Shadow of the West

[Nurumaiel]

The light of the fire created strange shadows to play over the room. It was a large room, decorated with tapestries and richly-coloured rugs, and the fire was the only source of light and warmth. There were three windows, but all were closed. But for the fire, the room would have been a forbidding place, and indeed even with the brisk blaze there was a coldness. A tall, handsome man let his impressive step fall before the hearth, and just behind him was another man: short, pale, and thin, with keen eyes darting here and there, betraying a mind of cunning and maybe even some intelligence. The taller man was not distinguished by any singular expression of face, but rather by his good looks, and by his rich dark hair, and by his strong figure. A perturbed frown was upon his face, and his eyes were fixed on the flames that leapt here and there, and crackled and spat with a malice.

"A banquet tonight? Whatever for?"

"There is an emissary arrived, Lord Korak, from the West," the skulking, pale man replied. "Naturally the King wishes to honour him with a banquet."

"Naturally? Why is it so natural when I could not see it myself?" The Lord Korak's voice was angry, and his fists clenched powerfully at his side.

The pale man showed no signs of fear or even a slight apprehension, but said smoothly, and with impudence: "It is natural, my Lord. What would you do if you were King?" The darting eyes slid down to the fists and the taut arm muscles. "As you will be someday," he added, and the hands unclenched.

Lord Korak turned, and a bright light shone in his eye. "That is more natural than what you spoke of before, Morashk," he said. "Then the Princess will be there?"

"Naturally, as she is the King's daughter," said the pale man.

"You speak of naturally again," said Lord Korak, and though he showed no signs of anger this time, his frustration was clear in his voice. He clasped his hands behind his back and paced thrice in front of the fire. "Why is it so natural when I cannot see it?"

"It is this:" said Morashk: "you have taught me to know the minds of all the Royalty, to find out what pleases them and what does not, for your own advantage."

"I know that," said Lord Korak. "And because of it the Princess shall be my wife, for I have well-pleased the King."

"Well, as I know what the King does and thinks and says, and what he will not do and think and say, naturally it comes naturally to me."

"Too naturally," said Lord Korak, and he glowered at his servant. "I hear that word for endless days. Must all things be natural for you? Can you not think?"

Morashk stood erect then, and a frown of insulted pride came to him, but his voice did not lose its smoothness. "I did all the thinking needed long ago, and now I need only remember."

"Then you shall find it no difficult task to choose a suitable present for the Princess," said Lord Korak.

"Not at all," said Morashk, and he crossed the room and withdrew.

Lord Korak sat himself upon a couch richly embroidered, and was nearly buried by the decorative pillows that fell over and about him. His face glowed in the light of the fire, and the gold twined in his long beard glistened and shone. He said nothing, nor moved from his posture, but he gazed fixed down at the stone floor, and was silent. Time passed, and Morashk returned, displaying a necklace of gold and set with stones. Lord Korak took the piece of jewelry and gestured for his servant to leave, and then he studied the gift for the Princess. It would look pretty clasped about her throat, though he could not say it would improve her looks. There was no beauty in her. There was no beauty in any girl. If he married her he would have one to inherit his wealth and lands, her at least if she bore no son. But there was more than that.

Lord Korak left his relaxed posture then and sat straight up, and his eyes glinted with hunger as they swept through the room. The rugs, the intricate stone-work, the tapestries... How fine it all was, and how unsatisfactory. He had been in the Palace many a time before, and it was a sight above all sights. And more than that, there was power, and authority, for the one who held the throne. The Palace, and all in it, and all power, would be his, if he married the Princess.

If he became King.

He stood, and prepared himself for the banquet.

[Bêthberry]

"But I must see someone. And the Queen accepts audiences from all members of the city."

The Guard listened closely to the man's story and conferred with the other guard. Finally, after more discussion, one entered the Queen's main audience room and crossed to the door of her private quarters, where he called to the old nurse.

"Homay, there is one who insists upon seeing the Queen upon temple business. Will she accept the visitor?"

Homay conveyed the message and Bekah, not yet fully arrayed with her headress or other state ornaments, appeared. Once she was settled on her seat, the guards let the man enter.

"Majesty, " he spoke, bowing low, "I thank you for this impromptu meeting."

"You say you have urgent temple business?"

"I have a message for the King from citizens who wish to see a proud display of our worship. Yet the King did not keep our scheduled meeting."

"The King has many responsibilities and duties. He is not free to make personal choices but serves the nation and the people. You should remember that he could have more pressing matters to attend to. Perhaps you can return tomorrow."

"Majesty, I come bearing offerings for the Sky god, which must be given today."

Bekeh looked closely at the man.

"What is your occupation?"

"I am a master builder, Majesty."

Bekah thought quietly to herself at this news. So already the pressure is building from many quarters. First the priests. Then the lords. Now those who would benefit from building a new temple to Rea.

"Let no offering then be wasted, nor your faithfullness either. Take the offerings and spread them around the Black Obelisk."

"But Majesty, that is to both deities."

"I am sure that deities are beyond squabbling over tribute as we mortals do, Master Builder. I will not presume to know the King's mind on this or speak for him. I will simply suggest a way for your efforts not to be in vain. You sought my audience and so now you have my advice. The choice is yours. Waste your tribute or offer it in public display where all may understand your aspirations."

The Master Builder had not been expecting this. He had hoped rather to draw the King's interest to those who wished to see a temple built, a development which would bring wealth to his coffers and work to many. Yet he could not deny the Queen's generosity in seeing him nor her advice.

"And you will inform the King?"

"Of course I shall. And he may take what further action he deems important."

With a wordless bow, he withdrew and the Queen beckoned the guards to her.

"You were right to notify me of his distress. Has the King spent the entire day with the Western Emissary?"

"Yes, Majesty."

Bekah walked over to her favourite window which looked out upon the garden. The scent of jasmine and cedar wafted through the air and she breathed deeply as she sought time to think. Then she turned back to the guards.

"This arrival is unlike anything we have known. The King must think it is a serious matter to give it so much attention. For my part, I will make sure to prepare for him a display of Pashtian hospitality and preeminence. "

The guards nodded.

"Please send my invitation to General Morgôs and his wife Arlomë, to join me at the entrance to the banquet tonight, and sit beside me at my table, their son also should they wish his presence. Send also my request to the Prince and Princess that they join me for the entrance. They may take their own tables, as is their right, should they wish. And tell our chief Priestess and Priest that a table shall be prepared for them, across from mine, so that we each sit at one of the King's hands."

"Word will be sent immediately, Majesty."

After the guards withdrew, Homay left the private quarters and silently placed a hand on the Queen's shoulder. Bekah turned to her with a sad smile, but said nothing. She had caught a glimspe of her son in the garden, alone and pensive again, and she made a note to speak to him soon about making his presence known. And she wondered if her daughter would have the presence of mind to understand the necessities of a state dinner.

[Amanaduial the archer]

"High Priestess?" A muffled voice preceding another knock on the door broke the quiet inside Zamara’s quarters. When there was no reply, the door was edged carefully open and Tayfar’s covered head appeared around the side. She looked around the room quickly, then, a look of puzzlement on her round features, she advanced tentatively into the room.

“High Priestess Zamara…?” She repeated, looking through the open doorways almost guiltily as she took a few more steps forward into the centre of the room. She had never been inside Zamara’s rooms alone before – and it seemed she was entirely alone, for the Priestess was nowhere to be seen. Compared with the palace rooms or rooms of others high in state, Zamara’s rooms were surprisingly sparse, for practical reasons mainly: they were quite open, the rooms separated with beaded curtains rather than doors, and the whole of one side was dominated by wide, unpaned windows stretching from ceiling to almost floor-level. The Pashtians, living in the desert, were fine craftsmen of glass, but the priestess contented herself with veils of thin, dark-cream cloth instead. It provided more shade from the heat, rather than magnifying it as the sun would and besides, no one would dare to use the open windows as a means of unlawfully entering the chambers of the High Priestess of the most favoured deity, Rhais. The veils were each embroidered with the tree design of the goddess, and there were five on one side of the room – the side that should, the girl thought, be facing towards the desert – each about half a metre apart. On wall opposite the windows, snaking stetches in some sort of dark red mud – meandering, twisting patterns, both smooth and jagged, although of what it was hard to say unless you were either very close or far away. Tayfar half closed her wide brown eyes and squinted at the patterns, trying to look at everything together in unity as the priestesses had taught her, and, after a second or two, she realised the whole image: a forest, stylised trees melding into each other, each set in the centre with a large knot hole, out of which red sap was flowing – the ruby red of Zamara’s medallion. Tayfar’s eyes opened wide again as she smiled childishly in simple delight at the revelation, and she darted forward to the wall, her fingers outstretched towards the ruby red of the sap – so bright from afar. But as she did so, she found the picture was in fact far more complex than it had seemed at first, every leaf seeming to be picked out, but from so close it was strangely flat and two dimensional. Tayfar’s fingers traced the pattern of one ‘branch’ of leaves, until a breeze wafted through the room and she spun around guiltily, expecting to see Zamara watching her.

But the cool room remained empty. Directly in front of the door Tayfar had entered by, adjacent to the wall of windows and the forest-wall, was a larger opening, but the entrance of this was draped with an airier, veil-like covering, and beyond it she could see the ghostly outline of a balcony rail; but despite the bright sunlight of the late afternoon coming from the West, the younger trainee acolyte could not see a silhouette through the veil. Hearing the sound of running water, she moved towards the bathroom like a moth drawn to the light, rather than floundering in the other woman’s rooms – but on the way there, she felt drawn by that larger window. Glancing furtively towards the doorway where the sounds of water came from, she drifted towards the window guiltily, reaching out with a trembling hand to pull the veil aside.

The brisk clattering of the beaded curtain made Tayfar jump like a startled desert rabbit, her hand shooting down to her side in an instant as she spun around. Zamara stood in the doorway of the beaded curtains, a new white robe hanging untied at the waist from her slim frame and her hair flowing loose over her shoulders, but her hands hidden from sight behind the curtains. The priestess relaxed when she saw Tayfar, and to the girl’s relief, she did not seem angry: she moved back into the other room and the sound of the water stopped, it’s silence accompanied by the sound of a metallic object being put down – Tayfar, in her curiousness, couldn’t help wondering what it was. Then Zamara emerged once more and Tayfar nodded her head deeply to her in respect.

“Priestess, are you ready for me to prepare you for the banquet?” she asked formally. Zamara didn’t seem to hear immediately, an indulgent smile on her angular features. Her dark eyes flickered past Tayfar to the window then back to the acolyte once more, and Tayfar blushed, caught out. “I-I didn’t mean any harm in touching the veil,” she stammered uncertainly. She had always been told never to go into the private quarters surrounding the temple and never, ever to touch what was inside without permission, qualification or a holy purpose – none of which, obviously, Tayfar had. She had been at the temple for a few months now, and in that time still felt as lost as ever with the mysterious High Priestess. My family will disown me if I am rejected from the temple… “I was just looking b-because…”

Zamara walked briskly towards her, but passed by without reprimanding her, sweeping the gauzy curtain aside in a swift motion to reveal a sight outside that took Tayfar’s breath away.

“If this is why, then you are more than forgiven.” Zamara’s voice was amused.

The fiery fingers of the sun were reaching towards the tips of the mountains in the distance, making them shimmer with heat as it’s rays turned fiery red and danced behind them, a golden-orange haze settling over the sandy horizon. Zamara drew up a chair as Tayfar stared in wonder: she had not looked at the sunset over the desert for years, and had never really thought about it, but this wide, arched window afforded an amazing view. Snapping back to her senses, Tayfar took the chair from Zamara with an apology and took the liberty of placing it on the balcony, so that Zamara would face the sunset as Tayfar prepared her. Opening the dull brown satchel that hung across her chest, the acolyte took out a snap-up table and, after setting it up, took out a plain wooden box and placed it on top. Unshouldering the bag, she took out a comb and softbrush and began to work her way through Zamara’s thick, surprisingly wavy, dark hair. She worked in silence and with gentle efficiency.

“It is beautiful, is it not?” Zamara broke the silence after some time, and Tayfar looked up, still slightly jittery, then continued with her work, opening the box and taking out several long, thin strips of stiff golden cloth. As she began to wind them into Zamara’s hair, the priestess continued. “It is the most wonderful fusing of the two gods: both Rhais and Rae are in that spectacle. It is not just the sky god who makes himself known in the sunset, although of course he reigns over it: the mother goddess reflects and compliments his work underneath there, allowing her beauty to work with his as the sun sinks behind the desert, to form such a vision.” Zamara sighed softly.

“And so the sun sets in the West.”

Zamara picked up on the stress Tayfar put in the last word. The smooth skin of her brow crinkled slightly. “What do you mean?”

“Oh, nothing, nothing.” The acolyte’s fingers worked easily as she twisted the curls of hair around the strips of gold. “It…it just seems appropriate, that’s all.”

Zamara did not reply. Tayfar continued and after Zamara prompted her a little, she began to chatter, her words flowing more easily as time passed and she moved onto doing the priestess’ hands and makeup. She talked about her father and his vibrant stories from the army as she painted back on the henna patterns (already stained lightly as a fine red lattice on Zamara’s dark skin from being re-applied so often) across the priestess’ palms and the backs of her hands…

…fondly talking about her mother, how she had worked hard to bring up Tayfar as well as her two twin brothers, Cadeffen and Tadek, identical to all but Tayfar and her parents, as she rubbed the kohl powder into a fine paste and applied it carefully to the pale insides of Zamara’s eyelids, along the line of the eyelashes, and noting to herself as she did so the strange dark sapphire tinge that the irises had;

…and as she applied the fine lines of white kohl to accentuate her cheekbones and following the line of her nose up between her eyes to a tiny diamond of white dots in the centre of Zamara’s forehead, Tayfar spoke also of her mother’s death several months ago after Tadek and Cadeffen left for the military as well, how she had said her family was ‘disappearing in front of her eyes’ – Zamara didn’t speak: she herself had lost one parent at an early age, but the priestesses of Rhais taught that everything happens for a reason: if Tayfar’s mother had not died and the rest of her army been in the army, she would never have been entrusted to the temple of Rhais.

And as she tied at the side the golden cord wrapped around Zamara’s waist and slid the golden upper arm bracelet, the golden wrist bands and neck band, she finished off with talk of the temple and the priestesses themselves. She added the finishing touches to Zamara’s makeup, darkening her eyelids, touching up the diamond of white dots, stark against Zamara’s dark skin, and stood back. The High Priestess opened her eyes and, after talking to Tayfar further for a few minutes, she dismissed the girl with her thanks. Only when she heard the door close behind the younger girl did the priestess actually look out towards the sunset once more.

The sky god’s greatest wonder was now half-submerged behind the mountains of sand in the distance, and great, smouldering rays reached still into the sky and stroked Rhais’ work tenderly. Zamara smiled, then it faded slightly as she thought more deeply about what Tayfar had unwittingly said. ‘It sets in the West…seems appropriate, that’s all.’

“I do not think that is all…” Zamara murmured, rising from the chair to stand in front of the balcony rail, looking out across the awesome stretch of the desert in front of her. The sun sets in the West…it comes to it’s final resting place there…the work of our gods dies in the West. She blinked, startled by the thought, and her jaw tightened. What sort of premonition could that be? A foreshadow of what was to come. The Westerners did not even recognise Rhais and Rae. Did not even pay heed to the gods she had dedicated her life to…

“I dine tonight with these Westerners, O Goddess,” she whispered to the sand dunes. “I will find out what they mean towards you and your brother Rae.”

[Imladris]

Arshalous wrapped the white scarf around her head loosely so that a few stray locks of raven hair would manage to find their way out of the folds. "If any call asking for me," she said to Semra, "tell them that they can talk to me at the banquet. If they are fortunate not to have been invited, tell them to drop by tomorrow."

Semra nodded and helped Arshalous with her soft leather sandals. "Thank you. If you like you can go to my library and read the scrolls within or feel free to explore the house."

Semra's eyes widened.

"Come now, there is more to life than serving," said Arshalous lightly as she left the room.

Sunlight streamed through the windows onto the stone hallways as Arshalous strode through the house and into the atrium. The atrium had a small fountain in the middle that chuckled merrily to itself. Birds flittered and dipped their beaks into the warm water while insects buzzed lazily in the nearbye garden.

Arshalous summoned her stabler and ordered that her favourite mare, Telitha, be saddled. Arshalous kissed Telitha's muzzle when she was brought to her, and mounted easily, and patted Telitha's neck when she was settle comfortably. "Let's pay a visit to Korak, shall we?" she whispered in Telitha's ear.

~~~

"I would like to speak to Korak," said Arshalous to one of his servants.

The servant nodded and melted into the perpetual gloom that was a permanent guest in Korak's dwelling. There was a swift patter of feet and Korak appeared, impatience glowing in his handsome features. A necklace dangled from his hand as his fingertips played at the chain.

"A gift for the princess?" she asked, pointing to the jewelry. She laughed to herself. Her cousin was a bit of the fool to think that he could buy the Princess' regard.

He nodded shortly. "Did you come here for a reason?"

"I was just wondering if you could tell me your thoughts of the Emissary and the silly little banquet we will be having in their honour."

[Nurumaiel]

Korak's face burnt with rage at the obvious insolence in his cousin's voice concerning the necklace. Was she daring to think that he actually loved the Princess? Did she think the necklace was the result of sentimental feelings? A quiver passed through him, but he showed no exterior sign of his anger, save the colouring of his face. Rather he gestured for her to sit down, and he poured some wine from a golden pitcher that sat upon the low table in the corner.

"Feast now, my Lady," he said, his eyes hard upon her, "and I will tell you what I think." A mocking smile twisted and distorted his handsome face. "Fear not. The wine is not poisoned."

"I had no fear of such a thing," she replied, with coldness, and a smile of her own, likewise full of insolence. Yet she did not touch the wine.

He himself sat, and leaned back, completely at ease. He never went to his cousin's home when he could help it, for he felt powerless there. Here, in his own abode, it was different. He could play cat and she would be the mouse, and he had nothing to fear from her. He could be master, and she would be lower than he. He studied her, but she showed no signs of uneasiness. A flush of annoyance came to his face at this. She seemed completely comfortable. She did not look in the least intimidated. He straightened, and spoke briefly.

"I do not even know who this Emissary is. All I know is that the banquet provides me with a perfect opportunity to raise the King's esteem for me."

"As well as the regard of the Princess?" questioned the Lady, and she glanced at the necklace.

Lord Korak's face burned a deeper red, and a vein stood out on his forehead. "As far as I care for her regard," said he. "As husband of the Princess I will be given the perfect chance to become King."

The Lady's eyebrows raised. "Is it wise to tell me that?"

Korak paused, and fumbled with his words for a moment. No, he did not think it wise. The Lady was now in a perfect position to tell the Princess exactly why he wanted to marry her, and women were so sentimental. The Princess may refuse him, as she had every right to do. But Korak would not show this new-founded concern to his cousin, despite his deep and angry regret that he had spoken so without thought. He laughed in her face. "I do not fear you as a competitor for the Princess' hand," he said. "I see no lack of wisdom in what I have said."

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

On their way back to the Palace, Jarult met them. The chamberlain had been loitering in the garden for hours, his unease growing toward alarm and then panic as the day’s audiences came and went unanswered. A seemingly endless stream of servants came to him from various points of the Palace to ask for the King, bringing word from yet another person whose petition demanded the King’s attention. Those who came from the ordinary guilds were easily dealt with by a quick word to come again upon the morrow and hope to find the King more at his leisure to meet with them. The answer, while not satisfactory, was the best they could hope for and they had to content themselves with it. The servants who came from members of the nobility, however, were more difficult to put off. Puffed up with the importance of their position, they were querulous in their demands on their masters’ behalf, and Jarult had to speak sharply to several of them. He grew so tired of these encounters that he sent word that he and the King were not to be disturbed any more that day. But with the cessation of the interruptions he had nothing to distract him from brooding over the unprecedented manner in which the King had received the Emissary. To have spent time with him alone was one thing, but to have spent an entire day in private conversation with an utter stranger… To place his very life at the mercy of this man from across the desert…it was hardly to be believed. And yet he had the proof of his own senses to bear out the truth of it. As the sun westered and sank, the gates of the Emissary’s villa remained steadfastly closed, and Jarult could do nothing more than worry.

When finally the King and the Emissary emerged, the old man almost threw himself at the King. “Majesty!” he exclaimed, in his urgency and concern almost forgetting the presence of the stranger. Recalling himself, the Chamberlain looked at the man pointedly and said with greater reserve to his King, “There are matters we need to discuss of an important nature, Khamûl.”

The Emissary turned to the King and repeated the word with shocking familiarity. “Khamûl? Is this a term of respect in your land, or a formal title?”

The King smiled. “It is hard to know what to call it. It is a term of…respect, I suppose, used by my subjects. It is in Old Pashtian and means ‘Shining One’. It was the praise name of my father, which is why I think old men like Jarult use it. They seek to flatter me.”

Jarult shook his head violently at that. “No my lord, never would I seek to flatter. I merely…”

The King laughed lightly and held up his hand to stop the torrent. “It is all right, Jarult, I know your heart is sound. I speak lightly, for my heart has been greatly lightened by this day’s converse. And I know what matters you feel we need to discuss. I have whiled away a day as an ordinary man when I should have been acting the part of the King instead. No doubt you have had to contend with many upset people, demanding I meet with them about matters too important to wait for tomorrow.” As he spoke he smiled and even laughed lightly, in which he was joined by the Emissary. Jarult did not know how to react to this and remained silent. “Very well. My friend,” he turned to the Emissary, “I must pay some heed to these matters, for I am still King. You go ahead of me to the courtyard, there should already be gathered there some number of my people, all dying to have a look at you. I will see you at the banquet.”

The Emissary bowed low and departed with fair words. Now that the Chamberlain was alone with the King he began to speak of the matters that had come up, and together they walked toward the Palace. As they went the King’s countenance lost its levity and assumed the hard form of concern that was the norm. It aged him considerably. They achieved the King's personal chambers where he prepared himself for the banquet. He removed the loose robe he had worn since the morning's audience and put on a suit of dark red, woven from the finest silk. He thought for a moment about wearing a circlet of silver, but decided to go unadorned this night. As he dressed, the King listened carefully to his Chamberlain and responded to all of his points, but inwardly part of his mind was elsewhere. More and more of late, the pressures of rule had begun to gall him and weary him. The endless intrigues of the nobility, the demands of the people…even his family. At times he felt as though he were beset upon all sides by the demands and worries of other people. At times he felt how delicious it would be to disappear and remove himself from the concerns of kingship and walk the streets of his city unnoticed and unmarked by any. He sighed at the impossibility of this dream.

Something Jarult was saying caught his full attention. “The master builder Rekan went to the Queen? How did he like the answer he got from her?”

“Not well my lord. The Queen bade him spread his offerings about the obelisk and offer it to both deities.”

Faroz laughed lightly. “I can well understand how such a piece of advice would not please him. And did he do it?”

“What other choice did he have? He could not so openly affront the Queen.”

Faroz laughed once more at the wisdom of his wife. He had never loved her, nor, he was certain, had she ever felt any tenderness toward him. But he had come to respect her intelligence and judgement. She was a faithful and helpful partner in his rule, and a capable woman. He was suddenly seized with a desire to see her. Bidding Jarult to oversee the final ordering of the banquet, he sought out Bekah’s apartments. He used the smaller passageways to avoid meeting other people, and soon he was at the door to her private apartments. The guards came to attention and for a moment he considered sending word to his wife that he had arrived, but determined instead simply to enter unannounced. He found his wife at the window admiring the setting sun. It had been a number of years since he had visited her in her quarters. Indeed, it had been a number of years since they had spoken outside of their formal audience each day, and she was surprised to see him there. She bowed her head slightly and approached him, holding out her hand for him to take it. He took it lightly in his own and held it to his forehead, then bent and kissed her lightly upon the brow. If she were surprised at his sudden use of the formal intimacies of husband and wife she did not show it. “You look well tonight,” he said.

“Thank you, lord. I thought it best to honour your guest. You have favoured him with your attentions today greatly.”

He smiled. “You would chide me for neglecting my duties. You are right. Although I hear that you took over some of those duties in my stead.”

“The man came to me, lord. I only answered his query.”

“You did right, lady. I should not have abandoned you all as I did. But this Emissary…he fascinates me. He has come from such a far land, and has told me such things as you could not imagine. Did you know that in his land, Elves are not part of the human world, but live apart in vast realms of their own? And there are other beings there as well, short of stature and stern of spirit, who live only in the bowels of mountains where they mine the riches of the earth. It was a wonder to me.”

The Queen looked at him carefully. “You are enchanted by this man, lord. Are you so sure you can trust all that he says? He has spoken much of his lands, but has he said anything of why he has come so far? What is it that his King Annatar wishes with an alliance with us, who are so far removed from him?”

Faroz fell silent and looked out across the desert sands. The sun fell below the horizon and night came upon the land in the instant so that the stars appeared above as though a host of torches had been lit at once. “I do not know, lady. I want to trust him, and if my concern were for myself alone I would. But you are right, I do not have the luxury that normal men do to choose my friends based on such paltry concerns as feeling and friendship. Come,” he said quickly, before she could reply to his odd manner. “Let us not keep everyone waiting.” He held out his hand to the Queen who took it in her own, and Faroz lead her toward the door of her apartment. “I will sit at your table this night and you can remind me of my duty should I begin to forget it in the pleasures of the evening.”

[Firefoot]

Siamak sighed. He knew he should probably be preparing for the banquet - the feast was fast approaching - but he had no inclination to rise from his reclined position on the couch in his reception room. Now that it came down to it, he wasn’t really sure that he wanted to go, but with position comes responsibility, and sometimes desire had nothing to do with choice. With that in mind, he picked himself up from the couch and began to head for his dressing room. He did not get far, however, before the door behind him opened. Siamak whirled on his heel, surprised and curious.

“M’lord Siamak?” said the man at the door, inviting himself inside. Siamak grinned, waving him inside.

“Come on in, Okarid. I have a banquet to prepare for,” he said. Okarid was Siamak’s only attendant, though the relationship was much more complex than that: Okarid was Siamak’s confidant, and the two were friends. They were about the same age, though the two were as different as night and day. Okarid was outgoing, confident, and very impulsive. They knew each other and their roles well, so well that their master-servant positions were almost a game the two played, both weaving from friendliness to propriety without missing a beat, so that no one who observed them would ever notice anything but the most proper relationship.

“The banquet, of course. I bet you’re looking forward to that,” Okarid said.

“Oh, yes, of course,” replied Siamak sarcastically. He was glad for his friend’s cheery presence. Okarid was the only person around whom he felt safe to say exactly how he felt about anything.

“Let’s see...” said Okarid, going to Siamak’s wardrobe. “This should work well, don’t you think?” He pulled out an outfit of blue silk: bright, but not too gaudy, and suitable for a banquet.

“Perfect,” replied Siamak. There were days when he thought Okarid should have been born a prince and he the servant; Okarid had a natural ability to understand nobility and their ways - Siamak didn’t know what he would do without him.

“So what do you think of this emissary?” asked Okarid, striking up conversation as Siamak began to change his garments. “Fascinating, aren’t they?”

“You might say that. I don’t trust them,” answered Siamak bluntly.

“Really? Why?” queried Okarid. “I only saw them from a distance.”

“That’s exactly what I’ve been trying to figure out for the past couple hours,” said Siamak with a sigh. Okarid raised his eyebrows. “It’s just a feeling, really. Their actions are very proud and proper - they even bring gifts! - but something’s wrong.”

“Huh. Perhaps you will learn more tonight?”

“That’s what I’m hoping.” There was a sharp rap at the outer door. “Go see who that is, would you?” Siamak wondered who it might be. There were a few options: it could be a messenger, or perhaps some noble wanting to speak to him before the banquet. The latter thought made his head hurt.

“M’lord Siamak, this man has a message for you from the queen,” Okarid called from the next room. Siamak glanced at the mirror and went to hear what the man had to say.

“Thank you, Okarid,” he said, and turned to the messenger. “Yes?”

“Prince Siamak, Her Majesty requests that you join her for the entrance to the banquet tonight. You may meet her in the private garden adjoining the banquet hall. You may take your own table, however, if you wish.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Siamak. The man bowed and left the room, leaving Siamak alone again with Okarid. There had been nothing unexpected in the message, though it was reassuring to know precisely what was going on. He returned to his dressing room, Okarid in his wake. Siamak took a better look at his reflection in the mirror, and decided that the four small gold-entwined braids in his beard did not need to be redone. He ran a comb through his shoulder-length black hair, and decided there was little other preparation to be done. It was time to head out, though there was still time before the banquet began. Being a little early would probably be a good idea. He turned to Okarid.

“I will see you later tonight, or tomorrow morning perhaps, to tell you anything you want to know about how the banquet went,” Siamak said He knew that the servants knew a great deal of what went on in the palace; he had learned much news of interest from what Okarid had heard through the servants’ grapevine. He opened the door to the hallway, planning to head to the courtyard - it was there that those attending the banquet would gather beforehand. He knew that the servants knew a great deal of what went on in the palace; he had learned much news of interest from what Okarid had heard through the servants’ grapevine. Okarid grinned. “Of course, M’lord.”

[Imladris]

Arshalous clucked her tongue softly. He didn't find any danger in telling her that he merely wanted to marry her so that he could become king...she reflected this for a moment. She did not honestly think the Princess would mind his motives...in fact she probably would love having more power than if her brother became king. Yet...would the Queen mind? Would the King mind? She chewed her lip and her eyes drifted to the ceiling in a slow roll.

She would probably never even tell the fact to the royal family. It was simply bad form to say such things...yet...he was such an imbecile, she thought bitterly. Her only living relative an imbecile. If the throne passed to him...she shook her head.

"Well, you see," she said, playing with the ring that adorned her finger, "it was unwise because I could relay that information to the royal family and they may not like that." She smiled at him.

He paled a little and the necklace trembled in her fingers.

Her smile broadened grimly. How she loved to play with him like this. Yet, if she could so easily play him, what could others do?

"Let me see that necklace," she said abruptly, leaning over and plucking it from his fingers.

The golden necklace glimmered palely in the gloom. With her finger she touched the sapphires, and rubies that were nestled along the chain, bound to their beds with silver vines.

"It is pretty, is it not?" asked Korak, a proud, mocking smirk twitching about his lips.

Scoffing, she tossed the necklace carelessly to him. She watched with amused pleasure as she scrambled to catch it. "Beauty is in the eyes of the beholder, Korak. And if you think that that is beautiful..." she let her voice trail off in delicate ambiguity.

It was a beautiful necklace and she felt a prick of jealousy for the princess. She almost wished that she had suitors (though they would be unwanted) to shower her with such jewelry.

She reached for her goblet to douse her jealousy, but jerked back, her fingers curling with irritation both at the fact that she couldn't trust her cousin and the fact that he was grinning maliciously at her. It hurt in a dull, blunt, sub-conscious way that she couldn't trust Korak. Would he try to poison her? She doubted it. Yet...there was always that irritating yet. She considered taking a gulp just to wipe that smear off his face.

No...life was too pecious for now to risk death. Death would come quick enough...and if she was ready and Death did not come, she'd drag it to her bedside. However...today was not the day.

"If you are to become king," she observed as she abruptly changed the subject, "it would be wise to actually care about Emissaries and things. Oh, but I forget," she said with a laugh, "you only care about appearances..."

[Kransha]

The immediate innards of the palace at Kanak had often been seen by Morgôs, and he did not need to look upon them. Something about this whole great farce of festivity already had drained his strength from him. He was weary, if only from wandering back and forth through the courtyard. As the courtier of Faroz lead him towards the public entrance, grand as expected, the amount of people lessened. Many nobles had been invited, but most had enough bonds with other members of nobility to be able to forge petty conversation in the courtyard. Morgôs had nothing to do but find his wife, Arlomë, and Evrathol, wherever he was. Though he could not be sure, he resolved that Arlomë must be in the attendance of the Queen at present. Every member of Queen Bekah’s retinue was probably engaged in some activity designated for them. Morgôs would find his spouse in the palace if he could, or dispatch this same courtier to search for her.

Quietly, as he and the herald before him advanced into the solitary silence of the palace foyer, Morgôs took the young courtier by the shoulder, clasping a small, ornamental pauldron strapped to his mountain-sharp shoulder and turned him swiftly around, leaning towards him with a hasty whisper in his throat. “Lad, tell me, where dwells the Queen tonight?” The courtier shook his head in abrupt, youthfully vigorous manner, which irked Morgôs. He was a swift being himself, but he did not see why things in Pashtia had to be hurried so. He knew that it was the short span of events for men, who could not appreciate the pleasure taken in a length of time. His lip curling disdainfully, he removed his hand from the youth’s shoulder and listened to him speak.

“I do not know, sir.” He said, very apologetic, and overly mobile, nearly bouncing from one foot to the other. A moment before, he had been slowed, calm, collected, but now, as soon as the two had entered the palace’s confined halls, he became restless and disconcerted, looking as if the merest spark might set him off, ablaze and soaring like a comet to his next destination. “Honestly,” he than said, gesturing with his hands, sorry for either his lack of knowledge, or his inability to slip out of the conversation, “I know very little of what goes on hereabouts, and far less tonight.”

Unfazed, and persistent, Morgôs snapped back, “Have you perhaps caught a glimpse of Bekah’s entourage?”

The courtier looked slighted, and Morgôs did not understand the look of very mild contempt that was shot at him, but all became clear when the courtier neatly corrected him. “You mean, ‘her majesty’s’ entourage, do you not, General?” His tone was now impatient, and did not seem meant to spur a response from him immediately. His need to fly had evaporated, replaced by a disdain that Morgôs had held for him but a moment ago. But, the general was not in the mood to entertain this new attitude, and quickly retorted with a similar annoyance, trying to resolve that portion of the conversation and gain a reply to his original question.

“Of course I do. Now, have you an answer?”

With a curt sigh, the courtier shook his head. “No, I have not.”

Morgos grumbled a few syllables under his breath and asked again, with more urgency, as unneeded as it was, “Are you able to seek out the Queen?” The courtier shook his head before the general had finished, his elegantly braided beard flung easily from side to side of his helmeted head, which bore the simple helm of a guard of the palace and servant of the King. “Not now, milord.” He responded, and Morgôs felt enough honesty present in his rushed tenor to serve, “I have more to do.” Morgôs nodded, begrudgingly in fact, and waved his hand as a dismissing motion, which seemed to release the courtier from his hold and firm affixation to the tiled floor. He sped off, with a bare bow as he passed, the sound of his rattling footsteps echoing off the high ceiling and resounding for a good many seconds.

He looked about, hearing new sounds, smelling new smells, and feeling a strange cold fill him. Pashtia was more often than not a warm land, and the palace seemed cold. Most mortals might not notice such subtle temperature changes, but, to Morgôs, it was a stirring and grave adjustment. He pulled his heavy robes about him, uncharacteristic again. In the courts, he was more self-conscious, and not himself. Maybe, it was his true self that he was hear, in the greatest structure of Kanak, and a different division of himself on the battlefield that took him over, knowing of his mind’s diversions and riddling thoughts, and manipulated him to whatever end it might desire. He could never tell, for he had many selves, each of which was frequently used, and he could alternate as easily as he could a suit of mail. But now, again, his reverie was stirred by the multitude of footsteps booming in the distance and gaining on him, until a number of guards appeared in the threshold of one of the gateless entrances to this foyer hall. At the other side of the broad room, several passages converged, and each issued out into darkness and enigma on its other side so that Morgôs could not see past their cold, steled archways. There were six or seven guards, and most filed immediately past the general without a passing nod, but one stopped just before him. This guard bore the colors and the coat of a man in service to the queen, and lacked the sterner cloths of the King’s retinue. He was probably indentured to her, or served her of his will, perhaps even an Alanzian himself, but, in the court, Morgôs did not dwell on that.

“General, I bring an invitation from Queen Bekah.” Said the man, who was, as Morgos observed, some years older than the first courtier to address him, “She wishes for you to meet with her at the banquet entrance, with your wife and son, and sit beside her this evening during the feast.” Morgôs was immediately aroused with curiosity and suspicion as well. He supposed that this invitation came merely from the Queen’s sense of state tact, but he knew that she was not inclined to like him as a man – or an Elf, rather. His views were clear enough to any other. But, at such events, it was that tact that really mattered, and Morgôs assumed that this offer had been extended because of his wife’s position, and his own, or perhaps by the King’s prerogative. Surely, Faroz was busy with the Emissary, and could not be bothered with the issuing of invitations.

“If only my wife and son could be found.” Exclaimed the General, loudly, and the guard jumped a little. Morgôs peered forward, both at and into the palace guard, with a keen look on his Elven face. “Does my wife still hold counsel with the Queen.” He asked, patient and reticent. This guard was less hasty than the last, and took a moment to think on the words, his gaze twiddling about until it found the darkened corner of the vaulted hall roof and wandered there briefly, eyes blinking occasionally. It was more than half a minute before he responded, and the general waited, his foot tapping with absolute noiselessness on the floor.

“No,” he said, “not when I left her last. Most of her majesty’s retinue is busy in the palace.” He gestured around, indicating the halls, even though they were empty at the moment. Morgôs’ keen Elven ears heard many noises stirring up in the other sections of the palace and offshoots thereof, for the palace was very vast. The room he stood in was great to the eye of a pauper, but only one of the many entrance halls that could be accessed from the courtyard (and one far less crowded). Morgôs did not let his ears or mind linger on those resonant sounds in the distance, swelling and dying all in instants, and responded to the guard accordingly. “Indeed.’” He murmured, with a grateful nod to the guard, which was returned, “If I can locate her and my son too, I will gladly attend at her side.”

The guard bowed. “Yes, general.” Taking the hint from Morgôs, he turned smartly on his heel and marched off down the hall, in another direction than the one the first guard had taken. Once he had disappeared through one of the hall’s many passageways, corridors, or colonnades that led off through the palace, Morgôs stood alone, wrapped up in his courtly garb, in the hall of the Pashtian King, solemn and soundless in thought.

[Nurumaiel]

"I care nothing for the Emissary," said Lord Korak, and he stood from his chair, raising himself to his powerful height. He did not stand over her, however, and seek to intimidate her, but he paced to one end of the room before returning to the table. He opened his mouth to speak, but he was cut short, for the door opened and the servant Morashk slipped in. He paused when his darting eyes rested upon the Lady, but with no change of expression he glided onward once again, and stopping at the table he poured a goblet of wine and gave it to his master.

Lord Korak was relieved at the presence of his servant. Morashk was quick-witted, and cunning, and on more than one occasion had served as the brain when the Lady cousin paid a visit. Morashk was servant, confidant, and also counselor. He took care that his master said nothing that might give the Lady an unfair advantage, and he advised his master on what to say in reply to her. It aggravated her, to see Morashk whisper in the Lord's ear, but she could do nothing about it, save spit out spiteful comments. Morashk did not care; all that mattered was that his master did nothing foolish. More than Lord Korak appreciated his servant's counsel, he appreciated that the two of them shared a hate for the Lady cousin.

"Master, I could not help but hear you mention the Emissary," said Morashk, smoothly, and with a crafty look at the Lady. "Perhaps you should end this visit, and prepare yourself for the banquet."

Lord Korak gazed into the eyes of his servant until the meaning was clear to him, and then with a satisfied smirk he shook his head. "No, I will let my guest stay a little longer to entertain herself."

Morashk's pale, spidery hand extended, the long fingers spread wide. "Then, Master, you will not care at least if I take the gift for the Princess and bind it so it will not be damaged on our little journey to the Palace?" He took the necklace, and let it run through his hands as if it were a river of gold and rubies. "What a fine gift for the Princess, my Lord," he said, as if to himself, and as if he were forgetting the presence of the Lady. "Her worth is surely high, if you are willing to lavish her with such presents." His shifting eyes rested upon his master's face, and his look was meaningful.

The Lord Korak understood, and he spoke, saying: "Indeed, servant, her worth is high, as is the worth of any woman who is presented with such a gift. There are women whose suitors cannot afford any gift; they are to be pitied. But to be detested are the women who have no suitors, who are thought so base and ugly as to have no one to cherish feelings for them."

Morashk's eyes glinted, but he ignored the Lady Arshalous, though he was deprived the satisfaction of seeing the anger he hoped was in her face. Lord Korak was gazing at his servant impatiently, obviously wanting him to go about with his task. "I will withdraw then, my Lord, and fulfill my task," he said. "But, my Lord, do not linger long. Time passes, and the banquet is fast approaching."

"I will entertain my guest a little longer yet," said Lord Korak, "for she has not yet satisfied my generosity by accepting the wine I have given."

"Yes, my Lord," said Morashk, and he slunk to the door. There he paused, and he turned, saying, "M'Lord, what, pray, shall I do about your Lady Mother?"

"My Mother," said Lord Korak, in surprise. "I had forgotten about her."

"Shall she attend the banquet?"

"If she wants to, I suppose she must," said the Lord. "Go at once and seek out one of her maids, servant, and send her to my Mother to help her prepare. Then fulfill your task of the gift, and do not forget to set out the finest in my wardrobe."

"Yes, m'Lord," said Morashk, and he bowed. Yet he did not withdraw, but, with a quick glance at the Lady Arshalous, added: "Those women who are loved by no men... they deserve not to hold the title of 'Lady.' A Lady is one who is loved, and who is fair of face." His eyes flicked to his master. "Like your mother, m'Lord."

"Yes, yes, like my mother," said Lord Korak, impatiently, and he waved his servant away. When the door was closed softly, he turned to the Lady Arshalous. "You too will be anxious to prepare yourself for the banquet, my lady cousin, if you plan to attend. Yet I insist you drink the wine first. It is not poisoned as I have said. I swear it is not poisoned. At worst it is bitter, made of ill-chosen fruit. I will not let you leave this table without accepting my offering first. So drink, cousin, and then go prepare yourself for the merry banquet."