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Old 01-12-2004, 12:15 AM   #11
Child of the 7th Age
Spirit of the Lonely Star
 
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Sting

Rama and Thorn:

The twisted streets of Umbar appeared nearly deserted under the blazing heat of the afternoon sun. Ráma let Kyelek pick his way through the lanes and alleyways at a comfortable gait. She sat astride a silken pad that bore the colors of her house, since Kyelek habitually chaffed against the feel of leather or a tight girth constricting his belly. Since childhood, Ráma had spent most of her waking hours around horses and felt equally comfortable riding with or without a saddle.

As they journied toward the palace, Ráma noted that the streets about her were virtually empty. She could not help but laugh. These citydwellers were a spoiled lot to hide from a little warmth and sunshine! For at least within the gates of the city, there were numerous shady nooks, and a slight breeze blew in from the harbor, lightening even the heaviest of afternoons.

These lazy folk had no idea what it was to ride for hours through burning, shifting sands without benefit of shade or water! Let them remain within their pampered enclaves and leave her clan alone. Hearts bred in cold stone streets would never understand the beauty of a life spent wandering, the varied hues of a pink tinged sunset as the daytime heat gave way to evening chill, or the awe engendered by one of the giant storms racing across the sands from the mysterious lands to the south and east.

How some of the maenwaith could turn their back on such a life, trading in their freedom for cold masonry, was something Ráma would never understand. Not that her own existence had been easy. There were those among her clan who looked askance at a young woman who had not yet shown the slightest evidence of any gift. At times, Ráma had even wondered if it wouldn't be easier to slip away, taking her beloved horses with her, to live among ordinary men and women who possessed no gifts or dreams. But she could not bear to leave her mother who understood her in a special way or ignore the sweet pull of the desert. And never would she give in to Wyrma, that wretched imitation of a leader who understood nothing of the free life. It was better to die a hundred deaths than be dragged off to live in Umbar, a place no better than a fancy prison!

Approaching the broad walkway that led up the hill to the front gate of the palace, Ráma showed her credentials to the guard on duty, explaining that she'd come to check on the stallions Falasmir had purchased and that she would be staying for the reception that evening. The guard grunted his assent and beckoned her inside. Ráma rode Kyelek through a mazelike series of gates and passageways, ones that she remembered from her earlier visits, turning off onto a side lane that led towards the stables and fenced enclosures. She spurred her mount forward at a faster pace as her mind returned to Thorn. She again wondered why he had not shown up at the Cat's Paw as he had promised to do.

Don't let anything happen to him, she whispered a heartfelt plea to the spirits of her clan. In her short life, Ráma had seen too much evil befall those people she cared for, including her own father Liki who had died at the hands of those hating and fearing what they could not understand. Nothing was safe or sure in Harad. She repeated her plea, offering up a bargain just to be safe. ....Anyone else....but not him.

Riding into the stableyard, she dismounted and slipped the bridle off Kyelek's head, turning him into a small field where tender grass grew, carefully cultivated and watered for Falamir's steeds. Ráma walked over to the heavy door and slid it open, peering into the grey recesses of the stables, straining to make out the shadowy figures and forms. She could see the stalls of the three stallions they had recently sold to the palace, the horses' tack tidily arranged against the far wall, but there was no sign of Thorn anywhere she looked. Pushing down an uneasy feeling, she walked slowly and purposefully between the row of stalls, her fingers slipping to the hilt of a dagger she always carried by her side. The heels of her leather boots clicked against the granite pavingstones, resounding ominously through the recesses of the building.

Where was everyone? The stable lads and trainers, the crew responsible for cleaning the stalls, the carters who brought their wagons of supplies into the yard? The entire area looked deserted. She walked forward two more paces and then stopped dead. From the side of the nearest stall came a rustling, as if someone was getting up from behind a hiding place. She heard footsteps coming towards her and turned around to face the sound, standing poised to throw her weapon if there was need.

"Ráma, it's me." A familiar voice called out of the darkness, driving away the chill.

"Thorn?"

The young man stepped out from behind the stall partition and rushed over to Ráma. He was of middling height, with a comely demeanor, and long black hair pulled back into a thong. His eyes beamed out a welcome, but there was no laughter or reassurance in his voice. He placed a finger over his pursed lips in warning and set his other hand on Ráma's shoulder, guiding her towards a small sideroom that served as the smithy's forge.

Once inside, he carefully latched the door. "Ráma, she is here. Wyrma is here in the palace. At this moment, Falasmir's steward is addressing all the servants in the main hall to announce the news. They are ordered to supply her with anything she desires. I stayed here in the stables. I do not think Wyrma would show up at such a meeting, but I could not take a chance."

A thousand thoughts raced through Ráma's mind, all vying for her attention, but she blurted out the one thing that lay closest to her heart, "Thorn, it is too dangerous. You must not stay here. Wyrma knows your face. You stood beside my mother at the last Gathering. She knows Ayar puts her trust in you."

He looked back at her, vigorously shaking his head. "I must stay. I'll be careful. Something's about to happen, and we don't know what. Wyrma says she's come here to be a counselor for Falismar. Perhaps he believes that story, but I do not. If Wyrma's here, she is here for her own purposes. And we must find out what those are."

"Then let me stay in your place," Ráma begged. "Wyrma knows nothing of me, not even that I am one of the maenwith , since I was never given a woman's ceremony to celebrate the coming of my form."

"No, you must return to warn your mother. I will be careful, but even if I was recognized, Wyrma would probably pay little attention to me." He added with a hint of bitterness, "She thinks little of our clan, and believes we pose no threat."

"Still, I do not like it!" the young woman interjected.

"Who likes any of this? But there is another reason you must return to camp. Your sister, Narika...." Thorn's voice dropped as he struggled for the right words. "Ráma, you must promise to watch over her for me."

Ráma turned away hating to hear the message, yet it did not surprise her. Thorn drew a jagged breath and pushed forward again, glad that it had been said. "You should have been a man, Ráma. For you think and act like one. You have the spirit of an Eagle in your body, whether or not you actually wear the form. Narika is different.... She is quiet and dreamy, filled with song and lore, and she relies on you for many practical things. Promise me you will not let her down."

Ráma sighed and nodded yes. She, too, loved her sister. "I will leave soon to do as you say. But I must attend the reception tonight with the emissaries from Gondor. These men mean nothing to us, but I can't afford to draw attention by my absence. When the evening ends, I will return to the Cat's Paw, pack my belongings, and leave early in the morning."

"Good, my little eaglet. And if I hear anything more about why Wyrma is here or what she plans to do, I will let you know. I plan to pay a little visit to Wyrma's and Falasmir's chambers later this afternoon."

"Be careful!" Ráma warned, "I will watch the skies for you and your message." She stepped back a pace or two, being careful not to hug or touch him, and then walked out of the stables, stopping just once to whisper greetings to each of the three stallions standing in their stalls.

<font size=1 color=339966>[ 5:06 PM January 13, 2004: Message edited by: Child of the 7th Age ]
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