Shadow of the West

[Novnarwen]

Tarkan

And so things had taken an interesting turn. It was obvious that Evrathol had something on his mind; why else had he come? Tarkan was overly convinced that the elf’s visit was not caused by his sudden urge to pray in the temple to the Goddess, as the elf seldom had been here. Nor was it very likely that he was here to really see his mother, as he had been pretty short with her and Zamara. Tarkan doubted Evrathol had all of a sudden turned very religious, and so, already, the Priest concluded that the elf had come to see him. At the banquet, the previous night, Tarkan couldn't help noticing the elf casting long glances his way; the elf had seemed very eager to catch his attention. Remembering this, the Priest's eyes lit up, now kindling with a strange light. He guessed what the Elf was thinking of; the Emissary. This would probably be the subject of their conversation. Greatly excited by this, what seemed like newly gained popularity; Tarkan invited the young elf to eat breakfast with himself and Pelin. Politely, the fair creature accepted.

Pelin and Evrathol settled themselves on two gigantic cushions; meanwhile the Priest placed himself, cross-legged, on the low divan in front of them. It was only fair that he did so. To them, in the Temple, he was their superior; he was their Priest. Shortly after, a young girl came trotting in, holding a tray laden with bread and fruits. Tea was also brought to them, smelling deliciously of various herbs. The three men accepted gladly.

"So, my dear Evrathol.. Have you come here to join the midday prayer?" Tarkan asked, being almost certain that it was not so. He tried to study the elf's reaction towards this blunt question, but he wasn't able to, as the dim light made it impossible to make out his fair face's true features. Instead, not even being slightly annoyed by this, as he was confident that the elf was thinking of the Emissary rather than the midday prayers, he sipped his tea. By the sound coming from Pelin, Tarkan judged he did the same.

"I must admit that I haven't," the elf replied calmly, after a moment's silence. Just as I guessed.. the priest thought to himself, holding his mask. Evrathol's voice was shaking slightly as if embarrassed by the Priest's inquiry. Tarkan frowned; he hoped he hadn't been too frank with him, but it didn’t matter in the long run care. (Evrathol would never be useful to him, so why care?) He had only been polite, trying to start a conversation. Curious, but polite. He didn't after all mind that Evrathol was here. In fact, he would be rather happy if he had joined the prayers, but the Priest knew that there was something else.

No one spoke for a few moments. It was as if none of them dared to speak, afraid that a secret that none of them would want to take part in, and keep secret, was going to be revealed. The strange feeling that had risen inside the Priest’s chest, when first seeing Evrathol, came streaming back. He felt petty where he sat, having no control over anything whatsoever. He had no idea what he was supposed to say, and he certainly didn't know anything of Evrathol's doings here; only that the most probable was that the Emissary’s visit to Pasthia was constantly on the elf’s mind, and that he thought the Priest could help him. Could he? He wondered. Could he help him? He had not himself been able to form an opinion of the stranger, and he had no idea when he would be given the chance either. His Brother seemed to have no interest in his thoughts on the matter; of the Emissary’s coming. Was it not natural to take council with friends, families and religious leaders? Realising this, Tarakn frowned in disgust. Again, he had been ignored.

"I must speak with you, about the Banquet.. and about my mother, Arlomë.."

Caught of guard by this sudden statement, coming from the man whose outlines he couldn't see properly, he felt his body tremble with anxiety to know what the elf was speaking of. Being absolutely stricken, not knowing what to say or do, he swallowed and said to himself: This has indeed taken an interesting turn..

[Firefoot]

Siamak was endlessly relieved to have a break between the meeting with his mother and the meeting with the Emissary. He had forgotten just how wearing a conversation with his sister could be - all her “brother dear-ing” and subtly condescending manner had given him a headache and reminded him of the precise reason that he avoided extended conversation with her. And now he would have to spend even more time with her during the meeting with the Emissary, which was looming up only too quickly.

The meeting had not been without use, however; in fact, it had been very helpful. He had several new issues to consider, and though he was no closer to reaching a decision, his mind was clearer. He also had a better idea of the types of questions to bring up with the Emissary later on.

In an attempt to relieve the dull throb in his head and better his mood, Siamak decided to take a walk through the gardens. The sun shone clearly, and the day was warm but not uncomfortable for those accustomed to the desert climate. He confined himself to the more private gardens and saw no other people, thankfully. His walk had the desired calming effect and Siamak was soon ready if uneager to go through another round. He returned to his own quarters, wondering how long he would have to wait. He wanted to get it over with on one hand, but on the other he wished he didn’t have to do it at all. Duty again.

Gjeelea showed up first, looking refreshed and stately as ever. “Good to see you again, Siamak dear,” she said. Siamak could feel the headache returning already. He answered as politely as he could and showed Gjeelea to his reception room. When she saw that the Emissary was not yet present, the princess muttered something unintelligible; the only words Siamak caught were “Emissary” and “late.” Siamak sat on a low couch and Gjeelea followed suit, reclining nearby. He was uneasy in his sister’s presence, and she seemed to enjoy is discomfort. Siamak felt like a mouse being stared at by a cat who had decided a bit of sport was in order. Though tempted to feel intimidated, in a new wash of boldness Siamak returned her gaze with a glare of his own. Gjeelea appeared somewhat taken aback, but her expression spoke volumes, as if she were simply humoring him. Siamak wished he could speak out against her and show her that he would not be under her sway in this or any other decision, but he couldn’t. Right then, he hated her, hated her for her impregnable mental strength, and hated himself for not being able to stand up to her.

He was saved by a knock on the door heralding the Emissary’s arrival. Siamak collected himself as best he could as the Emissary was shown in. After one last look at him, Gjeelea turned her attention to the Emissary. Immediately, Siamak noticed that the foreigner had changed his manner of dress to Pashtia’s. It only made Siamak more wary. He would not be won over by the Emissary nearly so easily as his father had been.

“My apologies for being late. I was finishing up a fascination discussion with the king and some nobles over your religion,” said the Emissary. Siamak nodded absently.

“Emissary, my sister and I have not had the convenience of hearing all you have told our father, so I would ask that you would go over the terms of your offer of alliance again with us. Also, I am curious to know why your lord takes such interest in an alliance with a country so far away from his own,” said Siamak. He listened carefully to the Emissary’s answer, paying especial heed to his manner. His response was nothing Siamak had not expected, and though it seemed straightforward, Siamak could not dislodge the suspicion that in every seed of truth there was a grain of lie.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

With the departure of his friend, much of the life went out of the conversation for Faroz. He spoke idly with the women and Korak for a few minutes more, but ever his mind drifted away from where they sat upon the balcony, following Ashnaz through the corridors toward Gjeelea and Siamak. In just over an hour, the King would have to bathe and go to the great hall where he would hear petitions throughout the afternoon. His mind ached at the thought of these, and he longed for a time of respite before they began. For a while he was able to speak with the others about this god of the West, Melkor, but soon he excused himself. Rising, the Ladies Hababa and Arshalous bowed and took their leave, but Korak lingered for a moment. As soon as the Ladies had disappeared, the oaf began. “Majesty. I do not wish to demand, but I must ask when the marriage between myself and your daughter might take place. She is of age now, and I have waited many years.”

Faroz’s eyes narrowed. “Is there any reason for haste, Korak?” In private, he did not bother with pleasantries and formalities. Korak knew the King’s opinion of him.

Korak looked like a child who thought he was being very sly. “The people are beginning to wonder if you are sincere in your desire that we be wed, Khamul. I am afraid that if we remain unmarried very much longer, it will send a dangerous signal to those who oppose the match.”

“You will have your marriage in good time, Korak. I am not about to die any time soon.” Unspoken was the idea that delaying the marriage of his daughter to this man was, at least in part, an extra piece of insurance against his own untimely demise. He motioned for the Lord to depart, but Korak resisted.

“Khamul,” he said again, this time almost wheedling. “I must insist. I fear that if I am not married to Gjeelea soon, I will be forced to conclude only that you no longer intend to honour our…arrangement. I would hate to think that…”

Faroz fought down the desire to call the guards and have the fool thrown into chains. Fighting through the rage in his throat he said. “All right, Korak, you have my permission to speak to my daughter of this. You and she shall together settle upon a date at your earliest convenience. And now, I must rest.” Korak grinned like a dog just handed a large portion of meat. Bowing low he departed in a wave of self-satisfaction.

The King scowled at the wall and thought once more of how much he would like a misfortune to befall the oaf, and as before his mind went immediately to his friend and the Ring. He longed to speak with Ashnaz and take counsel with him – or, at the very least, to be in his company. An idea flashed into his mind, and almost as quickly as the thought itself he acted. Slipping his hand beneath his clothes his finger found the Ring and he put it on. As before, he felt suddenly much more solid in a shadowy world, but he was prepared this time and was not so disoriented as he had been last night. Moving quickly and quietly he left his chambers and stalked the corridors of the Palace. He passed several people, but his soft slippers made no noise, and if they noticed him at all, it was only as a chill beneath their skin.

Finding his son’s apartments, he entered as softly as the wind, and was thankful that none was nearby to see the door quietly opening and closing on its own. He followed the sound of voices and came upon Ashnaz and his children in conference. “The reasons for my Lord Annatar’s request are many, Prince Siamak. Your kingdom is rich in many crops and works of hand that are unknown in the West. My King and his friends would like to sample these goods. To do this, however, we must establish trade and, more importantly, a reliable trade route. This will require time and effort on both our parts. And there are other things to be gained by congress between our realms. Pashtia is well known for its art and philosophy – is it not a mark of wisdom that such knowledge can be exchanged? You may find that we in the West have lore of our own worth the knowing. But beyond all these considerations is the one that my Lord holds most dear, and it is the one I told you all but yesterday when I arrived. Is it not wise, in an uncertain world such as ours, to have as many friends as we can?”

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

The primary silence in Siamak's room felt awkward for a moment, but Gjeelea adjusted to the tenseness that had settled over her and her brother. In the moments before the Emissary entered, Gjeelea wondered how things had become so estranged between her and Siamak. She almost felt as if there had always been an animosity between them. Gjeelea had been three years old when Siamak was born, and she remembered little of that time.

Gjeelea snapped out of her thoughts when the Emissary arrived, so she smiled pleasantly and put on her usual business-like façade.

Siamak took control of the conversation immediately. Gjeelea did not show her surprise in her brother’s suddenly straightforward manner, but the younger sibling had impressed her ever so slightly. He is learning, Gjeelea thought absently as the Emissary began to respond to the Prince’s questioning. But poor Siamak still has to learn, and he is learning too slowly. Father will have to choose between a slow learner and one who already knows.

The Princess expected the sort of answer given by the Emissary - it answered Siamak's question, but vaguely in a sort of rough, outlining thesis. It was the kind of answer Gjeelea had used many times in response to questions she did not like; questions that especially had answers that she knew were less than desirable in total truth. The Emissary spoke of trade mostly, and then he spoke of friendship in an uncertain world.

It would be foolish to just ask 'why?'...Gjeelea thought, musing on what she might say in response to the Emissary's words.

"How is our world uncertain, Emissary, that we need to have alliances with as many nations as possible?" Gjeelea pondered aloud, not meaning to sound so vague but unsure for a moment how to phrase her question and unwilling to spend more time rewording in her mind. "Surely there are times in life...which, perhaps, require more preparedness than others. Those times when one needs to be prepared for the worst in any situation. Those are the times when we are uncertain of which outcome will occur, knowing the best or the worst could happen. Yet, I think, you speak of a danger that we know nothing about at this time. Or perhaps I take your words too literally?"

[Orofaniel]

Evrathol noticed a sudden interest in Tarkan's eyes. It was as if they were lit up. Tarkan looked upon him with great excitement and curiosity. Then his face expression changed; Tarkan suddenly looked anxiously at him, he was probably wondering whether the elf was going to continue and tell him about his concerns regarding his mother and the Banquet or if Evrathol would hold his silence. Evrathol however sat quietly, not knowing exactly what to say or where exactly to begin. Pelin looked questioned at the Priest and not Evrathol, which would have been expected. Pelin sighed a little, just to show the Priest that he was still present.

"Pelin, my friend, please leave us for a moment, will you?" Tarkan asked the man, however he didn’t take his eyes of Evrathol. Pelin nodded quickly; but he didn’t see insulted or angry. Pelin had eaten well and drank enough, and he was more than willing to do what the Priest wished. "It's been a pleasure, sir," he gestured at Evrahol. Evrathol replied quickly; "The pleasure was all mine.” With that, Pelin parted from them. Tarkan and Evrathol were now left alone. Tarkan had by now gotten up from his seat on the divan. His paces were long and it didn’t take him ling to reach the door. He closed it quickly; he was most eager to get back to his seat, or so it seemed. He then found his way back to the divan and seated. This time he didn’t seem as comfortable as he had done before.

"Now," Tarkan began. "It's only you and I, Evrathol," he continued. "I did get the impression that you wanted to speak with me...alone..?" Tarkan then said. Evrathol knew Tarkan was pointing to the event where he had asked Pelin to leave them. "Well, yes," Evrathol replied after a short pause.

"First, will you let me apologise for my very rude behaviour towards you last evening?" Evrathol asked, quietly, but with a certain sternness in his voice. "What is this you speak of?" Tarkan then replied, looking very much surprised. Evrathol didn't know for certain if Tarkan pretended to be untouched by yesterday's events or if Evrathol had been exaggerating. Perhaps he had. By looking at Tarkan - his eyes- he seemed sincere, but the Priest might be fooling him. Oh, what a dreadful thought. Why would a Priest try to fool him?

"Well, I was a bit short with you last night. I may have been a bit arrogant and restricted - and now I'm here to ask for your forgiveness..." Evrathol continued. His voice was, as always, full of self confidence, but somehow, Evrathol seemed blunt. Maybe he was. Maybe the Priest wouldn't notice.

"Don't be silly, my friend," the Priest said, while smirking. Evrathol said naught; and there was a short moment with silence. "Let's hear what you really wanted to talk to me about...shall we?" the Priest suggested eagerly. Evrathol hesitated. Was he going to share his concerns with Tarkan? A Priest he hardly knew? Well, they knew each other well enough to speak in civil conversations in public as well as in private. But the topic Evrathol was about to share seemed like foolish thing to bring up. However, Evrathol knew it was too late to turn now and that the Priest wouldn't let him go just like that.

"I'm worried....or, not worried, maybe just curious," Evrathol began slowly. "As you probably know, my mother spends quite some time in the temple...with The High Priestess," Evrathol continued. He noticed that the Priest's eyes lit up of curiosity and excitement as Evrathol mentioned the High Priestess. "That I know," Trakan then let out. "Well, I'm not quite sure, but I do feel that The High Priestess has....a great...." Evrathol then said. He was looking for a words; the correct word. "Impact," Evrathol then said after a moment. "I think The Priestess has a great impact on my mother Arlomë. I'm not of the opinion that The Priestess is untrustworthy and uncivilized. I'm just not quite sure that this 'impact' she has on my mother is good for her...." Evrathol then concluded. Tarkan listened very carefully without any interruptions. But now as Evrathol had finished, Tarkan cleared his throat; "Are you inquiring that The Priestess is somehow using your mother to achieve....something?" The Priest asked suspiciously. "No," Evarathol replied quickly. "I'm not inquiring anything except for that I'm not certain that the relationship between the two of them is as it should be...." Evrathol knew how odd it might sound for the listener, any listener for that matter. He took a grape from the dish and swallowed it without even tasting the bitter sweet taste of it.

"When I arrived earlier, they were both in a heavy debate, but both were silenced as I entered the county yard. As for eavesdropping; no I'm not the kind, but I must be honest and say that I did hear some talk of the Emissary...." Evrathol spoke quickly, not taking a single breath. "I see..." Tarkan nodded and before he could say anything Evrathol was at his feet.

"I must be going," Evrathol then said. He knew he had been in the temple too long, and his father was probably anxious too see him. "Thank you for everything, and farewell," Evrathol said, waving his good byes to the Priest. "All so soon?" Tarkan then said, while his face expression fell. "I'm afraid so," Evrathol muttered. "Well, at least let me look into....it. Your concerns, I mean," Tarkan then muttered. "That is what I hoped for. Thank you," Evrathol then answered politely, smiling.

Taking his leave, Tarkan was left alone in the room. Evrathol went through the door, meeting Pelin just outside. "Farewell Pelin," Evrathol said quickly. "Sir," he said, bowing humbly.

[Amanaduial the archer]

The midday bells rang through the capital city, chiming duskily from both ends, calling for a break to labours as the sun reached it's peak. Outside, for those in the fields, it was necessary for a break of an hour or two: when the sky god held the sun at it's very highest point, his glory spread far and beat down strongly on those who worked at Rhais' earth.

Did that mean the gods were in opposition? Zamara let the idle thought slip into her mind as her eyes drifted up to the face of the earth goddess above her where she knelt. It was an question without an answer, and thus Zamara let it rest: her goddess did not answer all her questions at her every whim, and it was best that way. She was closer to Rhais than anyone else in the city, but what would the goddess be if there was not still some seperation between them.

Zamara hummed softly to herself as she rose, a melancholy melody - a sung prayer to the goddess, a plainsong chant that would be sung this evening by the acolytes. The words slipped slowly from her lips, surrounding her as she stood in front of the goddess' statue, her hands, still patterned with henna, held together in front of her, her dark eyes half closed. She drew the chant to an end, sighed contentedly, and turned around to see two men standing at the top of the long central aisle between the pillars. They wore agricultural clothing, but still looked nervous, twisting their hats between their hands. One man looked to be in his mid years, the other, a taller, gangly individual, maybe a year or two younger than Zamara herself. As she approached, both men bowed in the form of the Temple, showing themselves to be familiar with Rhais - but by their nervousness, and the fact Zamara did not recognise them, she guessed they were from outside the city walls.

"May Rhais bless your fields and families," she murmured, her hands stretched to them. The older man rose at this, and the younger man followed suit hesitantly, as if not sure he was doing the right thing. Zamara smiled and nodded her head to both of them. "Good morrow, sirs. The Temple is free to worship in."

The younger man looked slightly panic-stricken, but the older man took charge quickly, his ruddy face serious. "It isn't for worship that we come today, High Priestess. We came...well, to speak to yourself, if it isn't too much trouble.

Zamara motioned for him to continue, and the farmer continued hastily. "My name is Farron, and this is Hastif, my nephew. We..well, we appear to have something of a situation at Hastif's father's farm. There is..." he seemed lost for words and the younger man butted in.

"A demon!" he whispered fiercely, reverently.

There was a pause, then Farron gave an irritated sigh, glaring at the younger. "Yes, yes, alright, thankyou Hastif." Having quelled his nephew, Farron returned his gaze to Zamara. "Unfortunately, High Priestess, that it one of the conclusions some of us have come to. It seems to be some kind of earth creature, but what sort we have no idea - none of us have seen the like before, not even the village elders. We are in no way saying it is demonic, as you might say-"

"Speak for yourself, Uncle, you han't seen the critter!" Hastif burst out again, then seemed to remember the High Priestess and redenned sharply. "S-sorry, High Priestess," he stammered, focusing his gaze on her ruby medallion. "I...well, me and my brothers saw the creature a few nights ago, having heard some sort of creaking noises across the farm. Isn't a creature around that makes such a noise, far as we know!"

"What does this 'creature' look like?"

"Look like...hrm." Hastif paused. "It's about...well, somewhat taller than myself, High Priestess, somewhat taller indeed - say three feet taller - but then, it did seem to be sort of...stooping. As for girth, I'd say 'tis a good two feet wide all around as well."

Zamara's eyes widened at the size of the creature, but something about the farmer's phrasing caught her attention. "'All around', you say. What do you mean?"

"Well, that's the thing, Priestess - strange thing it is, seems to be pretty much round. It was hunched in a corner, likesay, somewhat stooping. It's skin, or fur, or covering, is rough and dark brown, sorta dappled like, but that may have just been the torchlight. And the strangest thing about it..." Hastif leant forward fearfully, conspiratorially. "It...it seems to be almost entirely covered in leaves! Attached to it's body! And from in them, there are these two, glowing eyes....And these creaking noises..."

"Oh, I've heard them for m'self as well, Priestess," Farron butted in, shuddering. Strangest noises you ever did hear, and echoing for a mile around - like a barn creaking under terrible weight, like a huge tree about to be pulled down... Horrible."

"Worse some nights than others - some nights it's loud, and quite...horrible. But other nights it is...softer, like; quiet, so's you would hardly hear it, like it could let you drift off to sleep; almost like...almost like a sort of singing, Priestess," Hastif finished thoughtfully, his earnest eyes finding Zamara's.

Farron rolled his eyes again. "Bleedin' singing...'moment ago you were saying it was a demon, nephew! But please, Priestess: have ye any idea what it is?"

Zamara narrowed her eyes and shook her head slowly. "I'm not sure, Farron. Where is it that this creature is?"

"Some miles outside the capital, Priestess: Zatrin-a-Rhais?"

Zamara nodded: the village was well known to her. "I will come this afternoon: I have some business at the palace with Queen Bekah, but afterwards, I shall come, and try to identify what manner of being this is."

Both farmers nodded, grateful smiles coming onto their ruddy faces as they ducked their heads, twisting their hats again. "Thank you, High Priestess, thank you indeed. We'll...we'll be ready for you."

Zamara nodded. "Blessings of Rhais upon you, gentlemen, and a safe journey home."

Still murmuring their thanks, the pair ducked and bowed their way down the aisle and hurried out of the door, leaving Zamara to watch them go, her expression thoughtful. Truth be told, she had no idea what this creature could be: covered in leaves, round in girth, stooping and creaking, with glowing red eyes.... She frowned. Sounded like rural jiggery-pokery exaggeration to her. But her curiousity was piqued - she would go, most certainly, but not alone.

Turning around, she saw Tayfar at the top of the steps, dusting the feet of the goddess very busily. She regarded the acolyte's back with raised eyebrows for a few seconds: the girl had heard everything, she had no doubt. Devoted acolyte she may have been, but she was also an extraordinarily good eavesdropper. Ignoring this, she decided to leave the girl in suspense by ignoring the issue. "Tayfar, come, I need to prepare to go to the palace: my cloak and staff are in my quarters."

Tayfar scurried away with a silent nod and Zamara looked up thoughtfully at Rhais' face again, a questioning smile on her dark, handsome features. "What do you have in store, Goddess?" she murmured, softly.

[Bêthberry]

Apprehension worked on Bekah's thoughts like a dog worrying a bone. All the careful balancing of her life seemed about to collapse, a house of cards after all. At least, that is what she feared as she watched the heat of noon shimmer over the rooftops and buildings from her balcony. She sat at her small desk, writing and rewriting.

My beloved Brother-Monarch,

How pleased my husband and I were to hear of the birth of your child and the safe delivery of your wife. It augurs well that your blood and mine will flow like the life-giving river through time.

What news have you heard of the outside world or are you too ...

She gave up, drumming the desk with her quill and watching the small splatters of ink. Then she began again.

My Lord Faroz,

In the festivities of welcoming this Emissary of the Lord Annatar, we have not considered announching his arrival to our other alliances. Will you grant me permisison to write to Alanzia and ...

This, too, she soon gave up. These were the second and third attempts she had made to address this thought. Should her brother be told of this visitor? Was this suitable only for Pashtian discussion? Could she raise the point with Faroz and not be thought false to her Pastian role? Surely the nomadic tribes will have seen the Emissary's party travel across the land and with them news flew faster than vultures over a carcass. She rose and brought her oil lamp to her desk, setting it down carefully on her desk. Its scent of jasmine filled the room and might perhaps mask the odour of the burning paper. Bekah held each paper, twisted like a taper, over the flame, until each caught and then turned each upright, moving the papers back and forth slightly, watching the flames sway until only ashes were left, falling into the lamp itself. She jerked her hand, as she was too slow with dropping the last taper and the smallest flicker of its final flame touched her nail and singed it. As she sucked upon her finger, cooling the burn with her tongue and saliva, she could taste the ash and melted nail. Strangely, she knew the taste. Old, stale walnuts soaked in brine, with crushed wormwood. Or was she imagining it? How could it ressemble the burnt offerings from victory rituals of her long ago childhood in Alanzia?

She sat back upon her cushions and lay still, eyes closed, listening to the cicadas chirp and wondering if the other tiny noises she heard were other insects. It was not yet time for her ritual bath. Why were she and Faroz always limited to formal public interviews of courtly business? Could she not seek him in private, as he had come twice now in one day? Never before had the Queen entered the King's private quarters. Would she be admitted? Would Faroz's guards accept such an unusual act?

She rose, changing her tunic to lilac and covering her head and body with her outer garment of purple, her rajiba, the cloak denoting regal stature and masking her privacy by leaving only her eyes seen. Leaving her private bedchamber, she sought Homay and explainded her intent. Homay only looked at her closely, and said nothing. Without so much as a notice of her guards, Bekah left her room by her private door and wandered the short passage way to the King's rooms.

Bekah strode with deliberation, each step marking a soft soosh-soosh of her leather sandals upon the corridor's cool stone. Her feet were cold, a contrast to the slight burn on her hand. The guards looked up and stood to attention, saluting her with the royal address of "Majesty."

"These are days of much deliberation. We have court business and foreign affairs and matters of the private affairs of the Royal Children. I would speak with his Majesty about our daughter's marriage." She spoke with assurance and command, her manner suggesting such a request was normal rather than unusual. The guards bows and demurred to her, opening the door with an announcement, "The Queen wishes to seek an audience with his Majesty. She attends upon him now"

With those words, Bekah walked over the threshold she had never before crossed and into the private quarters of her husband. It was a world, a view, a life she had not expected to see, unlike what she had imagined Faroz would prefer. But such thoughts she put away as she sought him out, running through her mind the words she would say to him. Thinking of what she wanted to say, she at first did not realise that she was looking around for him, that he was not there to greet her. Then it dawned upon her. He was absent. She searched his balcony, peered behind the curtains of his deeply curtained bed, looked into his closets. Khamul was not here. She finally found her voice, "Majesty, Majesty, My lord Faroz."

She called not to him, but in a voice which she knew the guards whould hear. They arrived momentarily.

"The King is not here. You have missent me. Tell me where I may find him." The two guards rushed forwards, searching the rooms as she had done. Then an alarm went out.