Shadow of the West

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

Gjeelea's light sandals shuffled along the tile floor of the hallway as she walked briskly to her mother's apartments. She could hardly concentrate on going the right way, for she was too busy wondering why her mother had called her and Siamak to her rooms. Gjeelea made several wrong turns, careless mistakes that she did not realize she had made until she found herself in a completely different wing than the one she meant to go to. When she finally did find her mother's apartments Gjeelea was still wondering why it weighed so heavily on her mind.

Big doors loomed in front of her, and guards stood around them with looks of complete and utter boredom on their faces. They let Gjeelea through, and the princess knocked on the polished wood, passively eyeing the intricately inlaid gold trim on the doors as she waited for it to be opened. When it finally was opened, Gjeelea was welcomed by Homay, her mother's maid. With a tight smile Homay opened the doors wide for Gjeelea to enter. The princess gave a smile in return, a smile as honest as she could make it as she stepped into the quarters of the queen. Homay led her away, and Gjeelea listened half-heartedly as the kind old woman informed her where Siamak and her mother waited for her.

Standing with her brother in the corner looking at tapestries, Gjeelea could hear her mother explaining something about the difficulties of weaving to him. Her lovely, though rather simple turquoise robe rustled with the slightest movement. Gjeelea had learned many things from her mother, and spent more time with her than she had ever spent with the king.

"Good morning, Mother," Gjeelea promted, and she watched as both her mother and brother turned from their conversation to look at her. Siamak certainly looked more like Bekah, for reasons Gjeelea could not quite place. Something about her brother reminded her of her mother, and it bothered Gjeelea that she could not figure out why. His eyes? Maybe it was his smile. The princess looked to the younger sibling. "And to you as well, dear brother."

[Kransha]

Fealty in Pashtia, and the swearing of it, was simple, but important. Unlike in certain nomadic tribes’ political structures, Pashtian fealty did not mean boundless loyalty, it simply meant “alliance” with some noticeable perks. Swearing fealty was the equivalent of promising to back someone, sponsor them financially and with what power was available. An officer of the army swearing fealty meant that he would use his power and rank to support the recipient of his fealty in his endeavors. Siamak, though, would have to be careful. He had probably not had many important persons extend their favor to him yet, since no one wanted to risk giving fealty to the child who might not be heir. According to old customs, he was not supposed to make his supporters publicly known. It was an odd custom, but one that seemed to make sense. Until the heir was chosen, all those who favored Siamak would contribute what they could to him: money, training, teaching, and whatever they could give, rather than announcing their loyalty. By the time the heir was chosen, the King’s choice might be swayed by the experience and wisdom, as well as newfound wealth, of his son – and chose him as the rightful heir. Swearing allegiance to Siamak, Morgôs was risking a great deal. If Gjeelea became Queen, he could not change his alliance, and Siamak would have to publicly implicate all of his supporters. Morgôs would be stuck as the acolyte of a bereft lord, doomed to be second to his sister, and the Queen would hold his preference against him as long as she lived. But, Morgôs knew that his strength, and tutoring, could make a man of the prince. Siamak would be king.

Suddenly, he felt underhanded. He was loyal, staunchly, to his king, but he felt as if, in some subtle way, he was manipulating the spectrum to suit his devices. He swore fealty not to the new king, but to a man who shared his opinions, and he planned to elevate in power. From what he’d heard, Gjeelea was not in favor of the Avari, generally, and he suspected Korak was not either. Siamak, on the other hand, extended his favor to men and Elven-kind alike. He could be trusted not to distance Pashtian mortals from immortals, as his mother or sister might desire. Similarly, Gjeelea seemed most untrustworthy, and everything Morgôs heard about Lord Korak implicated dissolution in the nobleman, a kind that should not be seated on a throne. If Gjeelea and Korak became the rulers of Pashtia, it would mark, almost definitely, the end of Pashtia’s golden age. For years after the death of Faroz’ father, Pashtia had been nowhere near its former heights. The father of Faroz, former king, had indulged expansion and cultivation of his land. He’d been worshipped, thought by some to be the sired child of Rea himself, but those were myths. That king, like Faroz, had supported Morgôs’ endeavors but, unlike the present monarch, he had spurred him to marvelous conquest…though Morgôs did not particularly relish conquest.

The throne could not afford a blow like this; a corrupt lord and a gossipy girl vying for it. No, it needed a strong leader, one who knew that denying the Avari there rightful place was folly, and that things had to be done, great things. Morgôs was no hound of war, no vainglorious philosopher, but his loyalty to Faroz was only dented by his dissatisfied attitude towards the man. He had enough angst to dwell on without nostalgia, and, although war was not a good thing, making too many alliances might place Pashtia in a precarious situation. The next king would need the backing of the Avari and of the army as well. Siamak could be that man, like his grandfather, but not necessarily as haughty or ambitious. Perhaps, if all went well, Morgôs could train Siamak further – not only in the ways of war. It was a manipulative, covetous thought that ran through the Elf’s mind, one which was uncharacteristic in the extreme and it soon left him but, again, he felt the bizarre pleasantry of it, and felt as if he needed to think more thoughts such as this one.

But, he was preoccupied. He instead thought of his wife and son. He had not seen them in some hours. Ever since last night’s banquet, he had been out and about, only able to bid his family farewell and wish them good night. He had ridden all through Kanak to get to the headquarters of the capital’s guards and put together a slapdash squad that was to guard the Emissary’s villa, and a small unit that was designed to guard the queen, stationed in her lavish gardens. He had then ridden, with the first squad, to the guest villa of the westerners, and explained, as King Faroz had told him, the necessity of these guards. Now, he was again riding, this time to the expansive training fields on Kanak’s western fringe. The training exercises of the Pashtian Foreguard had never been completed the day before, because of the Emissary’s arrival, and they had been rescheduled to this morning. So, Morgos was obligated to attend.

It had been trendy to be seen riding a noble beast in Kanak, a horse of good breeding, but that fad went out of style after the conclusion of the Pashtian conquests, when the alliance with Alanzia was made. The walking fashion had diffused over Kanak from Alanzia. Queen Bekah and her train did not use horses. Faroz, being polite, did not do so either, and soon, no one was. Morgôs, on the other hand, required a swift mount, as his duties took him all around the city, and outside of it, on almost a daily basis. Horses, though, were not as long-lived as Elves. Mortal soldiers might bond with the steeds that bore them through thick and thin, but Morgôs could develop no attachments. He’d ridden more than twenty steeds in all of his days, who were named in records somewhere or other. At the Battle of Keldoraz, he’d had one shot out from under him, impaled with Alanzian shafts, and another stricken while he rode through the thick of battle, the carcass of the creature nearly crushing him at the time. His current transportation was a more regal steed, groomed for speed and grace rather than war. This horse had never worn the pitted battle armor of a general’s mount, except once, four years ago, at a rather pompous parade marking the twentieth anniversary of the formation of the Pashtian-Alanzian alliance. It was a thin creature, but its mane and hide shimmered with a gentle sheen that nearly glowed in the light of the morning sun, and its head was proud, neck arched upward to the sky. It was a pretty horse, certainly, but wouldn’t last a minute in pitch battle.

Kanak was a brilliant sight to see, but not for the Elven general. He had seen things greater and more terrible. The grandeur of the city waned, though, as Morgôs reached the outskirts. The walls lowered, the roofs lowered, and the sun seemed to go higher in the sky as thick tiled streets gave way to cobblestones, covered with a few meager weeds. At last, the cobblestones became dusty dirt, with makeshift paths, and the buildings disappeared behind, leaving small structures that cluttered the fringes of Kanak. Then, new structures sprang up, with high pointed roofs that swayed, with banners and pennons fluttering in the warm Pashtian wind. Pavilions and tents, filling the eaves of the city, fenced in by a low, thin stone wall. Past the many tents lay an expansive field, also walled in behind the thick outer walls of the city. The field was composed of dirt and some patches of grass, the whole area roughly a quarter league square, huge and barren. Upon it, soldiers mulled and mustered, marching, running, and meandering to and fro across it. They were preparing for the training exercises of that day.

Morgôs easily reined his steed in as his horse pulled through the gates of training ground walls and onto a path of flattened stones, into which several other paths converged. These roads led throughout the camp og the Pashtian army. Morgôs, as his braying horse trotted neatly to a stop, was greeted by a number of armored guards, whose plated pauldrons glistened in daylight. “General, welcome.” Said one, as the other two took the reins of Morgôs’ mount and helped him from it, “The exercises will not resume for a little while yet.” The General swung himself nimbly from the horse’s back, landing with Elven grace on the earth, and moved towards the guard. “Then I am early?” he said, hopefully.

“Yes, General, but not unlawfully so. Captains Aysun, Iskender, Memnon, and Adbullar are waiting in the strategic pavilion on the training fields, and they have sent word that you should meet with them. They have an issue to discuss with you, one relating to the Emissary from the west.” Morgôs knew the guard was referring to his seconds, the various commanders of the army. They usually had something to discuss with him, so this was not unordinary. Succinctly, Morgôs followed behind the guard who, taking cue from the General, hurried off towards the commissioned officer’s strategic pavilion, which was nearby.

[Nurumaiel]

Lord Korak paced restlessly up and down, scowling darkly here and there, kicking at the rugs, and releasing his anger in any other way he found possible. His mother did not flinch when his fist came down heavily upon a table he passed, but she sat gazing at him with eyes full of sorrow, and she was as still as a stone, save her hands, which fumbled at the folds of her clothing. He cast a look at her face once, and paused for the briefest moment at her sad and gentle face, and he felt some regret at her unhappiness. A memory of sitting by her knee and letting her hand stroke his hair flitted through his mind, but he rallied himself and scowled at how sentimental she was, and he continued his pacing.

There was a silence, and then he stopped and flung his arms in the air in complete abandonment to frustration. "What a family I am cursed with!" he cried. His mother did flinch this time, and he felt a quick pang of anger towards his own self for having said such a thing in her presence. "I do not mean you, Mother," he said, hastily, and moving towards her to take her hand. "I speak of the Lady Arshalous. She has no other aim in life but to torment me with her sharp words and cunning glances. She has injured me, she has injured my most trustworthy servant, and she has injured you, too, my mother, for I see the lines of sorrow upon your face."

Lady Hababa stroked her son's hand with great tenderness. "Oh, son, my injuries are inflicted by you, not by her," she murmured.

He drew himself up stiffly, and said sharply: "What do you mean, Mother? What have I done to harm you?"

"Truly do you speak when you say that I am pained by your cousin's behaviour towards you, but it pains me more to see my son speak bitter words and laugh in cruel mockery at the daughter of my sweet sister." A tear rose to her eye, but she did not brush it away, for with both hands now she had gripped his own, and she stared earnestly into his face. "It is hard, my son, so hard to live amongst those whose only pleasure is to harm those who should be nearest and dearest to them. Do you think I do not notice how much hate fills you? I grow old, son, but wiser and keener, and yet more prone to be wounded by foolish hatreds."

"Be that as it may, Mother," said Korak, and he pulled his hand away from her, "my cousin is a poisonous snake, and I cannot help but hate her who hates me." He saw that she opened her mouth to speak, so he moved quickly to the door, saying: "I intend to go out riding, Mother, and try to calm myself with the fresh air."

"You will return to me in a better mood, I hope," she said, but there was the smallest hint of a question in her words.

He stopped at the door, and felt much annoyance that she should suggest that his mood was ill, and he turned with a sharp reply upon his lips. But his eyes fell upon her face, and he saw not only the sorrow and weariness but the maternal love in her expression, and so he replied, though with reluctance: "Yes, Mother." And then he left the room. She bowed her head and let the tear in her eye fall.

Morashk was skulking about just outside the door, and the Lord Korak turned on him with a scowl, for he had been taken by surprise by the figure hiding in the shadows. "I am going out riding, Morashk," he said. "You will stay here and be carekeeper of this home while I am gone. If the Lady Arshalous calls, as she might to spite me, tell her I am away, and send her up to my mother."

Morashk grimaced at the mention of the cousin's name, and his long, clawlike fingers curled into fists. Yet he nodded smoothly to the order, and promised obedience to fulfill them. He followed his master through the halls of magnificent stonework, and then to the stables to help him prepare his steed. Lord Korak waved aside any assistance, and saddled his horse himself, and likewise refused help to mount. He directed his mount away from the city and towards the country-land, and averted his face so it could not be seen by his servant when he said: "Morashk, I also bid you watch after my mother, and take care that she does not grow too lonely." And then he spurred his horse, and rode hard away from his home and away from his city.

[Imladris]

Arshalous was not surprised when Morashk opened the door with a slight bow and a cunning glance. "Lord Korak is out...you will have no one to loose your venom upon."

She gave him a withering glare. It was pathetic how Korak looked to Morashk for aide in the cat fights that took place between the two of them. It was...Arshalous sought for a word that would describe it....it was weak....almost, but not quite, cowardly. "Then it is good that I have not come to bandy words with Korak," she said shortly, stepping into the dim lit atrium. "No, I have come to visit Lady Hababa."

"I hope you will not wither her spirit," Morashk said snidely as he lead Arshalous into Hababa's chambers.

"Then I would be an ill niece, wouldn't I?" Arshalous said sharply. With an imperious wave of her bejeweled hand, she said, "Leave us."

Arshalous turned and saw her aunt reclining in a low couch beside the crackling fire. Her soft white hair was tied neatly into a mist green scarf and fine needle work dangled from her hands...

Kneeling beside her aunt, Arshalous gathered the small wrinkled hands into her own, kissed them, and said, "Good day, Aunt."

"Arshalous! It has been long since you have come and visited me! And so formal too!" she added, as she wrapped Arshalous in a loving embrace. "The daughter of my beloved sister," she said, putting her hand against Arshalous's cheek.

"You praise me too highly," said Arshalous softly.

"Do tell me what have you been up to?" asked Hababa, her brown eyes twinkling.

What have I been up to Arshalous repeated to herself. "Oh...nothing...of importance," said Arshalous vaguely. She didn't want to talk about the Emissary no matter how admirable she thought she was because that would be politics...and she did not want to talk about the snares of Politcs with her aunt. She was too old to care for such things anyway...

The Lady Hababa smiled softly and said, "Korak is not that bad of a man..."

Arshalous smiled politely.

A loud whinny echoed through the room and Hababa said, "Are you still riding a horse?"

Arshalous managed to snort delicately. "I am not going to quit my riding habits just because the royal family has decided to."

Hababa shrugged slightly and said with a wink, "Korak still rides as well."

That surprised Arshalous. She would have thought that he would have quit riding just to suckle up to the throne. Maybe her cousin did have a backbone after all...

[Kransha]

The strategic was the largest pavilion on the grounds, larger than all the personal tents and yurts erected for soldiers or officers. The pavilion had several stem-off rooms, and was held up by strong cords. It was the temporary strategic headquarters, for informal occasions, of Pashtian generals. The actual War Room of the captains was a marble complex, which also held munitions, supplies, training facilities, and the other necessaries, which was built integrated into the training ground walls. The strategic pavilion was large, made from the strongest, thickest cloth, the color of stone and marble, streaked with purple stripes and adorned with many regal banners bearing symbols and motifs. The inside of the tent was strangely dark, the floor carpeted with fine fur, and held many tables, cushions, and racks of weaponry, maps, scrolls, or other similar objects.

Inside the pavilion, the first to greet Morgôs was Gyges, who he’d seen the night before, his adjutant lieutenant. With a bare grin, he saluted the General properly, and Morgôs returned the gesture. Nearby, seated on a cushion beside a long, broad slab of polished wood that acted as a table, was Lieutenant Adbullar, who promptly rose and saluted as well. Adbullar was the commander of the Foreguard of the Pashtian army, the frontal cavalry division that was the forefront of all Pashtian forces in battle. Beside him sat Memnon, captain of the unit known as the Midguard, in Pashtia, which was always the focal point of the Pashtian line, a division that was also consisted primarily of cavalry, fast moving, horse-riding spearmen and lancers who backed up Pashtia’s famed cavalry archers. Captain Aysun, who was hunched over the table across from Morgôs, was the Rearguard commander, whose horse-swordsmen covered the back and flanks of the Pashtian forces. Last was Iskender, who stood to Aysun’s left, the wizened captain of the entire Pashtian infantry, units of pikemen to fend off enemy cavalry, most efficient against dealing with nomadic enemies. The only captain missing was Nesryn, who was the commander of the Pashtian artillery and an Avari like Morgôs.

“General Morgôs, I am glad you’re here.” said Adbullar, gesturing for Morgôs to sit at his appointed place at the table. He was a middle-aged mortal, stern and talkative, but intelligent enough not to be thought a fool. He was not the epitome of a man, but looked as if his lot in life should have been that of a lord in Faroz’s court. “Likewise, Adbullar.” Morgôs said solemnly and made his way to the cushion offered to him. He was still wearing his elaborate court garb, whereas his captains all wore varying military uniforms, tasseled and adorned with medals and pins of a sort, their finest probable, Self-conscious because of this, Morgôs sat in the billowing length of his robe and leaned forward onto the table as the others sat down, taking their places around the circular slab. “Now,” said the General, his voice cold, “what urgency requires my presence?”

“Nothing so pressing, sir: simply some minor repercussions.”

“Repercussions of what?” Morgôs questioned, curious and disconcerted by the way Adbullar spoke. “The westerners, General.” The captain said in reply, “Not often is the Desert of Ardûn traversed by far-wanderers. Activity such as the coming of the Emissary and his train attract attention in the Burning Sands, and from the peoples who move there. The few sedentary people will take no notice, but hostile tribes might have followed the Emissary towards Pashtia, attracted by the look of them. In the past, this has occurred many times.” Morgôs halted him here, chiding him deftly: “There is no need to remind me of the past, Adbullar, I know it better than you. Tribal warlords and their primitive minions are no match for Pashtian walls and blades. This matter should not require my attention.”

“No, sir, it should not, save for aesthetic benefits of the situation. Word has it from scouts that some overtly organized tribesmen mass in some numbers, perhaps over a hundred men but not much more, just beyond the northwestern walls of Durvelt. Their minds are unperceivable, and we can only guess that they plan to raid Durvelt in an attempt to catch up with the Emissary in Pashtia and plunder his goods as well as sack the town. Of course, even the militiamen of Durvelt could hold out against tribesmen. But, this gives a magnificent opportunity. The political situation in Kanak is one of unsettlement and, in some respects, volatile with the Emissary’s coming, but it can be soothed. An all-out military victory over the tribesmen, witness by the King, his family, and the Emissary, could prove to be the perfect salve.”

“It is overkill.”

“Precisely!” blurted Adbullar, “Instead of throwing some grand parade or military exhibition, we can take the Foreguard of Pashtia to Durvelt within the week, with the royal family and the Emissary in tow, and make a fine exhibition of our victory. The Emissary could get a glimpse of our military prowess, the troops morale would be raised, the King would be impressed, and perhaps allot more funding to the army. No matter what, we can benefit from a full-scale attack and overwhelming of the raiders on the border. ”

There was an unsteady silence. No captain spoke for a few moments, and all eyed were fixed upon Morgôs Elrigon. Soon, a deeper, thicker voice spoke up in agreement. It was Memnon’s. “General;” said the Captain, “it is indeed an efficient plan, and Adbullar is right about the benefits.” Morgôs looked at him, almost as a man betrayed, but then became curious again. “So,” he said quietly, rising in a somber fashion from his seat, “you wish for my permission.”

“No, General,” said Iskender, swiftly cutting him off as the last syllable of the General’s sentence fell from his lips, “we want you to lead the Foreguard to victory. It is no great victory, but a spectacle it shall be all the same, one that will fill Pashtia with the pride it has lost.” Morgôs waited no time before pointing out the initial flaw. “That is Adbullar’s duty.” He said, but Adbullar quickly stood, snapping to attention, and said, “I will accompany you as a lieutenant, rather than lead in your place.” Next Aysun stood up. “As will we all.” He said, “We should all be present with the present courtiers; docents for the Emissary.”

“The Captains of Pashtia reduced to tour guides?” Morgôs objected, irritated. This endeavor seemed like a flashy attempt at securing more glory for the Pashtian armies, and a waste of money for the kingdom. He looked, as if for advice, to Gyges, who had been standing conspicuously silent throughout the dialogue. Morgôs wondered about this, since Gyges was often talkative, and eager to join in conversations of this sort, but he was considering something else, something distracting. Morgôs was nearly distracted as well, if Adbullar’s voice had not snapped him back to the immediate present. “No, not so.” He said, doing little to assuage the fears of the General, “This is to procure political stability, not to make us look like fools.”

“But,” Morgôs said, “what wil it achieve.”

There was a painfully uncomfortable silence that filled the air then. The Captains had been dealt a defeating blow with this question. They could reiterate what they’d said before, but the stern wisdom of their general’s voice told them that repetition would not be a suitable reply. Instead, they stood, all risen now from their seats, pondering, searching for an answer. The wind blew gently against supple cloth that made up the pavilion, causing it to undulate gently above them, creating the sound of whispering that filled their ears. Still, all was silent – until Morgôs himself broke the tenuous calm. “It shall be done soon enough, a week perhaps.” He said, startling all of his commanders immensely, “I must sort things out in the court. The situation with the Emissary has made things…more complicated. I will try to make the proper arrangements. In the meantime, Adbullar, select squads of the Foreguard to go to Durvelt, and all of you appoint a squad of your respective commands to be representatives of their divisions, which will accompany us there.”

Again, a long silence came. Nervously, Iskender spoke up. “It is a good choice, General.”

“For now, it is.” The General acknowledged icy cold.”

Luckily for all, the uneasy conversation was closed when the voice of a lieutenant issued through the tent-flap of the pavilion. “General, Captains,” said the officer, “today’s exercises are about to begin.”

[Nurumaiel]

Lady Hababa looked tenderly down upon her niece, but the sorrow still lingered upon her face, for whenever she mentioned her son, Arshalous' face filled with spite and hate. But the Lady spoke no words to show her sorrow, and the only exterior manifestation of the sorrow was the expression upon her face. Instead she tried to speak lightly, as if no troubles came to their family. "How beautiful you looked last night at the banquet," she said. "The feasting and the music reminded me of the days when I was young and pretty. I met my husband at a banquet, you know, my dear. 'Twas the first banquet I had ever attended; before my parents always kept me at home, for the hours were too late for one so young as I. That night I went for the first time, but my mother was ill and my father determined to stay home with her. I was quite frightened and timid when I arrived at the Palace, for I did not know how to behave. My husband was a young and handsome nobleman, and full of gallantry. He was introduced to me, and allowed me to follow him about through the evening and rely on him for help."

Arshalous smiled, with some encouragement, for Lady Hababa's cheeks flushed rosily and her eyes brightened when she spoke of her husband, and a youthfulness returned to her face that grew wrinkled. "I am glad you enjoyed yourself," said Lady Arshalous.

"I did enjoy myself," said Hababa, "but, dear niece, I wish you and my son would strive to be better towards each other. I do not know how this hatred between you arose, for you were close companions when you were children, but it is a painful thing to see."

"Speaking of your son," said Lady Arshalous, airily, and avoiding an answer to her aunt's plea, "how does he take to the Emissary's words of last night? When he said that the King's son should be King?"

"He did not care overmuch," said the Lady mother. "He was upset at first, though he did not show it at the banquet. He was sulky when we came home, but he told me it does affect him much. The King's word, he says, is all that matters, and not the Emissary's own suggestions." She paused thoughtfully, and then broke out with a vehemence, but with also a deep and desparate longing. "I hope with all my heart that my son does not become King! He grows more corrupt and power-hungry each day, and if the power is given to him I fear there shall be no hope for him, and I have so longed for him to become again the gentle boy he was as a child, who loved freely. At least I hope he will not have the opportunity to inflict the actions of his faults upon the people. He has pained me enough already without extending harm to others."

[alaklondewen]

As Arlomë stepped from the palace entrance out into the city, she shaded her clear blue eyes with one slender hand taking in the hustle and bustle of Kanak in the morning. With her morning tasks for Queen Bekah completed, she wished to spend some time in the temple. The walk to the temple would be a short one, and the elf welcomed the warm sunlight on her cheeks. The wind rustled her deep purple robes and carried the voices of the people that filled the streets to her ears. Kanak was particularly busy this morning as the citizens of Pashtia still had words of the previous evening’s banquet on their lips, and they brought their activities to the market to pass along the rumors heard the night before.

As she strode gracefully along the street, Arlomë paid the human’s idle chatter no heed for she had more pressing matters traversing her mind. The King and Queen had had a heated discussion with the Emissary at the banquet. The three were so emersed in conversation they had forgotten the elven woman was so close, and Arlomë’s keen ears heard almost every word. The Emissary had spoken about the Elves of his land, and even though she had not worried about the other Elven kindreds, what he said startled her and her heart had quickened within her chest. She sorely wished Elrigon had come home after the banquet as she wished to share what she had heard with him, and she hoped she might see him coming around a corner on his noble steed. The Emissary had clearly not wished to share the turmoil between the mortals of the West and the Elves, and what was this evil the Elves brought. Arlomë shivered despite the sun’s warmth as she remembered the touch of the Emissary’s lips to her hand.

Lost in her thoughts, Arlomë was surprised to find herself at the temple’s entrance, and unfortunately no Elven General had crossed her path. The elf paused before the large wooden doors, and then slowly pushed them apart. Light streamed into the dim building from the growing crack between the doors, and the elf delicately slipped through as she watched the dust filled air dance in the rays. After letting her eyes adjust to the dimness, Arlomë shut the tall doors and walked carefully toward the sanctuary for Rhais. As she approached the beautiful statue of the goddess, she noticed the form of the High Priestess crumpled in her humbleness before Rhais. Arlomë halted, momentarily, feeling slightly uncomfortable at seeing the private moment. Silently, she stepped forward and knelt before the statue.

[Bêthberry]

"And to you, dear brother."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"So why are we here?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You would have been mistrusted."

"Worse."

"Worse, Mother?" asked Gjeela.

"Worse, my daughter."

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

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

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

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

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