Shadow of the West

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

The Emissary arrived at dawn, emerging from the shadows of the west like the return of a dream. He and his vanguard of fifty tall men were dressed in richly woven clothes of purple and black, and their great war-horses struck sparks from the cobbled way that led to the city. Their faces were fair, though deeply tanned by their passage of the Great Desert, and yet despite the weariness of their journey they were proud and stern in aspect. Their hair was dark but their eyes were startling shades of gray, even blue, and not the usual brown. Most surprising of all, their faces were smooth and closely shaved. To many who saw them, they appeared as the Avarin, but their countenances, which bore the marks of age and toil despite their great beauty, were clearly those of Men, and not of the immortal ones. They were strangely armed with long, straight swords at their sides. Their weapons were the result of great craft, but many a Pashtian wondered at how such a large and cumbersome weapon could be used it combat.

They passed first through the rich farmlands that lay upon the banks of the river. The morning sun leapt above the horizon, revealing the company to the labourers already hard at work in the fields of their employers, trying to gather in as much of the crop as they could before the sun gained the advantage of the day, dissolving it with a blank white heat. The dark men did not glance to either side as they rode past the farms, nor did they acknowledge the stares of those they passed. The road turned away from the river and they followed it up a slight incline as it brought them closer to the city walls. Farmlands gave way to rolling hills, richly clad with grasses and shrubs, and home to the country estates of the nobility. The large houses of brick glowed like burnished bronze in the rising sun, and their groves of grapes, olives and figs clustered thick about them. At this season, the houses were deserted by all save the groundskeepers and a few servants, who watched the company pass from the walls that rose about the estates. These people were used to the sight of richly appointed parties, but these people from the west were so strange that they could not help but stare in wonderment.

The walls of the city rose up in the near distance but the company rode on apparently undaunted. They passed through the great empty fields that had been cleared for the mustering of Pashtia’s army and cavalry, and if they were at all impressed by the twin statues of Rhais and Rae that rose above them upon either side of the road, they did not show it. When they reached the city walls the gates were opened for them without any command or word being spoken, and it became clear to those who watched from the ramparts that the company was expected. The horses’ hooves clattered noisily upon the stones as they followed the road through the suburbs. Here the houses were small and closely built, but they were all of them clean and richly appointed. They were built in the manner of all Pashtian homes, of mud-bricks that had been fired to bronze-coloured strength. The homes presented to the street only blank walls with narrow windows, but as the company passed the tall gates of each home they could see that the houses all had large central courtyards, and that all the rooms of the home opened out onto covered walks that ran about the inside the building. As they pressed on into the city, the homes grew richer, and taller, and in the courtyards were fountains and pools, supplied by the great viaduct that they had seen at the waterfall more than three leagues distant.

The road passed through another wall, this one not as high as the great outer defense, but richly carved and draped with banners of silk. Within the ring of this wall were the markets and houses of trade. The goods of the Pashtians were laid out upon counters and tables, and could be glimpsed beyond the thick wooden doors of huge warehouses. There was a great press of people about although it was yet early morning, and in the many markets the company passed through there was a continual hum of business and industry.

At last, the road achieved the wall of the Palace. It was the first structure they had seen not made of brick, but of hewn stone. It sprang up before them and glowed pink in the sun, for it was made of marble that had been brought here over immeasurable distances centuries before. The gate that admitted them into the Palace grounds was made of steel, and upon it were many figures engraved of the Kings of Pashtia and their deeds. Within the walls of the palace, the sounds of the markets were stilled and replaced by the gentle trickle of falling water and the call of birds. It was like another world, a green world of immaculately tended trees and flowering shrubs. There were small shrines and statues scattered amongst the streams and copses, and occasionally small villas could be glimpsed behind vibrant walls of hedges. The scents of a thousand different plants filled the air. The road rose up a hill toward the palace. It looked, from the outside, like the homes they had passed earlier, only much larger. It glowed with the rich warm hue of the bricks, and its walls were smooth and unmarked. When they passed through the gates, however, they were given a glimpse of the huge courtyard around which the palace had been built. It was filled with gardens and pools of water even more miraculously elaborate than those they had seen, and in its center there rose a single tall column of black stone, smooth and featureless, but which shone as though it had been burnished with a cloth. Beside the column was a deep well, perfectly round and carved, it seemed from the living bedrock upon which the palace had been built.

They stopped at the end of the passage that led through this wing of the palace, and a single guard stepped forward. He raised his hand and spoke to them in the common tongue of the East, and was surprised when he received an answer from the tall man who rode at the head of the column in the same language.

“Your coming is known to my King and you are welcome,” the guard began ceremoniously. “My King bids you appear before him and make the purpose of your journey known.”

“I thank your King for this greeting, and I will attend him.” The company dismounted and followed the guard through a door at the side of the passage. He led them into a large hall, lit by rows of windows high up in the walls, and filled with a press of people dressed in silks and cloths of many different bright colours. The crowd was silent and moved aside to allow the company of stern men to pass. At the end of the hall there rose a tall dais, upon which stood the King, clad simply in an orange robe of silk, and wearing his diadem of pounded silver. He was unarmed, but about the foot of the dais were ranged a hundred of his personal guard, their faces covered with the same scarlet cloth that draped them to their feet.

The company halted at the foot of the dais and the Emissary stepped forward. Looking up to where the King stood he addressed him in tones of practiced diplomacy. “Hail and greetings to King Faroz of Pashtia from my Lord Annatar of the West! He sends you good will and friendship, and bids me ask if you are willing to exchange the like with him.”

A murmur ran through the crowd at the fair words and the noble manner in which they had been delivered. The King, however, appeared unmoved as he replied. “The greetings are returned, but I am afraid that I know nothing of your lord. You have come a long way from across the Great Desert, through which few Pashtians dare now travel, for we have heard that the lands to the west have grown dangerous and that the kingdoms of that realm are in eternal conflict. We want no part of foreign wars.”

“It is true that in the past there were trials in my land,” the Emissary replied. “But those troubles are behind us now. My Lord desires only peace and friendship with all the peoples of Middle-Earth, and to that end he has sent me into these distant lands to seek out both with our long separated kindred of men.”

The King paused in thought for a time before responding. “You speak fairly, and I will consider the request for friendship, but does your lord ask only for that? You would not have come all this way merely to express tidings of good will.”

“You are wise and perceptive, King Faroz. I cannot deny that my Lord has given me two tasks of more specific import. He bid me say that if you are willing to accept his friendship, then might you consider alliance as well? My Lord is powerful in his lands, as you are in yours, and one can never have too many allies in an uncertain world.”

“Of this first matter, we will speak further. What of the second?”

The Emissary drew forth from beneath his clothes a small black bag, from which he took out a gold ring. It was unmarked and plain, but there was upon it a small red stone that glittered in the light, and the gold itself shone. Many who beheld the ring felt that it was a thing of great worth, and longed to examine it more closely. The Emissary held the ring aloft. “My Lord Annatar is known in the west as the Lord of Gifts. Let this be the first of the gifts that he will send as token of his friendship and alliance!”

The King came down the steps of the dais and took the ring from the Emissary. He held it in his palm for a moment and gazed at it in silence. It was a beautiful thing, perfectly round and unmarked. Its gem seemed to glow with a dull red light of its own. He resisted the urge to put it on immediately, for he did not wish to seem over eager in the eyes of his people. Looking up at the Emissary once more, the King thought for a fleeting moment that he caught a look of great cunning on the man’s fair face, but when he looked again there was only a noble mien of respect. Closing his hand about the ring, the King spoke so the court could hear. “It is indeed a rich gift, and I will accept it. As to the offer of alliance, I will speak with you further about your Lord and take counsel with my nobles. For now, however, accept in return my own expressions of thanks and friendship.” The King’s eyes drifted back down to the hand in which he clutched the ring. “It is indeed a rich gift,” he said as though to himself. “A precious gift.”

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

“There will be much demand for saffron and myrrh and cinnamon, Majesty, if you can provide it.”

“My people have prepared for such trade and can accommodate your wishes, Master Trader, should you be able to provide a fitting payment for them,” spoke a calm voice, of a female timbre not young but not yet old either.

The Trader bowed low. “Indeed, Majesty, we can. I can offer quince seed and ambergris and leather, finely worked to a soft and supple state.” The merchant was short and lithe, with a face darkened by travel over the desert and lined by lashings of wind and sand, for he was of the nomad tribe, the Dabi, which crossed over sand as if it were a great sea.. He had made several crossings from Alanzia to Pashtia and back again, each time bringing more and more goods into the exchange. His demeanor was wary yet courteous; he seemed to know the Queen and her retinue, for this was not the first time he had negotiated trade.

They spoke in a large room of vaulted windows which on the one side gave out onto the gardens, pools and fountains of the inner Palace and then, on the other side with but two windows, onto the courtyard where the King held his audiences. The walls were covered with stucco and held in relief flowers, grapes, and great beasts. The lintel over the main door was carved with lotus plants. Around the windows looking out upon the King’s courtyard were carved griffons and lions while at their apex was a complex design of both the sun and the moon. It was as if the Queen’s quarters were balanced precariously between the splendors of the sophisticated Pashtian society and the ferocious might and strength which guided it. The Queen herself was surrounded by several ladies and attendants, some of whom worked at tapestries with needles and wool and yarn while others stood at a respectful distance from The Trader and the Queen. Guards stood at the door, but the general air was one of routine, daily activities for the royal retinue. However, before the Queen could accept the Trader’s offer of quince seed, a third voice spoke up.

“Mayiam, Majesty, come, the visitor arrives.” The young maid, Tabari, had been watching discretely at the open window which gave onto the King’s courtyard as the tall Emissary from the West walked up to the King’s dais. She had remained hidden behind a gauzy curtain and now withdrew to speak to the Queen, bowing as she did but then standing erect before the woman.

“You have well fulfilled my request, Tabari, to be my watchful eyes when I must attend to my duties and obligations. You bring honour to all Pashtian girls with your good work” Tabari beamed with the words of praise, which made her love her Queen even though some still remembered that she came from the land of the Enemy. With those words Queen Bekah rose from her seat of pillows on a richly embroidered couch of red and gold and moved softly towards the window, staying behind the curtain so no one, not even the shrewdest eye of the new arrivals, could have observed her. Her King would know she would be there, watching, but the new visitors would not. Behind her followed The Trader and her old nurse, Homay, who had come with her more than two hundred moons ago when the child bride followed her young husband to the foreign land. The three watched silently as the courtesies and formalities of the court were observed and listened as the murmurs of the attendant crowd suggested the various stages of the audience.

“Tabari, do you know if this Visitor stopped at the Obelisk and made his respects there?”

“I know not, Majesty, but I shall soon bring to you the information you require.” With a bow, the girl withdrew from the room, the guards opening the door for her.

The old nurse spoke up. “I have never seen a Westerner from beyond the Great Desert. They are tall and walk with assurance for all their courtesy.”

The Queen nodded at the old woman. “Homay, your eyes are as sharp as they have always been despite your years.”

“He seems to have offered the King something, which the King has accepted,” noted the Trader. Bekah looked back at the nomad who was the chief Merchant between Pashtia and her old country. “The men of the West are not known to us. Nor we to them. It is proper to offer respect and courtesies.”

The Trader bowed and remained silent, his closed lips suggesting that he would not offer further observations.

For her part, Bekah was greatly interested in this Emissary but she made sure to hide her keenness behind observations about the many others who attended him. She had caught a glint of light as the King’s hand had closed over the gift and she was made strangely anxious by the event. She wanted to dismiss her feelings, explain them away by assigning them to the troubling issues which everyone was currently discussing in the Pashtian court, but she found she could not forget them so easily. Why now, when trouble seemed to be around every tongue, did this harbinger from the West arrive” Yet to no one she spoke these words, but kept them in her head. Perhaps she would speak them later to her King, when court business was concluded and she could have his ear.

When most of the ceremonies seemed concluded, Bekah withdrew from the window and the two figures followed her.

“You have your agreement, Trader. I will accept what you offer in exchange for the saffron, myrrh and cinnamon which my people have prepared. You make take them to my half-brother, the King of Alanzia, with my commendations and tell him such trade makes his Sister-Monarch happy, for it secures peace between our two countries. Tell him also of the respect and courtesy with which the Western Messenger greeted my Lord King Faroz.”

“Majesty, the trade is concluded to our mutual happiness. I shall leave once the noon heat dissipates and carry your wishes on your behalf. “ With those words, The Trader bowed low and backed toward the door, keeping his face upon that of the Queen as he retreated.

The Queen looked around at her courtiers and attendants, who had maintained an expectant air wanting to hear more of this Emissary. “We have much to prepare for. The King has ordered a dinner tonight in honour of the Emissary from the West.” With those words, the room emptied as her retainers sought their own rooms and work and began preparations for the night’s splendour.

To the guards at her door Bekah spoke quiet commands. ‘send word that I wish to see prepared the burning of cedar and myrrh for the banquet tonight, which will put the deities as well as our guests and ourselves in a pleasant mood for the festivities. And prepare for me, as my offering to the Emissary, bouquets of myrtle and narcissus. He deserves to know personally our courtesies.” A guard nodded his understanding and withdrew.

Then she turned to her old nurse, Homay, who led her to the baths, where she was rinsed with sweetbriar and eglantine water and her hair was washed with leaves from the Lotus tree, and her skin was oiled with lavender and lily of the valley. Her hands were decorated with intricate designs of henna and her eyes kohled, her cheeks blushed with quazeh and vasmeh used to line her brows where her eyebrows had been plucked these many years ago when she became, while still a child, a married woman. Thus it was everyday she was prepared for her public audience with her King, but today she would be more splendidly dressed. Their private words on matters of state would come later, much later, if at all, for often these days the public audience was all she saw of the King.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Siamak


Siamak hurried out of the large hall as soon as the audience with the emissary was concluded. He was troubled, though he could see no reason for it, and wanted to think before he spoke with anyone. The halls of the palace were empty with the exception of an occasional servant, for all the nobles had attended the audience, curious about these strange foreigners, and they were most certainly strange. Unconsciously he reached up and fingered his black beard, its shorter length attesting to his youth. The beard, or lack thereof, had been only the first of many differences. They had been tall and of proud bearing, with startlingly blue and gray eyes. He was suspicious of them, for more reasons than their physical appearance. He had never seen men from across the Great Desert, and he didn’t know why they should be here now. What good would an alliance with Pashtia, hundreds of leagues away from the lands of the emissaries, do this Lord Annatar? It wasn’t as if any of the eastern lands had ever assaulted the west. Which made him wonder, had an emissary been sent to Alanzia as well? To Pashtia’s other neighboring countries? For all their fair words, he did not think that their motives were as noble as they were being led to believe.

His brow was furrowed in a thoughtful frown as he meandered through the many passages of the palace. The walls were richly adorned in colorful tapestries and lined with sculptures and statues. Siamak noticed none of these, however, buried in thought as he was. Subconsciously, he had taken himself towards the gardens within the palace walls. He had been raised in the palace, and knew the halls and rooms like the back of his hand, though for one less familiar it would have been easy to become lost.

The gardens were quite possibly his favorite place in the palace, especially the private ones limited to the royal family. There, he could be alone with his thoughts and away from the various court schemes for power and manipulations of the nobles to get the laws they favored passed. There were some days when Siamak thought he would be happy as a simple farmer, away from the complexities of palace life. Most of the time, though, he did enjoy his life, and deep inside he knew that he wouldn’t leave the palace for anything. He was not concentrated on this now, however, and varying thoughts of the emissaries drifted through his mind.

Siamak wandered over the cobbled pathways of the gardens, letting the chirping of birds and the trickle of water from the fountains set him at peace so that he could think clearly. He finally found a bench in a satisfactory location and sat down. It was shaded by a medium-sized fig tree and had a wide view in either direction to let him know if anyone was coming, though he didn’t really expect anyone. As far as he could tell, he was the only one who visited the gardens on a regular basis, except, of course, the gardeners.

He soon refocused on the issue at hand. The king had announced that there was to be a banquet tonight; he wanted to have his thoughts straightened out before then, because he was fairly confident that his opinion would be asked. Young though he was, at eighteen years of age, as the king’s son and possible heir to the throne, his opinion was not without weight. Nobles often times seemed to be trying to figure out where he stood, wondering if they should support him or his older sister. That didn’t mean that he would tell them his opinions, though; he was a firm believer that he could learn a lot more by listening than by talking.

His thoughts soon brought him to the ring the emissary had given his father. It was unlike any other ring he had ever seen, and if he had had a clearer view of it than many he still hadn’t seen it closely. He wasn’t sure he wanted to, either: anything with that kind of effect on people probably had some kind of magic, and he was tentative around things he didn’t understand, especially if it was from so far away... Perhaps he was just overanalyzing it. More likely it was simply a ring of great worth and beauty, two things that the culturally-advanced Pashtians certainly understood. Probably the ring was simply a token of good will. Probably.

The whole situation made him uneasy, even though he could pinpoint no reason for it. By all appearances the emissary and their Lord Annatar had nothing but good feelings towards them, and that may have been the problem. Siamak could not figure out why the Lord Annatar wanted their friendship, though he had nothing but proud feelings of his country. Their resources were many and the culture was rich and developed, but it certainly wasn’t practical to trade all the way across the Great Desert. It was simply too far. Pashtia did not want any part in foreign wars, and the transport of troops across so great a distance was unreasonable. Besides, regular communication would be near impossible.

Frustrated that he was getting nowhere, Siamak decided that it was time to go inside. He needed more information before he would be able to form a solid opinion based on facts rather than intuition. He now regretted his hasty retreat from the throne room because he might have been able to learn more about these strangers and their lands. On the other hand, it was just as possible that the emissaries had been escorted to guest rooms to freshen up after their journey leaving the nobles to gossip among themselves. Siamak didn’t like gossip very much - it was usually chock-full of rumors and half-truths, leaving one with the onerous task of deciphering how much of it was fact.

He returned to the palace building by a different way than he had come to a gate that would be closer to his personal living quarters. He had lost track of time out in the garden, and with surprise he had found it to be a few hours later than when he had come out, though there was still plenty of time before the banquet that night. By now, he had probably been missed, but he hoped not. There were very few people that he would be willing to see before tonight. He pushed through the garden gates, paying little heed to the guards there. He turned down the less used corridors in an attempt to avoid people. He knew that his own status was higher than theirs, but nobles made him nervous. They always seemed to want something, whether special favors with the king or some kind of alliance. Not that he wasn’t grateful for their support; if his father was ever going to name him the heir he would need all the support he could get. It wasn’t so much that he wanted to be king as he didn’t want his sister Gjeelea and her betrothed to rule. He didn’t like his sister very much. She was everything he was not: gossipy, manipulative, and out-spoken, and her fiancé was just as bad: greedy and brutish. In truth, he felt rather intimidated by his sister, and she was one of the people he was most trying to avoid.

Siamak sighed in relief when he reached the section of the palace that was the quarters for the royal family. Once he reached his rooms, he would not have to see anyone he did not want to, and he had only to eat a small afternoon meal, think, and prepare for the banquet tonight.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

“Tell me more of your journey.”

The King and the man of the West were sitting upon cushions in the courtyard of the small villa that had been placed at the latter’s disposal for the duration of his stay. He had, as yet, not spoken of how long this might be, nor had he elaborated upon the Lord Annatar’s messages of alliance, but there had been much to speak of anyway. The King himself, intrigued by the stranger, had shown him the way to his lodgings, an event that had caused a slight rustle of murmur to follow them both through the palace grounds as they had proceeded along the gravelled paths. Along the way they had tarried to look at the plants and statuary, with Faroz explaining what he knew of each. He was not an avid gardener and he had been forced to ask his attendants upon more than one occasion the name of a plant, or to identify its properties. The Emissary had seemed interested in all that he could learn of the plants, and at the King’s bidding had broken off the stems of some blossoms and carried them with him to his rooms. “These remind me of a plant that we have in my own homeland,” he had explained. “It is used in the healing of certain ailments of the blood. I am curious to see if this plant is related to the one I know.”

Faroz’s chamberlain, an elderly man who had served the former King in the same capacity for some years, spoke up at this point. He was a tall and severe looking person, with sharp features and very little hair left upon his wizened head. “That plant is called farullias by my people,” he explained quietly. “It is used for healing, but how and for what I do not know. If you would like I will arrange to have a healer come to you in your chambers to discuss it and other plants.” Despite his polite manner, it was clear that the elderly courtier had yet to form an opinion of the stranger.

Faroz smiled at him. “Yes Jarult,” he said, “that is an excellent idea. I am sure our new friend has much to learn from our people. And I am sure we have much to learn from him as well.” The manner of his address to the stranger was noted by Jarult with little more than a flicker in his eyes, but it did not go unnoticed by the King. I must be more guarded he told himself. I do not know why I am so drawn to this man, but I must be cautious before my people. It would not do for me to be overly familiar too soon. He looked ahead once more to the chance for private conference.

As they sat upon the cushions then, looking at the potted trees and feeling the cooler airs of the coming evening settle about them, Faroz took great pleasure in the moment. It had been many years since he had sat alone with any person for a private conversation, and it had caused quite a stir when he had dismissed his train of attendants so that he could speak with the Emissary. The stranger had bathed himself and been clothed in dark silks after the manner of the Pashtian nobility. While the manner of his dress and his surroundings must have seemed strange to him, he appeared comfortable at the villa, quickly seeing to the ordering of the rooms and to the disposition of the few belongings that he had brought with him over the desert. Five of his men-at-arms were to remain with him at the villa. The others had been housed in apartments at the Palace. When the Emissary was refreshed, Faroz took him to the courtyard and pointed out the bas-relief that had been carved into the wall facing the main passage. It was an expertly executed likeness of the former King. He was mounted upon a horse and about him was a host of cavalry, resplendent beneath a sun of gold. The figures had been so cunningly painted that they seemed to glow with life. The ivy upon the walls had begun to grow about the figures, as though to crown them with leaves and berries. Beneath this image the two men reclined upon the large silk cushions and spoke for many hours.

He had found his companion knowledgeable about Pashtia and the lands about it, and they spoke for a long time of his journey. “A hard coming we had of it,” he concluded. “But the lands between your kingdom and the realm of my Lord are becoming much safer with the end of the conflicts that have ravaged the West. Oh,” he said feelingly, “how we envy you the peace and prosperity you have built here! Such wonderful things have we seen since our arrival! Mind you, with the end of strife for my Lord, he has turned into something of a craftsman himself. The ring he has sent you, for example.”

Faroz leapt at the topic with an eagerness that surprised him. “Yes, you perceive my mind. I have wanted to ask you of that since receiving it. It is a wonderful thing. He made it himself you say?”

The Emissary nodded. “Indeed, with his own hands. Nine such rings has he forged to give to his closest friends and allies. I myself bear the first, and yours is but the second.”

Faroz felt an odd flush of gratitude at hearing this. “Who will bear the remaining seven?”

“Those other kings and princes of the world who wish to accept them from my lord,” the Emissary replied quietly. “We seek to build a new order in this Middle-earth. One based on bonds forged between rulers so unbreakable as to make conflict between them unthinkable.” As he spoke his dark grey eyes shone like burnished steel. He looked directly at Faroz and the King noticed how very dark the man’s hair was, and the strength of his even features.

“You have not yet told me your name,” the King said. Then, recovering himself, he said more diplomatically. “That is, I have not asked you your name, for I do not know if such is the manner of your people.”

The Emissary smiled and reclined upon his cushions, completely at ease. “Indeed, it is not the practice of my lord to have his messengers name themselves to his fellow Kings. He prefers for us to speak as with his voice. For believe me, majesty, what I say comes from the Lord Annatar as sure as if he were here with us now. But be that as it may. While I must be nameless to your people, you can call me Ashnaz.” As he said this a slow smile came across his features, as though he were laughing at some jest, but his manner was one of sincerity and friendship.

Faroz smiled and, taking the man by his hand, said, “Very well, my friend – for such will I call you as I can see that you are a person of honour and great dignity in your land, and our conversation this afternoon has been greatly pleasing to me. But come,” he said, suddenly remembering the time, “we must be gone to the banquet.” Rising they left the villa and proceeded back toward the palace.

[Amanaduial the archer]

Some way from the humid palace garden where the king's emotions were stirred by the Western stranger, the cool air of the great temple to Rhais stirred slightly as a newcomer entered the still depths. But this was no stranger to the temple: the building recieved her as an old friend as she walked forward from the depths of shadow around the entrance, moving assuredly through the dim temple. The sandstone pillars rose up on either side, reaching high above the woman's head many times her height, majestically tall and imposing. The lines of the pillars wove round and around, spiralling upwards, and were decorated with tiny but intricate patterns of leaves, as befitted the temple of the earth goddess.

The white robed woman walked quickly between the lines of pillars, the long-chained medallion swinging on her chest with the rhythm of her passage, and she began to hum softly to herself, a strange, flowing melody that seemed to harmonise with itself in the echoes of the temple as she strode towards the altar steps at the front of the temple. She paused briefly in front of the steps, her melody stopping momentarily as her lips moved in a prayer or blessing of some sort. Then she continued up the steps, her footsteps light and silent as she followed the path she had taken every day for years. Reaching the top, she slowed down to a walk, then, halting, she genuflected low in front of the statue, her right knee nearly touching the stone floor as she bowed her head low behind the arch that her hands made as her arms crossed at the two golden wrist bands, as if tied, her hands making loose fists: the typical bow to the statues of Rhais or Rae. Straightening up again, the priestess took a step backwards looked up at the giant seated statue of Rhais which towered above her, the main focus of the temple, and a smile graced her young, slim face as her kohl-lined eyes lingered on those of the goddess.

"Goddess Rhais..." she murmured softly, then walked to either side of the statue's feet to light the warm naptha lights at both sides, allowing them to cast their warm light across the front dais and steps, and to sparkle mysteriously in the ruby on her chest, and above it the engraved lines of the tree stood out more, the light catching inside the tree’s outline. As she paused to look up once more at Rhais, the lamps lit her dark skin, making her expression seem to glow with sombre thoughtfullness, as if she was asking something of Rhais.

"High Priestess Zamara?"

The timid address made Zamara spin around, her long dark plait of hair spinning behind her as she turned to look down the steps at the owner of the voice: a girl in her early teens, her head covered by a shawl, naturally, her face round and young looking, although she wore she same simple robes as Zamara, although without the gold finishes. The older woman smiled down at the younger priestess, her face more. "Tayfar, I did not expect to see you today. Why have you come in so early?"

Tayfar bowed her head to Zamara before she spoke, and she blushed slightly at the warmth in the priestess' voice. "I thought it may be best, High Priestess - there will be much to do this evening if you are to go to the banquet, and it will take longer than usual."

A flicker of worry or anxiety seemed to dart across Zamara’s face, although it could have just been the light of the lamps as they fluttered slightly from a sudden breeze through the huge stone temple; it was gone in a second. She nodded slowly, then seemed more certain, nodded more briskly. “You thought it out more carefully than I, Tayfar – I had almost forgotten about our new visitor from the West.”

Tayfar laughed quietly, advancing up the steps. “I doubt that, High Priestess,” she replied with a grin. Zamara raised an eyebrow at her but contented herself with saying nothing, smiling back a little although her heart wasn’t really in it. This Western visitor…what was he here for? Zamara herself had been saying the morning blessing of the temple when the emissary had come through the city, but she was told that he had not even paused in front of the statues of Rhais and Rae. He did not accept them as gods. Of course, maybe he did not know…but that made things harder. Even Alanzia worshipped Rhais and Rae – how far away was this noble messenger’s country that he did not even recognise the faces of the deities of sky and earth?

Zamara knelt once more to the statue and murmured a prayer before rising and starting to one side, before she paused, freezing in front of Rhais’ likeness as if arrested by a word from the goddess. Tayfar hesitated also, but didn’t speak, knowing Zamara’s sudden notions of prayer, or who knew what, that sometimes came upon her. The priestess closed her eyes and took a deep breath before telling Tayfar to move on and start mixing the antimony that they would make into makeup later for the ceremony that evening: she would catch up in a few moments. As the younger priestess bowed quickly and scurried behind the statue to the inner sanctuary, Zamara half turned back, her eyes shining as she looked up towards Rhais’ face, her slim, dark fingers curling around the ruby medallion as she sank to one knee.

“Goddess, does this stranger come for good or evil? An alliance would be a fine thing, and to spread knowledge of our people, our customs, our deities…a noble cause, and if these Westerners actually seek it, they are blessed in my eyes. But such a strange journey to make from the war-torn lands…” She waited for a moment, then bowed her head. “Protect us from such foreign wars,” she said softly, more to herself than the statue. Coming out of the trance-like state, the High Priestess rose again. Running one hand across the fine silk of her robe, she followed Tayfar’s path to the inner sanctuary – but the fingers of her other hand stayed tightly wrapped around the ruby medallion.

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

The ring certainly looked like a wonderful, generous gift from where Gjeelea stood. She could see it glint faintly from where her father held it, examining it closely. Gjeelea smirked as she wondered whether or not the ring would even fit about one of her father’s fingers. The princess and eldest child of the Pashtian rulers stood quietly in the corner of the large assemblage, watching the proceedings with intrigue and contemplation. The meeting adjourned, with great hope between the two foreign peoples for peace in the future – and with plans for a great celebration and welcoming feast that night.

Some chose to leave the assembly immediately to go and prepare for the festivities set up for that night. Others Pashtians like Gjeelea would find solace in chatting about the great hall with acquaintances, discussing the arrival of the foreign delegates.

“They certainly were handsome visitors!” Gjeelea cringed at hearing the high-pitched voice of the young noble lady Majran nearby. The princess moved from her isolated spot to join the gaggle of young women speaking of the new arrivals. The hem of her deep maroon robes lightly caressed the magnificent marble floor as she entered the circle, and nodded politely to the greetings of the women. Gjeelea smiled sagely at the gathered ladies and their petty conversations. Gjeelea could feel the women eye her from the highest braid peaking beneath the colorful gauze of her headscarf to the lowest hem of her robe. She waited patiently for an introduction into the conversation.

“We were just speaking of the men from across the desert, milady,” said one girl, chirping her own explanation. From beneath a most unbecoming beige scarf Gjeelea could see hidden tufts of dark brown hair. I knew that already, thank you…Gjeelea thought cynically, though she nodded passively and toyed with one of the tiny ebony braids of her own hair.

“Really? How do you all feel about them, then?” Gjeelea asked in a smooth, oily tone that gave away none of the her own opinions on the matter. I will see how they feel, then perhaps speak, the princess decided inwardly, waiting for a reply.

“I worry that their goal is not one of peace, lady,” spoke one girl carefully after much inner deliberation. “Why else would they bring so many men with them? It would not stand to our army, but peace should not come in armed soldiers.”

“I fear that they are unholy,” added another noblewoman. Her dark eyes darted from one lady to the next as her voice lowered, “How could they get across the desert? Such a journey is very dangerous, you know.”

After her words, the rest of the circle joined in at the same time, chattering over another to voice their fears.

“Oh, girls, girls, please! There is no reason to fret,” Gjeelea interrupted gently, lying through her teeth. “The only thing these emissaries give us is a good reason to feast, celebrate, and wear our good silks for a night.” There was a gentle, nervous laugh from around the circle. Smiling kindly, Gjeelea nodded her head to each woman in turn. “If you do not mind, friends, I fear I must leave you now. I must prepare for the festivities of tonight.”

There came a chorus of farewells and a grand rustling of skirts from bowing women as Gjeelea left the group. She meandered away from them, and out of the corner of her eye she could see the ladies disperse just as she left the hall. It was just as well that I uproot their weeds of fear, and save my opinions for later…Gjeelea thought, reflecting on her words with the women. Inwardly the princess worried, and wondered how these strangers might affect the king in matters of state…especially if somehow they might influence her father in choosing an heir. Despite these thoughts Gjeelea continued to rustle along quietly to her room, where she closed the door and dismissed her attendants to prepare in solitude for the night ahead.

Her dark, muddy hazel eyes glistened as she chose a dress; the first she decided on one of deep crimson color with pale yellow embroidery - the first of many dresses she would try on before choosing the right one for the banquet. Gjeelea's movements were passive, and her decisions unsure...her thoughts still remained on the emissary and how the foriegn entity might influence King Faroz. How did they cross the great desert? Why? That is most unusual...they would not do such a thing if it were not important. Gjeelea's thoughts starting running rampant in the silence of her bedchamber, and the princess never knew silence could be so loud.