Shadow of the West

[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?"

[Novnarwen]

The walk to the Palace was a rather uneventful affair. Despite the beautiful weather, people seemed to stay hid inside. Surely, there were obvious reasons why people preferred this, but it was still a pity; it was no longer possible for the average man to enjoy the simplicity of the weather as it seemed that all things were all other than gay. Still, one man, dressed in long black robes, was out and about. Entering the courtyard of the Palace, he halted for a moment, enjoying the tranquillity of the place that had always been filled with life. It certainly felt like ages since he had last been here, when the Emissary had first arrived. The King had thrown a banquet in his honour, as a welcoming gesture. Highly ranked citizens of Pasthia had all been invited to take part to drink and eat. The religious leaders, the former High priestess Zamara and Tarkan, had been there, as well as the nobles, Korak and Arshalous Even Môrgos and his family, the elves, had enjoyed the banquet in the King's hall. He, on the other hand, had enjoyed the gathering through a window.

In the early hours of that evening, he had located the perfect spot: a window, where he could watch the ongoing feast without being seen himself. All night he had stood there, his face glued to the cold window glass and his body leaning against the hard stone wall. Pleased by the accomplishment of the night, where he had learned of the King's decision, he was about to leave himself, when someone came up from behind and surprised him. At last, he had been spotted.

"Who're you?!" The gruff voice startled him. While day dreaming, he had almost forgotten why he was here!

"No one is being let in. Go away, beggar, or..."

The man in question interrupted;" I'm no beggar, and you will let me in." His eyes lit up as he said this, and with a sign the guard recognised, he let the black-robed man pass without further questioning. Followed by his dark shadow, he hurriedly climbed the stairs and went in.

The hall was almost unrecognisable in the dark. Squinting, he got used to the lack of light, and made his way to the end of it, where a door stood ajar. He didn't hesitate about entering; he would walk around in the Palace until he found someone who could help him deliver the message from Tarkan. His footsteps echoed in the empty room as he advanced from hallway to hallway. After almost ten minutes had passed, he finally met someone.

"Can I help you?"

"Can you deliver a message to the Prince and the Princess?" The figure asked immediately.

The young woman nodded, seeming confused. "I am just about to.. to….. the General," she said. Instantly, she looked uneasy, as if having said something wrong. He chose to ignore this, and asked again. After a moment, she nodded.

"You must promise me to tell no one of this, other than the people intended of course." Not waiting for the woman to reply, he continued.” I work for, or with, Tarkan, the priest." He spoke slowly, almost whispering. He took a step closer, making sure she could hear him clearly. "We know... We know about the priestess Zamara.." By the sound of her name, the servant jumped, looking terrified. "H-h-how..?" she pressed forwards, but the man didn't listen. Instead he took her by the arm and led her around the corner. "Listen to me. Tarkan is a wise man; by the help of the Gods he can see things; things that are, as you just confirmed, true. Now, don't think any more about that. Just listen. If you don't do as I say, it might prove fatal; fatal for you, the priestess, yes, even the Kingdom itself."

Hearing these words, the woman seemed to understand that she had just been involved in something she had never intended. The man studied her, hoping that she would do as he told her. In a brief second he thought he had done the ultimate mistake trusting her with this, but hearing her sigh, he knew that he had succeeded after all. What remained was the message itself.

"The priest must see Zamara. They must meet. At what time and where, I don't know, but Tarkan has something to tell Zamara; something of great importance. Now, off with you, and tell the Prince and the Princess precisely what I have told you. They may not send word for me, I have other business to attend to, but a messenger should be sent to Tarkan's residence as quickly as possible with the appropriate time and place."

He waved her off, and was about leave, when she stopped him. "May I ask who you are?" she said.

It suddenly occurred to him that he had in fact not introduced himself, but seeing the situation he found himself in, he realised that he had been wise. Being asked now, he could nothing but smile. "I am a servant, as you are ....?"

"Nadda," she said eagerly.

He left as quickly as he had come.

[Firefoot]

Only minutes since she had left, Nadda again stepped into the room with Siamak and Zamara. "Back so soon?" asked Siamak, puzzled. There was almost no way she could have been to Morgôs and back.

"Well... I didn't actually go to the General yet," explained Nadda, hurrying on before Siamak could say anything. "I was interrupted by another servant, he did not give his name, but he had a message for you and the Princess... and you, High Priestess. He came from the High Priest. Somehow, they know... know you are here. He said it was a dream, or something. But he insisted that the priest meet with you, High Priestess. He said a message should be sent back declaring the time and place. I came back here right away, as it seemed more important than your message to the General. I hope I have not done ill?"

"You did right," answered Siamak, both troubled and puzzled by this news. "This is indeed more important; I will have to talk to Morgôs later. Forget that message for now. My sister should be alerted of this; tell her to come here. That is, if there is no more to your message?"

Immense relief was etched on Nadda's face. "No, that is all he said."

"Very well. Go quickly to Gjeelea." He turned now to Zamara. "What do you think of this news? It is disturbing, I should say. I fear a trap. Do you think you shall go? I would go with you; it would be better that you are not alone."

[Kransha]

Morgôs didn’t feel well. He rarely felt well these days, but today he felt particularly bad: the sort of bad that portends infectious disease and illness, the sort of bad that forces the stomach to tie itself up into knots, the sort of bad that induced great pangs of agony…the sort of bad that Elves were not supposed to feel. He coughed silently, clapping a fisted hand to his dry, blue-lipped mouth to stifle the already miniscule noise even more. He felt oddly self-conscious, which was also very unusual for him, but he had a good reason. Everything around him seemed as stifling as his sickly and chronic coughing, dark and barren. The usual air of strength that filled him was gracelessly dimmed, its energy sapped. His only consolation was his reasoning. At least, thought the semi-General, his motives were well based.

The King was either mad or ingenious, and both options included a sub-clause portending mental instability. Khamûl’s newest orders were most outrageous, and news of his edict was already spreading through the land. Some might accept it as a righteous course of action, but who besides his mad zealots and those he had installed in seats of power actually agreed with him anymore? The power of Pashtia’s ruler was simply too great to challenge, so no one dared to, save for straggling resistance movements. Rebellion was expected during any campaign of change or reign of an unpopular king, but the rebellion that was bandied about to rival Khamûl’s orc hordes was so motley and so feeble it could not have crushed the regime of a tyrannical gardener. Pathetic was a word that might be applicable, but Morgôs tried not to think about rebellion at all. Getting involved in such a thing, for better or worse, would be bad for him. If he ever came into contact with revolutionaries, it would probably be in battle, with his blade dealing death to them at every turn. Such an order might well come from Khamûl. In reality, any order might come from the King in this twisted state, but Morgôs didn’t care now what came. He only hoped that the King would give him some order, just so he could restore the magistrate’s faith in him.

As the General meandered down the halls of Kanak’s royal palace, he began to piece together what had happened over the past weeks. The Emissary was now, officially, allied with Pashtia, he and his mighty sovereign Annatar. At one fleeting moment in all this time, after a bizarre and painful epiphany just before the sundering of reality occurred, Morgôs had known that this was a dark pact, his terrible dream revealing the fact to him. But suddenly his mind lay clouded and he could not grasp the fact any longer. He knew, and, with grim ease, accepted the alliance as he considered it. Whatever the decision of the King was, or his opinion, he had to accept the word of Khamûl as he had the word of his father and his father’s father before him. Once, he might’ve felt a vague spirit swelling in him, one of dogged rebellion and willingness to arouse, to rise and be counted with his own words. Today, as he wandered, the icy cold of the palace marble chilling his calloused, bare feet, he felt none of this. Instead, he heard a distant voice in his mind – his own – speaking quietly; thinking hard.

His wife and son would be at the palace soon, and a suite of some fashion was being furnished for his family. He almost laughed cynically – a suite, a set of rooms, when once he had had a mansion! Arlome would not be pleased, but she would accept it. Her adjustment would be hardest. Evrathol might have an easier time of it, but not by far. Morgôs would have to send envoys to get the books in his library and bring them by the wagon-load, if the King might allow it. What if the King said no? His thoughts lay as they were whisked from his mind on the wrinkled pages of every tome; they were of dire importance to him. If the King denied him this request, could he challenge this denial?

No, he could not refute the king. Doing so would mean death, even if the king spared his mortal life. His soul would be damned without question, not by the king or the law, but by his own past foolishness. Morgôs had never been impulsive, except on one occasion, and the words he’d spoken then haunted him now, as they sometimes did. He never dwelled on the decision he’d made…he could barely remember how long ago it had been. The General had never realized before that the decision would so alter his life as it had, but, as he contemplated, he was forced to admit that the decision had, in fact, had profited far more than it had been a detriment. If he still knew what he’d known before, he would be far more alarmed by the resonance of that past choice he made, but since the memory had evaporated, he was left with only gnawing regret.

The gnaw became a voice again, but not one he was used to, even though it was familiar.

“My lord, do not do this, I beg of you.”

The voice was familiar; his own. It sounded vaguely younger, but far darker in retrospect, and full of a terrified consternation. The next voice that rang coolly in the blank darkness was young, but spoke with an archaic, ancient style of nobility and regality, like a figure of old lore or literature might. “Wouldst thou betray me, my brother?” stabbed the voice into the expanse of night, sounding mortified, “I trusted your kind; saw them through the woes done unto them by my forefathers. I liberated them. Is this my reward?” There was little real anger or rage in the voice, but a betrayed vocal tone rode it. The first voice responded pleadingly. “Your cousin’s senses fly from him, lord – he may no more be looked to for aid or counsel. He is the consul of a dark thing, a fell and dark behemoth. He deceives you with his shadowed words.” – A dark warning.

“O’er time thou hast spoke truth to me, Warlord,” reprimanded the second voice, with caustic sting in its tongue, “and I have not turned from thine advice, but today the shadows dissemble in my hall. Join them, if thou wishest, but speak not to me of such evil.” The first voice interjected readily, diving in with no thought before doing so. “By my life and yours,” the second voice exclaimed, “do this not, for if you do you shall doom us all. Know you not what they call your kinsman? ‘The Black’ is his rank, and terror is his title. Leave him to his demise and live in his stead.” This dread word forced the second voice to rattle and tremble, but it spoke with a cold, sardonic voice instead. “And what assurances have I, Warlord my brother?” said it, using a similarly archaic acknowledgement, “If my kinsman is on the path to victory, what can I glean from this? Thou hast naught to dissuade me.” The challenge was swiftly answered. “I have my service, King of Kings,” retorted the first voice after a willowy pause, “for all time.”

There was hesitation then in the second voice. “For all my children?” it questioned, “And theirs after them? Grant me this, and thou shalt have thy way.” It affirmed at last. There was no pause in the first voice. “I shall.” Spoke that voice, not eagerly, but all truthful and willing. A grin could be seen through the pale darkness on the lips of the second speaker as he continued. “Warlord Morgôs Karandûn, if thou shalt render thy services to my sons forever after, and serve the throne unbidden, then I may rest in my grave assured of the safety of my sons. But, thou must only serve the true King of Kings, and no false lord or regent but the true heir of my house. If so, I shall be at peace - my dynasty preserved by thee in battle and in peace, for I have known your service to be of infinite value. Vow, Morgôs, that thou shalt not shirk this sacred duty to me, and my cousin will make his foolhardy way across the Sea of Ice alone.”

Again, no hesitation on the part of the first voice, though the words came with a terrible strained reluctance, as if there were millennia in between each resounding syllable. “To this end,” it said, “I will bind myself to them.” The second voice quickly bore up the banner of these words. “Be warned, Warlord,” it said, “I know you to be deathless. Until the day thou art slain, your service must not end. Thou art fettered to my line and shall uphold it in the highest until it falls…And if it falls, Warlord, thou shalt fall with it.”

“Forever shall I serve you, King of Kings.”

“Very well. Word shall be sent to the west of my dissuasion.”

“Thank you, my lord. Your wisdom is as deep as your armies are strong”

“And they shall be far stronger in time, my brother, thanks to you.”

Shaking uncontrollably by now, Morgôs staggered towards the halls that allowed entrance to the King’s meeting chambers, heavily guarded in this savage time. The time for drastic action had come, if he was to keep his promise and not be condemned to some sort of dark domain after life had ended for his disloyalty.

[Amanaduial the archer]

Zamara tried to think, her mind whirring and calculating as she stared almost angrily out of the window, her arms crossed and on forefinger thoughtfully tapping out a steady rhythm on her opposite forearm: keeping her thoughts steady and calm, trying to stop herself from panicking. Maybe the news of her death sentence and it's true horror had not yet sunk in; maybe it would not until too late. Either way, the Priestess seemed calm and collected when she next replied.

"Disturbing indeed, Prince Siamak," she murmured, frowning slightly. She sighed, almost dreamily. "I do wish Nadda had got this servant's name, just for something to make it less suspicious, even if one cannot cling to anything in these times..." Turning fluidly, Zamara looked at Siamak. "What do you think, Siamak? Should we risk it?"

Siamak frowned, shaking his head as he thought. "I think there is more to this message than meets the eye, Priestess. This servant...he did not give a name, and he then delivered a brief, mysterious message to a servant directly rather than sending the message through a chamberlain as would be more proper. An altogether secretive affair. What is more, while he did not give a name of his own-"

"- he now knows Nadda's," Zamara finished, nodding, her tone regretful. "And he knows I am here as well - she is young and easily swayed, Siamak, a trait that has been useful for us but which, I have no doubt, means that this servant left in no doubt that I am indeed here." She sighed, shaking her head, almost angrily. Nadda was perfect for the tasks they needed - simply to send messages to and fro, and to bring her what she needed discreetly. But when she was directly questioned? The young servant girl had no experience to dodge the questions as an older staff member would. But who of the older servants could be trusted now? Some had served the royal family their entire life: their livelivehood and even their lives depended on that set way of thinking. But then...but then, the older servants had grown up with the old gods and worshipped them their whole lives, worshipped, brought offerings, joined in the festivals, even got married or had family members laid to rest by the Priests and Priestesses of the old gods. And the weight that this sort of legacy had could not be ignored. The Priestess smiled slightly, heartened against the odds that maybe, if the time came, some would come to her aid.

But the more specific questions were currently pressing, and the smile faded within a second from Zamara's fine features as she once more considered this strange visitor. Something here stinks...the stench of incense on a funeral pyre. The question is: whose funeral is it? She shuddered slightly, tightening her jaw, and turned back to Siamak. "Firstly, we need someone else who can help us. Another of the servants. I am aware of the risk this has," she continued, holding up a hand as the young man began to voice his concerns. "But we need someone who can be trusted to keep our secrets and get out of the palace into the city maybe, if the need comes. One of the chamberlains maybe?" A figure sprung to mind and Zamara clicked her fingers as she remembered the name an instant later. "Jarult! Was that his name? A chamerlain here, I remember seeing him when I came to speak to your mother, and at the banquet... What?"

Siamak was shaking his head. "No good. Jarult was dismissed some months ago, along with several other members of my mother's train."

"Surely not all of them?" the Priestess replied incredulously. "That old nurse, the woman who helped with Bekah's funeral proceedings, an...Alanzian." Realisation hit Zamara and she stopped, resignation streaming over her features. "She is gone as well, isn't she?"

Siamak nodded grimly. "Homay has gone as well; a rebellion against the palace some time ag..." At Zamara's alarmed face, Siamak halted, shaking his head hurriedly. "Never mind, I shall talk to you of that later maybe, now is not the time to be deviating. What do you think of the priest's supposed proposition?" Siamak's tone told Zamara of the prince's obviously dubiousness on the matter, but despite the young royal's uncertainty, she could not shake the hope that maybe, just maybe, this was something she could trust. When fear is flowing steadily through the cracks, one grabs any bucket that one can and prepares to bail like hell - sometimes regardless of what one might miss in the frenzy.

"I...I would like to meet him, Siamak."

The prince paused for a second, trying to arrange his next sentence respectfully: a strange role reversal bearing in mind he was potentially in line for the throne and she was a doomed fugitive. After a moment's diplomatic mental shuffling, he replied carefully, "Do you think that wise, Zamara?"

Zamara sighed deeply, shrugging her shoulders as she folded her arms tightly as if against a breeze, and turned back to the window, where no breeze stirred outside the window. It was quite early morning, several hours still to go until midday. Time for morning prayer, she thought, but her thoughts seemed almost detached from the reality of the silence where the singing of the priestesses and acolytes and the answering chants of Rea's priests should have wafted on the breeze to the palace on the soft spring breeze. But spring seemed not to have alighted on the city this year: the gay, gentle breeze did not stir the deadly still trees that now drooped in the Pashtian sun, and even the very birds, normally ready to come from as far as Alanzia simply to sing their harmless, cheerful tunes through the streets and courtyards seemed to have forgotten. Or been silenced.

After a silence so long that Siamak was about to prompt the Priestess for an answer, she replied, her voice like that of a school teacher. "Do you know, Siamak, of the great plague that hit Pashtia some two or three centuries ago? Nearly half the city was wiped out by it, and the arguements still rage about what caused such a terrible disaster. But whatever the cause, many cures were tried out: poultices of goats' milk and herbs, bandages of nettles, spells, prayers, chants... But do you know what it was that was found to work?" She turned her head to look straight at Siamak. "Rancid fat."

Zamara seemed to smile to herself slightly, turning back to the window as Siamak remained silent and puzzled at this bizarre, rather foul punchline. After a second, she continued, matter of fact yet thoughtful. "You see, Siamak, it seems that in times of direst trouble, it is not always beautiful and shining cures that can work - sometimes one has to try shadier and somewhat, may I saw, more dubious cures, in the hopes that maybe, just maybe...a solution just might be found."

The pair were quiet for a moment and Zamara turned fully to Siamak once more, smiling slightly at him in the silence where the birds and the bells should have echoed through the city. A moment later, Siamak grinned. "Rancid fat it is then, Priestess."

[Firefoot]

"Rancid fat it is then, Priestess." Foolhardy though it may be, Siamak was persuaded that maybe there was some hope in such a venture. "So on to the time and place, since Tarkan left to us to decide. Though it would be risky to leave the palace, I think Tarkan would probably noted were he to come. And should we be discovered, we would not be able to escape the palace."

Zamara thought for a moment, then nodded. "Then the time should be in the evening, when people are returning home from their jobs. Two or three more cloaked figures on the street would not be marked at that time."

"Then, or a little before so that we do not return overlate," agreed Siamak. They would not want to be caught on the streets after curfew; then they really would be easy targets. "But where? Someplace where you would not be sought. What of the Temple of Rhais? Surely no one would think to find us in the place from which you fled?"

"Everyone who enters the Temple of the goddess is watched. We cannot go there," said Zamara.

Slowly they exhausted several options, from down by the wharf to the less-frequented inns to an alley in the market place. All had some faults: too crowded, no way out should they be discovered, too obvious... the list went on.

"Then I have but one more idea," said Siamak, clearly hesitant on the idea. "We could go directly to Tarkan, in the guise of worshippers to the temple." He was not sure he liked it; surely such a place would be full of the Emissary's men and other supporters of the king.

"Do you think that wise?" Zamara dubiously echoed Siamak's earlier question.

"I don't know. We are sending word to Tarkan anyway; perhaps we could ask him how safe such a venture would be," answered Siamak. Is this pushing luck too far? "We can also wait until Gjeelea gets here to send any kind of message; she may have a different perspective."

"That would be well," answered Zamara.

Neither of them said anything for a moment. Siamak was thinking about what Zamara had said about needing another servant's help. Abruptly, he asked, "Weren't you helped by another servant last night?"

"Yes, a man. Raefin."

"He's older, right? More loyal to the old ways?" asked Siamak.

Zamara seemed to realize what he was driving at. "Yes; I think we could rely on his help. He already knows I am here, so we need not risk telling more people."

"That's what I was thinking," Siamak said. "Once Nadda gets back, we can have her go find him."

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Khamûl listened to the creature’s report intently. “The filthy Elves have all been rounded up and sent to their new homes,” it was saying. “There were some as wanted to protest their treatment but we stopped their mouths.”

“Surely you did not kill them?” the King was startled.

The orc shifted his eyes uneasily toward the Emissary who stood in his customary place behind the King’s shoulder. Watching the dark Man, the orc replied slowly as though reciting a speech that had been written for him. “There were some, majesty, who showed us violence as we escorted them. While every attempt was made to apprehend them, some gave us no choice and we were forced to slay them.” The creature’s voice as it said this speech was oddly strangled, but at its conclusion the beast let out a great sigh and shifted his eyes from Ashnaz’s, relieved at his release. “We got them all there in the end, at any rate,” it continued in its normal tone and manner.

“Good,” the King replied. “It is lamentable that some chose destruction rather than accept our protection. I wonder why they would make such a choice? Elves have ever been a mystery to me.…” He trailed off into silence. The quiet went on, filling up the corners of the Great Hall, now greatly changed from before. The banners had been torn and beslobbered with the filth of the orcs, and the cushions had been removed from the dais. Upon the high stone there now sat an iron throne, and if any but the orcs and the Emissary were allowed into the court it would have caused all Pashtians great confusion, none of whom were used to chairs or furniture other than a low divan or pallet. The King slumped in the throne, made rather smaller by its size. He wore the Ring now openly upon the chain at his breast and his hand clutched at it unceasingly. He wore his ceremonial crown of gold despite the weight of that massy metal.

Finally, he waved his hands and dismissed the orcs, who dragged themselves from the room grumbling and spitting in their debased tongue. When they were gone, Khamûl spoke to his friend without turning around, so that his eyes gazed off into space. “I would speak with my general. I must find some way to stop these ridiculous rebellions.”

“I would advise against that, Majesty,” the Emissary replied softly. “The reports of him are increasingly alarming. He has grown violent and insular. Some say that he is mad.”

Khamûl felt the wisdom of his friend’s words, and was about to turn away from the idea, but then there came a touch upon his neck, cold fingers that brushed him gently but insistently. His hands moved to his flesh, “What?” he spoke aloud, and the Emissary stiffened and looked at the air about the King’s head as though gazing at an enemy.

“Come my King,” he said quickly, taking Khamûl by the shoulders, “let us take a turn about the garden.”

But the touch of the fingers at his throat grew tight and the King was forced to remain where he was. There was a tickling at his ear as though someone were whispering to him, but there were no words. Instead he only felt as clearly as though she were there with him the presence of his wife. “Bekah!” he said, and at the word the Emissary drew in a quick breath that hissed between his teeth like a serpent. Drawn by the sound, the King turned about quickly and saw a look in his friend’s face that he had never seen before. It was like a black mask of hate and malice, gazing into the space about the King’s head, and his hands were raised like claws. Ashnaz was muttering something beneath his breath in a tongue of the West, and Khamûl felt the power of the words crackle about him. There was a pressure then, against his chest, and he knew that his friend was seeking to banish the shade of his wife.

He was caught in that moment more painfully than a small animal in a trap. He did not know whom he wanted to prevail in this contest, for while Ashnas was his one true friend and ally, surely his wife would not have come back to him for no purpose. Perhaps she had come to tell him who had killed her? At the thought he felt the grip of her fingers tighten upon his throat and he gasped for air. Ashnaz’s face grew wild with rage and he thrust his hands outward, violently buffeting the air, and the presence of Bekah fled. But as it did so, it managed one word for the ears of the King. Morgôs

The King fell back into the weight of his throne and Ashnaz was instantly there. “Are you well, my friend? She is a powerful spirit and it took much of my strength but you are safe now. Did she – say anything to you?”

Khamûl was at the very point of answering his friend, and whether it was the remaining influence of the visitation or some small part of his former self that had been fanned into new life by it – or perhaps some combination of them both – something bid him withhold the truth from the Emissary. “No,” he replied. “She tried, but thanks to you she was not able.” He placed his hand upon his friend’s shoulder.

The King rose from the throne and walked down the dais, waving his friend away with one hand. “No no,” he said, “You need not come with me, I am fine. I just need to lie down for a time. I need you to look into the search for the priestess, it is taking far too long to find her.” Ashnaz paused momentarily, but then bowed and left the chamber.

The King waited until his friend was gone, and then went looking for his General.