Shadow of the West

[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.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Faroz calmed the pounding of his heart with an effort of will. Now that the Ring was once more pressed against his body, he felt the rage and anxiety that had seized him like a madness flow from him as wine from a broken vessel. Not wine, he corrected himself, like filthy water from a ditch. What have I done? He gazed upon his wife, and saw the one person in his world upon whom he had depended through all the trials of rule, and he saw the rage and pain in her expression. Her arm hung by her side like a broken thing, raw and raging with her suppressed fury. Faroz felt shame for what he had done, and he found it difficult to meet her eyes. He reached out to her with his own hand, but the Queen flinched away. Faroz felt the rebuke of her gesture, and his shame only grew. “I am sorry, my wife,” he said, using a more tender tone to her than any he had used in years. “I do not know what came over me.” Liar, you do know, you know well what it was… “I have already said that it has been a taxing day. It would appear that it was more taxing than I thought.” He passed his hand before his eyes and seemed to sag. “I grow tired, lady.”

“Perhaps his majesty should seek his bed then.” Bekah’s words were as jagged stones, cold and unyielding.

“It is not the fatigue of this day, lady. I fear that I begin to feel the weight of the crown more heavily. Perhaps it is the talk of naming my heir, or perhaps it is just the years of having been King, but I find myself more and more contemplating the rest of my life with…” he searched for a word.

“With what, my lord?” Bekah asked, curious despite her hurt and her rage.

“With I know not what,” he ended quickly, his attention once more reverting to his wife. “I am selfish, selfish and cruel. I have hurt you and all I can think of are my own troubles. Sit, my wife, please I beg you, and let me send for doctors to see to your hurt.”

“No Khamul,” she replied. “It would be best if no-one knew of this…incident. Should word go forth of this…attack,” he could see how she struggled to say the word, as though it gave a new reality to what had just happened, “think of how it would be received by our children, or by my brother. I will say that I fell upon the stairs to my apartments.” Saying so, she moved to place her clothes over the arm so as to hide the violence done to it, but she had difficulty doing so for the hurt. Faroz moved to help her, but she once more moved away from him, her eyes blazing, and she completed the task, painfully, on her own.

Faroz felt moved to try once more. “Please, my wife, accept my apologies and give me forgiveness. I have never raised my hand to you before, and I swear now by Rhais and Rae that never shall I do so again.” Unless. . . “Never,” he said aloud, as though speaking to someone else. “And may the vengeance of the gods come upon me should I break this vow.”

Bekah remained impassive and impenetrable. Bowing formally she said only, “I accept the apology of the King, and for my part I swear that I shall seek neither retribution nor revenge for his act. But now,” she added quickly, as though to forestall any further conversation, “may I have your permission to depart, lord? For I would like to return to my apartments and call the physicians after my accident.”

Faroz simply nodded dumbly, and watched his wife depart. Almost as soon as she had gone the Chamberlain entered the room, a little too quickly. His face was unreadable, but Faroz wondered if perhaps he had seen what had transpired. Jarult’s expression betrayed nothing, however, as he announced that Priest Tarkan was in the outer room, waiting to speak with the King. Faroz hid the look of distaste that he felt beneath his skin and bid the Priest be allowed to enter. Jarult bowed and departed once more to fetch the Priest in. When Tarkan arrived at the far end of the Hall he bowed to the King, who had resumed his place atop the dais, and scurried forward.

“Welcome my brother,” Faroz began formally. “What is it that brings you to the Palace?” Tarkan smiled nervously and licked his lips before starting. He was not an impressive figure, for all that he was the bastard son of the former King. Despite their close connection, Faroz knew little of Tarkan, but what he did know was less than satisfactory. He was an ambitious, yet strangely apathetic man, who kept more or less to himself, indulging, no doubt, in such schemes as he could for his advancement, and yet never moving openly with them. It was not without a certain amount of irony, then, that Faroz looked upon the man.

For though the Priest knew it not, Tarkan was the rightful King of Pashtia.

[Amanaduial the archer]

The Priestess was a patient woman, but her patience was being sorely tried as she waited outside the Queen's apartments, so eager was she to talk to Bekah. But she controlled her impatience and waited in the awkward, stuffy silence of the palace antechamber, unsure of what to say to Tarkan. The Priest, however, didn't feel the need to talk much, after some initial small talk - he seemed caught up in his own thoughts. So, after finishing off with pleasantries, the two descended into silence. Well, if you could call it that. Sound as muffled throughout the palace, despite it being an open, stone building, by the tapestries and rich rugs all over the palace, so very little noise pervaded the antechamber; but Zamara couldn't help noticing that Tarkan's breathing really was very loud.

After several rather uncomfortable minutes in which the Priest seemed rather disinclined to talk, the sound of a servant's feet were heard coming down the corridor. Zamara stood in anticipation. Tarkan sent her a condescending, superior look, then rose slowly and almost regally - and maybe it would have worked on anyone else, Zamara thought disapprovingly. The Priest was just about the least majestic individual she knew...

"The King will see you know, Priest Tarkan," the servant said nervously, eyeing the Priest with nervousness as if he was about to run. Zamara wondered about this - Tarkan had never struck her as being particularly terrifying. Sneaky, maybe, but terrifying...not so much. Tarkan smiled and, with a last, almost mock-courteous bow to Zamara, he left, radiating self-satisfaction at being called up first. The servant sent the Priestess an apologetic glance, then scurried after him.

Zamara narrowed her eyes after Tarkan. Of all the cheek, why had he been called first? Realising she was being petty, Zamara rose abruptly and turned to the tapestries on the wall behind her, inwardly seething. Tarkan had been sniffy with her today, almost as if she was beneath his notice, and what with that performance at the banquet in addition to that...Zamara shook her head, her eyes barely focusing on the delicate, angular figures in the tapestries. It seemed many people were changing, whether because of the Emissary or not. Evrathol's visit to the temple, the General Morgos' apology... And then there was the other matter, the matter of what Zamara had seen the other night, on the way back from the banquet, as she had chanced to look up at a balcony of the palace.

The priestess pursed her lips, her brow furrowing as she stared intently at the tapestries. Her eyes were indeed turning slightly blue, an unnatural colour for the Pashtians - she was not sure if others had noticed, but Zamara, although she didn't know what it was, had realised early last year that it was affecting her sight. But she was so sure of what she had seen...

One minute the king was there, the next....vanished!

Sinking into these worrying thoughts, Zamara's eyes suddenly caught on a detail of the tapestry. It seemed to be an early history of Pashtia, and was quite faded, but Zamara could still clearly see the images of a large group of people marching - or were they running? - away from a green, grassy land, women, children and all. But there were rather few children, and the weaver had caught the expressions of the people quite vividly: they wore faces of weariness and aged wisdom. Avari? It was what the pictures looked remarkably like, but there were far more of the elves that Zamara thought were in the city in the present age. At the front of them, one particularly elf stood out, his stance defiant, his face shaded by a silver-grey helmet with a magnificent white plume - obviously a leader of some sort. And behind...a damp stain marred the picture, making it hard to see who stood on the grassy land, making it was an indistinct mass of black, jagged shapes. But one figure the Priestess could see quite clearly: a tall, dark figure, his hand raised high, holding a sword, his dark face completely shadowed by a terrible helmet.

There was something about this figure that made the Priestess stop, and a shiver traced down her neck, the fine hairs at the nape rising as if in warning, despite the heat of the antechamber. But despite the way this figure stood out, he was like no elf she had ever seen - he seemed mannish, but somehow all-powerful... She wondered at how a picture, faded as it was, could convey such strength.

The writing beneath the figure was obscured by the damp, so Zamara moved on. She narrowed her eyes, bending down slightly, her long dark fingers tracing the pictures back in sequence until she came to the image a few frames that made her stop: a battle scene. She could see the defiant Avarin leader standing frozen, looking up at something as if in horror, and, following his gaze, saw...

Drat! Confound these stains! The picture was blurred, the dyes running into each other, but still, some details remained clear in the object of the elf's attention: the dark figure. His hand was held high still, but this time holding not a sword but something smaller, that glistened somehow, but was so tiny. Zamara leant in closer to see if she could work out what it was...

The sound of light, quick footsteps caught Zamara off guard and she spun around, her robes rustling softly. The sound must have caught the visitor's attention, for the footsteps stopped - a visitor with most astute hearing indeed then! She wondered whether it was one of the Avarin. Stepping forward so she could see around the corner into the corridor, Zamara smiled at Morgos himself, who stood with the expression of a trapped rabbit.

"Good day, General," Zamara said warmly, smiling at the elf.I was just thinking about you... "I was not aware you were visiting the King today?"

"Oh...no, no, I came to see the Prince," the General replied, seeming distracted. As soon as he had said the words, he somehow seemed to regret it, snapping off the end of the last word as if trying to take it back. His stern, wary gaze rested on the High Priestess, and then flickered past her to the tapestry - he must have noticed her looking at it before, she guessed. Had he seen this tapestry before? Zamara deliberated on whether or not to tell him about it - sure, what harm could it do? He had surely seen something like this before...

"General Morgos, later in the day, it is necessary for me to leave the city and go to some of the farms to the East. I wondered if I would be able to borrow an escort of a few of your soldiers?"

Morgos frowned briefly. "May I ask what this visit is about, that you might need protection?"

Zamara shrugged her shoulders lightly. "There are many strangers to the city of late, General, many changes." Her eyes rested on his as she hesitated, then added, "It is...a strange matter. Some villagers think they have seen a...a demon."

It was all the elf could do not to raise his eyebrows, Zamara noticed with slightly amusement. "A demon?" he repeated impassively.

"It is what they said. A strange creature, round in girth and larger than a man, without fur but apparently covered almost entirely in leaves, from which...eyes could be seen. And apparently creaking, almost like a song." She shrugged again. The General's intense, unbinking stare made her feel slightly self-concious. But there was a change in his expression now, which had come about as she was speaking, and he had taken a step forward when she mentioned the leaves. "Cr...creaking, you say, Priestess?" he said slowly.

Zamara nodded. "It is what was told to me. Why, have you any idea of what this creature could be?"

The elf hesitated, then shook his head hastily. "I shall arrange a guard for you. Was there anything else you wished to speak to me about?"

Zamara made up her mind. Stepping back, she angled herself slightly towards the tapestry behind her. "General Morgos, are you familiar with-"

A sound that Zamara recognised as the Queen's voice came from within her appartments, muffled by the silks on the doors so that the Priestess could not hear the exact words; it was closely followed by the commanding voice of what sounded like a chamberlain. Her call to enter, she presumed. She took a step away from the tapestry, almost guiltily. "Excuse me please, General-"

"Of course. Good day, High Priestess." With that abrupt dismissal, the elf was gone, striding away down the corridor. Zamara watched him for a second, then looked towards the tapestry thoughtfully...before dispelling all thoughts of it from her head and pushing open the door of Bekah's chambers to enter. Little did the Priestess know how important the faded, worn pictures of the bright elf's battle with this dark, godly figure would turn out to be...