Shadow of the West

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Khamûl fought rage at his daughter’s impertinence in asking him for an explanation of his presence. Her rebelliousness grows the Voice said, and he had to check his own nod of agreement. It was becoming a problem, his ready acknowledgement of the Voice. Its counsel and advice was so consistent a part of his life now that at times he forgot that it was a gift given to him alone by the power of Annatar, and that all others were deaf to it. He frowned darkly upon the women, projecting his displeasure at them both.

The Lady Arshalous was wary of him, he could see, perhaps even fearful. He thought to himself that perhaps it was too late for her to be redeemed; perhaps her corruption had been too far advanced. But the Voice counselled otherwise. There is yet hope for her in your strength, it sang sweetly in his ears. She is swaying in her loyalties, for though she is true she is weak. Do not judge her! She suffers only from the weakness of her female flesh. Pity her instead, and raise her up by the power of your hand.

He did pity her. Of all those whom he had formerly accounted his allies she was the last one who had yet to plot against him – the last one to hold by her oaths. Khamûl looked at his daughter and knew that he had come not a moment too soon. “I have come to speak with the Lady Arshalous upon an important matter,” he said, “but you need not depart, my daughter, for it concerns you closely. I have need of a Queen.” It was a simple statement of fact, and as he said it, he directed his gaze upon Arshalous. “I do not flatter myself that you would wish to see yourself allied to me through any great love or affection, Lady. Nor shall I lie to you and say that such a union will bring you comfort and ease. It is a burden that I am asking you to bear for the good of our people. You have suffered reverses of late, but you are still rich and command many servants. You are respected by many in the City for your patronage of the new temple, and you bring the added benefit of having avoided all intrigues and factions within the nobility. Your very isolation, so long a trial for you, makes you an ideal choice for queen. But above all these concerns, potent as they might be, there is the fact that you are a sensible and intelligent woman whose counsel I would welcome.”

There was a shocked silence as Arshalous looked down, her breath now coming quickly. Gjeelea spoke out, and in her voice was none of her usual cunning and diplomacy. “My King! My mother’s ashes were spread to the winds but six months ago! It is not seemly for you to take a new wife so soon!”

“These are terrible times,” he snapped at his daughter, and as he did so, his eyes seemed to darken and it was as though a vast shadow slid out from him. “I cannot bear the weight of the crown alone, and unaided. My counsellors desert me. My General is mad, or worse. Even my children no longer heed only my voice! I am a king, my daughter, a king. Do you know yet what that means? I do not have the luxury that some do to waste my time in an empty show of courtship and affection so that I might catch the fickle eye of the mob!” He turned from his daughter, as though the very act wiped her from existence, and addressed the Lady Arshalous. “I apologise for my daughter’s outburst, Lady. She is yet young, and though she deems herself wise and capable of rule, she has much to learn of the ways of power.”

He paused for a response, prompting Arshalous to mutter formulaically, “I take no offence, Majesty.”

“Good! It does you credit. I know that ladies in your position do not dream of a proposal such as this. I should be clad in silver and mounted upon a fiery white steed, with a troupe of singers at my back. I should speak to you with honey on my tongue and poetry in my heart – but we both know how empty such foppery would be here. Instead I offer myself to you as I am: a plain man and a powerful king in need of a wife. What say you?”

[Imladris]

What say you? Indeed, did she have any choice in the matter? If he had wanted to avoid foppery all together he would have simply ordered her to become his bride...did he really think that she was so naieve that she did not know that she could do nothing but accept? She could almost see the iron cage enclose around her, feel the golden shackles snapping closed about her wrist binding her to a king she feared and loathed.

She glanced helplessly at the Princess, but she knew very well that Gjeelea could do nothing. What could any of them do against the King. It was as if he was everywhere, as if he knew all and heard all, no matter if it was proclaimed upon the streets, or whispered in a cloister at the darkest hour.

She wondered how she could help him -- did not this Emissary provide all the help that he needed? The thought that there was another reason, the true reason, gnawed at her like a rat. Like a blob of clay in a potter's hand, she knew that he was trying to form her into his tool, his pawn. But how could she prevent this if she didn't know how he was doing it? It was like knowing that there were traps on the ground, yet she was unable to avoid them because they were so cunningly hidden.

Taking a deep breath she faced the king, and said, "My lord, I will accept your offer."

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

She felt her blood rush to her temples in a cacophonous flood of sound. Gjeelea tried harder than she had ever tried to remain calm, even defiant, before her father. Now, though, how could she maintain her composure when everything had fallen apart within five minutes? Gjeelea had never found it so hard to conceal her emotions. Her heart fell to the pit of her stomach, and her hands went icy cold.

"You know not what you do," She whispered, to both her father and Arshalous. What had happened to Arshalous' strength? Did she not know that Khamul and the Emissary would pollute her mind with evil? Anger welled up within Gjeelea, yet she felt tears form behind her eyes. What could she do now?

Gjeelea shifted where she stood, and without another word, she fled the hallway. She stormed out through the kitchen and into the darkness of the night, leaving the home of her husband where all the evils of Pashtia seemed to have chosen for their gathering place that night. Gjeelea could not bear to see her plans fall to pieces - her fear of failure was a weakness of hers she had never bothered to overcome.

She followed her heart to the only place where she might find different help...the palace.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Khamul was pleased to see his daughter flee before Arshalous's righteousness, and her retreat confirmed his opinion of her: she was too far gone in treachery to be saved. His face fell into sadness and he passed a hand across his brow. He suddenly felt weak and his knees sagged, obliging him to catch himself against a wall. "Majesty?" Arshalous said, alarmed at the suddenness of his collapse, but though she was his affianced bride, she remained rigidly still, not moving to support him.

The King held himself against the wall, and said lowly, "I am all right. It is but a passing fatigue. The concerns of my rule are great, and sometimes they bear me over. I fear I have placed a terrible burden upon you."

"I am sure that I am not up to the task, Khamul."

"Nobody is. But we must all do what we are required."

He sought to right himself, forcing from his mind the memory of what had overcome him -- for as he had lamented the evil of his daughter, he had felt the presence of Bekah, as though she were standing at his back, and he had felt the force of her pity. He had almost thought, for a slice of time smaller than that which exists between heartbeats, that it was her gentle hand which had caught him as he fell, supporting him to the wall. But why she would come to him now, and why she would pity him, he could not imagine. . .

Straightening, he faced Arshalous, who said squared her shoulders with a new and grim resolution. "When are we to be wed, Khamul?"

"Soon. I see no need for a protracted engagement. And I have need of your counsel now, with little time to divert myself with other matters."

"It will be as you wish, Majesty."

"There is another matter we need to discuss, Arshalous. It concerns your dowry."

"My dowry?" she said, surprised, and a bit angered. Was not her wealth enough dowry?

"I do not refer to anything as crass as gold, Lady," Khamul replied, and she felt a chill upon her neck as it appeared once again as though he were reading her mind. "I am well provided in wealth already. Indeed, with the tribute now paid me by Alanzia I am the wealthiest King in the history of Pashtia." There was neither boasting nor pride in the statement. "I speak of something more valuable than all the goods of my treasury. We spoke once of the hold that the Lord Korak has over me, and of the letter that he would use to put himself upon the throne. I fear that with my remarriage he might fear I seek to produce a new heir that would supplant his hopes, and that this might drive him to an act of. . .desperation. I have tried to regain the letter but cannot. It occurs to me, however, that you might be more successful than I."

"Me, majesty? How am I to succeed where you have failed. I do not possess your royal power!"

"No, but you do have a power which I lack. You can come and go in this house without arousing suspicion and, most importantly, you can speak with the Lady Hababa more openly and clearly than I. Perhaps she knows something of the letter and could be. . .convinced to help us regain it. I know that Korak has no love for you, or you for him, but you are a family member and a companion of his childhood. I am sure that there are things about Korak and his family, and about this house, known only to yourself and a few others. All of which should make it easy for you to locate that letter and bring it to me, such is the dowry that I will demand of you." Arshalous merely bowed her head, her face insrcutable. "But tell me, Lady," Khamul continued in a lighter tone, "what wedding gift would you have of me? I am an old-fashioned man in many ways, and will follow our traditions scrupulously. I will grant you whatever gift you may ask of me, so long as it be both honourable and within my power to give it you."

[Nurumaiel]

Morashk stood a few moments longer in the shadows of the corridor, and then turned and hastened away before the Lady Arshalous made any reply to the King. Anger and resentment, nay, hatred, swelled up within him, but something was there that he did not expect, and did not welcome... a strange sorrow. Faint though it may be, 'twas there, and he hated himself for being so weak.

Lord Korak was pacing up and down in his room impatiently, muttering curses under his breath, and scowling heavily. When he saw Morashk enter the room he hardly noticed how pale and trembling his servant was, for wasn't Morashk always pale and trembling? He did not pause in his pacing, but neither did he hesitate a moment before snapping out: "Well, are they finished yet?" And he went on, muttering, before Morashk could reply. "Curse the Lady Arshalous for her impudence in my own household. What right has she to come about and order me about? And curse Gjeelea for seeming pleased at the idea." He fell silent then, for he would not yet curse his mother.

"My Lord Korak," said Morashk, straight and stiff yet sagging against the wall at the same time, "the King has just been speaking with Lady Arshalous."

"The King, here?" cried Lord Korak, and he ceased his walking and stared wide-eyed for a moment. Then the scowl returned to his face. "Curse my cousin and my wife! Did they not have the good sense to tell me? If the King comes to my home, what will he think if the master of the house does not greet him, but merely lets him be?"

"My Lord Korak!" Morashk gasped, and Korak noticed for the first time how distraught his servant was. Morashk had always been a nervous sort of man, but his actions now were not nervous. He seemed excited, in a very unpleasant way.

"What is it?" Korak demanded. "Speak up, man! Did they say anything... significant?"

"Yes, they did," said Morashk, and his trembling suddenly ceased, and his mouth set in a hard, bitter line. "The King and the Lady Arshalous are to be wed."

For a few moments, Korak was struck into amazed silence, and then he smiled easily. "Why do I care?" he said. He turned away from Morashk and strode to the other side of the room, looking out the window to survey what lands he could see, despite their dark and shriveled appearance. "I was afraid that he had said something about the Prince succeeding him. But... Morashk, do you think my cousin will influence the King against me?"

There was no answer. Korak turned, and saw that Morashk was no longer there.

Down the corridor Morashk staggered, putting his hands against the walls for support, and mumbling almost inaudibly to himself. "I do not care, I do not care, I do not care." He stopped, reflected upon what he had just heard the King and Arshalous say, and he cried: "I do not care!"

The little maid, who had been uncertainly scouring the house for wood for the fire, paused and gazed at him in surprise. Morashk was well-known as a very quiet man who saw much with his eyes, and this sudden outburst startled her. She hesitated for a moment, then went closer to him, and looked up at him with worry written on her brow.

"Is there anything wrong, sir?" she questioned. Though Morashk was a servant just as she, it had long been known that he held a higher position in the house as the others, as one favoured by the Lord Korak, and his fellow servants never failed to show proper respect towards him.

Morashk turned keen eyes to her. "Wrong?" he demanded. "For the King and the Lady Arshalous, perhaps nothing is wrong. The King is a sneaking, low-down worm who thinks nothing of power."

"Oh, hush!" the maid cried, her eyes growing wide with terror. "Don't say such things."

"It is true," said Morashk, "and my master is no better."

"Hush!" the maid cried again, seeming more violently disturbed at these words against Lord Korak than the words about the King.

"I hold to my master because I am his servant, and I am loyal to him," said Morashk, disregarding her pleas entirely. "He is harsh, and a brute, but he is good to those who are loyal to him."

"Yes, yes," said the maid hastily, "and I am certain the King is, too."

"I do not know of the King," said Morashk, "but I do know of Lady Arshalous!" At the name he spat on the ground, but at the same time he paled and dropped his head and began to violently tremble.

The maid hesitated uncertainly. Was Morashk's mind wandering, the way he spoke of the King, of the Lord Korak, of the King again, and now the Lord Korak's cousin? She had never seen Morashk act and speak in such a way before, and she wished she did not have to see it now. It stirred up fear in her.

"How can she wed him?" Morashk said, his head still bowed. "How can she wed him, being such a brute as my master, if not more so, when she would not... I - I... I was once a strong, noble, upright..." He trailed off and was silent for a few moment, and then his eyes flashed. "I have hated her ever since! I have hated her more than my Lord Korak hates her, and he hates her bitterly. I have helped my Lord Korak to catch her with words, delighting in the look of confusion and anger on her face. I have hated her as I could hate no one else!"

The maid drew back, and the rosy flush of health that had already paled in her cheeks during the troublesome months was gone completely now. Morashk turned his eyes to her, gazed at her for a few moments, and then, once again retaining his usual skulking posture, free of distress, he gestured her away. "Go to the Lady Hababa," he said. "It is possible she is need of company. The King made his proposal when the ladies were all gathered in the Lady Hababa's room, and there the Lady Arshalous made... her fiendish acceptance. Curse her!" And he continued on down the corridor, skulking for a little while, and then staggering again, alternating between self-control and an utter lack of it.

The maid stared after him for a moment, and then fled as swiftly as she could to the Lady Hababa's chamber.

[Imladris]

A knot of naseating sickness welled inside Arshalous as she heard the Princess whispered words, as she watched her flee their presence. She should have refused...the King would ask nothing but evil of her...what if she was corrupted as he had been? But she pushed the thought away....the princess did not know how she was bound by the King, how she had had no choice but to accept. After all, how could she be of use to anybody if she was dead or poor and an outcast? Maybe she should not have agreed to help him with his plots against Korak...but...she didn't have a choice. Nobody did when the king asked something of them, did they? She breathed quickly, wishing that the dark shadow had not fallen over Pashtia.

And then he asked her what she would like as a wedding gift...what could she say? Gold was crass as he had said, shallow and useless -- the toys of ladies who thought of nothing but of hair and jewels...she did not want gold -- she was not like them. She wanted love, but not his love. What could she ask that he could bestow? "This is what I want of you," she whispered softly, forcing herself to stare deep inside his eyes, "it is but a little thing, easily granted. Hidden in twilight shrowded rooms are scrolls that tell of the forming of this country and of this earth. Read them, my lord...glean their wisdom if they have some. What better way to be a king," she said, "than to learn from the deeds of other kings?"

She could not ask him to learn the lore of the elves for they were not welcome in his eyes anymore. But, maybe, he would read these and learn, and maybe he would realize that all was not well in his realm, and that he was not the king that he once was. She smiled at him then, as winning a smile that she could summon under the present conditions.

The king nodded, and said, "An easy gift it is, lady."

Bowing, Arshalous said, "I ask permission to leave, my lord. There is much to be done, and I still have not properly visited my aunt which is the only reason I come here."

The King nodded and, with a bow, Arshalous slipped from his presence. Oh, yes, there was much to be done...she must make contact with the Princess, let her know that she was not on the King's side, that she would not fall under his corruption. Corruption was a choice -- this she was sure -- and she would not make that choice...she would not fall. Still, she could not help but wonder that, before the Emissary had arrived, the King would have said the exact same things that she was telling herself now. She must not think of that...she must not. There was always a choice. Always.

When she reached the Lady Hababa's chambers, she found that she was sleeping and that a maid was in attendance. Smiling a little at her, she kneeled beside the bed and took her aunt's hand. She was afraid, so very afraid...She must help the Princess, yet she could not let the King know of it...yet how could she do that when he heard all, saw all...What if the King discovered her purposes?

Arshalous slapped herself, forcing herself to see reason. The king was not all powerful, he had no power to see into her mind, read her thoughts...the only thoughts that he could read were the ones that people allowed him to see, or those left carelessly about for the very clever and cunning to work out...

"Fetch me pen and paper," she told the maid. Dropping a short curtsey, the girl hastened to bring them. When she returned, Arshalous wrote this:

My lady,

I must say that the King's proposal today surprised me as much it surprised you...I have never fancied myself a queen...in fact I know that I will not make a good queen but the King thinks otherwise. He said that I was wise, imagine that! I who am so foolish, who was stuck in my world of legends and stories, oblivious to the going ons around me...I, who have only wished to see my cousin brought low before my feet...it is such foolishness...

But I suppose that he sees that I have changed, that I don't care about that any more, that I don't care for gold or for petty court intrigues, or for power. As a noble, I must be concerned with the good of Pashtia -- if that means becoming queen then so be it...I will do my utmost to help...it will be my honour.

I am afraid though that I do not have the courage to be a queen....for a queen cannot hide when there are troubles, when whispering connivers seek to force the the realm astray for their own benefits...And if the realm was lost to evil doers, I would hope that I would have the strength and courage to fight against them...

Arshalous


The lady dropped the pen, and read the letter again. It was vague, perhaps too much so...but the Princess was a smart girl -- surely she would see the subtle hint that Arshalous was not going to let the realm be overrun with evil without a fight, even though the King had crushed the first step.

Arshalous frowned, wishing that she was better at the art of subtlety and deception...but this would have to do.

Sealing the letter, she noticed that her aunt stirred a little. "I will return shortly, my lady aunt," Arshalous whispered in her ear. Hastening down the corridor, deep in thought about what was to come, trying to keep the fear and dread at bay, she almost collided head long with Morashk.

The little weasel! What was he doing here? Arshalous narrowed her eyes at him, wishing that she had not run into him. Despite her claims in the letter, Arshalous did still care about taunting and angering her cousin though it was no longer a top priority. In fact, she often wondered who she disliked the most: Korak for having Morashk poison his words for him or Morashk for serving Korak so faithfully in the first place. And, oh did Morashk have a vile tongue inside that head of his. The thought flickered through Arshalous' head that, if Korak were smarter, he would ask Morashk for his opinion more often instead of keeping him as a convenient champion when he was unable to fight his own battles...

He seemed distracted, but so was she. She must speak to Hababa, especially since they might have a chance to speak privately with Korak off somewhere and the Princess off on her own as well. "Morashk! I need you to give this letter to the Princess when she returns." She held the letter out to him, hoping that he would realize that he was a servant after all...she did not wish to take the time to play any games he might have in mind.

[Amanaduial the archer]

“High Priestess,” he began, the use of her proper title intentional, “I must say, I am surprised by your visit. Very few people can get past the patrols at night.” He smiled grimly. “I am glad you did. Now, why is it you have come?”

Zamara smiled gratefully at the use of her full name and pulled back her hood from her face, pushing her dark out so that it feel free across her shoulders and back. Free. As she was now - or closer, at least, to that impossible goal than she had been but an hour earlier. Looking around, still uneasy, she checked that the door was closed, then walked further in, walking to the shuttered window - she had little worry about anyone seeing her from there, now that the curfew had been imposed. Her fingers fidgetting over each other as she stared out of the window into the utterly still night and after a long moment's hesitation, she turned to Siamak. "I had no choice, Prince Siamak," she replied, her voice soft but her answer frank.

“What do you….” The young man frowned slightly, gesturing for the woman to sit on on one of the low couches around his room. Sitting stiffly, Zamara perched among the rich finery of the cushions, so different from what she had become used to in her sparse apartments, and faced Siamak. Had he given in to the Emissary's dark powers? Zamara had no way of knowing what had become of the alliances that had been set in Pashtia since she had been placed under unofficial house arrest - the Snake had told her some things about the movements of the nobles, but who knew if what he had said was true, or just more poison? She twitched her head to one side, taking a sharp intake of breath and looking away from Siamak suddenly. The prince leant towards her concerned. “Priestess, are you alright? If you are feeling overtired, maybe you need to rest?”

Zamara froze, then looked up slowly at Siamak. “Need to…rest?” she replied incredulously. Gritting her teeth angrily, she fixed Siamak with her straight, no-nonsense gaze. “Prince Siamak, what were you told about my withdrawal from the public eye four months ago?”

The young man seemed uncomfortable, and shifted slightly in his seat, averting her eyes from the woman’s. “You withdrew very suddenly, High Priestess – it all seemed very suspicious at the time. But Khamul – my father – ” he corrected himself, as if having to remind himself of the fact. “issued a statement saying that due to the destruction of the Temple and…other stresses…you had become…ill. Because of your illness you were unable, for a time, to complete your duties…” he faltered and finally trailed off uncertainly under Zamara’s sceptical gaze. She raised one eyebrow. “They said I had gone mad,” she stated frankly. Siamak did not reply, and his silence was answer enough. Zamara gave an angry snort and looked away, rising from her seat and striding towards the window. “Yes, well, maybe they were right after all – to escape from the Temple under the eyes of the Snake and his guards and walk through streets infested with monsters – yes, maybe that is madness indeed…”

Siamak frowned. “’Escape’?” he answered questioningly.

Zamara turned to look at the young prince, her silhouette, cloaked in black, seeming to meld into the starry night. For the first time, the prince noted how her indomitable energy seemed to be lacking, the wildness in her sleepless eyes, the new lines on her youthful face – lines of worry, of pain, of grief. She bit her lip and rubbed at her tired eyes with the heel of one hand, then sighed and looked away out of the window again. “Yes, Siamak, escaped, for that is the only word for it.”

Turning, the erstwhile Priestess of Rhais slowly resumed her position on the cushions, sagging into them. “Let me explain, your majesty. I do not, I fear, have time to check your alliances, for my story shall be long enough in the telling. Just know this: I have always been loyal to my country, and I have always been loyal to your family – both Khamul and Queen Bekah.” She sighed sadly, averting her eyes from Siamak’s, and her tone softened. “Yes, Queen Bekah...I would have followed her leadership no matter where it took me. Your mother was a brave woman, Siamak, and a good leader, although she never had true chance to show it for herself. She was a wise woman…”

Siamak inclined his head as thanks for her words. “Is that why you are wearing black, Priestess? Mourning clothes…”

Zamara gave a harsh laugh and shook her head bitterly. “I would wear mourning clothes for your mother in any case, Prince, but these? No, these clothes are forced upon me as a sort of penitence for my wicked deeds,” she spat sarcastically. Seeing Siamak’s confusion, she added, “Why, did you not know, Siamak? Less than three months after your mother’s death and funeral, I was tending the Temple, as usual. Attendance was already starting to flag, and the regular services were more often or not cancelled – the thanks for that can go to our distinguished guest the Snake,” she added bitterly. “Apparently more time needed to be spent on the Temple to Rae-” she paused, looking at Siamak with a ghost of a smile on her lips. “Did Tarkan get his coveted title of High Priest in the end?”

Despite her attempt at dry humour, Siamak simply looked trouble, and motioned for her to continue her story. Her worry increasing, Zamara did so.

“I had not had the statue in the temple replaced – despite my attempts, help was refused, as all manpower was to be spent on the building of the temple and, it was rumoured, on the build-up of an army, although for what cause I did not know.” Siamak once more looked unhappy, but Zamara persevered. “So instead a number of smaller statues had been placed around the temple. As was befitting the death of a Queen, the period of mourning was still in process – incense was burnt around the Temple almost constantly.

“But it was these things that were to be my downfall. As I prepared the Temple for the evening’s worshippers, a terrible banging sounded on the door and it was demanded that entrance was granted to the king’s men. They…they said they had come charged with rooting out treachery and treason against the crown of Pashtia…”

Astounded, Zamara signalled for the door to be opened, and from that wet and windy night emerged not two, or three, or four soldiers, but about a score, and all led by one of the Westerners, one of the Emissary’s men. It was he who marched down the aisle of the Temple without paying any heed or respect to the Temple, approaching Zamara directly. The man’s arrogance and lack of courtesy in the house of the Goddess frankly appalled her, and the High Priestess turned to fully face the man, drawing herself up furiously. “Gentlemen, what is the meaning of this behaviour in the Temple of Rhais?”

Like a flash of thunder in the storm outside, the Westerner threw back his head and laughed. He actually laughed. Tossing his pale hair arrogantly, he looked disdainfully around the Temple as if what he saw was below him: as if he was amazed, amused, pitying. Tearing his eyes away from the pathetic toys of the temple, the Westerner looked back at Zamara and signalled to two Pashtian soldiers to come forward – soldiers Zamara knew, men who she had seen before and conversed with in lighter days. Drawing out a scroll from under his cloak, the man began to read sanctimoniously and pompously. “You are under arrest on counts of treason against the King of Pashtia; what is more, you are accused by the crown and allies of the crown of witchcraft and sorcery, and of deliberately leading astray civilians with whose care you were entrusted; with abusing your position; with abusing your relationship with the crown and allies of the crown; and of the worship of demons and spectres. From now, you shall be stripped of your title until your trial before the Glorious King Khamul of Pashtia, at a time deemed worthy. Have you anything to say in your defence?”

The words struck Zamara again and again, a thousand blows in a single shot, pummelling and winding her, leaving her breathless and speechless as her world seemed to close in. As the two soldiers came to either side of her, Zamara smacked their hands away like a being irritated with flies and gathered herself against this attack. “Tr…treason? And ‘witchcraft’ and ‘worship of demons’? What sort of foul joke is this?” she demanded, attempting to regain her ferocity, to quell this foreigner – to quell the fear in her heart. But the man remained unmoved. “If you fight, things will become worse for you,” he replied stiffly. Anger flashed through Zamara’s eyes, the otherwordly blue in them glinting dangerously beyond the surface. “Become worse?” she thundered. “You profess to destroy my entire world, you, who came but a few months ago to this country. How could things get worse than these libellous accusations and lies?”

The Westerner took a step back, gasping and raising on hand to his throat as he held the other up as if to ward her away. “Stay away, sorceress!” he choked as if something tried to strangle him. “I can see the madness that moves through your eyes – you will not take me into your power –”

Zamara sneered, folding her arms, disgusted at this melodramatic act – but the soldiers, it seemed, were lapping it up, and even the acolytes seemed uncertain. The Westerner instantly jumped on this act of ‘open rebellion’. “See how she sneers at the name of the king, at the face of those who try to help the civilians!” he announced triumphantly to the Temple as a whole. Turning back to Zamara, his eyes glinting with glee, he hissed, “Traitor!”

This was too much: Zamara took an angry step forward towards the Westerner – and was instantly seized by the two soldiers at the other man’s signal. Trying to fight against their firm grip, Zamara glared at the Westerner furiously and called harshly out to him – before realising her duty still extended to this position. Halting her desperate actions, the High Priestess became still in the arms of the two soldiers and, dignified to the last, the walked herself out haughtily before them.

Having finished her tale, Zamara was now once again standing by the window. Seating herself slowly in the cushions, her demeanout that of an injured queen, she leant forward wearily, her head resting on one hand as she murmured sardonically, “And thus came the fall of the High Priestess of Pashtia.”

Siamak remained silent for a moment, apparently stunned by what he had heard. Leaning forward towards Zamara, he reached out a hand to her and rested it on hers. “Priestess-”

“I believe it is just plain ‘Zamara’ now, your majesty,” came the bitter reply. Siamak hesitated, then began again, self possessed and strong. “Priestess,” he repeated. “Whatever has been said against you, this was one of a great many injuries done against the people of Pashtia since the Emissary arrived. Surely if-“

“What other injuries?”

Siamak looked sorrowful. “There are a great many to tell, Priestess Zamara, if we only had – what was that?” his voice dropped to a murmur as he interrupted himself. Zamara looked up, her eyes alert and watchful and she glanced towards the door. A voice, muffled through the wood and full of restrained anger, was speaking to Nadda – a female voice, directly outside their door. Siamak signalled desperately at Zamara to hide somewhere, but it was too late: she door opened suddenly and there, looking wild yet somehow triumphant in the doorway…was Gjeelea.