Shadow of the West

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

Every bone and nerve in Gjeelea’s body told her to cry out ‘Yes! I have a problem with it! I do not want to marry you at all! Not now, not ever!’ Yet still the princess held her tongue for a moment, considering her words carefully. Besides the fact that she did not want to marry Korak to begin with, she wondered if she actually had any issues with marriage in the next month.

There are some things I need to straighten out with him…Gjeelea thought, looking at her future husband and seeing past his handsome exterior to his lying, deceiving inner motives. It might be too bold to come outright, and tell him that I know he only wishes to marry so he could be king. I hope he does not think I am stupid enough not to realize what he really wants. Gjeelea wondered if Korak fully understood that just marrying her did not mean he would become king. His atrocious attitude turned off so many people from liking him at all, and the princess sought to remedy that – for she knew that if she and Korak were not presentable to the public and her family then neither of them would rule.

“Might I speak with you in private?” Gjeelea asked of her betrothed. Korak looked down at his feet for just a moment, and then fidgeted like debating over the choices. “I assure you it is very important and has to do with our future – the future after our marriage.”

After another indecisive pause Korak nodded his agreement. With a sly smile Gjeelea took his big hand and led him away from their former spot in the middle of the hall. She dragged Korak back to her quarters, where she bade the servants to leave and give them privacy. Korak sat on one of the low couches, leaning back on the embroidered cushions and waiting for Gjeelea to speak. In his eyes Gjeelea could almost hear his thoughts screaming something to the extent of, this better be worth my time, princess.

“Marrying me does not mean that I will be named heir and that you will become King, Korak,” Gjeelea stated simply. She decided to be blunt in her conversation, as blunt and as honest as she could have been with the man she would marry but probably never love in any way. She paused in her speech, for she knew that her words had stated a fact Korak already knew. The princess almost feared to say what she had planned to tell Korak next, afraid that he would come up with a hurtful rebuttal to which she would have to show no hurt reaction. She turned away from Korak and looked out the curtains of her window. “All you want is to become King – for the riches, the title, I assume – all I want is to become queen. If you had not noticed, our marriage is not a popular idea to very many people.”

Gjeelea hated to say that the naming of Faroz’s heir was a popularity contest, but she knew that was what it really came down to. The princess knew that even if Faroz wanted her to be queen, he could not name her queen if it would cause a political and social uproar from the citizens of Pashtia. The same deal went for Siamak – Faroz could not (would not, as far as Gjeelea could tell) name Siamak his heir unless his son had achieved some amount of approval from the people. Turning to Korak, Gjeelea walked up to where he reclined and sighed, wishing things could be different.

“It comes down to who the people like more,” the princess murmured to her betrothed. “Unfortunately, Siamak only has to account for his own actions. My becoming queen depends on both of us.”

There came a long pause between the two. Gjeelea knew she was regurgitating information that Korak might have already contemplated in his own time. What the princess hoped to accomplish was to make the thoughts into reality for Korak. She hoped he would take seriously the words that she said to him.

“Korak, you are a good liar,” Gjeelea finally said outright. “Do you think you could pretend to be happy sometime? Pretend that you want to be king for reasons other than the riches and the lifestyle? We need to show Pashtia that we care – even if you actually do not.”

Another pause. Korak opened his mouth to speak, but he did not and the princess wondered if his words caught in his throat, or if he had something to say but thought better of it. Gjeelea went to the door of her bedroom and opened it, gesturing for Korak to make a gallant exit. He stood, still waiting for an answer about their marriage.

“How does next month sound?” Gjeelea asked silkily, her voice soft and calm – the persuasive voice she seemed to use all to often. “We need to spend more time together – not just for our sake either. We need to show everyone that this is right, that this marriage is good. Next month, or soon into the month after? Does that please you?”

Gjeelea hoped so – she was not in the mood for negotiations.

[Nurumaiel]

Lord Korak reflected. What the Princess said made sense, but he wondered if she meant it. Perhaps she really did love him (he was handsome, after all) and was using this as an excuse to convince him to give her pretty speeches. Yet it did not matter what her real motive was, as long as it accomplished his purpose. And his purpose was to become king.

If only he had better purposes!

He hurled the thought from his mind with great force. It was something his mother was always saying, whenever he would speak of his plans and hopes to her. Hope was hardly the right word for such plots. Ambition was better. That was something else she told him, one day when she was angry. How she looked when she was angry! He had a lurking suspicion that for all her frailty and weakness of old womanhood, she was much stronger than he. If he struck her on the cheek she would fall, and a blow from her would feel as nothing, yet she seemed to have the power to harm him in a way that he could not recover from, or refrain from harming him. And she refrained.

Why did he always think of her at times like this? Why did her annoying speeches of morality come into his mind?

His mother did not matter. What mattered at the moment was that Pashtia saw they cared - even if they didn't. He stood and went to the Princess, and, taking her hand, kissed it, and said: "Whatever you say, my love."

[Bêthberry]

Bekah knew better than to be influenced by the conciliatory tone which Faroz had finally adopted. Usually he employed it, after his anger, to lull an opponent into an unwary disclosure, which he would then turn to his own account in recompense for the initial error. Yet he had never, ever used this method with her. But he was now and even worse he seemed to be enjoying her discomfort. How much the arrival of this Emissary had changed him. Or brought out something in him that had usually been quiescent. She watched him stroke this ring that others had spoken off and saw a flicker of something cross his face as his tone changed. She felt a chill of fear rise in her along with anger that she should be so treated.

Her discovery of his absence must have angered him greatly. That must mean, she thought, that it not a legitimate absence. He must have been hiding something or somewhere, for his whereabouts not to be known. He had refused to account for himself. A king, of course, need not account for himself, yet the event here was of such surprising moment that, under previous circumstances, she felt sure he would have explained himself to her. Yet he had not. And had chosen to blame her. How dare he!

But Bekah bit her tongue, as she always did when she felt overwhelmed by her emotions. The sharp prick of slight pain worked to calm her, as she knew it would. She sought for precious few moments in which to construct a reply which would placate her husband without provoking him. She forced down the snear which had threatened to break out on her face and she recalled how common a response that had been in her father in Alanzia. How long ago she had learnt that anger and violence only incited greater fury! Yet here she was now tempted to return to the old ways. Well, she would resist them, especially as it seemed Faroz was somehow wanting her to display those old traits. She would not give him the satisfaction.


"With your leave, Khamul, you misunderstand my concern. Or rather, we have not had the opportunity to discuss the matter. It is not with the Emissary himself that my concern lies. I am happy for you that you find in him a pleasing cordiality. I know how onerous are the duties and responsibilites inherent in balancing affairs of state and welcome your opportunity for friendship."

"What concerns me, my lord, is how this offer intrudes upon the careful peace which you have so cunningly constructed for Pashia. The land now prospers in no small measure due to your efforts to over come years of desolation from war. I feared to speak publically of this as I know many here still remember me as a Princess of Alanzia, an enemy come into the heart of the country. I fear what this offer of alliance will do to upset the accord with Alanzia. I fear what my brother-monarch might be tempted to do if he should hear from other ears that you have sought an alliance with another country."

"You are always thinking of Alanzia. Alanzia!" he retorted. "You have even filled out children's heads with stories of the country."

Bekah bristled at the unfairness of his claim but she kept a tight hold on her feelings. Her head would rule, she determined.

"My lord, what monarch can rule in his country's best interests if he does not know what lies beyond his own borders? Shall our children be at the mercy of their uncle's understanding of the affairs of state? I came here ignorant of your ways and terrified that I would be treated as an enemy. Instead I found a king and a husband and a country which did not demand power so much as enterprise and proserity. My lord, you listened before you made your decrees and ever sought a balance between conflicting desires. This was not the way I had been raised and I learned the merit of your way. I wanted our children to appreciate that merit. They could do so only by understanding a way that lacked such kingly vision."

Faroz settled back into his pillows, absent mindedly toying with the ring again. He still did not invite her to sit down.

" I wished to ask you how to proceed in this matter in my private correspondence with my brother. You had not yet directed me how to inform him of the Emissary's arrival and I felt that such an announcement needed to be made. He should not be able to claim that I had hidden the matter from him. Yet only you could appreciate fully--or I felt could appreciate fully--the delicate balance of the situation, for only you and two of our courtiers know of my correspondence with him."

Bekah stopped. If he would not invite her to sit down, she would stand as tall and as proudly as she could. Her fear she masked, for she felt that would only incite him more. She dared not tell him bluntly that she felt he was betraying matters of state by his own reckless personal behaviour. It was the first time she had felt unable to be honest with him. That in itself was a chilling as the strange feeling which kept haunting her whenever he moved to touch this ring.

[Novnarwen]

Tarkan

It is a rather fine Palace, Tarkan thought to himself while climbing the stairs. It was built of hewn stone and reflected strength and steadfastness. It rose proudly up from the ground, stretching high upwards, almost touching the white clouds, which floated restlessly over his head. Tarkan gazed at it, thinking of the riches that lay within these strong walls. It was almost unimaginable to think that his very own half-brother lived in this luxurious way, meanwhile he himself hardly had anything at all. How ill fortune he had witnessed, how unfair it was. Tarkan bit his lip, in bitterness, and hurried up the last steps and went inside. It couldn't be avoided the feeling that rose up inside of him; he was always slightly pained by seeing how his brother lived compared to himself. The walls were covered with beautiful tapestries in glorious colours. Pictures, painted and drawn, of sceneries so green and pure hung side by side. The soft splendidly weaved carpets lay as if scattered on the floor; there were cushions and divans along the walls in the Hall, and the servants seemed to do their very best in keeping those who sat there pleased by bringing them cool drinks and fruits of various kind.

With an obvious jealous expression on his face, he waited to announce his errand. As a servant was passing by, (Tarkan loosing his patience by now,) he grabbed a hold of him.

"I am here to meet the Queen. I believe that she is unfamiliar with my coming though."

The servant pointed straight ahead to a door, an antechamber where he could wait.

"So, not invited?" the man asked suddenly, seeing that Taran was not to release him just yet. "Oh, sorry! I meant not expected , as in if you were not expected" he continued hastily, emphasising the word 'expected' the first time it was mentioned to make up his mistake.

The Priest, thunder stricken by the rude behaviour, tried to hold his mask. He was certainly going to report this, but to whom, he did not know.

"Whom do you work for?" His voice was filled with anger, as he did not manage to hide his utter disgust of the man in front of him.

"The King, sir."

"The King?!? Don't be smart with me," he said. His face was turning red as he said this. The anger he felt swelling up inside of him could be reflected in his dark eyes, which seemed to suddenly light up with a burning fire; a fire of hate and disgust. His jealousness had taken command. The thick vein which was abnormally visible in his forehead, turned purple. The priest's figure seemed to enlarge where he stood, and his figure cast a large shadow which laid the room into darkness. Everything was silent. The people who were present stood immobile and watched, surprised and bewildered by such an event taking place in the Palace's Main Hall.

The Priest bit his lip. The last sentence could be misinterpreted by people; he understood that much. He had not wanted to imply that no one were to work for the King, as if against him; he'd just wanted to report the servant's behaviour to his superior, who dealt with the staff and their business. He frowned, still holding the servant by the arm. "Who deals with the staff around here?" he asked again, this time choosing his words with care. "I want to talk to your superior! I will not take this rudeness from you! I refuse! Now, fetch me your superior! If you don’t find him this instant, I promise you, " he lowered his voice," I’ll make you wish you had!"

If the servant boy had had the chance to loosen himself from the priest’s grip, this would be the time; Tarkan’s anger seemed to have reached it’s definite height. Yet the boy, who had probably not reached his twenties; he certainly didn’t look like he was older, moreover younger; he was slender and short, and his face bore the features of an innocent child, stood motionless.

"I’ll go," the boy managed to press forwards at last. "I’ll fetch him!"

"The King?"

"No, you just told me to ..."

Tarkan interrupted. "Let the King know that I would like to meet him after my meeting with the Queen. Tell him that it’s urgent!"

The priest released the servant from his grip, waving him off. "Silly boy, be gone before I change my mind and do make you fetch your superior!!"

Tarkan watched the boy run as fast as his legs could bear him out of the Hall. He hoped he would deliver the message to the King; if not personally, then deliver the message orally to someone else who could. Tarkan wondered whether his brother would decline a meeting with him. It would not surprise him. The two of them had in fact never been too close, yet, they had never shown, in public that is, any real signs of dislike of one another. Tarkan let his gaze wander, discovering that people were casting glances his way. This Palace is filled with incompetent poultry, he thought to himself, the King will lose face if he doesn’t do anything… With a sly smile on his thin womanly lips, he cast the mantle he wore backwards and entered the antechamber the boy had directed him to.

[Kransha]

The Prince was obviously either too befuddled or too weak to consider prosecuting Morgôs for his assault. It had not been very violent, but any physical attack on royalty was a crime worthy of imprisonment. Siamak probably did not realize it, but he now held something over the General. Morgôs knew he would have to be gravely wary. He sat down again, allowing the tension of the situation to be slowly assuaged by a brief passage of time, and then spoke again, trying to be as tactful as possible as he answered. Quietly, clasping his hands together carefully, he said, “I have sworn to you fealty, Prince Siamak.” in a gentle tone of voice.

“This much I know.” Siamak retorted, “You need not be coy now.”

“Of course.” Morgôs spoke apologetically, looking dejected, but then perked up suddenly, arching his back and budding forward, his keen eyes looking into the youthful, curious eyes of the Prince. “You, Siamak, are the first son of the royal family for over five generations that has not been placed under my wing as a student. Your father was both a protégé and a philosophical acolyte of mine, until the age came that his father began to personally groom him for the throne. You have not known me during your lifetime, and I did not teach you as I taught your father and his father. The reason for this, I suspect, is because it is unsure whether you will be King or not. Your sister, Gjeelea, was, at one time, recommended to be my student by your father, but the plan was rejected before she even knew of it because of the turmoil such an action might create. Now, though, I have chosen he who I think would be the greater monarch.”

This was a great admission by the General, but Siamak knew it was merely repetition, and, looking unimpressed, said simply, “I am honored, but you still speak of things I know.”

“I want to teach you.” Morgôs shot, curtly, taking Siamak a little aback, but not much, “No offense meant,” he continued, “but I have heard tell of your noncommittal position in the court, your lack of frequent political action. If you are to be King, you must be taught the ways of Kings, the old laws, philosophy and theology; things untaught by your carefully scanned royal teachers, censored scholars who would not dare tell you in excess of any failures your ancestors made. You must learn of the guidelines of kingship, so you may take the throne from the grasp of your sister, who seems to have a firmer hold on it than you.”

There was an ill silence that diffused over the two, and Siamak seemed to consider. It was a whole minute or more before he spoke up again, and when he did, all he said was a repetition of Morgôs’ proposal. “So,” he murmured, contemplative, “I have accepted your allegiance, now you wish me to accept your tutelage?”

“Yes.” Morgos was launched. “If you accept, I will return regularly to the Palace and share wisdom that I can with you. I will teach you the ways of war and politics, but more than what you’ve been taught. I, unlike your teachers, have lived most of the history granted you in tomes of lore. Your father was able to respect this tutelage, but did not fully grasp it. Your grandfather embraced it and became one of the greatest monarchs Pashtia has known in centuries. I can make you into that, Siamak.” Morgos realized the danger of saying this, but it was crucial. He did have to rear the Prince if he wanted the right Pashtian on the throne. He had to make Siamak strong, even if that meant guiding him every step of the way. It was far better than allowing Gjeelea and Korak to gain the throne, dooming his people and, possibly, the country. His speech was fueled by eager intensity, and he continued with avid Elven grace. “I can make you a King, but beyond that. I can make you greater than your grandfather, if you fully take in what I teach you, without revealing the extent of the teachings to your parents.” He was again energized, but careful not to become excited, for fear of accidentally becoming mad again. He simply spoke, using his oratory prowess, projecting grand rhetoric throughout the lavish room. “I can tell you far more than I’ve told any King before you,” he said in conclusion, brandishing his fist for illustration, “and give you the grooming of a true King of Pashtia, a mighty lord with the power of an immortal mind behind him.”

[Novnarwen]

Tarkan

The sight that met him, once inside the antechamber, was not exactly surprising, yet it was still highly uncomfortable. Tarkan had realised when closing the door that he had been just slightly harsh towards the boy, and perhaps he'd spoken too loudly. It had not been wise of him. Nothing that could make others believe him cruel and coarse was good; not if he were to succeed in life. He hoped the word of his strictness, or cruelty as some most likely would say, would not reach any others than those who had been present. However, knowing that gossip was a common interest amongst most of the people who worked here, and others, he knew he was being naïve; the word would spread and he would be accused for treating the boy in an inappropriate manner. Was he going to deny this if he was confronted? At the time, in the Hall, he was overly convinced that how he was approaching this young boy, was perfectly appropriate; he knew he could have been calmer and not as rash, but he'd only acted as he saw fit. Surely there was no doubt the boy had been rude, both in appearance and how he had spoken; his grin was definitely one of a silly youngster, trying to be smart with adults or of those of higher rank and he had also been aware of his words, which were almost words of mocking.

Now facing the Priestess, he wondered whether Zamara had heard or seen what had been going on in the Hall for the past five minutes. Positively sure that he didn’t want to find out, whether she had heard or not, as he would most definitely not benefit from anything she might hold against him someday, Tarkan tried his very best to act as normal. He gave a faint smile as he turned away from the door and approached silently.

"High Priestess Zamara," he said and nodded politely. When seeing the surprise in her face, probably of his coming, it occurred to Tarkan how embarrassing this was. Why had he changed his mind? To avoid Pelin? To think about the conversation he had had with Evrathol? Now after this, he would probably have even more to think through; the incident with that oaf of a boy in the Hall for instance, was one thing. And if this wasn't enough, he didn't know what this meeting with the Queen and the High Priestess would bring. He frowned; at least now he would be able to observe Zamara. He'd never thought about this before; the way Evrathol had out it, talked about her as if a sly snake. He was exaggerating again, but did not care. He would watch her every move during their session with the Queen. However, when taking it into consideration, he knew that if Zamara was how Evrathol had describes, it was not very likely she acted the same way with the Queen. The Queen was different. It was how Zamara treated, and manipulated, normal people, like Arlomë, that counted. Realising this, he knew that all of this would be in vain. His coming to the Palace was a complete waste of time.

"Tarkan," he heard The High Priestess say after a while, interrupting.

It took you a while, he thought to himself rather amazed. Do you greet all in this way? He gave a faint smile to emphasize that he'd heard it, but it was probably so faint that it was impossible for anyone to see it.

The meeting with the Queen, his decision to come after having decline, was terrible mistake. He wanted to jump to his feet and run. Only the slightest hope of being able to meet the King later gave him the strength to stay.

[alaklondewen]

Arlomë slowed her pace as soon as she and Evrathol were past the temple, and once again, she slipped her arm gently through her son’s. "As I said, I wanted a word with you...." She paused as she collected her thoughts and figured out how she would start. An accusatory tone would only prove to distance her son from her...that would never do. Lifting her eyes, she looked into her son’s handsome face. He looked so much like his father. Arlomë smiled and lovingly patted his arm with her free hand. “I hope you had a pleasant time last night at the banquet.”

“Yes, Mother, I enjoyed myself.” Evrathol looked at his mother and tilted his head, raising an eyebrow in the process. “And you? Did you have a nice evening?”

Arlomë looked away into a vague distance. “Yes, it was nice. Have you seen your father yet today?”

“No, I have not seen him, Mother.”

Nodding, Arlomë continued, “Nor I. I had hoped to speak with him...” Her voice trailed off, and the pair walked in silence for a few minutes. Another Avari passed them on the street, and they both nodded their heads in greeting. “I overheard the Emissary talking about the Elves in his kingdom...” She spoke quickly and only looked at Evrathol when she’d finished. “He spoke of them like they were the enemies of Men.”

“Really, did he say how?”

“No, just that they brought some great Evil to their land...his words troubled me, my son.” Evrathol just looked ahead. His brows furrowed in thought. “I wish to speak more with your father about it.” Her son nodded but said nothing. “Now, Evrathol, what business had you in the temple this morning? I have tried my best to teach you about the deities, but this is a sudden interest...” Arlomë’s tone changed and her words were soaked in motherly concern.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

“You flatter me, my wife, and seek to distract me from your Alanzian interests with this talk of my…of our realm. You claim to be acting only for Pashtia, and yet you come before me to ask how we should inform our greatest rivals of a proposed alliance with another power!”

“I did not know,” Bekah’s voice was calm and level – steely, even, “that we still considered Alanzia to be a rival. Are Pashtia and Alanzia not allies now as well? Are not we married to one another, my lord, and have we not brought into the world two children who shall unite the interests of both kingdoms when one of them takes the throne?”

Faroz sighed. “Such a history as we share with Alanzia is not simply put aside in the course of a single generation, lady, nor are such animosities removed with a single marriage, no matter how…productive. This is something that you have never understood. You have done an excellent job with the education of our children and either one could be a capable monarch given time and experience. Our son, I fear, lacks ambition sufficient to the tasks of rule and our daughter has too much. But they are young yet and there is time still to hone either one of them into keenness.”

“Has your majesty been taking thought or counsel as to whom you will name heir?” Bekah was quick to ask. Despite the sudden shift in the King’s thinking, she had been eager to put the question to him.

“No,” he replied somewhat brusquely. “But you have asked me how we are to proceed with your brother. You fear that he will take offence should we ally ourselves with the Lord Annatar. But what you fail to grasp, lady, is that the situation is somewhat different now.” The Queen merely looked at him, allowing only the faintest hint of curiosity to intrude into her features. The King suddenly waved his hand at her and in an impatient tone and manner said “Oh do sit down, lady. You look like a statue there, rigid with such formality!” The Queen seemed to pause for a moment before settling herself upon her cushions. The King continued. “I have passed the decision of alliance to our children – the children, as you have stated, of Pashtia and Alanzia. Your brother is well aware of your lessons to them about your homeland, and he has – no doubt – entertained hopes for many years that they will prove more…tractable…to his demands when one of them assumes power. How then can he blame me, or fear that I am making a decision against him, when that decision is being made by his own niece and nephew?” Bekah’s eyes grew somewhat wider as she realised the care that had gone into the King’s decision, and she wondered at the nicety of his acumen. “So you see, my Queen, it matters not to me what you tell your brother-King so long as it is you who tells him. So long as he is assured that this decision is being taken by Siamak and Gjeelea, under the careful advice and guidance of yourself, what has he to fear from it?”

The Queen bowed her head slightly, saying, “You have already accused me of flattery, lord, so I know not how to reply to this other than to say that your reasoning would appear sound.”

Faroz smiled indulgently at his wife and seized the Ring in his hand. He caught himself toying at it with his fingertip and had to pull his hand away, for he realised that he was on the verge of allowing it to slip onto his finger. Bekah saw the sudden motion and said in an innocent enough tone, “Is that the ring given you by the Emissary, lord? Might I see it?”

Faroz had to quell a sudden revulsion at the idea of showing it to his wife. He clutched it as though to hide it from her, but then thought better of it. To deny the request would be to call more attention to the Ring than he wished. He smiled as easily as he could and slipped the Ring from its chain. “Of course you may, my Queen.” He held it out to her and said, “You may approach.” Rising from her place at the foot of the dais, the Queen ascended the few low steps to where the King reclined. She kneeled at the top of the stairs and bowed her head to him formally, then reached for the Ring. In that moment Faroz had to fight down a gasp of horror, for instead of his wife he saw before him an aged and ragged crone, grasping at him with gnarled fingers tipped with red-dripping claws. In his revulsion he pulled his hand back just as she touched the Ring, and it slipped from his grasp. It fell to the stone of the dais, where it rang like a bell as it bounced once before the King snatched it up once more. His heart was pounding with terror, and sweat beaded upon his forehead as he clutched it.

The Queen looked at him with alarm. Faroz forced a smile but on his pale face it appeared as a grimace of pain. “You must excuse me, lady. It was a sudden fatigue that came over me. I am afraid that I perhaps have overextended myself in the last couple of days.”

Bekah nodded and said something comforting, but she left her hand outstretched. With an effort of will, Faroz returned her gaze and was relieved to find that his wife was once more as she had ever been, and no longer the nightmare figure she had become. It was only with the greatest of effort that he managed to pass the Ring over to her, and as soon as it left his fingers he desired it with a physical longing unlike any he had ever known.

[Firefoot]

Siamak studied the General carefully. He did not know why he was hesitating so. Everything Morgôs had said was true, though it was rather dispiriting to hear some of them aloud. Siamak realized that this must be how his father viewed him and his sister, and this viewpoint made his desire for the kingship very distant indeed. He wondered if it was really worth trying - he could not change who he was. Siamak did not necessarily want to be great - the Morgôs’ mention of his grandfather sounded rather ominous. Siamak had known his grandfather hardly at all, and whenever he heard tell of him it was generally with reverence little less than that of the gods. And yet... the idea of Gjeelea and Korak on the throne was unspeakable, and in the end this was the deciding factor. Siamak felt a burning desire to oust his sister in this. Always, always had she dominated in social and court matters. Siamak wanted it to be different, but he honestly wasn’t sure how - if the General thought he could change this, Siamak was willing to let him do so.

Siamak nodded. “Yes.” Now that his mind was made up, he spoke firmly. “You may teach me.”

Morgôs’ face was warmed by a slight smile, and Siamak noted a glint of approval in his gray eyes. “I will make you into a king, Siamak,” he said, and the edge of enthusiasm was impossible to miss - in fact, in was catching. Siamak could not help but grin.

“When do you wish to begin?” asked Siamak, barely unable to contain his curiosity. He wanted to know exactly what it was that the General would teach him, and just how different such lessons would be.

“Very soon,” answered Morgôs. “I would say now, except that the day is drawing late. Would the day after tomorrow be agreeable to you?”

“That would be well,” said Siamak. He, too, wished it might be sooner, but both he and the General had other responsibilities as well. Morgôs rose from his couch, as did Siamak.

“I must be going, now,” he said. “I will see you soon, and be ready for a lesson unlike any you have had before.” The words were said lightly, but Siamak knew them to be true. He did not know Morgôs well, but he was beginning to understand his intense personality. Beginning to.

“I will be, General,” said Siamak, showing Morgôs out. “Good evening.” Finally, Siamak shut the door on who he hoped was the last visitor. It had been an interesting day, and he knew that with his upcoming lessons with the General that there would be many more of those days to come.

[Orofaniel]

Evrathol was by no means surprised over his mother's question. She had tried many times to encourage Evrathol to join her visits in the Temple. Evrathol had however, showed no interest - well, until recent event. He knew his mother would be curious, he had been expecting it. If it was him in Arlomë's position, he would have done the very same thing.

He couldn’t quite find an answer to her question. Then again, it might have not been a real question, merely a statement. It required no answer just yet. What really concerned Evrathol at the moment was how the Emissary had spoken of his kind. The elves - Enemies in his kingdom? He didn't quite understand. Evrathol understood why it troubled his mother so because it troubled him as well. The Emissary had been taken into the warmth of the King Faroz, and what if he had a greater impact on the King than any one would have guessed? What did the relationship between their King and this foreigner mean?

"You should tell father about this," Evrathol then almost whispered, as if in a trance. His eyes were distant and cold. He was weighing his thoughts against each other, but couldn't find anything that equalized it.

"Pardon?" Arlöme asked her son, looking at him straight in the eyes. "What you heard," he muttered, now breaking the trance. "You should tell Môrgos immediately," Evrathol continued, his pulse raising. "Why in such a hurry?" Arlöme then asked, with a slight of suspicion in her voice. "Hurry?" Evrathol repeated.

"Yes, son, you seem...upset?" She inquired. "No, not at all. I'm just...tired," Evrathol replied quickly. "But the sunset is still far away," she augmented. "You're not feeling ill, are you Evrathol?" she then asked quickly.

"No, I'm fine mother." The words crawled slowly out from his mouth. His voice was calm and motionless. He seemed however, hesitant by the weary face expression.

"We'll soon be back at the estate. I'll get some rest when we return," Evrathol then said. His mother eyes met his, and he could tell that she was worried.

They walked in silence for a while feeling the soft wind against their foreheads.

"I wouldn't want to pressure you, son, but my curiosity will not let go of me. Will you not tell me what you were doing in the Temple earlier?"

Evrathol looked away, hesitating again. "I wanted to apologise for my behaviour towards Tarkan at the banquet last night," Evrathol began. He sensed a certain embarrassment for saying it out loud, but would not admit it. "Apologise? To whom?" Arlomë questioned. Her voice seemed a bit disappointed. Evrathol knew she would feel that way because she would have hoped he had other reasons of going to the Temple than to apologise for something he certainly wouldn't have been guilty of doing. "You didn't do anything that required an apology?" Arlome then burst out. "Apparently not," Evrathol then said. "It's nothing to worry about. I just wanted to talk to Tarkan, and apologise to him that I didn't have time to speak with him at the banquet," Evrathol then continued Evrathol forced a smile, which was surprisingly, quite natural. A short sigh was heard from Arlöme. Then she laughed joyously, not knowing how to correspond to the small "trick" Evrathol had just played her.

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

The princess could hear the lie in his voice as he named her his love. She could see the lie in his eyes as Korak lifted his gaze to meet hers. She could feel the lie in his kiss, simple and devious as it met her hand. Deceit not so obvious to any who did not know what to look for, which gave Gjeelea hope that none would know that their love was a complete act. Some would think less of her at first if they thought she had 'fallen' for an oaf like Korak. Still, the princess knew that if people saw Korak in a different light - even a false light - they would eventually think differently of him.

As Korak let go of her hand, Gjeelea considered his words. "Whatever you say, my love..." Could Korak truly be so easily swayed? The princess wondered if her betrothed was just stupid and blindly following her lead (at least he would be following a good lead, if that were the case) or if Korak was smart enough to know the gravity of the situation. Certainly, if Korak listened to her so easily then Gjeelea would have no trouble being the dominant ruler if the two were crowned king and queen.

She looked at her husband, his handsome face, and wondered why so many girls in court desired him. If only I could be like those girls, Gjeelea thought. If I cared only for Korak's face as they do, then marrying him would not bother me so. Those who might pity me would call me stupid to marry him, yet in my position they would see few other alternatives. Those who envy me are stupid .

The princess had a clear idea of her goals - a goal clearer than any she had ever had in her life. She could see herself as queen. She knew she was willing to marry Korak if it meant becoming queen and having her chance to be the ruler she knew she could be. Gjeelea did not wish to be a political risk-taker, unsure of the results of her efforts, but she was willing to wage a silent war against Siamak in order to achieve her goal.

"We should arrange another meeting, then," Gjeelea murmured, bored of the awkward silence that had enveloped the room. "Sometime soon. To the temples, perhaps - the common people might like to see their future rulers. Or perhaps I could speak with your mother, know her better...you understand, we must do this," the princess sighed, feeling the headache return. "I assure you, it will all be worth your time in the end."

[Bêthberry]

Bekah had felt a chilling, lightning-like sensation at the brief touch of the ring before Faroz had pulled his hand back, but she had not really understood the sensation, so startled was she by the pained expression of her husband's visage.

Now the ring lay inert in her hand, a simple gold band embellished by a single gemstone, which flickered in the late afternoon light of a waning day. It was beautifully crafted, pure in its form and understated in its decoration. She closed her fingers over it and hefted it in her hand, trying to imagine its weight in gold. She had ignored Faroz's offer to be seated as a way of maintaining some authority herself in the face of his obvious displeasure with her.

"What pray tell are you doing with it?" inquired Faroz, clearly disturbed but dissembling his concern by trying to imply her fault yet again.

"Merely trying to determine its weight. Is it pure or false gold? Have you tried to bite it? Some thin golds go soft in the desert heat." Bekah was sincerely curious about this object, as both an item of diplomacy and an object of great appeal to Faroz. She wanted to know why it had grabbed his fancy so quickly. What was its appeal? She wondered. She knew he would never tell her directly, so she determined to test its attraction for him. She lifted the ring to her lips as if to bite the gold.

"You toy with its value and would mar its beauty," Faroz responded. "You don't appreciate the delicate nature of this diplomacy." He reached out to take it but Bakah pulled her hand away.

"No, my lord," she remarked. "I merely wished to ascertain the value of this Annatar's regard for you. You are not usually swayed by material concerns.?"

"It is not the ring which influences me," he claimed, wanting to take it from her but for the time being not wishing to divulge that feeling, or perhaps even admit it to himself.

Bekah wondered at this. She realised she had the opportunity to understand how powerful this gift was if she pressed the matter. Could she? Dare she? Her life in Pashtia had been devoted to soothing relations between her homeland and her adopted land but now she sensed that matters were moving beyond her ken or ability to direct or move them. Faroz had ever been her staunchest collaborator; she had no other ally or confidant as close as he in Pashtia. And now he was melting away from her, butter in the heat of the day. She was profoundly disturbed by this turn of events.

"You have said the Emissary offers you a friendship greater than any you have ever known. Yet rings mark fealty, confederation, coalition. They signify obligation and vows to others, an embargo of sorts on freedom What has he offered you? What has this Annatar promised that is greater than the allegiances of the peoples of this area. What is the West to us?"

Faroz relaxed somewhat, directing his thoughts to the discussion at hand. He sat back upon his cushions, still longing for the ring, and eyed his wife, marveling at her appearance now and the vision he had had of the old crone. Was that her true heart? He wondered. She had always masked herself to him, a guileful woman like all her kind. Or was that her future? Will she become so frightful and terrible? The King began to ruminate upon the other possible abilities this ring might provide him in addition to making him invisible. Will it foretell the future for him? Would it allow him to see true motivations? The thoughts intrigued him and he became once again more withdrawn from his wife.

"What a limited mind you have, what a small vision, if you cannot imagine what wealth might lie beyond our knowing. You, who proclaimed that a king must know what lies beyond his boundaries." He stopped himself from speaking further, running his hand over his face in an effort to control this unaccountable urge to rebuff her.

"A king must also know himself. Do you?" Bekah dared reply, as she looked from him to the ring and rolled it around in her hand.

He was taken aback at the freedoms she was taking with the ring as much as by her impudence.

"You have such little regard for gifts of state?"

He rose from his cushions and took two steps towards her.

Bekah stepped back, bringing her hand up and spreading her fingers, so the ring showed clearly upon her palm. It cast a strange feeling over her and she almost sensed it was changing, becoming smaller.

"Shall I try to wear it so I can improve my understanding?" she asked. Her arm was becoming heavy and she felt she was drowning in waters she did not know, but she would persist in learning as much as she could of this affair.

With a roar, Faroz lunged towards her, grabbing her hand by the wrist and twisting it, turning her arm. He reached over and caught the ring as it nearly fell a second time. Feeling it once again within his grasp he felt a surge of anger at her and a supreme sense of power over her. He pushed her arm more until she was pulled over and a look of pain crossed over her face. Could he hear her bone snap? The thought pleased him and then shocked him. He could not imagine how he had come to relish the thought but he did. He let go her arm, which fell by her side, bruised already and swelling.

Bekah uttered not a word, nor cried out in her shock. Never before had he struck her or even threatened her. She staggered, slightly, as she fought to gain control of the pain and reached out with her uninjured arm to lift and hold the injured one against her. She raised her head and looked straight at him. For his part, Faroz stepped back from her, feeling an immense relief at having the ring back in his possession. Breathing heavily, he held it tightly and then slowly returned it to his pocket. Only then did he look at Bekah's face and her arm. Suddenly, he was overwhelmed with a sense of remorse. He must be under greater stress than he had imagined.

Behind the dias, hidden in the curtains, someone stood silently, struck with horror at the event he had just witnessed. Jarult the chamberlain.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Faroz calmed the pounding of his heart with an effort of will. Now that the Ring was once more pressed against his body, he felt the rage and anxiety that had seized him like a madness flow from him as wine from a broken vessel. Not wine, he corrected himself, like filthy water from a ditch. What have I done? He gazed upon his wife, and saw the one person in his world upon whom he had depended through all the trials of rule, and he saw the rage and pain in her expression. Her arm hung by her side like a broken thing, raw and raging with her suppressed fury. Faroz felt shame for what he had done, and he found it difficult to meet her eyes. He reached out to her with his own hand, but the Queen flinched away. Faroz felt the rebuke of her gesture, and his shame only grew. “I am sorry, my wife,” he said, using a more tender tone to her than any he had used in years. “I do not know what came over me.” Liar, you do know, you know well what it was… “I have already said that it has been a taxing day. It would appear that it was more taxing than I thought.” He passed his hand before his eyes and seemed to sag. “I grow tired, lady.”

“Perhaps his majesty should seek his bed then.” Bekah’s words were as jagged stones, cold and unyielding.

“It is not the fatigue of this day, lady. I fear that I begin to feel the weight of the crown more heavily. Perhaps it is the talk of naming my heir, or perhaps it is just the years of having been King, but I find myself more and more contemplating the rest of my life with…” he searched for a word.

“With what, my lord?” Bekah asked, curious despite her hurt and her rage.

“With I know not what,” he ended quickly, his attention once more reverting to his wife. “I am selfish, selfish and cruel. I have hurt you and all I can think of are my own troubles. Sit, my wife, please I beg you, and let me send for doctors to see to your hurt.”

“No Khamul,” she replied. “It would be best if no-one knew of this…incident. Should word go forth of this…attack,” he could see how she struggled to say the word, as though it gave a new reality to what had just happened, “think of how it would be received by our children, or by my brother. I will say that I fell upon the stairs to my apartments.” Saying so, she moved to place her clothes over the arm so as to hide the violence done to it, but she had difficulty doing so for the hurt. Faroz moved to help her, but she once more moved away from him, her eyes blazing, and she completed the task, painfully, on her own.

Faroz felt moved to try once more. “Please, my wife, accept my apologies and give me forgiveness. I have never raised my hand to you before, and I swear now by Rhais and Rae that never shall I do so again.” Unless. . . “Never,” he said aloud, as though speaking to someone else. “And may the vengeance of the gods come upon me should I break this vow.”

Bekah remained impassive and impenetrable. Bowing formally she said only, “I accept the apology of the King, and for my part I swear that I shall seek neither retribution nor revenge for his act. But now,” she added quickly, as though to forestall any further conversation, “may I have your permission to depart, lord? For I would like to return to my apartments and call the physicians after my accident.”

Faroz simply nodded dumbly, and watched his wife depart. Almost as soon as she had gone the Chamberlain entered the room, a little too quickly. His face was unreadable, but Faroz wondered if perhaps he had seen what had transpired. Jarult’s expression betrayed nothing, however, as he announced that Priest Tarkan was in the outer room, waiting to speak with the King. Faroz hid the look of distaste that he felt beneath his skin and bid the Priest be allowed to enter. Jarult bowed and departed once more to fetch the Priest in. When Tarkan arrived at the far end of the Hall he bowed to the King, who had resumed his place atop the dais, and scurried forward.

“Welcome my brother,” Faroz began formally. “What is it that brings you to the Palace?” Tarkan smiled nervously and licked his lips before starting. He was not an impressive figure, for all that he was the bastard son of the former King. Despite their close connection, Faroz knew little of Tarkan, but what he did know was less than satisfactory. He was an ambitious, yet strangely apathetic man, who kept more or less to himself, indulging, no doubt, in such schemes as he could for his advancement, and yet never moving openly with them. It was not without a certain amount of irony, then, that Faroz looked upon the man.

For though the Priest knew it not, Tarkan was the rightful King of Pashtia.

[Amanaduial the archer]

The Priestess was a patient woman, but her patience was being sorely tried as she waited outside the Queen's apartments, so eager was she to talk to Bekah. But she controlled her impatience and waited in the awkward, stuffy silence of the palace antechamber, unsure of what to say to Tarkan. The Priest, however, didn't feel the need to talk much, after some initial small talk - he seemed caught up in his own thoughts. So, after finishing off with pleasantries, the two descended into silence. Well, if you could call it that. Sound as muffled throughout the palace, despite it being an open, stone building, by the tapestries and rich rugs all over the palace, so very little noise pervaded the antechamber; but Zamara couldn't help noticing that Tarkan's breathing really was very loud.

After several rather uncomfortable minutes in which the Priest seemed rather disinclined to talk, the sound of a servant's feet were heard coming down the corridor. Zamara stood in anticipation. Tarkan sent her a condescending, superior look, then rose slowly and almost regally - and maybe it would have worked on anyone else, Zamara thought disapprovingly. The Priest was just about the least majestic individual she knew...

"The King will see you know, Priest Tarkan," the servant said nervously, eyeing the Priest with nervousness as if he was about to run. Zamara wondered about this - Tarkan had never struck her as being particularly terrifying. Sneaky, maybe, but terrifying...not so much. Tarkan smiled and, with a last, almost mock-courteous bow to Zamara, he left, radiating self-satisfaction at being called up first. The servant sent the Priestess an apologetic glance, then scurried after him.

Zamara narrowed her eyes after Tarkan. Of all the cheek, why had he been called first? Realising she was being petty, Zamara rose abruptly and turned to the tapestries on the wall behind her, inwardly seething. Tarkan had been sniffy with her today, almost as if she was beneath his notice, and what with that performance at the banquet in addition to that...Zamara shook her head, her eyes barely focusing on the delicate, angular figures in the tapestries. It seemed many people were changing, whether because of the Emissary or not. Evrathol's visit to the temple, the General Morgos' apology... And then there was the other matter, the matter of what Zamara had seen the other night, on the way back from the banquet, as she had chanced to look up at a balcony of the palace.

The priestess pursed her lips, her brow furrowing as she stared intently at the tapestries. Her eyes were indeed turning slightly blue, an unnatural colour for the Pashtians - she was not sure if others had noticed, but Zamara, although she didn't know what it was, had realised early last year that it was affecting her sight. But she was so sure of what she had seen...

One minute the king was there, the next....vanished!

Sinking into these worrying thoughts, Zamara's eyes suddenly caught on a detail of the tapestry. It seemed to be an early history of Pashtia, and was quite faded, but Zamara could still clearly see the images of a large group of people marching - or were they running? - away from a green, grassy land, women, children and all. But there were rather few children, and the weaver had caught the expressions of the people quite vividly: they wore faces of weariness and aged wisdom. Avari? It was what the pictures looked remarkably like, but there were far more of the elves that Zamara thought were in the city in the present age. At the front of them, one particularly elf stood out, his stance defiant, his face shaded by a silver-grey helmet with a magnificent white plume - obviously a leader of some sort. And behind...a damp stain marred the picture, making it hard to see who stood on the grassy land, making it was an indistinct mass of black, jagged shapes. But one figure the Priestess could see quite clearly: a tall, dark figure, his hand raised high, holding a sword, his dark face completely shadowed by a terrible helmet.

There was something about this figure that made the Priestess stop, and a shiver traced down her neck, the fine hairs at the nape rising as if in warning, despite the heat of the antechamber. But despite the way this figure stood out, he was like no elf she had ever seen - he seemed mannish, but somehow all-powerful... She wondered at how a picture, faded as it was, could convey such strength.

The writing beneath the figure was obscured by the damp, so Zamara moved on. She narrowed her eyes, bending down slightly, her long dark fingers tracing the pictures back in sequence until she came to the image a few frames that made her stop: a battle scene. She could see the defiant Avarin leader standing frozen, looking up at something as if in horror, and, following his gaze, saw...

Drat! Confound these stains! The picture was blurred, the dyes running into each other, but still, some details remained clear in the object of the elf's attention: the dark figure. His hand was held high still, but this time holding not a sword but something smaller, that glistened somehow, but was so tiny. Zamara leant in closer to see if she could work out what it was...

The sound of light, quick footsteps caught Zamara off guard and she spun around, her robes rustling softly. The sound must have caught the visitor's attention, for the footsteps stopped - a visitor with most astute hearing indeed then! She wondered whether it was one of the Avarin. Stepping forward so she could see around the corner into the corridor, Zamara smiled at Morgos himself, who stood with the expression of a trapped rabbit.

"Good day, General," Zamara said warmly, smiling at the elf.I was just thinking about you... "I was not aware you were visiting the King today?"

"Oh...no, no, I came to see the Prince," the General replied, seeming distracted. As soon as he had said the words, he somehow seemed to regret it, snapping off the end of the last word as if trying to take it back. His stern, wary gaze rested on the High Priestess, and then flickered past her to the tapestry - he must have noticed her looking at it before, she guessed. Had he seen this tapestry before? Zamara deliberated on whether or not to tell him about it - sure, what harm could it do? He had surely seen something like this before...

"General Morgos, later in the day, it is necessary for me to leave the city and go to some of the farms to the East. I wondered if I would be able to borrow an escort of a few of your soldiers?"

Morgos frowned briefly. "May I ask what this visit is about, that you might need protection?"

Zamara shrugged her shoulders lightly. "There are many strangers to the city of late, General, many changes." Her eyes rested on his as she hesitated, then added, "It is...a strange matter. Some villagers think they have seen a...a demon."

It was all the elf could do not to raise his eyebrows, Zamara noticed with slightly amusement. "A demon?" he repeated impassively.

"It is what they said. A strange creature, round in girth and larger than a man, without fur but apparently covered almost entirely in leaves, from which...eyes could be seen. And apparently creaking, almost like a song." She shrugged again. The General's intense, unbinking stare made her feel slightly self-concious. But there was a change in his expression now, which had come about as she was speaking, and he had taken a step forward when she mentioned the leaves. "Cr...creaking, you say, Priestess?" he said slowly.

Zamara nodded. "It is what was told to me. Why, have you any idea of what this creature could be?"

The elf hesitated, then shook his head hastily. "I shall arrange a guard for you. Was there anything else you wished to speak to me about?"

Zamara made up her mind. Stepping back, she angled herself slightly towards the tapestry behind her. "General Morgos, are you familiar with-"

A sound that Zamara recognised as the Queen's voice came from within her appartments, muffled by the silks on the doors so that the Priestess could not hear the exact words; it was closely followed by the commanding voice of what sounded like a chamberlain. Her call to enter, she presumed. She took a step away from the tapestry, almost guiltily. "Excuse me please, General-"

"Of course. Good day, High Priestess." With that abrupt dismissal, the elf was gone, striding away down the corridor. Zamara watched him for a second, then looked towards the tapestry thoughtfully...before dispelling all thoughts of it from her head and pushing open the door of Bekah's chambers to enter. Little did the Priestess know how important the faded, worn pictures of the bright elf's battle with this dark, godly figure would turn out to be...

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Jarult awoke with a start, and immediately the coughing was upon him. Every morning this happened, and he sat upon the edge of his bed, his thin frame wracked with spasmodic pain as he hacked and wheezed, until it was over. Each day, it seemed, the attack grew a bit longer and a bit more ferocious and someday soon, he knew, it would end in his death. He did not regard the thought with any emotion, only acceptance. He had lived his life well and done good service to the King and to the King before him. He would go to the seat of Rhais with confidence.

When he was finally able to stand, the aged Chamberlain went out of his bedroom and into the courtyard of the small villa sheltered beneath the imposing wall of the Palace. It was, he had been told, an abode far beneath his station but he liked it all the same. It was small and bare and comfortable. He took a slight breakfast in the grey light of pre-dawn and collected his thoughts for the day ahead.

It had been just over a month since the coming of the Emissary, and still the courtier from the West remained a mystery to the old man. The meetings between the Emissary and the King had dwindled of late, which was good, but the King had taken to retiring to bed early and not allowing any visitors to his chambers at night. Jarult was made uneasy by this, for the memory of what he had seen pass between the King and Queen was still raw in his memory. He had watched both keenly since then, but on the surface they appeared unchanged by the encounter. In general, the uproar caused by the appearance of the Emissary had subsided, until the presence of the Man from the West had become part of the background to life in Pashtia.

This change had been helped by new and disturbing developments much closer to home. The new High Temple to Rae had been approved by the King and was already being built close by the Temple to Rhais. More disturbingly to Jarult was the news – or, rather, the lack of news – from Alanzia. Commerce with their northern rivals had always been sporadic, but of late it had ceased altogether. It had been weeks since any traveller or news had arrived from there. Even the Queen’s correspondence with her brother had ceased.

Jarult felt the touch of a cool breeze run down his thin neck and he shivered, drawing his cloak more tightly about him. Soon it will be the cool season, he reflected. The nights will grow chill and the winds will come from the mountains, perhaps bringing rain. He quickly uttered a prayer to Rae that he withhold the fury of the water that fell so unnaturally from the sky.

The thought of rain turned his mind to other, even stranger matters. Reports there were abroad of demons and monsters. Strange beings like the giants of old, the peasants said, were stalking about the farmlands. Others who ventured into the desert returned with tales of monstrous man-like fiends who travelled in packs like wild dogs, ravening and destroying what they could find. Most harrowing to Jarult, though, were the tales of ghosts. Whispers there were of creatures which passed unseen in the night, freezing those who felt them with terror. From within the Palace itself there had come rumour of doors that opened on their own, and of curtains moving when there was no wind. Some of the servants had even claimed to have heard footsteps along empty hallways in the dead of night, and one impressionable girl had sworn that she had felt a touch like that of a man’s cloak brushing up against her. Jarult knew better than to believe such gossip, but it worried him still, for such news could not augur well…

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

The morning sun brought tingling warmth to Gjeelea’s face as she walked through the marketplace of Kanak. She had spent more time in the city and out of the palace since her conference with Korak about a month earlier, usually with her betrothed in hopes that the people would see them happily together before their marriage. Gjeelea had also gone more often to the temples since the Emissary’s arrival. She visited both the construction site of the new temple of Rae and the standing temple of Rhais. The latter was her destination that morning.

Her daily walks comforted Gjeelea from the stresses she found harrowing in the palace – dealing with her brother, with Korak, with the gossiping court ladies. She hardly ever got headaches since she had started perusing the city, even when speaking to Siamak or arguing with Korak.

“Oh, my lady! Princess Gjeelea!” The bookkeeper’s wife called to the princess from the little shop off the main market way. A bright smile lit on her pudgy face, a smile that was returned half-heartedly by Gjeelea as she walked over to the stocky little lady.

“Good morning, Rafiqa,” Gjeelea greeted the aging woman, bowing her head slightly. Rafiqa did the same and gestured for Gjeelea to enter her home. The princess stepped gingerly into the sunlit entryway, looking left to see a large room filled with shelves that were in turned filled with books and parchments. To the right Gjeelea saw Basit the bookkeeper, Rafiqa’s husband, sitting at a desk piled high with thick volumes. Basit lifted his head and stood when he saw the princess. With a deep bow he greeted her.

“How wonderful it is to see you again, my lady,” Basit said, waving his arm. “Welcome again to my humble home – you are free, as always, to make yourself at home as well…” he paused. His brows furrowed together. “You are not with the Lord Korak this morning?”

“No, Korak is spending the morning with his mother,” Gjeelea replied, though it was a lie. She did not know where Korak had gone off to that morning. “But thank you, Basit, and good day to you,” Gjeelea murmured, nodding to both Basit and Rafiqa before turning into the huge, book-filled room to her left. The princess had come to Basit’s bookshop at least once a week in the past month, to read the tomes of knowledge and visit Basit’s family. It was just one more activity that Gjeelea looked forward to outside of the palace.

The princess weaved her way around short aisles of shelves, not quite sure what she was searching for. She stopped as she turned a corner and caught sight of a little girl sitting on a stool next to one of the shelves, reading a long stretch of parchment. The girl looked up when she heard Gjeelea, and with a toothy grin the child beckoned for the princess to join her.

“How are you this morning, Tendai?” Gjeelea addressed the girl as she pushed back her white headscarf and kneeled down on the floor next to her.

“Very good, princess!” Tendai informed Gjeelea, nodding to the parchment in her hand. “Last night I climbed to the top of father’s ladder, and found this on the top shelf. It is very good, but I am almost finished, and I am afraid to climb to the top again and find a new one.”

“I will get a new story for you before I leave,” the princess promised as she peaked at the words on Tendai’s page. “What is this story about?”

“A noble lady,” Tendai explained. “Her father arranges to have her marry his friend. She is in love with her best friend.”

“I see,” Gjeelea mused. If I had a best friend, I would rather be in love with him than Korak any day. “What happens, then?”

“Well, her best friend is only a cook in her house,” Tendai continued with the story. “And the girl does not want to make her father sad. But she decided to run away with her best friend rather than say no to her father, or marry someone she did not love. They have run away, and I have not finished, but I think that they get away safe in the end. What a brave girl, leaving her father, right?”

“Right,” Gjeelea agreed softly. “Very brave.”

“Princess?”

“Yes?”

“Do you love Lord Korak?” Tendai asked the question in an offhand manner, peering anxiously at the top of the nearest shelf. Gjeelea stood, brushing slight specs of dirt off of her white gown. She moved to the bookshelf and reached to the highest ledge, picking through some of the books as she thought of how to answer the question.

“Of course I do,” Gjeelea lied.

“That is good, then,” Tendai replied, satisfied. The princess handed her a new book to read and said farewell before turning away and leaving the room. Gjeelea thanked Basit and Rafiqa for their hospitality and left the bookshop, continuing on her way to the temple of Rhais. Some citizens gave the princess a warm smile, a slight bow, or perhaps a good-natured wave if they chanced to recognize her. Gjeelea wondered how things would be if she became queen, or how they felt about Korak.

When Gjeelea finally reached the temple of Rhais, she stood still for a moment outside the temple, admiring the monument. The princess knew that the temple of Rae could not compare to the architecture of the home of the Earth-goddess. Surely construction had improved bit by bit since the building of Rhais’ home, but Gjeelea almost felt that the division over Rae’s temple and the controversy might affect the building of it. Something about the intricacy and beauty of the temple of Rhais made Gjeelea feel safe and comforted.

The princess would never argue for one deity over the other – it would not be good politics. She carefully skated around divine discussion, never willing to trample on someone else’s view of Rae or Rhais. Gjeelea had grown up revering both Rae and Rhais, and she would show no favor towards either; were they not both divine anyway? Still, Gjeelea knew that the reasoning behind building a superior temple to Rae was wrong. The only popularity contest Gjeelea wanted to deal with was between her and Siamak. Her thoughts of competition dwindled as she entered the temple, searching for the High Priestess.

Gjeelea rarely spoke to Zamara. Today, though, the princess sought to speak to the High Priestess about the Emissary. Gjeelea and Siamak had not come to a conclusion on the Emissary and his offer for an alliance, nor had the two agreed much in their conversations. The tension between brother and sister had likewise come between their ability to negotiate and speak calmly to one another. There were many things that the princess had yet to say to Siamak about the matter of the Emissary, and yet Gjeelea also sought the opinion of valued Pashtian citizens. Zamara, Tarkan, Lady Hababa – Gjeelea had yet to converse with these people on their views of the Emissary.

Taking further steps into the temple, Gjeelea found Zamara kneeling before the statue of Rhais.

“High Priestess?” Gjeelea prompted softly.

[Imladris]

Arshalous stood overlooking the building of the new temple. Her arms were folded, the slim golden bracelets glittering in the sun. She spent most of her days here now...if her money was being spent on a temple she did not agree with then she could at least over see it and make sure that it was beautiful. It was much more than Korak would do, she thought with distaste, a sneer flickering across her face. The man had only done it for political purposes, of that she was sure.

She moodily thought of the "romance" between the princess and her cousin. How could the king arrange for his daughter to marry that excuse for a man was far beyond her. And she thought it disgusting how Korak could pretend to love her...it was despicable that a noble should lie like that...she frowned and spat the dust between her sandled feet.

She saw the Princess Gjeelea pause in front of the Temple of the Earth-Goddess. Arshalous wondered again what the royal siblings were going to decide about the Emissary. She bit her lip, wondering what their misgivings were...she herself had seen nothing but good character from the Emissary.

The lack of communication from Alanzia was odd, but she did not find it as disturbing as others. If there was trouble between the two nations it was better this way instead of firey words...she herself wished that it was that way for herself and Korak. Of course, maybe the silence of Alanzia was caused by something dire...but why conjecture the worst when there was no reason to believe that something horrid had happened?

She shifted uneasily on her feet, the rumours of demons and ghosts and giant, ravaging men that roamed the country side gnawed at her...she could not pass it off as mere superstition...

She smiled softly to herself. The creatures that had fallen into the mists of the forgotten had arisen...and was that not a thrilling thought?

[Nurumaiel]

The building site for the new temple was not empty that day. Lord Korak arrived upon his horse, and swept a glance over it all. The temple he had strove for was coming into being at last. He could see the money he relinquished building up before his eyes in the form of a majestic building. Yet... if he had been in charge of the building, and not just the funding, he would have made it more majestic than it was. Especially that one spot that he could see from the corner of his eye.

It was then he noticed the Lady Arshalous. His lips turned downwards in a deep frown, and for a moment he considered returning to his home. But, no! He recalled swiftly that when the two of them stood upon this ground, he stood as the victor. The Lady Arshalous, who so opposed the idea of the new temple, was also funding it. She was working alongside him, working for something she did not want. He held the upper hand here. And he thought in passing that the one spot did not look so very bad after all, but it was simply the Lady Arshalous' presence by it, fouling it and making it look dark and dreary.

Lord Korak dismounted and moved towards his Lady Cousin, leading his horse along by the reins. Perhaps it did not occur to him that horses were disapproved of by the King, or perhaps he was merely being defiant. Morashk, lurking in the shadows, wondered this. Of course Korak knew that the King disapproved, but perhaps he did not know that he really did disapprove, and it was not merely a show. Lord Korak was always putting on shows himself. Disloyalty? Morashk laughed at the thought. He would die for his master, but he would not refrain from thinking of him as he would.

"My Lady Cousin," said Korak, bowing slightly. He wondered what would happen if he kissed her hand. She would probably strike him. That would never do in public, when he could not strike back. For the Lord Korak would have no qualms about striking back... if there were not many eyes watching.

He turned then, and looked at on-going temple with approving eyes. "It is a magnificent prospect we see before us," he said. "And it could not have been if you had not been so gracious as to give some of your wealth for it. Perhaps it is odd that we are working together, or perhaps it is merely a usual occurrence in fate. Nevertheless, we are working together, and achieving a temple to the sky god. You are achieving a temple to the sky god, dear cousin."

[Novnarwen]

Tarkan

Storing his last belongings in piles on the floor, he let his gaze wander around in the empty room. To Tarkan’s satisfaction, everything had been systematized; he was ready to go. Calling for Pelin with a merry voice, the Priest waited for the young man to join him. It had been about less than a month since he had spoken with the King and received news of the new Temple that was going to be built; a new Temple in the honour of Rae, the Sky God. Already, the constructors and the workers had managed to build the apartments that followed with the Temple. Although it was not far from here, where his current apartment was situated, he thought it only appropriate to move; he was a servant of the Temple of Rae, and should thus live where he could best be at service of his God, Rae. Living here, amongst the petty men and women who adored the sky Goddess, was just plainly wrong.

After a few moments, Tarkan could hear the light steps of his fellow brother in belief. Pelin popped his head inside the door and looked curiously around. The priest eyed him immediately, and gave him an approving sign to enter.

"I see you’re ready," Pelin said, stepping into the Hall-way. Slowly, he went into the small living room, where all of Tarkan's belongings were spread, or stored, out on the floor. With a greatly surprised look, he looked questioningly at the Priest. Tarkan only nodded as to confirm that everything was indeed his. Then, the Priest turned away and looked out of the window, as if ignoring the newly arrived man. Silently, he stood watching the Temple of Rhais, which rose up in font of him. He looked at it with disgust and turned his head slightly to see the new building that was being built in honour of the Sky God. Smiling to himself, he imagined the new building overshadowing the old Temple as is it rose majestically from the ground. Finally, he could be a true servant of the Sky God and he would finally be a, or rather ‘the’, High Priest. Deep in thought, he did not notice that Pelin was moving towards a pile of books that lay on the floor. Seeming rather curious, Pelin grabbed a little brown book and read its title. “Kings of our Time,” he read aloud. “Religious literature?” he asked Tarkan and opened it, reading the first lines.

“Put that down,” Tarkan said instantly, turning brusquely, seeing and recognizing the book that Pelin had found.

“But this is rather interesting, Father,” Pelin said, his full attention turned towards the book. “It says here in the Prologue that the book is filled with historic facts, which still remains to be revealed concerning the Kings of Pasthia! And look, here is a piece of parchment!” he said, while unfolding it hurriedly, his lips moving as he read.

Greatly angered by hearing Pelin read aloud from a book and the piece of parchment he had never showed anyone, he rushed over and grabbed the book from Pelin’s grasp. He looked at Pelin with an almost threatening look, making the man almost jump into the air. Taking the book, Tarkan closed it shut with a snap, put the letter inside and hid both the book and the letter quickly away under his mantle. A horrified look appeared in the priest’s face, but it was most likely outdone by the expression that Pelin now wore. As if frightened by the Priest’s sudden anger, he took a few steps backwards, growing paler and paler. Thoughtfully, Tarkan turned away again, fearing to see the man in the eyes again. He had to pretend as nothing. He realised that he should not have been so rash. Unfortunately, the damage had already been done. The task that he now faced was to cover it up with some silly story, or just forget about it. He chose the latter.

“Well, are you ready?” With a smile so false that it almost seemed real, he turned on his heal and passed Pelin on the way out. Entering the Hall-way, he looked over his shoulder to see if the young man was following. To his relief, Tarkan could see Pelin's hesitance and reluctance, turning into willingness. Shortly after, he could hear his footsteps behind him. “Are you expecting a weary old man to carry all his belongings himself?” Tarkan said suddenly, when noticing that Pelin wasn’t carrying anything from the living room.

“Please Father…” Pelin said filled with regret, turning in a hurry.

“Take as much as you can carry and meet me in the new apartments!”

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

The morning sun was already above the horizon when Faroz returned to his rooms. He crept through the archway neatly timing his entrance to coincide with the slight breeze that was sending ripples through the curtain that covered it so that none could see. He had ordered his door removed and replaced with a simple curtain some weeks ago, as he had found getting past the guards night after night increasingly difficult. Now, with no door to open, it was relatively easy.

As after most nights that he spent with Ashnaz he felt exhausted but somehow exhilarated as well. This night, they had spent almost three hours in silence, clutching each other’s hands and reaching outward with their minds, far into the West, in search of the Lord Annatar. His friend had assured him that the power of their Rings would allow them to commune with his lord at any distance, and that it was only a matter of time until he, Faroz, would learn how. Faroz was at first sceptical, but Ashnaz had shown him how the Ring allowed the two of them to speak without uttering any words, and Faroz had believed. How greatly he had come to anticipate those nightly conferences with his friend, as they sat together not saying a word aloud, lost in each other’s thoughts. Faroz had learned much of Ashnaz and of the Lord Annatar, and he desired – almost needed – to know more. So great a lord as Annatar was, he had much that he could teach Faroz. At the same time, the King could tell that Annatar desired much of him. There was much in Pashtia that those in the west did not know, and Annatar was ever thirsty for more knowledge. As yet, Faroz had not touched the mind of his brother king, so far away, but he had begun to glimpse a figure in his nightly wanderings with Ashnaz: distant and light, like the star of the evening just breaking the horizon in the early dusk.

The latter part of the night had been less than satisfactory. As they had been doing every night for a week now, Ashnaz and Faroz had stolen into the villa of Korak and searched where they could for the letter. Faroz had only seen it once, years ago, but he was sure that he would recognise it immediately were he to see it again. It had been much more difficult than he had thought, finding that letter. In the first flush of excitement in realising the power of the Ring he had foolishly attempted to recover the letter on his own, without the aid of Ashnaz. But it had all almost ended in ruin when he had inadvertently stumbled into the chambers of the old woman, Korak’s mother, Hababa. She had been awake and had seen her door open and then close of its own accord. She had sent out an immediate alarm and Faroz had been able to escape through a window barely in time, for the rush of servants and guards was such that no Ring could have kept him from discovery for very long. It was after this incident that he had opened his heart to Ashnaz and requested his friend’s help. Of course he had asked Faroz what was in the letter and the King had told him. When he had finished, Ashnaz only said, “This is indeed a grave and delicate matter, my friend, and I am honoured that you have confided in me. Needless to say, I will breathe never a word of this to anyone.”

What had at first seemed such an easy task had turned out to be much more difficult, for Korak’s villa was large and he had many servants, but Faroz was sure that in time he and Ashnaz would find what they were looking for…

[Amanaduial the archer]

I ask for your blessing, Goddess, and for strength to endure what will come ahead...what is happening in your land, my lady? The creatures, these leafy 'mothers'...they must be in your care, Rhais: what do they mean? What do all these changes mean?

Zamara's prayers had a slightly desperate, urgent note in them as she directed her thoughts up at the statue of the goddess, much as she tried to conceal it. But try as she might, the tension all around her was getting to her: the Priestess was, as always elegant and serene, but those who paid close attention and looked more closely might note that she looked more pinched and tired than usual, her serenity disturbed. In the month that had passed since the Emissary had first arrived, many things had happened, many changes had come about, and for the first time in years, Zamara felt that she couldn't understand what was happening beneath the surface. And there were indeed things beneath the surface: Zamara called to mind her meeting with the Queen nearly a month ago, a meeting that still troubled her.

"...but I do not suppose that will be necessary, Your majesty!"

Zamara's tone was half-joking as she smiled almost conspiratorially at the Queen where she reclined amid a pile of cushions. Bekah smiled with her, the expression lighting her face as she leant forward towards Zamara, moving her arm towards the Priestess as if she intended to touch the other woman's arm. But as she did so, the pillow beneath her arm slipped, and it fell awkwardly off, twisting at an unnatural angle. The Queen gave a sharp, muted cry of pain as she seized her arm with the other; Zamara, out of concern, darted forward quickly, staying the Queen's hand as it fell. As she did so, she felt something seem to snap beneath her dark fingers, light though her touch was, and she recoiled as if Bekah's arm was white hot to touch, her dark eyes widening. "Queen Bekah, what has...I-"

"It was not you, High Priestess," Bekah replied quickly, cutting the other off, her voice sharp with pain. From behind, one of Bekah's handmaidens made to come forward, panicked at her mistress's pain, scurrying to Bekah's side.

Zamara watched the Queen, thoughtfulness and worry creeping into her expression alongside the initial shock. "Your majesty, what has happened to your arm?"

Bekah's expression was troubled but she replied instantaneously, almost too quickly. "A fall, High Priestess. Just a fall."

"High Priestess?" The repeat of the words from her thoughts startled Zamara although the voice that spoke them was soft, and her eyes opened quickly as she was called back from the palace and Bekah, to the cold stone floor beneath her knees, her beautiful temple to Rhais...and, more surprisingly, Princess Gjeelea. So shocked was Zamara that she finished her prayer rather more hastily than usual, knowing she would return later. She needed to speak to her goddess, to ask more about these strange matters, both political, natural and, worryingly, religious.

Bowing in the traditional way, Zamara turned around to face the Princess as nodded her head in respect to the young woman. The princess had visited more often recently than before, but had rarely come directly to Zamara. "Princess Gjeelea, good morning to you," she said, smiling politely and with some warmth at the princess. She had a feeling that Gjeelea had come to speak to her, bearing in mind the way in which she had approached her, but thought it not polite to ask directly if it was to speak to her that the princess had come. "Have you come to worship?"

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

“Well…yes…but…” Gjeelea’s voice trailed off as she looked to the statue of Rhais behind Zamara. Turning to meet the High Priestess’ gaze Gjeelea could see that the woman had asked a question she already knew the answer to. “I had hoped to worship, of course, but I also wished to know your opinion on certain matters that have been troubling me lately.”

“My opinion?” Zamara prompted in lofty voice. Gjeelea paused, unsure of how to continue in the conversation. Surely there were things that the High Priestess need not know, musings of the princess’ mind that did not need to be revealed yet. Still, Gjeelea so desperately wished to know how others felt about the Emissary and the new temple – she wanted to know how to tread in the future with such delicate issues.

“Of course, High Priestess,” the princess let an airy, barely-there smile lift the corners of her lips. “I value your opinion, and I know that you of all people could help me see the true path – you know many things,” Gjeelea paused and peeked once more past Zamara to the lovely statue of Rhais behind her. “I trust you.”

Zamara nodded at the exaggeration that Gjeelea had given, and gestured toward a white stone bench across the wide room. Leaves and flowers had been carved into the legs of the bench while stone vines adorned with little berries lined the seat. Zamara took a seat, and Gjeelea sat next to her. Gjeelea was not afraid to seem meek and child-like in front of the High Priestess. The princess decided that perhaps the best way to seek the opinion of Zamara would be to act younger than she really was – act as if she were in search of spiritual guidance, almost. Gjeelea knew that the face she wore with Siamak or Korak or Bekah did not have to be the same face she wore with Zamara.

“What troubles you, princess?” Zamara inquired.

“Oh, many things, High Priestess,” Gjeelea began with a heaving sigh, trying to portray the feeling of a weighty decision. She shook her head slightly, like a mother upset with her children. “The choice of whether to accept or to deny the Emissary’s offer of an alliance weighs heavy on my heart and mind. My worst fear is that Siamak and I will make the wrong decision. I wished to gain the aid of Rhais; I came more often to the temple, but I fear also that I have been abandoned. I hope now to gain your opinion of the Emissary…” Gjeelea paused, and watched as Zamara nodded to herself and waited for a continuation. “Also…it worries me that the King must choose between Siamak and myself. I worry that it will create a rift between us!” The princess tried hard not to choke on the words, for she knew that a rift had long existed between her and her brother.

“I see,” Zamara said quietly. She looked up, staring right into Gjeelea’s eyes with her own strangely blue tinted eyes, and the princess turned quickly away for the look penetrated too deeply for her taste. “Does aught else bother you, princess?”

“Well…there is something else,” Gjeelea murmured softly. She met Zamara’s gaze quickly, ready to tell a lie. “I hope that you will not reveal what I tell you in confidence?”

“No, of course not,” came the reply, and Gjeelea tried to read the level of honesty in Zamara’s voice.

“I have been pondering lately the role of women in our society – this issue that I felt closest to Rhais. It is unfair that we are not bound by law to marry or to accept an arranged marriage and yet there is society between equality and us women. I am not being forced to marry Lord Korak…I am allowed to refuse,” – and many think that I should, Gjeelea thought – “Yet I know that my chances of becoming queen are slim if I do not marry someone. I know that refusing Korak would mean shame and distrust from his powerful family forever. Society creates unwritten rules where the kings do not wish to.”

A silent pause came between the two women.

“Can you help me – comfort me – High Priestess?” Gjeelea tried to appear as helpless as possible – as child-like as she could.

[Amanaduial the archer]

Zamara may have had the weakness of always finding the best in people, but she was not stupid. She saw through Gjeelea's act immediately, and knew why she was doing it. She just couldn't fathom what she actually intented to achieve....

She couldn't conceal her surprise at what the princess asked her though, and felt a pang of concern despite her skepticism. Gjeelea actually seemed in earnest in what she asked: she seemed to truly want Zamara's opinion, not only on the Emissary, which was to be expected, but on the role of women in Pashtia. But then the princess looked quickly away from her, avoiding her gaze and looking down almost coyly and sighing prettily. “Can you help me – comfort me – High Priestess?”

Zamara's compassion nearly vanished at the return of this exaggerated act. The princess's questions still stood - but Gjeelea's acting was such that a dangerous thought came to her now also: the question as to what Gjeelea's motives and intentions were for asking her these things about Korak. It seemed to Zamara that the young princess, although publicly stating any preference between the two deities, had always favoured Rae, a source of smugness for Tarkan. Zamara mused what Tarkan thought of Gjeelea's sudden change of preference; she had not spoken to the Priest for quite some time. Gjeelea's confusion also concerned Zamara: it was a difficult, and rather serious worry, for any of Rhais' believers but most especially for one of the royal family and possible future monarch, to think that the goddess had 'abandoned' her. She rose, taking a few steps away from the bench as she mused on these things, fingering the ruby medal thoughtfully. Zamara had become priestess for her devotion: politics had not been her realm for long, unlike the princess, who had been embroiled in for her entire life. What if she already has an alliance with Korak? Maybe she is trying to turn my words against me, to throw me...?

Zamara almost laughed at herself as she caught the thought. Absurd. Spinning around, she fixed Gjeelea with a straight, frank stare, and the princess almost seemed to flinch. "Princess Gjeelea, there will always be unwritten rules, no matter what society you are in; even in the temple, there are always hidden rules. And if you will allow me to speak frankly, while you must not try to aggravate these rules...there are some which you may sometimes be better leaving alone or skirting around. I believe that you would be a powerful leader, Princess, as much as any man; our society is such that you show this power." She hesitated, then continued, not sure if she was pushing the line. "It...it is up to you, Your Majesty, to use your powerful nature well."

"So...so you think I should not marry Korak?" Gjeelea stood quickly, stepping closer to Zamara, her eyes glittering in the light of the lanterns that lit the corners of the Temple. Zamara did not avoid her eyes: it was not in her nature. Her voice was neutral. "An alliance with a powerful family like the Lord Korak's would be most beneficial politically, Princess. But you must be open with yourself, and allow that to develop as well. And as for Rhais..." Zamara shrugged lightly. "The Goddess will never abandon you as long as you are true."

She smiled suddenly, the expression at odds to her serious tone, as she realised that she was only about seven years older than Gjeelea. Then she realised the other matter that Gjeelea had no doubt come about, and her smile faltered slightly. Inwardly, she sighed heavily, but her smile remained outwardly as she tilted her head slightly to the side, beginning to walk down the illumined walkway along the carved wall of the temple, Gjeelea walking beside her. "Was there aught else that you wished to ask me about, Princess?"

[Novnarwen]

Pelin

Outisde, it was a terrible day; it was almost depressing. The sky was covered with thick dark clouds, and even the most ignorant person would be able to guess that rain was coming. Looking out of the window, he watched the Priest turn to the left, following the narrow street which eventually would lead to the newly built apartments, which were closely situated by the Temple that was being built.

Had Pelin known that it would end up like this, that he was to carry Tarkan’s things, all of them, he would never have joined Tarkan when he had called just half an hour earlier. Yet, he didn’t give this too much thought. What lingered in his mind was the book he had found. He had never seen this book or the letter which had lain within before, even though he had searched through the priest’s bookshelf numerous of times looking for religious literature, which could be helpful when doing his religious studies. He frowned in annoyance. In appearance, the old piece of parchment had reminded him an awful lot of a will. The contents could of course be somewhat like a will, but what did this have to do with Tarkan? Who left their will in a book named ‘Kings of our Time’ which claimed to possess secrets about the Royal Bloodline none knew of. The thing that bothered him the most was the feeling of secrecy. Surly, the priest hadn’t gone all of a sudden angry for nothing. It meant something; both the letter and the book were probably significant in their meaning. Rising an eyebrow, being surprised by how many conclusions and ideas that were taking form inside of his head, he grew almost wild thinking of how he would be torn by his curiosity of not being able to find out exactly what all of this was about. Did Tarkan really hide something? If so, what was it?

He was caught off guard by a strange shadow that rose in front of him, silently moving along the floor. He turned around quickly, his body shaking. He didn’t know why this had come over him, but the sensation of being witness to something, something that could be dangerous, made him almost shaking uncontrollably; he was relieved to see one of the King’s well known servants.

“Have I come in an inappropriate time?” the servant asked politely, giving Pelin a faint smile.

Pelin shook his head quickly, swallowing. “I was just packing the last of the Priest’s things. He.. I mean both of us, are going to move into the new apartments which follows with the new Temple.

“I see,” the servant replied silently. “So, the Priest is gone?”

“He is indeed. I am just about to pack up things here and meet him in his new apartments. Is there anything I can do for you?” Pelin said as calmly as he could manage. With this visitor’s arrival, Pelin’s theories were confirmed. It must have something to do with the King, he thought to himself. It made sense in an odd sort of way. Tarkan and the King were half-brothers, but he could not understand how the roll of parchment, the book, Tarkan and the King could be connected and therefore he couldn’t let go of the feeling that he was only being paranoid. Was he just looking for trouble, imagining things? Surely, for what he knew, the book had always been in Tarkan’s bookshelf, he’d just been a fool to miss it.

“Will you inform the Priest that the King wishes to see him.” Pelin nodded as the servant continued, giving a few instructions before he hurriedly took his leave.

Shortly after, Pelin himself took his leave. In a miraculously short time he managed all the priest’s belongings into something which could remind of a wheelbarrow and trotted off.

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

Zamara tried to hide it, but Gjeelea saw the flash of dismay in the High Priestess’ eye at the manner in which the princess had spoken to her. The princess knew she had played the wrong card. No matter, Gjeelea thought smugly. Now I know better than to play that game with her. The princess knew that she needed to figure out the High Priestess and how to retrieve information from her. Gjeelea had not been completely dishonest or joking in her speech to the High Priestess, either, so she felt no distress in the failure of her act on Zamara.

“No, High Priestess,” the princess shook her head and let a smile slip before bowing her head to the woman. Zamara had not answered all of Gjeelea’s questions, but the princess knew better than to push the matter further than it had already gone. Gjeelea would come back some other time and speak with Zamara – more frankly – about current issues. Zamara was a smart woman and Gjeelea had always known that; now the princess knew how perceptive the High Priestess was. “Thank you for your reassuring words.”

With that Gjeelea nodded once more to the woman and stepped quietly up to the statue of Rhais. After bowing she knelt down low before the statue of the lovely earth Goddess. Gjeelea closed her eyes, feeling Zamara’s presence still in the room but knowing that the large hall was otherwise empty.

Blessed Goddess, I ask only for you to help me in the days ahead. It is not the nature of your ways to be vengeful, nor is it your way to inflict pain or hate upon others. I know this well, and I ask not for you to help me over my brother – only to guide both of us to the rightful path, wherever that may be. My place may not be the throne and if that is the case, I ask for help in learning my true place. I ask also for guidance in the matter of judging the Emissary. I am quick to judge on so many levels – I feel perceptive but I know that it might also be my weakness. Help me to see things clearly in all lights. This is much to ask of you and I thank you in all that you do for this wondrous earth…

Her prayer felt almost scripted or recited to perfection. Gjeelea knew no other way to speak to someone who had never spoken back to her before. The princess stood and bowed the ceremonial bow. She moved back towards the entrance of the temple to make her exit. Looking back over her shoulder, Gjeelea saw Zamara moving towards the statue of Rhais.

“High Priestess?” Gjeelea called, dropping the childish, innocent voice for a more informal tone. Zamara turned to the voice. Her brow rose in question, waiting for the princess to continue. “Have no doubt for my truth…only hope. I will return tomorrow.”

Without another word Gjeelea left the temple and returned to the streets of Kanak. The sky had darkened significantly since she had entered Rhais’ home, and where once little grey clouds had flown now sifted blackening smog. She had hoped to spend time with Korak that day; their wedding was fast approaching and Gjeelea disliked the stares she received from the city people when she walked alone. Besides that, the princess still questioned her decision to continue with the wedding and hoped to know Korak better. If he truly was as stupid and impressionable as she thought, then he would be easily controlled and his façade of strength and cunning would soon fade for her. Even so, Gjeelea did not like the idea of spending the rest of her nights and days lonely despite being ‘happily’ married. In her hope for finding Korak, Gjeelea decided to search first the site of the new temple to Rae. She knew that Korak funded the endeavor along with Lady Arshalous, and the princess hoped that was where he would be.

Ambling down the road Gjeelea turned a corner on her way to the nearby temple. The princess cried out as she tripped right over a young man with a little wheelbarrow stopped in the middle of the street. She felt her heart stop and begin to beat out of time just as she hit the ground.

“Oh, my, are you all right?” the man piped, looking over to the princess. Frightened more than anything else and not hurt at all, Gjeelea nodded vigorously to the man and got to her knees. “I was just picking up my things – they fell out of my wheelbarrow!”

Gjeelea nodded without a word and moved to help the man pick up the rolls of parchments and other small trinkets and replace them in the cart. The man helped Gjeelea to her feet and both proceeded to brush the dust off their clothing. When her white gown had been sufficiently freed of dust the princess took a good look at the man. He looked quite familiar, like she had seen him often before but never learned his name. It took her a moment of examining before she realized that the man was likewise examining her.

“Princess?” the man bowed from his waist.

“I recognize you…” Gjeelea murmured, not wanting to guess his name and be terribly wrong. The man lifted his head. Yes, I know this man…I think.

“I am Pelin, my lady,” the man said, and it indeed helped Gjeelea to remember.

“You are the one who is always with the Priest?” Gjeelea asked, and Pelin nodded.

“I am going now with his things to the new temple,” he replied, gesturing to the wheelbarrow filled to the brim with little odds and ends. “We are moving in to the new apartments.”

“Really…” the princess mused for just a moment before continuing. I had been meaning to speak to the Priest anyway, she thought. When I am done there, I can look for Korak. “Pelin, would you be so kind as to escort me there, then? Escort me to the Priest?”

[Novnarwen]

Tarkan

With a sly smile on his face, he approached the new Temple, which was still under construction; it was the Temple of Rae. Seeing it, he realised that it would turn out rather beautifully, in fact, better than he had expected in advance. It was not yet done, but hopefully within a few weeks, maybe even less, it would be ready for his use. The feeling of great satisfaction came over him and touched his inner ego. Finally he would be High Priest; he would no longer be the person stuck playing second fiddle; finally, he would have success! He’d waited a long time for this, too long. Now, seeing the workers put all their energy into building the Temple that would serve the sky god Rae, and him alone, he almost trembled with delight. How long it had taken for the King and the others to understand that Rhais was history. It was Rae who was worthy of worshipping, it was he who was the present and the future; the earth goddess was weak; her time had passed.

The new Temple was not the only reason why he smiled today. Grabbing the letter and the book he’d hid inside of his cloak in his inner pocket, he opened it and grinned. Pelin had outdone himself again with his incredible naivety. At this moment, Pelin was probably biting his head off, angered for not having read all of it, as the little he had read, had intrigued him and had tingled his curiosity. Tarkan didn’t mind though. Pelin had certainly read more than what he’d read aloud, and this had probably been more than enough for him to understand. The Priest looked at the letter partly opening it. If Pelin hadn’t had the chance to read it all, it certainly looked like some sort of will, he concluded. Yes, the thing was actually that one wouldn’t have to be bright to understand that it was not just any will that lay within a book called “Kings of our time.” This was probably the part about the whole scheme Tarkan enjoyed the most; the brilliance of the title of the book.

He’d bought the book on a market sale a few weeks ago. The title had certainly caught his eye, and when seeing that the first pages in the book were blank, he saw his opportunity. This book needs a Prologue, he had thought to himself, seeing that the chance he had been waiting for seemed to finally draw near.

In addition to having seen the letter, Tarkan was sure that Pelin had read the prologue, which claimed to possess secrets of the Royal Bloodline. Pelin hadn’t missed this. Pretty soon, the priest would also be sure to let the poor youngster get wind of something concerning Tarkan’s true identity, and if he succeeded, Pelin would, as quickly as a hawk fly, understand everything. He would without a doubt take the book and the piece of parchment as true evidence of what he had heard. Thinking all of this through, Tarkan was surprised by how much he had accomplished by writing a few sentences on a piece of parchment and placed a book with a highly interesting title on the floor. In this way, evidence which he did not have had been printed with ink; not only on the blank pages in the book, but hopefully also in Pelin’s mind. Now, he was only waiting for the next right moment to strike; Tarkan would give him a hint about the true identity he had recovered on his father’s deathbed, when the King had called him and told him the truth about his Royal Blood; that he in fact was the rightful heir to the throne, and without knowing it, Pelin would be a part of his little game. It was a dangerous game, which Tarkan intended to play until he had won. From this day on, Pelin would be his secret helper and this he had accomplished without Pelin even knowing it himself!

The Priest chuckled silently to himself, being surprised by how brilliant the plan had been and even more surprised by its success! Unfolding the letter fully, he recognized his own handwriting and read what it said:

On my deathbed I have called on my son to reveal the truth that no one knows and will never know, until the day when wrongs are put right.

With this letter, I, King of Pasthia, confirm that my one and only true son, Tarkan, is the rightful heir to the throne.

It was amazing what one could do when one was smart, he concluded, placing he book and the parchment safely into his pocket again.

Looking around, he noticed a familiar figure just outside of the Temple of Rhais. The short glimpse of her, before she disappeared through the steady doors, was enough to make his heart beat violently in his chest. He bit his lip. An idea popped into his head, an amazing idea which he hadn’t thought of before; he hadn’t dared think it. Could it be that he and… He smirked. Yes, yes. Gjeelea, Korak may not be good enough for you, but I am. I really am.. A lost King, reclaiming his rightful throne; what is better than that?

[Kransha]

It was going to rain soon. Morgôs Elrigon did not need the ominous darkness of the sky to tell him this.

The room was silent he sat in, but for a quite scribbling. The feather of some desert bird, tipped with a bubble of ground ink, clutched in a hand pale for lack of sun and thin for lack of food, scratched against weary parchment, carving a highly intricate image. This was how Morgos wiled away his many hours in the dank, torch lit vault that was his personal library and archive. He scribbled sketches, drew drawing, and wrote all that came into his head. He consulted his own works and those of countless other Pashtian and Avari authors pertaining to the past, primarily distant. No image entered the General’s head that did not find its way to a thin manuscript of vellum in one of his volumes, no word left unwritten. He was a dedicated Elf, perhaps even an obsessive one, and had been involved in the same sketch for hours, letting the single image overlap onto other papers that lay strewn across his work-desk, lain over an open book. His shoulders were stooped, his sable hair dripping onto the hardwood desk. He was ghastly-white, having not seen the sun in a long time, and his eyes were bloodshot from staring at the page. He was in a trance, which could only be disrupted by something from outside, which was exactly what interrupted his concentration, just as it always did.

“Elrigon?”

The voice was stirring, since it was the first lively sound to resonate in the room since days ago. Recognizing the gentle concern of his wife, Morgós hastily slid all the messy papers back into the open tome and slammed shut the dusty volume, shoving himself up from his chair and pushing the book aside with less grace than he usually exhibited. “What?” he said, sounding half-panicked as he spoke, “What is it?” He looked up and forward with greyer eyes to where his spouse Arlomë was, descending into the shady room. She neared him slowly, examining his nervous, whitened face and lessened demeanor. “You have been walled up in here for nearly two days now.” She said softly, “You shall waste away into nothing if you do not come out of this cell you have entombed yourself in. You are needed.”

“By whom?” Morgôs knew he sounded caustic, as well as very raspy. He had not taken a drink in hours, as his forgotten chalice of wine had been emptied hours before and he had not sought food or drink since then. The General’s eyes thinned, their starlit gleaming diminished severely. Arlomë was not for a moment lost in the question, and shot an answer back barely a moment after he’d delivered the question. “By your Lieutenants, who send dispatches daily; by the king, who seeks your counsel often; by Pashtia, which requires your guidance,” she paused here, looking away from him, “…and by me, and Evrathol.”

Morgôs’ cold form softened and was warmed again. He walked forward and took her hand. “I am sorry, Arlomë, I was busy.” He was honestly apologetic. This was not the first time he’d become lost in his library, and he knew the repercussions, but Arlomë was not satiated. She looked upon him again, her eyes peering coolly into his. “With what?” she asked sternly, “Elrigon, what could draw you from the world and into the dark recesses of your mind, where none can enter? What occupies your thoughts and keeps you bound to that table?” She was always far too serious for Morgôs’ liking when discussing this matter.

The Avari General released his wife’s hand. “It is nothing, my dear, but a fleeting exercise.”

“Fleeting?” she persisted, trying to follow his gaze as it fell solemnly to the floor, “You have been indulging this ‘fleeting exercise’ constantly. It is no simple practice.” Morgôs turned back upon her, dazed and irate. “For years I have indulged it!” he proclaimed, loudly enough for the vaulted chamber to shoot the same words back at him as a lifeless echo, “There is no reason to distance myself from a practice that has eased my mind for half a century.” He eased up again, turning towards the desk where he had sat and placing his hands on its edges. He looked as if he were merely stooped over the table in contemplation, but he was really seeking stabilization; he had not walked in two days. “I admit,” he conceded, “I do become greatly involved at times, but not so much that I no longer live and breath and speak.”

Arlomë’s hand pulled him around, almost sending him to his knees, but he did not stumble and concealed his weariness as Arlomë goaded him to face her. “And what practice is that? Alchemy? Dwimmer-crafting?” Morgôs shot back quickly, “You know as well as I what it is.” It was the truth. She knew what occupied his time, but that retort was not the final word. Arlomë pressed the issue, her keen gaze piercing Morgôs where he stood. Her mind was sharp and wise, and she knew even he would let slip something. “I know,” she said then, “but not as well as you do. Writing may be an admirable art, but you have practically abjured the society of the outside. Why do you dissemble, Elrigon? Your intentions could not be so dark that you must continually conceal them from me.”

Morgôs was tired of this discourse now. It was a repetition of many he had had with her, and, in his opinion, a useless endeavor. “What good is there in redundancy?” he snapped, “We oft converse like this, but all is shortly forgotten once I have conceded to your will, and all is well again. When again I resume, you come upon me again with the same words. Let the matter die where it lies, so that I may have peace.” The last word echoed as well, as if to drive home the message or at least allude to finality, but Arlomë was not to be outdone. “Every time you steal away into this catacomb,” she replied, “I ask the same question, and every time you give no response. You are my husband, Elrigon, not a sinister enigma. I will cease today, but next time my efforts will be doubled.”

“And my heart shall be doubly hardened against them.” The General snarled, his tired face twisting, if only for a moment, into a dark grimace. Then, it sagged and became weary again, and the great figure staggered and nearly fell. His wife hurried to his aide, helping him to stand. It dawned on him as she aided him what words he had said and the harshness of them. This was not madness, just folly. As he regained his composure, he grasped her hands again, returning to himself.

“Forgive me, my love. You know how I become in these periods of seclusion. It is my own fault. If not for you, I would be locked away in this place. I am sorry to be angry with you.” Arlomë seemed to understand. “You were not yourself – as you rarely are these days.” She could not help but add the final section, but Morgôs ignored it and spoke calmly. “I will not venture here again for a great time, I swear. I rebuke these pages and books and their tempting spells, for I would be more at peace with you.” He embraced her, and a smile managed to appear, albeit small, on his grim face.

There was a pause and a silence in the room, broken by Arlomë’s curious question that came a minute later. “Would you rebuke them eternally?”

“Why do you ask questions to which you already know the answers?”

[Novnarwen]

“Father, Tarkan?”

Almost startled by being interrupted, he eyed Pelin coming towards him. There he is. Like a servant he runs my errands, like poultry he obeys me and as far as his curiosity goes, he’s like a child… Inside, the Priest was laughing wildly, madly in love with the idea of having Pelin act more as a disciple than a fellow brother in faith. Pelin had been nothing but kind and gentle towards the Priest and ever since they had met, Pelin had been admiring the Priest more than the King himself. He had been fully devoted to the Priest, who had treated him with strictness, but also a form of respect. Yet, the priest, too self obsessed, did not have any feelings for someone who was weak, someone like Pelin. Poor Pelin; if it was up to the priest, Pelin would never know his own part in this play, not before it would be too late.

Smiling faintly, (whether it was of a mocking character or if it was sincere, it was difficult to tell,) the Priest came to meet him. “What took you so long?” he asked the young man, being unexpectedly strict. Narrowing his eyes, he tried reading the man’s thoughts. Was he already obsessed with the book and the letter? Was he to wait a bit more before he did something; let Pelin get even more curious? With wrinkled brows, Tarkan cast a simple look at the wheelbarrow which Pelin had brought with him containing all of Tarkan’s belongings, trying to avoid eye contact. Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a figure moving. As a woman took a step forward, the Priest instantly recognized her as the Princess Gjeelea. Seeing her, he was stricken with a numbness he barely knew existed.

“Princess,” Tarkan muttered and bowed in respect. “How can I help you, my lady?” he asked politely, being insecure, feeling his cheeks getting redder and redder. All he could think of now, embarrassed by the situation he found himself in, was how he were to make Pelin’s life miserable after this. Pelin should have known that this was not the time do make arrangements with the Royal family. He frowned, looking at the Princess, thinking. Had she come on her own initiative maybe?

[Under construction. Only to extend paragraphs, not to go further in events.]

[alaklondewen]

“Why do you ask questions to which you already know the answers?”

Arlomë pulled back from the General’s embrace and looked up, searchingly, into his face. His graceful features were pale and lined with weariness. Her long slender hand rose and gently touched his cheek, tracing the shape of his cheekbone with her thumb. “Hope,” she said simply to answer his question, and then let her hand drop. As she turned from Elrigon to move closer to his desk, he repeated the word, dripping with sarcasm. Silence settled over the couple once more, and Arlomë let her eyes roam over the length of Morgôs’ desk. He had not left any of his work uncovered, but had quickly stashed his documents when she called him a few minutes ago. She slowly touched the hardwood, then lifted her fingertips and examined the dust which had transferred to her pale skin. Then she quickly rubbed them together and broke the long silence. “When this first began, Elrigon, I thought it was simply a phase that would shortly disappear.” She paused, gathering her thoughts. She could feel Morgôs turn his eyes upon her, but she continued to look at the desk. “As the years passed, I continued to hope that this interest would pass.” Arlomë waved her arm over the desk and toward the surrounding shelves. “Now, each time you let...whatever this is...consume you...” She stopped, taking a breath, then turned toward her husband again. Her eyes flashed with fury. “I can see what this does to you. I ask...and will never stop asking, Elrigon, because I will not give up hope that one day you will surprise me.”

“I have sworn to you that I will not venture here. What else can I do?” The sarcasm had left the General’s voice, and it seem to Arlomë that he was apologetic.

“You swore only to let these pages go for a time. I would wish for you to leave them forever.” Arlomë held his gaze steady, but Morgôs looked away, staring vaguely toward his shelves. “I cannot promise you that,” his voice was low, yet sincere. He held himself straight, but Arlomë could still see the weariness in his limbs from not being used. She hated seeing him like this, and so she answered, “Then I cannot promise to leave you with it in peace.”

“You do not understand...” The General began again, turning his grey eyes on his wife, but she did not allow him to continue. “You are right,” she said softly. “I do not understand. You say this eases your mind, yet it seems to me it places a greater strain on your mind than the other things in your life. Maybe if I could understand.” Arlomë leaned on the desk and scanned it, before reaching for the great tome that took so much of her husband’s time and sliding it across the desk toward her. “May I see?”

[Firefoot]

Being free of any meetings or responsibilities during this morning, Siamak had decided to take a walk about the city, despite the gathering clouds typical of the season. Making himself better known in the city had actually been one of the General's 'words of advice' to ousting his sister in achieving the throne of Pashtia one day. Morgôs had visited the palace fairly regularly in the past month, though not in the past few days, and the lessons had always been interesting. Morgôs was an interesting teacher and Siamak was quick to understand, though putting some of the things into practice had been more difficult, at least at first. Slowly, he had begun asserting himself more politically and socially, though he still had a long way to go.

This growing boldness was one contributing factor to the lack of decision between himself and Gjeelea concerning the emissary. He knew they would have to decide something soon, but instead of gaining progress most of their meetings seemed to have the opposite effect. For himself, he still wasn't sure whether or not accepting would be a good idea, and he was fairly confident that Gjeelea was in the same situatiion of indecision. Instead of working toward that end, however, they tended to end up arguing over it, and usually she won. It achieved nothing however, and it was almost as if they had reached a decision not to decide. Siamak supposed that once he had made his own decision (and she hers) it would go better. He wished he knew who he could trust to ask for advice. He had toyed with the idea of asking the General for quite some time, but he had never brought up the topic for fear of invoking another episode such as the one which had occurred more than a month ago now.

Walking past the construction site of the new temple, it occurred to him that he had not talked to the High Priestess since the night of the banquet. She had seemed fairly trustworthy, and perceptive at that. She also had a much closer connection with Rhais than he was comfortable with, but surely the gods should be consulted in this decision? Maybe she would have some words of wisdom for him. With that in mind he changed his course to head for the temple of Rhais. It occurred to him that he might talk to the Priest Tarkan as well, but he quickly dismissed the idea. He had met the man only briefly, and had no desire to seek out such a meeting again. There was something about him, nothing tangible, that Siamak did not like. He made the impression of knowing something (a little too much?), combined with the fact that he was a Priest. His discomfort with a close connection to the gods was one idiosyncracy that Siamak would likely never overcome.

Siamak reached the temple shortly and hesitated for only the barest moment before entering. His eyes soon adjusted to the dim light and he made out the figure of the High Priestess standing near the large statue of Rhais. Though her back was to him, she appeared thoughtful by her stance, and Siamak wondered if it might be a bad time. He wasn't quite sure what kind of meditating the Priestess did to talk with Rhais, nor had he ever inquired. He was here now, though, and he spoke up softly, though his voice carried in the empty space. "High Priestess?"

She turned and smiled. "Good morning, Prince Siamak," she greeted. "Have you come to worship?" Siamak supposed that they had to ask that question, and so he didn't feel bad to deny it.

"Not exactly," he answered. "The truth is, I had hoped to talk to you. If you're not busy, that is." Her expression let him know that she was listening, and he continued. "It's about the Emissary. My sister and I are having some trouble reaching a consensus, and I remembered our conversation at the banquet a while ago..." He looked for confirmation that she recalled it.

She nodded, "I remember."

"The point is," said Siamak, "I was wondering if the Goddess has imparted you with any wisdom concerning our decision. I seek your advice." Though the concept of such divine intervention was uncomfortable to him, it was the honest truth, and he trusted Zamara with such spiritual matters. If anyone could give him this answer, it would be her.

[Kransha]

Morgôs was taken aback, but did not show it. He had not expected this question. Arlome had never before shown such an interest, since Morgôs always indicated that the work he did was of little value to him and would be less so to her, and most of it might be upsetting. As long as he remained a functioning participant in the world’s machinations, she did not bother to inquire after his work. He was very unprepared to make the transition to having his work screened by her – he feared it might frighten or confuse her, and cause the advent of more dogged questions which he would be loathe to answer. Nervously, he fished for words to reply with. “This is not the best time for such a question.” he said at last.

“When will the time come, then?”

Not knowing how to respond, Morgôs did not. Arlome continued. “Elrigon, in the last month you have spent more time in here than you have in some years. You are not who you were. What has affected this change?” she walked towards him again, slowly, with a mournful somberness in her, her eyes filled with a degree of hope, but also of confused sadness. “Tell me this at least.”

The pause that fell upon the Elven General was unsteady and dark, but, after a minute, he begrudgingly gave the answer. He knew it could not be hidden forever. “The Emissary.” Arlomë had a subtle reaction, and Morgôs guessed that she did not comprehend what he meant – or she was trying not to. “What about him?” she inquired with tranquil nonchalance. Morgôs sighed quietly and replied with a grave tone. “He brought word of our kindred, other Elves in the west, as you may know.”

Still, Arlomë looked unaffected. She made an unnoticeable noncommital noise, and an unseen look of troubled recognition fell upon her face for a moment, but the General did not see. Morgôs took another deep breath, he knew she must have been told of this, but she did not know as much as he. While in communication with the Prince, Morgôs’ had, in his subtle Elven way, discerned or drawn out more. Calmly, the General was prepared to admit this now, or he knew he would get no peace from his spouse. “The Emissary told much more about the West-Elves to Prince Siamak, apparently.” He added, softly and meekly. Arlomë was at last jolted from her state of graceful serenity.

“What makes you think thus?” She said curiously.

“He told me.”

There was a pause again. Arlomë knew, actually, that Morgôs had communicated with Siamak at the festivities a month ago in honor of the Emissary’s arrival, but she did not know of his frequent talks with the young Prince of Pashtia since then, and had good reason to be a bit suspicious, since he had told her of no such thing, and he usually told her anything important that occurred. Arlomë moved closer to her husband as he turned away, trying to evade the full extent of the question that had not yet been asked, but was clearly written on his wife’s face. Morgôs sat tiredly in his chair and slumped into it, laying one arm on the desk before it, and spoke again.

“Siamak told me some of what the Emissary said to him, information which, I assume, is unbeknownst to all others save him. Siamak is not the most careful person when it comes to letting certain things slip out. His tongue is not yet trained to remain silent when it should be.” This bout of information was a trove he had not intended to let slip for quite a while yet, but it was coming out now, and he could not stop himself. He was unable to consider his wife’s next question before his mind automatically initiated an answer. “What did he tell you.” She asked, and he dutifully replied. “Not much, but enough to explain some of my own scribbles, and confirm the accuracy of others. It was also enough to cause some forgotten facts to come into my mind. If they were once forgotten, I certainly could not allow them to be forgotten again, so…” he trailed off, and gestured at the pile of newly written volumes stacked on and around his desk.

There was no reply from the other party again. Morgôs had kept his eyes from looking to Arlomë during his monologue, but looked at her now. She was unemotional, upsettingly so. This meant she was unwilling to convey whatever emotion was inundating her. Morgôs turned away again and leaned down, sliding one leather-bound book from the pile next to his desk. No dust had collected on it. He lifted it and hefted it in his hand; it was not necessarily heavy or weighty, just above average size. The General new what this book contained by heart; it was the most harmless of his volumes.

The tome contained drawings and some remembered descriptions of landscapes, as well as amateur maps forged by himself, an amateur cartographer. Most pictures depicted a place he did not know much of, but had numerous memories of floating around in the deep darkness of his mind. It was a lake he remembered, the contours of which occupied most drawings, and a forested shore-land beside it. Drawings of trees and landforms foreign to Pashtia were in the book, different forms of plant and some animal life that his mind had constructed images of from memory. They were mystical, more so than they were realistic, and so alien to Pashtian lands that they could be thought of as fantastic. Morgôs did not know where the images came from, but he guessed that he had known them at one time long, long ago, before the establishment of Pashtia. It was an interesting record and set of sketches, but utterly watered-down, unlike some other books.

He pushed himself up from the chair and extended the book to his wife. “Here,” he said, “quench your thirst with this. I must to the palace to take counsel with Prince Siamak. I do not believe I shall be long. I hope that, when I return, your questions will be lessened. Farewell.” He did not even let her open the book before he had swept himself past her, pulling his trailing cloak behind him, and left the room.

[Imladris]

Arshalous glared at Korak before looking again at the construction of the temple. She could see what he was thinking, could see the mean glint of victory like some rat who had outsmarted a cat for a little crumb of cheese without realizing that the cat actually had the whole piece between her paws. "You think you have won cousin, triumphed over me in some petty way," she said, "but you actually haven't."

He laughed at her then his handsome face contorting in disbelief. "Not only are we working together but we are working together for a cause you vehemently disagree with! How have I not won?"

She smiled softly and played with a pebble with her sandled foot. "Because, dear cousin, my helping you build this temple is proof that you simply were not rich enough to do it." She stopped, relishing the look of his face paling, and then turning purple red. "It means that I had to help you...I had to help you get what you want. You couldn't have done this without me. Without me, this temple wouldn't even exist -- or else the sky god would have had to wait a much longer time for his temple. If anything, Cousin," she added, narrowing her eyes, "you should be thanking me, instead of gloating."

She looked at him for a moment, her lips turning into a smirk. "Oh look!" she said suddenly, her eyes pointing at the departing form of the Princess. "There goes your lady love! Will you hasten after her, adoring the very ground her sandals touch, and proclaim your love again before the watching public?" She scoffed. "It disgusts me," she hissed, "the way you pretend to love her."

"Who says it is a pretend love?" asked Korak angrilly.

"Oh do not recite your lies to me, Korak. The people will see soon enough that the only thing you desire is the throne. And if they do not see it and if they welcome you as King then they are fools." She would have gone on to say that the King was a fool for even letting it take place -- for even considering Korak an heir when he had a perfectly good son, but she realized that such rash words spoken before Korak would turn her into a fool and end in a traitor's death.

[Nurumaiel]

Korak clamped his teeth together and bit back an angry retort. His mother once told him that if he grew angry and defensive at an accusation of another, it meant he was guilty of what he had been accused of. If the scheme was to work, he must pretend to all, even Lady Arshalous, that he loved the Princess.

Morashk, still skulking in the shadows, noticed that his master was refraining from answering. Good, good! He had seen many sharp words exchanged between the Lord Korak and the Lady Arshalous, and in all of them Korak had answered without thinking. But if only he could keep his face from speaking! The way he coloured, the way he paled, the way he scowled, the way fear slipped slowly in... his face was too expressive. Morashk resolved he would bring it up. Was he not his master's advisor?

"What of the fact that you are helping me?" said Korak, drawing himself up. Ah, now he towered above her! It gave him a feeling of strength. "You live in a world of illusion. You think the fact that I accepted your help means I am stooping. This is not so. I told the King I would fund the building of the temple, and never spoke a word to ask you for help. I was not even present when you agreed to assist me." He was standing in the doorway, true, but what did that matter? "'Twas the King asked your help, not I. You consented. And I, as a gracious, noble act, accepted your offer of help. I see nothing humbling about this."

Morashk was creeping closer. The Lady Arshalous would have a reply ready. She was not one to give in to defeated rage, as her cousin was. The Lord Korak would perhaps need assistance.

But Korak gave his cousin no time to answer. It was an effective way, he thought, to end words with the victory on his side. He had the last word, whether she wanted to speak her not. He bowed slightly at the waist, with a cruel, mocking smile. "I bid you good day, cousin," he said. "Your assistance in building the temple earns my utter thanks. 'Tis a pity that the King so called you to do what you vehemently opposed. But, my lady, it is a good cause, as all things you oppose are." And then he turned and strode away to find the Princess Gjeelea.

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

What a strange man, Gjeelea thought as the Priest greeted her. She had seen Tarkan on many occasions though rarely did the princess address him directly or have proper conversation with him. His awkwardly flustered and feminine facial features made a funny combination, Gjeelea decided.

“Is this a bad time, Priest?” the princess asked, looking at the wheelbarrow full of odds and ends. She looked up to the red-cheeked Priest. “If you are busy I could come at another time.”

Catching Tarkan’s flickering gaze, Gjeelea peered at the man. He truly was an eerily strange man – the princess did not know a thinner man, or a taller one. Tarkan’s greasy black hair, matched with his pale skin, gave him the look of a dying man.

“Oh, no…no, of course not, princess,” Tarkan sought to control his faltering voice. “I can always spare a moment. What is it you need?”

“I had hoped, Priest, to learn your feelings on the Emissary,” Gjeelea began. “My brother and I have a difficult decision to make, and I seek not just to please our own desires in the matter but to reach a decision that works for everyone.”

[Imladris]

"Your assistance in building the temple earns my utter thanks. 'Tis a pity that the King so called you to do what you vehemently opposed. But, my lady, it is a good cause, as all things you oppose are."

Arshalous stepped back as if Korak had slapped her cheek. Her dark eyes flashed as Korak strode back on his heel, his slinking servant accompanying him. She would ignore his poisoned insult, but she would not let him disillusion himself further upon certain other matters. She dashed over to him and stopped in front of him, forcing him to stop. "You said that I helped you," she whispered softly. "Let me tell you now that I do not help you. I help the King. I do this for the King. Not for you. But because he asked me to."

With a glance of disdain, she strode away from him. The wind pulled her hair and made her bracelets tinkle merrily. She wished that she could shush their voices, for they laughed when they should weep.

And why should they weep, she asked herself mockingly. Because her cousin had insulted her? But he had never said that before. Had he? Or had she been deaf to it.

She twisted the rings that sparkled on her fingers. Korak was no man -- all his courage, all his wit, all his rude leavings stemmed from his servant. He was no noble. He was no better than she.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

The Chamberlain found the King awaiting him in the private audience chamber of his apartments. It was rare that Faroz would be there before Jarult, but the King had been an early riser of late. In fact, the Chamberlain suspected some days that the King had not slept at all the night before, and yet he did not seem fatigued. The King rose and came toward him, and his face – so taciturn these last weeks – bore the trace of a smile. "Come my Chamberlain, be seated. Shall I pour us some tea?"

Jarult’s composure remained intact. "Thank you Khamul, but I am afraid that I cannot take tea in the morning anymore. My stomach…"

"Yes, Chamberlain, I remember. I have ordered that tea be brought that is made of certain herbs from the gardens. It is, they say, wholesome drink and should not upset you."

Jarult doubted there was any tea that he could drink so early, but he did not contradict his King. "Thank you Khamul," he said, settling himself upon a few narrow cushions while Faroz poured them out two steaming cups. They drank together in silence for a time before the King spoke. The Chamberlain could tell that there was an issue of great importance the King wished to discuss. Jarult knew from his King’s manner as well that the issue was one that Faroz had already decided upon, and that the conversation was to be about implementation rather than counsel.

"Tell me," the King began, "do you know aught of the Emissary’s god, Melkor?" Jarult merely raised his eyebrows slightly and shook his head. "He and I have been speaking of Him. He sounds not unlike Rae. The Emissary would have me believe that they are the same, and that we have merely perceived Melkor incorrectly."

At this Jarult could not contain his surprise. "Indeed?" he said. "And in what ways are we mistaken in our faith?" The King seemed not to notice the Chamberlain’s tone. Jarult was not an overly pious man, but he did have faith in the old ways and the gods. The idea that they were being criticised by a foreigner did not sit well with him. The thought that these criticisms might be having an impact on the King alarmed him.

"Melkor is not only the god of the sky, but the god of all," the King proceeded as though repeating a lesson. "He is the bringer of freedom, and a mighty teacher. It is said in the Emissary’s land that Melkor gives the Kings who worship him the ability to create wonderful objects, and the wisdom to use them in their rule.”

“He sounds mighty indeed,” Jarult said in response, setting the half finished cup of tea on the table. Already, his stomach was griping up and he knew that he would feel uncomfortable all morning. “But what of Rhais? Is she entirely unknown in the West?”

“She is known, but by another name. Elbereth they call her, but she is not worshipped by Men, for she is the handmaiden of Melkor. The Emissary says that the Elves in his land pay the goddess great tribute, though. He believes that it is the Elves of this land who have made Rhais the equal of Rae.”

The Chamberlain, distracted by the growing discomfort of his stomach replied without thinking. “Many believe that Rhais is supreme, Khamul.” He winced at his lack of discretion, but the King barely seemed to notice the gaffe. His gaze was now on a point somewhere above, or perhaps behind, the Chamberlain’s head, and his hand stroked the Ring that Jarult knew lay beneath the fabric of his robes. “Yes, yes,” the King acknowledged almost dreamily, “I do not dispute it…” He shook his head as though to wake himself and then smiled, saying. “But it is too early for theological debates. Tell me, have the Lady Arshalous and Priest Tarkan arrived yet, for we have important matters to discuss about the new Temple.”

Chamberlain Jarult, happy for the excuse to get away from the tea before his King bid him to drink more, rose to his feet. “I will see if they have arrived, Khamul.” Bowing deeply he left the room, his sandaled feet making a dry whisper across the stone as he went.

Alone once more, the King smiled at an empty corner of the room and said, “You should be going too, should you not?” Ashnaz removed his Ring and stepped forward.

“You are becoming ever more perceptive, my friend. You saw me almost as soon as I arrived.”

“I knew you were coming,” the King said. “I felt you.” The Emissary smiled before departing.

Now truly alone, the King settled back upon his cushions and let the memory of his dream take hold of him once more. It had come to him in the few hours of sleep that he had each night before Ashnaz came to fetch him for their forays into Korak’s villa. It had come to him seven nights in a row now. There had been a figure of light calling to him from the West amid a gathering of cloud and shadows. Howls, high and fierce, like the despairing cries of lost things had filled the air, and he had covered his ears and quailed. But then a voice, strong, melodious and pleasing had been heard, and the howls had become as voices in a chorus, harmonious with the song of the Voice. He repeated the words of the song to himself now, just beneath his breath, the strange syllables dribbling from his lips like honey:

Ash nazg durbatuluk, ash nazg gimbatul,
Ash nazg thrakatuluk, agh burzum-ishi krimpatul.

[Orofaniel]

He had noticed the weary looks his mother had sent him the last couple of days. But at the same time Evrathol felt that this was no new phenomenon. He managed to see why his mother was worried, because she always acted like this when her husband retired to this one room. Evarthol wasn't quite sure what kept the man there for such long periods at a time, but it seemed like nothing could disturb him there, as if he was in another world where not even his family had the power to bring him back...home.

The door was closed. Evarthol knew Arlöme was trying to convince Môrgos that it was time to show that his other cases were equally prioritised. The hallway was rather dark considering the early hour. Evrathol closed up, and felt a short quiver as he walked. The ruthless coldness the hallway showed at this particular hour was something Evrathol had never noticed before.

Evrathol was going to do something totally out of character; eavesdrop- Like he did when he was a child knowing no other way to gain the information he was looking for.

The conversation was flowing gradually between the two of them, Evrathol could hear that much. Arlome was concerned about her husband as he had walled himself up for two whole days not thinking about the outside world and the people that depended on him. "Irresponsible and…..," Evrathol thought. He was then filled with regrets. He didn’t want to think ill of his own father - his flesh and blood. How could he be so ungrateful? Môrgos had been an excellent and most noble father for him, and he still was, even though Evrathol was old enough to take care of himself. They were still father and son however, which meant that they had a special bond – or so he’d always thought a relationship between a father and a son would be. He might have been wrong though. They were like to drops of water. This however was only in the appearance. Their personality and views on many things were surprisingly different from one and other. Evrathol believed he had the spirit of his mother. His loyalty however, lied with both, and he wouldn’t do anything that would offend them.

He'd almost forgotten that he was here to find out more about the situation, as he was caught up in his own thoughts and theories.

He heard quick footsteps and knew that one of them were one their way out. His head spun. He didn’t want them to find out that he'd eavesdropped. It was such a foul thing to do for a character like himself. His childish actions didn’t suit his character at all, nor was it acceptable to go on doing this. He needed to confront them. However this was not the most suitable time to think this through as the footsteps were getting closer. The door was opening. Evrathol stood behind it, holding his breathe.

His father's faint figure disappeared quickly as he made his way through the hallway, not even offering the door another glance. Evrathol could spot him through a tiny crack. He sighed with relief. He pushed the door slightly. Within moments the door was once again shut. His mother was on the other side of the door. What she was doing Evrathol could only guess. Strengthening his velvet tunic he made his way back through the dark hallway, not feeling any wiser than when he’d first entered it.

[Nurumaiel]

Foolish Lady Arshalous! Korak smiled in a satisfied manner at her retreating back. So she had strove to get the last word, and so she had got it. He had said something that bothered her, something that flew to that shrivelled heart of hers like an arrow and pierced it, to make her bewildered and anger. Ah, yes, he had hurt her, somehow. If he had not she would have made a sharp, cunning answer that pierced him. But her answer merely made him laugh. Helping the King? Did the dear sweet cousin possibly think that he, the Lord Korak, wanted her, the Lady Arshalous, to help him? No, let her help the King! He wanted no help from her. It satisfied him that she did it at the King's request. She was forced into alliance with him, and he had not been made to even ask her. Forced she must have been. She would never consent to something she so bitterly opposed just because the King said it would please him. No, it would be close to an order, or a threat, that would make her consent.

Morashk had crept to his master's side, and he, too, was gazing after the Lady Arshalous, though not with a triumphant smirk, like Korak. His expression was one of twisted bitterness. His hands clenched at his sides, his eyes smouldered with resentment and hatred. Yes, hatred... how he hated her! Poisonous, cunning serpant of a woman! To think that in days gone by he had not hated her. To think that he had actually...

"Morashk, it is good to see you here," said Korak, and the servant's thoughts were interrupted. "I could have used your assistance in my recent conversation with my cousin. I should have known better than to approach her without you by my side. I held my own well," he said, with another smirk, "but in such times I consider you most precious."

"My Lord is too gracious," said Morashk. Gracious, the Lord Korak? Pah! He was never gracious. He was amiable now because he had won a contest of spiteful words, and wanted to spread his triumph to those nearest to him... which was far away. But gracious... never.

"Now, come, Morashk, and let us find the Princess," said Lord Korak. "I saw her pass by not too long ago, and I want to find her and speak to her."

[Kransha]

Even riding a horse was strenuous to Morgôs these days. Cantering on horseback was not as easy as it appeared, and the stern haunches, proud and upheld, of the General’s steed continued to jut out sharply as it trod the road, throwing Morgôs’ weak legs up and down violently. His stomach felt unusual, but not so much that the pain denoted sickness, merely profuse weariness and lack of exercise. He felt dreadfully pathetic, leaning again the ironclad mane of the animal and breathing hard when he had once been able to ride a horse back and forth for hours, dodging enemy warriors and their brazen weaponry. What had he been reduced to?

This ride was not helping his situation. The strain did re-accustom him to pain and conditioned him into his former state of desensitization, but he was weak and pale, less strong than he had been. Luckily, there were few people on the street to see his degenerate state, since ominous storm clouds were brewing, swirling above and preparing to rain down on the city of Kanak. Morgôs thanked his lucky stars for this and continued, his own unsteady swaying and rocking forcing the horse he rode on to sway from side to side and meander unstably. The General, though, was slowly recovering his familiar technique, and managed to keep the horse reined in as he moved down the road. Before him, the road widened, and the roofline of houses grew higher until the tall, shimmering stone of the Temple of Rhais loomed, arching over him. It glowed with great, powerful light, but its beauty was dimmed by the clouded sky.

Morgôs was not religious, not at all, but spiritual enlightenment was something that could be very settling, even if it was not really enlightenment, in the literal sense. Morgôs was not a praying Elf, he did not consult religious texts or seek communication with higher beings. He was content to live and be well-off in most regards, just as he was. Today, though, was abnormal. He could think of few things that might grant him peace and lift him from his stupor. He did not plan to perform any weird rituals or strange rites to appease gods of whose existence he was unsure of, but he did plan to relax and find some tranquility, for he knew the temple promoted meditation of the sort, though most was meant to offer prayer to the Goddess. Morgôs was willing to offer prayer – he was willing to do anything that it took to shake his soul’s sickness from him.

The General stables his horse at one of the public hitching posts outside, Morgôs proceeded up the wide steps of the Temple and into it, only to meet two familiar faces as he approached the statue of Rhais. Speaking there, was none other than Prince Siamak and the High Priestess Zamara. Morgôs had expected to see Zamara, as she did spend most of her time here, but not Siamak. Perhaps he was a regular worshipper, but, from what Morgôs had learned of Siamak from his teaching sessions, the Prince was not immensely religious. The Elf admitted that the surprise was pleasant, rather than unpleasant, and walked towards the two, addressing the Prince. Both noticed him as he spoke.

“Prince Siamak, good morning.”

Siamak smiled, though there was little feeling in the look. He obviously had something on his mind. He did, however, reply, “And to you, General.” and nodded his stately head accordingly. Morgôs did not give the meeting further thought and turned back towards the statue, but the intoning voice of Zamara stopped him with his foot nearly in mid-air. “General,” she said, her voice sounding as if it had been laden with false bemusement, “I have not seen you at this temple before. What brings you to the Temple of Rhais?”

Morgôs noticed an immediate trend in his meetings with the Priestess. She was tactful, but possessed of mortal curiosity and wit, the kind that few people in Pashtia held. It was an admirable quality, but one that irked him greatly. Turning his head and upper body, without fully turning to face her, he spoke soberly. “My mind is not at ease this day, and no place is better than this for settlement.”

Zamara’s lip curled in a subtle grin. “I did not know you were an advocate of Rhais.” Morgôs knew this was a baiting question, since most Avari in the realm worshipped Rhais, since the worship of her was based in their own old ways, and the answer was somewhat obvious, but he indulged her, turning his body towards her. “I, like most of my kinsmen,” he quietly said, “am an advocate of the Goddess. But, I do not pray to her.” He was about to turn again when the High Priestess stabbed with another question.

“You are here for meditation, then?” She questioned.

He spun a little faster this time, his voice very meagerly hostile. “I am here for peace, High Priestess.” He informed her, with masking serenity, “The only thing I pray for is that I shall find it.” He turned again, but a second voice, less prompt than the first, intoned to halt him in his tracks – that of Prince Siamak. “General,” said the Prince, seemingly unaware of the ill mood of the General, “perhaps today is an appropriate time for one of your lessons.” He sounded polite and unobtrusive, and Morgôs did not dare voice his annoyance or hostility to the youthful prince who, to his knowledge, had only good intentions in mind.

“Yes, certainly.” He replied, bowing his head, “Join me outside after you have finished speaking to the Priestess. We will conduct today’s lesson outside.” Finally, he turned and, with a spring in his step to put distance between himself and further questions.

[Imladris]

Korak said that I did not appreciate good things....that's what he said....why did he say that? Arshalous reigned in her white mare and buried her face in the course mane. Why was this bothering her so? He was a little worm. He was a lying snake. He was lying when he had said that. She fidgeted uncomfortably. Had he?

Suspicion slithered into her mind and whispered softly in her ear. She had never yet been concerned with her lack of friends or that she had never been invited to one any of the parties that the nobles occasionally threw. But...but maybe this was why.

What did it matter what others thought of her? Korak was lying. That was all there was to it. Did she not care for honour? Did she not care for true nobility? Were those not good things? But did she care about them because they were good, or because she thought caring about those things made her better than Korak?

Was she just like Korak? Was she shallow, a scrabbler for what she thought was best without a care in the world for anything else? Did she just do what she wanted without a thought? No! She couldn't be like Korak!

She straightened and urged her steed towards Korak's court. He wouldn't be home yet...he would be gloating over the temple or proclaiming his false love to the Princess. But his mother was there....the Lady Hababa...she had promised to visit her every so often. Now would be an excellent time...nobody unpleasant was home.

Somewhat pleased with the thought of meeting her aunt, she heard her name called and realized that it was the Chamberlain. "Lady Arshalous!" he called. "The King requests your presence for there are matters respecting the Temple that he wishes to discuss with you."

Arshalous frowned, disappointed and annoyed that she had to go and talk about the Temple. Since it was about the temple, Korak would probably be there too and she did not want to see him gloating over his victory. Cringing, she mutely turned the horse around, tied her to a post, and followed the Chamberlain to the King's presence. She noticed that Korak was not with the King and even though she was happy that he was absent, the fact also puzzled her.

Bowing to the King, she said softly, "Greetings, my lord."