Shadow of the West

[Novnarwen]

Tarkan

The sight that met him, once inside the antechamber, was not exactly surprising, yet it was still highly uncomfortable. Tarkan had realised when closing the door that he had been just slightly harsh towards the boy, and perhaps he'd spoken too loudly. It had not been wise of him. Nothing that could make others believe him cruel and coarse was good; not if he were to succeed in life. He hoped the word of his strictness, or cruelty as some most likely would say, would not reach any others than those who had been present. However, knowing that gossip was a common interest amongst most of the people who worked here, and others, he knew he was being naïve; the word would spread and he would be accused for treating the boy in an inappropriate manner. Was he going to deny this if he was confronted? At the time, in the Hall, he was overly convinced that how he was approaching this young boy, was perfectly appropriate; he knew he could have been calmer and not as rash, but he'd only acted as he saw fit. Surely there was no doubt the boy had been rude, both in appearance and how he had spoken; his grin was definitely one of a silly youngster, trying to be smart with adults or of those of higher rank and he had also been aware of his words, which were almost words of mocking.

Now facing the Priestess, he wondered whether Zamara had heard or seen what had been going on in the Hall for the past five minutes. Positively sure that he didn’t want to find out, whether she had heard or not, as he would most definitely not benefit from anything she might hold against him someday, Tarkan tried his very best to act as normal. He gave a faint smile as he turned away from the door and approached silently.

"High Priestess Zamara," he said and nodded politely. When seeing the surprise in her face, probably of his coming, it occurred to Tarkan how embarrassing this was. Why had he changed his mind? To avoid Pelin? To think about the conversation he had had with Evrathol? Now after this, he would probably have even more to think through; the incident with that oaf of a boy in the Hall for instance, was one thing. And if this wasn't enough, he didn't know what this meeting with the Queen and the High Priestess would bring. He frowned; at least now he would be able to observe Zamara. He'd never thought about this before; the way Evrathol had out it, talked about her as if a sly snake. He was exaggerating again, but did not care. He would watch her every move during their session with the Queen. However, when taking it into consideration, he knew that if Zamara was how Evrathol had describes, it was not very likely she acted the same way with the Queen. The Queen was different. It was how Zamara treated, and manipulated, normal people, like Arlomë, that counted. Realising this, he knew that all of this would be in vain. His coming to the Palace was a complete waste of time.

"Tarkan," he heard The High Priestess say after a while, interrupting.

It took you a while, he thought to himself rather amazed. Do you greet all in this way? He gave a faint smile to emphasize that he'd heard it, but it was probably so faint that it was impossible for anyone to see it.

The meeting with the Queen, his decision to come after having decline, was terrible mistake. He wanted to jump to his feet and run. Only the slightest hope of being able to meet the King later gave him the strength to stay.

[alaklondewen]

Arlomë slowed her pace as soon as she and Evrathol were past the temple, and once again, she slipped her arm gently through her son’s. "As I said, I wanted a word with you...." She paused as she collected her thoughts and figured out how she would start. An accusatory tone would only prove to distance her son from her...that would never do. Lifting her eyes, she looked into her son’s handsome face. He looked so much like his father. Arlomë smiled and lovingly patted his arm with her free hand. “I hope you had a pleasant time last night at the banquet.”

“Yes, Mother, I enjoyed myself.” Evrathol looked at his mother and tilted his head, raising an eyebrow in the process. “And you? Did you have a nice evening?”

Arlomë looked away into a vague distance. “Yes, it was nice. Have you seen your father yet today?”

“No, I have not seen him, Mother.”

Nodding, Arlomë continued, “Nor I. I had hoped to speak with him...” Her voice trailed off, and the pair walked in silence for a few minutes. Another Avari passed them on the street, and they both nodded their heads in greeting. “I overheard the Emissary talking about the Elves in his kingdom...” She spoke quickly and only looked at Evrathol when she’d finished. “He spoke of them like they were the enemies of Men.”

“Really, did he say how?”

“No, just that they brought some great Evil to their land...his words troubled me, my son.” Evrathol just looked ahead. His brows furrowed in thought. “I wish to speak more with your father about it.” Her son nodded but said nothing. “Now, Evrathol, what business had you in the temple this morning? I have tried my best to teach you about the deities, but this is a sudden interest...” Arlomë’s tone changed and her words were soaked in motherly concern.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

“You flatter me, my wife, and seek to distract me from your Alanzian interests with this talk of my…of our realm. You claim to be acting only for Pashtia, and yet you come before me to ask how we should inform our greatest rivals of a proposed alliance with another power!”

“I did not know,” Bekah’s voice was calm and level – steely, even, “that we still considered Alanzia to be a rival. Are Pashtia and Alanzia not allies now as well? Are not we married to one another, my lord, and have we not brought into the world two children who shall unite the interests of both kingdoms when one of them takes the throne?”

Faroz sighed. “Such a history as we share with Alanzia is not simply put aside in the course of a single generation, lady, nor are such animosities removed with a single marriage, no matter how…productive. This is something that you have never understood. You have done an excellent job with the education of our children and either one could be a capable monarch given time and experience. Our son, I fear, lacks ambition sufficient to the tasks of rule and our daughter has too much. But they are young yet and there is time still to hone either one of them into keenness.”

“Has your majesty been taking thought or counsel as to whom you will name heir?” Bekah was quick to ask. Despite the sudden shift in the King’s thinking, she had been eager to put the question to him.

“No,” he replied somewhat brusquely. “But you have asked me how we are to proceed with your brother. You fear that he will take offence should we ally ourselves with the Lord Annatar. But what you fail to grasp, lady, is that the situation is somewhat different now.” The Queen merely looked at him, allowing only the faintest hint of curiosity to intrude into her features. The King suddenly waved his hand at her and in an impatient tone and manner said “Oh do sit down, lady. You look like a statue there, rigid with such formality!” The Queen seemed to pause for a moment before settling herself upon her cushions. The King continued. “I have passed the decision of alliance to our children – the children, as you have stated, of Pashtia and Alanzia. Your brother is well aware of your lessons to them about your homeland, and he has – no doubt – entertained hopes for many years that they will prove more…tractable…to his demands when one of them assumes power. How then can he blame me, or fear that I am making a decision against him, when that decision is being made by his own niece and nephew?” Bekah’s eyes grew somewhat wider as she realised the care that had gone into the King’s decision, and she wondered at the nicety of his acumen. “So you see, my Queen, it matters not to me what you tell your brother-King so long as it is you who tells him. So long as he is assured that this decision is being taken by Siamak and Gjeelea, under the careful advice and guidance of yourself, what has he to fear from it?”

The Queen bowed her head slightly, saying, “You have already accused me of flattery, lord, so I know not how to reply to this other than to say that your reasoning would appear sound.”

Faroz smiled indulgently at his wife and seized the Ring in his hand. He caught himself toying at it with his fingertip and had to pull his hand away, for he realised that he was on the verge of allowing it to slip onto his finger. Bekah saw the sudden motion and said in an innocent enough tone, “Is that the ring given you by the Emissary, lord? Might I see it?”

Faroz had to quell a sudden revulsion at the idea of showing it to his wife. He clutched it as though to hide it from her, but then thought better of it. To deny the request would be to call more attention to the Ring than he wished. He smiled as easily as he could and slipped the Ring from its chain. “Of course you may, my Queen.” He held it out to her and said, “You may approach.” Rising from her place at the foot of the dais, the Queen ascended the few low steps to where the King reclined. She kneeled at the top of the stairs and bowed her head to him formally, then reached for the Ring. In that moment Faroz had to fight down a gasp of horror, for instead of his wife he saw before him an aged and ragged crone, grasping at him with gnarled fingers tipped with red-dripping claws. In his revulsion he pulled his hand back just as she touched the Ring, and it slipped from his grasp. It fell to the stone of the dais, where it rang like a bell as it bounced once before the King snatched it up once more. His heart was pounding with terror, and sweat beaded upon his forehead as he clutched it.

The Queen looked at him with alarm. Faroz forced a smile but on his pale face it appeared as a grimace of pain. “You must excuse me, lady. It was a sudden fatigue that came over me. I am afraid that I perhaps have overextended myself in the last couple of days.”

Bekah nodded and said something comforting, but she left her hand outstretched. With an effort of will, Faroz returned her gaze and was relieved to find that his wife was once more as she had ever been, and no longer the nightmare figure she had become. It was only with the greatest of effort that he managed to pass the Ring over to her, and as soon as it left his fingers he desired it with a physical longing unlike any he had ever known.

[Firefoot]

Siamak studied the General carefully. He did not know why he was hesitating so. Everything Morgôs had said was true, though it was rather dispiriting to hear some of them aloud. Siamak realized that this must be how his father viewed him and his sister, and this viewpoint made his desire for the kingship very distant indeed. He wondered if it was really worth trying - he could not change who he was. Siamak did not necessarily want to be great - the Morgôs’ mention of his grandfather sounded rather ominous. Siamak had known his grandfather hardly at all, and whenever he heard tell of him it was generally with reverence little less than that of the gods. And yet... the idea of Gjeelea and Korak on the throne was unspeakable, and in the end this was the deciding factor. Siamak felt a burning desire to oust his sister in this. Always, always had she dominated in social and court matters. Siamak wanted it to be different, but he honestly wasn’t sure how - if the General thought he could change this, Siamak was willing to let him do so.

Siamak nodded. “Yes.” Now that his mind was made up, he spoke firmly. “You may teach me.”

Morgôs’ face was warmed by a slight smile, and Siamak noted a glint of approval in his gray eyes. “I will make you into a king, Siamak,” he said, and the edge of enthusiasm was impossible to miss - in fact, in was catching. Siamak could not help but grin.

“When do you wish to begin?” asked Siamak, barely unable to contain his curiosity. He wanted to know exactly what it was that the General would teach him, and just how different such lessons would be.

“Very soon,” answered Morgôs. “I would say now, except that the day is drawing late. Would the day after tomorrow be agreeable to you?”

“That would be well,” said Siamak. He, too, wished it might be sooner, but both he and the General had other responsibilities as well. Morgôs rose from his couch, as did Siamak.

“I must be going, now,” he said. “I will see you soon, and be ready for a lesson unlike any you have had before.” The words were said lightly, but Siamak knew them to be true. He did not know Morgôs well, but he was beginning to understand his intense personality. Beginning to.

“I will be, General,” said Siamak, showing Morgôs out. “Good evening.” Finally, Siamak shut the door on who he hoped was the last visitor. It had been an interesting day, and he knew that with his upcoming lessons with the General that there would be many more of those days to come.

[Orofaniel]

Evrathol was by no means surprised over his mother's question. She had tried many times to encourage Evrathol to join her visits in the Temple. Evrathol had however, showed no interest - well, until recent event. He knew his mother would be curious, he had been expecting it. If it was him in Arlomë's position, he would have done the very same thing.

He couldn’t quite find an answer to her question. Then again, it might have not been a real question, merely a statement. It required no answer just yet. What really concerned Evrathol at the moment was how the Emissary had spoken of his kind. The elves - Enemies in his kingdom? He didn't quite understand. Evrathol understood why it troubled his mother so because it troubled him as well. The Emissary had been taken into the warmth of the King Faroz, and what if he had a greater impact on the King than any one would have guessed? What did the relationship between their King and this foreigner mean?

"You should tell father about this," Evrathol then almost whispered, as if in a trance. His eyes were distant and cold. He was weighing his thoughts against each other, but couldn't find anything that equalized it.

"Pardon?" Arlöme asked her son, looking at him straight in the eyes. "What you heard," he muttered, now breaking the trance. "You should tell Môrgos immediately," Evrathol continued, his pulse raising. "Why in such a hurry?" Arlöme then asked, with a slight of suspicion in her voice. "Hurry?" Evrathol repeated.

"Yes, son, you seem...upset?" She inquired. "No, not at all. I'm just...tired," Evrathol replied quickly. "But the sunset is still far away," she augmented. "You're not feeling ill, are you Evrathol?" she then asked quickly.

"No, I'm fine mother." The words crawled slowly out from his mouth. His voice was calm and motionless. He seemed however, hesitant by the weary face expression.

"We'll soon be back at the estate. I'll get some rest when we return," Evrathol then said. His mother eyes met his, and he could tell that she was worried.

They walked in silence for a while feeling the soft wind against their foreheads.

"I wouldn't want to pressure you, son, but my curiosity will not let go of me. Will you not tell me what you were doing in the Temple earlier?"

Evrathol looked away, hesitating again. "I wanted to apologise for my behaviour towards Tarkan at the banquet last night," Evrathol began. He sensed a certain embarrassment for saying it out loud, but would not admit it. "Apologise? To whom?" Arlomë questioned. Her voice seemed a bit disappointed. Evrathol knew she would feel that way because she would have hoped he had other reasons of going to the Temple than to apologise for something he certainly wouldn't have been guilty of doing. "You didn't do anything that required an apology?" Arlome then burst out. "Apparently not," Evrathol then said. "It's nothing to worry about. I just wanted to talk to Tarkan, and apologise to him that I didn't have time to speak with him at the banquet," Evrathol then continued Evrathol forced a smile, which was surprisingly, quite natural. A short sigh was heard from Arlöme. Then she laughed joyously, not knowing how to correspond to the small "trick" Evrathol had just played her.

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

The princess could hear the lie in his voice as he named her his love. She could see the lie in his eyes as Korak lifted his gaze to meet hers. She could feel the lie in his kiss, simple and devious as it met her hand. Deceit not so obvious to any who did not know what to look for, which gave Gjeelea hope that none would know that their love was a complete act. Some would think less of her at first if they thought she had 'fallen' for an oaf like Korak. Still, the princess knew that if people saw Korak in a different light - even a false light - they would eventually think differently of him.

As Korak let go of her hand, Gjeelea considered his words. "Whatever you say, my love..." Could Korak truly be so easily swayed? The princess wondered if her betrothed was just stupid and blindly following her lead (at least he would be following a good lead, if that were the case) or if Korak was smart enough to know the gravity of the situation. Certainly, if Korak listened to her so easily then Gjeelea would have no trouble being the dominant ruler if the two were crowned king and queen.

She looked at her husband, his handsome face, and wondered why so many girls in court desired him. If only I could be like those girls, Gjeelea thought. If I cared only for Korak's face as they do, then marrying him would not bother me so. Those who might pity me would call me stupid to marry him, yet in my position they would see few other alternatives. Those who envy me are stupid .

The princess had a clear idea of her goals - a goal clearer than any she had ever had in her life. She could see herself as queen. She knew she was willing to marry Korak if it meant becoming queen and having her chance to be the ruler she knew she could be. Gjeelea did not wish to be a political risk-taker, unsure of the results of her efforts, but she was willing to wage a silent war against Siamak in order to achieve her goal.

"We should arrange another meeting, then," Gjeelea murmured, bored of the awkward silence that had enveloped the room. "Sometime soon. To the temples, perhaps - the common people might like to see their future rulers. Or perhaps I could speak with your mother, know her better...you understand, we must do this," the princess sighed, feeling the headache return. "I assure you, it will all be worth your time in the end."

[Bêthberry]

Bekah had felt a chilling, lightning-like sensation at the brief touch of the ring before Faroz had pulled his hand back, but she had not really understood the sensation, so startled was she by the pained expression of her husband's visage.

Now the ring lay inert in her hand, a simple gold band embellished by a single gemstone, which flickered in the late afternoon light of a waning day. It was beautifully crafted, pure in its form and understated in its decoration. She closed her fingers over it and hefted it in her hand, trying to imagine its weight in gold. She had ignored Faroz's offer to be seated as a way of maintaining some authority herself in the face of his obvious displeasure with her.

"What pray tell are you doing with it?" inquired Faroz, clearly disturbed but dissembling his concern by trying to imply her fault yet again.

"Merely trying to determine its weight. Is it pure or false gold? Have you tried to bite it? Some thin golds go soft in the desert heat." Bekah was sincerely curious about this object, as both an item of diplomacy and an object of great appeal to Faroz. She wanted to know why it had grabbed his fancy so quickly. What was its appeal? She wondered. She knew he would never tell her directly, so she determined to test its attraction for him. She lifted the ring to her lips as if to bite the gold.

"You toy with its value and would mar its beauty," Faroz responded. "You don't appreciate the delicate nature of this diplomacy." He reached out to take it but Bakah pulled her hand away.

"No, my lord," she remarked. "I merely wished to ascertain the value of this Annatar's regard for you. You are not usually swayed by material concerns.?"

"It is not the ring which influences me," he claimed, wanting to take it from her but for the time being not wishing to divulge that feeling, or perhaps even admit it to himself.

Bekah wondered at this. She realised she had the opportunity to understand how powerful this gift was if she pressed the matter. Could she? Dare she? Her life in Pashtia had been devoted to soothing relations between her homeland and her adopted land but now she sensed that matters were moving beyond her ken or ability to direct or move them. Faroz had ever been her staunchest collaborator; she had no other ally or confidant as close as he in Pashtia. And now he was melting away from her, butter in the heat of the day. She was profoundly disturbed by this turn of events.

"You have said the Emissary offers you a friendship greater than any you have ever known. Yet rings mark fealty, confederation, coalition. They signify obligation and vows to others, an embargo of sorts on freedom What has he offered you? What has this Annatar promised that is greater than the allegiances of the peoples of this area. What is the West to us?"

Faroz relaxed somewhat, directing his thoughts to the discussion at hand. He sat back upon his cushions, still longing for the ring, and eyed his wife, marveling at her appearance now and the vision he had had of the old crone. Was that her true heart? He wondered. She had always masked herself to him, a guileful woman like all her kind. Or was that her future? Will she become so frightful and terrible? The King began to ruminate upon the other possible abilities this ring might provide him in addition to making him invisible. Will it foretell the future for him? Would it allow him to see true motivations? The thoughts intrigued him and he became once again more withdrawn from his wife.

"What a limited mind you have, what a small vision, if you cannot imagine what wealth might lie beyond our knowing. You, who proclaimed that a king must know what lies beyond his boundaries." He stopped himself from speaking further, running his hand over his face in an effort to control this unaccountable urge to rebuff her.

"A king must also know himself. Do you?" Bekah dared reply, as she looked from him to the ring and rolled it around in her hand.

He was taken aback at the freedoms she was taking with the ring as much as by her impudence.

"You have such little regard for gifts of state?"

He rose from his cushions and took two steps towards her.

Bekah stepped back, bringing her hand up and spreading her fingers, so the ring showed clearly upon her palm. It cast a strange feeling over her and she almost sensed it was changing, becoming smaller.

"Shall I try to wear it so I can improve my understanding?" she asked. Her arm was becoming heavy and she felt she was drowning in waters she did not know, but she would persist in learning as much as she could of this affair.

With a roar, Faroz lunged towards her, grabbing her hand by the wrist and twisting it, turning her arm. He reached over and caught the ring as it nearly fell a second time. Feeling it once again within his grasp he felt a surge of anger at her and a supreme sense of power over her. He pushed her arm more until she was pulled over and a look of pain crossed over her face. Could he hear her bone snap? The thought pleased him and then shocked him. He could not imagine how he had come to relish the thought but he did. He let go her arm, which fell by her side, bruised already and swelling.

Bekah uttered not a word, nor cried out in her shock. Never before had he struck her or even threatened her. She staggered, slightly, as she fought to gain control of the pain and reached out with her uninjured arm to lift and hold the injured one against her. She raised her head and looked straight at him. For his part, Faroz stepped back from her, feeling an immense relief at having the ring back in his possession. Breathing heavily, he held it tightly and then slowly returned it to his pocket. Only then did he look at Bekah's face and her arm. Suddenly, he was overwhelmed with a sense of remorse. He must be under greater stress than he had imagined.

Behind the dias, hidden in the curtains, someone stood silently, struck with horror at the event he had just witnessed. Jarult the chamberlain.