Shadow of the West

[Amanaduial the archer]

Zamara tried to think, her mind whirring and calculating as she stared almost angrily out of the window, her arms crossed and on forefinger thoughtfully tapping out a steady rhythm on her opposite forearm: keeping her thoughts steady and calm, trying to stop herself from panicking. Maybe the news of her death sentence and it's true horror had not yet sunk in; maybe it would not until too late. Either way, the Priestess seemed calm and collected when she next replied.

"Disturbing indeed, Prince Siamak," she murmured, frowning slightly. She sighed, almost dreamily. "I do wish Nadda had got this servant's name, just for something to make it less suspicious, even if one cannot cling to anything in these times..." Turning fluidly, Zamara looked at Siamak. "What do you think, Siamak? Should we risk it?"

Siamak frowned, shaking his head as he thought. "I think there is more to this message than meets the eye, Priestess. This servant...he did not give a name, and he then delivered a brief, mysterious message to a servant directly rather than sending the message through a chamberlain as would be more proper. An altogether secretive affair. What is more, while he did not give a name of his own-"

"- he now knows Nadda's," Zamara finished, nodding, her tone regretful. "And he knows I am here as well - she is young and easily swayed, Siamak, a trait that has been useful for us but which, I have no doubt, means that this servant left in no doubt that I am indeed here." She sighed, shaking her head, almost angrily. Nadda was perfect for the tasks they needed - simply to send messages to and fro, and to bring her what she needed discreetly. But when she was directly questioned? The young servant girl had no experience to dodge the questions as an older staff member would. But who of the older servants could be trusted now? Some had served the royal family their entire life: their livelivehood and even their lives depended on that set way of thinking. But then...but then, the older servants had grown up with the old gods and worshipped them their whole lives, worshipped, brought offerings, joined in the festivals, even got married or had family members laid to rest by the Priests and Priestesses of the old gods. And the weight that this sort of legacy had could not be ignored. The Priestess smiled slightly, heartened against the odds that maybe, if the time came, some would come to her aid.

But the more specific questions were currently pressing, and the smile faded within a second from Zamara's fine features as she once more considered this strange visitor. Something here stinks...the stench of incense on a funeral pyre. The question is: whose funeral is it? She shuddered slightly, tightening her jaw, and turned back to Siamak. "Firstly, we need someone else who can help us. Another of the servants. I am aware of the risk this has," she continued, holding up a hand as the young man began to voice his concerns. "But we need someone who can be trusted to keep our secrets and get out of the palace into the city maybe, if the need comes. One of the chamberlains maybe?" A figure sprung to mind and Zamara clicked her fingers as she remembered the name an instant later. "Jarult! Was that his name? A chamerlain here, I remember seeing him when I came to speak to your mother, and at the banquet... What?"

Siamak was shaking his head. "No good. Jarult was dismissed some months ago, along with several other members of my mother's train."

"Surely not all of them?" the Priestess replied incredulously. "That old nurse, the woman who helped with Bekah's funeral proceedings, an...Alanzian." Realisation hit Zamara and she stopped, resignation streaming over her features. "She is gone as well, isn't she?"

Siamak nodded grimly. "Homay has gone as well; a rebellion against the palace some time ag..." At Zamara's alarmed face, Siamak halted, shaking his head hurriedly. "Never mind, I shall talk to you of that later maybe, now is not the time to be deviating. What do you think of the priest's supposed proposition?" Siamak's tone told Zamara of the prince's obviously dubiousness on the matter, but despite the young royal's uncertainty, she could not shake the hope that maybe, just maybe, this was something she could trust. When fear is flowing steadily through the cracks, one grabs any bucket that one can and prepares to bail like hell - sometimes regardless of what one might miss in the frenzy.

"I...I would like to meet him, Siamak."

The prince paused for a second, trying to arrange his next sentence respectfully: a strange role reversal bearing in mind he was potentially in line for the throne and she was a doomed fugitive. After a moment's diplomatic mental shuffling, he replied carefully, "Do you think that wise, Zamara?"

Zamara sighed deeply, shrugging her shoulders as she folded her arms tightly as if against a breeze, and turned back to the window, where no breeze stirred outside the window. It was quite early morning, several hours still to go until midday. Time for morning prayer, she thought, but her thoughts seemed almost detached from the reality of the silence where the singing of the priestesses and acolytes and the answering chants of Rea's priests should have wafted on the breeze to the palace on the soft spring breeze. But spring seemed not to have alighted on the city this year: the gay, gentle breeze did not stir the deadly still trees that now drooped in the Pashtian sun, and even the very birds, normally ready to come from as far as Alanzia simply to sing their harmless, cheerful tunes through the streets and courtyards seemed to have forgotten. Or been silenced.

After a silence so long that Siamak was about to prompt the Priestess for an answer, she replied, her voice like that of a school teacher. "Do you know, Siamak, of the great plague that hit Pashtia some two or three centuries ago? Nearly half the city was wiped out by it, and the arguements still rage about what caused such a terrible disaster. But whatever the cause, many cures were tried out: poultices of goats' milk and herbs, bandages of nettles, spells, prayers, chants... But do you know what it was that was found to work?" She turned her head to look straight at Siamak. "Rancid fat."

Zamara seemed to smile to herself slightly, turning back to the window as Siamak remained silent and puzzled at this bizarre, rather foul punchline. After a second, she continued, matter of fact yet thoughtful. "You see, Siamak, it seems that in times of direst trouble, it is not always beautiful and shining cures that can work - sometimes one has to try shadier and somewhat, may I saw, more dubious cures, in the hopes that maybe, just maybe...a solution just might be found."

The pair were quiet for a moment and Zamara turned fully to Siamak once more, smiling slightly at him in the silence where the birds and the bells should have echoed through the city. A moment later, Siamak grinned. "Rancid fat it is then, Priestess."

[Firefoot]

"Rancid fat it is then, Priestess." Foolhardy though it may be, Siamak was persuaded that maybe there was some hope in such a venture. "So on to the time and place, since Tarkan left to us to decide. Though it would be risky to leave the palace, I think Tarkan would probably noted were he to come. And should we be discovered, we would not be able to escape the palace."

Zamara thought for a moment, then nodded. "Then the time should be in the evening, when people are returning home from their jobs. Two or three more cloaked figures on the street would not be marked at that time."

"Then, or a little before so that we do not return overlate," agreed Siamak. They would not want to be caught on the streets after curfew; then they really would be easy targets. "But where? Someplace where you would not be sought. What of the Temple of Rhais? Surely no one would think to find us in the place from which you fled?"

"Everyone who enters the Temple of the goddess is watched. We cannot go there," said Zamara.

Slowly they exhausted several options, from down by the wharf to the less-frequented inns to an alley in the market place. All had some faults: too crowded, no way out should they be discovered, too obvious... the list went on.

"Then I have but one more idea," said Siamak, clearly hesitant on the idea. "We could go directly to Tarkan, in the guise of worshippers to the temple." He was not sure he liked it; surely such a place would be full of the Emissary's men and other supporters of the king.

"Do you think that wise?" Zamara dubiously echoed Siamak's earlier question.

"I don't know. We are sending word to Tarkan anyway; perhaps we could ask him how safe such a venture would be," answered Siamak. Is this pushing luck too far? "We can also wait until Gjeelea gets here to send any kind of message; she may have a different perspective."

"That would be well," answered Zamara.

Neither of them said anything for a moment. Siamak was thinking about what Zamara had said about needing another servant's help. Abruptly, he asked, "Weren't you helped by another servant last night?"

"Yes, a man. Raefin."

"He's older, right? More loyal to the old ways?" asked Siamak.

Zamara seemed to realize what he was driving at. "Yes; I think we could rely on his help. He already knows I am here, so we need not risk telling more people."

"That's what I was thinking," Siamak said. "Once Nadda gets back, we can have her go find him."

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Khamûl listened to the creature’s report intently. “The filthy Elves have all been rounded up and sent to their new homes,” it was saying. “There were some as wanted to protest their treatment but we stopped their mouths.”

“Surely you did not kill them?” the King was startled.

The orc shifted his eyes uneasily toward the Emissary who stood in his customary place behind the King’s shoulder. Watching the dark Man, the orc replied slowly as though reciting a speech that had been written for him. “There were some, majesty, who showed us violence as we escorted them. While every attempt was made to apprehend them, some gave us no choice and we were forced to slay them.” The creature’s voice as it said this speech was oddly strangled, but at its conclusion the beast let out a great sigh and shifted his eyes from Ashnaz’s, relieved at his release. “We got them all there in the end, at any rate,” it continued in its normal tone and manner.

“Good,” the King replied. “It is lamentable that some chose destruction rather than accept our protection. I wonder why they would make such a choice? Elves have ever been a mystery to me.…” He trailed off into silence. The quiet went on, filling up the corners of the Great Hall, now greatly changed from before. The banners had been torn and beslobbered with the filth of the orcs, and the cushions had been removed from the dais. Upon the high stone there now sat an iron throne, and if any but the orcs and the Emissary were allowed into the court it would have caused all Pashtians great confusion, none of whom were used to chairs or furniture other than a low divan or pallet. The King slumped in the throne, made rather smaller by its size. He wore the Ring now openly upon the chain at his breast and his hand clutched at it unceasingly. He wore his ceremonial crown of gold despite the weight of that massy metal.

Finally, he waved his hands and dismissed the orcs, who dragged themselves from the room grumbling and spitting in their debased tongue. When they were gone, Khamûl spoke to his friend without turning around, so that his eyes gazed off into space. “I would speak with my general. I must find some way to stop these ridiculous rebellions.”

“I would advise against that, Majesty,” the Emissary replied softly. “The reports of him are increasingly alarming. He has grown violent and insular. Some say that he is mad.”

Khamûl felt the wisdom of his friend’s words, and was about to turn away from the idea, but then there came a touch upon his neck, cold fingers that brushed him gently but insistently. His hands moved to his flesh, “What?” he spoke aloud, and the Emissary stiffened and looked at the air about the King’s head as though gazing at an enemy.

“Come my King,” he said quickly, taking Khamûl by the shoulders, “let us take a turn about the garden.”

But the touch of the fingers at his throat grew tight and the King was forced to remain where he was. There was a tickling at his ear as though someone were whispering to him, but there were no words. Instead he only felt as clearly as though she were there with him the presence of his wife. “Bekah!” he said, and at the word the Emissary drew in a quick breath that hissed between his teeth like a serpent. Drawn by the sound, the King turned about quickly and saw a look in his friend’s face that he had never seen before. It was like a black mask of hate and malice, gazing into the space about the King’s head, and his hands were raised like claws. Ashnaz was muttering something beneath his breath in a tongue of the West, and Khamûl felt the power of the words crackle about him. There was a pressure then, against his chest, and he knew that his friend was seeking to banish the shade of his wife.

He was caught in that moment more painfully than a small animal in a trap. He did not know whom he wanted to prevail in this contest, for while Ashnas was his one true friend and ally, surely his wife would not have come back to him for no purpose. Perhaps she had come to tell him who had killed her? At the thought he felt the grip of her fingers tighten upon his throat and he gasped for air. Ashnaz’s face grew wild with rage and he thrust his hands outward, violently buffeting the air, and the presence of Bekah fled. But as it did so, it managed one word for the ears of the King. Morgôs

The King fell back into the weight of his throne and Ashnaz was instantly there. “Are you well, my friend? She is a powerful spirit and it took much of my strength but you are safe now. Did she – say anything to you?”

Khamûl was at the very point of answering his friend, and whether it was the remaining influence of the visitation or some small part of his former self that had been fanned into new life by it – or perhaps some combination of them both – something bid him withhold the truth from the Emissary. “No,” he replied. “She tried, but thanks to you she was not able.” He placed his hand upon his friend’s shoulder.

The King rose from the throne and walked down the dais, waving his friend away with one hand. “No no,” he said, “You need not come with me, I am fine. I just need to lie down for a time. I need you to look into the search for the priestess, it is taking far too long to find her.” Ashnaz paused momentarily, but then bowed and left the chamber.

The King waited until his friend was gone, and then went looking for his General.

[Nurumaiel]

Lady Hababa lay in her room, her hands fidgeting restlessly with the bed-covers and her face troubled. It was awful to be always in her room, unable to get up and move about. She knew that things were ill with the world outside, but she could not know what was happening unless Korak told her. She had no way to prepare for disaster, or to try to stop it. She would not see it until it had already fallen.

She feared much for her son. Arshalous, his own cousin, hated him. If his own cousin hated him, surely there were countless others. And these were days where murder would seem such a little thing. Even Gjeelea...

Hababa was so fond of Gjeelea. She had to care for her simply because she was her son's wife; but she also loved her for herself. But she could not deny that Gjeelea detested Korak. She had married him so she would have a husband. But she cared nothing for him. There were so many, from so many different places... how many enemies there were!

"I would not care if they killed me," she said aloud, but in a murmur. "I almost wish they would. But I could not bear for them to kill my son! I cannot believe it would be better if he were dead."

She was weary. She lay her head back with a little sigh and closed her eyes.

[Bêthberry]

All of Pashtia, all of the Royal City, reeled under the terrible conditions brought to the people by the horrid alliance with the Emissary and his dark lord while the nobles and the wealthy dallied with how to meet the situation and save their skin. They fiddled while Pashia burned.

The war with Alanzia had done much to destroy the wealth of the farmlands, most of which lay in decay without proper planting and strewn with the detritus of war, blades, axes, poleyards, broken wagons, rotting corpses, dead horses. So great was the horror of death and the stench that even the well springs of the water were turned foul and harboured unseen the founts of disease and pestilence, which weakened and brought down vast numbers of people.

Then the orcs did their worst, butchering citizens and elves indiscriminantly, terrorising the populace with their blood thirsty slaughter and cruel bullying, destroying hope wherever it might raise its head. Jarult would have died a slow wasting death of despair, forgotten in his small corner of a room, mummified in the dry heat, had he not had Daliyah to cheer his spirits and keep up his strength despite his physical decline. And she, she would have been unable to bear the indignities and repulsive events she was called upon to fulfil had she not been able to speak with him from time to time.

Yes, the Healer had been recognized by the invading hoard. When orcs had been wounded in skirmish, in putting down rebellion, in forcing themselves upon the populace, she had been called in to minister to their hurts. Such care was loathsome to her. To be in the same room with them brought vile odours to her nose; to be brought into close proximity with their stinking bodies nearly made her faint with revulsion. And to touch them was the vilest form of desecration known to her art. Yet somehow Daliyah found the strength of character to control the turmoil in her stomach which would have rebelled and spoken unwillingly of her disgust, spewing its contents over the orcs as they spread their filth among her people. And she willed her hands to hold steady as they sutured wounds and cleansed the pustulence which she was sure flowed through the orcish veins. And her face she held rigid as a stone mask carved on the new temple to the usurping god, not risking a quiver of nostril nor a quirk of muscle nor a blanch of horrified countenance.

Was she a traitor? Each time she was called upon to heal an orc’s hurts she shuddered inside, asking herself that question. Was she simply saving a cruel beast to go out and perform greater harms upon her people? Yet if she had refused, and been despoiled and beaten and tortured cruelly to the death , would her people have benefited? Would others have stepped into her absence and healed her people? It was this possibility which hardened her spirit into a morose stone automaton so she was able to go forth again and again amongst her people. In fact, Daliyeh won a small victory of sorts, for by her ministrations amongst the orcs and the Emissary’s army she became known and accepted to the invaders. Soon, her venturing forth on the streets and alleys and byways became invisible to them and her ways were no longer scrutinized as were those of the ordinary citizen. From being first an object of ridicule and derision, she became a sort of ghost, walking forth where others could not and no longer noticed. And so she reached more of her people and so she passed beyond the ken of the evil which sullied her land.

This day she came to the house of Korak to see his ailing mother the Lady Hababa, for servants had sent whispered words that the old lady was tired and ill and needed solace and herbs to ease her pain. Daliyeh brought with her oils to soothe the paper-thin flesh, flavoured liquids to coat the dry mouth and cracked lips, herbs to strengthen faith and bitter berries pounded with honey to sweeten pain. If she found any of the wasting fever, she would be forced to require the ancient Lady to withdraw to the Hospice where the chance of spread of disease would be lessened. Few followed her into the Hospice for there those with the Black Fever spent their final days, their tongues rolling out of their mouths in delirium, their eyes rolling back into their heads, and their skin bursting with pustules and black splotches. No one followed Daliyeh as she brought those patients to their final bed of rest. Would Hababa be one of those, Dalieyeh wondered? She hoped not, for she remembered the old woman fondly and bore some friendship for her.

[Orofaniel]

"There is someone to see you, sir," the servant muttered gravely. She looked deeply disturbed and very uncomfortable where she stood in front of the two elves. Although the garden was looking much brighter now compared to what it had looked like a couple of days ago, the servant did not look as if she noticed it.

"Please, show our guest in," Evrathol then muttered looking at his mother. Who could it possibly be? As far as he knew, they weren't expecting anyone today.

The servant did not move, as she was afraid that anything would happen to her if she did.

A man appeared behind her. Evarthol had never seen him before. The stern features in the man's face told Evrathol that this man was not going to bring them any good news.

"Your servant is too slow, my good sir. I was forced to enter your gardens as I was afraid I would have been waiting for hours and hours - maybe days- if it had been up to your servant alone," the man said. Their newly arrived guest was mocking the servant as he said this. "How very rude of you sir," Evrathol replied quickly. "This family's servants are the best servants, and I will not hear anyone speak ill of them," Evrathol continued. The stranger looked surprised; it was not a regular thing to defend a servant.

Arlomë’s face changed as well, when she noticed how very how this conversation had developed. It was surely not a good development. "Please, servant, you may return to your duties," she said quickly. The servant did not need to hear that twice. She was almost running back into the apartments.

"What brings you to our humble house?" Evrathol then asked the man; his tone was unfriendly, almost hostile. "I am in the King's errand," the man replied quickly, and he seemed to take no heed in Evrathol's way of speaking. "He wants me to bring you an offer; to move into a very special part of the city..." he then continued, now smiling weakly.

"And since this is a most noble offer, The Majesty expects you to accept it with great gratitude.”

Evrathol had never heard such insane offer; he was enraged. This was indeed the most preposterous thing he had ever heard. He even doubted it was an offer; by looking at the man’s face expressions it sounded more like an order. There was something vicious and loathsome about this creature, and Evrathol had known it ever since the stranger had entered the garden. Arlomë looked as if in shock, and so Evrathol put his arm around his mother. "This will never come to pass," he said beneath his clenched teeth so that only she could hear it.

"Oh, how very sweet of you to look after your dear mother, but I’m afraid we will leave within the hour. I have already some of my men collecting some of your belongings," The man said, now turning his back on them. "And if we refuse?" Evrathol replied sharply.

"To refuse is not the wisest thing to do here, sir," the man answered calmly. "The King offers you something greater than this humble garden and this simple house. I do not think His Majesty will be thrilled to hear that you have denied his most gracious offer. Actually I think His Majesty would take that refusal as if a refusal to his will. We don't want that, do we? Remember, the people of Pashtia are the King's humble servants; the elves no less. You must do as he wishes, for that is your duty."

The man then started to walk towards the door opening. "Oh, and I'm sure His Majesty will grant the lady a most delicate garden......"

He waved as he entered the door and called joyfully;” We will leave within the hour."

"That is the most vicious man I ever saw," Arlomë told her son. "He cannot simply order us to move from our home after all these years. It is not going to happen. Where is Morgos?" She seemed desperate and full of anxiety. Evrathol felt likewise, and could not answer any of her questions. But by mentioning his father's name, he thought of the library. Evrathol knew that his father would not allow anyone to walk within the four walls of the library.

"I think the General would want us to clear out from the library," Evrathol then said. "Pardon?" Arlomë said and looked at him. "I do not think father would appreciate us leaving the library to this scum. We should go to the library and fetch Morgos' most valuable things. That is the least we could do."

"I agree; let us go," Arlome replied.

**

Their home had been quiet and peaceful, up until very recently. Now their home was filled with noisy men and if that wasn't anough; Orcs! Arlomë and Evarthol shivered by the thought of those foul Orcs that wandered around in their home as it had been theirs. It disgusted them.

The two elves made their way to the library. Luckily the elves were still allowed to walk inside their apartments without being harmed in any way. The door to the library was locked, which probably meant that the room was untouched by the intruders.

Arlomë sighed. It would be impossible to force the door open. What were they going to do? "Not to worry, I know where the General keeps his keys," Evrathol whispered. "Yes, so do I, but we would not be able to get our hands on them in time," she said with a small gesture of disappointment. "No, mother, the keys are right here," Evrathol then said pointing down towards the floor. "I'm confused; your father keeps his keys in his chambers. Mind you, his chambers are in the other part of the apartment," Arlomë then said. She seemed disturbed by the way Evrathol was not taking this grave matter seriously. "Do not tell me you have not seen it," Evrathol then said, looking at her with great surprise. "Seen what?"

Evrathol did not waste a minute to show her Morgos great secret. He got down on his four and let his hand move gently underneath the end of the threshold. He felt the tiny keys and picked them up. His mother looked amazed. "How did you know?" she asked him. "Right now we do not have the time for stories; Let us proceed," Evrathol then said, and to avoid further questions, he let his mother be the first one to enter the Library.


**

Evrathol had still not quite understood the things he found in the library, secretly hidden in Morgos' books. He simply could not understand it.

[Novnarwen]

Just before nightfall, Tarkan had had the pleasure of receiving a messenger from the Priestess. The knocking on the door had giving the Priest a fright, especially when considering the rather insecure situation the Priest found himself in. At last however, he had managed to get himself to open the door. Despite the unrecognisable figure in the doorway, he knew that this man could mean nothing but good news. After all, if it had been bad, which meant that the King most likely would be involved, there would have been someone else standing at his door; his half-brother would have sent the horrific monsters that were guarding, and roaming the streets, frightening the citizens of Pasthia; the creatures that were thirsting for blood. In other words, the King would not have sent a mortal man. The feeling of relief had grasped him within the second of having seen this man’s face, and the realisation of Pelin’s success had given him hope.

"Tarkan?" The Priest had nodded eagerly, not quite sure what to expect. Pelin had succeeded, but what exactly that meant, he was still unsure of.

"I’m Raefin. I have a message from..." Hearing the word 'message,' the priest had gasped in horror. The thought of someone hearing Raefin utter these words made him shiver. “Come in, and be quiet!” he urged, waving his hand at him, almost pushing him through the door.

Raefin had staid for about thirty minutes. Attentively, Tarkan had listened to the messenger, while a rush of thoughts occupied his mind. The Priestess wanted to come here? Impossible, he thought at once. The orcs came regularly by his apartment, “checking that everything was all right.” He didn’t dare think of what would happen if they found the Priestess here. She was a convict, an escaped prisoner, and what awaited her if se as caught was beyond his wildest imagination. Furthermore, if he was caught with her, conspiring against the king, it would without a doubt have great consequences for him as well. For a second, he had hesitated. Had he been too rash when sending Pelin off to arrange a meeting? Why did he care if Pasthia was put to ruin, if only he lived? Shaking his head, he had taken a step closer towards Raefin.

“The Priestess, and perhaps I, will be in grave danger if we meet here,” he had said, with a mild voice. ”The orcs come here every now and then, and if we are caught together,” the Priest had shivered as he spoke, “there will be little hope..” Raefin had seemed to understand, and with an eager voice he had asked what the Priest proposed for a meeting place instead.

“The ruins of the old Temple.”

“The Temple of Rhais?”

“No, the old Temple of Rae. Who will suspect a convict, a former Priestess of Rhais, in the old Temple of Rae?” Tarkan smiled faintly; it was indeed brilliant.

Raefin’ eyes had lit up at once, with both wonder and concern. For a moment he had kept his mouth shut, as if not daring to speak. Suddenly, however, he had erupted into a storm of questions and claims. “What are your intentions?” he had called out. Tarkan had tried ignoring him at first, but with this last question floating in thin air with nothing to follow, he had grabbed a hold of the man and pressed him against the wall. “What are my intentions?” His voice was far from mild. When getting angry, the priest always seemed to literally grow arger than life. This also seemed to be the case this time. “I’ll tell you what my intentions are! I have already risked my friend Pelin’s life by giving you my message. And now, I’m risking my life to restore this Kingdom. What are my intentions?!? What are my intentions?!? Now, you can either deliver my proposal to the priestess; that we meet in the old Temple of Rae, just before the time of the curfew, or you can refuse to give this message.”

Letting the Raefin go, Tarkan breathed heavily. “Do not let your own ego hinder the Priestess in making her own decisions. I advice you to do as I have told you, or it will have severe consequences for us all. I will be there.”

These words had seemed to have a certain effect on the middle-aged man, and without another word he had made his was towards the door. “So, the mystery man, or your friend, is named Pelin?”

Before Tarkan could give any reply, the man had gone.

***

The priest sat alone in one of the smaller rooms of his apartments. About twenty minutes had passed since Raefin had been here. Outside, it was already getting quite dark, and the streets had grown dead silent, even though it was still not beyond curfew. In a while he would have to get ready, and walk down the empty streets; first straight ahead, then left into an alley, and a few minutes ahead, he would see the old Temple. He had been there, just after the orcs had officially destroyed it, and been amazed of what still remained. The altar was still intact, and so was the room in the centre of the Temple. The thick, stout walls were there, and even though the Temple could no longer be used for worshipping, one could still find shelter for both wind and rain under what remained of the roof. If one hid in the long shadows the remaining parts of the building still cast, one could almost be sure of not being discovered, especially considering how seldom orcs, or other of the Kings guards, passed. However, Tarkan had other plans. Yes, the Temple itself could probably do as a location, but he had had something else in mind when talking to Raefin.

The old Temple of Rae had been built quite long ago, and even though Tarkan lived whilst it was being built, it was first during his service as a priest he had grown familiar with the secret the Temple kept closely to its heart. Beneath the altar in the Temple itself, was another altar; the Temple had a secret underground tunnel that led to a cellar, which intentionally had been situated directly under the real altar of the Temple. While ordinary people where sacrificing fruits for instance on the main floor, some of the priests kept secret rituals where they sacrificed more; animals, and in some rare cases humans, which were mostly castaways, beggars or tramps. In the elder days they had believed that Rae was on the edge of forsaking them, as their daily sacrifices were too little. The Priests were just doing everyone a favour by going a little bit further, and were in truth only seeing to the people’s best interests. He himself had participated once in a while in these rituals together with Pelin’s father. The two of them did not think highly of each other, yet Tarkan had agreed on training his son. Through Tarkan, and other young priests who took the responsibility for the elder Priest’s sons, the rituals and its tradition were kept intact, and kept a part of the secret worshipping of Rae.

Thinking of Pelin, Tarkan frowned. His friend had told him he would be back in a few hours, but the priest hadn’t expected Pelin to take think long, especially considering that the messenger from the Priestess had been here. It was odd, indeed. When remembering Raefin’s last words, he wondered whether everything was all right. The mystery man? Had Pelin not introduced himself?

It hit him, and thinking it over, he knew that it had been a smart move. The Priest smiled satisfyingly to himself: Pelin had been discreet, and thus, all was well.