's death...had she apologized? She didn't remember.

[Firefoot]

“Usually when two countries have an alliance, they agree to support each other in war, and protect each other’s interests. They are usually trading partners,” answered Siamak. “Which is why the Emissary’s proposal of alliance seems to make little sense - the distance between the two countries are so great that none of these things are practical.” His calm expression belied his inner confusion over the issue. Gjeelea appeared to pass over this issue as trivial, though it could be she simply did not want to acknowledge the point. Siamak could never really tell with her.

“So, why else might the foreign lord look for alliance?” prompted his mother. It was a fairly familiar pattern, for this was the way his mother had always taught them: not giving them direct answers, but making them think for themselves. The situation now was rather altered than in the past, since she was not teaching them per se, but the queen’s manner was the same.

As this was the same question that had been stumping Siamak for the past day, and so he let Gjeelea answer. She was fairly forthcoming, saying, “Yesterday the Emissary said that a country can never have too many allies.”

“But why so far away?” countered Siamak softly. “Would not most rulers look to their neighboring countries first? And if he already has his the alliance of those countries nearer by, why does he want our alliance?” Though he was sharing his doubts, Siamak was careful not to show his opinions one way or the other, mostly because he wanted to get a better feel for his sister’s inclinations first.

Gjeelea seemed not to have an answer (For once, thought Siamak), but his mother encouraged them on, shifting the discussion slightly. “So why might we want an alliance with them?” This gave Siamak pause, and he realized that this was probably the better question to consider while deciding whether to accept. Certainly, it was food for thought, but right now he did not have a clear answer - he would keep it in mind while meeting with the Emissary later on.

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

Gjeelea held back a sigh, and wondered why her mother had summoned her and Siamak to this questioning. The princess wondered why Bekah felt like making certain that her children remembered her lessons before speaking to the Emissary. Siamak asked questions, but none of them prompted the discussion further. Gjeelea squinted at his lack of opinion, or distaste for showing whatever opinion he might have.

"You do not ask the right question, mother," Gjeelea murmured, avoiding her brother's gaze but meeting Bekah's glance straight on. "What bothers me is what might happen if we were to refuse such an alliance. We know very little about his country, now that I think of it. What kind of impact might a refusal to the Emissary have on Pashtia? I highly doubt that the Emissary would travel all this way if he thought that our trust could not be won - or should not be won."

For a moment, none of the family members spoke. Gjeelea did not want to speak again, leaving her question unanswered. Yet, she hoped Bekah did not speak next, knowing it would only be another question that did not solve anything. Instead the princess looked to her brother.

"What are you saying, then?" Siamak asked, breaking the long, awkward silence. He stroked his miniscule beard in a thoughtful manner, and his eyes never met Gjeelea's as he spoke. "Do you mean to say that the Emissary is humouring us while we debate over trust that he knows we will give?"

"It is a possibility," Gjeelea shrugged as she cocked one eyebrow at her brother. His own brows furrowed at his sister's retort and nestled deeper into his seat. "I do not think either of us are in such a good position that we can rule out any possibilities, Siamak..." Gjeelea's voice trailed off as she remembered something that Siamak had said earlier.

...If he already has his the alliance of those countries nearer by, why does he want our alliance?

"Something is happening that we do not know of," the princess whispered, her voice so light and airy that even she could barely hear it. Siamak and the Queen must have heard the whistle on the wind, for they both looked to Gjeelea with a question in their eyes. Still the princess mused to herself. "Something big."

"What did you say?" Siamak prompted politely. Gjeelea blinked, snapping out of her thoughts for a moment, then smirked at her brother.

"Oh, nothing, Siamak my dear," Gjeelea replied loftily, returning to her regal, impatient manner. "Just thinking to myself. Now, where were we? Do you have another question for us to answer, mother?" Gjeelea waited for one of her companions to speak.

Something is happening to the west that we know nothing of...

Was this something Gjeelea would want to share with her sibling? She wondered this over and over as she revived the conversation in her mind. It certainly was not a huge discovery, just a tidbit that Gjeelea thought rather interesting and curious. Something to bring up with the Emissary this afternoon? Gjeelea mused, a light smile playing on her lips.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Because the Person I love lives
Inside of you,

I lean as close to your body with my words
As I can –

And I think of you all the time, dear pilgrim.

Because the One I love goes with you
Wherever you go,
Faroz will always be near.

If you sat before me, wayfarer,
With your aura bright from your many
Charms,

My lips could resist rushing to you and needing
To befriend your blushed cheek,

But my eyes can no longer hide
The wondrous fact of who
You Really are.

The Beautiful One whom I adore
Has pitched His royal tent inside of you,

So I will always lean my heart
As close to your soul
As I can.

Faroz spoke the words just beneath his breath and tapped out the rhythm of the music upon the pillow beside him. With his other hand he stroked the Ring unconsciously. He had been working on the poem for a long time and it was almost finished. He ran through it again to fix in his memory the shape of the words, for like all of his compositions he dared not write it down for fear that someone might stumble across it and know that he indulged in poetry. Once, long ago, he had smuggled a young singer into his apartments, late at night and recited to him the few poems he had written, and then ordered the youth to sing them aloud. The King had sat upon his cushions, closed his eyes, and listened to the low melodies of the boy as they breathed Faroz’s words into existence. It was the only time he had ever heard his songs aloud. In wild moments of fantasy, he dreamed of finding that boy once more and bringing him back to Kanak to give a performance of Faroz’s songs to the Court, but such fleeting moments had grown fewer, and now hardly came to him at all.

He was shaken from his reverie by the entrance of the Lady Arshalous and, strangely, the Lady Hababa. He rose from his cushions and approached them, waving away the guards who had brought them in. “My Ladies, welcome. I am glad that you could attend upon me upon such short notice. But where is the Lord Korak?” The women curtsied low, casting their eyes upon the royal feet. Faroz endured this with the good grace acquired through thousands of the same kind of performance. How he longed, suddenly, for the slight inclination of the head given him by Ashnaz, whose eyes never left his own to seek the ground but remained fixed upon him.

“My son is taking the airs, my King,” the older woman was saying. “On his horse.”

The King did not allow this to ruffle him. He knew the general opinion of his preference for divans over horses, and how this had been received by the nobility. It irked him that what was, for him, simply a preference of how to travel had become a fad for some, and a political statement for others. What if I were to suddenly decide to go about naked? he wondered, a sardonic smile crossing his face. Would the nobility feel compelled to undress as well? And would those who insisted upon wearing their clothes suddenly be regarded as dangerous rebels? The Lady Arshalous was now speaking. “We have dispatched a servant for him, your Majesty, and he should be with us soon. Should we wait for his arrival before speaking of…whatever it is you have sent us for?”

The King shook his head impatiently. “No, he can be informed of our topic when he arrives. In the meantime, I assume, Lady Hababa, that you are here in his stead?” The older woman inclined her head by way of assent. The King wondered if she were capable of holding rational conversation, for he had heard that she was becoming absent of mind. Be that as it may, she was here now, and the King had to admit that he preferred her company to that of her son. He invited the women to join him upon the cushions that had been laid out on the balcony. The sun was now well into the sky and the canopy of silk cast a pleasing shadow on where they sat. There was a large kettle of tea steaming upon a low brazier and the King as host, according to the custom of his land, served them all. So it was in every Pashtian home, from the meanest cot of the poorest peasant to the Palace; it was one of the few social graces that the King both fully understood and appreciated in its purity and simplicity. As they were sipping their scalding drink, the King began. “I wanted to speak with you and the Lord Korak about the proposal to build a new High Temple to Rae.” Faroz saw the look of alarm and distaste which marred the otherwise fine features of the younger lady. The elder seemed more circumspect in her response. “I have not yet decided whether to build it, but it seems prudent for me to look into the matter of financing it. I believe that your son is in favour of the project?”

“Oh, yes, I think he is,” Hababa replied. “At least, he has spoken of it to me from time to time as something he should like to see. He believes that it is wrong to have one High Temple but two deities.”

“And do you think he would be willing to pay for part of such a temple?”

Hababa looked less certain about this and made a non-committal noise deep in her throat. “I cannot speak for my son on matters of money, Majesty.”

“Of course not, but if he is as keen upon the idea as you say, it is reasonable to assume that he would be willing to see it brought about? I am sure that his…piety…would demand nothing less of him.” Hababa merely hemmed, smiled and buried her face in her cup. The King, having scored this much at least, turned his attention to the Lady Arshalous. “You, I understand, are not so keen as your cousin to see the High Temple built.” It was not a question. “You are then undoubtedly wondering why I have asked to see you as well? For two reasons, really. First, your cousin, as rich as he is, cannot pay for the construction of the Temple alone. Second, I would be interested in hearing your opinion of the matter before I make my decision. Why do you resist the idea of a second High Temple? Are you so opposed to the idea that you would refuse any request for funds to see it built?”

[Bêthberry]

The clouds streamed overhead like merchants off to work at the market, intent on their business and without a meandering glance to the side or elsewhere. Some blew quickly out of the frame of Bekah's vision; others massed more solidly overhead, sending shadows inking down over roof and tower and wall. It would rain soon, Bekah thought, the kind which falls heavily and quickly and which puddles deeply on the streets and gullies, falling so quickly the earth cannot contain it, and then, just as quickly, disappearing. For now, the shadows boxed around the new construction, darting forth and back, as if climbing this paen to the sky god ahead of everyone else. As she watched the tower?s construction, daily, growing taller and taller, Bekah wondered what had prompted this sudden desire to rival Rhais. Zamara had been too busy with these events, talking among those who revered Rhais, to visit her daily and help with her correspondence after her injury but Bekah knew the High Priestess was concerned.

It had been a fall, Bekah ruminated, a fall of remarkable proportions, although not her own, but the King's. She had as yet been unable to suggest as much to the High Priestess, and so her metaphor remained in the eyes of the court the literal truth. In the past month Bekah had often played over in her mind the events of her last audience with Khamul, becoming more firmly convinced in her mind that the King was no longer capable of attending to the best interests of his own nation, so firmly drawn was he to this Emissary. Or was it that ring, which he had been willing to harm her over, to regain possession? "Who or what has possessed Faroz?" Bekah asked, over and over.

Also over the past month, she had considered who she might turn to to express her concerns, with Zamara unable to respond to her request for help with the correspondence. Arlomë had disappeared behind the walls of her own estate, where Morgôs was apparently yet again lost in the kind of ritual seclusion which he more and more was retreating to. "The Avari hold themselves to be a higher kind," Bekah thought to herself, "yet they seem so little involved with their responsibilities to the affairs of this world." She worried that the nation's chief officer of the army was so absent. "No wonder people wished to limit the Avari's time of service," she thought. Yet who could she turn to? Arshalous was a vain and petty woman, more concerned with the rivalries of her house than those of state. Her children had not once returned to speak with her of events or their monumental decision. Tarkan was a brooding question who had never yet shown any discipline or strength and Bekah mistrusted him as one of the architects of this tower to Rae. Korak? Was that her only recourse? Bekah turned away from her thoughts to watch the construction again.

The workers looked like scarabs, scurrying back and forth, overshadowned now by the tower to Rae itself. Bekah became mesmerised watching the movement of worker and cloud, the second overshadowing the first, swirling like tea leaves over a sugar cube until it is lost to sight. The light seemed to slink away and she was overcome with cold and her senses dulled. Something appeared over the tower, forming out of the clouds. An eye? Was that it? Tall battlements very far away came into focus, with strange creatures flying around it. A red flaming eye pierced her thought and gloated over her;she felt herself fermenting with intense hatred and cruelty. She would have swooned had Homay not appeared at her side, to lead her gently towards the cushionss of her meeting room.

The old nurse watched as her old charge slowly came round, the yellow patches of her face dissipating into the caramel colour of her tawny skin.

"You have had the same experience, again." she murmured to the Queen.

Bekah nodded and waited for her breath to return. "This time, more clearly. It is this Melkor, I am certain. He has overtaken our god Rae and wishes to destroy our faith in Rhais."

"The healer is here, Majesty, to attend to your arm. Perhaps you can talk of this with her." Bekah assented and collected herself, willing her body into a more formal deportment and whispering silent prayer to Rhais.

Rather than becoming shorter and fewer, these visits with Dahliyah the healer had become longer and more frequent. With the loss of contacts from the nomadic trading tribes and the cessation of communication from her brother the King of Alanzia, Bekah found another voice which kept her informed of events. Dahliyah was not the only healer in the royal city but she was one of the foremost, welcomed in the poorest hut as well as the palace. She said it improved her art, to learn as broadly of illness as possible, and, indeed, she had been instrumental in warding off a plague some years ago when she recognised its breeding grounds. At that time, she had saved Siamak from the fever and had won Bekah's grateful respect and thanks. The healing arts as well were interesting to Bekah, for she often surmised that more was involved than simply the application of herbs and poltices, balms and unguents.

And so it was that Bekah herself felt drawn to Dahliyah when the Healer was called in to attend to her injury. The soft and warm hands of Dahliyah gently touching the skin of her arm had soothed and calmed her and in return the Healer had found in the Queen a woman of similar age with a mind similarly keen and perceptive. And so it came about that after Dahliyah reset the splint on Bekah's arm, cleansing the skin with scented waters and soothing oils, she would often stay and talk over tea and sweet pastries which Tabari the maid always brought out in fine array.

The first visit had given Dahliyah ample opportunity to surmise the nature of the Queen's injury but she did not become a healer to the royal palace without understanding the nature and need for discretion. Perhaps it was this innate sense of discretion which allowed certain topics to be raised. Whatever it was, Dayliyah and the Queen came to talk often of the Emissary, the gift to the King, and the new context in which Pashtia found itself. Through her Bekah learnt that the people were made uneasy by this unexpected visitor and by the rapid changes in their normally placid routine. Bekah in fact learnt many things that were swept under the carpets and not discussed openly. This visit today brought many disclosures, Bekah describing her strange visions of fiery creatures and seething hatred as she watched the construction of the Tower and Dahliyah herself sharing her concerns, for this day she was greatly uneasy herself.

"You will be careful and not fall again, Majesty," Dahliyah advised as she finished the last tape which bound the Queen's arm, looking up into Bekah's eyes.

"I shall, Healer. Now I know how dangerous is the ground I tread and I will step more carefully," acknowledged the patient.

"The King will be pleased with that. I am sure he regretted your pain."

"He did, in his way. Yet he is much distracted these days. From all reports, he has other affairs to attend to."

A frown passed almost imperceptibly over Dahliyah's face, yet it did not pass unobserved.

"You are ill at ease yourself today, Healer. May a friend inquire what causes your discomfort?"

The woman leaned back in the cushions upon which they reclined and wished in her heart she could rid herself of her wound as easily as she helped relieve those of others. Yet there were others, many others, some much younger than she, who also were as pained to the point of being poisoned as she. Dahliyah decided it must be told, for a code of secrecy would only allow the beastial cruelties to continue.

"There are indeed many things happening in our city, many dark deeds which cry out for justice. Almost every day one hears stories not only of women, but of young girls who disappear or who have endured an unspeakable wound which poisons their life. Children fear to go out at night and parents watch fretfully at the door."

"Children attacked? Children? Many? I have heard nothing of this. What quarter of the city?"

"That is the troubling issue, Majesty, in that mostly the assaults occur in the poorer sections of the city. And some..." Dahliyah hesitated.

"Do not hesitate to speak the truth of what you know, my friend. We are facing so many momentous decisions that we cannot afford to silence any issue."

The Healer nodded. "At first the affronts were limited to the Aquaba quarter and then they spread to the nearby Halava section. Then, a week ago, there were two assaults near the villa of the Emissary, where he and his attendants are staying. The girls were badly harmed and as yet are mute with fear and shame."

"The Emissary's attendants. Fifty men with nothing to do. Yet are they not watched by our soldiers? "

"Majesty, our General has not been seen for some time. Our guards grow inattentive."

"And these men of the West are free to roam to satisfy their bestial urges."

Dayliyah shuddered; it was a movement the Queen could not ignore.

"You know something in particular of this? You are intimately involved? Speak, my friend, that I may offer some solace such as you have given me."

"Of the guards, no. I have merely been asked to attend to some of the families. But Majesty, the guards are not alone in their indignities."

Bekah looked directly in Dahliyah's face, her mouth forming the name that she dared not speak aloud, the name that, like The King, was spoken of with the formal address of the definite article.

Dahliyah closed her eyes, hung her head, her entire body slack with anguish. "I am a mature woman; I know life; yet never have I had my wishes ignored, my being denigrated, my self subjected to physical defilement. Except by this man who claims to be bringing peace and allegiance to our land." She opened her eyes and looked up at the Queen.

"I was returning home late, late one night, almost early morn, from attending a difficult birthing. At first, I saw nothing in the streets, but felt a cold, whispering wind, as if the walls had secrets they wanted to tell. Then behind me suddenly he appeared, a sneer on his face, a glowing sense of power in his eyes. He gloated; he grabbed me, and then he fling me aside, with a knock to the head. I awoke later, as the sun rose over the wall, and found myself bruised and bleeding."

"And now, how are you?"

"I will recover. Others will not. This cannot continue."

"Nor will it," said the Queen.

At that moment, Homay entered bearing Tabari's trays of sweets and tea. Homay's eyes showed her awareness of the conversation but her manner was the manner of all faithful servants who understand when and where to raise questions. With a nod from Bekah, she remained to share the afternoon repast, and the conversation drew on to other matters. Then, Tabari appeared, announcing that the Emissary was seen arriving at the Palace, summoned no doubt by the King.

Dahliyah rose. "I must return to my other patients."

Bekah rose also with her. "I ask you, my friend, to speak to my other friend, the High Priestess, of these matters. We must find a way to curb this influence of this false god, this Melkor."

Dahliyah bowed and withdrew, Tabari showing her out. "Tabari," called the Queen, "please send word to the Emissary that I wish to see him, if he has time." Tabari bowed acknowedgement and went out in search of him.

"Homay, you have heard the story. We must move discretely, but carefully, as the King places great trust in this man."

Homay nodded. "I will deliver what messages you wish."

"First, speak discretely to Korak of this matter, leaving out the name of the Healer but not that of the villian. We must arouse concern for our children. And ensure that the High Priestess hears as well. I would want Arlome to know as well, for perhaps she can persuade the General of the seriousness of this matter where I cannot. And, perhaps, if events prove terrible, my brother must know as well." Homay left the audience room by the Queen's private rooms, taking the private stairway which few knew of. None would know, in later days, how the Queen's concern for these events made its way around the city, for the voices of Dahliyah and Homay were protected, but it did, for always the stories of others will come to be told, however forcefully or cruelly some promote their own story as the only one.

At that moment, Tabari appeared, announcing the presence of the Emissary himself.

"You do me a great courtesy, Emissary, in finding time to speak with me when the King has called for you."

"I have learnt that in your city the influence and power of women is respected, and I come to pay my respects." The Emissary spoke these words smoothly, without a trace of sneer or irony in his voice, for he was apprehensive over the apparent rift between the King and Queen. Neither his Lord Annatar nor he had counted upon the Queen having such influence and he wished his mission to proceed successfully.

"You speak of respect for women. Your words are aptly made, for that is the subject I wished to address with you." As Bekah spoke with the man she watched him idly fingering something in his pocket, a mannerism she had recently seen Faroz take up. Is it possible there are two rings? She wondered. Does this foreign Lord earn homage and fealty through an object? In the background thunder could be heard and the clouds overhead massed to block the rays of sunlight which had flooded into the Queen's audience room. Bekah could feel the earlier ferment of hatred and fear return, creating icy prickles in her hands, arms, feet.

"There are reports of indignities visited upon our women. Troubling reports."

"Are these new reports?" commented the Emissary. "Surely such things are always with any culture."

"That would appear to be your understanding of people. Your god Melkor seems to favour brutality and cruelty. Our goddess does not. Nor our god." Bekah was not sure this was the best approach to take with the Emissary, but it was one she felt compelled to for some reason. And it was not, at least, the approach which in the short term resolved matters between them. For his part, as the interview grew more and more hostile, the Emissary began privately to curse to himself that Faroz was a fool for making an adversary of his wife instead of a helpmate. When she confronted him with his own involvement in events, he could contain his anger no longer.

"You fool. What do you know of events that are approaching? What concern is it of yours?"

"A concern of my people, whom I serve." At this point, Beka felt a blue rage of anger for this man who was destroyed everything she had spent her adult life trying to create.

"A former enemy? Serves her people?" He laughed, and as he did so the storm clouds broke and the tower was engulfed with a dark mist which seeped into the royal palace. Ashnaz felt an arrogant power stream into him as the thought that this woman could not be silenced with words entered his mind. He tightened his grip on the ring hidden under the folds of his tunic and he walked towards her menacingly. Bekah took two steps back towards the table which held the remains of the afternoon tea. When the Emissary lunged at her, she grabbed a knife and thrust it at his face, aiming for his eye. She barely missed, but left instead a deep trail of cut flesh down his face from forehead to jawline. He reached for her wounded arm, but she repeatedly slashed and stabbed with the knife, cutting his shoulder, his arm, his chest, until finally she had rent his tunic so much that the pocket was torn. The ring fell to the marble floor with a hollow ping and rolled away under the cushions.

Ashnaz roared with fury and heartbreak at the loss of his ring, but his howls were lost in the thunder. Eyes red with rage he stormed the smaller women, bringing his hands to her throat, his long fingers digging deeply into her flesh, cutting off her voice. She fell backwards and he overtop of her, energy surging into his hands as they pressed down, breaking bone, cartilage, windpipe. Bekah could at first see into his eyes, see a manical evil light them. Then as her vision dimmed she appealed to her goddess. "Rhais, Rhais, do not allow these male gods to win. They will enslave us. They will kill us. They will destroy you. Rhais."

How long Ashnaz lay there, his hands tight around Bekah's neck, he did not know. A streak of lightning burst through his senses and he climbed to his knees, searching desperately for his ring. Finding it finally, he struggled, his hands shaking, to put it on, his silent sobs subsiding once he felt the oneness with Annatar. Clarity broke through into his mind and he thought swiftly of what he must do. He tidied the scene, arranging the cushions, returning the knife to the table. His blood which had spattered was now, like himself, invisible, but his wounds remained.

He looked around, saw out the balcony window an opportunity, and decided upon it. He lifted Bekah's body, feeling it still warm and soft and supple and smelling the light scents of her perfumes and bathwaters lingering over her. He breathed deeply. She had been a handsome woman. Then he staggered to the railing, calling upon the powers of his Lord Annatar and his god Melkor, and knocked some pieces of stonework over. He threw the body of the Queen after them. She landed arms outstretched, a sandal knocked off her foot, in her garden, at the foot of the statue to Rhais, where he had once watched her worship. He swore, cursed the feeble flesh of woman, and disappeared into the secret reaches of the palace which Khamal had disclosed to him.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

The rain was pouring from the roofs of the Palace in cataracts as Rae visited his fury upon the hapless form of Rhais. His water carved deep channels through the earth, washing away whole banks of the River, causing it to twist about and shift, like a serpent in its own death throes. The sands of the dessert, just beyond the frail verdant strip of land that clung to the edges of the River, was turned to mud that slipped and sucked at the feet of those travelers unfortunate enough to be caught in the open by the deluge. In the streets and ways of Kanak, people ran for shelter in doorways and beneath such trees as they could find, but the waters rose and the streets became small rivers of muddy water. In the poorer quarters, entire households had their earth-packed floors become slippery muck that ruined their goods. In the richer homes, the torrent flooded the central courtyards and servants were hurriedly dispatched to bail away the waters before they breached the homes and ruined the silks and furniture of the nobility. The fury of the storm was great, and many in the City cast their eyes to the new Temple. Some felt that the God was angered in some way, while others hoped that He might see the new structure and take pity on them.

From out of the west there raced a solitary horseman. The animal had been cruelly driven beyond the endurance of mortal flesh, and its sides streamed with a thick foam of sweat that withstood even the punishment of the rain. His rider bore armour upon his back that had been rent and tattered almost beyond recognition, and his eyes were as red and ragged as his mounts. Those who still remained out of doors paused in wonderment as the rider tore along the road toward the City, the hooves of his tormented horse creating an endless series of geysers as they charged through the water that churned toward the River, seeking there the welcome embrace of Rhais after its torment by Rae.

In the Palace, the wailing of women could be heard even above the roar of the wind and of the water that fell in droves upon the garden. A sodden form, its humanity still lingering but slowly fading by the moment, lay upon the floor of the grand hall. About it there spread a pool of gentle pink as the rain from its garments mixed with the blood, forming a puddle upon the marble floor. The old woman Homay knelt by the form, beating her breast and crying out a grief that none there could understand, for she spoke now in her tongue of old. It was the first time that any had dared speak the language of Alanazia in that hall, but no-one tried to stop her. Beside her knelt the healer Dahliyah, gazing down, her own lamentations mixing with those of the aged Nurse. She had come immediately but there had never been any hope for the wretched wreck of humanity that they had brought before her. One look at her neck had told her the tale of violence that had unfolded. Behind the women stood two more forms: the aged Chamberlain Jarult gazed downward as though he had seen the end of the world, his hand mechanically making the old sign of warding against evil, over and over again. Beside him was the Lady Arshalous, and though she was soundless her eyes were large with terror at what had befallen. Surrounding these few figures, removed by a slight distance as though in respect or fear, were dozens of courtiers, soldiers and servants. Neither rank nor privilege was observed as they ranged about the ragged form: noble stood shoulder to shoulder with serving girl, and soldiers shed tears while aged women looked on dry-eyed with shock.

In a far corner, lost almost in the shadows that clung there, was the lone form of the King. He crouched into himself, his cloak cast about his head. Neither guilt nor terror nor grief had penetrated his mind yet, for at the sight of his wife’s body, ravaged and shattered, his world had become a mighty white blank and all he could feel was the overwhelming numbness of a loss unlooked for, and incomprehensible. He repeated to himself over and over, he did not know why, “I did not love her. I did not love her.” It was a confession. It was a lament. It was an accusation.

After a time a hand touched him upon the shoulder and he turned to look into the eyes of the healer. Her gaze was hard and she was speaking to the King, but he could not hear her for the roar of the rain – or perhaps it was the pounding of his heart. She spoke again, firmly but not unkindly. “Khamul,” she said, “your wife needs you.”

“What?” he stammered stupidly.

“She requires the final purification, majesty. The day is already well advanced and with this rain it will be difficult to build a sufficient pyre by morning. We must begin immediately.”

“Yes,” he said as though he were a statue new come to life. “The pyre. We must build the pyre by tomorrow. She cannot wait longer than that.”

“No,” she said soothingly, taking him by the hand and leading him through the crowd toward the Queen. “We women shall prepare her for the journey, but her husband must begin the purification. Oil has been brought, all you need do is anoint her eyes. Then we shall wash her and wrap her in silk, the pyre shall be built and tomorrow your children will lay her upon it.” She spoke these home truths to calm the King, and to give him something familiar to cling to. She knew how important these rites became to those who had to go through them. At the time of loss, the mind shuts down and refuses to act – only ritual gave it any form or movement. As she led the King forward she felt the familiar listlessness of grief in his arm, but she noted that his other hand clutched at his heart in a fist so tight that his tunic was bunched into a painful knot. She sensed then a terrible coldness radiating from the King, and centered upon whatever it was that lay beneath the folds of his silk. It was a familiar sensation, and painfully so, for she had felt the same when she had been attacked by the Emissary. The shock of recognition was so great that her step faltered and she almost let go the King’s hand but she composed herself in time and led him on.

The crowd parted and Faroz went toward Bekah. She was cold to the touch now and he knelt down to look at her. She was still lovely, and in the moment that he regarded her the lifetime that they had spent together came to him clearly. He had not loved her, but he had depended upon her and respected her. The memory of the last time that they had been so close came to him like a knife in the chest, and his eyes lingered upon the splints that were wrapped about her arm. In that second he felt as though he were responsible for her death and could almost have leapt to his feet and confessed to the crime, but for the weight of the Ring about his neck which bore him down. A small plain bowl with some oil in it had been placed upon the floor near her head, and he reached out to put some on his finger. His gaze went to the hideous marks upon her throat, the shape of her murderer’s hands clearly outlined in black upon her skin. Her eyes were still open and they stared at him, but he felt in them neither reproach nor forgiveness, for they were as lifeless as stone. He closed them, and anointed the lids with the cleansing oil to prepare her for her journey. He spoke the ritual words: “Farewell my wife, and my Lady. May you find peace and honour among the dead as you did in life. Those of us who remain will ever remember you and turn to your shade for guidance. Watch over our children, and await me in the next world when I shall come to you and enclose you in my arms once more.” His eyes closed and the first tears came. “Forgive me, Bekah.”

[Nurumaiel]

Lord Korak led the Princess into his mother's chamber, where she stood by the fire. She turned when she saw them, and hastened to them. She curtsied to the Princess, and Korak leaned forward to kiss her cheek briefly. She looked the two of them up and down. "You're both quite wet from this rain," she said. "Korak, hasten to your room at once and change into something dry. Highness, perhaps you would not object to wearing some gown of mine... we will hang your own by the fire to dry."

"What foul weather," said Korak, his voice low and grumbling. "This will certainly delay the builders."

"But aside from that, you are light-hearted, son?" Lady Hababa questioned.

"Aside from that, I am light-hearted," he replied, and he departed, wondering if it were really true. What was there to bother him? All things were going the way he wanted them to go. The temple was being built, he was to marry the Princess soon, and he had, for once in his life, spoken to Arshalous in a way which left her room only for feeble answers. Yet he seemed caught in a mire, sinking slowly, yet steadily.

Lady Hababa turned to the Princess with a shudder. "My heart is not light," she said. "I fear that some great evil will fall upon us. I feel that some great evil has already befallen." She sank onto a chair, and sat there shivering for some time, while Gjeelea went into the inner chamber to change. When the Princess returned, clad in one of the old woman's loose gowns, she brightened somewhat and took the wet clothes from the Princess' arms, draping them over the back of a chair by the fire. Then she gestured for the Princess to sit down, while she flitted here and there, straightening things up. "It is always a great comfort to me to work," she said. "It keeps my mind occupied, and banishes, for a time at least, the thought of dark things."

"You fear that dark things are at hand?" said Princess Gjeelea.

"I do, at times," said Lady Hababa. "Yet, Highness, you mustn't listen to the worries of a tottering old woman. My mind is always uneasy in a storm, and when my son is away I worry for him. Perhaps it is the fact that he has spoken to the Lady Arshalous more often lately. Their spiteful words are certainly not music to my ears! Nay, my fears are groundless, I am sure, and merely brought by my recent worries. Now let us talk of cheerier things, for I hear my son's step in hallway."

[Amanaduial the archer]

Zamara turned to the Prince, and for a second her expression was slightly dazed. The elves…where had the elves come from… But what did it matter! Today, most glorious of all days, the Priestess had seen proof of everything she had put her life into, had been finally confronted with the one being she had always believed in but had never thought she would see… For the Priestess felt far from dazed: her eyes, filled with a new light, sparkled with tears at the memory of what she had seen, what she had heard, what had saved them. She closed her eyes, savouring that voice that had for one second consumed the world, the resonance so beautiful that she could still hear the voice reverberating around her voice…

“Priestess?”

Her eyes opened again and the Priestess returned to the real world, the world of the broken down Pashtia – but a city with hope.

“The elves…of course…” she drove her mind back to before the encounter, pushing her hand through her now-tousled dark hair. The echoes of what had happened came flooding back to her and slowly, with that sense of bright-eyed excitement, she relayed a quick account to the Prince.

~*~

Making her way through the dark streets, Zamara stuck to the shadows, but in this part of the city there were few people around – and fewer orcs. She moved more purposefully than before, her hood overshadowing her face as she briskly moved through the alleyways. But despite the heavy, velvet cloak wrapped around her slim body, the usual heat of the desert city did not seem to reach through: there was a certain chill in the night that did not quite fit, that blew through her mantle, making her shiver – although it was perhaps not entirely the wind that caused the her shivering. Around her, the shutters of the Pashtians were, as ever, closed shut, the people inside hiding from the dark new army of the city that polluted her streets, but they were perhaps not quite as tight shut as usual, and as Zamara passed through the streets, she felt eyes on her all the way. But they were not malevolent eyes: down in these poor streets, the people had little to be loyal to this new, wicked king for. Their individual lives did not stand in balance, as the lives of the nobles did, and they did not feel the same aristocratic power struggles – but similarly, their lives simply did not matter. If a tyrant was to rule Pashtia, they would be the ones to suffer.

As she came nearer to the centre of the city, Zamara could feel herself tensing up, wary and, although she had spent every ounce of strength hiding it from Siamak, terrified. Her breathing shallow and rapid although she was still only walking briskly, she made her way towards the Temple through the alleyways rather than via the main central courtyard – in the circumstances, the latter would have been suicide. Seeming to stalk the Temple – her temple, her own temple! – she hid in the shadows around the side of the Temple. Now was the time she had to take a chance that could be potentially fatal: she had to trust that there would be someone inside the Temple and, what is more, that it would be someone she could trust. Her acolytes, what had happened to them? Sending a quick prayer to Rhais, the Priestess took her chance: she was but a few streets away from the Palace, where the sound of orcs was terrifyingly loud, but, like a dormouse across a lit kitchen, she sprinted out into the moonlight and up the steps, darting through the wide doors.

The creaking of the door seemed painfully loud as Zamara pushed it behind her, and she looked guiltily around – the bitter irony of this did not escape her: she was a fugitive in her own temple. Taking a few steps forward, her sandals soft against the floor, she took a chance: although her throat felt as if it had been unused for years, she spoke. “Hello?”

A muffled gasp came from one side of the huge room and Zamara almost visibly jumped, her hand flying to the sword that hung unfamiliarly around her slim waist, immediately regretting the stupid impulse that had caused her to speak aloud. But the gasp certainly did not sound like that of one of the vicious orcs – indeed, Zamara rather doubted they were creatures much given to much gasping or such frivolous things. Taking a step forward, she peered with her short sighted eyes into the dim of the room, shuddering as she saw that the figure of Rhais was still painfully absent – not only fallen now, but entirely removed, as if her mammoth figure had never been there, as if her serene stone countenance had never watched down upon her worshippers. Avoiding the space as if she was looking upon something obscene, Zamara took another cautious step forward and, taking a risk, she pushed her hood back to reveal her face. Steeling herself, she again, forcing her voice to remain steady. “Hello?”

“Oh my goddess, it cannot be…surely it cannot be you…” a figure, clad in white as always, approached from the gloom, and the familiarity of her pale robes almost made Zamara weep. The Temple was not deserted: where many had been forced to flee – the older priestesses, those with homes, families – others could not: it was none other than Tayfar, her youngest, favoured acolyte, who came towards her through the darkness. Tears springing to her eyes, the High Priestess half-ran forward and, almost overcome with relief, Tayfar fell into the older woman’s arms, almost weeping with relief. Zamara stroked her hair, hushing her softly like a child – as she supposed she was, really. The girl’s dark hair was in need of a wash, and her robes, now Zamara examined them from closer up, were dirtied, the hems scuffed: she was in need of looking after, in short, and Zamara had not been there to do that. She held the child tighter, then felt her stiffen. Letting go, the Priestess allowed Tayfar to draw back, and saw that her eyes were wide and pale in the darkness. Pushing her cloak back from her waist, Zamara wordlessly revealed what had startled the girl: the sword. Tayfar looked horrified at seeing one of the city’s symbols of peace holding a tool of death, but Zamara’s face remained almost expressionless. “We have come upon some desperate times, Tayfar,” she said, softly.

Tayfar swallowed, her eyes fixed on the weapon, before she looked away, wiping her hands nervously on her robe. At the sound of a sudden roar that went up some way away – probably in the main courtyard – she visibly started, eyes wide, and Zamara felt another wave of pity for the girl: she had been alone in all of this. But there was no time for such thoughts now – however upset and scared the girl was, the Priestess knew that it was a feeling felt throughout the city. Taking the girl by the hands, she looked into her eyes. “Listen to me, Tayfar – the elves, do you know what has become of the elves?”

The acolyte looked at her, her eyes blurred with confusion at the seemingly abstract question. “The elves?” she repeated stupidly.

Outside, the sounds of gathering forces were increasing, and, although she may have just been imagining it, Zamara was sure that it was not only orcish voices that she was hearing. In her increasing frustration and panic, she felt the sudden urge to shake the girl by the shoulders, but resisted, trying to stay calm. “The elves, Tayfar, the elves. Have you heard what has happened? The ghetto – have you heard anything of it?”

Tayfar shook her head fearfully, but apparently with dread, not with a lack of knowledge. “Oh…oh Priestess, it’s horrible…rumours came earlier on tonight-”

“Rumours? From who?”

The younger girl looked slightly embarrassed and avoided Zamara’s eyes for a moment. “There…there are others who come to this Temple, no longer so much to worship, High Priestess,” she replied, a little ambiguously. Panicked, Zamara pressed her, and this time Tayfar looked her in the eye and replied, “People such as myself, Zamara.”

Those with nowhere else to go. Had that not always been the secondary use of a Temple? As a refuge, a sanctuary for those without any other home, spiritually or on a more mundane level? Zamara nodded her comprehension and bid the girl go on. After a moment, Tayfar gathered herself and continued, quickly relaying how the ghetto had been raided by the orcs led by two hideous monstrosities – “creatures of human form, but who seemed almost to ride on the air” – and none had been spared in their viciousness. Zamara felt a chill down her spine, again a sensation that had nothing to do with the cold night air: inhuman riders on the very wind. Just as she had seen in her dreams – her nightmares. “None got away?” she asked, quietly.

Tayfar shook her head eagerly, leaning forward conspiratorially, a comic effect bearing in mind that they were in broad view of anyone who happened to walk into the Temple. “Oh no, Priestess, that’s the thing: some, many even, escaped. They have taken refuge in various places in the city, or so I heard…” she trailed off doubtfully. Zamara nodded vehemently. “I have no doubt of it, Tayfar: there are those yet in this wretched city who sympathise with the Avari, and they are blessed for it.” Although not if the King gets his hands on them, she added mentally. Then came the question she had been dreading – the question of whether the one particular being they needed had survived or not. Taking a breath, she asked the next question. “But…but General Morgos, the Captain of the Guard – what became of him?”

Tayfar did not immediately answer and this time Zamara very nearly did shake her, raising her voice very slightly; the girl’s silence spoke volumes, and the tomes which they entailed did not detail the answer which Zamara needed to hear. “What became of General Morgos?”

“He is here.”

The calm, self-possessed voice made Zamara spin around, her sword out in a flash, held in one remarkably still hand as she pointed it in the direction of the voice – or the direction she hoped the voice had come from, for the vast, high-ceilinged Temple room spread the echoes all over. Her other hand tightly gripped Tayfar’s wrist, pushing the girl behind her protectively. “Who is there?”

The voice did not reply this time – instead, from the gloom all around the dark temple, a shadow solidified into a silhouette, and then into a form which came forward and was recognisable to Zamara as…

“General Morgos! You’re supposed to be dead! And how’d you get in here? I never heard you!” Tayfar’s squeak broke the building silence. Zamara almost smiled, despite herself, at the girl’s comically over the top reaction, turning her head to see that Tayfar’s mouth was literally hanging open. For probably the first time that Zamara had ever had the pleasure of witnessing it, the elf smiled.

“You heard I was beheaded though, yes?” The General’s smile took on a grim air. “No…no, sadly that was not my body beside my wife’s and my son’s, although by the time those foul scum had finished with it, you could not have known the difference.” Morgos started to come forward slowly, his hand always warily on his swordhilt although his eyes were addressing Zamara. “The elf who died in my place was a lieutenant of mine, an acquaintance of I know not how many years – a friend and a fine man who put the lives of my family even over his own.” His smile had faded now and his expression was sorrowful as he looked down. “He died protecting them.” He sighed deeply and covered the remaining distance between the pillar in whose shadow he had been shrouded and the spot where the Priestess and acolyte were standing, and closer up Zamara now saw that he had himself not escaped the ghetto unscathed: a wide scar ripped across his forehead and his clothes were stained – although the blood was so dark now that it was debatable to whom exactly it belonged. He continued after a moment, the smile returning a little as he turned to Tayfar. “And as to how I got in, well…”

“Elves can move very quietly indeed when they want to,” Zamara finished for him, the trace of a smile on her own face. Sheathing the sword, she stepped forward and clasped the General’s hand tightly in a way that was most unladylike but expressed more fully than any priestly gesture her gratitude basically for his life. But time was ticking away – outside, the sound was mounting and, even as she stood there, the Priestess became completely sure that she heard a human voice outside. Which could mean only one thing: Siamak had arrived. “General, we have not a moment to lose – Prince Siamak has rallied your army, I hope, and intends to bring them to battle against the foul army of Khamul.”

“The remains of the army? They can never win!”

“-which is exactly where you come in, General, if you will help us.” Zamara took a deep breath, still holding the General’s hand tight, and continued. “General Morgos, if you will rally the Avari also…”

The elf regarded the woman watchfully for a moment, but it was no more than that. He nodded briefly, let go of her hand and bowed curtly. “It is done,” he replied simply. And with that he was gone, running to the back of the Temple. Voices were heard speaking quickly in a tongue that Zamara did not understand but which was nigglingly familiar, then the sounds of hurried footsteps hastened away. The General came back into what light there was so that Zamara could see his face, and she was shocked to see him actually grin. “Give it half an hour, High Priestess, and the elves will be ready here to go to battle.”

Outside a horn sounded, answered by another. Zamara nodded grimly. “Make it less than that, General, and we might just make it.”

[Nurumaiel]

Morashk slunk through the streets, glancing nervously here and there, and pausing every so often to gloat over the body of some unfortunate Pashtian. He could not help but feel pleased with himself. They, poor fools, had been killed, and he had escaped. He had been awake and prowling about when the accursed King arrived at the Lord Korak's home, and he had hurried to hide in one of those secret rooms. One of Korak's ancestors, living in the shadow of death, had prepared those rooms for himself so he could hide from his enemies. Korak had expected to hide from his own perils when the time came. But he had been too slow, too foolish. And Morashk... he had been clever enough to hide. He had escaped alive. He was burned, rather badly in some places, but he hardly noticed that, so exultant was he with being alive. And, in the case of more danger... he felt for the dagger that was tucked within the folds of his torn garments, and was reassured at the touch of the cold blade on his skin.

And now he was searching for his master. He hoped, in his heart, to find him dead. Then he would leave Pashtia and find some place where he would be master and not servant. But while there was doubt that his master was indeed dead, his loyalty bound him to search and then, perhaps, serve.

He searched the darker, hidden corners, the places he himself would choose to hide. And in one of these places, he found the Lord Korak. He looked like a lord no longer, for his rich clothes were soiled and burned. His hair and beard stood madly in every direction, his face was bruised and cut, and his eyes were wild. He looked like a man stricken with all the horrible things that existed in the land.

The Lady Hababa was lying on the ground near her son. Her eyes were closed and her face was as pale as death. It was not difficult for Morashk to see that she was indeed dead. But there was no wild fear in her face, and her dishevelled appearance was hardly noticeable, for her expression was that of the deepest peace, darkened only by a faint shadow of sorrow.

Morashk gazed at her indifferently for a moment, and then turned a look of scorn to his master. What a loathsome worm he was as he sat there, with all his hopes for the future laid waste by the same destruction that had brought Pasthia to its knees. What plans he had made, to become the King of this now burning wreck of nothingness! Morashk's lip twisted up in a sneer.

The Lord Korak became aware of the new presence, and he raised eyes filled with fear that quickly turned to relief and some contempt.

"Morashk," he said, his voice hoarse but still possessing its old arrogance, "I wonder that you escaped alive. But that is well for me. My mother is dead from fear and exhaustion, and I was afraid that I was left alone." Imperially he held out his hand. "Help me to my feet."

His servant reached down and grasped his hand, and attempted to pull him up, but stumbled at the dead weight that Korak allowed himself to be.

"A thousand curses upon your head, fool," the master growled. "There, leave your hands off! I will stand myself." He did stand, and cast a look of haughty scorn about him. "Let us go at once," he said, "before we're seen."

"And what, my lord, about your mother?"

Korak cast a glance towards her and hesitated for a brief moment. Then he waved his hand lightly. "We haven't the time for any of that," he said. "We might be seen. Someone will take care of her properly. She needs no help from us, and we can give no help." He began to walk rather falteringly forward.

Morashk still hesitated, and Korak turned to him with impatience.

"Come, fool, why do you hesitate? I have told you to follow me, and it is your task to obey." He did not notice the rebellious stiffening in his servant. "No more of this pausing and considering. I would let you stay, and more than likely meet your doom, for I do not believe the evils have passed with the night, but I need you to serve me. Come along!" He looked at the tense grimness of his servant's face, and his face became jeering as he drew closer. "Are you perhaps," he said, thrusting his face close to that of his servant, "thinking of my fair cousin Arshalous, and wondering if she might need your assistance?"

Swiftly, and with hardly a thought of what he was doing, Morashk swept the dagger from its hiding place and fixed it firmly in the Lord Korak's chest. He had endured it for too long, this constant jeering and mockery, these orders and anger if there was not instant obedience... he would endure it no longer. He watched the lifeless body of his master crumple to the ground, and he gave it a hard kick. Then he turned on his heel and strode away.