Shadow of the West

[Novnarwen]

“Father?”

The priest turned around, being surprised by seeing the kind and innocent face of the young Pelin.

“I saw the elf leave..” Pelin continued being uncertain.

Tarkan, who had almost forgotten about his ‘dear friend’ after the interesting conversation with the elf, begged him come in. Pelin obeyed. This was not an ideal situation he found himself in. He would much rather be alone at this point, thinking it all through, especially taking the last bit of the conversation into careful consideration. He cursed under his breath. Was his brother doing it on purpose? Was the King not going to invite him to meet the Emissary? Would he, Tarkan, have to take things into his own hand?! It was outrageous; a Priest with his position, being the King's half brother, should have been invited to meet the Emissary when he came. Not a day or two later! He wanted to know who this so-called guest was! If Arlomë knew the Emissary enough to speak of him with Zamara, he was being ridiculed. He managed to restrain himself, seeing that Pelin looked at him, as if penetrating his mind to see what he was thinking. Tarkan ignored him for a moment, letting his thoughts float and touch the matter that concerned the High Priestess.

If Zamara had a bad influence on Evrathol’s mother, Arlomë, it would surely be a good reason to investigate her. Did the High Priestess use her position to influence people in a wrong manner? Would this be good enough reason to have her followed and watched by the authorities? Surely, if a woman like herself was taking advantage of people through her profession, it would not be supported by . . . anyone!?! With this rather calming resolution, which he intended, and was already very eager, to pursue, he remembered the Queen. She had invited Zamara and himself to the Palace to discuss matters concerning furniture in the Temple. The previous evening he had not accepted the invitation; most humbly, he had declined. Now, to his annoyance, he regretted. He thought for a moment, feeling an even stronger need to be alone, to think and come to a conclusion that would be to his satisfaction, but furthermore to act on what he already knew. He wanted to see Zamara; he wanted plan how he would present it to his brother and meet him, the King.

“I’m truly sorry, Pelin,” Tarkan said suddenly and rose from the comfortable divan. “I just remembered that I have an appointment with the Queen. Oh, I am terribly sorry,” he said, looking at the man as if he was devastated of leaving him. “Oh, that reminds me.. The High Priestess will also be there, so that leaves you in charge here.” Pelin looked surprised, but didn’t say anything. “It is needless to think that that will be any problem, am I correct?” the Priest said, smiling. “Now, off I go. Cheers!”

With stern steps he walked left the little room where they had eaten breakfast, grabbing his mantle on his way. Knowing that he would probably be quite late, he hurried out of the Temple extremely excited about what this would bring. Would they be surprised by him showing up? Was it rude first to decline and then to come after all? It did not matter, he concluded. The Queen and Zamara were welcome to think ill of him if they were comfortable with that; he did not care, as long as it would be his victory in the end, which seemed quite probable now as things had developed as they had.

[alaklondewen]

The hard, stone floor felt cool against the Elf’s knees as she knelt on the temple’s floor. Her smooth face was upturned toward the face of the goddess, and her cool, blue eyes tightened as though she were in deep reflection. Arlomë could not shake the uneasiness that came over her the night before when she met the Emissary and overheard the conversation about the Elves of his land. Now her son’s sudden appearance at the temple only added to the troubles in her mind. What would her son want with the Rae’s priest? Evrathol had never shown an interest in the gods, although not for lack of education of them. Arlomë had been sure to teach him, as a child, the ways in which Rhais brought them life and cared for them, but as he grew he become separated from the temple and chose a path that more closely resembled the faith choices of his father. She wondered if Evrathol’s meeting with Tarkan involved the Emissary’s arrival, but she could not fathom what the two of them would have in common to discuss.

The soft thud of one of the doors that led into the main worship room brought Arlomë from her thoughts, and she listened momentarily to the swish of the silk robes worn by the one who had entered. With the silence only one of Elven kindred could use, the general’s wife rose and turned, watching the figure walking quickly around the rear of the temple toward the outer doors.

“Greetings to you once more, my son,” Arlomë’s voice was calm, but it reverberated throughout the temple’s walls.

Startled, Evrathol stopped just before reaching the heavy outer doors. “Well, Mother, I did not realize you were in here. I hope I did not interrupt your meeting with the High Priestess.”

“Not at all, dear. She had to leave for an appointment, but I wished to stay a few minutes to seek Rhais’ council.” As her last words left her mouth, she noted a spark of nervousness in his eyes, but he quickly masked it and smiled. “Did you find what you sought, Mother?” He asked. “Not yet,” Arlomë glanced over her shoulder at the statue, then brought her eyes back to her son. “But I know she will not let me down.”

At this, Arlomë turned and knelt once more to honor her goddess, and then she rose and crossed the temple. “I would like a word with you, Evrathol.” As she spoke, she slipped her arm through her son’s. “I do hope you will walk with me back to the estate.”

[Firefoot]

“Now,” said Siamak, “would you care to tell us what is going on?” He felt little patience with the panicked guards who had interrupted their meeting and sent the whole palace into an uproar.

“The King has gone missing!” declared one of the guards.

“We know that,” snapped Gjeelea. “What else can you tell us?” Siamak privately agreed with her; this was ridiculous. How could a man whose chambers were constantly guarded simply disappear?

The guard in front who appeared to be in charge bowed. “Apologies, Prince, Princess. I am not sure what has happened, nor is anyone else in the palace. All I know is that the Queen went to seek an audience with the King, but he was not in his apartments even though no one saw him leave. And so we were ordered to take you some place safe.” Siamak frowned in mild concern. Surely there was a logical explanation for all this.

“Are you sure this is really necessary?” asked Siamak. His father would show up soon, and the whole episode would soon be dismissed as a mistake, probably on account of the guards. Siamak was not so sure, and he had a feeling that the guards were right: something evil was afoot. This was no mere coincidence, Siamak was sure; too many strange things had happened of late. That eerie shadow by his window, for instance. He had seen something, but what?

“Our orders...” began the guard uneasily. The Emissary interjected, “Perhaps you should go with them, until the King is found.” Siamak glanced at him reproachfully, having forgotten the Emissary was still standing there. Siamak sighed, and was about ready to acquiesce to the guards’ request when a messenger appeared down the hallway.

“The King is fine!” he announced. There was a collective sigh of relief from the guards. “The Queen sends word that the guards should go back to their posts.” And then he was gone to spread the word throughout the palace. “See? There was no need for such panic,” said Siamak. After another bow and a muttered apology their captain issued orders and the guards dispersed.

“If you don’t mind, I will return to my own rooms now,” said the Emissary. “If there is anything else you should like to know we can speak of it later.” Siamak nodded, “until we meet again, then.” With that, the Emissary departed. Gjeelea followed soon afterwards with barely a word his way, and Siamak was blessedly alone.

Siamak had grown weary of this meeting - everything the Emissary said sounded good: too good. From his mother’s teachings he knew that there were two sides to every war. While the Emissary painted pictures with words of how his lord’s motives were nothing but benevolent, Siamak readily accepted the words as only somewhat true. The Elves and... Dwarves? would have a different story. The hard part was figuring out how much and which parts were true. He had a feeling that the basic history was true, if somewhat shaded. He wondered about the Emissary’s god - Melkor - and these other Elves who had come from across the western sea. He wondered if any of these things had been heard of in Pashtia, long ago. Perhaps he would ask General Morgôs next time he saw him. Siamak wasn’t sure exactly how long the Elf had been living, but he knew it was several generations.

Siamak bit thoughtfully into a peach. He trusted the Emissary no more than he ever had, but he was feeling inclined toward accepting the offer. The threat of an emissary being sent to Alanzia if they declined had not been lost on him, and if the alliance did not precisely help Pashtia, it didn’t seem likely to hurt the country either.

At a knock on the door, Siamak stifled a grimace and called out, “Yes?” He had no desire to see anyone at the moment. A guard poked his head in the door and announced, “The General Morgôs wishes to see you. Shall I let him in?” Siamak nodded impatiently. “Yes, please do.”

The General entered and bowed slightly, fist to heart. Siamak smiled, saying, “General Morgôs, come on in and sit down.” He did so, reclining on the same couch that the Emissary had recently occupied.

“I had hoped you would come today,” said Siamak. “You see, the Emissary was here recently, and he mentioned some things about the Elves of the early days, and a god of his, Melkor.” Briefly Siamak described the Emissary’s words and finished with, “You have lived much longer than any mortal. Do you know of any of these things? Were such ideas known in Pashtia at one time, long ago?”

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

How did I end up here?

Stalking hastily down the hall, Gjeelea felt a headache at the way things had so quickly gone from annoying to unbearable. Without a word from her the meeting and the chaos had ceased, and the princess now wandered aimlessly down the halls that had become so strangely part of her daily routine.

It ended too fast...

The sound of her sandals trudging along the marble halls echoed but was soon drowned out by the scuffling of guards from one wing of the palace to another. Gjeelea put a slender hand to her right temple and she winced at the blood rushing to her head. She closed her eyes and paused in the middle of the hallway for just a moment, rubbing her temple and trying to sort out the events of that morning.

She could not figure out why everyone felt so shifty around the Emissary. Gjeelea sensed Siamak's discomfort throughout the entire meeting. She knew the gossip of the palace all to well; she knew the nervousness of everyone regarding the Emissary. What Gjeelea could not figure out was why everyone felt so nervous around the Emissary. He had provided answers to every question - answers that satisfied Gjeelea because of the diplomatic manner of each one. The Emissary always gave just enough of an answer to please the inquiring mind but keep secret what needed to be secret. It was just the sort of way Gjeelea would have dealt with such a questioning.

Gjeelea snapped out of her thoughts, realizing that she was still stationary in the middle of the hall. She continued walking through the palace, not quite sure of any destination. Her hazel eyes focused on the intricate tiling of the walkway, she did not even see the person walking straight up to her until she bumped into him.

Looking up, Gjeelea prepared herself for some kind of trivial talk with a jittery maid or a guard that would apologize for bumping her. She lifted the corners of her mouth, ready to give a bright, half-hearted smile. This faltered into a slight frown when she saw who stood before her.

"Lord Korak," Gjeelea greeted the man she had run in to. The headache she had felt earlier rose once more to her forehead. Why now? The day could not get any worse. Gjeelea feebly lifted her lips into a polite smile. Her betrothed certainly did not look in the mood, his face grim and moody like it so often was in Gjeelea's presence. Why me? Gjeelea wondered again. "What brings you to the palace, Korak?"

[Nurumaiel]

Lord Korak saw the darkening of Gjeelea's face, but he did not care. It did not matter what she thought of him, as long she would become his wife. Something deep inside of him shrank in disgust at this, and he recalled with what fondness Lady Hababa always spoke of her dead husband. She said they had loved each other. And how happy days had been at that time. Would it matter if both he and his future bride were alive, if they did not love each other? Perhaps their lives would be miserable, and the lives of their children. What would his own childhood had been if his parents hadn't loved each other? He did not love the Princess; he suspected strongly that she did not love him.

"Your father asked for me, Princess," he said coolly, casting aside those thoughts that rose to his mind. "There were some small matters to be discussed." He watched her keenly, and she gave a little wave of her hand as if to dismiss further conversation and continue on her way. "One of the subjects was our upcoming wedding," he added. "I desire to set a definite day for its happening."

"Oh," she said, her voice light, but a light coming to her eye. It was a look of interest, and something that was not quite fear nor anger, but more akin to revulsion. But he knew she did not think well of him, so he paid this look no mind, but rather fixed his attention upon answering her question of: "Have you decided a day, then?"

"No, Princess," he said. "Your father the King has left it for the two of us to decide. I come to settle the matter with you."

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

Oh dear…Gjeelea thought, trying hard to hide the apprehension from her face. She had wondered from time to time when Korak would finally be fed up with the stalling of their wedding. The man seemed so fitful, and Gjeelea knew that all he wanted the power that might come to his disposal if she became queen of Pashtia. I should have expected this long ago.

The Princess would be dishonest in saying that she loved Korak by any means; she hardly even liked him, if she liked him at all. Gjeelea also realized that a marriage to Korak would be more of a ‘smart match’ than anything else. There had always been times when she had pondered the woman’s ability to deny an arranged marriage. Still, she also knew that Korak was a powerful man; he could influence many things in court matters.

“Well, princess?” Korak brought the princess from her thoughts once more, an impatient look on his face. Why is he always so unhappy? Gjeelea wondered fleetingly. How will I ever be able to live with him? How could I even think of having children? How could I be queen if I cannot even think to have children with my husband? Why must the men rule? Why was I born a girl?

“Could we maybe speak of this at a later time?” Gjeelea spoke calmly, despite all the questions and doubts flashing in her mind. “I…well, I…I have things to attend to and…”

“Actually, I was rather hoping we could take care of this now,” Korak nearly snapped at his betrothed as he interrupted her, and she took a step back from him. “I am tired of waiting.”

Well, I am tired of dealing with you entirely…Gjeelea thought, blinking to hide the eye rolling that she could not control in the presence of Korak. He should not speak to me that way. I could so easily deny him the wedding he so desperately wants. The thought struck Gjeelea, because she knew deep in her heart that it would not be easy to call of all marriage arrangements with Korak. Her chances of becoming queen without a husband were slim to none, and she knew that well enough to have to put up with Korak.

“Well…when would you like to hold the wedding?” Gjeelea asked softly, upset at the invisible restraint on her freedom. She hated feeling like she had no way out. No easy way out. “I suppose we should get this taken care of.”

[Kransha]

This was certainly not what Morgôs had wanted to talk about. In fact, it was something he avoided mentioning in any conversation. But, as bad luck would have it, it had not simply come up in conversation, in had come as a question from the Prince he’d sworn allegiance to a day before. He was more than just obligated to answer. “My Prince,” he said, his words coming slowly, “this is…a complicated matter, to say the least. You have read tomes of history, and have been tutored by the cream of Pashtian scholars, the finest money can buy or years of accumulated wisdom can procure. But, I am not sure your knowledge is quite adequate to understand my answer. Perhaps we should talk of something lighter, something simpler, yes?”

“I know little about you, General, besides what my father and his courtiers tell me. If you are to be my chief backer, I must trust you. If I am to trust you, I must know you.”

Morgôs could not tell whether this was wisdom or careful cleverness used by the Prince to manipulate him into answering him. Either way, he was trapped; he could not refuse to respond. Anyway, the Prince was right. He probably knew next to nothing about Morgôs – the general was sure he knew more about the young Prince. So, begrudgingly, the Elven General began a familiar long-winded yarn, one he’d told many of his kindred, and Siamak’s own father, but he shortened it severely now as he spoke.

“I have lived a great long time, Siamak; longer than even I know. Alas, my age in years is not known to me, but I can venture to guess. What I am sure of is that I have been alive longer than two thousand years, centuries of life, I suppose. Beyond that, my memory is blurred by time and cruel winds of the unknown. Past the foundation of Pashtia, I can remember little besides wandering in a land of barbarous tribesmen. Many of those savages still roam the boundless edges of our deserts and have nations in the north and south, but Pashtia rarely encounters them for they are very secretive nowadays, and, though some are hostile, do not attack us or make any war upon us. My memory has but a few baubles remaining from the time before Pashtia, and also few of Pashtia’s beginnings.”

As he paused for breath and to let the word sink in, Siamak lifted his hand with a halting gesture and spoke. “Forgive me if I sound impolite,” he said tactfully, “but I do not mean to know in excess of your age or years. My question is more specific, and begs an answer.” Morgôs gave an astute nod, understanding how boring his lengthy tales had been to Faroz when he was a boy and his father before him when they had asked similar questions. “Of course,” he apologetically replied, “it is I who is sorry. Sometimes my rambling is excessive, and becomes monotonous, or so I am told.”

But Siamak shook his head with boyish energy. “No, it is not tedious. Merely seek through your wells of memory to answer. Did Pashtians ever worship such a deity as this Melkor spoken of by the enemy?” Morgos certainly appreciated the Prince’s candor, even if there was a hint of polite dishonesty, but he could not aptly answer. “Melkor,” he murmured, dwelling on that sharp-sounding name in an unfamiliar tongue, “…I know not the name, though there is some vague familiarity. Enlighten me.” Siamak hurried to interpret, saying, “He is like Rae, said the Emissary. His name is in an old language, and it means, ‘he who arises in might.’ He is apparently benevolent, a lord of the sky and chief of all gods in the Emissary’s lands.”

“‘He who arises in might?’” mused the General, “A mighty name, certainly, but not one in a tongue I recognize. There were archaic gods in a time before your fathers ruled, when the kingdom was more an anarchy than a monarchy. But, there was no such god as this Melkor. There were more then there are today and separate patrons for Avari and Men, and different clans that traversed the sands. I believe that Rae and Rhais were primarily inspired by a mixture of Mannish and Avarin faith.”

Here Siamak spoke, sounding confused and mildly fazed. “A mixture? You make it sound as if it was concocted?” Morgôs knew that his mistakes this day were ceaseless seeming, and tried to correct himself to avoid seeming heretical. Nay, Prince Siamak.” he swiftly assured his would-be pupil, “I meant merely that our faith today was found through unity. It is hard to keep ecumenical politics in mind when speaking of such things. Your question is a deep one. I shall have to consult my own books, but the information will return to you through me. I would not withhold Avarin lore from my Prince.” He halted, satisfied, hoping that the Prince was satiated and would bring up something else.

Unfortunately, the something he brought up was a more dangerous conversation topic than the last.

“The Emissary said many things about Elves as well.” said Siamak, knowing this would arouse a spark in the General, “He spoke much of the Elven-kind in his home.” Suddenly Morgôs was hooked like a hapless fish on a barb and the Prince did not even need to reel him in to extract that fish from his comfortable peace and leave him flopping about out of water. Morgôs leaned it so quickly that Siamak jumped a little, and a grim light filled the eyes of the Elf. “W-what did he say of them?” The General said quickly, his voice raspy with anticipation and a nervous stutter developed therein. Siamak let a chuckle fall through as he saw the renewed eagerness of the General. “Now you wish to talk?” He said sarcastically, but Morgôs didn’t care.

“Yes yes, now tell me, what said he of Elves?” He was leaning closer, and Siamak saw the old glow of his face, paler than before. Taken aback, he replied. “He said that the Elves of his lands once lived across a great, far sea, on an island where they went centuries before. They lived alongside giant enchanters, who gave them arcane and terrible knowledge that singed them. I do fear that they are not as fair as Avarin Elves, those Elves of the West.”

Morgôs leapt at this, almost literally. His excitement grew greater, just as his tranquility decreased. He looked manic to the Prince. “Giants!” cried Morgôs, his voice suddenly filling the room, “What of the giants?” Morgôs had left the couch where had been and was practically hovering over the young Prince, who was repulsed by the new verve of the Avari. “He said very little;” Siamak replied with hurried defensiveness, “barely anything.” But Morgôs was no longer a hooked fish, but a insatiable predator in his own right. “He must have said something!” Morgôs cried out, “Tell me!”

Siamak recoiled fully. “General!” He said, trying calm the Elf, but to no avail. Morgôs’ hands, enveloped in scale-mail gauntlets, clapped down on Siamak’s shoulders. He nearly shook the Prince, his eyes alight. “Tell me!” He yelled, and his voice, lower and more menacing than before, boomed like thunder for a moment, and then died in his throat like a cough. The light left his eyes and his eyes left Siamak.

And then, all of a sudden, he fell back. Morgôs teetered and slumped on the couch behind, taking deep breaths. He clapped his hand to his breast and fell silent, leaving Siamak to stare, bewildered, at him from his seat. Of all the mistakes he had made this day, this was the most grievous of them all. He had assaulted the Prince of Pashtia! Was he mad? What had incurred this insanity in him that was so far beyond his control? He lay, trying to seize reality and draw it back to him. Slowly, he pushed himself off the couch and landed, on his knees, on the carpeted floor.

“My good Prince,” he said meekly, “I beg your forgiveness. I do not know what came over me, truly.” He looked, hoping the best but expecting the worst, to the Prince for forgiveness. He’d come seeking a willing pupil, and now had a good chance of having made, instead, a dire enemy. He only hoped that Siamak could understand that this was no common spasm, but a unique burst of madness, which he would never let happen again.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

By the time he reached his wife’s apartments the sounds of chaos has died in the Palace and order was well on the way to being restored. A seemingly endless stream of courtiers and soldiers came to speak with Faroz as he made his way, as though to reassure themselves that he had indeed been found. He brushed aside their questions with a wave of his hand, refusing to answer, and none dared press him any further. He did not enter Bekah’s rooms but sent word to her through the guards that he was well. He bid them tell her that he would speak with her of this incident at her official audience this afternoon.

The King made his way to his own rooms where he was hurriedly dressed by his servants in his robes of state. Long, richly flowing gowns of silk hung about him and his head was bowed beneath the weight of the thick silver crown of the Pashtian monarch by the time he reached his audience chamber, just a few minutes after the time he was due. The applicants and supplicants for the day were all there ahead of him, standing nervously against the walls, some of them in small groups, others laden with papers, and some few anxiously fidgeting on their own. The King was separated from them by a score of his personal guard, who took up their stations at the foot of the low dais upon which he reclined. The only person permitted to join him upon this was the Chamberlain Jarult, who stood hovering nearby throughout the afternoon, ready to answer any question and lend whatever counsel his King required.

The first petitions were those that he had put of yesterday, and they were all dull matters of trade. The King understood the importance of trade for his people, and he had worked hard to become conversant in the ways and manner of it (and in this, his Queen had been very helpful), but it bored him still. After these came a number of requests from various guilds and some members of the nobility. The one interesting moment in the afternoon came when he had to decide a dispute between two powerful lords. There was a question of ownership over a piece of land in the mountains and the law was unclear. In such a case, royal wisdom was the only recourse. Faroz listened to both petitioners, asked Jarult for a clarification of the law, and then questioned a number of witnesses procured by both sides. In the end he rendered the kind of decision that he had become master of: one with which neither side was entirely happy, but which they could live with.

Throughout the waning hours of the day his mind turned insistently to Ashnaz, and to the King’s own family. He wondered what decision his children would make concerning the alliance. The Emissary’s answers at the interview with the Prince and Princess had been fair and courteous, and Faroz had no doubt what his decision would be, were it still his. He wondered further about Gjeelea and her marriage to Korak, and how he was to handle his all-too-soon-to-be son-in-law. His mind sharpened as he again considered the difficult issue of whom he should name heir. Something would have to be done about that, and soon. He was sure that the panic which had gripped the Palace when he had been thought lost had been exacerbated by the confusion of who would take his place. He knew who he would want to take his place, should anything untimely befall him, but he knew as well how difficult such a decision would be to justify…

At last, the day’s petitions were over. Faroz ordered the guards to clear the room and to attend him in the corridor. He thanked Jarult for his service that day and asked him to leave as well. The King was alone while he waited for his wife to arrive for her audience…and he wondered what they would have to say to one another.