Shadow of the West

[Firefoot]

Siamak thought for a moment before responding. Zamara’s hiding place would have to be somewhere that could be easily accessed without causing suspicion, yet it could not be anyplace where people, servants or nobles, regularly went. He was thinking that it also ought to have more than one exit, so that she would not be trapped should her location be discovered. She had to be able to escape. Tricky requirements... then he had it. It was so absurdly simple, he almost laughed: who would think to hide Zamara in a guest’s chambers? Not very many were currently being used; few people visited the palace nowadays. As for exits, he now recalled the old servants’ entrances which led into nearly all the rooms in the palace - his own chambers had one. They were unused now, and had been unused for any conventional purposes for several generations now.

“Yes,” he said. “I know of a place. I can take you there now, if you like.” Zamara agreed and she and Gjeelea both made for the door.

“No, not that way,” said Siamak, heading into the room where Zamara had previously hid. “This way.” Remembering Nadda in the entry room, he called for her to come as well. After all, the fewer the people who knew the better, and someone would need to bring Zamara meals and such.

Looking slightly puzzled, the three women followed him to the inobtrusive door, designed to blend in with the room. He tried the door; it creaked softly as it was opened. “The old servants’ entrance,” Siamak explained for Zamara’s benefit. “It’s not really in use anymore.” After they filed through, he shut the door to, leaving it slightly ajar so that it would not be hard to find. He took a moment to orient himself. He had only been back here a handful of times, and not once in several years. Left goes towards Khamul’s rooms... right towards the guest rooms, and then a dead end. Right it is.

The passageway was plain, unlike the richly decorated hallways that were more commonly used. The walls were plain stone, and several doors lined them until the way turned out of sight. He concentrated on the number of doors they passed, trying with mild difficulty to remember where each led. Finally, he stopped. If he was correct, the room was about the same distance away from his and Gjeelea’s apartments. Out of the way, but not completely obscure in location. The door opened with more trouble than the one in his own rooms had, but it squeaked less.

It was exactly the type of place he had wanted: these rooms would not be used by any prominant palace guest, so they were smaller, but certainly they were a finer place than one would normally think to hide an accused traitor. Here, the servant’s door opened directly into the bedroom, so the two entrances to the room were not visible to each other.

“What do you think?” he asked. “You have two exits - three, if you count the window - though I doubt anyone will look for you here.”

[Orofaniel]

"The garden is not the same, is it mother?"

The whispering did not affect his mother; she stood there, steady as a rock, but Evrathol knew she was feeling weaker than in her earlier days.

Months had passed since the death of Queen Bekah. Evrathol remembered it like it had been yesterday. His eyes had seen much throughout his long immortal life, but the events of that day that he had witnessed would stay with him forever. He could remember how the Emissary had come to his mother's gardens. The cold and ruthless man that had disturbed the peace in Pashtia had been standing here, on this very spot. Evrathol shivered by the thought of it.

It was Evrathol's suspicion that the Emissary had killed Queen Bekah with his own hands that had been the greatest terror of them all. But how could he prove it? Evrathol was not to keen to go against the Emissary and his men alone. He knew he would not be strong enough to do so. But why hadn't Morgos, the general, taken more responsibility? He wondered what role the Princess and the Prince played in all this. Where they still mourning, perhaps, he wondered. The questions regarding the future of Pashtia tormented him, for he had no answers. He knew little of what was really going on in the Palace as he had not been there after the Queen's death. However, he had no wish of going there, because he was afraid the sight of it would weaken his hopes for a new and better Pashtia.

Oh, these ill events that has taken place in Pashtia...." Evrathol sighed. Indeed, many ill events had taken place.

He looked at his mother. She was grave and paler than usual. His mother had been devastated after the Priestess Zamara had withdrawn from her duties, and apparently gone mad. The Temple that had been a place for peace and quiet and his mother had used this as a place to collect her thoughts. Now however, she had arranged a small alter in her own home with Evrathol’s help. Nevertheless, Evrathol knew it was not the same.

"No, the gardens are different, I'm afraid," Arlomë then said quietly.

"But Mother, your plants....they need to be looked after," Evrathol said softly. "Many of them have already withered and died...Will you not see to the few that are left?" Evrathol continued. Arlomë remained quiet. "I have tried to look after them for you, but I do not share your knowledge and wisdom. Please, you must not let all of them wither. You used to..."

"That time has passed, son," Arlomë then interrupted. "The Pashtia we knew before is fading away…withering....But I feel that something is going to change. I do not know what it is. Do you feel it?"

Evrathol looked at her, amazed by her last words. His mother hadn’t been so enthusiastic about anything in a long time. However, he still sensed weariness in her voice. "I do not know what I feel. I just know that this Pashtia is nothing like it used to be - the evry same thing you are saying, in other words. It cannot continue like this. We must do something. Like we said we would do after the death of the Queen. Remember? Remember my suspicion?”

"Speak naught of it, son, because I dare not remember it. But please, let us speak with your father. He knows more about the events inside the place, don't you think?"

[Amanaduial the archer]

Zamara looked in astonishment around the room, clean, airy and devoid of black: more pleasant than her own quarters had been in several months, since her imposed withdrawal. She almost laughed, her face splitting into a grin as she turned back to Siamak and nodded enthusiastically, approving. "It is perfect, your majesty - more than perfect." She laughed, but the joyful sound was muted so as not to attract attention; a joy snuffed and muted for fear, as all now seemed to be in Pashtia. "Thank you, Siamak, thank you indeed."

The prince smiled back graciously and gave a stiff little nod to the Priestess before he turned to Nadda. "You will be in charge of the High Priestess's welfare; see that she has her meals on time and the like - but do it absolutely secretly, do you understand me?" Nadda shrunk a little before Siamak's direct, commanding tone, but nodded. "Of course, sir. But...but so many of the servants follow the old ways still-" she blurted out.

"I know, and their time to help shall come," Zamara answered swiftly. Nadda seemed about to say something before her manners when speaking to noblemen caught up with her and she shut her mouth sharply as if slightly mortified with her speaking out of turn. Zamara smiled to her and took the servant girl's hands. "Your time shall come, Nadda; but you must be patient. Do not mention my coming here to anyone, anyone at all. Only Reafin knows other than you - it must stay that way, alright? It must." Her words were urgent, but she managed to keep her desperation out of them, coming across as intense but unruffled - she hoped - as she held the girl's hands tightly in her own. Nadda nodded quickly, her eyes saucer-wide. Zamara smiled and let go, leaving Siamak to dismiss her. As the servant girl scurried away through the labyrinth of tunnels that Siamak had illuminated to them, Zamara took a deep sigh and looked around her 'new room'. As she did so, she suddenly felt such a swell of gratitude that was only matched by her weariness, and she stifled a yawn as she turned back to the royal children. But before she could speak, Gjeelea stepped in. "No more talk for now, Zamara; you must rest. And so must we, brother," she added, turning to Siamak. The prince gave her a slightly curious look but it was well masked. "You will be sleeping in the palace tonight, Gjeelea?"

The princess nodded. "I would not disturb my husband at this time," she replied, the words stiff as if they sounded false in her mouth. "I will return in the morning."

Siamak did not comment. After both her and Gjeelea had bid her good night and departed, Zamara turned back into her room and, without further ado, crossed the room to the bed and lay, exhausted with the night's adventures. The crisp, cool white covers felt exquisite against her skin as she slipped out of her thick dark cloak and then, after a moment's thoughts, out of the white robes, but even as she tried to relax in this haven, her mind kept working. Had her vanishing trick been noticed by Pashtia's 'occupiers' yet? If not, it would not be long before it was - and then what? Her trial was already a postponed death sentence, she had no doubt, and once it was found that she had mysteriously escaped and vanished into the night without a trace - why, it would no doubt simply harden the evidence in the minds of her enemies. And she seemed to have so many enemies now.

Closing her eyes tightly, Zamara sighed deeply, feeling suddenly sadness rather than anger against the city that had turned its back on her. Since the Emissary's arrival...or was it? It seemed that everything had gone downhill from there, since the building of the new temple and the death of Queen Bekah, but was it then that things had started? Maybe her downfall had begun before then and the Emissary was merely a catalyst; had her time simply come, the time for the old gods to fall?

No. No, she knew it could not be true. There were followers still, those who would stand behind her even now - Reafin, the servant who had even this night risked his job - her very life - in getting her into the palace rather than calling the patrols upon her. And the royal children - they went against their father and plotted his downfall for her safety and for the ways of life that she stood to uphold, as they themselves did. They were not moving on on the side of the Snake, corrupted as Faroz had been; they were making a stand, quietly, oh so quietly - but even the smallest whisper can make a change, even the smallest grain of rice can tip the balance. And indeed, Zamara wondered about the warmth which Gjeelea's tone had almost had when she had spoken to Siamak - it was not something that had been there before. Were things changing even at that level? In times of trouble, such small differences were all that it took to shift the pebbles, the boulders, the mountains. And to destroy the corruption of the Snake and his strange, mysterious 'one god', mountains would have to be shifted. Maybe...maybe even now, when all seemed dark, the light could yet be found, the candle yet illuminated.

There was hope for the West yet. As long as human decency strove to prevail over the darkness and unfeeling politics of those who didn't care for the state they governed; as long as there were some with backbone; as long as one voice could stand to raise another, another, another; as soon as a thousand voices stood to make a stand, brought about by one pebble shifting in the landslide... as long as faith, courage and hope remained, there was hope for the West yet.

Checking the door was locked, just in case, Zamara closed her eyes and went to sleep with the voice of a kindly goddess echoing in her thoughts.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

The sun rose red, spilling light across the parched fields like blood and spilling onto the sands of the desert which soaked it up, taking it into itself and preparing to unleash it later as a scalding heat that burnt the very air. In the Palace, Khamûl awoke from his nightmares of black, nameless things clawing at him, and of the echoing Voice that raged against him. He came to consciousness quickly, as he always did, but as he opened his eyes it was as though some vestige of his night’s visions remained with him, for against the light of the archway which lead to the balcony he thought, for the briefest sliver of time, that he saw a pale form. It was shaped as his wife had been, and it was as a cool cloud of silver before the angry red of dawn. It seemed for a moment as though the figure raised its hand to him, but then the morning wind came in through the arch and blew the form away into shadow. There was a sound just below hearing very much like a sigh, and Khamûl felt a touch upon his neck – firm, and not malicious, but neither comforting nor tender. It was as though the shade that passed by him were trying to tell him something. He held on to the thought and placed his own hand at his neck where he had felt the touch, and as he did so he felt his throat constrict and tighten. He started up, his breath catching in his throat and for a terrible heartbeat he thought that he beheld the face of his friend Ashnaz bending over him, and he could feel talons ripping at his throat.

But then the vision was gone, to be replaced by the smiling face of his friend. They had taken to sharing the Royal chamber so that Khamûl could benefit from Ashnaz’s presence at all times. At first, the Emissary had slept upon a low pallet beside the King’s bed, but the mattress was large and there was room upon it for several men, and so the Emissary had made up his bedroll upon it with the King. This had not seemed at all strange or alien to the King, although he did still take care that none of the servants would see it.

They arose, and took their breakfast, and as the sun rose and lost some of its crimson, the King’s mood improved. They ate in silence, but still they conversed with one another through their inner eyes. It was how Khamûl had come to think of the Ring; for he saw it in his mind now at all times as a burning wheel which gazed at him with command and love. From it he could see the mind of Ashnaz and as they took their food they exchanged their night’s dreams. As usual, Ashnaz’s were of far lands of green landscapes, well-ordered and governed with might fortresses and many peoples working toward one goal, one god and one future. Over these lands there ruled the one lord, benevolent and careful with the peoples he commanded, and they worshipped him for his greater wisdom and might. These visions calmed Khamuûl, and with the help of his friend he brushed from his mind the memory of the terrifying vision of his wife that had come to him with the dawn.

Their meal was interrupted by a frantic messenger who was shown in by the orc guards. The man’s face was filled with loathing for the creatures who had escorted him, and he was trembling with terror…of what, Khamûl could not imagine. “Majesty,” he began shakily, “I have come from the quarters of the High Priestess…” he caught the look in the Emissary’s eye, “I mean, of the former High Priestess Zamara.” He paused there.

“Very well,” the King snapped, “and what news have you of the withch?”

“She…she is gone, my King.”

“Gone! How, where what do you mean?” the King raged. He was terrified by the news, for it had come as a surprise. The Ring had given him such powers of sight, that he had convinced himself that there could be no more surprises for him, but as he cast his mind forth he realised that over Zamara there was some kind of mist hiding her from his view. He grew frantic, pacing about the room and he cast his mind to his children, holding the Ring now in his hand so tightly that its gem bit into his fingers drawing blood, but they too were gone – disappeared behind a veil of fog much like that which he had seen at his window this morning. And at the idea there was a touch at his throat once more, and his breath caught. He whirled about locking his eyes with Ashnaz but the look in his friend’s face came like a blow, for instead of calm confidence he saw that he too was confounded by something. They opened their minds to one another and it became clear in an instant that neither of them could see as clearly or as far as they had the night before.

“Find her!” the King cried to the soldier. “Scour the city for her. Spare no house or building – she must be found! I have been lenient so far, too lenient, in allowing her trial to wait for so long, but no more. As soon as she is brought before me in chains I shall pronounce her doom!” The soldier rushed from the room with the orcs grinning at his heels like dogs.

Ashnaz placed a hand upon the King’s shoulder to calm his rage. “You are right, of course, my friend to be enraged. But do not proceed so hastily. The witch has many deluded followers in the City and she cannot be brought to justice without offending them. Let it be known abroad that she is mad; she has clearly run away from her caretakers in a fit of wildness that can only present a danger to herself and to those who might help her out of a misguided pity. Let the people know this, and it will be easier to pass the judgement against her that we know she deserves.”

Panting with the effect of his emotion the King placed his hand upon the Emissary’s own. “You are right, my friend, of course. As always, you are wise and right. Let it be so known.” But the Emissary did not depart right away. “There is more you wish to discuss?”

“Yes, Khamûl, it is the Elves.”

“The Elves?” he asked. “What have they to do with this? Do you suspect them of having aided Zamara in her escape?”

“No,” was the slow reply, “but they have ever been the supporters of the old religion – by the accounts of your own archives it was their myths that gave birth to the heresies that Zamara preached. It is likely that they will resent her being brought to heel. You have already seen how they openly speak out against your orcs. There have even been clashes between Elves and orcs. For their own safety, then, as much as for the safety of your throne, do you not think it wise to bring them where they can be looked after?”

“You have often spoken of such a plan. What do you mean by it?”

“Let there be a special part of the City set aside for the Elves. Have them brought there where they can live apart from Pashtian society and have their culture without it endangering the beliefs of your people. There, too, we can keep them under guard in case their resentment against the orcs leads them to violence.”

“You speak truth, my friend. Let that be done as well. But,” he added after a thought, “let the General Morgôs remain at the Palace where I may keep an eye upon him. He will be a useful tool for me in this. No doubt the other Elves will resent being displaced, and it may assuage them somewhat to see that their most noble hero remains at my side. Have the orcs bring his family to the Palace as well. We shall keep them all here…as our guests.”

The Emissary bowed. “Majesty, I will see that this is all done.”

[Amanaduial the archer]

The lake was smooth and calm, wider and vaster even than the desert, stretching so far into the distance that it terrified Zamara. And it was unlike any lake she had even heard of, for along it's surface ran small ripples, moving as if with some purpose although the air was still and there was no wind. Reaching out with one bare foot, Zamara stretched out her toes towards the water, trembling slightly. The water lapped up towards her, and she leapt backwards from it as it chased her feet up the soft white sand. Smiling foolishly, the woman realised that she was not really afraid of the waves, although the vast lake's strangeness confused her greatly; for this, undoubtedly, was the Sea, an almost immeasurable expanse of waters that those nomads who had travelled farthest spoke of; an expanse of waters that stretched so far that anything could lie beyond it... Zamara smiled serenely, looking out across the waters with her hand shaded across her eyes.

And in the distance, something stirred.

Puzzlement in her blue-brown eyes, Zamara watched the horizon, watched for this movement: a shadow that stirred across the water. And it was getting larger now, she saw. As if it was coming nearer to shore. Her smile flickered as she watched it, and she rubbed her arms as a chill seemed to creep up from nowhere, a chill bound to shore by no wind, for the air still remained deathly still. Taking a hesitant step backwards, her anxiousness increasing to fear, Zamara could not understand the feeling that the shadow brought; the images of fear and pain that seemed to dance at the edge of her vision, cracking like whips as they taunted her. And the shadow seemed to taunt her too, for in a second it was almost upon her, the blackness covering the beach, shrouding her vision all around in fog and mist, in a sense of hopelessness that could never be removed. She felt tears well up in her eyes, but fought the urge to run as the shadow whipped around her, stirring up a wind in the air, whipping a vicious tumult up upon the waters. A wind that seemed to whisper her name. But the priestess did not move, staring straight into the blackness although even the very sand around her seemed to shrink before it and every sense in her body told her to run. She stared it out, the blue in her eyes shining fiercely as she willed herself not to move, to have the strength not to break down.

Horsemen...there were horsemen riding upon the shadow, seven of them, shades of men, cloaked and covered from head to toe in black, each bearing a sword in one hand. And on the other hand...on the other hand, shining as brightly as a star with but with subtle fierceness of a hidden snake, something burned, some small object set alight and burning fiercer than the sun...

And before their ride, the very earth began to tremor beneath Zamara's feet. "I will not yield to you," she bellowed fiercely into the shadow, injecting into her words a confidence that she did not feel as she struggled to remain upright; but her voice seemed futile, tinny, muffled by the black fog that now closed in, enveloping her, suffocating. "I will not yield to you..." Again, the wind whispered her name, a sibilant, insinuating hiss...

With a yell, Zamara struck out with one arm, flinging herself forward...into Nadda. The woman's unexpected strength and the fierceness of her reaction from sleep surprised Nadda and the servant girl found herself slammed against the wall in an instant, the furious High Priestess's hands pinning her shoulders to the wall. Unaccustomed to sleepwalkers or anything of the type, the girl yelped then quailed against the wall, terrified of the monster that Zamara had become. A second that seemed like an age passed in total silence and stillness before Zamara finally seemed to see what she beheld, and she blinked and stepped away hurriedly from Nadda, rubbing one eye with the heel of her hand as she took a long, shaky breath and blinked a few more times, truly coming too. Yawning, she looked apologetically at the servant girl who still cowered against the wall then looked away, mortified by her sudden rage. "My apologies, Nadda, I...I did not...you startled me from a dream, that is all. I was-" she stopped abruptly, suddenly sensing that relaying her dream may not be the wisest thing to do. Why, she was not sure; for if you tell a nightmare to someone, it does not come true. Isn't that what her mother had told her?

Shaking muddled childhood supersticions from her mind, Zamara collected her thoughts and took another deep breath, more controlled this time, and set Nadda with her straight, no-nonsense gaze - with eyes that seemed bluer by the day. "No matter, it was merely a dream. That...that is all." She nodded, half to herself, and not for the first time, wondered if she really was as mad as the Emissary had made her out to be. Certainly from the fear in the servant girl's wide dark eyes, Nadda seemed to have very little doubt of that. Smiling, she bid the girl a more proper good morning, but Nadda's barely reply, uncharacteristically skimping on ceremony for the first time in her career at the palace, almost bursting as she was with her news.

"High Priestess, I have bad news, I'm afraid: it is the Emissary, he...he made an announcement this morning." Despite herself, Nadda hesitated, eyeing Zamara almost warily. The Emissary's persuasive words had been so convincing, and although she had not believed it before, the girl was now having trouble considering that all he had said was untrue - the actions of the calm, collected woman in front of her barely a moment ago were surely not the actions of a sane women.

Zamara drew herself up a little, as if bracing herself for a blow. When Nadda hesitated, she croaked softly, "What did he say?"

Nadda paused for a moment longer, but could not contain herself. "He has said you are mad and-"

"-that your execution shall be carried out as soon as you are found. Good morning Zamara, and it does seem a shame to greet a new day with such grim news." Siamak's matter-of-fact tone was at odds to Nadda's exciteable voice and Zamara turned slowly to greet him. The question of how long he had been standing there, hands calmly clasped behind his back, standing erectly by the doorway, crossed her mind non-too-briefly. She smiled haplessly, raising her eyebrows. "My...execution?" she replied carefully. "And my trial...?"

Siamak clenched his jaw and, for once, dropped his eyes so her was looking just to the side of her face, avoiding her eyes. "Why does a madwoman who runs from her caretakers with the help of demons need a trial?"

Zamara's swift intake of breath was short as a pistol shot as it cut through the silence of the room. Then she gave a small snort of laughter and shook her head, causing both prince and servant to look at her in blatant surprise. But the laughter was short lived, and Zamara's face fell once again, melancholy and resignation settling on her features as she turned away from Siamak and went towards the window, although she did not go too close for fear of being seen - although it was unlikely that anyone would look up into this quietly concealed window from the pathways below. Not half a mile from where she stood in a forgotten, disused guest bedroom, the owner of the palace paced uneasily in his own quarters, hesitating only to look out of the window, seeing the same view as Zamara herself now gazed upon. It would little have comforted either of them, fallen priestess or falling king, to know that the other was suffering the same as they themselves were - voices and visions that came not only in night but in daylight too, the premonitions and fears made semi-solid creeping out of the cracks and crannies that surrounded their dwellings in a land that could be Paradise...The shadow comes closer from across the waters...

"Does Gjeelea know?"

Behind her, Zamara heard the rustle of Siamak's clothing as he shrugged, a spontaneous movement performed even though its intended reciever was not looking at him. "I have not yet spoken to my sister; I do not know if she has yet returned to Korak's house," he replied. "But Zamara, it was made as an announcement - I regret to say that the entire city knows. And as for the elves... well, there is bad news for them as well."

Zamara's head twitched suddenly as she raised her chin defiantly against the very sunlight outside as she prepared herself. "Tell me," she commanded softly.

[Novnarwen]

After the long conversation, Pelin had fallen back to sleep again. Tarkan on the other hand, had staid up. Rather uneasily, the Priest was walking around in the room, back and forth, muttering words of both prayer and despair. He couldn’t recall ever having been so insecure about something before. The feeling of being clueless and helpless had thus far been nothing but a distant feeling that had not dared touch him. Now, he felt it penetrating his mind, disturbing his thoughts and leaving him absolutely shaking with fear. Something had to be done; he knew that much, but what it was, he was still unsure of. How could he, a simple Priest, do anything now? The Orcs were swarming around in the city; a city that was beyond recognition. It had changed too much, and unfortunately for all of them, all of the changes had been for the worse! Ever since the Emissary had arrived, everything had gone wrong. The Queen’s death, he had to admit, was probably the greatest factor to why things had changed so drastically. Even though not a personal acquaintance of hers, he knew that nothing of this would have happened is she was alive. The accusations against the High priestess, the ruining of the Temples and the replacement of both Rae and Rhais were all in an odd way connected to the Emissary and his coming to Pasthia. It was particularly difficult though, to figure out what exactly had happened to the king. Was he only showing his true self, or was the Emissary responsible for driving the King to madness as well? It was obvious that the wild creatures roaming in the streets was also an effect of the cold-blooded murder of her Highness. Oh yes, he knew. It was a murder. When speculating in who the killer had been, he was disgusted by thinking that it was probably someone the king had hired, if it was not his half-brother himself.

He bit his lip. The lack of sleep and the worries that hung over him as a dark cloud had certainly had a great affect on him. Outside the sun was finally up; its rays reaching for him through the closed windows. For a few months ago, the Priest would have departed from his apartments by now with his head held high, and in his own odd manner, he would have found great pleasure in the nice weather. Currently, however, the once so proud Priest sat only silently to himself, and sighed when remembering what had passed. How ironic everything was; a few months ago he had dreamed of the life ahead, where he would be High priest of the new Temple, but when finally being here, present in the life that long had awaited him, he longed for what already was gone.

“Did you sit up all night, Father?” It was Pelin who had awakened from his slumber. He clapped his hands together, as if eager. It was nevertheless obvious that he was dreading this day; what had Tarkan decided?

When replying, it seemed that he was at loss for words. His tongue denied him to let it out, and he felt as if swallowing what he had first intended to say. How could he, a Priest, who was supposed to be a councillor, deny Pelin the decision he was waiting for, which ultimately was the answer to their troubles?

“Pelin, my good friend,” he started at last, urging Pelin to come sit next to himself before continuing. “It is true. I sat up all night…You have been such a good friend to me, even when I condemned you and acted unreasonably toward you. You have never deserved the treatment and the hard times I have given you, and I…. I, have never deserved your friendship.. and yet, you are here… You are here, and waiting for me to make a decision… when in truth, I’m not fit for that task… I cannot do it, because I don’t know what to do.” While talking, he looked down, studying the fabrics of the carpet that covered the stone floor. He felt ashamed, but he felt that it was the only thing he could do; for once he wasn’t telling lies or covering up his own feelings, he was talking from his true self that he had hid away for so many years. The feeling was indescribable; he felt neither good nor bad… just empty. Eying Pelin out of the corner of his eye, he started again:” I must talk to the priestess, but I don’t know how to… she is an escaped convict, and thus, I cannot approach her openly ...”

It was then that Pelin spoke. With lightening eyes, he calmed the Priest. “Leave this to me. I have an idea…” Tarkan opened his mouth to speak, but said nothing as Pelin rose hurriedly and aimed for the door. “Expect me back in a few hours. I promise that the news I’ll bring will be nothing but good. ”

Hearing his friend say this, he knew that Pelin had indeed forgiven him.

Feeling the strength and the steadfastness returning, two of the qualities that seemed to have gone missing the last couple of weeks, Tarkan eyed at last hope in the heavy darkness that was suppressing Pasthia into nothingness.

[Firefoot]

Siamak smiled internally at Zamara's response. It was becoming ever clearer to him why Khamûl would want to get rid of her; she had held a position of high repute, and had the personality to match it. She was scared, perhaps, but she did not back down. He was glad indeed that she was on his side.

His mood was sobered again as he explained the elves' situation: "It was not announced in these words, of course, but they are to be displaced from their homes and set apart in a special part of the city. Ever have they been speaking out against the changes being made, the occupation of the orcs in particular, and now I suppose the idea is to get them so that they can be watched more carefully. They are telling everyone it is so that they may practice their own beliefs in peace, but..."

Zamara's reaction was subtle, but Siamak caught a slight stiffening of her figure. After her own experiences, Siamak imagined that she understood all to clearly how it was to be caged in and watched carefully. "Surely their resentment will only grow?" she answered.

"It seems that Khamûl has thought of that, as well. Morgôs and his family are to stay here at the palace, as 'guests,' for what good it will do," said Siamak. "But even so, I don't imagine they will be able to do a whole lot - otherwise things could get nasty... not that it won't anyway," he added, almost to himself. "I think we can expect their support, when the time comes." Almost he was glad for the continuing worsening of Pashtia, for though the best case scenario would be for his father to return from madness and restore the kingdom, if he made the people even more unhappy they would be more the ready for change and more supporting of the ever-more probability of Khamûl's overthrow. Siamak doubted they would need to look far for support; the problem would be the immense opposition.

"So there is some good news in this," said Zamara.

"Small though it is, yes. And also: soldiers have been commanded to scour the city for you, but not yet has anyone imagined that you might be here in the palace itself. I think you will be safe for a little while yet." This was not much reassuring, to either him or Zamara. It would only be a matter of time, and Siamak did not know if they had enough. And if time was what they lacked, he could not afford to spend much more here with Zamara, if there was nothing else to go over.

He beckoned to Nadda who had been standing by, listening. "Have word sent to General Morgôs that I would speak with him today. Do not speak with him directly; give the message to one of his pages. I would not have you associated with this business by others if it can be avoided."

She acquiesced and departed from the room. Siamak again turned to Zamara. "I have no more news, good or bad. Is there anything else that you would speak with me about before I go?"

[Amanaduial the archer]

All was still in the palace.

The cold, dusty desert air blew off the sands to the East of the Desert, chuckling as it played through the dark corridors and whispering mischieviously in the ears of the fitfully slumbering inhabitants of the rooms, empty and cold in their materialistic glory. The rich, thin material of hung up clothes and disturbed bedcovers stirred lazily, beads clattering sleepily and jewellery derisively tossed gently in the fidgetting fingers of the wind, before the palace's liveliest intruder danced away to find some sport in the streets below, sprawled in submission around the palace.

Outside, watched only by the silent, watchful moon above, the palace's other intruder was making her escape from her only sanctuary: venturing into a city that professed not to want her, and to a people to whom she was a vanishing last hope. The wind whispered through the servants quarters, playing past two disturbed beds, one a man's and one a young girl's, and followed their owners outside to where the man, cloaked against the night air and the night creatures, held open a furtive side gate. Three figures, slim, effeminate shadows against the muffled lamp above the gate, slipped through it guiltily but without fuss, and as silently as the moonlight, they fled to the sidestreets, keeping to the shadows. As the gate closed behind her, one of them hesitated, taking a long look up at the palace, her eyes yearning for some semblance of the life she had once had to return, for the darkness to lift; then the other, a taller woman whose dark curls peeped out of her hood, took her hand and, with a final farewell to her life, Gjeelea hurried on with Zamara after Reafin and Nadda.

To a spectator, the journey would seem uneventful for the four furtive figures, but to Zamara every second of the dark, dangerous journey was a battle against every nerve in her body and every wit in her senses telling her that to hide forever would be a preferable option. The city doesn't want you, Zamara, leave them to their evil and return to the Goddess... Painfully alert as she was of every inch of her surroundings, the Priestess nearly tripped into Reafin's back as he stopped dead, and the suddeness of his movement nearly made her cry out. Regaining her composure, the Priestess tried to calm her heavy, frightened breathing, and stepped around the servant, her soft footsteps the only sound in the dark street - a street that opened to the Temple of Rae.

Nothing moved. Even the wind seemed to still, hushing itself into silence as it watched the tableau in front of the ruins. Narrowing her eyes, Zamara took another step forward out of the safety of the street's entrance and looked around, squinting into the darkness for some movement or sign of life, of the Prince - of a trap.

Risking everything and overcoming the lump that seemed to be building inside her throat, Zamara uttered a single word, her voice echoing desolately into the stone temple and making Nadda leap in it's apparent volume. "Tarkan?"

Silence once more.

Then movement.

Zamara stepped back, fear leaping like a wolf to her throat as she grasped her staff tightly for whatever comfort or protection it could give - and nearly cried out in relief as the person who moved forward threw back his hood and in the dry and desolate moonlight, she recognised Tarkan's face. A sudden, overwhelming relief almost overcame her as she darted towards him and, after a moment's pause, the Priest and Priestess embraced formally. "Tarkan," Zamara began, her voice a whispered sigh. "Thank- thank you so much for coming."

"It was my duty, Zamara." Not for the first time, he did not prefix her name with it's title, and in that instant Zamara was reminded of her distrust for the older man. They may have been allies, but friends was pushing it; by not calling her 'High Priestess', he was, she was reminded bitterly, simply telling the truth - but it could also have been an expression of her ever-present wish for her high position. She took a mental step back, reminding herself to be careful.

Careful? You have come to discuss high treason, Zamara: taking care would be far too belated for any caution now to save.

“Tarkan, the Prince, is he here yet? He set off some time before us- ”

“I am here, Zamara.” The strength of Siamak’s youthful yet strong voice from the velvet darkness comforted Zamara. Tarkan nodded once. “Have you brought any others?”

Caution, however, belated, caught up with the Priestess. “A few,” she replied shortly, but not so curtly that attention might be drawn to it as she added, “and you?”

“Just one,” the priest smiled. “Just one.”

“Ah, your mysterious young friend, Pelin, I suppose?” Siamak spoke this time, his voice a little sardonic. Tarkan’s chin jerked up angrily as he looked around, but apparently could not quite place the young prince’s exact position as his eyes returned to Zamara then sought in the darkness behind him, around the Old Temple. “Yes…yes, Pelin is here with me, as always,” he murmured somewhat distractedly. The distance in his voice did not escape Zamara but although she frowned slightly, she said nothing, contenting herself with her silence: the Priest’s mind and its motions would soon be revealed to her, Rhais providing. Sure enough, the Priest turned to her again and his voice returned to a conspiratorial whisper. “Shall we go into the temple? I fear it is not…” he took a furtive glance around, apparently simply for dramatic effect. “…safe.”

Zamara’s hesitation must have shown, for the Priest frowned slightly, his face still dimly visible in the unveiled moonlight as he half-smiled. “There is nothing to be afraid of, Zamara; the Rae’s Temple is as unlikely a place as any for you to be found –”

“I am not afraid, Tarkan,” Zamara cut in. Taking a deep breath, her voice softened and she nodded more calmly at the Priest. “Lead the way.”

Tarkan nodded solemnly and turned towards the temple as he began to lead the silent, secretive procession of the night-conspirators towards his old domain. Hearing Siamak come up beside her, Zamara half turned her face to him and felt the prince’s hand brush hers reassuringly. Smiling, she leant towards him and murmured, “Tell the others to follow but without being seen: the Priest may be our ally, for the time being, but I refuse to trust any man who wilfully refuses to reveal his name.” The Prince nodded and silently peeled away from her towards his sister and the two servants still hiding from the moon in the street opening. Zamara took a deep breath and, bracing herself against all the darksome rumours she had heard of the Temple, she followed Tarkan. But in the night time, when shadows are rife in the streets, they have a way of finding their way into one’s mind…

Feeling her sandaled toes brush against something soft and surprisingly moist, Zamara looked down and, to her surprise, saw a subtly hidden patch of moss by her right foot: the stone under which it had made its home must have been disturbed by Tarkan’s foot. Bending down, the Priestess touched the moss supersticiously, her fingers gently stroking it’s half-dried out surface. “Protect me, Goddess,” she whispered almost inaudibly. The chill desert wind stirred once more, chiding her onwards, and Zamara straightened up again, raising her chin and setting off after Tarkan.

[Firefoot]

Siamak was quiet for a moment after hearing Zamara’s account. As amazing as her story was, it was her manner that intrigued him more. It was as if that joy that he could only feel in a small part of his mind was present in full measure in Zamara. Indeed, the whole city felt full of it. He wondered tiredly how it was that he felt mostly mournful while the whole rest of the city rejoiced. He pushed the thought from his mind momentarily.

“Then General Morgôs… he lives?” Siamak inquired, and feeling some ray of hopeful joy at this thought.

For the first time, a flicker of a shadow passed over Zamara’s features. “I do not know; I have not seen him since the initial charge.” The light returned to her eyes. “I am sure he live somewhere in this city, though. He is an able leader and a skilled swordsman – and of the Avari, besides.”

Siamak nodded, not voicing his retort: It takes but one arrow – or sword-stroke – to slay the mightiest of warriors.

By this time, the pair had reached the temple and Siamak could see definite signs of a struggle. A handful of soldiers was gathered around, with most of their attention directed at a single form – the Lady Arshalous.

“What happened here?” asked Siamak.

“We are unsure,” said one of the soldiers, bowing slightly. “She burns with a fever like we have never seen before, though we can see no cause for it. The only mark on her is the burn on her neck. There are some who report that the Lord Korak and High Priest-” the soldier hesitated, clearly unsure of the proper title, before continuing, “-Tarkan had been held here as well. They are gone, now; presumably they escaped in the confusion of the battle. We think that they were to be executed,” he added with a nod towards the gallows.

Siamak’s brow creased. Tarkan was to be executed? Had he not led them into a trap? But if Tarkan lived still… perhaps he would find out. Perhaps not. Now Arshalous demanded attention. “Take the Lady Arshalous up the palace to be cared for. Send also for the healer Daliyeh.” And he gave instructions on where to find the old healer. “The old chamberlain, Jarult, is also welcome back at the palace.” If the soldier was confused by any of this, he did not mention it but accepted the orders with grace.

“Well,” commented Siamak, “now we know somewhat of Tarkan’s fate – it seems the only important thing left to find out is what happened to Gjeelea.”

“And it seems that shall not be unknown for long; look!” Siamak turned to where Zamara was facing and felt his own face pale at the sight. Some soldiers carried a makeshift stretcher, and even at that distance Siamak felt no doubt that the still form upon it was his sister. In the same instant he and Zamara hurried off in that direction; Siamak prayed they were not too late. He went straight up to the closest soldier, asking, “Is Gjeelea all right? Is she living?”

The soldier had sorrow in his eyes. “She lives, yes; the wound on her is fresh. But I have seen enough wounds to know when one is fatal. The princess will not live long.”

“For Rhais’ sake, then, let me see my sister!” said Siamak. Surely this was not true…

The soldiers did not dare argue and lowered the stretcher gently to the ground. Gjeelea’s eyes flickered open and she smiled slightly. “Ah, Siamak… Khamul’s gone, isn’t he.” She seemed to be having difficulty breathing.

Siamak nodded. “Yes… he – and the Emissary, and the Orcs – all fled at dawn. They’re gone.” Gjeelea smiled, but there was sorrow on her face as well. For the second time in as many days – as many years, even – Siamak found understanding with his sister.

“I heard… the sounds of the battle… and I knew that it was you… and Zamara,” she added looking to the Priestess. “I knew that you would do it… I tried to come…” Gjeelea’s breathing had become more ragged and her eyes now drifted shut. As much as he wanted to deny it, he knew that his sister was dying. So much death…

Abruptly, she spoke again. “You’ll be king, of course… Farewell, brother dear... Priestess…” And Siamak smiled a little, hearing the nickname she had always before used in scorn now used in affection. Then the message registered with him: you’ll be king, of course. He wondered that he had not thought of it before, and then turned his attention back to his sister. Her eyes shut again as her chest rose and fell, then rose no more. Siamak knew she was gone. Farewell, dear sister. Alas that they had not resolved their differences sooner, that it had taken a war to bring them together. He sighed, supposing that late was better than never.

Siamak rose from his kneeling position and addressed the soldiers. “Have her body taken up to the palace, that the necessary preparations might be made.” It seemed to him that he heard someone else talk, for the steady voice certainly did not match his turbulent state of mind. He gave the soldiers no more mind as his thoughts drifted. Was this the price of war? The price of peace? Or were they one and the same? Maybe it did not matter, for much good had happened as well – ultimately, more good than evil, for the evil had been banished. And through his sorrow, Siamak felt that flicker of joy grow stronger, for the evil and its sorrow would remain in the past, becoming only distant memory, while joy – and life – went on.