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Old 11-16-2004, 05:46 AM   #1
Fordim Hedgethistle
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Narya Shadow of the West

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.”
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Old 11-16-2004, 05:47 AM   #2
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Bekah

“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.

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Old 11-16-2004, 05:49 AM   #3
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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.
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Old 11-16-2004, 08:52 AM   #4
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“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.

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Old 11-16-2004, 01:58 PM   #5
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Silmaril Zamara, High Priestess

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.
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Old 11-16-2004, 04:50 PM   #6
Aylwen Dreamsong
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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.

Last edited by Aylwen Dreamsong; 11-18-2004 at 05:39 PM.
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Old 11-16-2004, 04:55 PM   #7
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As was expected, the King’s announcement that a banquet would be held on the evening of the emissary’s arrival brought many courtiers, counselors, lords, ladies, and the like to the court of Faroz. The more public of the gardens that speckled the lavish palace courtyard were brimming with guests from the greater estates of Kanak. Well-clothed and extravagantly garbed, upstanding nobles crowded the gently winding paths that circled the individual fountains, shrines, reflecting pools, and mazes of hedge and flower. Sweet smells permeated the air with graceful plumes of scent that wafted over the heads of Pashtia’s finest. Near countless magnificent flavors filled the air, accompanied close behind by the busy buzzing of noble gossip, the kind only talked of in Kanak’s highly revered, eminent upper echelons. The mild, tranquil sound of flowing water, and rippling waves in the courtyard’s several pools was drowned out overwhelmingly by tactless talk and garbled words. The lights of many torches crackled and glowed with faint energy, lighting up the darkening gardens and playing out shadowy games which flickered, portraying numerous silhouettes that moved swiftly across the surfaces of the inner palace walls. These silhouettes were overborne, though, by the fine reliefs carefully etched into niches in the walls, which stood out on carven tablets, burnished with brazen frames and affixed to the courtyard’s innards. Flowery vines laced over these delicate stories, told in pictures that lined the stone, depicting war, peace, love, loss, and all those things that a master teller of tales might be familiar with.

Morgós Elrigon, General of Pashtia, saw his own likeness on those walls more than once. Perhaps the images there were not of him, but they certainly could’ve been. Some were definitely portrayals of him, and they gleamed with the rich freshness of modernity, but reeked of a certain contemporary falseness which soured the general’s taste for them. He noted silently that those he knew to be of him depicted him as larger than the other plated figures. He stood, sometimes in a variety of poses, often parading some weapon of a kind, and with an artist’s pale attempt at portraying some fragile glowing effect radiating from him. Were he a haughtier Elf, he would’ve frowned at the representation, for it certainly did him no justice. The images of Kings and Queens were far greater in comparison, and those of the lower set, farmers and soldiers, miniscule.

His senses as far as scent and taste were not as intoned as his thoughts, at the moment. He was busy with the workings of his mind, and the graceless sounds that cluttered up his ears. He could not help but feel a certain vague discontent as the talkative folk about him blathered on heedlessly, spouting all sorts of drivel which bore no meaning whatsoever to him. Pained by the course cacophony, Morgós let a gloved hand flit to his ear. He sought, at first, to block out the well of noise, the bulk of it at least, touching his gentle fingers to the leaf-shaped ear he bore. Then, knowing full well that he could not alleviate the noise, he simply brought his hand to his head, and allowed the digits to knead his throbbing temple wordlessly, as he moved through the crowd. He felt as if he had to break away, the din disrupting, which was a great surprise. Morgôs was a soldier, a warrior of high degree and regard. The din of battle did nothing to him, save for his temperament, and he had never been pained such in combat, war, or conflict. Yet, the noise of noble prattle made his head ache with a passion, and he hurriedly moved away, wandering with aimless measure into the deeper locales of the palace courtyard.

The courtyard of Kanak’s royal palace was indeed elaborate. This was, though, only the middle courtyard, between the ones that featured on the outskirts of the palace, dotted with villas, and those within, off limits to all but the highest nobles and the royal family. This great expanse was only a small fragment of Kanak's wealth. It was marked, or rather divided into sections, with boundaries indivisible. Some was more public, and that was less extravagant, only bearing stony paths and the familiar reliefs on the walls. Tree copses and veiled groves, shrouded in the mists that emanated from flowing fountains marked the boundaries of the inner levels, with paths, as winding and twisting as serpents, circled these high hedges, copses, and several monuments, adorned with glittering materials. Some statuary lined the broader paths, mostly of the simplest variety and all a great distance apart, only popping up every so often, and most could not be seen if one did not know where to look for them. Some sections, more wooded with plants, gardens, trees, and all manner of horticultural achievements, appeared to be the eaves of a forest, the like could not be seen in deserts. Statues cropped up rarely in these dazzling oases, and only as landmarks on a beauteous plain, often concealed by surrounding bushes planted neatly about the pedestals that bore busts or carvings. Some trees indeed were ornamented with carvings into the thicker wood trunks as well, but mostly, the depths of the courtyard were natural, all designed to seem as a fluid transition from a majestic urban zone to an equally majestic land of fantasy, which was different and radical to any Pashtian, to whom a desert, barren and wasted of trees, was the norm. Past the trees, though, were the copses grew the thickest and most dense, lay the wealth of palace grandiosity. Here was the unroofed passage that led to the palace steps themselves, and the dais where Faroz had met the Emissary. It was magnificently festooned, and no commoner could ever hope to venture this far into the city . Morgôs had a great distaste for such immodesty.

Oddly, Morgôs often clothed himself immodestly, despite his spite for the immodest, and could be found clad in fine, richly colored cloths. His court garb consisted primarily of a sable, loose-sleeved tunic made of dyed cotton with a silver silk jerkin, an embroidered sash, simple breeches, high boots covering the whole of his feet and calves, made from firm but supple material. Today, he wore the robe of a courtier of Faroz heaped over all of this, which was his normal accoutrement for social events in the palace. It was not as much a fashionable choice as it was an obligation. Morgôs never had been able to follow the wending trends of Pashtia, and wasted no time trying. In the courtyard, he was no more than indistinguishable. On the battlefield, though, it was another matter entirely. Morgôs was an idiosyncrasy in every way. He was a shining star upon the sands of war, the fiery world around him no more than an empty void were he, a celestial body, had free reign as the very winds. This was not were he came into his own, in a lush courtyard stuffed with the botchery of political engagement, that surrounded him. He looked up, past all of the lights, the sounds, the festivities, to the stars in the sky above.

If there was one thing that Morgôs identified with, and found solace in, it was the stars. Those sparkling, twinkling lights that frequented the heavens, radiant, fervent, and, even with the passing of great clouds, constant…just like him. As he would live for centuries more, he could set his mind by those stars, for they were impregnable and unchanging were they hung, from silken unseen threads that suspended them all in one awesome array. Morgôs barely blinked as he looked upon them, and wished that more could be seen, but this night was, strangely, far more filled with clouds, plumed masses that overshadowed every shining glint that graced the black expanse. Clouds held no comfort for Morgôs, only those stars. They were the first thing he remembered, his abiding memory of a time so long ago that he himself had forgotten most of what occurred back then. Now, though, he knew all that was required of him, and it was sometimes painful to remember what had been, not only because it strained his mind, but he felt that dark things might have happened in that time…very dark things. Those things plagued Morgôs just as the stars comforted him, though he presently dismissed his wistful reverie and let the noise of the growing festivities billow again around him.

The General of Pashtia had been likened to a star by those around him on several occasions, most often on the field of battle. Some said that it was his own cosmetic planning that had forged this strange, stellar appearance, but others declared that, when Morgôs Elrigon rode into the thick of battle, he was imbued with the light, and the beauteous rage of the stars themselves. Soldiers said that, when Morgôs took the field, his armor shone with a silver light so brilliant that none could look on him and not be blinded. Legends followed him closely, dogs at his heels that leapt and bit whenever their master was slighted. Indeed, the hounds of myth bounded closely behind Morgôs, and were well fed by those they saw and what they imbibed. The stories of him said that on the battlefield he could become “a very star, fallen from the sky and filled with fire, which smote Pashtia’s enemies until they fled, with him behind.” That delectable excerpt was from the published and overly flowery account of the Battle of Keldoraz, one of the more memorable events of the last war. Morgôs’ memories of the fight had been hazy ever since, mystified in way unknown to him now. As he always did, thinking on the times sent him back into a daze of thought, and a dreary fog descended on his real perception, blurring the images of the reliefs he still gazed coldly on.

A voice from behind snapped his concentration.

“General, I did not think you would be here.”

He turned, slowly, ready for the assault on his dreamy state. He saw, just behind him, the figure of his adjutant lieutenant, the man who acted as his aid in the Pashtian army, who went by the name of Gyges. Gyges was a shorter man than Morgôs, though most mortals were. He was too a dutiful servant, and not a servant either, for he was more an aid to Morgôs, an adjutant lieutenant to his tactics and a foil for his stratagems, in addition to a welcome amicability in a hostile world. Gyges had served Morgôs as a chief lieutenant for some time, not long in the sense of an Avari, but, perhaps, some time for mortal men, for whom time was fickle and ever fleeting. Gyges seemed as if, no matter how much time passed, he would remain where he stood, at the side of any man who was in need of him, for that was the man he was. He was youthful, but bore the distinguished beard of a fair Pashtian, even if it was evident that it was new and untended. Gyges held a good position, and was an upstanding member of the military and society, but it was obvious from the sparkle of wonderment in his eyes that he was not used to the incredible, lavish heights of the palace. Morgôs felt warmth looking upon him, upon a face that might have been naďve, but he knew was not.

“What cause would you have to doubt my presence, Gyges?” Morgôs barely cracked a smile as he spoke, a faint sliver moving across his lips. He was not a smiling person, and no light shown in his content looks, but it was pleasant to see his more often frown-creased face alight with some jollity. Gyges looked to him, as astute as a student, studying ever harder in the service of a masterful tutor, which was a role that Morgôs fit neatly. With a subtle grin upon his youthful face, Gyges continued, walking dutifully alongside his commander.

“You are - if you’ll excuse my saying so – not a man who seems like he would relish such gatherings.” said Gyges, his tone almost speaking in reprimand to the General, as if he were reproaching him for his coming, “I had guessed that the King would call you here to see to the King’s guards, as a precautionary measure in light of these new happenings.” Morgôs’ smile faded again, wistfully being absorbed into his familiar expression, which was constantly imprinted upon his features, chiseled their like statuary on marble. He turned away from his aid, moving towards the fringes of the crowd. Morgôs looked backed at him, a gentle, dull gleam reflected in his wispy eye. “The King’s guards have a captain, my friend,” he said, muffling his voice somewhat to cause less of a distraction as the two entered a less haunted copse of trees, “and King Faroz has his hold on the palace firm enough to ward off indolence at the wave of a royal hand. No, I was not called.”

“Your wife, then?” said Gyges, ducking a low-hanging branch as the duo wound their way away from even the outskirts of the noble muddle and into a thickly wooded number of tree groves, marked by several smaller, more fragile fountains, the water of which gleamed all the brighter as the willowy trees blocked the distant torchlight. Morgôs sighed deeply, shaking his head in a melodramatic manner that brought a quick-flashing smile to his aid’s face, and a vigorous smirk. “Not so either.” murmured the General, feigning dejection, “She is with the queen. My son, though, has eluded me hereabouts, but I do not trust to seek him. His devices are his own, today, and I must tend to mine, detestable as they may be.” He did not show a joking look as he said this, but Gyges knew that he was at least mocking his own tone with such statements. But, nevertheless, the lieutenant persisted with his question, sidling up to the General, who looked positively doleful in his contemplation.

“Then what?” Gyges exclaimed, his voice louder, “Surely you did not wish to attend a banquet. I know you are not here for food and merry-making, nor for politics, so what brings you to the court, and in your evening best, I daresay.” He looked quickly over Morgôs, to affirm his claim, and nodded with a cluck of his tongue, picking up the pace and fairly skipping to keep up with the General, whose speed had increased. The din of the crowd was gone, replaced by gentle fountain splashing and the rustling of courtyard trees. Morgôs suddenly turned, pouncing gracefully, and headed off the younger man, who skidded to a clumsy halt. “Need I explain my every action to a subordinate?” He chided, taking a commanding tone.

Taking the spur, Gyges snapped to attention. “No, sir.”

Morgôs’ arched soldiers relaxed and he simmered down from his false harshness, turning again and beginning again to walk, but slower now. “Well,” he said, “I shall anyway. Sometimes, there are banquets and festivities that deserve to be attend. It would be a dangerous thing to avoid the topic of this evening’s aristocratic forum, for a General must know about what he defends, and the nation he serves. So, he must also know who his nation allies itself with. The emissary of this ‘Lord Annatar’ and his train are not like Pashtians or Alanzians, from what I have heard and seen so far.”

“Certainly not, but therein lies more illusion.” Gyges grinned again, seeing hidden meaning, and raised an accusing hand at his noble commander, “You are here for diplomacy, or, at least, to avoid a tactless maneuver?”

“Ever the detective,” Morgôs laughed, not joyfully, but still with some modicum of enjoyment, playing his part as only a master thespian could, “you know that role well, and play it with your heart, if only your heart could serve my whims in a snappier fashion.” Gyges chuckled reprehensively, but Morgôs continued, saying thus: “Yes, for what it’s worth, I am avoiding a failing. The Avari may be ‘devils’ in some land, but they are devils with some notion of political correctness.” The adjutant looked up now, his thin, prim eyebrow rising curiously. “You have conversed with the Emissary?” he asked, his curiosity obviously piqued. “No, not yet.” Morgôs said in swift reply, “I was watching a drill of the rearguard out on the training fields when the Emissary arrived, and I was soon summoned, but I have not yet entered the palace this evening. No doubt I will soon discover the contents of this matter, but I am content enough not to know.”

Gyges looked at him, with both dark and light in his two eyes as he posed, hesitantly, a controversial question that Morgôs had been waiting for. “The Emissary…you trust him, sir?”

Morgôs retorted wittily, hoping to disregard, and just as easily avoid a straight answer. “Trust him?” he cried out, “Not yet, by the gods, I have not even met him! For all I know he is a desert worm with wings in disguise that has devoured the king and his courtiers in their company!” Gyges barely stifled a contorted laugh, and Morgôs smiled benevolently, letting his upraised hand, which had been busy with mad gestures, fall to Gyges’ shoulder, which was heaving up and down as he releases a brief guffaw. “A fine thing that would be.” The lieutenant said, in between the deep breaths that followed his comedic spasm, “But he is no desert worm – he is a fine man.” He rose up again, to his full height, looking confident, but Morgôs chided him seriously.

“You misplace your trust, lieutenant.”

“I don’t think I have.” Gyges continued readily, “He gives gifts; he brings praise and accolades for King Faroz and all his court. Surely, he brings many things else; cures and tools from the west from whence he came…new methods of war.” He nearly winked at this, knowing that such a proposition might raise some interest in his general, but Morgôs did not even reply to the last phrase, and instead stood silent for a moment, pausing on the path. The two had, in their winding journey through the courtyard, returned to a populated area, though it was less filled than the one they’d come from. Here, the talk was more subdued, civilized, and sophisticated, from what the two could hear of it. Instead of raucous laughs and irksome babble, idle whispers filled the air. Morgôs found purchase on which to speak soon enough. “No one should ever gain a man’s trust unquestioned, Gyges. Friend or foe, trinkets do not forge alliances, nor do merry words and tidings. Trust is forged by time, and we here today have none of that, especially if we are going to squander the time we have been allotted on banquets.”

“Speak for yourself, sir.” Gyges remarked matter-of-factly, “Decadent as it is, I am happy to indulge a Pashtian meal fit for a king.”

“And I too, Gyges.” Morgôs said, his demeanor becoming peaceful and merry again.

“I am glad to hear it.” said the lieutenant, moving slowly backward, “Now, I have my own business to attend. Fare well, General.” Gyges turned fully away as the two were met by the crowd that began to move quietly around them, surrounding them with overly colorful cloths that glinted with baubles and bangles. Gyges moved away, but clapped his right hand, clenched into a firm fist, to his heart and bowed, as was the salute of Pashtian nobility, and of captains in its army. Morgôs did not have time to return the gesture. “Fare well, my friend.” Was all he said back, but Gyges has already disappeared into the crowd again.

With a little bob of his head in acknowledgement of his friend’s departure, he was absorbed into the scattered crowd as well, looping between the clumps of noble courtiers who had separated. Letting his robes drag along the smooth tiles of the courtyard, the length of the material undulating like gentle waves as he moved, with flowery grace that was all too distinct, and implicative of his Elven nature. Many took glances at him, out of their eye’s corners, some revering and not willing to look upon him fully, others cold and with copious suspicion. He did not care for stray looks, regardless of the emotion behind him. He could see what feelings lurked in the deep, unavoidable mortality of their countenance. His own mind was perceptive enough, sharpened with a precision that, as far as he had learned, mortal men did not possess. He, like his wife and son, bore both nobility given with position, and the strength of will held only by Avari. Now, Morgôs wondered what those two, his spouse and child, had busied themselves with. Even though his son was not a frivolous lad, he had not been seen by Morgôs in some time. After his attending the event at Kanak’s training grounds, Morgôs had been whisked straight to the palace in light of the events. He did not know if his son, Evrathol, was on the grounds, but he suspected as much.

His wife, Arlomë, was probably with the queen. Being part of the royal entourage had its responsibilities, but its benefits as well. Morgôs, though, was impartial to the benefits, just as he was to the responsibilities. His spouse’s duties to Queen Bekah were all relative, in his opinion, but he held little true respect for the Queen herself. Morgôs had never been a prejudicial Elf, in any way, shape, or form, but he could not surmount his dislike of the woman whose retinue his own wife was a part of. She was, after all, Alanzian by birth, and no good had ever come from Alanzia, even after the marital alliance arranged by it and Pashtia, to resolve the last great conflict. That had not been the first combat with Alanzia in which Morgôs had played a dutiful part, and he felt that it might not be the last. He’d seen relationships crumble, like the walls erected around them. Like the highest stronghold battlements, naught could last forever – save, perhaps, for Avari, which was where his philosophy bore its base. Avari were, barring violent death, immortal beings, though few remained in Pashtia who had walked its lengths for longer than a millennium. The petty alliances, the meager diplomacy, and all the hastened works of man were, cosmically, all futile and useless to the grander, greater bounds. The girdles of the world would not keep them intact forever, and thus, any alliance between long-time enemies was doomed to stand only for a short while. The marriage between Bekah and Faroz might have ended a war, but such minor action would surely not even subtly divert future wars. Blood would always be spilt, no matter what monarchs engaged in political scheming of whatever sort.

Morgôs’ mind now went back, from his long-winded inner thoughts to thoughts, simpler and terser, of his wife. He had never asked her, in the time that she had been in Queen Bekah’s retinue, what opinion she bore for the queen. In earnest, he had a minute fear of her response deep in him, for he was loath to find a subject on which he disagreed with her. Only a few of Pashtia’s matters were discussed by him and his spouse frequently, and he, for one, did not relish the breaches in that relationship. It was more than an irksome thing to be in disagreement with an Elf like Arlomë. Any opinion she had was one that she had some passion to argue for. She was, in truth, more of an extrovert than he (which led Morgôs to believe that their son, Evrathol, had taken more from him than from her) and, though he could not be sure, more impolitic as well. She had no need to be as tactful as he, for the Queen who she served was more dismissive, and did not require her retinue to be composed of those with grounded beliefs. As a General of the King’s Army, Morgôs was held to certain standards, and had been oft analyzed by Faroz’ counselors, and, probably, many of his actions reported to the King. Morgôs did not believe the king was suspicious, but someone who controlled such a great force, with such a mighty backing had to be trusted in every respect, and so he understood that he could not be fully trusted without evidence to prove the fact. He had said, but moments ago, to trusty Gyges, that no man could be trusted. Men were fickle indeed. They had but one life to live, and fickleness was the best way to extract from that unpleasant existence pleasure. Mortality had its price, but no price cannot be heckled…certainly not in Pashtia.

Avari, though, bore none of this. But, immortality had its price as well.

Ceasing to think of such morose matters, Morgôs moved towards the palace, which sprung up before him in all its terrific splendor. He saw the great column loom above, but turned his head down instead, directing his gaze away from the glory, and to the earth. He moved forward, past whoever stood on either side of him, and looked to the uniformed heralds of the king, who stood at varying locations. One, he noticed, was nearing him, and came up to him directly, cutting off his solemn path. The herald was a youth, with a beard no longer than a man’s finger, which was far shorter than the Pashtian norm. He was clad in the usual, easily distinguished outfit of an indentured courtier of King Faroz, richly colored but not so elaborate that it held the pompous energy of the nobles talking in the courtyard.

“General Morgôs,” said the youth, “The banquet is to begin shortly, and his majesty, King Faroz, desires your presence there. Surely you do not wish to disappoint him.”

“No, surely not.” Morgôs murmured in reply, and followed the herald into the palace.

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Old 11-16-2004, 06:23 PM   #8
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Arshalous buried her black head into the scarlet cushions that decorated her bed and pounded them with her fist. She did not want to go to the banquet tonight. There were too many people at banquets and they made her stomach upset.

She sat up and swallowed determinedly, wiping her nose as she did so and looked about her chambers. Bright murals depicting battles and fine ladies languishing in green gardens adorned her walls. The floor was a mosaic forest scrubbed clean by her serving girl. White gauze, wafting down from golden rods, surrounded her bed to protect her from the buzzing bugs that roamed in the night.

Slipping off her bed, she went to her wardrobe and selected a silken dress of emerald green edged with pale pink. She slipped into it, found her soft leather sandals, and called,"Semra! Semra!"

A small girl of fourteen hurried from another room, bowed, and said softly, "Yes, my lady?"

She glanced up at Arshalous, her round brown eyes flickering with a trace of fear. Her mohagany hair was tied back in a nest of braids, and her brown feet were bare. She was a servant, brought to the house yesterday.

"How may I serve you?" she asked in a high voice.

"Sit," said Arshalous, patting the edge of the bed as she began to comb her hair. "There is a banquet tonight."

There was a short pause and Semra bit her lip nervously. "Is that why you are dressed so lovely?"

"Naturally," said Arshalous with a scowl. Tossing the brush away so that it skittered across the bed and tumbled to the floor, Arshalous took a case of kohl and began to put a heavy layer around her eyes.

"Why?" asked Semra tentatively. Arshalous saw her trace the silken design of the silken coverlets.

"Emissaries from the West," said Arshalous shortly. "We must honour and welcome them."

"You don't think we should?" asked Semra.

"Oh no, it's an excellent idea," said Arshalous. "If we didn't they would become offended (even though there really is no reason to be offended) and war could be declared and we wouldn't want that...well, maybe the army would but that's just because they have restless spirits. I just don't want to go to the banquet. People get so roudy at banquets..." She glowered darkly. "Could you fetch me a scarf?" she asked absently.

Semra slid off the bed and dashed to an ornate dressar. Carven vines curled around the elgs, delicate flowers were etched into the golden handles. Semra selected a white scarf from one of the drawers and draped around Arshalous's head. "You look beautiful," she said.

Arshalous rolled her eyes. "No I am not...but thank you."

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Old 11-17-2004, 11:36 AM   #9
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The light of the fire created strange shadows to play over the room. It was a large room, decorated with tapestries and richly-coloured rugs, and the fire was the only source of light and warmth. There were three windows, but all were closed. But for the fire, the room would have been a forbidding place, and indeed even with the brisk blaze there was a coldness. A tall, handsome man let his impressive step fall before the hearth, and just behind him was another man: short, pale, and thin, with keen eyes darting here and there, betraying a mind of cunning and maybe even some intelligence. The taller man was not distinguished by any singular expression of face, but rather by his good looks, and by his rich dark hair, and by his strong figure. A perturbed frown was upon his face, and his eyes were fixed on the flames that leapt here and there, and crackled and spat with a malice.

"A banquet tonight? Whatever for?"

"There is an emissary arrived, Lord Korak, from the West," the skulking, pale man replied. "Naturally the King wishes to honour him with a banquet."

"Naturally? Why is it so natural when I could not see it myself?" The Lord Korak's voice was angry, and his fists clenched powerfully at his side.

The pale man showed no signs of fear or even a slight apprehension, but said smoothly, and with impudence: "It is natural, my Lord. What would you do if you were King?" The darting eyes slid down to the fists and the taut arm muscles. "As you will be someday," he added, and the hands unclenched.

Lord Korak turned, and a bright light shone in his eye. "That is more natural than what you spoke of before, Morashk," he said. "Then the Princess will be there?"

"Naturally, as she is the King's daughter," said the pale man.

"You speak of naturally again," said Lord Korak, and though he showed no signs of anger this time, his frustration was clear in his voice. He clasped his hands behind his back and paced thrice in front of the fire. "Why is it so natural when I cannot see it?"

"It is this:" said Morashk: "you have taught me to know the minds of all the Royalty, to find out what pleases them and what does not, for your own advantage."

"I know that," said Lord Korak. "And because of it the Princess shall be my wife, for I have well-pleased the King."

"Well, as I know what the King does and thinks and says, and what he will not do and think and say, naturally it comes naturally to me."

"Too naturally," said Lord Korak, and he glowered at his servant. "I hear that word for endless days. Must all things be natural for you? Can you not think?"

Morashk stood erect then, and a frown of insulted pride came to him, but his voice did not lose its smoothness. "I did all the thinking needed long ago, and now I need only remember."

"Then you shall find it no difficult task to choose a suitable present for the Princess," said Lord Korak.

"Not at all," said Morashk, and he crossed the room and withdrew.

Lord Korak sat himself upon a couch richly embroidered, and was nearly buried by the decorative pillows that fell over and about him. His face glowed in the light of the fire, and the gold twined in his long beard glistened and shone. He said nothing, nor moved from his posture, but he gazed fixed down at the stone floor, and was silent. Time passed, and Morashk returned, displaying a necklace of gold and set with stones. Lord Korak took the piece of jewelry and gestured for his servant to leave, and then he studied the gift for the Princess. It would look pretty clasped about her throat, though he could not say it would improve her looks. There was no beauty in her. There was no beauty in any girl. If he married her he would have one to inherit his wealth and lands, her at least if she bore no son. But there was more than that.

Lord Korak left his relaxed posture then and sat straight up, and his eyes glinted with hunger as they swept through the room. The rugs, the intricate stone-work, the tapestries... How fine it all was, and how unsatisfactory. He had been in the Palace many a time before, and it was a sight above all sights. And more than that, there was power, and authority, for the one who held the throne. The Palace, and all in it, and all power, would be his, if he married the Princess.

If he became King.

He stood, and prepared himself for the banquet.
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Old 11-17-2004, 02:34 PM   #10
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"But I must see someone. And the Queen accepts audiences from all members of the city."

The Guard listened closely to the man's story and conferred with the other guard. Finally, after more discussion, one entered the Queen's main audience room and crossed to the door of her private quarters, where he called to the old nurse.

"Homay, there is one who insists upon seeing the Queen upon temple business. Will she accept the visitor?"

Homay conveyed the message and Bekah, not yet fully arrayed with her headress or other state ornaments, appeared. Once she was settled on her seat, the guards let the man enter.

"Majesty, " he spoke, bowing low, "I thank you for this impromptu meeting."

"You say you have urgent temple business?"

"I have a message for the King from citizens who wish to see a proud display of our worship. Yet the King did not keep our scheduled meeting."

"The King has many responsibilities and duties. He is not free to make personal choices but serves the nation and the people. You should remember that he could have more pressing matters to attend to. Perhaps you can return tomorrow."

"Majesty, I come bearing offerings for the Sky god, which must be given today."

Bekeh looked closely at the man.

"What is your occupation?"

"I am a master builder, Majesty."

Bekah thought quietly to herself at this news. So already the pressure is building from many quarters. First the priests. Then the lords. Now those who would benefit from building a new temple to Rea.

"Let no offering then be wasted, nor your faithfullness either. Take the offerings and spread them around the Black Obelisk."

"But Majesty, that is to both deities."

"I am sure that deities are beyond squabbling over tribute as we mortals do, Master Builder. I will not presume to know the King's mind on this or speak for him. I will simply suggest a way for your efforts not to be in vain. You sought my audience and so now you have my advice. The choice is yours. Waste your tribute or offer it in public display where all may understand your aspirations."

The Master Builder had not been expecting this. He had hoped rather to draw the King's interest to those who wished to see a temple built, a development which would bring wealth to his coffers and work to many. Yet he could not deny the Queen's generosity in seeing him nor her advice.

"And you will inform the King?"

"Of course I shall. And he may take what further action he deems important."

With a wordless bow, he withdrew and the Queen beckoned the guards to her.

"You were right to notify me of his distress. Has the King spent the entire day with the Western Emissary?"

"Yes, Majesty."

Bekah walked over to her favourite window which looked out upon the garden. The scent of jasmine and cedar wafted through the air and she breathed deeply as she sought time to think. Then she turned back to the guards.

"This arrival is unlike anything we have known. The King must think it is a serious matter to give it so much attention. For my part, I will make sure to prepare for him a display of Pashtian hospitality and preeminence. "

The guards nodded.

"Please send my invitation to General Morgôs and his wife Arlomë, to join me at the entrance to the banquet tonight, and sit beside me at my table, their son also should they wish his presence. Send also my request to the Prince and Princess that they join me for the entrance. They may take their own tables, as is their right, should they wish. And tell our chief Priestess and Priest that a table shall be prepared for them, across from mine, so that we each sit at one of the King's hands."

"Word will be sent immediately, Majesty."

After the guards withdrew, Homay left the private quarters and silently placed a hand on the Queen's shoulder. Bekah turned to her with a sad smile, but said nothing. She had caught a glimspe of her son in the garden, alone and pensive again, and she made a note to speak to him soon about making his presence known. And she wondered if her daughter would have the presence of mind to understand the necessities of a state dinner.
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Old 11-17-2004, 02:39 PM   #11
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Silmaril Zamara

"High Priestess?" A muffled voice preceding another knock on the door broke the quiet inside Zamara’s quarters. When there was no reply, the door was edged carefully open and Tayfar’s covered head appeared around the side. She looked around the room quickly, then, a look of puzzlement on her round features, she advanced tentatively into the room.

“High Priestess Zamara…?” She repeated, looking through the open doorways almost guiltily as she took a few more steps forward into the centre of the room. She had never been inside Zamara’s rooms alone before – and it seemed she was entirely alone, for the Priestess was nowhere to be seen. Compared with the palace rooms or rooms of others high in state, Zamara’s rooms were surprisingly sparse, for practical reasons mainly: they were quite open, the rooms separated with beaded curtains rather than doors, and the whole of one side was dominated by wide, unpaned windows stretching from ceiling to almost floor-level. The Pashtians, living in the desert, were fine craftsmen of glass, but the priestess contented herself with veils of thin, dark-cream cloth instead. It provided more shade from the heat, rather than magnifying it as the sun would and besides, no one would dare to use the open windows as a means of unlawfully entering the chambers of the High Priestess of the most favoured deity, Rhais. The veils were each embroidered with the tree design of the goddess, and there were five on one side of the room – the side that should, the girl thought, be facing towards the desert – each about half a metre apart. On wall opposite the windows, snaking stetches in some sort of dark red mud – meandering, twisting patterns, both smooth and jagged, although of what it was hard to say unless you were either very close or far away. Tayfar half closed her wide brown eyes and squinted at the patterns, trying to look at everything together in unity as the priestesses had taught her, and, after a second or two, she realised the whole image: a forest, stylised trees melding into each other, each set in the centre with a large knot hole, out of which red sap was flowing – the ruby red of Zamara’s medallion. Tayfar’s eyes opened wide again as she smiled childishly in simple delight at the revelation, and she darted forward to the wall, her fingers outstretched towards the ruby red of the sap – so bright from afar. But as she did so, she found the picture was in fact far more complex than it had seemed at first, every leaf seeming to be picked out, but from so close it was strangely flat and two dimensional. Tayfar’s fingers traced the pattern of one ‘branch’ of leaves, until a breeze wafted through the room and she spun around guiltily, expecting to see Zamara watching her.

But the cool room remained empty. Directly in front of the door Tayfar had entered by, adjacent to the wall of windows and the forest-wall, was a larger opening, but the entrance of this was draped with an airier, veil-like covering, and beyond it she could see the ghostly outline of a balcony rail; but despite the bright sunlight of the late afternoon coming from the West, the younger trainee acolyte could not see a silhouette through the veil. Hearing the sound of running water, she moved towards the bathroom like a moth drawn to the light, rather than floundering in the other woman’s rooms – but on the way there, she felt drawn by that larger window. Glancing furtively towards the doorway where the sounds of water came from, she drifted towards the window guiltily, reaching out with a trembling hand to pull the veil aside.

The brisk clattering of the beaded curtain made Tayfar jump like a startled desert rabbit, her hand shooting down to her side in an instant as she spun around. Zamara stood in the doorway of the beaded curtains, a new white robe hanging untied at the waist from her slim frame and her hair flowing loose over her shoulders, but her hands hidden from sight behind the curtains. The priestess relaxed when she saw Tayfar, and to the girl’s relief, she did not seem angry: she moved back into the other room and the sound of the water stopped, it’s silence accompanied by the sound of a metallic object being put down – Tayfar, in her curiousness, couldn’t help wondering what it was. Then Zamara emerged once more and Tayfar nodded her head deeply to her in respect.

“Priestess, are you ready for me to prepare you for the banquet?” she asked formally. Zamara didn’t seem to hear immediately, an indulgent smile on her angular features. Her dark eyes flickered past Tayfar to the window then back to the acolyte once more, and Tayfar blushed, caught out. “I-I didn’t mean any harm in touching the veil,” she stammered uncertainly. She had always been told never to go into the private quarters surrounding the temple and never, ever to touch what was inside without permission, qualification or a holy purpose – none of which, obviously, Tayfar had. She had been at the temple for a few months now, and in that time still felt as lost as ever with the mysterious High Priestess. My family will disown me if I am rejected from the temple… “I was just looking b-because…”

Zamara walked briskly towards her, but passed by without reprimanding her, sweeping the gauzy curtain aside in a swift motion to reveal a sight outside that took Tayfar’s breath away.

“If this is why, then you are more than forgiven.” Zamara’s voice was amused.

The fiery fingers of the sun were reaching towards the tips of the mountains in the distance, making them shimmer with heat as it’s rays turned fiery red and danced behind them, a golden-orange haze settling over the sandy horizon. Zamara drew up a chair as Tayfar stared in wonder: she had not looked at the sunset over the desert for years, and had never really thought about it, but this wide, arched window afforded an amazing view. Snapping back to her senses, Tayfar took the chair from Zamara with an apology and took the liberty of placing it on the balcony, so that Zamara would face the sunset as Tayfar prepared her. Opening the dull brown satchel that hung across her chest, the acolyte took out a snap-up table and, after setting it up, took out a plain wooden box and placed it on top. Unshouldering the bag, she took out a comb and softbrush and began to work her way through Zamara’s thick, surprisingly wavy, dark hair. She worked in silence and with gentle efficiency.

“It is beautiful, is it not?” Zamara broke the silence after some time, and Tayfar looked up, still slightly jittery, then continued with her work, opening the box and taking out several long, thin strips of stiff golden cloth. As she began to wind them into Zamara’s hair, the priestess continued. “It is the most wonderful fusing of the two gods: both Rhais and Rae are in that spectacle. It is not just the sky god who makes himself known in the sunset, although of course he reigns over it: the mother goddess reflects and compliments his work underneath there, allowing her beauty to work with his as the sun sinks behind the desert, to form such a vision.” Zamara sighed softly.

“And so the sun sets in the West.”

Zamara picked up on the stress Tayfar put in the last word. The smooth skin of her brow crinkled slightly. “What do you mean?”

“Oh, nothing, nothing.” The acolyte’s fingers worked easily as she twisted the curls of hair around the strips of gold. “It…it just seems appropriate, that’s all.”

Zamara did not reply. Tayfar continued and after Zamara prompted her a little, she began to chatter, her words flowing more easily as time passed and she moved onto doing the priestess’ hands and makeup. She talked about her father and his vibrant stories from the army as she painted back on the henna patterns (already stained lightly as a fine red lattice on Zamara’s dark skin from being re-applied so often) across the priestess’ palms and the backs of her hands…

…fondly talking about her mother, how she had worked hard to bring up Tayfar as well as her two twin brothers, Cadeffen and Tadek, identical to all but Tayfar and her parents, as she rubbed the kohl powder into a fine paste and applied it carefully to the pale insides of Zamara’s eyelids, along the line of the eyelashes, and noting to herself as she did so the strange dark sapphire tinge that the irises had;

…and as she applied the fine lines of white kohl to accentuate her cheekbones and following the line of her nose up between her eyes to a tiny diamond of white dots in the centre of Zamara’s forehead, Tayfar spoke also of her mother’s death several months ago after Tadek and Cadeffen left for the military as well, how she had said her family was ‘disappearing in front of her eyes’ – Zamara didn’t speak: she herself had lost one parent at an early age, but the priestesses of Rhais taught that everything happens for a reason: if Tayfar’s mother had not died and the rest of her army been in the army, she would never have been entrusted to the temple of Rhais.

And as she tied at the side the golden cord wrapped around Zamara’s waist and slid the golden upper arm bracelet, the golden wrist bands and neck band, she finished off with talk of the temple and the priestesses themselves. She added the finishing touches to Zamara’s makeup, darkening her eyelids, touching up the diamond of white dots, stark against Zamara’s dark skin, and stood back. The High Priestess opened her eyes and, after talking to Tayfar further for a few minutes, she dismissed the girl with her thanks. Only when she heard the door close behind the younger girl did the priestess actually look out towards the sunset once more.

The sky god’s greatest wonder was now half-submerged behind the mountains of sand in the distance, and great, smouldering rays reached still into the sky and stroked Rhais’ work tenderly. Zamara smiled, then it faded slightly as she thought more deeply about what Tayfar had unwittingly said. ‘It sets in the West…seems appropriate, that’s all.’

“I do not think that is all…” Zamara murmured, rising from the chair to stand in front of the balcony rail, looking out across the awesome stretch of the desert in front of her. The sun sets in the West…it comes to it’s final resting place there…the work of our gods dies in the West. She blinked, startled by the thought, and her jaw tightened. What sort of premonition could that be? A foreshadow of what was to come. The Westerners did not even recognise Rhais and Rae. Did not even pay heed to the gods she had dedicated her life to…

“I dine tonight with these Westerners, O Goddess,” she whispered to the sand dunes. “I will find out what they mean towards you and your brother Rae.”
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Old 11-17-2004, 03:24 PM   #12
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Arshalous wrapped the white scarf around her head loosely so that a few stray locks of raven hair would manage to find their way out of the folds. "If any call asking for me," she said to Semra, "tell them that they can talk to me at the banquet. If they are fortunate not to have been invited, tell them to drop by tomorrow."

Semra nodded and helped Arshalous with her soft leather sandals. "Thank you. If you like you can go to my library and read the scrolls within or feel free to explore the house."

Semra's eyes widened.

"Come now, there is more to life than serving," said Arshalous lightly as she left the room.

Sunlight streamed through the windows onto the stone hallways as Arshalous strode through the house and into the atrium. The atrium had a small fountain in the middle that chuckled merrily to itself. Birds flittered and dipped their beaks into the warm water while insects buzzed lazily in the nearbye garden.

Arshalous summoned her stabler and ordered that her favourite mare, Telitha, be saddled. Arshalous kissed Telitha's muzzle when she was brought to her, and mounted easily, and patted Telitha's neck when she was settle comfortably. "Let's pay a visit to Korak, shall we?" she whispered in Telitha's ear.

~~~

"I would like to speak to Korak," said Arshalous to one of his servants.

The servant nodded and melted into the perpetual gloom that was a permanent guest in Korak's dwelling. There was a swift patter of feet and Korak appeared, impatience glowing in his handsome features. A necklace dangled from his hand as his fingertips played at the chain.

"A gift for the princess?" she asked, pointing to the jewelry. She laughed to herself. Her cousin was a bit of the fool to think that he could buy the Princess' regard.

He nodded shortly. "Did you come here for a reason?"

"I was just wondering if you could tell me your thoughts of the Emissary and the silly little banquet we will be having in their honour."
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Old 11-17-2004, 03:57 PM   #13
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Korak's face burnt with rage at the obvious insolence in his cousin's voice concerning the necklace. Was she daring to think that he actually loved the Princess? Did she think the necklace was the result of sentimental feelings? A quiver passed through him, but he showed no exterior sign of his anger, save the colouring of his face. Rather he gestured for her to sit down, and he poured some wine from a golden pitcher that sat upon the low table in the corner.

"Feast now, my Lady," he said, his eyes hard upon her, "and I will tell you what I think." A mocking smile twisted and distorted his handsome face. "Fear not. The wine is not poisoned."

"I had no fear of such a thing," she replied, with coldness, and a smile of her own, likewise full of insolence. Yet she did not touch the wine.

He himself sat, and leaned back, completely at ease. He never went to his cousin's home when he could help it, for he felt powerless there. Here, in his own abode, it was different. He could play cat and she would be the mouse, and he had nothing to fear from her. He could be master, and she would be lower than he. He studied her, but she showed no signs of uneasiness. A flush of annoyance came to his face at this. She seemed completely comfortable. She did not look in the least intimidated. He straightened, and spoke briefly.

"I do not even know who this Emissary is. All I know is that the banquet provides me with a perfect opportunity to raise the King's esteem for me."

"As well as the regard of the Princess?" questioned the Lady, and she glanced at the necklace.

Lord Korak's face burned a deeper red, and a vein stood out on his forehead. "As far as I care for her regard," said he. "As husband of the Princess I will be given the perfect chance to become King."

The Lady's eyebrows raised. "Is it wise to tell me that?"

Korak paused, and fumbled with his words for a moment. No, he did not think it wise. The Lady was now in a perfect position to tell the Princess exactly why he wanted to marry her, and women were so sentimental. The Princess may refuse him, as she had every right to do. But Korak would not show this new-founded concern to his cousin, despite his deep and angry regret that he had spoken so without thought. He laughed in her face. "I do not fear you as a competitor for the Princess' hand," he said. "I see no lack of wisdom in what I have said."
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Old 11-17-2004, 04:09 PM   #14
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On their way back to the Palace, Jarult met them. The chamberlain had been loitering in the garden for hours, his unease growing toward alarm and then panic as the day’s audiences came and went unanswered. A seemingly endless stream of servants came to him from various points of the Palace to ask for the King, bringing word from yet another person whose petition demanded the King’s attention. Those who came from the ordinary guilds were easily dealt with by a quick word to come again upon the morrow and hope to find the King more at his leisure to meet with them. The answer, while not satisfactory, was the best they could hope for and they had to content themselves with it. The servants who came from members of the nobility, however, were more difficult to put off. Puffed up with the importance of their position, they were querulous in their demands on their masters’ behalf, and Jarult had to speak sharply to several of them. He grew so tired of these encounters that he sent word that he and the King were not to be disturbed any more that day. But with the cessation of the interruptions he had nothing to distract him from brooding over the unprecedented manner in which the King had received the Emissary. To have spent time with him alone was one thing, but to have spent an entire day in private conversation with an utter stranger… To place his very life at the mercy of this man from across the desert…it was hardly to be believed. And yet he had the proof of his own senses to bear out the truth of it. As the sun westered and sank, the gates of the Emissary’s villa remained steadfastly closed, and Jarult could do nothing more than worry.

When finally the King and the Emissary emerged, the old man almost threw himself at the King. “Majesty!” he exclaimed, in his urgency and concern almost forgetting the presence of the stranger. Recalling himself, the Chamberlain looked at the man pointedly and said with greater reserve to his King, “There are matters we need to discuss of an important nature, Khaműl.”

The Emissary turned to the King and repeated the word with shocking familiarity. “Khaműl? Is this a term of respect in your land, or a formal title?”

The King smiled. “It is hard to know what to call it. It is a term of…respect, I suppose, used by my subjects. It is in Old Pashtian and means ‘Shining One’. It was the praise name of my father, which is why I think old men like Jarult use it. They seek to flatter me.”

Jarult shook his head violently at that. “No my lord, never would I seek to flatter. I merely…”

The King laughed lightly and held up his hand to stop the torrent. “It is all right, Jarult, I know your heart is sound. I speak lightly, for my heart has been greatly lightened by this day’s converse. And I know what matters you feel we need to discuss. I have whiled away a day as an ordinary man when I should have been acting the part of the King instead. No doubt you have had to contend with many upset people, demanding I meet with them about matters too important to wait for tomorrow.” As he spoke he smiled and even laughed lightly, in which he was joined by the Emissary. Jarult did not know how to react to this and remained silent. “Very well. My friend,” he turned to the Emissary, “I must pay some heed to these matters, for I am still King. You go ahead of me to the courtyard, there should already be gathered there some number of my people, all dying to have a look at you. I will see you at the banquet.”

The Emissary bowed low and departed with fair words. Now that the Chamberlain was alone with the King he began to speak of the matters that had come up, and together they walked toward the Palace. As they went the King’s countenance lost its levity and assumed the hard form of concern that was the norm. It aged him considerably. They achieved the King's personal chambers where he prepared himself for the banquet. He removed the loose robe he had worn since the morning's audience and put on a suit of dark red, woven from the finest silk. He thought for a moment about wearing a circlet of silver, but decided to go unadorned this night. As he dressed, the King listened carefully to his Chamberlain and responded to all of his points, but inwardly part of his mind was elsewhere. More and more of late, the pressures of rule had begun to gall him and weary him. The endless intrigues of the nobility, the demands of the people…even his family. At times he felt as though he were beset upon all sides by the demands and worries of other people. At times he felt how delicious it would be to disappear and remove himself from the concerns of kingship and walk the streets of his city unnoticed and unmarked by any. He sighed at the impossibility of this dream.

Something Jarult was saying caught his full attention. “The master builder Rekan went to the Queen? How did he like the answer he got from her?”

“Not well my lord. The Queen bade him spread his offerings about the obelisk and offer it to both deities.”

Faroz laughed lightly. “I can well understand how such a piece of advice would not please him. And did he do it?”

“What other choice did he have? He could not so openly affront the Queen.”

Faroz laughed once more at the wisdom of his wife. He had never loved her, nor, he was certain, had she ever felt any tenderness toward him. But he had come to respect her intelligence and judgement. She was a faithful and helpful partner in his rule, and a capable woman. He was suddenly seized with a desire to see her. Bidding Jarult to oversee the final ordering of the banquet, he sought out Bekah’s apartments. He used the smaller passageways to avoid meeting other people, and soon he was at the door to her private apartments. The guards came to attention and for a moment he considered sending word to his wife that he had arrived, but determined instead simply to enter unannounced. He found his wife at the window admiring the setting sun. It had been a number of years since he had visited her in her quarters. Indeed, it had been a number of years since they had spoken outside of their formal audience each day, and she was surprised to see him there. She bowed her head slightly and approached him, holding out her hand for him to take it. He took it lightly in his own and held it to his forehead, then bent and kissed her lightly upon the brow. If she were surprised at his sudden use of the formal intimacies of husband and wife she did not show it. “You look well tonight,” he said.

“Thank you, lord. I thought it best to honour your guest. You have favoured him with your attentions today greatly.”

He smiled. “You would chide me for neglecting my duties. You are right. Although I hear that you took over some of those duties in my stead.”

“The man came to me, lord. I only answered his query.”

“You did right, lady. I should not have abandoned you all as I did. But this Emissary…he fascinates me. He has come from such a far land, and has told me such things as you could not imagine. Did you know that in his land, Elves are not part of the human world, but live apart in vast realms of their own? And there are other beings there as well, short of stature and stern of spirit, who live only in the bowels of mountains where they mine the riches of the earth. It was a wonder to me.”

The Queen looked at him carefully. “You are enchanted by this man, lord. Are you so sure you can trust all that he says? He has spoken much of his lands, but has he said anything of why he has come so far? What is it that his King Annatar wishes with an alliance with us, who are so far removed from him?”

Faroz fell silent and looked out across the desert sands. The sun fell below the horizon and night came upon the land in the instant so that the stars appeared above as though a host of torches had been lit at once. “I do not know, lady. I want to trust him, and if my concern were for myself alone I would. But you are right, I do not have the luxury that normal men do to choose my friends based on such paltry concerns as feeling and friendship. Come,” he said quickly, before she could reply to his odd manner. “Let us not keep everyone waiting.” He held out his hand to the Queen who took it in her own, and Faroz lead her toward the door of her apartment. “I will sit at your table this night and you can remind me of my duty should I begin to forget it in the pleasures of the evening.”

Last edited by Fordim Hedgethistle; 11-17-2004 at 04:53 PM. Reason: Forgot to get Faroz ready for the party!
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Old 11-17-2004, 04:37 PM   #15
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Siamak sighed. He knew he should probably be preparing for the banquet - the feast was fast approaching - but he had no inclination to rise from his reclined position on the couch in his reception room. Now that it came down to it, he wasn’t really sure that he wanted to go, but with position comes responsibility, and sometimes desire had nothing to do with choice. With that in mind, he picked himself up from the couch and began to head for his dressing room. He did not get far, however, before the door behind him opened. Siamak whirled on his heel, surprised and curious.

“M’lord Siamak?” said the man at the door, inviting himself inside. Siamak grinned, waving him inside.

“Come on in, Okarid. I have a banquet to prepare for,” he said. Okarid was Siamak’s only attendant, though the relationship was much more complex than that: Okarid was Siamak’s confidant, and the two were friends. They were about the same age, though the two were as different as night and day. Okarid was outgoing, confident, and very impulsive. They knew each other and their roles well, so well that their master-servant positions were almost a game the two played, both weaving from friendliness to propriety without missing a beat, so that no one who observed them would ever notice anything but the most proper relationship.

“The banquet, of course. I bet you’re looking forward to that,” Okarid said.

“Oh, yes, of course,” replied Siamak sarcastically. He was glad for his friend’s cheery presence. Okarid was the only person around whom he felt safe to say exactly how he felt about anything.

“Let’s see...” said Okarid, going to Siamak’s wardrobe. “This should work well, don’t you think?” He pulled out an outfit of blue silk: bright, but not too gaudy, and suitable for a banquet.

“Perfect,” replied Siamak. There were days when he thought Okarid should have been born a prince and he the servant; Okarid had a natural ability to understand nobility and their ways - Siamak didn’t know what he would do without him.

“So what do you think of this emissary?” asked Okarid, striking up conversation as Siamak began to change his garments. “Fascinating, aren’t they?”

“You might say that. I don’t trust them,” answered Siamak bluntly.

“Really? Why?” queried Okarid. “I only saw them from a distance.”

“That’s exactly what I’ve been trying to figure out for the past couple hours,” said Siamak with a sigh. Okarid raised his eyebrows. “It’s just a feeling, really. Their actions are very proud and proper - they even bring gifts! - but something’s wrong.”

“Huh. Perhaps you will learn more tonight?”

“That’s what I’m hoping.” There was a sharp rap at the outer door. “Go see who that is, would you?” Siamak wondered who it might be. There were a few options: it could be a messenger, or perhaps some noble wanting to speak to him before the banquet. The latter thought made his head hurt.

“M’lord Siamak, this man has a message for you from the queen,” Okarid called from the next room. Siamak glanced at the mirror and went to hear what the man had to say.

“Thank you, Okarid,” he said, and turned to the messenger. “Yes?”

“Prince Siamak, Her Majesty requests that you join her for the entrance to the banquet tonight. You may meet her in the private garden adjoining the banquet hall. You may take your own table, however, if you wish.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Siamak. The man bowed and left the room, leaving Siamak alone again with Okarid. There had been nothing unexpected in the message, though it was reassuring to know precisely what was going on. He returned to his dressing room, Okarid in his wake. Siamak took a better look at his reflection in the mirror, and decided that the four small gold-entwined braids in his beard did not need to be redone. He ran a comb through his shoulder-length black hair, and decided there was little other preparation to be done. It was time to head out, though there was still time before the banquet began. Being a little early would probably be a good idea. He turned to Okarid.

“I will see you later tonight, or tomorrow morning perhaps, to tell you anything you want to know about how the banquet went,” Siamak said He knew that the servants knew a great deal of what went on in the palace; he had learned much news of interest from what Okarid had heard through the servants’ grapevine. He opened the door to the hallway, planning to head to the courtyard - it was there that those attending the banquet would gather beforehand. He knew that the servants knew a great deal of what went on in the palace; he had learned much news of interest from what Okarid had heard through the servants’ grapevine. Okarid grinned. “Of course, M’lord.”

Last edited by Firefoot; 11-18-2004 at 03:40 PM.
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Old 11-17-2004, 05:07 PM   #16
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Arshalous clucked her tongue softly. He didn't find any danger in telling her that he merely wanted to marry her so that he could become king...she reflected this for a moment. She did not honestly think the Princess would mind his motives...in fact she probably would love having more power than if her brother became king. Yet...would the Queen mind? Would the King mind? She chewed her lip and her eyes drifted to the ceiling in a slow roll.

She would probably never even tell the fact to the royal family. It was simply bad form to say such things...yet...he was such an imbecile, she thought bitterly. Her only living relative an imbecile. If the throne passed to him...she shook her head.

"Well, you see," she said, playing with the ring that adorned her finger, "it was unwise because I could relay that information to the royal family and they may not like that." She smiled at him.

He paled a little and the necklace trembled in her fingers.

Her smile broadened grimly. How she loved to play with him like this. Yet, if she could so easily play him, what could others do?

"Let me see that necklace," she said abruptly, leaning over and plucking it from his fingers.

The golden necklace glimmered palely in the gloom. With her finger she touched the sapphires, and rubies that were nestled along the chain, bound to their beds with silver vines.

"It is pretty, is it not?" asked Korak, a proud, mocking smirk twitching about his lips.

Scoffing, she tossed the necklace carelessly to him. She watched with amused pleasure as she scrambled to catch it. "Beauty is in the eyes of the beholder, Korak. And if you think that that is beautiful..." she let her voice trail off in delicate ambiguity.

It was a beautiful necklace and she felt a prick of jealousy for the princess. She almost wished that she had suitors (though they would be unwanted) to shower her with such jewelry.

She reached for her goblet to douse her jealousy, but jerked back, her fingers curling with irritation both at the fact that she couldn't trust her cousin and the fact that he was grinning maliciously at her. It hurt in a dull, blunt, sub-conscious way that she couldn't trust Korak. Would he try to poison her? She doubted it. Yet...there was always that irritating yet. She considered taking a gulp just to wipe that smear off his face.

No...life was too pecious for now to risk death. Death would come quick enough...and if she was ready and Death did not come, she'd drag it to her bedside. However...today was not the day.

"If you are to become king," she observed as she abruptly changed the subject, "it would be wise to actually care about Emissaries and things. Oh, but I forget," she said with a laugh, "you only care about appearances..."
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Old 11-17-2004, 07:30 PM   #17
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The immediate innards of the palace at Kanak had often been seen by Morgôs, and he did not need to look upon them. Something about this whole great farce of festivity already had drained his strength from him. He was weary, if only from wandering back and forth through the courtyard. As the courtier of Faroz lead him towards the public entrance, grand as expected, the amount of people lessened. Many nobles had been invited, but most had enough bonds with other members of nobility to be able to forge petty conversation in the courtyard. Morgôs had nothing to do but find his wife, Arlomë, and Evrathol, wherever he was. Though he could not be sure, he resolved that Arlomë must be in the attendance of the Queen at present. Every member of Queen Bekah’s retinue was probably engaged in some activity designated for them. Morgôs would find his spouse in the palace if he could, or dispatch this same courtier to search for her.

Quietly, as he and the herald before him advanced into the solitary silence of the palace foyer, Morgôs took the young courtier by the shoulder, clasping a small, ornamental pauldron strapped to his mountain-sharp shoulder and turned him swiftly around, leaning towards him with a hasty whisper in his throat. “Lad, tell me, where dwells the Queen tonight?” The courtier shook his head in abrupt, youthfully vigorous manner, which irked Morgôs. He was a swift being himself, but he did not see why things in Pashtia had to be hurried so. He knew that it was the short span of events for men, who could not appreciate the pleasure taken in a length of time. His lip curling disdainfully, he removed his hand from the youth’s shoulder and listened to him speak.

“I do not know, sir.” He said, very apologetic, and overly mobile, nearly bouncing from one foot to the other. A moment before, he had been slowed, calm, collected, but now, as soon as the two had entered the palace’s confined halls, he became restless and disconcerted, looking as if the merest spark might set him off, ablaze and soaring like a comet to his next destination. “Honestly,” he than said, gesturing with his hands, sorry for either his lack of knowledge, or his inability to slip out of the conversation, “I know very little of what goes on hereabouts, and far less tonight.”

Unfazed, and persistent, Morgôs snapped back, “Have you perhaps caught a glimpse of Bekah’s entourage?”

The courtier looked slighted, and Morgôs did not understand the look of very mild contempt that was shot at him, but all became clear when the courtier neatly corrected him. “You mean, ‘her majesty’s’ entourage, do you not, General?” His tone was now impatient, and did not seem meant to spur a response from him immediately. His need to fly had evaporated, replaced by a disdain that Morgôs had held for him but a moment ago. But, the general was not in the mood to entertain this new attitude, and quickly retorted with a similar annoyance, trying to resolve that portion of the conversation and gain a reply to his original question.

“Of course I do. Now, have you an answer?”

With a curt sigh, the courtier shook his head. “No, I have not.”

Morgos grumbled a few syllables under his breath and asked again, with more urgency, as unneeded as it was, “Are you able to seek out the Queen?” The courtier shook his head before the general had finished, his elegantly braided beard flung easily from side to side of his helmeted head, which bore the simple helm of a guard of the palace and servant of the King. “Not now, milord.” He responded, and Morgôs felt enough honesty present in his rushed tenor to serve, “I have more to do.” Morgôs nodded, begrudgingly in fact, and waved his hand as a dismissing motion, which seemed to release the courtier from his hold and firm affixation to the tiled floor. He sped off, with a bare bow as he passed, the sound of his rattling footsteps echoing off the high ceiling and resounding for a good many seconds.

He looked about, hearing new sounds, smelling new smells, and feeling a strange cold fill him. Pashtia was more often than not a warm land, and the palace seemed cold. Most mortals might not notice such subtle temperature changes, but, to Morgôs, it was a stirring and grave adjustment. He pulled his heavy robes about him, uncharacteristic again. In the courts, he was more self-conscious, and not himself. Maybe, it was his true self that he was hear, in the greatest structure of Kanak, and a different division of himself on the battlefield that took him over, knowing of his mind’s diversions and riddling thoughts, and manipulated him to whatever end it might desire. He could never tell, for he had many selves, each of which was frequently used, and he could alternate as easily as he could a suit of mail. But now, again, his reverie was stirred by the multitude of footsteps booming in the distance and gaining on him, until a number of guards appeared in the threshold of one of the gateless entrances to this foyer hall. At the other side of the broad room, several passages converged, and each issued out into darkness and enigma on its other side so that Morgôs could not see past their cold, steled archways. There were six or seven guards, and most filed immediately past the general without a passing nod, but one stopped just before him. This guard bore the colors and the coat of a man in service to the queen, and lacked the sterner cloths of the King’s retinue. He was probably indentured to her, or served her of his will, perhaps even an Alanzian himself, but, in the court, Morgôs did not dwell on that.

“General, I bring an invitation from Queen Bekah.” Said the man, who was, as Morgos observed, some years older than the first courtier to address him, “She wishes for you to meet with her at the banquet entrance, with your wife and son, and sit beside her this evening during the feast.” Morgôs was immediately aroused with curiosity and suspicion as well. He supposed that this invitation came merely from the Queen’s sense of state tact, but he knew that she was not inclined to like him as a man – or an Elf, rather. His views were clear enough to any other. But, at such events, it was that tact that really mattered, and Morgôs assumed that this offer had been extended because of his wife’s position, and his own, or perhaps by the King’s prerogative. Surely, Faroz was busy with the Emissary, and could not be bothered with the issuing of invitations.

“If only my wife and son could be found.” Exclaimed the General, loudly, and the guard jumped a little. Morgôs peered forward, both at and into the palace guard, with a keen look on his Elven face. “Does my wife still hold counsel with the Queen.” He asked, patient and reticent. This guard was less hasty than the last, and took a moment to think on the words, his gaze twiddling about until it found the darkened corner of the vaulted hall roof and wandered there briefly, eyes blinking occasionally. It was more than half a minute before he responded, and the general waited, his foot tapping with absolute noiselessness on the floor.

“No,” he said, “not when I left her last. Most of her majesty’s retinue is busy in the palace.” He gestured around, indicating the halls, even though they were empty at the moment. Morgôs’ keen Elven ears heard many noises stirring up in the other sections of the palace and offshoots thereof, for the palace was very vast. The room he stood in was great to the eye of a pauper, but only one of the many entrance halls that could be accessed from the courtyard (and one far less crowded). Morgôs did not let his ears or mind linger on those resonant sounds in the distance, swelling and dying all in instants, and responded to the guard accordingly. “Indeed.’” He murmured, with a grateful nod to the guard, which was returned, “If I can locate her and my son too, I will gladly attend at her side.”

The guard bowed. “Yes, general.” Taking the hint from Morgôs, he turned smartly on his heel and marched off down the hall, in another direction than the one the first guard had taken. Once he had disappeared through one of the hall’s many passageways, corridors, or colonnades that led off through the palace, Morgôs stood alone, wrapped up in his courtly garb, in the hall of the Pashtian King, solemn and soundless in thought.
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Old 11-17-2004, 09:12 PM   #18
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"I care nothing for the Emissary," said Lord Korak, and he stood from his chair, raising himself to his powerful height. He did not stand over her, however, and seek to intimidate her, but he paced to one end of the room before returning to the table. He opened his mouth to speak, but he was cut short, for the door opened and the servant Morashk slipped in. He paused when his darting eyes rested upon the Lady, but with no change of expression he glided onward once again, and stopping at the table he poured a goblet of wine and gave it to his master.

Lord Korak was relieved at the presence of his servant. Morashk was quick-witted, and cunning, and on more than one occasion had served as the brain when the Lady cousin paid a visit. Morashk was servant, confidant, and also counselor. He took care that his master said nothing that might give the Lady an unfair advantage, and he advised his master on what to say in reply to her. It aggravated her, to see Morashk whisper in the Lord's ear, but she could do nothing about it, save spit out spiteful comments. Morashk did not care; all that mattered was that his master did nothing foolish. More than Lord Korak appreciated his servant's counsel, he appreciated that the two of them shared a hate for the Lady cousin.

"Master, I could not help but hear you mention the Emissary," said Morashk, smoothly, and with a crafty look at the Lady. "Perhaps you should end this visit, and prepare yourself for the banquet."

Lord Korak gazed into the eyes of his servant until the meaning was clear to him, and then with a satisfied smirk he shook his head. "No, I will let my guest stay a little longer to entertain herself."

Morashk's pale, spidery hand extended, the long fingers spread wide. "Then, Master, you will not care at least if I take the gift for the Princess and bind it so it will not be damaged on our little journey to the Palace?" He took the necklace, and let it run through his hands as if it were a river of gold and rubies. "What a fine gift for the Princess, my Lord," he said, as if to himself, and as if he were forgetting the presence of the Lady. "Her worth is surely high, if you are willing to lavish her with such presents." His shifting eyes rested upon his master's face, and his look was meaningful.

The Lord Korak understood, and he spoke, saying: "Indeed, servant, her worth is high, as is the worth of any woman who is presented with such a gift. There are women whose suitors cannot afford any gift; they are to be pitied. But to be detested are the women who have no suitors, who are thought so base and ugly as to have no one to cherish feelings for them."

Morashk's eyes glinted, but he ignored the Lady Arshalous, though he was deprived the satisfaction of seeing the anger he hoped was in her face. Lord Korak was gazing at his servant impatiently, obviously wanting him to go about with his task. "I will withdraw then, my Lord, and fulfill my task," he said. "But, my Lord, do not linger long. Time passes, and the banquet is fast approaching."

"I will entertain my guest a little longer yet," said Lord Korak, "for she has not yet satisfied my generosity by accepting the wine I have given."

"Yes, my Lord," said Morashk, and he slunk to the door. There he paused, and he turned, saying, "M'Lord, what, pray, shall I do about your Lady Mother?"

"My Mother," said Lord Korak, in surprise. "I had forgotten about her."

"Shall she attend the banquet?"

"If she wants to, I suppose she must," said the Lord. "Go at once and seek out one of her maids, servant, and send her to my Mother to help her prepare. Then fulfill your task of the gift, and do not forget to set out the finest in my wardrobe."

"Yes, m'Lord," said Morashk, and he bowed. Yet he did not withdraw, but, with a quick glance at the Lady Arshalous, added: "Those women who are loved by no men... they deserve not to hold the title of 'Lady.' A Lady is one who is loved, and who is fair of face." His eyes flicked to his master. "Like your mother, m'Lord."

"Yes, yes, like my mother," said Lord Korak, impatiently, and he waved his servant away. When the door was closed softly, he turned to the Lady Arshalous. "You too will be anxious to prepare yourself for the banquet, my lady cousin, if you plan to attend. Yet I insist you drink the wine first. It is not poisoned as I have said. I swear it is not poisoned. At worst it is bitter, made of ill-chosen fruit. I will not let you leave this table without accepting my offering first. So drink, cousin, and then go prepare yourself for the merry banquet."
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Old 11-17-2004, 09:50 PM   #19
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The palace buzzed with excitement as the banquet preparations neared their completion. Deep blue eyes watched intently as the servants busily dashed around the small tables that filled the grand banqueting hall, setting out fine dishes and arranging elaborate centerpieces. Every detail would be perfect before the guests arrived. The aromas of freshly baked breads and sweet sauces from the kitchens slowly filled the hall and mingled with the fresh fragrances of the scrubbed and finely dressed ladies of Queen Bekah’s entourage. The hushed voices of the young women twittered with expectations and new gossip.

Draped in fine silks of deep turquoise with gold embroidery lining the hems, Arlomë silently stood, isolating herself from the mortal misses. She stood out greatly from the others. Her skin was milky instead of darkened from the sun, and she stood a full head above most of retinue. The elf cared little for the young women and did not share their utter excitement for the festivity. This was not her first banquet in the presence of the king and queen, nor would it be her last. The mortals found such immense pleasure from such trivial things. Turning her mind from their mindless chatter, Arlomë wondered about her husband and his whereabouts. Actually Elrigon had been heavily on her mind since she laid eyes on the strange men from the West. The couple had only seen one another briefly before they returned to the palace grounds, and Arlomë had not had time to probe his mind about the Emissary. During his arrival, the elf woman had peered silently through the curtains from her place behind the queen and wondered at the meaning of this man’s motives and what the ramifications would be to the kingdom. Elrigon would better know about these matters, and he would put her mind to ease as he always did.

The final minutiae were in order, and Arlomë gave her nod of approval to the chefs. They had done well with the little time they were given. The elf then, after a sidelong glance at the still chattering ladies, took her leave from the hall to find her beloved.

Slipping through a small side door, Arlomë entered a narrow hallway that ran the length of the banquet hall and met with one of the smaller entrance rooms on the east end of the palace. Rich chestnut carpeting accented the great mural of the desert landscape and its red tipped mountains that filled the left wall. On the right, intricate tapestries hung that delicately depicted the daily activities of the Pastian citizens. One displayed three average, yet beautiful, women filling their water basins, while another showed a strong lad caring for his steed. Arlomë slowed her pace as she neared the entrance hall. A small empty room lay to her right, and she slipped through its small door. The room was darkened with the setting of the sun, and the elf caught her reflection in the great window the occupied the far wall. Stepping closer, Arlomë studied her appearance. The gold of the stacked bangles that hung at her wrists glittered from the light that filter into the room from the hallway. Her eyes, lined with blackened kohl, had seen millennia of cares, and yet still looked youthful when they sparked with interest. Her long arms gracefully untied and than retied the turquoise scarf tightly around her raven hair. Once satisfied she nodded to her reflection and spun on her heel to reentered the narrow hallway and make her way to the entrance hall.

Before directly stepping into the hall, she paused and glanced around the corner. To her surprise a solitary figure stood alone in the vastness of the king’s hall. His form and stature was as familiar to her as her own. A small smile spread across the elf’s face, and she crept silently toward his back. He made no movement that expressed any knowledge of her presence, so she took even more care to approach unnoticed. Slowly, carefully, her fingers reached...oh so silently, toward the General’s back...
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Old 11-17-2004, 10:16 PM   #20
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Tolkien

Arshalous swirled her goblet, staring at the wine. His servant had poured Korak a glass...surely it was not poisoned as he had said. Raising it in a slightly mocking toast, she stood and took a small sip.

He had not been joking when he said that the wine might be bitter. Her own wine was much better than this. "Well, it is a pity that such a great grand lord such as yourself can't afford to have better wine than this," she said with a curling smile as she handed the goblet back to him. "I, my lord, have already made myself fit for the feast. I thought that I would drop by before going to the palace and hear your thoughts about the emissary so I wouldn't have to hunt you down and drag you from the Princess' presence."

She watched with undisguised pleasure as his handsome twisted and became splotched with red and purple. With a stiff curtsey she bowed and strode from the room.

Whistling for her mount she swung herself into the saddly, and loped from the premises.

Why did Korak and herself have such hateful relationship? She tried to remember if there had been an argument in the distant past or if they had always been that way. It was terrible that she had to fear poison from her own cousin.

She glared at the roadside and spurred Telitha into a gallop until they came to the walled gardens of the palace. Handing her horse to a nearby servant, she strolled into the gardens. She let her hand fondle scarlet blossoms as she walked passed and every so often she would lean down and bury her nose in their fragrant petals.

As she drew near the courtyard, she looked up and saw the Black Obelisk pierce the sky. She bowed down, and murmured a soft prayer of rote to the Earth Mother...with a muttered, half-praise to the sky god for she did not want to purposely call down his wrath upon her.
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Old 11-18-2004, 09:47 AM   #21
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White-Hand Evrathol

The garden surrounding the Palace had been neatly polished for this particular event; the flowers were blossoming, giving one and all the scent of delicacy and beauty. The statues stood still but they seemed alive this evening. The water in the fountains was dancing; the spectacular water drops made the eye heed no other objects, as they made such a comfort to the troubled mind. Evrathol gazed upon it all; he couldn't remember when the palace had been so full of magnificence and beauty as in this moment. Was it a new place he had come too? Intrigued and fascinated by the sudden, but interminable, beauty of the garden, he walked swiftly over the ground. Evrathol could feel the heaviness of his clothing; the sweet coloured robe he wore was of the finest fabrics. His boots were high and showed great confidence, reflecting the elf that wore them. His face however, still holding the usual mask; stiff and unchanged. His hair was hanging down on his back, neatly in a braid, while some of his hair hung loose around his ears. It made his face look broader.

The guests were going to be of the finest rank. Evrathol wondered what he was doing among them; clearly because he was the General's son and because he was a part of the Royal Court, but he couldn't quite understand what he'd done to earn such a great position among these fine and noble guests. He, however, didn't object, quite on the contrary; he embraced the possibilities he had, what else was he to do?

The room he was standing in right now didn’t quite capture Evrathol’s interest as much as the garden had done; the carpet was of a ghastly colour that he wouldn’t be able to describe in words. Evrathol, however, smiled - being polite as he is. He looked around himself, digesting the new atmosphere that was filled with new impressions each time he turned around. Standing there quietly, in his own thoughts, one of the servants stepped up to him. "Excuse me, sir," he said politely. "You are the good lord Evrathol, are you not?" the servant continued while making a small gesture with his hand. Evrathol nodded, full of confidence, wondering what the servant wanted from him. "Her Majesty, the Queen, has asked your parents to meet her at the banquet entrance," the servant then started. "I see..." Evrathol interrupted. He should have known the Queen's kindness to ask the General and his family to attend her during the banquet. He sighed a little, but waited for the servant to finish. "I believe they are already with her, although I'm not quite sure," he said looking around. Evrathol knew what he was thinking; Evrathol had come late as the banquet was now about to start. The servant then turned to Evrathol once again, explaining him that Evrathol was expected to attend them. "Thank you, my good servant," Evrathol then said. "At your service," the servant said, smiling weakly as he was dismissed.

Walking across the floor, he wondered where the General and his wife might be. Perhaps they were already at the banquet entrance, he didn't know. He decided to follow the elegant hallway that he had approached; It was far longer than he would have imagined at first, it was, however, neatly decorated with tapestries that even Evrathol found enchanting. The result of walking down the long hallway was nothing else than the banquet entrance. He eyed two figures in the corner; knowing that by the black raven hair and the fine figures, it had to be the General and his wife - Evrathol's parents. Walking towards them, they didn't notice him at first, as they seemed to be preoccupied with something else. By looking at his mother, he felt that the time of his arrival had been most inconvenient, not only for his mother, but both of them. They seemed to take no heed of him, as they were heavily debating things of great mattes- or so it seemed. They did turn however, as soon as they heard Evathol's voice.

"General - father - I hear you're expected me..." Evrathol let out, now standing right in front of them. Evrathol's voice was as always, full of confidence. He then bowed to his mother, who looked ever so charming this evening. "Thank you my dear," she said as Evrathol kissed her cheek. "Good evening son," his father said, smiling, but he didn't seem too joyful. "My apologises for having to let you wait. It was very wrong of me; please do forgive me," Evarthol then said, first looking at his mother, then turning to his father. Morgôs nodded, but took no heed to what Evrathol had said. "Do not worry, my son," Arlöme said, pausing before continuing; "Her Majesty, the Queen, has not arrived yet."

"Have you seen the Emissary?" Morgôs then asked Evrathol, breaking the short silence that had occurred.

"Nay, unfortunately not. Not yet at least," Evrathol said, feeling obliged to use the word "unfortunately" as he cared little for the newcomers and the gifts. He didn’t return the question to his father as Evrathol had the feeling that Morgôs hadn’t met the Emissary himself yet.

"That is why they are holding this banquet, is it not? In the Emissary's honour?" Evrathol continued, lowering his voice. He knew, of course, the answer to his silly question, but he found no other way of continuing the conversation. "Indeed it is," Arlöme answered quickly.

"You don't tell me you've seen him, do you?" Evrathol asked his mother a bit surprised; he had the impression that she might have since her answer had come so quickly. "No, not really, maybe a small glimpse. Just a small one," she said firmly.

Evrathol raised an eyebrow, but his mother didn't notice it. He wondered why his father was speaking so little this evening.

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Old 11-18-2004, 10:03 AM   #22
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"No, my lord, I do not chide you so much as merely express a concern over this Emissary's mission. You could well have been right in choosing his company all day, if you learned from him what his manner of address and purpose is, or that of his lord. And it will be well if someone watches over the Emissary closely at the banquet, to see what his habits and tastes are."

Faroz stopped short and looked at the woman who was his wife. Here, again, she was pointing out, as she often did, that there are always many possibilities and choices rather than simple ones. But before he could say anything, she reminded him that she was without headress and her final state accessories, and asked if he would wait for her to complete her dressing.

"I shall wait for you in my private courtyard." She bowed as he withdrew, relieved at how she had been able not to show surprise at his unexpected appearance. She was indeed "Mayiam, Lady of Cool Water." But his sudden appearance in her private quarters, after absenting himself for so long, had brought the sensation of burning hot air to her lungs. She gasped for cool air and wondered again at his actions.

~~~~~

He sat hidden in a corner of the courtyard, bored for the time being while he waited for the banquet. He heard movement and, hidden behind shrubs in full leaf and bloom, watched her appear from the far door. She moved with aplomb and dignity, not the graceful, quick and lithesome movement of a young woman, but with the calm demeanour of a self-possessed woman. She moved first to a statue at which she knelt, her head looking up at its top and her hands held up, palms facing the statue itself. He peered towards her more intently as he sought to understand her actions. Almost unconsciously, his hand sought out his inner pocket and caressed his ring, willing it help him gain a sense of what was in her mind and being, what thoughts she was conveying to the air. Yet he did not put it one, not yet. He held his eyes more sharply on her. It was a deliberate, knowing, shrewd gaze which sought to lay bear her inner thoughts and desires. He followed every movement of her hands, her arms, her shoulders, the curve of the purple silks over her hips and thighs, her feet lost to his sight under the amethyst pantaloons which billowed out from under her gown. He saw her sit back upon her legs, dropping her hands almost in a sense of tiredness and leaning her chin upon her chest. Then, he watched as she leaned slightly and slowly rose to move to the seat under the cedar tree. In the dark of early evening the jasmine flowers she wore around her waist and as part of her headress glowed with an eerie sheen. Darkness clung to him and he sat back, a shadow among shadows, but his keen eyes followed her every movement.

She was not sure when she became aware of a chill feeling in the air around her. She felt the hair on her arms rise as she fought against a shiver. She was in her own garden. What made her feel this way? She looked around but saw nothing. In the busy manner of preparations for the banquet, all hands were in the kitchens and hall; even the guards had been called away. Strange, she had become inured to their presence as she had to that of her servants. Was it their absence which made her feel so strange? A cold sweat trickled down her back and between her breasts and she felt sickish, as if she wanted to bathe again and wash this cold air off her body. She rose suddenly and went to seek the King in his garden, now strangely anxious to see him.

The Emissary allowed himself a knowing, shrewd smile. So this was Faroz's queen. A fortuitous occurence. He had not realised he had stumbled into her private garden. This place was a maze of gardens and courtyards. Such a fond silliness these people showed towards the natural world. So she was so little protected? He rose, pleased with his discovery but unsatisfied that he learnt no more. Then he sought out the courtyard Faroz had sent him off to in the first place, where he could mingle and feign ignorance of events here. And he would have to remember to control his face carefully when he saw her again at the banquet.

Last edited by Bęthberry; 11-18-2004 at 08:23 PM. Reason: edited the ring thing
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Old 11-18-2004, 12:45 PM   #23
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The Lord Korak glowered at the door. How he hated his cousin, how he hated her! It was well that she had come to see him. At his own home he felt some power, but when at her dwelling-place he had some reason to fear. She had been afraid of him, and when he thought of this the scowl was swept off his face and replaced with a cruelly content smile. She had feared poison in the wine, odd as that was, for he had told her there was none. Yet she did not trust him. She had twisted her goblet in her fingers, looked down into it, brought it to her lips, but had never sipped from it, not until the end. The parting blow, she thought her words were. All the hateful things he wanted to say were contained in the bitterness of that wine, without him saying something that might hurt him. "Bitter wine, my Lady cousin?" he said, and he took up his own goblet. "For you, yes. But only for you."

Morashk crept into the room, and he pressed into his master's hands a package wrapped with fine red cloth and twined and bound with gold. Lord Korak took it, and he looked approvingly at it. "The Princess will be well-pleased with her gift," he said. "Now, Morashk, I trust my mother is preparing herself, and I trust also that you have chosen a fitting outfit for me?"

"All that you ask has been done," said Morashk. He moved to the table and began to clear it of the goblets, and he saw that the Lady's cup was not full. So she had actually sipped from it, despite her fears. He hoped that she, riding home this moment, was pale and fearful, wondering if there was indeed a poison, slow to take effect. He smiled with delighted malice at the thought.

Lord Korak ordered for good wine to be brought to him, and he departed from the room that still bore the ill presence of his cousin. He went to his own room, still lighted only by the fire, and inspected the clothing of rich blue, embroidered with gold. It would do well enough. The gold twine was taken from his beard, and the dark hair combed out, and then re-braided with greater care, and with better and more gold. He let his hair fall loose, and he put on his banquet outfit, and then Morashk entered. The servant braided his master's hair with great care and skill, for that was always his task, on account of Lord Korak demanding perfection at least and being unable to ably braid his own by reaching over to the back of his head. Gold was braided there, too, and the Lord Korak surveyed himself in the mirror. He turned, and, going to his wardrobe, selected a cloak of deep yellow, and Morashk arranged it about his shoulders. And then, thus prepared, he sat back on his couch with the goblet of good wine in his hand, taking care not to disarrange his clothes, and he sent Morashk to bring his mother.

When his servant went, the silence drew upon him and led his mind to think of what had just occurred. The Lady Arshalous was a horrid little thing, and she had been since she was a child. They had always hated each other. Or, no, perhaps not. Where had it begun? The day his father had died, when he was only a very small child. He had been full of sorrow that day, though he had long-since forgotten his father, and his sorrow had been manifested in anger. The Lady Arshalous was always annoying, but she had been thrice so that day, and had teased and mocked until Korak could bear it no longer. He tore the bits of fake jewelry, that she as a child wore, from her wrists and from her throat, and pulled at her hair, and called her names, and she had never recovered from it, though long ago she had forgotten why she hated her cousin. Or, at least, this was why Lord Korak hated his cousin. He could not say how it was for her, and when her hatred began. More than likely from the first moment she set eyes on him, she was such a spiteful creature. How he wished he could pull her hair now, and tear her jewels away.

Oh, and poor Morashk, for he...

But his thoughts were interrupted then, for the door opened and a slender, pretty little maid slipped in, her hands clasped before her and her eyes meekly on the stonework. He glanced at her, and turned his eyes to the door again, for his mother entered. Her once-beautiful skin was wrinkled, her rich, luxuriant dark hair had turned grey and was flecked with white, her light girlish step was replaced with a weary one, but she held herself tall and was beautiful still. Korak rose, and crossed the room, and gently kissed his mother's cheek, for he could not help but love her, despite that he thought her foolish and sentimental. Her large brown eyes, shadowed with many sorrows, looked up into his face, and she spoke, saying: "I heard voices, my dear one. Who were you speaking with?"

"My Lady cousin paid a short visit," said Korak.

"Your words were bitter?"

"There were as they ever are, Mother," said Lord Korak, and a sigh burst from her and she shook her head sadly.

"Remember at least, dear son, that she is the daughter of the sister I loved very much," she said.

"Yes, Mother," said Lord Korak, but he laughed inwardly. How sentimental of his mother! It mattered not to him whether the Lady cousin were a relative or not. All that mattered was that they hated each other, and that he sought to avoid her whilst seeking her out to hurt her in any manner possible.

"The horses are saddled, m'Lord," said Morashk, his pale face peering around the doorway.

"And yours too, I hope, fool," Lord Korak growled.

"Yes, my Lord," said Morashk, with some sauciness in his tone.

"What an impudent servant!" cried Korak, in frustration. "He has assumed that he will be permitted to come to a banquet at the King's Palace! It is well for him that he is so useful, or I should be rid of him. I could send him to my Lady cousin."

"That would be cruel to him," said the mother.

Lord Korak put his hand on her back and turned her about, and they moved away, with the little maid following behind. They went out into the cold air, where Morashk stood waiting with two horses, and two more of a smaller kind, though not quite ponies. Lord Korak helped his mother upon her small steed, and with a grunt of reluctance assisted the maid, with a scowl at Morashk, who was already upon his mount. Then he mounted into his own saddle, and, by his mother's side, led the little company in the direction of the Palace, where lights shone and the soft strains of music played.

The banquet was beginning.
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Old 11-18-2004, 01:06 PM   #24
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Eye The Priest

"Father, you're aware of the banquet which will be held at the Palace shortly? Are you not?"

He opened his eyes. The sleepy state he had just been in was interrupted by a squeaky voice. He didn’t turn immediately, just rose briskly from his kneeling position. He gave a little snort, before casting his black mantle furiously with his right arm. He reminded an awful lot of a bat, which made the young man jump, as if scared. The Priest frowned, turning to the man who had entered his chambers. "Banquet?" he raised an eyebrow, bit his lip and gave the man a grim look. "Of course, my dear Son," he said with a firm voice, emphasizing 'dear'. The Priest hurried over to the young man's side, approaching him with elegance. He laid his hand on the other man's shoulder and smiled evilly. "I am indeed aware of it, but I will never be able to make it ON TIME!!! . . .Do you know why?!?" The tone of his voice changed drastically, and it was obvious that the male Priest was working himself up into a frightful temper. His brow turned suddenly fiery red; meanwhile the veins on his neck went dark purple.

What had he done to deserve all this? What had he done in his life to deserve such a cruel and despicable punishment? Inside of him, his organs were turning. The anger, with which he was filled, was making him dazzling red all over. He tried to restrain himself, whispering curses the man next to him could not hear; he reproached the god or goddess who had sent him this incompetent Servant. A man, his age, his position, deserved better. This was degrading. He made a sigh and tore himself away from the Servant. "Be gone, Son. Be gone from my sight." The Priest heard the footsteps die away. He was alone.

He cast himself onto some of the big cushions on the floor, sighed sorrowfully, feeling sorry for himself. "I do not deserve this. That arrogant little oaf. How could he forget to tell me. A banquet! He knows I like banquets, especially those at the Palace. Oh... Dear, dear." He shook his head slowly. "Alas, what a world. It has truly turned on you, Tarkan..."

The Priest rested his head on one of the bigger cushions, staring out in thin air, while thinking. Could he not change his life? The life he was living now was certainly not to his likeness. It lacked of happiness and pleasures, position and respect. How could he gain it, a man like himself? He realised that he still had much of his life ahead. Tarkan was only in his mid-thirties, though, looking quite a lot older. His face was without a wrinkle; thus appearing quite young, but his eyes were dim and sombre, underneath, there were, as painted, large dark rings, which made him appear old after all. The paleness in his face was a proof of this unhealthy way of living. The life in the temple or in his chambers, praying all day, doing his rituals, fasting and everything else that had something to do with religion and the god and goddess, was eating him up inside. It was not that he didn't enjoy it; he did to a certain degree, but he didn't feel that he accomplished anything. He felt empty, as if deprived from all riches in the world; riches such as respect. He was nothing to anyone. Well, that was not completely accurate. He was the King's half-brother, but he would never gain any position for that reason. He was nothing to the King, but he was related to him, which meant at least something. Also, he would probably become a High Priest if the new temple was built, but it didn't mean anything. As far as he knew, people were caring less about religion than ever. The feeling of being abandoned struck him with the power of a clock which strikes six times, which means that it's time for evening prayer.

He let his gaze wander. The cushions, on which he laid on, were of green fine fabrics, a mix between cotton and silk. He touched the surface, feeling the smooth material under his fingers. He had several of these cushions, each in different colours. They matched perfectly and gave thus the room a very lively look, not suiting the priest's personality. The walls were painted light green, whereas the strips of wood were moss green, but were almost covered completely by pictures and tapestries; several amongst them were portraying Rea or the goddess of the earth. In front of him, there was a low table, of dark wood, where he usually sat when eating. To his left, stood a rather big altar, of which he used every day. Incense of every fragrance was released from here, giving his chamber a cosy and rather mystic atmosphere. Aside from that, he did not have many belongings which were his and his only. He lived in simplicity, such as, after his opinion, all priests, priestesses and other who wanted to commit themselves completely to faith should do. He lived by the biggest temple of the goddess of earth. There were a few private apartments and chambers, only available to true men and women in faith. He had a few things though, other than the described cushions in the living room. He owned a bookshelf, where there were placed about fifty to hundred books, of which mostly was religious literature. It stood at the far end of the Hall which led into the room of where he sat now. The bed he slept in every night was also his own. The bedroom was the smallest room of his apartment, and faced the east. When awakening, he could to see the morning blossom, making the night fade away, through the window. Also belonging to him, were a few fine clothing, which included robes, mantles, trousers and shirts, of pure silk or other fine fabrics; all with rich embroidery with golden, silvery or any other matching colour.

He had almost fallen asleep, as he had closed his eyes pleasantly, dreaming about the world of Kings and all their riches, when he was reminded of the banquet. He sprang up, not certain about what he was to do. It would be embarrassing to show up late, yet it would be worse if he didn't appear at the banquet at all. He frowned, tapping his foot on the floor which was covered by a brown carpet. What was the banquet for anyway? Had the young man, whom served in the temple heard wrong? Why there would be a banquet on a day like this, Tarkan didn't understand. Why he hadn't been informed in advance was even more peculiar. He ran out of his chamber, out of his apartment, and knocked on the first door that he met in the Hallway.

"Father," the young man said with a bow, when opening the door. He lowered his forehead for Tarkan to kiss it.

"Dear Son... I must apologise for my behaviour earlier. I hope you were not offended by my complete lack of forgiveness," he said, calmly, not meaning a word he said.

"Do not apologise. It was your right to get angry, Father." The young man, whose name was Pelin, said quietly.

Tarkan stared at him, trying to hold his mask. Did this young man sincerely believe him, or was he faking it? How dumb could a man become? He wondered, but didn't dare think more of it as he was eager to question him about the banquet. He gave the man a gentle smile, before opening his mouth. "It is hard for me to believe that a man can forget about a banquet, especially when it's taking place at the Palace. But I do forgive you, my dear. Let us not think evil thoughts of each other, as it will bring no good to either of us," he said with a grin, and clasped the man on his shoulder. "Regarding the banquet . . .Were you told why such evening is taking place in the Palace? What is the occasion?" he asked politely.

Pelin shrugged; "Of that I do not know for certain, nor was I told much. But it is said, from rumour that an Emissary has come to offer the king an alliance. You are invited to the banquet to sit quite near the King, I believe. You should hurry." The young man's eyes lit with excitement, and Tarkan could feel that he got even more eager by every word that came from his mouth.

Thanking him and adding a false smile, Tarkan went to his own apartments again, rather curious about this person - this Emissary.

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Old 11-18-2004, 02:37 PM   #25
Amanaduial the archer
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Silmaril Zamara

Through the stone corridors and past the private temple courtyard Zamara hastened, her shadow dancing surely over the carefully cultivated plants and small statues around the sides; the fingertips of one hand lightly and absently brushed the low wall around the courtyard. In her other hand she held a slim mahogany staff, plain dark wood that twisted around itself in a natural spiral to the more bulbous top, where a natural knot hole had been taken advantage off and set with a piece of facetted sand-crystal: otherwise it was plain, apart from the practical gold-leaf tip at the base that tapped softly on the floor as Zamara walked. Coming to the end of the corridor, she turned left opened the unlocked door that led into the temple: rarely if ever were the doors locked in these places, for none of the citizens would even think of entering. She frowned slightly, making a mental note that, as there were outsiders, this may have to be taken into account, but it was only a brief thought. Sweeping surefootedly down the lamplit spiral staircase, her robes trailing behind her, and entered the Temple through the inner sanctuary behind Rhais great statue. But the priestess was never in such a rush that time could not be taken for her goddess: rather than simply passing Rhais (unthinkable for anyone, and practically blasphemous for a priestess!), she came to stand directly in front of the statue and knelt in the typical bow to the goddess.

Tayfar, standing at the door with another of the acolytes waiting to accompany Zamara, heard the soft sounds of the other woman's robes swishing across the stone floor of the temple, and straightened up hastily. As she looked into the temple, she saw Zamara frozen at the depth of her bow, her delicately painted hands held in front of her in the motion of vulnerability and her back to the door. All the naptha lights were lit throughout the temple now, as night approached, with special attention paid to the area around the statue, and in their flickering light the golden strips through the High Priestess' wavy hair seemed to shine and dance, and her white robes seemed to glow, her elegant, feminine figure bathed in a soft circle of light. As if she is a goddess herself, Tayfar thought awefully, then shook herself, allowing herself a quick genuflection to Rhais at such a strange and possibly wicked thought, before bowing in unison with the other acolyte as Zamara walked towards them.

The trio passed down the great steps in a triangular formation, the two younger women walking behind the High Priestess as they made their way first to Tarkan's apartment: it was right that the foremost leaders of each deity's worship would enter the banquet together. Zamara bid Tayfar and the other - an older, silent girl by the name of Sedaar - to wait at the bottom of the steps as she walked forward and tapped three times on the door with the end of her staff. It opened immediately and a young man of Zamara's height bowed deeply to her in silence. The woman's smile greeted him when he straightened up - she recognised the young man from the temple. "Good evening, sir: is the Priest ready?"

"May the sun and blessings of Rea shine upon you, High Priestess Zamara." A slightly grating but genial voice spoke from behind other man before he himself could answer, and Tarkan emerged, splendid in his own fashion in the same way as Zamara, his shirt and robes over it picked out in fine embroidery, made of rich, dark silk.

"May Rhais' lend her blessing and fruits towards you, O Priest," Zamara reciprocated formally, pressing her palms together and raising them to chin level. Tarkan gave a dry smile as he stepped forward and covered her hands with his palms, and they both bent their forehead together solemnly. Parting, they moved down the steps, the younger man closing the door - and locking it, Zamara noticed - and hurrying after them, falling into step with Tayfar and Sedaar behind Tarkan as they made their way through the moonlit streets towards the palace.

Zamara inquired politely as to Tarkan's health, and they exchanged a few sparse pleasantries, slipping to first name terms rather than their formal titles (which were many and varied), before she moved onto the matter that she wished to hear his view on: although their jobs were, superficially, similar, the Priest and Priestess rarely talked or saw each other, and as they were quite different people, this appeared to suit both quite well. This distance, and their own personalities, caused some stiffness and formality between them; but despite this, Zamara did respect her male counterpart's views on matters that concerned them both - such as this one. "Tarkan, I presume you have heard of the newcomers of - the emissary and his retinue from the West?"

The older priest shrugged his thin shoulders lightly. "Not much, Zamara. I was...less aware than I should have liked of this banquet, and it's reasons," he replied, glancing briefly over his shoulder at the man who followed, who blushed and averted his eyes. Zamara wondered about this, and about the shy grin that Tayfar then exchanged with him, but didn't comment. She frowned a little, the stark white kohl dancing on her forehead. "You do not know of them?"

"Are they particularly remarkable?"

The priestess raised her eyebrows and smiled at Tarkan, cocking her head slightly to one side. "They travelled over the great desert, just to see the King - and, I believe, to present him with gifts. They wish for an...alliance, I believe."

"An alliance between the East and the West?" Tarkan's voice was slightly incredulous. The woman nodded sagely in agreement. "Exactly, my lord. It is strange indeed..."

"Their other purposes? Have they expressed any way in which they would like to...seal this alliance?"

Zamara paused. "I had not thought of it, Tarkan. I do not think they had expressed any will for marriage with the princess; if they were to, I think it may cause more trouble than it's worth with Lord Korak." She looked up ahead again and took in the grand sight of the palace, lit and decorated splendidly, the sounds of business and merriment already coming from inside. She nodded once to Tarkan as she caught his eyes again, her dark gaze emphatic. "No doubt we will find out tonight their intentions, for the sake of our deities if nothing else."

Tarkan looked at her questioningly as she said the last part, but did not speak, for as they came to the grand, arched entrance of the palace, a servant, obviously waiting for them, came forward and bowed deeply. After addressing them formally, he conveyed her majesty's wishes that the priest and priestess dined on her table that night. Unruffled - for it was quite usual - Zamara consented and, dismissing Tayfar and Sedaar (along with Tarkan's attendant) with another servant, she readjusted her grip on her staff, took a deep breath of apprehension, and followed the servant along with Tarkan.

Last edited by Amanaduial the archer; 11-19-2004 at 05:01 PM. Reason: A little alteration at the request of Novnarwen
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Old 11-18-2004, 04:20 PM   #26
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Morgôs, Arlomë, and Evrathol did not dawdle long in the hall. One of the short passageways led them swiftly from the hall where they congregated to the banquet hall, a shortcut around the courtyard. The passage was not haunted much by the nobles from the outside, though a number of servants and courtiers still roamed there, carrying all manner of supplies, ornaments, foodstuffs, and fine materials, the rarest and most beautiful of their kind in all of Pashtia. The family headed past all of the trivialities, though, avoiding them with Elven grace at hand, and proceeded into the banquet hall’s immediate edge, where it met the arch that led inside, the banquet hall entrance. It was not yet bustling with activity, but bore enough folk for it to be called ‘crowded.’ Slowly, considering each step, the three worked their way into the room and stood, eying the fine architecture and decorum. Arlomë did not, for she had seen it before, but young Evrathol was captivated, and it was no long before he had meandered quietly off, into the hall’s depths.

The two, Arlomë and Morgôs, were left together, half isolated from the other clumps of nobles, not walking or moving much. It was not long before Arlomë leaned towards Morgôs’ whose gaze was distracted, and spoke. “Elrigon,” she said, “you are silent tonight? Something troubles you?”

Morgôs shook his head, overly hasty, as if he were trying to avoid an answer, though he did respond. “No, nothing…” after a quick pause, he turned to look to her, with an uncanny look of urgent need glimmering in his starry eyes. “So,” he said quickly, “you have not seen the Emissary?” She examined him, closely, for but a moment. Like any Elf, just as Morgôs could, she could hone her mind to a saber’s point, and analyzed her husband with a simple, enigmatic look, projecting an unseen hail of mist that filled him, and Morgôs knew that she could sense his uneasiness. She spoke back slowly, with total sincerity. “No, it is as I told Evrathol. Only glimpses, no more than the others of the Queen’s retinue.”

“I see.” Morgôs nodded, looking away into the depths of the thickening crowd. He then turned to her, “Well, we shall see him. The Queen has invited us to meet her at the entrance and sit with her.” Arlomë blinked bewilderedly, but Morgôs knew she was unsurprised. “I had not heard as much.” She said, softly, and the General simply nodded, though the gesture was nearly concealed by the subtlety with which it was issued. Morgôs, turning again, looked off, taking nervous glances about the room, but Arlomë spoke again.

“I know your mind, Elrigon. It is plain what troubles you. You are suspicious of the Emissary.” Her tone was accusatory, but not unloving, and she seemed more content with her for figuring out the fact than annoyed at her husband for it. But, she became less content when Morgôs snapped back, very defensive, “No, I have no reason to be. I have heard nothing.” But here he saw that she was confused by his defensiveness, and relaxed his military guard, allowing himself to smile and warmth to fill his face. “For the General of Pashtia, I know very little.”

Arlomë laughed pleasantly, “Little of this court, perhaps, but you know enough to serve where it matters. Is that why you are uneasy? The Emissary, from what I have seen and heard, has a great wealth of knowledge and words at his disposal, for he charmed the King with ease. Do you think he has another motive?” Morgôs rounded on her, louder and more forceful, his eyes narrowing. “All these questions and still I have not met the man!” He exclaimed as he threw up his hands in frustration, the long, silky sleeves of his court robe fluttering up and down like graceless bird wings.

His wife looked defeated for a split second, but it was not her nature, and she quickly followed up, though her voice had quieted greatly, and was far less passionate. “You have foreseen nothing?” Morgôs, barely realizing how harsh he had sounded, shook his head. “No, I am too occupied. The drill at the training fields did not go well.” He breathed deeply, stroking his sore temple again with a lazy digit as he looked down, concentrating on the intricately carven tiles of the hall floor.

“What do you mean?” queried Arlomë.

Morgôs released the answer as if he had been waiting all day to get the knowledge off his chest. “The generation that fought at my side in the last war has grown too old to serve, and, replacing them are vagrant boys who could not fire a bow or ride a horse were the very thunder of Rea behind them!” He batted the air angrily as he said this, but Arlomë took his white-knuckled hand in her own tenderly and spoke in a soothing whisper. “You exaggerate, Elrigon. Let the matter rest. After all, they are the cream of Pashtia.”

The Avari general nearly wrenched his hand from his wife’s. “That is why they are so inept!”

“Give your country some credit.” Arlomë reprimanded, more stern now, “The mortals have not centuries to learn the ways of war!” She was slighted by Morgôs’ attitude, but did not show it in any undignified way. She was passionate enough to argue the point hotly, but she did it well, in comparison to Morgôs, who’s pale cheeks had reddened with malign fire. “They should learn faster,” he cried out, “else they will get nowhere when war comes. I wonder how we’ve ever won a battle.”

“They have some spirit in them, at least, and they deserve renown for that!” She shot back.

Morgôs was about to pounce upon the statement, but he stopped himself. His flushed face paled again, as his rudeness dawned on him, and he looked down again, dejected. “Not now,” he murmured; the air of argument gone in him, “Let us not speak of these things now.” Arlome did not respond directly, but he could tell without looking at her that she agreed. At last she said: “Yes, you are right.”

Looking as if he wished to cleanse a nightmare from him, he briskly shook his head and looked to her. “I need some fresh air, this court is stifling. I shall be back shortly.”

He leaned forward and kissed Arlomë on the forehead, but very curtly, and turned away, pulling up his cumbersome robes so that he could gain some speed. He admitted that the whole affair looked foolish, in several respects, to see an Elven General clumsily maneuvering his way through a court packed with gossipy nobles, but he disregarded that and headed to the entrance, pulling himself through the highly populated area of the threshold and out, beneath the broad arch and into the open air, where he immediately felt the glimmering silver lights of stars, in all their radiant beauty, shining down upon his face. But, as he headed out, he looked up, his attention drawn by the gentle, tempting hold of the stars, and, in his haste, did not see where he was going.

It was his Elven grace alone that allowed him to slide sideways to avoid running headlong into several persons who were proceeded through the arch. The trio, led by a courtier whose garb resembled that of the guard who’d addressed him earlier, were taken aback, and halted, disconcerted. Morgôs made to apologize swiftly, saying “Excuse me, I did not see-” but he stopped, foolishly, in the middle of the sentence to look up after making an ignoble bow. He recognized the two figures standing immediately behind the palace guard.

“High Priestess Zamara, High Priest Tarkan, it is an honor. May the blessings of Rea and Rhais be upon you both” he said, bowing lower than he just had, and taking more time to do so. He did not remember ever speaking with either of these people (he did not often attend such festivities to socialize with the religious hierarchy, and he did not even know if he was correctly greeting them, by their standards), but he knew of them, and seen them many times. One could not serve the King and have not seen the two head Priests of Pashtia. Then again, he was not wholly sure of their positions. He had seen and heard of the High Priestess Zamara, but knew nothing of her ways. He had only heard the name of Tarkan, and merely assumed that he was a priest of some importance, presumably a High Priest, if he kept such ample company. After a low bow, he removed his clasped hand from his heart and stood, looking to the two figures. The situation was somewhat awkward, but this whole great banquet had become an awkward event for Morgôs, and so he was resigned to it. Quietly, he awaited a response, knowing that proper etiquette would force someone to reply, and he was again doomed to conversation, thanks, ironically, to his sudden lack of time.

Last edited by Kransha; 11-19-2004 at 03:25 PM. Reason: Clarifying an on-purpose error
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Old 11-18-2004, 04:46 PM   #27
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"That one looks especially nice, milady," a timid voice pierced the near-silence of Gjeelea's bedchamber. The princess sighed as she smoothed the wrinkles out of a sapphire blue robe, doubting the truth in the words of Fahlil, her servant. She says that because she thinks she has to, Gjeelea told herself. However, the princess knew she had no time to change again - the blue would have to do for the banquet. All of her tiny braids had been pulled back into one large braid with golden ribbon intertwined with the smaller braids. Gjeelea cringed at the blue of her dress next to the tan brown of her skin and dark hazel of her eyes, but reluctantly shrugged off the distaste as the Fahlil reminded her of the press for time.

"All right, then, I think I am ready," Gjeelea murmured, mostly to herself rather than the young servant-girl. The princess dismissed Fahlil and left her room at a brisk pace through the halls of the palace.

The princess had been asked to meet her family in her father's private gardens, where they would make a grand entrance together into the banquet hall. What this served to do for appearances, Gjeelea did not know. She rarely saw her brother Siamak, and when she did the major differences between them kept the siblings from getting along much. Gjeelea had always thought he was too quiet and too sound in his opinions. He would not make a good ruler, Gjeelea thought bitterly as she walked down the corridor. The princess knew that her betrothed might not be too much better, but she also knew Lord Korak's mind well enough to know that if she became queen, her influence on Pashtia would be great. Her influence would be much greater with Lord Korak on the throne than with her brother on the throne - she knew that well enough.

Gjeelea turned the last corner and entered the private gardens of her father. She recognized the figure by the lilies immediately, and walked towards the King as he examined the flowers and other plants. King Faroz heard her steps, and turned around. "Father," Gjeelea said in greeting, a false smile illuminating her dark features.

Last edited by Aylwen Dreamsong; 11-18-2004 at 04:51 PM. Reason: la la la...spacing issues...
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Old 11-18-2004, 05:58 PM   #28
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Siamak walked through the halls, hurrying a bit when he came close enough to the banquet hall to hear sounds of pre-feast merriment and chatter. He did not want to be late; that would not do at all. He had planned to go to the courtyard first, but the beginning of the banquet was apparently much more soon than he had realized. Rather than thread through the halls, he took the more direct route through the gardens.

The outside world was bathed in a dusky twilight now that the sun had set after a final blaze of brilliant color. Had he been in less of a hurry he may have lingered for a moment and enjoyed the peaceful sound of the chirping insects and evening birds, but he feared time was short. He slowed his pace to a stately walk as he neared his father’s private gardens, approaching the arranged meeting place softly, a skill he had learned long ago to be useful for getting around unnoticed.

His first conscious thought was that his mother was not yet there: a relief since that meant he was not late. He took in the scene with a glance. His father, facing him, was standing with Gjeelea, who had her back to him, near the lilies. He was less than thrilled at seeing his sister, even though he knew she would be there. He preferred to avoid her, which wasn’t terribly hard since their interests were vastly different. Faroz saw him first, but Gjeelea was not aware of his presence until he spoke. Then she turned, elegantly but just quickly enough to know he had surprised her slightly.

“Good evening, Father,” he said with a slight incline of his head, a proper greeting from prince to king. “Gjeelea,” he said politely in acknowledgment of her.

“Siamak,” she returned, also in acknowledgment, nothing more. There was no love lost between the siblings. Siamak wasn’t sure how she did it, but somehow she always made him feel that she was better than he was, though he knew it wasn’t true. Perhaps it was because she believed it - he knew she did. He tried to shake off the feeling, and was mostly successful, except for the niggling piece that remained at the back of his mind, telling him he ought to be acquiescing to her as well. He had become much better at this as he grew older, but he had never completely mastered the skill of disregarding her opinions of him.

He turned from his sister to his father, and tried to determine his mood. It appeared to be pleasant; Siamak supposed this meant that his father had good opinions of the foreign emissary. He would keep this in mind tonight while trying to justify his own distrust. While he didn’t always agree with what his father, he held Faroz as a fair ruler, taking the best paths for the country. Siamak tried to put on a bold face, only partially succeeding. This night would tell many things.
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Old 11-18-2004, 07:58 PM   #29
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And which of my children, he thought, do I wish to make unhappy? It was a question that Faroz had been turning over in his mind quite often of late, as the nobility began to ask who he would name as his heir. He was young yet, and there remained to him surely many more years of life, perhaps decades. But chance or accident could not be stayed by royal decree, nor could the intrigues of his enemies. A single knife in the dark, or an untasted dish of figs could leave his kingdom leaderless and divided. He needed to appoint an heir. More importantly, he needed to take one of his children under his tutelage and instruct…him?…her?…in the stern art of ruling a kingdom. He had never been an attentive father, nor an affectionate one. The education of his children had been left to their nursemaids and governesses, as well as to their mother – although Faroz had been careful to check her influence somewhat, lest Gjeelea and Siamak had been raised with too much sympathy for their mother’s people. Faroz believed in the peace that had been forged through his marriage, but he was no fool. He knew that the enmity between his people and his wife’s was too deep rooted to be extirpated by the union of two mortal beings. Their marriage had not resolved the border disputes in the mountainous Rhasjűl region, nor had it alleviated the tense competition between them amongst their trading partners. At some point in the future, perhaps not in his lifetime but certainly within the lives of his children, Pashtia and Alanzia would be at odds once more, and he had to ensure that his heir would defend this land against her enemies.

He hid his thoughts behind a face that was well practiced in the art of diplomatic subterfuge. “Welcome my children,” he said formally, and taking a hand of each in one of his own, he raised their clasped fingers to his forehead. He dropped his hands but held on for a moment longer as he looked at his children. The girl returned his gaze steadily and somewhat coolly. The boy regarded him with an uncertain, searching eye. How easy it would be were his daughter’s spirit to reside in his son. She was the natural ruler. Like her mother, she was rational and quick minded. Supple in her ability to see many options. But she was ambitious, and soon to be married to that oaf Korak who would undoubtedly seek to assert his rights as a husband and undermine Gjeelea’s ability to rule. Were his son to become King he would need to share that rule with no-one. He would be able to govern from a position of strength, and if he needed aid, he could marry a level headed woman of position and wisdom. No matter whom he chose, however, there would be division in the kingdom for the nobility was divided in their preference. So much remained to be seen: they were both yet blossoms of the royal branch, not fully come to their fruition. Who could tell what sort of leaders they would become in the fullness of years? Before seeing that, how could he make an informed decision of who should come after him?

“Is it true you spent the day with the Emissary, father?”

Faroz drove his problems to the back of his mind and replied to his daughter’s question. “It is. We had much to speak of.”

“I am sure. Did he tell you more about the offer of the Lord…Annatar, was it?”

He could tell that she was fishing for information. “We spoke of that briefly. He assures me that his lord wishes only for friendship with us, and that he does not seek to drag us into foreign conflicts.” His manner as he concluded indicated that the subject was now closed.

His daughter was not to be so easily put off however, and she tried a different tack. “And what of the gift? Is there some special significance to the ring? It seems such a small thing between kings.”

“Do not press me about that now, my daughter,” he replied lightly, trying to brush aside the conversation. He did not know why, but mention of the ring caused him an odd anxiety, and unconsciously his hand slipped into the folds of his robe to find it. He stroked it lightly with one fingertip. “Let us play a game my children. Let us pretend that I am not your king, and you are neither prince or princess. Let us pretend for this night that we are a family having a dinner with other families.”

“That will be hard,” Siamak replied, “with all those other families calling us ‘Majesty’ and bowing as we pass.”

“Not to mention their trying to have a few hurried words with us between courses about their latest petition, or telling us about their supremely talented nephew and how perfectly suited he would be for a position at court,” said Gjeelea.

His children were speaking as he had, lightly, but to cover the awkwardness that he had introduced with his strange request. When had they ever sat down to a meal as a family? When had they ever done anything as a family? It was not possible. Faroz searched his mind for a memory of some time, some moment, in which he had felt, simply, as a father to these people, but he could not recall any. Even at their births he had been absent from the city upon state business and had received the news amongst the daily reports from the capital. The news of his daughter’s birth had been disappointing: an eldest son would have been better. When he had received news of his son’s birth it had been marred by the information that he had been born upon a highly inauspicious day. Faroz did not hold to such superstition, but he knew that many of his people would be wary of such a child. He sighed and turned back to the lilies. “Well,” he said wearily, “let us at least enjoy our meal in each other’s company. You two shall sit and tell me the petty gossip and private scandals of the palace. There are many things that never come to my ears which I am sure are whispered in yours. Divert me with them, and perhaps I can amuse you with some tale of my youth.”

It was Siamak who took up the task of relating to his father a bit of the endless gossip that filled the whispering silences of the court. He spoke of unrequited loves and infatuations, disagreements among the courtiers and of a dispute over a dish of figs that had escalated to the point of blows. As he spoke, Gjeelea remained silent but watchful, carefully eyeing her father and brother and noting in each far more than either knew. Faroz himself remained quiet through the trivial recitation, until they were interrupted by the sound of the Queen’s feet coming toward them along the graveled path.
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Old 11-18-2004, 08:18 PM   #30
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Arshalous rose from her kneeling position and made way to the banquet hall. There would be much food there, and she was not hungry. Thankfully, there would be too many people for anybody of importance to notice her rudeness when she did not eat anything. Besides, there was the Emissary to occupy everybody's full attention.

As her sandals tapped lightly on the stone courtyard, she saw a man leaning against the wall. He was robed in black and purple, dark hair fell in waves to his shoulders, his eyes were a grey blue like a river whispering on a foggy morning, and, wonders of wonders, he was beardless, though his skin was dark from the cruel sun. If she had not known better, she would have thought him of the Avari kindred.

She stopped and said, "You are the Emissary, are you not?"

He pushed himself from the wall and kissed the back of her hand. "Indeed I am, fair lady --? He glanced enquiringly at her.

"Arshalous," she said, with a small bow. She swayed uncomfortably on her feet. There was something about him....something powerful about him that she had only felt in the king during the few times she had met him. Pity that none of the other nobles had such power coursing through them.

"It is very noble that the king has prepared this banquet in my honour," the Emissary said with a smile.

"It would have been rude for us not to," Arshalous said.

He looked shrewdly at her, a light flickering in his blue grey eyes.

"I am surprised that you journeyed across the desert to us," Arshalous said as she slowly strolled toward the banqueting hall.

A smile flickered in the Emissary's face and he said, "My lord is anxious for an alliance."

"It is my opinion that alliances do not often end well. I wouldn't be surprised if our countries were at each other's throats like snarling dogs in a few hundred years," said Arshalous sourly.

The man smiled politely. "That will not happen here."

"They always say that," Arshalous replied, staring at him. "The feast is about to begin," she said abruptly. "I would invite you to sit with me, though I am assume that the King has already offered you a place by his side, since, in fact, the banquet is in your honour."

"You are correct," the Emissary said, kissing her hand once more.

As Arshalous swept down the hall toward a seat in the twilight, she thought of the Emissary, how strong and noble he looked, how confident he seemed in an alliance between the East and the West. He was so different than the nobles here -- the image of Korak flitted through her mind -- in his wisdom and his kind face.
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Old 11-19-2004, 12:13 PM   #31
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Eye Arriving the banquet..

The blessings of Rhais, he says, the Priest thought melancholically; I would rather not have any of her blessings or anything else for that matter.. It is a wicked goddess..

All of a sudden, he felt the urge to nudge the female next to him hard in the ribs. A man had just greeted them, but Tarkan didn't know this Elf. Did Zamara? If it was her acquaintance, then she should say something, not wait for him to speak. All three of them were silent, as if petrified by the loo of each other. He gave her a reproaching look, before turning to the stranger, deciding upon doing his best to seem civilized. It was only appropriate that he should greet this man also. After all, it was great to know that someone obviously knew him without himself knowing who this elf was.

"I do not believe I've had the honour of meeting you earlier," he said quietly, not knowing if that was for the best or not. He knew though, that new acquaintances could not be bad. The Priest had always liked Elves in general. They were some fascinating creatures. They were tall and firm, had a nice body structure, usually beautiful, pointed ears and all of them expressed a certain confidence that the Priest admired. This elf was a perfect example of a typical elf. His stature was great, and knowing that, the Priest could already by then guess what his position with the King was. He was fair, yet his age seemed to have a good grasp of him. Yet his eyes, vague but blue, and his black hair reflected youth. ”I do believe I have seen you, though..." He smiled faintly, digesting all the first impressions. He continued politely, "Yes, it comes back to me now. You're the King's favourite General!" The male Priest laughed gently, acknowledging the Elf’s position, expressing admiration. Zamara didn't move; he could see her out of the corner of his eye. By the look she sent him, she seemed to be surprised by the Priest’s behaviour, so polite and merry.

"Thank you, High Priest, but you're too kind," The elf answered humbly, his cheeks turning slightly red.

The ringing tune of the elf's voice calling him 'High Priest', for the second time, made him want to get to his knees and praise Rea. He restrained himself from looking happy or surprised by this and spoke hastily; "Let us not be too solemn by using such formal names; it only emphasizes our differences rather than our similarities, which are, I believe, far more important. We must set our focus on the King today, and this Emissary,” he explained eagerly; “Tarkan will do for tonight, kind Sir." Not knowing whether he should include Zamara in the conversation or not, he grew afraid that he would appear manipulative or arrogant if he didn’t. Also worried about the fact she could point out that Tarkan had received a title he did not earn, he was hesitant whether he should giver her the chance to speak. He turned his gaze to Zamara, and found her looking at him as if in wonder.

The Priest had turned from being a cold and sorrowful man, into being a man filled with merriment. His eyes shone with pleasure and delight, expressing satisfaction, but also confidence and a certain degree of happiness. He looked questioningly at Zamara. She nodded carefully, "I do agree. At this banquet, which is held in the honour of the newly arrived Emissary, it is important to focus on the King support him."

"Now, I beg you please ... Will you tell me who this Emissary is? I have not had the privilege to meet him yet, though, I'm already very curious about his coming. Do you know what he wants with the King, or are you as ignorant about the matter as I am?" he questioned the elf as fast as he could after Zamara had closed her mouth, not allowing her to say anything further.

The Priest smiled weakly, paying attention to the male Elf who told all he knew thus far. He listened attentively, but only with one ear. The woman next to him, stood still. By the look of her, she was still surprised, but he was not convinced any longer that it was for the better. If he could have penetrated through her mind and seen her thoughts, he would have done so instantly. The two of them had never had a good relationship. The truth was that Tarkan was envious of her position in the Temple. It was not that he adored Rhais over all, such as Zamara did, but the position in itself ‘High Priest' was something he truly longed for. He was just a Priest, and so the elf had greeted Tarkan wrongly, using a formal title he did not even have. He hadn't lied, the male Priest assured himself; he had told him that his name would do; he had only chosen not to mention that he wasn't a High Priest. If the elf eventually found out, he had nothing to approach the poor creature of.

The male elf finished his sentence, letting his gaze wander uneasily around. The Priest nodded carefully; satisfied by the little info he had gained. "You seem anxious to leave. Pardon me from keeping you here; I did not mean to. Please forgive me . . ." he said, in a desperate try to get he elf moving again away from Zamara and the humiliation of being just a man without a particularly great position.
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Old 11-19-2004, 12:40 PM   #32
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Korak stood in the doorway, surverying the room with a look of great disgust. He had expected enemies to be gathered here, but those he despised most were among those present, sitting, talking, laughing, and scowling. He gestured to the maid, and told her to bring his mother to a table that she wished. He did not feel like sitting, for he cared for none of these people, and the Princess was not yet present.

The Lady Arshalous was, of course, present, though he could not see her from where he stood. She had said she was prepared for the banquet, so it seemed very likely that she intended to go. He hoped he would not have to speak to her again. If she approached them he would let Morashk speak, and he would leave, on the pretence of finding his mother.

There was the Priest Tarkan. Korak had never cared much for him. There was some air about him that stirred up aversion. But, on the other hand, there was something very pleasing about him, as well. Lord Korak gathered a sense of a kindred spirit, though he knew not how. Studying the rest of the room, he thought that he should care to speak to Tarkan the most. Unless it were Zamara, for she was the least dislikeable of the present company. But she was already with Tarkan, and so he need not cause himself trouble by seeking her elsewhere.

He approached the two, Morashk following in his wake, and before them he gave a courtly bow, casting a quick and haughty glance over the Elf. "My Priest Tarkan, and Priestess Zamara," said the Lord Korak, "it is a pleasure to see you here." He did not really think it was a pleasure to see anyone there, but he could not deny that it was a pleasure to have two bearable people present, since all others he saw were hated enemies or far below him. "I give to you by greetings, as well as the kindest greetings of my Lady mother, who is grateful to you for your devoted service in the temple."
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Old 11-19-2004, 04:03 PM   #33
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Arlomë let her eyes follow her husband’s back until he had rounded the corner and was out of her sight. Then, she sighed. She had only just found him, and now he was gone again. Really, she should have kept her temper in check and not argued with him no matter how she felt. Elrigon needed her support and she had not given it to him just now. Concern had been written all over him, and she knew he was frustrated at this Emissary’s arrival. Maybe not his arrival, per se, but Elrigon deserved to know what this man’s intentions were and had not yet been able to meet him. She would make it up to him...yes, she nodded slightly to herself.

Turning her attention back to the filling hall, she scanned its guests for not just familiar faces, but those she respected. No Avari had entered yet, and Arlomë exhaled audibly and chewed the inside of her cheek in awkward frustration. That’s when her eyes caught sight of Lady Arshalous. The woman was not of Arlomë’s kindred, but she had a good head on her shoulders and a quick wit. Two things the elf could respect in a mortal.

Arlomë excused herself several times to pass between the finely dressed nobles who were milling around waiting for the royal family’s appearance until she reached the small round table with the lady. “Good evening to you, Arshalous.” Arlomë nodded her head in greeting.

“And to you, Arlomë,” Arshalous answered and nodded her head in turn.

“Do you mind if I sit a moment until the royal entrance?” Without waiting for a reply, Arlomë lowered herself to the small table.
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Old 11-19-2004, 04:30 PM   #34
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The Emissary

He watched as the people of this land gathered for the banquet and turned over in his mind how the day's events had proceeded. It had gone well with the King, but how could it not have done so after he accepted the Ring? He reached into his clothes and found his own Ring, the mate of the one now borne by Faroz and stroked it longingly. It had been several days since he had last worn it, and he found the temptation to slip it on once more almost too much to resist. But he had been noticed already by the lady and she was sure to tell others that he was about. To disappear now would be to call attention to himself. He sighed and closed his eyes, seeking strength from his master for the task ahead. He must cloak himself from their eyes this night, and for many days ahead. For the time, he had to put on a fair appearance.

Girding himself to the task ahead he walked out of the shadows and toward the banqueting hall. As he approached he saw the lady who had accosted him earlier seated at a table with a female Elf. He snarled despite himself and quickly turned away. His master had warned him of the Avarin, for despite their long sundering with their western kindred, they remained of the Elder race.

A cough at his back made him turn round and he came face to face with the Chamberlain. It was clear that the man did not entirely like the Emissary, and that he resented him for having taken the King away from his duties this day. "My King has said that you are to be brought to the party that will be dining at the Queen's table."

The Emissary frowned, saying, "I thought that I was to eat with the King."

"Indeed you are," was the clipped response. "The King is dining with the Queen this night. Come." Before giving the Emissary a chance to respond, the Chamberlain turned and walked toward a small group of finely dressed people who were standing close by the door that the royal family would enter through once all was ready. He ushered the Emissary into their presence, interrupting their conversation and making a series of quick introductions. The Emissary was composed throughout the little ritual, bowing slightly to each of the people in turn. Among the party was another Elf, and he was careful to meet his eye and return his look with steady confidence. Once the introductions had been made the Chamberlain began to officiously organise the party. “The King and Queen are almost ready for the entrance. They have bid me remind you General Morgôs that you and your family,” and at this he looked sidelong toward the female Elf at table with the Lady Arshalous, “are to eat with them at their table, as are you Emissary. The High Priestess Zamara and Priest Tarkan will be seated at the table next to the King and Queen. I do not know where the Prince and Princess shall be eating,” he added somewhat fussily, “for the Queen has said that they might do as they wish this night.” He clearly disapproved of the Queen’s judgement in this matter. “My lords and ladies, I must leave you now, for I must look into the kitchens.” And with that, the Chamberlain was off once more.

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Old 11-19-2004, 06:06 PM   #35
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Evrathol was not going to judge the Emissary before he had talked to him; that was his decision. Of curse he was going to have an opinion of him, but he wasn’t going to express it to anyone else. He kept those things to himself as he was a respected member of the Royal court. He wouldn’t dare to speak ill or unjust of anyone that were guests of His Majesty himself. Usually, Evrathol never spoke of such things in public, although no one could control his own mind. At the same time, Evrathol felt a need to have a strong opinion about him, because everyone talked about the Emissary – and only him. While looking upon The Emissary, Evrathol could, however, only see a strong character, but nothing more than that. Part of it because the Emissary stayed unchanged; he showed no particular joy for the banquet that had been prepared especially for him, nor did he show any excitement. This was Evrathol’s impression of him.

Studying him a bit closer he could perhaps spot a stubborn creature, with a strong will, but those were only wild guesses.

Feeling utterly ignorant about the stranger he wanted to approach him so that perhaps Evrathol could learn more about him. His legs however would not allow him – or was it his mind that stopped him from doing so? Towards this man he felt unconfident, and weak. How could this be? Evrathol was a confident elf, who had been raised by strong characters. He didn't know why he felt uncertain and uncomfortable with the stranger's presence, but it made him scared. He asked himself why he was doing this to himself, but he found no answer. What was this obnoxious thoughts of his? Why should he, Evrathol, feel uncomfortable in his position? This was completely idiotic. He clenched his teeth, feeling his heart pounding in his chest. His head was spinning as the thoughts of the Emissary would not leave him.

As the Emissary bowed slightly to each guest, he finally turned to Evrathol. A small bow was offered him, and Evrathol greeted him back in suitable manner; “My good lord, it is a pleasure to meet you,” Evrathol offered, as polite as he possibly could be. “Greetings to you as well, my kind elf,” the Emissary said, smiling weakly. Those were the only words exchanged between them before the Emissary moved on to the next guest.

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Old 11-19-2004, 06:45 PM   #36
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Arshalous stared at Arlomë and smiled at her. They only had a slight acquaintance but she tended to like the elven woman. Arshalous that it was especially good of her to be part of the queen's retinue considering that the queen came from Alanzia.

"Have you had a chance to speak with the Emissary?" asked Arshalous.

Arlomë shook her head and said, "I have only seen glimpses of him. Have you?"

Arshalous nodded. "He was..." she tried to find the right word. "He had a quiet power in him," she said thoughtfully. "He commands one's respect. It's a pity that our nobles are not more like him," she added bitterly.

Arlomë frowned a little and said, "You think the alliance would be good then?"

"Yes I do," said Arshalous. "We would be very foolish if we did not ally ourselves with them."

Arlomë nodded and then asked with a small laugh, "Why are you sitting in the corner?"

Arshalous narrowed her eyes in irritation and said delicately, "Parties are such annoying things and more than half the people here I do not care for. I would much rather be at home curled on a couch in my library."

"I am sorry," said Arlomë.

"Oh don't be," said Arshalous waving her hand as if she was sweeping Arlomë apology into the dustbin. "It's not your fault that most everyone here is decidedly unpleasant to be converse with."
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Old 11-19-2004, 07:43 PM   #37
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Bekah listened as her soft leather sandals trod the gravel path. As she neared the King's garden the sense of chill dissipated and she felt safer. Through the vine-entwined corridor which connected her garden with his, she caught sight of Faroz talking with their children. It was a sight she did not often see and in the few moments she took to compose herself she watched them and allowed herself some reminiscences.

Saimak was now a little older than his father had been when she had first seen him, but what a difference. Bekah remembered the confident, even cocky adolescent whose poise and glance had so terrified her, barely into her teens. She had never seen one of the enemy before and there he was standing in front of her, being announced as her intended husband. She had been barely able to meet his eyes and had stood shaking beside him at their wedding ceremony. Yet her prayers had been answered, for he had left with his father immediately after the banquet to return to Pashia. It was two years later she had crossed over the mountains herself with Homay and her bodyguards. It was at another banquet she saw him again, took her place at his side in her gown of glowing amber and cream. He was less contemptuous of her then. He had been a gentle husband to her, firm but not unkind, but she knew he had never loved her as she had never come to love him, despite what her father had told when she had pleaded not to be married to him. She looked at him now to see the young man she had married but saw only the distinguished shades of grey at his temples, the frim jawline which had become firmer, the anxious years in his eyes. She moved quickly towards him.

"My family," she acknowledged, kissing her daughter on both sides of her face--a salutation Gjeela had only recently agreed to renew--and placing her hands on her son's brow. To Fayez she bowed her head and offerred her hand.

"Forgive my tardiness. I stopped in my garden for a few words of prayer for our banquet tonight."

The King took her hand again in the formal salute of husband and wife. The he stopped and stared at her.

"Your final preparations have come to naught."

"Pardon, my lord?"

"The jasmine flowers in your headress have wilted and those in your belt are crushed." He plucked one from her headress and held it before her.

"How came this to happen?"

"I, I know not, my Lord. I came directly from my quarters to my garden to yours. Although in my garden I felt a most unusual air, like the cold air of the mountain snows but so much more frigid."

"You shall do without them this eveing. The guests await us." With his own hands he plucked the other flowers from her headress, feeling them still stiff with cold. Bekah herself removed those from her belt and felt a similar chill. He looked at her eyes, finding belief in her words in the touch of the flowers himself.

"Let us enter, my Lord. Siamak, Gjeela, wil you march in front of us?"

The two nodded despite grimaces.

Fayez then held his right arm out in front of him, his hand facing up. Bekah placed her left hand, palm facing down, in his and together the two marched side by side, their hands recreating the old symbol of the sun's light wrapped over the moon. "Let me meet this visitor who has so many strange stories to tell us," she said aloud.

Then, as they walked together in stately form, Bekah wispered to him.

"My Lord, none of the guards were in my garden. Have they all been called elsewhere? The Emissary is to dine with us, but what of the fifty men or so who arrived with him? Has Morgôs prepared a watch from our guard to accompany them at their own lodgings tonioght?

Faroz halted but momentarily; none would have seen it, but Bekah felt the slight hesitation of motion through his arm. They made their entrance as he was reflecting upon her words.
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Old 11-19-2004, 09:18 PM   #38
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"It's not your fault that most everyone here is decidedly unpleasant to be converse with." The woman was insulting the elf, and as Arshalous turned her head, Arlomë covered the smile that crept across her face. Of course the comment might have offended many people, and her ease at saying it was probably why the woman was sitting in the corner alone, but the elf was quite comfortable with herself and her conversational ability and, consequently, found the situation amusing.

A short silence fell over the two, and Arlomë looked over the hall once more. Another smile appeared on her delicate elven features when she saw Elrigon near the door and, to her surprise, the Emissary. “I think I shall become acquainted with this mysterious man myself,” the elf spoke suddenly and rose...her abrupt movement causing Arshalous to sit up. “Arshalous, as usual, this has been...interesting. I do hope we can do it again.” The woman did not answer but nodded her head, still scowling.

The Emissary’s back faced Arlomë as she approached. His long hair was not straight like the majority of Pashtian men, rather it fell in dark waves about the shoulders of his black and purple robes. The elf stepped gracefully around the stranger’s body and slipped her arm through her husband’s, smiling up at Elrigon has she stopped. She bowed her head slightly to the priest, and then more deeply to High Priestess, showing her respect to Rhais by doing so. Once the formal greetings were complete, Arlomë turned to the Emissary. She said nothing, but waited for her husband to introduce them, which he did promptly.

“It is a pleasure,” she said as her eyes met his. His gaze was steady as she took her hand in his and bowed to kiss it. “The pleasure is mine, Lady,” his voice was unwavering and confident, and then he placed his lips to her hand. As his lips touched her, a chill ran up her spine and the fine hairs raised on her neck. She pulled her hand away from him and tightened her grip on Elrigon’s arm.

It was this moment a commotion arose from the nearby and the people of Pashtia readied themselved as the Royal family began to enter the great hall. As everyone turned their attention to the King and Queen, Arlomë could not shake the intensely strange feeling that came over her when the Emissary kissed her hand. Glancing from the man to Elrigon, she wondered if she should tell her husband, or if maybe it was all in her head. Whichever, she knew she would keep her eye on this stranger from the West.
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Old 11-20-2004, 07:14 AM   #39
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Siamak felt stiff as a board as he and Gjeelea began the entrance of the royal family. He wanted so dearly to make his father proud of him, to make him see that he was more fit for the throne than his sister. Next to him, she was all ease and grace, and Siamak felt surely he could never do better than that. He kept his head up, with an effort, though it was dreadfully uncomfortable to have all the nobles seemingly staring at him. He knew they were more likely watching his father, but that was not how it felt.

“Presenting His Majesty, King Faroz, ruler of Pashtia.” Siamak recognized the voice of the Chamberlain. “Her Majesty, Queen Bekah, and their children Princess Gjeelea and Prince Siamak.” Siamak felt his ears heating, and hoped that his face was not turning red as well. It was only made worse by his sister’s intimidating presence by his side. There were bows from the men and curtsies from the ladies as they passed, and that helped, at least a little, because it took their eyes off them for a few seconds.

His relief was immense when they finally reached the table of the king. His father sat at the head, as was customary, with his mother at his right. A space was saved for the Emissary at the king’s left, and he joined them shortly. Siamak took the seat beside his mother, honoring the wishes of his father that they sit together this night. Gjeelea sat across from him, beside the Emissary. Siamak was intrigued at his first sight of the Emissary up close. He was nothing but courteous, and there was an air of power and nobility about him. Siamak still felt wary of him, though as before he could see no reason for it. There was no reason to suspect him of malice and treachery. It confused Siamak immensely.

The few remaining places at the table were quickly filled by three Avari, who Siamak recognized readily: the General, Morgôs; his wife, Arlomë; and their son, Evrathol. He was good at remembering faces and names, and prided himself on it. He tried to recall whether he had heard that they would be dining with them, and wondered if he should not have let them have the seats closer to the king, since they were the guests. It was too late now, he supposed. Morgôs occupied the seat next to him, and Siamak greeted him saying, “Good evening to you, General Morgôs.” Siamak had never actually met the general except on formal occasions, but had found him to be pleasant: not so petty and conniving as many of the nobles were.

“And to you, Prince Siamak,” Morgôs responded politely. Siamak wasn’t exactly what to say next, but he was saved by the servants who had quickly brought out a multitude of platters holding all the finest meats and tasty sides. Siamak’s mouth watered at the scent. A glance around the banquet hall showed that the remainder of the people had seated themselves, and all were waiting for the signal that they could begin to eat.

Last edited by Firefoot; 11-20-2004 at 02:22 PM.
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Old 11-21-2004, 03:18 PM   #40
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Bekah was pleased that the banquet did justice to the King's stature and to the skill and talent of the palace servants. The cedar and myrrh were burning in the tall standards. The food was arrayed splendidly and spoke of the variety of fleshes, both of meat and of plant, which Pashtia had to prepare. Bekah made a note to remember to commend them tomorrow, after a public acknowledgement here before the music and entertainments began.

She had watched the Emissary partake of his first eastern feast. After the polite address of bowing to her when Faroz introduced her, he had not paid her much attention, but focussed upon the King for aid in learning the various foods and manners of eating, which Faroz had been eager to give. Flat bread he had never seen, nor the variety of sweet and savory sauces in which to dip it. He was a skilled conversationalist, she saw, for he used the food as a topic of conversation, adroitly avoiding any discussion of his country or his Lord's purpose, addressing Morgňs about ancient avari breads and Faroz about the minced meat and spices wrapped in vine leaves. Fresh figs he had never seen.

"Your Majesty," he had said, "what might I expect from this delicacy? And how shall I eat it?"

The King had laughed and picked up a large fig from the platter. "You must first cut it just so," demonstrating with his knife how to make two crossed slashes. "Then, you must hold the thick skin apart and sink your teeth into the soft mushy flesh. Here." And before anyone could demonstrate how to do that, Faroz held the fig up the Emissary's mouth and bid him bite in. Bekah did not know if she should be shocked at the familiarity or applaud Faroz's skill in attempting to see if he could throw the Emissary off his calm demeanour. As a ruse, it had not worked, for the Emissary had merely taken a courteous bite, laughed, and wiped the sweet sticky juice from his chin with his fingers.

"And it is appropriate to lick them?" he had asked her, one of the rare times he had shown her any notice. Bekah had merely bowed her head in acknowledgement, her cordial set smile taking the place of words. He barely noticed her; not once did their eyes meet. Was he avoiding her? she wondered.

She sat back against the cushions which were nestled around the low table and spoke with her son. He was shy, but when spoken to he warmed to the conversation. He is a good boy, she thought to herself. He needs some kind of project which interests him where he can demonstrate his skills to his father. She looked around the room for their daughter, but in the rapid movement of servants and the bustle of voices she could not make out Gjeela. She caught the glances of the High Priestess and Priest, however, and realised that they soon should be introduced to the Emissary.

For the time being, however, she spoke a few words with Alomë, who had been so responsible in helping her overcome her fear of the avari. Public fear, that is to say. In her heart Bekah still found the elven longevity and superiority frightening and often wondering how they could stand the weakness and foibles of the lesser-lived men with whom they lived here in Pashia. When she looked back at her husband and the Emissary, she saw them engaged in a merry, light-hearted conversation into which they were attempting to draw Morgňs. Except for his rudeness in avoiding her directly, he was a charming man, Bekah realised. And her husband looked younger and happier, caught in the rapport of eager talk rather than formal manners. Yet she would never have survived in Pashtia without those manners.
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