Shadow of the West

[Imladris]

Arshalous wrapped her cloak tightly around her as she leaned against a courtyard pillar. The chill wind embraced her, twirled her silver-flecked raven hair, whispered secrets in her ear.

Her once green grasslands were desolate and brown, her vineyards, which had stretched across the land like a rolling sea, were shriveled skeletal sticks -- a mere wasteland.

The stables no longer smelled pleasantly of hay and horse for the animals had all been sold because of the poor harvests. The servants had been let go...only Semra remained.

Dust plumed upon the road, the tramp of boots chanted through the air. Arshalous cringed and ducked inside, locking the door behind her. She didn't want to see their hideous leering faces, yellowed fangs dripping with spittle...she shuddered, wondering how on earth such creatures ever came to welcomed into Pashtia. Goddess help them....

And she wept....wept for what had faded, what had been destroyed, wept for the name that she was no longer allowed to speak...

[Firefoot]

Siamak was sitting in his chambers, lost deep in thought. He had been doing a lot of thinking in the past months. Pashtia was far from what it had been. Kanak once had been filled with bustling people, laughing, chatting people, but now those who did go out in the streets went quietly, and only at need, trying to avoid the attention of the monsters that now patrolled the streets. More noticeable to him, though, was the change in the palace. It was not so evident, perhaps, as the change in the streets, but all the more stark to one familiar with it. Daily business still went on, but not with the same fluidness which had been when his mother was alive and Jarult still the Chamberlain. It was like wagon wheels that needed to be sanded and oiled: they still worked, but the movement was lacking refinement. And like in the streets, people, Siamak inculded, tried to avoid notice, mostly of the king.

The few times he had seen his father, there seemed to be some madness about him, evident both in his manner and the decrees he had recently passed. Siamak also felt certain that his father no longer trusted him, even suspected him. He did not know the cause precisely, but he thought that it was probably rooted in the same place as all their other problems: the Emissary, and his lord Annatar. At first, Siamak had thought that the problems had started that day when his mother was killed and word of Alanzia’s attack reached Kanak. Now, however, he saw that it was not so, and that the start had been before that, on the very day when the Emissary crossed the Great Desert into Pashtia. Through his servant Okarid he learned all that happened in the palace, and much in the city, from the mouths of both servants and guards. Slowly, he had pieced together events, creating a larger understanding of the whole. He suspected that, while only evident in recent months, his father’s madness had also begun before then. He recalled now the day when he and his sister had met with the Emissary, and he thought he had seen a flicker of a shadow by the window. It had been the same day his father had been missing; the two events were connected, Siamak thought: he had seen his father’s shadow perhaps, since the ring of his apparently granted invisibility. How many other times had his father attended conversations unheeded by the speakers? What other hidden powers might he now have?

There must be some connection between the orcs and the ring, Siamak mused. It seemed to have cowed the orcs into doing his father’s bidding during the war, and now the hideous monsters answered to few, if any, save his father. This was concerning, for how would the ring have anything to do with the orcs, unless the orcs too had come from the western lands? The Emissary had called them enemies of Men, which could be true enough, but if his father had control of them here, would this Annatar also have control of them in the west? For surely he would have some kind of magic ring as well, and if the orcs would not attack Pashtians, why would they attack those in the west? He knew that these orcs must be a primary key in the puzzle, but which lock it fit into he had yet to figure out.

Siamak was deeply worried for the future of Pashtia, yet he was afraid to do anything. He was afraid of what his father might do next in his further descent into madness. He needed to do something, though; he was, after all, the prince, and he had more power than many. He had few allies, but he thought there were some he could take to his side: Zamara, the High Priestess soon to be without a temple, the Lady Arshalous, who had been hit hard by the changes in Pashtia, and, however useful he may be, the former Chamberlain Jarult, who had known the inner workings of the palace better than all, perhaps, and one who had known his father well. And there was Morgôs, of course, the meetings with whom had been more secret than ever. It was an odd assortment, but he thought they would be trustworthy, and together perhaps they could manage to do something. Just what, he was not sure, but, afraid or not, something did need to be done, if he was to save his country from the madness of his father.

[Kransha]

It was a nice day, a calm, warm day in Kanak. In the quaint little chamber, though, it was cold. Nowadays, the palace was always cold. Not icy cold like a blade or chilly like a windy day – just cold. The walls of the chamber had been wrought over with ebony stone that glistened dimly in the light of blue-tinted torches, casting a blazing whitened shadow against sable stone, grimacing arches and lifeless statuary. At one end of the chamber lay a small, stool-like tablet flanking a long, overly polished slab of gleaming ebony, like the glinting material that made up the walls. Rhythmic tapping sounded, echoing like a consistent beat, rapping tentatively against the slab. Fingers drummed the makeshift table, drowning out the other sound that filled the room – singing.

It was amazing, really – a stroke of luck – that Morgôs had not been exiled from the court of the King, even after six long months of total chaos and fluctuation in Pashtia. After six months of pain and war, Morgôs was still General of Pashtia, albeit not the elf he once was. He had not been demoted, but his position was entirely ceremonial.

He remembered the day it had all changed. An attempt was made on his life, not a truly abnormal thing in wartime, but it had jogged his senses. He had been gravely ill, and became steadily sicker during that day and the coming weeks, losing much of his stamina. The Elf had found out, on that very same day that Bekah was dead and Pashtia was at war. He would’ve, under normal circumstances, jumped at this opportunity to dive back into himself and become the furious War-lord, Morgôs, once again, but his form was diminished and frail. He was to weak to attend the council of that war, and his adjutant Gyges went in his stead. When Faroz, now called Khamûl, took the armies of Pashtia to war, Morgôs was given command of several battalions and ordered to annihilate the tribesmen who had been attacking Durvelt – the task he’d shirked for a month.

When he returned to Pashtia, triumphant, his arrival was overshadowed by the grandeur brought by Khamûl, who came with a terrible horde in his thrall and a force that had overwhelmed Pashtia’s most ancient enemy. On that day Morgôs felt terrible resentment. It had been his charge to wipe out Alanzia. Alanzia had cost him countless kinsmen and fought him in combat for millennia. Khamûl was no more than a yawning pup compared to him and yet he, clad in ebony armor whose passionate light glowed brighter and more powerfully than Morgôs’ silver panoply ever had, wielded a greater power and the unflinching allegiance, and fear, of thousands. But, that resentment decayed and disappeared. Morgôs held on doggedly to his allegiance to Khamûl, and it was only rewarded by Khamûl’s allowing him to remain in his court.

Now Morgôs had no real job, only a shadow of one. He did not control the things that ruled the streets or the armies. He felt, though, that he had no reason to turn from the rule of Khamûl. He may be deluded, but many kings had been. Someday, Faroz would die, and Gjeelea or Siamak would take over. Certainly neither of them would bow into the will of their father, and would distance themselves from this vile change. He held nothing against these beasts that roamed Pashtia, called orcs, and saw in them only rank brutality and stupidity, rather than untainted evil. Others told him he was blind not to loathe them, but something in him saw them as hounds, and no more than that, who did man’s bidding. The ejection of countless courtiers from Khamûl’s court was unexpected and unfortunate, but not terrible. Even though Morgôs’ own position had lost potency, at least he retained it. He had, though, been addressed on several occasions about resigning.

The one thing he couldn’t do.

As long as Khamûl reigned, Morgôs would be at his side. This was his doom, by choice of his own; his everlasting doom, which would ride him until the end of his days. He followed Khamûl still, not blindly, but without protest as the world became a stranger place than any world Morgôs had ever known. Several of his Elven kin had approached him about resigning in the wake of the change. Some were calling it the Cataclysm of Pashtia, a terrible event. Others hailed it as the nation’s Golden Age. His kindred though, Elven and mortal, close to him, seemed to agree more with the former. Morgôs, though, could not agree with them. He continued to go to the palace every day and wait for something, anything, to happen. He was loaded with political duties relating to the military: rationing, recruiting, volunteer numbers. Nothing his former occupation had entailed.

Morgôs remembered when he’d been called Warlord, the title of Army Commander used before everything in Pashtia was “modernized” by Khamûl’s grandfather. He’d been “Karandûn, the Warlord of Pashtia, Garok of the East, Mightiest of the Mighty.” Then he was “General of Pashtia, Hero of Pashtia.” Now, he was no more than Morgôs, the highest ranking non-commissioned officer with no real purpose in all the land: depressing. His frequent bouts of madness had not stopped either, leaving him sicker and sicker daily.

He’d attacked a soldier while camped outside of Durvelt, a serving girl who’d tended to him when he returned, and a courtier in the Palace. Since, each time, he almost immediately forgot his actions; the matters were not further pursued. The young girl who he’d injured on the day of Bekah’s death brought the issue to the King, but, since it was Morgôs’ word (what he thought had been an honest word) against hers, he won out. Strangely, though, the King had not seemed affected by the accusation, as if he had some preternatural knowledge of it. Still, he’d dismissed it without expressing concern. Some had commented on Morgôs’ behavioral alterations, but none many. Most were more worried about Pashtia’s alterations.

All that Morgôs was worried about at the moment was his work. He was not doing any official business, as he was supposed to, but rather consulting his own volumes, which he had brought to the Palace with him. Since he really had nothing else to do, this seemed logical. Ever since the end of what was now called “The War of the Orc” he had doggedly examined his archives. He found no evidence of any creature resembling orcs, or any other modern happenings that related to his lost memories. He was instead met in the tomes with more fantastical beasts, not these simple creatures or their smaller kin that patrolled Kanak and all of Pashtia in roughhousing gangs of armed thugs. Though he searched without end, he found nothing save for the familiar hauntings that plagued him before, but even more now. Nothing but pain…

“Cuiva, Ellerinon, cuiva!”

…and voices, as well. Recurrently, for months, he’d suffered another plague. Weekly, for the most part, but sometimes for days in a row he was pestered by the voice that had come to him on that day kneeling before the statue of Rhais. He’d forgotten about it, so the next time it came he was taken off guard. But that was the time that he was ill with the fever of war, so he dismissed the nonsensical voice as a hallucination. Then, it came again, and again, and again, all within days. He dismissed these to as freak occurrences, random side-effects of the bizarre happenings. As his detachment from himself grew, the voice, becoming clearer and stronger day by day, continued to berate him. The General no longer saw the serene beauty in the foreign words or the melodic sing-song of the spirit’s voice; he only felt the annoyance of one plagued by a gnat.

“Not now,” Morgôs growled mentally, “I’m not in the mood.” After two months of enduring the voice and trying to find meaning to it or its unknown tongue, he stopped looking for signs and either ignored it or argued it down. He found that it at least knew when he was “speaking” to it, and did not interrupt, so he could carry on conversations with it, though its words were not translatable. Lately, he simply tried to drive it away whenever it came, rather then let it continue to whisper into his mind. The voice was never satiated immediately and, as Morgôs predicted, it continued. “Á tulta tuolya,” It scolded brusquely.

“Quiet,” Morgôs shot back in his mind, but the voice ignored him altogether, as it often did. “An mauya mahta.” Morgôs had entertained the idea that he was mad, and the idea that he was literally being haunted, and many other theories. None held sway, and all fell short, so he gave the voice no name and let it attack him as an anonymous assailant, daily, weekly, or monthly. With a snarl in his mentally manufactured voice, he spat at the voice. “Go away.” He thought, simmering, but still the voice remained present. He could feel it.

“Á lasta!” Trying to be patient, he thought more calmly. “Have you not pestered me enough?” He asked.

“Haryal úruva fëa! Áva tinta ormë ilfirin óressë!” Declaimed the voice, with sudden reserved anger in it and, frustrated, Morgôs responded similarly, lowering his head wearily into his ready hands, “Why do you speak so that I can hear but cannot tell what you are saying?” He moaned, kneading his brow, elbows pushed against the paper-strewn slab of a table, “What purpose lies in this but to drive me away? Speak a tongue I know or begone!”

“Ellerinon,” the tone of the voice calmed and turned to a familiar whisper, “Ánin anta estelya.”

“GO AWAY!” The sound of the General’s voice boomed in his head, shattering the whisper.

To Morgôs’ great relief, the voice died, and he quietly resumed his work as he always did.

[Amanaduial the archer]

While the patrol finally let Jarult go, to hurry home, there were others who did not obey the curfew so strictly, no matter who was patrolling the night. Where she might have been tucked up in bed, like a good little girl, Zamara was not ready to give in so easily to the dark powers that possessed her city.

In a room that resembled a house of mourning, the walls covered in black, the balcony windows lay wide open into the night and in front of them Zamara stood as if frozen. Similarly draped in black, her arms were crossed over the long, plain velvet tunic she was now obliged to wear over her white robes: a floor length, long sleeved garment that hid the Priestess's shape. It's wide, heavy hood, designed the shade her face and hair, lay redundant on her back now though, and she had left the tunic front open, despite the cool of the evening air: as she looked out into the night, the medallion of Rhais glinted dully on top of her white robes, the brightness like a reminder of hope against the darkness that surrounded it. And if there was one thing that Pashtia needed now, it was hope. Her beautiful features were now gaunt and her dark skin and hair dull, for she had been under house arrest in the redundant temple for nearly four months, pending her 'trial'; they strove, it seemed, to break her down both in body as passage to her mind, and she had been getting by on what very little they cared to give her. But despite her outward condition, her eyes still shone with that strange blue inner light, and her mind was ever working, working, working against impossible odds in a society that she could not reach. Trapped in what had been her haven.

A knock sounded on the door behind her and it opened almost immediately afterwards, as if Zamara's permission to enter was not required. The Priestess did not turn, simply closed her eyes and drew the tunic slowly over her chest as if suddenly exposed to a chill breeze, covering the medallion. Covering her only ray of hope.

"Good evening, Lady Zamara." Both familiar and dangerous, a mellifluous and soft, self possessed voice greeted the woman from the doorway, it's owner stepping forward towards her slowly, taking his time as if the clock belonged to him. Like everything else in this now accursed city.

Zamara did not respond, opening her eyes and looking straight forward out of the balcony window, her teeth clenched tightly together. She would not respond to a title that was not hers. A sigh sounded, a sound carefully crafted to irritate and set the teeth on edge, and Zamara sensed rather than heard the man come forward: she had long learned that the Emissary walked more silently than any elf. As he came to stand beside her, the Western man looked into the Priestess's proud, noble face and laughed softly, condescendingly, almost cruelly. "Still silent, Zamara? But you talked so freely to the king, did you not? I should like to hear you speak again - such fire, such pitiful bravado..." his voice was filled with mock admiration that covered lavish pity. Zamara did not respond, forcing herself to remain silent. The Emissary smiled smugly and leant towards her. "Not to worry, I have no fear that you shall sing again when your trial comes, Zamara. To think it, a Priestess on trial for treason, for blasphemy, for...sorcery."

"I am no witch, snake, and you know it." Zamara's reply was sharp and quiet, but full of restrained fury, and she did not deign to look at the Emissary, her gaze remaining striving into a night where the moon's light was smothered by clouds.

"Ah, so you are still alive then, sorceress? I thought maybe you had made some treaty with your demon goddess to leave this world - take the easy way out rather than face trial." The Emissary laughed, his grey eyes glinting wickedly in the sparse candlelight. Looking Zamara over greedily, he flicked at her hood lightly with long fingers, tsking quietly. "You promised to wear this up, Zamara-"

"I promised nothing of the sort, snake," the woman snapped, jerking away from the Emissary's hands, her black eyes glinting themselves but with fury rather than amusement. As she did so, her tunic fell open and the medallion came into full view. The Emissary's eyes widened in shock, then he threw back his head and laughed loudly. Regaining his composure, he raised an eyebrow at Zamara. "Oh, Zamara, what is that now? Your comfort blanket, your trinket against the darkness? What use are trinkets now, my Lady, when your so-called goddess has been exposed for what she really is?" He took a step forward and, despite herself, Zamara took an uneasy step backwards, away from him.

"It is not what she really is! Rhais has always been the goddess of Pashtia-"

"The voices of demons spoke through you, witch, no goddess!"

"No! That is not true!" Despite herself, Zamara's voice had taken on a slightly desperate edge and her anger was showing through, her frustration bursting out of her like an overflowing dam.

"You led your king astray and now you shall pay for it!"

"No!"

"Yes!" The Emissary's cruel eyes shone with enjoyment as he relished the word, hissing it like the namesake that Zamara had given him. He continued to advance on her, backing her up against a wall. "You knew it, Zamara, you knew it and now Khamul knows, he shall destroy you as I know he should. The pitiful idols of this city shall fall and in their place shall reign the one true god, my lord Morgoth! You have worshipped like heathens for long enough your pathetic idols, and now all shall come right - what female god could ever compete, you foolish-"

The sound of Zamara's hand as she slapped the Emissary's face rang through her quarters for what seemed like an hour. Stunned, he took a step away from the Priestess as he raised one hand to his face where the unnaturally pale skin was already darkening to an angry shade of red. Zamara glared at him with the ferosity of a cornered animal. "You're a monster," she hissed. Clenching her fists, she took a sudden step forward, raising her hand again to strike the Emissary. "You monster!"

The man's hand snaked out with unnatural speed, catching her wrist before she made contact with his face. Pitilessly, he twisted her wrist around and, with a gasp of pain, the Priestess sank to her knees, her arm wrenched up behind her back.

"You are nothing, Zamara and now, before all who once worshipped you, I shall show that." The Emissary pressed his mouth close to her ear as he almost spat the words at her in a sinister hiss. "By the city you loved and served, you shall be destroyed!"

With a last, vicious twist of the woman's wrist, the Emissary pushed Zamara so that she crumpled against the wall as he got to his feet. Looking down at her disdainfully, the man gave a brief snort of laughter, as if she was too worthless even to consider, then turned and left the room without another word. Zamara flexed her fingers experimentally as she massaged her wrist, fighting away the tears of anger that sprung to her eyes as she ran her delicate fingers over the deep red welts that his fingers hand left, so hard had they dug into her skin.

When she looked up again, the Emissary had vanished.

~*~

The time of waiting had passed. Zamara would not wait, a prisoner, any more. Guarded during the days, the risk of the orcish patrols during the night: these fears were nothing to her any more. The Emissary or one of the others of his company had come every day since the beginning of her captivity, and Zamara would not wait for the next time. Despite her bravery, despite her stubborness and determination, despite her very nature, tonight she had been truly scared of the man who had forced her to the ground. Never before had any man laid a hand on Zamara with such terrifying force, and she had felt that every bone in her arm would break like match-sticks under his grasp. Remembering Bekah's crumpled body, everything now made sense to the Priestess, the gaps filled. He did not have her murdered by one of his minions, and it was no accident the way Bekah died. The snake did it himself...

Zamara gulped back her fear, rearranging her disshevelled clothing as she stood, taking hasty breaths of air, attempting to slow her racing heart. There was not an instant to lose. She had thought to wait, to bide her time, but one way or the other, this ruthless western murderer would take care of her sooner or later if she was to stay. No, the time had come. The time was now.

She would risk the patrols: even the guards retreated to their homes at night, for who would be foolish enough to try to escape even under a death sentence when a breathing, walking, slavering death sentence in a different form was travelling the city in packs? But that was just something Zamara would have to risk; climbing over the balcony rail and scrabbling with her feet until they contacted the solid surface of the roof below, the former High Priestess of Pashtia began her escape into the dangerous, yellow fanged night.

And where to go? Well, how many people remained in the city with both their wits and their power still about them? One reply sprung to mind, one pair that could still recieve her, but was it too dangerous a solution?

After all, on whose side were the royal children now?

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

Though it was hardly like Zamara to change according to what might be popular at any given moment, Gjeelea had long ago decided to wait for the right moment to release herself from the chains of the new, dark Pashtia. Nearly everyone in Kanak except for her own father knew that times needed to change – change for the better. Still, Khamul had come to be feared more than even the orcish regiments at his disposal. Arguments that once arose about who would be the heir to the throne now seemed very far-gone. Discussions over the building of a new temple for Rae had long since passed into nothingness. Days that were once spent contemplating the allegiance of the westerners became days, hours, and even minutes, which Gjeelea desperately wanted back.

Oh, and how the princess so fiercely wished to have that one moment back. Many months before, she had thought quickly to prove that allegiance with the Emissary’s king had been her idea all along. Now she hated herself – and her brother – for making the worst decision of their lives. At first she almost thought to place the blame on Siamak for how Pashtia had so quickly changed from a bustling nation of knowledge and culture into a dark, evil place that had become a prison. Then Gjeelea realized that it did not matter whose fault it was that things had changed – it mattered only if things could be returned to how they once were, or changed for the better.

Her marriage to Korak had been a falsely joyous event. It occurred just before the ‘great’ and ‘wondrous’ victory over Alanzia. If anyone was happy at the wedding, it was only Korak for having gained what he had lusted after for so long: the chance to become the next king. Gjeelea did not smile, or, if she had smiled, she had long forgotten it for there had been no real happiness in her on that day. Khamul did not smile either, and spoke only when it was necessary for the ceremony to proceed – there were no words of cheer or glee between father and daughter, and nothing between father and new son. After the wedding Gjeelea withdrew from Korak, rarely speaking to him, though she imagined that Korak preferred her silent anyway.

Many of Gjeelea’s days were spent inside the palace, fearful of what Kanak had become. She missed her walks out into the town, when she could go and read at Basit’s bookshop and talk with Rafiqa…or read to their daughter, Tendai. Gjeelea regretted that she had rarely spoken to people like Zamara, or Arshalous, or Arlomë, or even Morgôs, because they had been so wise and it seemed as though all of them suspected something before the cloak of evil had fallen upon Pashtia. Some days, when Gjeelea had spent hours on end with only her own thoughts as company, Gjeelea missed when she and Siamak were young. When they were young, neither of them thought much about competing to be crowned – mostly because it had seemed so far a way. For a few years, youth kept them together.

Most of all, Gjeelea missed her mother.

Bekah had kept everything together in Pashtia, and Gjeelea hardly noticed it until months after she had died. If Bekah had not been murdered – oh, how things would have been different.

The princess had spent long years competing against Siamak. Popularity was always on Gjeelea’s side, for in social matters she had always been fearless and bold. Now, when everything else had fallen apart, Gjeelea knew of no one she could trust. What did it mean that all the years had come down to this? Gjeelea knew what had to be done to fix the path Pashtia had been taken on. She had contemplated it many times.

Khamul could not continue to rule.

The Emissary’s whisperings into Khamul’s ears needed to be stopped.

Morgoth could not make his reign in Pashtia.

Most of all (Gjeelea had known it since she had learned of her betrothal)…

…Korak could not be king.

--

Long nights were often – if not always – spent alone. Gjeelea, essentially, had no one to be with. She no longer wished for the company of the maids, and besides them, who did she know who would spend long hours conversing about the evil that had spread through Kanak? Siamak did not speak with Gjeelea, and Gjeelea did not seek his company. Korak wanted little of Gjeelea except for her to become queen one day. The princess had not spoken to Khamul in many weeks – maybe even months. On several occasions, the Emissary visited Gjeelea, but the discussions were tense and restless. Gjeelea wanted so badly to strangle the Emissary for all he had brought to Pashtia. She wanted to slaughter him for riding up on his horse that one day, so many months ago, with all his shiny-armored soldiers and alliance proposals.

This night, Gjeelea had decided to spend her time in the garden of the palace. She went there often, and yet every time she visited the flowers and fountains, she recalled only one memory. The only thing she could think of when she came to the gardens was the night of the Emissary’s welcoming feast. Gjeelea remembered it all. She remembered who of the royal family arrived first, second, third, and fourth. She recalled all the words exchanged. She remembered where she and Siamak had stood; Gjeelea even remembered what flowers Bekah had placed in her headdress.

From next to the bench on which she sat, Gjeelea picked a jasmine bloom and smelled it, remembering how things had been before Bekah had died.

[Nurumaiel]

"My Lord Korak..."

Korak raised his gaze from the floor, which he had been studying absently as he lay in a leisurely fashion on the cushions in his room. Morashk was standing at the door, as pale and skulking as ever, but perhaps more pale since these dark times had come. He was fumbling with his hands, his eyes darting here and there, keen and observing.

"Well, speak up!" said Korak sharply. "Why have you bothered me?"

"Your mother is asking to see you, m'lord," Morashk mumbled, and then withdrew.

Korak heaved a deep sigh and stood, scowling impatiently. His mother was always wanting to see him, to ask him if he was all right, to implore him not to leave the safety of their home, to ask him to stay with her and make sure no harm befell her. Wasn't it enough that Gjeelea was always there? Must she call him again and again, when he'd much rather be left alone?

Much had changed in the past months. Korak and Gjeelea had been married, and their affection for one another was no stronger than it had been the day they were first betrothed. The dark shadows that had descended upon their home had affected the Lady Hababa the most, for she had grown pale and sickly and now spent her days lying nervously in her bed. Gjeelea was often there with her, for the only other place to go to find human comradeship without leaving the house was to Korak and Morashk, and, though human, they showed no hints of comradeship. Morashk had because a nervous, flitting figure, though as sharp in words and glance as ever. And Korak was always annoyed at the sight of his wife. He had never cared much for her, but the fact that he did not become King at the moment he became her husband made him resentful against her.

He cast her a scowling look as he entered his mother's room, where she lay trembling. Gjeelea did not raise her eyes to his face to catch his look towards her, but merely kept them fixed on the frail old woman in the bed. Yet Korak could tell that Gjeelea's eyes were not cast down to hide their dancing at the joy of his presence.

"Ah, son," said Lady Hababa, stretching out her thin arms. Her appearance had changed greatly, but her gracious manner of actions and speech had not changed at all. Through all her fear and suffering, she retained the air of the lady that she was, and the heart of the good mother that she felt, while thinking upon Korak, she had not been.

Korak bent to brush his lips against her hair, and then cast a disapproving look around the room. "Where are your maids?" he demanded.

"Gjeelea is here," said the Lady, with a fond smile directed at that one. "She has just come in from the garden to sit with me."

"I do not care if she is here or not," Korak snapped. "I asked where the maids were."

The look of brightness that had come over the Lady's face when her son entered the room was instantly subdued, but she lost none of her fondness of manner. She lifted soft eyes and gazed steadily into Korak's face, her expression a mixture of devotion and sorrow. The months had not improved Korak, but had worsened him, and, though his smiles had been seldom before, they were hardly ever seen now... except when Hababa happened to speak of Lady Arshalous, and worry over her. Then Korak would smile a malicious smile, and say: "No need to wonder, Mother. I'm sure she's worse than us."

A little, timid voice piped up from the doorway to the room. "I am here, m'lord," it said.

He turned, and glared heavily at the white-faced little maid, who dropped her eyes in a frightened manner and began to tremble. "Why," he demanded, "are you not here attending your mistress, as you should be doing?"

"She gave me leave to go," the maid murmured. "I went to the dining room, where there was a fire. That is where my sister is now. It is so cold in here, m'lord."

"It is cold because you did not start a fire," he said. "Rather than work a little to start one here, you leave to find one that will already warm you, and leave your mistress to be cold."

"But, m'lord!" she cried in feeble protest, raising her eyes for a moment and then dropping them again when she met his own stormy ones. "I do not know how to make a fire."

"Ignorant little creature!" he cried. "Go fetch your sister, and then come back here to attend to your mistress. I do not care what she tells you. I insist that you do not leave her."

The little maid hastened from the room.

"Please," said the Lady Hababa, weakly, from her bed. "Do not be harsh on my little maids. It is true that they do not know how to make a fire. They were trained to fix hair and such things. And they are just barely past childhood... they are not as strong as I, son, and the cold would harm them more."

"Strong?" said Korak, and he sat down heavily. His mother was mad to think she was strong. She was as weak a woman as he had ever seen. But had he ever seen anyone who was strong? Perhaps he could love Gjeelea if she were strong. But she was weak. Morashk was weak, as well. In olden days he had had some strength, for all his skulking ways, but he had lost that strength years ago, the day when he met Arshalous.

"My father was strong," Korak muttered, and then glanced hastily at his mother and wife to make sure they had not heard.

The little maid and her sister came scurrying in, not daring to look at Lord Korak, and hastened to sit by Lady Hababa and the Princess, awaiting a command. They, and Morashk, were the only servants who were still in the house. The others had fled. Morashk had stayed because of his strange devotion to his master. The little maids had stayed because, as Hababa said, they were just barely past childhood and they were much too frightened to go out into that terrible, dark world.

Nothing that had happened had effected Korak very much. He did not live under the reign of fear. His only thought was that it was very inconvenient to have to do without servants. And... he wondered if the King, being in such a strange mood of late, would be less likely to favour him now.

[Imladris]

Arshalous did not know why she decided to visit the royal court...she missed the quiet bustle of her own home now that it was as still as a forlorn tomb...maybe she wished to see if the court was poisoned with fear as the townsman and villagers were. She wandered about the outskirts of the royal palace, Semra by her side, noticing that it too was tensely quiet.

Once she caught a glimpse of the Emissary as he glided about his business. It seemed that he too had changed, just like her king. The power that seemed to course through him did not glow with nobility as she had first thought, but with dark menace. Why had she not noticed it before? She remembered that day so long ago when she had dined with the Emissary and she had told him of his god Melkor...she snorted in disgust. That should have been the first warning...

It was then that she had noticed that Semra was trembing, her eyes closed tightly. "What is the matter?" Arshalous asked.

"That man...he seemed to be an echo of that thing that touched me when you found me that night in the pool," she whispered.

Dread formed in Arshalous, a cold knot in the pit of her stomach. Wrapping her arm around the girl's shoulders, she led her away from the royal palace. "I want to visit Lady Hababa," Arshalous told Semra as they mounted -- Arshalous on her white mare and Semra on a little brown pony. "I have not seen her for many days and I fear that she grows lonely, which is no surprise as Korak certainly isn't the best of company," she said bitterly.

In almost no time at all, they arrived at Korak's place. It too was lacking in servants, and Arshalous wondered if they had been let go as well. She had only let her own go because they had wished to go to their distant homes to protect them from the darkness that festered in the city.

Semra and Arshalous found that Korak, the Princess, and the few servants that remained were gathered in the same room. Arshalous curled her lip in annoyance. She did not want to banter words with Korak today.

"Good day, Lady Cousin," Korak said stiffly, glancing at his ailing mother.

Arshalous smiled softly to herself, pleased to see that he was restrained by his aunt's presense. "Semra and I heard you in the passageway," she said. "I thought that you sounded rather unreasonable which really isn't becoming you know. So why don't you go away and leave us women be?"

With a smirk, she turned her back on Korak, took up Lady Hababa's hand and said, "Forgive me, dear Aunt, for being so late in coming. I have had many problems, but so, I believe have you. With no servants to till the land, it fairs rather badly does it not? And," she added with a small, joyless smile, "if the orcs are not inclined to go around a field that is in their way they do not hesitate to trample over it, do they?"

Lady Hababa nodded weakly and Arshalous pressed her hand sympathetically. She, indeed, suffered worse than Arshalous, for what could be worse than being imprisoned in one's own bed?

Turning to the Gjeelea, she said, "How do you fair, Princess?"

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

"I have faired well, thank you," Gjeelea replied softly, her eyes on Arshalous' hand where it rested upon Hababa's. "I have faired better than many in these past six months. How have you been, Arshalous? I have not seen you in a while, I know, though I can guess how the state of your home has changed."

The princess did not quite listen to whatever reply Arshalous gave her. Her eyes met the noble woman's, and from time to time as the lady spoke Gjeelea would nod. However, behind the nonchalant gaze Gjeelea pondered many things. How long would it take for change to come? What would happen if everyone who could change things did nothing? What could be done to change the state of Pashtia as it stood? What would Lord Annatar in the west do if the Emissary were cast out? Could the Emissary even be beaten? These thoughts and many more flashed through Gjeelea's mind. How long could Pashtia wait for someone to take action?

After six months of fear, change, and evil, Gjeelea was no longer in the mood to wait out whatever reign the Emissary had over her father. She knew she could not be the only one willing to do something - anything. At one point in her life, Gjeelea's only goal had been to become queen. Now that that point had long since come and gone, she wanted nothing more than her old home back.

She had grown sick of the Emissary many months before.

"Arshalous, might I speak with you in private?" Gjeelea suddenly asked. Arshalous cocked one brow. "There were matters I had wished to discuss with you long ago. I had forgotten since the last time I saw you. Now seems as good a time as any, do you agree?"

"Certainly," Arshalous agreed, her gaze perplexed and her voice uncertain.

The two women walked into a back hallway, one that, as Gjeelea had learned in her many visits, led to the kitchen. Arshalous opened her mouth to speak, to question, but Gjeelea lifted a finger to her own lips to signify silence.

"Arshalous," Gjeelea said quietly, solemnly. "Answer me one question, please?" Arshalous nodded slowly, suspicion and curiosity in her eyes. "Do you trust the Emissary?"

Gjeelea hoped that Arshalous' answer would be the one she was looking for. The princess had, for many years, made social maneuvers and shifted courtly actions. Now was the time, she knew, to initiate another change. This change, however, required help. Gjeelea hoped Arshalous would be able to help. After this inquiry, Gjeelea wanted to go to the palace, and find others that she knew would help her in her plans.

[Imladris]

Arshalous tightened, and glanced sharply at the Princess. She could not help but wonder if this was some sort of trap that would, in some way, condemn her with treason. She breathed quickly, shallowly. She wished to tell the truth, and hoped that the princess also felt the same.

But what if she didn't?

If she laughed, brushed the question off with a smile and a quick change of subject, what would be accomplished? Nothing...absolutely nothing. Things would continue to spiral wildly in decline and Pashtia would be ravished with corruption until it became an evil ruin, an twisted echo of what it had once been. Taking a deep breath she turned toward the Princess, and said, "When I first saw the Emissary, I admired him, for he seemed noble and kind -- something which none of our noble men seemed to be anymore. He seemed to be a person stepping from the stories, the myths, and legends. But, I have noticed how he has become the king's shadow, always near even though sometimes we cannot see him. Now, when I look upon him, I see evil, corruption, lust...I do not know why I did not see it before. I do not trust him, I loathe him. These...yellow fanged monsters come from the West -- it is said that the King bent them to his will with the gift of the Emissary...I cannot but wonder whether the Emissary is a lord of sorts to these vile creatures..."

She looked once more at the princess, hoping that the princess herself felt the same way. If not, there was nothing to look forward to but death...yet how could the Princess not agree with her? Yet people were strange, as stable as a wind swept sea. And if the Princess did agree with Arshalous, the nobly lady earnestly hoped that something would be done about the Emissary for he was evil dressed fairly...the most awful of all evils.

And the King, what would become of him? Arshalous desperately wished that he was merely blinded, led astray by the whisperings of the Emissary. She could not shake the nagging thought that said that there was no hope for the King. People were who they were...there was no changing them. If the King's heart was now so inclined to corruption and delights in evil deeds, then surely he had always been inclined to such things...maybe that part of him had been dormant, but now that it was awake, could they trust that it would once more sleep when the Emissary was removed? Maybe that was why he had enlisted her aide to eliminate Korak...She froze at the thought, waves of fear drowning her. What if he called upon that oath?

Was an oath obligated to be kept no matter what the cirumstances? What a fool she had been...

[Amanaduial the archer]

Under cover of darkness, a lone figure stole through the Kanak, the streets deserted by all to whom the city truly belonged whilst yellow fanged usurpers prowled the streets. As the sound of feet - or were they claws? - came close, a street away, the figure paused, suddenly feeling all too obvious in the dim, starless sidestreet. Flattening herself in a doorway, Zamara desperately tried to meld into the stonework, staying as still as was humanly possible and praying to Rhais that the patrol would pass on.

The steps at the opening of the alleyway faltered as one of it's members hesitated, looking down the sidestreet and giving a guttural grunt to the others to wait. It emitted a long, drawn out sniffing, like a dog sniffing underneath a door for some small mouse or rat, and Zamara's heart seemed to stop within her chest, her blood freezing in the chill of fear. Slow, menacing footsteps came forward, one....two...three...steady and unrelenting as death as the orc started down the sidestreet.

"Come out, little mouse....we know you're here somewhere, come out, come out..." the orc crooned mockingly, it's fellows sniggering. They spread out along the street, one on each side checking the walls. The leader gave a cruel yellow-fanged grin. "Some naughty little girl or boy doesn't like the curfew? Should stay inside of an evening - you never know who might be out in the darkness..."

The orcs sniggered nastily, adding their own jeers, before the leader silenced them suddenly. Giving a low growl, he sniffed along the wall, taking short, violent inhalations, suddenly seeming even more eager and urgent, as if he had picked up on Zamara's scent. Shrinking down in her doorway, the priestess felt inside the shapeless cloak, barely shifting it, finding her medallion as she squeezed her eyes tight shut, like a little girl willing a nightmare to go away. The orc could not be more than a few feet away from her now, she was sure, sniffing all along the wall like a dog picking up on a scent, and the only sound in the starless city seemed to be those terrible, vicious sniffs and the pounding of Zamara's heart in her chest. She had never seen the orcs close up before, and the face which replaced the animal features of the orcish leader was the Emissary's: smug, calculating and smooth, smiling wickedly with those cold grey eyes as he destroyed her city around her. It was he, even more than the patrol, that Zamara feared. Please, take them away, don't let them find me here...

A crash at the end of the alleyway seemed to assail the darkness, the sound of a slate falling off a roof. The sound of it shattering seemed the loudest thing Zamara had ever heard, but what came after it was more terrible still: the sound of a human voice swearing.

The sound that saved Zamara's life.

The orcs' instant reaction covered Zamara's whimper as all heads turned towards the end of the alley, distracted from the game they were playing with Zamara. The leader set off immediately at a run with a yell that was more like a wolf's bay than any human sound, and they all responded and followed suit, thundering past Zamara's hiding place like a pack of wolves, baying with bloodlust as they pursued the poor unfortunate who had broken curfew. In her doorway, her back pressed so hard in that she could feel every individual stone cold through her clothes, Zamara huddled under the black velvet cloak that the Emissary had forced her to wear and which had now provided a perfect cover for her - any other time, the irony would have made her laugh, but the Priestess felt so numb that she was barely capable of moving.

The inclination would have been to stay there all night, never to leave that doorway and to remain until dawn stock still. As if an open doorway provided any safety from the orcs. Forcing herself into action with the thought, her powerful self will and the fear of discovery being all that kept her moving, Zamara held her cloak around her body and set off at a run. As her sandals slapped against the ground, she hopped on one foot then the other as she removed them and slipped them into the cloak pocket; she would run barefoot, despite the gravelly ground. Stealthily jogging through the darkness, stopping now and then as she crossed streets, Zamara warily made the hellish journey through the network of Kanak's streets towards the palace. But there was one obstacle she had not thought through.

The fountain courtyard.

The very place where the King had stood six months ago to welcome the Emissary to Pashtia: an open, paved square about twenty metres long and wide, centred by a magificent, three tiered fountain. Zamara gazed up now at the fountain which lay silent and still in the shrouded moonlight, it's white stone shining with faded magnificence: the water did not flow at night and lay instead tranquil in the stone pools. Beyond it sat the palace, hunched and foreboding, a dark place these days and, to Zamara, an impossible distance away.

The Priestess could have cried. How, how could she have come so far only to have this set in front of her? The square was bordered on all sides by unusually large roads, and if one of the orcs happened to look along one into the courtyard, she didn't stand a chance; or if, pausing for a moment to take in the city by night, a soldier in the palace looked out, she would be instantly spotted. If anyone was to see her, she may as well light a beacon and order a band.

But Zamara was a determined woman. A straight, twenty metre run across the courtyard without being seen? Improbable, but not impossible. In a city where one man's poisonous words could cause one of the greatest kings in Pashtian history to forsake all his forefathers before him had done, nothing was impossible. Clenching her fists, Zamara squeezed her eyes shut and uttered a soft sigh, crouching like a runner at the starting block...then, like an arrow froma taught bow, shot from the tributary pathway and sprinted at full pelt across the courtyard.

As she ran, every cell in Zamara's body seemed alive, seemed to twitch and scream it's prescence to all around, and her hood slipped down off her head, revealing hair that, although the gold braiding had been removed, seemed to wave frantically to all around, swinging in an ungainly salute to all around her head. Every breath was a smith's bellows in volume, every footstep a gunshot, every movement or thought torment in uncertainty.

Let me make it, Goddess...

...and an age later, throwing herself under the eaves of a gateway, she did.

Kneeling with her back pressed against the filigree of the gate, Zamara lay crouched and panting for several long moments, staring back at what she had just accomplished. Leaning back, she dropped to a sitting position and slumped against the gateway, offering thanks to her goddess - or to whatever had got her across that impossible mile, whether herself or Rhais, she wasn't exactly in the mindset to argue right at that moment. But her trials, it seemed, were not yet over.

"Who goes there?"

The terrified false bravado of the whispered voice pierced Zamara and she almost called out before a hand shot through the gate and covered her mouth. The woman struggled for only a second though, before a knife came to her throat, halting her movements and forcing her to sit still. The bearer of the knife paused momentarily and then, with sudden urgency, fierce, agile fingers left her mouth and groped their way to her neck, below the blade, where they found the medallion's chain. Lifting it with shocked, eager reverence, Zamara's assailant raised the medallion from her clothing and, as the clouds slipped lazily from the moon in a moment's respite, the ruby of Rhais hung glinting in it's light.

The dagger dropped from Zamara's throat and the footsteps backed up away from the gate. The Priestess scrambled to her feet quickly, hands raised but her face clearly visible to the pair of servants in the garden: barefoot and pale she may have been, but she was instantly recognised. The elder of the two, a weatherbeaten, leathery man of about fifty, stared in amazement and his jaw dropped open. "High Prieste-"

"Sh-hh!" Zamara flapped her hands desperately at the pair, looking franticallyn around the square for any sign of the orc patrols. The second servant, a young woman not much older than Tayfar, still did not move, but the man came forward, grasping Zamara's hand and running his fingers over it in awe as if to make sure she was real, not simply some spectre of moonlight, some shadow of starlight. Convinced that she was real, he gave a shocked, relieved grin, almost laughing, and unlocked the gate quickly. The hinges swung open with barely a squeak and Zamara slipped through quickly, closing the portal as quickly. The servant man still looked completely incredulous and, as if suddenly remembering, he bowed his head quickly to Zamara, gesturing for the servant girl to do the same. Zamara shook her head impatiently, grasping the man by his shoulders. "We have no time, sir, no time at all-" she hesitated, looking into the man's shocked eyes, then found the perfect solution to gaining his every co-operation. "You...your wife was a regular worshipper, was she not? You did not come so often because of commitments at the palace, but she...she came often..." Zamara narrowed her eyes, looking into the man's, then clicked her fingers, a sound muffled by the velvet cloak. "Reafin, am I right?"

The man looked as if the Goddess himself had recognised him. "Indeed, ma'am, indeed!" he replied, then hastily hushed his voice. "But quick, we cannot stand here gawking - come inside, Priestess, quick!"

Once inside the silent kitchens - it was near midnight and even the kitchen staff, a species who seemed almost nocturnal to others in the palace, had retired to bed - Zamara expressed her need to see Siamak. Reafin was doubtful, as he had a right to be, and Zamara continued urgently in a desperate whisper. "Please, Reafin, I...I must see the Prince, urgently. I can get myself through the palace most of the way, but to find exactly where Siamak's rooms are...well, I am not sure of the exact way..." she trailed off, her eyes pleading with the man's in almost desperation. "Please..."

The man barely needed to hesitate. As Zamara had correctly remembered, his wife, Rhais rest her memory, had been a devout follower of the Goddess - a fact which had led to her dismissal, although the given excuse had been an ongoing illness which caused stiffness of her fingers and slow movement; an illness that had eventually, quite recently, led to her death. As his thumb moved over the plain gold band on his ring-finger, Reafin made up his mind. The Emissary may have held sway over the city as a whole, but individuals still had their own minds. He nodded to the silent servant girl. "Nadda, take the Priestess to Siamak's rooms - be as quiet as you can, disturb no one and light no torches. You can find your way in the dark, can't you?"

Nadda nodded mutely then apparently felt the need for some vocal consent and curtseyed clumsily to Zamara as she squeaked her affirmation. Zamara breathed a sigh of relief and clasped Reafin's hand gratefully. "Rhais bless you, thank you, Reafin. I may owe my life to you, thank-"

The old man waved away her words with a leathery hand, shooing her out like a fond grandmother chasing a child. "No time, no time, go!"

Zamara gave him another brief smile then, gathering her cloak and robes so that they did not rustle on the floor, she followed Nadda, scurrying off into the dangerous dark of the palace...

[Firefoot]

Siamak started slightly at a soft knock on his door. It was late, past the new curfew; who would be coming to see him? He stood and walked toward the door as a servant stepped inside. Her features were fearful and her eyes darted about. Once, Siamak might have thought these signs unusual, but not so anymore - going about at night was asking for trouble. Still, the girl’s purpose was clearly important.

“What is it?” he asked her softly, not wanting to rouse anyone else who might be around.

“Prince Siamak, it is the High Priestess. She is here to see you,” she answered in equally soft tones. Sure enough, there was Zamara standing in the shadows of the hallway, previously unseen by him. Surprise flicked across his face, but he hurriedly motioned her inside and closed the door behind her. “High Priestess, come in; it’s not safe to be seen in the halls at this time of night anymore.” He thought he heard her murmur, “Or anywhere else,” but he passed the comment by, knowing full well the veracity of it.

“Stay here, please,” said Siamak turning again to the servant. “We may need your service again. Your name is...?”

“Nadda, my Prince,” she answered.

“Nadda,” he repeated. “Just stay in this room here; sit down if you like. I don’t know how long this will be.” She nodded.

He turned again to Zamara. In the brighter light of his rooms, she appeared troubled, but there was a determined air about her. “Come with me,” he said, and led her into his reception room. He motioned for her to sit and sat down himself. Now, finally, he could find out about her reason for being here, at this time. She was one of those he had wanted to talk to, but this was quite unexpected, and soon. He wondered how blunt he should be. Zamara would probably be on his side, but if she was not? Treason was a deadly charge, especially now in these days of doubt.

“High Priestess,” he began, the use of her proper title intentional, “I must say, I am surprised by your visit. Very few people can get past the patrols at night.” He smiled grimly. “I am glad you did. Now, why is it you have come?”

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Khamûl was weeping.

He sat in the dark of his apartments and wept for the poetry that would no longer come. He had been trying all this day to recall but one of the poems or songs that he had written in the long years of his solitude, but all were absent from his heart. The words were still there, written on his mind, but they were empty now – empty and meaningless, bled dry of their passion and feeling. For his cares were many and growing daily. He knew of the treachery that surrounded him, and of the evil that stalked his streets. Rarely now did he remove the Ring; only when the demands of kingship were such that he had to be seen by his people. For the rest of the time he wrapped himself in the comforting shadows of the Lord Annatar’s power where he took counsel with his distant brother monarch. He hard learned much from Annatar, about the Ring. He was able now to see goings and comings of his subjects, but what he saw only increased his woe for everywhere the people who had formerly loved him now plotted against him. At this very moment, he could feel his son and the demoness priestess herself meeting in secret to discuss how best to remove him from his throne. Such madness! Who would they put there in his place? Siamak no doubt sought the role for himself, and formerly the King would have given it to his son gladly, but now that he had fallen under the spell of Morgôs… Kamûl would rather his kingdom burn than fall into the hands of that mad Elf. The violence of the General was well known to the King, and he had been careful to remove the Elf from the centre of power.

And if not Siamak, Gjeelea and her husband Korak? Worse and worse choices for the realm. A vain girl who craved power for its own sake, little understanding the rigours of responsible rule, and a stupid man who had come to within a single step of the throne through the luck of fate which had put the secret of Khamûl’s birth into his hands.

Neither of his children would ever rule Pashtia – nor need they. For among the other gifts of the Ring was that of long life. Ashnaz had revealed already his own great age. To look at the fair visage of the Man of the West, one would think him no more than two score years of age, and yet he was almost two centuries old! And such longevity would belong to Khamûl for as long as he possessed the Ring. Already the King felt himself expanding, growing larger like the shadow cast upon the wall by a man who walked toward the flame. For he knew now that the One Lord Morgoth was the true source of light in the world, and to him was he dedicated, heart and soul.

But to whom could he turn? He had no allies, save one, and the time had come to bind himself to her more firmly. Already, he could feel her wavering in her pledge to him; already, he knew, she was faltering in her own loyalties. He did not condemn her for this, for he knew how subtle his enemies were, and how fair they could appear to those they would delude. He cast his mind toward the house of Korak and felt Gjeelea seeking to ensnare the Lady Arhsalous in her vain webs. His daughter, he knew, sought an ally of her own to help her to the throne. Through his tears, the King managed a wry smile at the thought of her disappointment – for when she was old and wrinkled and ugly, and all hope of power and memory of beauty was gone from her, he would be very much as he was this day. If anything, he would be more powerful even – filled as he would be with the grace and love of Morgoth.

Confident as he was, however, there was still the need for action. He could not sit idly by by his own family plotted his overthrow. He strode from his chambers, hidden from all eyes by the power of the Ring, and his passing was as the wind of winter. Little heeding those who fell away in nameless dread of his unknown and unseen presence, he left the Palace and walked the streets of Kanak. A patrol rounded a corner and fell back immediately in terror of him. He barely noticed them as he passed, so used had he become to the presence of the orcs. It irked him that they were required now, but he knew that he could not trust the army, riddled as it was by traitorous allies of the General. The time would soon come, however, when the army would be purged, and then he could dispense with the vile orcs and see them destroyed like the vermin that they were.

He soon arrived at the house of Lord Korak. Removing the Ring he passed through the door and came face to face with a startled, and terrified, servant who fell to her knees before him, trembling. “Majesty!” she stammered at him from between whitened lips. “You are here!”

Khamûl did not acknowledge the idiocy of her claim. He merely sighed at her terror. Reaching down to her, he helped her to her feet and he spoke to her is fair and comforting tones. “Do not be afraid, lass. I know that there is much that has changed in our realm, and that the enemies of Pashtia come about us thick as flies. But I promise you, I will not allow them to destroy us and all that we have built. It will be difficult, but I will cleanse our land of their evil, and prepare us for the glorious destiny that is our birthright.” The girl merely curtsied before scrambling away to announce his presence. He seized her by the arm to stay her. “I have not come to speak with your lord or his wife,” he said. “I some seeking the Lady Arshalous. You may tell Korak that I am here, however; but I will speak with the Lady first.” The girl ran away with the messages.

Guided by the Ring, Khamûl found Arshalous in conversation with his daughter. As he approached he moved silently, and once more slipped on the Ring so that they were unaware of him. He thus overheard their conversation, and he smiled at it. Apparently, he had arrived only just in time to prevent his daughter from corrupting Arshalous completely. Removing the Ring and stepping into the hallway he greeted them both, curious as to how they would explain their presence here together.

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

"Your highness," Arshalous greeted slowly. Where had the king come from? Gjeelea said nothing to her father, only followed his eyes defiantly. When Khamul nodded to Arshalous and stepped closer to the women, Gjeelea looked to his hand, where his clenched fist encased what she suspected was the ring he had been given many months before. The look in his eyes...the princess feared him fully for the first time. It was a strange sort of fear...a fear that Gjeelea could not explain in words but knew all to well in her heart. She feared not for herself anymore, and that in itself felt strange to the princess. When so many years of her life had been spent looking out for her own reputation against her brother, Gjeelea felt overwhelmed when face-to-face with her father now, the reason for her feelings of selflessness.

"I was just talking to Arshalous about her estate," Gjeelea explained to Khamul, trying to give - as she had done so many times before in her life - the appearance of undaunted strength. She had not quite lied completely, for she had originally been discussing recent life in Pashtia with Korak's cousin.

"Really?" Khamul sounded interested, but his face showed otherwise. "I was not aware that such a humble subject should be discussed in the back hallway of a kitchen."

Gjeelea tried to avoid giving a blank stare - the stare a child gives when she has been caught eating sweets before a healthy dinner. She hoped Arshalous would be able to supply a decent excuse, for Gjeelea had certainly given her father the wrong answer. It was almost as if he knew what the ladies had been talking about before he had arrived. As this thought crossed Gjeelea's mind, she gave a fleeting glance once more to Khamul's clenched fist.

"There is hardly anywhere private in this house to speak, my Lord," Arshalous explained after a quick moment of thoughtful consideration. "Surely it is not the business of Korak's servants how my estate has been fairing of late."

"Is there something we can do for you, father?" Gjeelea asked quickly, wondering what lie her father would give to the ladies.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Khamûl fought rage at his daughter’s impertinence in asking him for an explanation of his presence. Her rebelliousness grows the Voice said, and he had to check his own nod of agreement. It was becoming a problem, his ready acknowledgement of the Voice. Its counsel and advice was so consistent a part of his life now that at times he forgot that it was a gift given to him alone by the power of Annatar, and that all others were deaf to it. He frowned darkly upon the women, projecting his displeasure at them both.

The Lady Arshalous was wary of him, he could see, perhaps even fearful. He thought to himself that perhaps it was too late for her to be redeemed; perhaps her corruption had been too far advanced. But the Voice counselled otherwise. There is yet hope for her in your strength, it sang sweetly in his ears. She is swaying in her loyalties, for though she is true she is weak. Do not judge her! She suffers only from the weakness of her female flesh. Pity her instead, and raise her up by the power of your hand.

He did pity her. Of all those whom he had formerly accounted his allies she was the last one who had yet to plot against him – the last one to hold by her oaths. Khamûl looked at his daughter and knew that he had come not a moment too soon. “I have come to speak with the Lady Arshalous upon an important matter,” he said, “but you need not depart, my daughter, for it concerns you closely. I have need of a Queen.” It was a simple statement of fact, and as he said it, he directed his gaze upon Arshalous. “I do not flatter myself that you would wish to see yourself allied to me through any great love or affection, Lady. Nor shall I lie to you and say that such a union will bring you comfort and ease. It is a burden that I am asking you to bear for the good of our people. You have suffered reverses of late, but you are still rich and command many servants. You are respected by many in the City for your patronage of the new temple, and you bring the added benefit of having avoided all intrigues and factions within the nobility. Your very isolation, so long a trial for you, makes you an ideal choice for queen. But above all these concerns, potent as they might be, there is the fact that you are a sensible and intelligent woman whose counsel I would welcome.”

There was a shocked silence as Arshalous looked down, her breath now coming quickly. Gjeelea spoke out, and in her voice was none of her usual cunning and diplomacy. “My King! My mother’s ashes were spread to the winds but six months ago! It is not seemly for you to take a new wife so soon!”

“These are terrible times,” he snapped at his daughter, and as he did so, his eyes seemed to darken and it was as though a vast shadow slid out from him. “I cannot bear the weight of the crown alone, and unaided. My counsellors desert me. My General is mad, or worse. Even my children no longer heed only my voice! I am a king, my daughter, a king. Do you know yet what that means? I do not have the luxury that some do to waste my time in an empty show of courtship and affection so that I might catch the fickle eye of the mob!” He turned from his daughter, as though the very act wiped her from existence, and addressed the Lady Arshalous. “I apologise for my daughter’s outburst, Lady. She is yet young, and though she deems herself wise and capable of rule, she has much to learn of the ways of power.”

He paused for a response, prompting Arshalous to mutter formulaically, “I take no offence, Majesty.”

“Good! It does you credit. I know that ladies in your position do not dream of a proposal such as this. I should be clad in silver and mounted upon a fiery white steed, with a troupe of singers at my back. I should speak to you with honey on my tongue and poetry in my heart – but we both know how empty such foppery would be here. Instead I offer myself to you as I am: a plain man and a powerful king in need of a wife. What say you?”

[Imladris]

What say you? Indeed, did she have any choice in the matter? If he had wanted to avoid foppery all together he would have simply ordered her to become his bride...did he really think that she was so naieve that she did not know that she could do nothing but accept? She could almost see the iron cage enclose around her, feel the golden shackles snapping closed about her wrist binding her to a king she feared and loathed.

She glanced helplessly at the Princess, but she knew very well that Gjeelea could do nothing. What could any of them do against the King. It was as if he was everywhere, as if he knew all and heard all, no matter if it was proclaimed upon the streets, or whispered in a cloister at the darkest hour.

She wondered how she could help him -- did not this Emissary provide all the help that he needed? The thought that there was another reason, the true reason, gnawed at her like a rat. Like a blob of clay in a potter's hand, she knew that he was trying to form her into his tool, his pawn. But how could she prevent this if she didn't know how he was doing it? It was like knowing that there were traps on the ground, yet she was unable to avoid them because they were so cunningly hidden.

Taking a deep breath she faced the king, and said, "My lord, I will accept your offer."

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

She felt her blood rush to her temples in a cacophonous flood of sound. Gjeelea tried harder than she had ever tried to remain calm, even defiant, before her father. Now, though, how could she maintain her composure when everything had fallen apart within five minutes? Gjeelea had never found it so hard to conceal her emotions. Her heart fell to the pit of her stomach, and her hands went icy cold.

"You know not what you do," She whispered, to both her father and Arshalous. What had happened to Arshalous' strength? Did she not know that Khamul and the Emissary would pollute her mind with evil? Anger welled up within Gjeelea, yet she felt tears form behind her eyes. What could she do now?

Gjeelea shifted where she stood, and without another word, she fled the hallway. She stormed out through the kitchen and into the darkness of the night, leaving the home of her husband where all the evils of Pashtia seemed to have chosen for their gathering place that night. Gjeelea could not bear to see her plans fall to pieces - her fear of failure was a weakness of hers she had never bothered to overcome.

She followed her heart to the only place where she might find different help...the palace.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Khamul was pleased to see his daughter flee before Arshalous's righteousness, and her retreat confirmed his opinion of her: she was too far gone in treachery to be saved. His face fell into sadness and he passed a hand across his brow. He suddenly felt weak and his knees sagged, obliging him to catch himself against a wall. "Majesty?" Arshalous said, alarmed at the suddenness of his collapse, but though she was his affianced bride, she remained rigidly still, not moving to support him.

The King held himself against the wall, and said lowly, "I am all right. It is but a passing fatigue. The concerns of my rule are great, and sometimes they bear me over. I fear I have placed a terrible burden upon you."

"I am sure that I am not up to the task, Khamul."

"Nobody is. But we must all do what we are required."

He sought to right himself, forcing from his mind the memory of what had overcome him -- for as he had lamented the evil of his daughter, he had felt the presence of Bekah, as though she were standing at his back, and he had felt the force of her pity. He had almost thought, for a slice of time smaller than that which exists between heartbeats, that it was her gentle hand which had caught him as he fell, supporting him to the wall. But why she would come to him now, and why she would pity him, he could not imagine. . .

Straightening, he faced Arshalous, who said squared her shoulders with a new and grim resolution. "When are we to be wed, Khamul?"

"Soon. I see no need for a protracted engagement. And I have need of your counsel now, with little time to divert myself with other matters."

"It will be as you wish, Majesty."

"There is another matter we need to discuss, Arshalous. It concerns your dowry."

"My dowry?" she said, surprised, and a bit angered. Was not her wealth enough dowry?

"I do not refer to anything as crass as gold, Lady," Khamul replied, and she felt a chill upon her neck as it appeared once again as though he were reading her mind. "I am well provided in wealth already. Indeed, with the tribute now paid me by Alanzia I am the wealthiest King in the history of Pashtia." There was neither boasting nor pride in the statement. "I speak of something more valuable than all the goods of my treasury. We spoke once of the hold that the Lord Korak has over me, and of the letter that he would use to put himself upon the throne. I fear that with my remarriage he might fear I seek to produce a new heir that would supplant his hopes, and that this might drive him to an act of. . .desperation. I have tried to regain the letter but cannot. It occurs to me, however, that you might be more successful than I."

"Me, majesty? How am I to succeed where you have failed. I do not possess your royal power!"

"No, but you do have a power which I lack. You can come and go in this house without arousing suspicion and, most importantly, you can speak with the Lady Hababa more openly and clearly than I. Perhaps she knows something of the letter and could be. . .convinced to help us regain it. I know that Korak has no love for you, or you for him, but you are a family member and a companion of his childhood. I am sure that there are things about Korak and his family, and about this house, known only to yourself and a few others. All of which should make it easy for you to locate that letter and bring it to me, such is the dowry that I will demand of you." Arshalous merely bowed her head, her face insrcutable. "But tell me, Lady," Khamul continued in a lighter tone, "what wedding gift would you have of me? I am an old-fashioned man in many ways, and will follow our traditions scrupulously. I will grant you whatever gift you may ask of me, so long as it be both honourable and within my power to give it you."

[Nurumaiel]

Morashk stood a few moments longer in the shadows of the corridor, and then turned and hastened away before the Lady Arshalous made any reply to the King. Anger and resentment, nay, hatred, swelled up within him, but something was there that he did not expect, and did not welcome... a strange sorrow. Faint though it may be, 'twas there, and he hated himself for being so weak.

Lord Korak was pacing up and down in his room impatiently, muttering curses under his breath, and scowling heavily. When he saw Morashk enter the room he hardly noticed how pale and trembling his servant was, for wasn't Morashk always pale and trembling? He did not pause in his pacing, but neither did he hesitate a moment before snapping out: "Well, are they finished yet?" And he went on, muttering, before Morashk could reply. "Curse the Lady Arshalous for her impudence in my own household. What right has she to come about and order me about? And curse Gjeelea for seeming pleased at the idea." He fell silent then, for he would not yet curse his mother.

"My Lord Korak," said Morashk, straight and stiff yet sagging against the wall at the same time, "the King has just been speaking with Lady Arshalous."

"The King, here?" cried Lord Korak, and he ceased his walking and stared wide-eyed for a moment. Then the scowl returned to his face. "Curse my cousin and my wife! Did they not have the good sense to tell me? If the King comes to my home, what will he think if the master of the house does not greet him, but merely lets him be?"

"My Lord Korak!" Morashk gasped, and Korak noticed for the first time how distraught his servant was. Morashk had always been a nervous sort of man, but his actions now were not nervous. He seemed excited, in a very unpleasant way.

"What is it?" Korak demanded. "Speak up, man! Did they say anything... significant?"

"Yes, they did," said Morashk, and his trembling suddenly ceased, and his mouth set in a hard, bitter line. "The King and the Lady Arshalous are to be wed."

For a few moments, Korak was struck into amazed silence, and then he smiled easily. "Why do I care?" he said. He turned away from Morashk and strode to the other side of the room, looking out the window to survey what lands he could see, despite their dark and shriveled appearance. "I was afraid that he had said something about the Prince succeeding him. But... Morashk, do you think my cousin will influence the King against me?"

There was no answer. Korak turned, and saw that Morashk was no longer there.

Down the corridor Morashk staggered, putting his hands against the walls for support, and mumbling almost inaudibly to himself. "I do not care, I do not care, I do not care." He stopped, reflected upon what he had just heard the King and Arshalous say, and he cried: "I do not care!"

The little maid, who had been uncertainly scouring the house for wood for the fire, paused and gazed at him in surprise. Morashk was well-known as a very quiet man who saw much with his eyes, and this sudden outburst startled her. She hesitated for a moment, then went closer to him, and looked up at him with worry written on her brow.

"Is there anything wrong, sir?" she questioned. Though Morashk was a servant just as she, it had long been known that he held a higher position in the house as the others, as one favoured by the Lord Korak, and his fellow servants never failed to show proper respect towards him.

Morashk turned keen eyes to her. "Wrong?" he demanded. "For the King and the Lady Arshalous, perhaps nothing is wrong. The King is a sneaking, low-down worm who thinks nothing of power."

"Oh, hush!" the maid cried, her eyes growing wide with terror. "Don't say such things."

"It is true," said Morashk, "and my master is no better."

"Hush!" the maid cried again, seeming more violently disturbed at these words against Lord Korak than the words about the King.

"I hold to my master because I am his servant, and I am loyal to him," said Morashk, disregarding her pleas entirely. "He is harsh, and a brute, but he is good to those who are loyal to him."

"Yes, yes," said the maid hastily, "and I am certain the King is, too."

"I do not know of the King," said Morashk, "but I do know of Lady Arshalous!" At the name he spat on the ground, but at the same time he paled and dropped his head and began to violently tremble.

The maid hesitated uncertainly. Was Morashk's mind wandering, the way he spoke of the King, of the Lord Korak, of the King again, and now the Lord Korak's cousin? She had never seen Morashk act and speak in such a way before, and she wished she did not have to see it now. It stirred up fear in her.

"How can she wed him?" Morashk said, his head still bowed. "How can she wed him, being such a brute as my master, if not more so, when she would not... I - I... I was once a strong, noble, upright..." He trailed off and was silent for a few moment, and then his eyes flashed. "I have hated her ever since! I have hated her more than my Lord Korak hates her, and he hates her bitterly. I have helped my Lord Korak to catch her with words, delighting in the look of confusion and anger on her face. I have hated her as I could hate no one else!"

The maid drew back, and the rosy flush of health that had already paled in her cheeks during the troublesome months was gone completely now. Morashk turned his eyes to her, gazed at her for a few moments, and then, once again retaining his usual skulking posture, free of distress, he gestured her away. "Go to the Lady Hababa," he said. "It is possible she is need of company. The King made his proposal when the ladies were all gathered in the Lady Hababa's room, and there the Lady Arshalous made... her fiendish acceptance. Curse her!" And he continued on down the corridor, skulking for a little while, and then staggering again, alternating between self-control and an utter lack of it.

The maid stared after him for a moment, and then fled as swiftly as she could to the Lady Hababa's chamber.

[Imladris]

A knot of naseating sickness welled inside Arshalous as she heard the Princess whispered words, as she watched her flee their presence. She should have refused...the King would ask nothing but evil of her...what if she was corrupted as he had been? But she pushed the thought away....the princess did not know how she was bound by the King, how she had had no choice but to accept. After all, how could she be of use to anybody if she was dead or poor and an outcast? Maybe she should not have agreed to help him with his plots against Korak...but...she didn't have a choice. Nobody did when the king asked something of them, did they? She breathed quickly, wishing that the dark shadow had not fallen over Pashtia.

And then he asked her what she would like as a wedding gift...what could she say? Gold was crass as he had said, shallow and useless -- the toys of ladies who thought of nothing but of hair and jewels...she did not want gold -- she was not like them. She wanted love, but not his love. What could she ask that he could bestow? "This is what I want of you," she whispered softly, forcing herself to stare deep inside his eyes, "it is but a little thing, easily granted. Hidden in twilight shrowded rooms are scrolls that tell of the forming of this country and of this earth. Read them, my lord...glean their wisdom if they have some. What better way to be a king," she said, "than to learn from the deeds of other kings?"

She could not ask him to learn the lore of the elves for they were not welcome in his eyes anymore. But, maybe, he would read these and learn, and maybe he would realize that all was not well in his realm, and that he was not the king that he once was. She smiled at him then, as winning a smile that she could summon under the present conditions.

The king nodded, and said, "An easy gift it is, lady."

Bowing, Arshalous said, "I ask permission to leave, my lord. There is much to be done, and I still have not properly visited my aunt which is the only reason I come here."

The King nodded and, with a bow, Arshalous slipped from his presence. Oh, yes, there was much to be done...she must make contact with the Princess, let her know that she was not on the King's side, that she would not fall under his corruption. Corruption was a choice -- this she was sure -- and she would not make that choice...she would not fall. Still, she could not help but wonder that, before the Emissary had arrived, the King would have said the exact same things that she was telling herself now. She must not think of that...she must not. There was always a choice. Always.

When she reached the Lady Hababa's chambers, she found that she was sleeping and that a maid was in attendance. Smiling a little at her, she kneeled beside the bed and took her aunt's hand. She was afraid, so very afraid...She must help the Princess, yet she could not let the King know of it...yet how could she do that when he heard all, saw all...What if the King discovered her purposes?

Arshalous slapped herself, forcing herself to see reason. The king was not all powerful, he had no power to see into her mind, read her thoughts...the only thoughts that he could read were the ones that people allowed him to see, or those left carelessly about for the very clever and cunning to work out...

"Fetch me pen and paper," she told the maid. Dropping a short curtsey, the girl hastened to bring them. When she returned, Arshalous wrote this:

My lady,

I must say that the King's proposal today surprised me as much it surprised you...I have never fancied myself a queen...in fact I know that I will not make a good queen but the King thinks otherwise. He said that I was wise, imagine that! I who am so foolish, who was stuck in my world of legends and stories, oblivious to the going ons around me...I, who have only wished to see my cousin brought low before my feet...it is such foolishness...

But I suppose that he sees that I have changed, that I don't care about that any more, that I don't care for gold or for petty court intrigues, or for power. As a noble, I must be concerned with the good of Pashtia -- if that means becoming queen then so be it...I will do my utmost to help...it will be my honour.

I am afraid though that I do not have the courage to be a queen....for a queen cannot hide when there are troubles, when whispering connivers seek to force the the realm astray for their own benefits...And if the realm was lost to evil doers, I would hope that I would have the strength and courage to fight against them...

Arshalous


The lady dropped the pen, and read the letter again. It was vague, perhaps too much so...but the Princess was a smart girl -- surely she would see the subtle hint that Arshalous was not going to let the realm be overrun with evil without a fight, even though the King had crushed the first step.

Arshalous frowned, wishing that she was better at the art of subtlety and deception...but this would have to do.

Sealing the letter, she noticed that her aunt stirred a little. "I will return shortly, my lady aunt," Arshalous whispered in her ear. Hastening down the corridor, deep in thought about what was to come, trying to keep the fear and dread at bay, she almost collided head long with Morashk.

The little weasel! What was he doing here? Arshalous narrowed her eyes at him, wishing that she had not run into him. Despite her claims in the letter, Arshalous did still care about taunting and angering her cousin though it was no longer a top priority. In fact, she often wondered who she disliked the most: Korak for having Morashk poison his words for him or Morashk for serving Korak so faithfully in the first place. And, oh did Morashk have a vile tongue inside that head of his. The thought flickered through Arshalous' head that, if Korak were smarter, he would ask Morashk for his opinion more often instead of keeping him as a convenient champion when he was unable to fight his own battles...

He seemed distracted, but so was she. She must speak to Hababa, especially since they might have a chance to speak privately with Korak off somewhere and the Princess off on her own as well. "Morashk! I need you to give this letter to the Princess when she returns." She held the letter out to him, hoping that he would realize that he was a servant after all...she did not wish to take the time to play any games he might have in mind.

[Amanaduial the archer]

“High Priestess,” he began, the use of her proper title intentional, “I must say, I am surprised by your visit. Very few people can get past the patrols at night.” He smiled grimly. “I am glad you did. Now, why is it you have come?”

Zamara smiled gratefully at the use of her full name and pulled back her hood from her face, pushing her dark out so that it feel free across her shoulders and back. Free. As she was now - or closer, at least, to that impossible goal than she had been but an hour earlier. Looking around, still uneasy, she checked that the door was closed, then walked further in, walking to the shuttered window - she had little worry about anyone seeing her from there, now that the curfew had been imposed. Her fingers fidgetting over each other as she stared out of the window into the utterly still night and after a long moment's hesitation, she turned to Siamak. "I had no choice, Prince Siamak," she replied, her voice soft but her answer frank.

“What do you….” The young man frowned slightly, gesturing for the woman to sit on on one of the low couches around his room. Sitting stiffly, Zamara perched among the rich finery of the cushions, so different from what she had become used to in her sparse apartments, and faced Siamak. Had he given in to the Emissary's dark powers? Zamara had no way of knowing what had become of the alliances that had been set in Pashtia since she had been placed under unofficial house arrest - the Snake had told her some things about the movements of the nobles, but who knew if what he had said was true, or just more poison? She twitched her head to one side, taking a sharp intake of breath and looking away from Siamak suddenly. The prince leant towards her concerned. “Priestess, are you alright? If you are feeling overtired, maybe you need to rest?”

Zamara froze, then looked up slowly at Siamak. “Need to…rest?” she replied incredulously. Gritting her teeth angrily, she fixed Siamak with her straight, no-nonsense gaze. “Prince Siamak, what were you told about my withdrawal from the public eye four months ago?”

The young man seemed uncomfortable, and shifted slightly in his seat, averting her eyes from the woman’s. “You withdrew very suddenly, High Priestess – it all seemed very suspicious at the time. But Khamul – my father – ” he corrected himself, as if having to remind himself of the fact. “issued a statement saying that due to the destruction of the Temple and…other stresses…you had become…ill. Because of your illness you were unable, for a time, to complete your duties…” he faltered and finally trailed off uncertainly under Zamara’s sceptical gaze. She raised one eyebrow. “They said I had gone mad,” she stated frankly. Siamak did not reply, and his silence was answer enough. Zamara gave an angry snort and looked away, rising from her seat and striding towards the window. “Yes, well, maybe they were right after all – to escape from the Temple under the eyes of the Snake and his guards and walk through streets infested with monsters – yes, maybe that is madness indeed…”

Siamak frowned. “’Escape’?” he answered questioningly.

Zamara turned to look at the young prince, her silhouette, cloaked in black, seeming to meld into the starry night. For the first time, the prince noted how her indomitable energy seemed to be lacking, the wildness in her sleepless eyes, the new lines on her youthful face – lines of worry, of pain, of grief. She bit her lip and rubbed at her tired eyes with the heel of one hand, then sighed and looked away out of the window again. “Yes, Siamak, escaped, for that is the only word for it.”

Turning, the erstwhile Priestess of Rhais slowly resumed her position on the cushions, sagging into them. “Let me explain, your majesty. I do not, I fear, have time to check your alliances, for my story shall be long enough in the telling. Just know this: I have always been loyal to my country, and I have always been loyal to your family – both Khamul and Queen Bekah.” She sighed sadly, averting her eyes from Siamak’s, and her tone softened. “Yes, Queen Bekah...I would have followed her leadership no matter where it took me. Your mother was a brave woman, Siamak, and a good leader, although she never had true chance to show it for herself. She was a wise woman…”

Siamak inclined his head as thanks for her words. “Is that why you are wearing black, Priestess? Mourning clothes…”

Zamara gave a harsh laugh and shook her head bitterly. “I would wear mourning clothes for your mother in any case, Prince, but these? No, these clothes are forced upon me as a sort of penitence for my wicked deeds,” she spat sarcastically. Seeing Siamak’s confusion, she added, “Why, did you not know, Siamak? Less than three months after your mother’s death and funeral, I was tending the Temple, as usual. Attendance was already starting to flag, and the regular services were more often or not cancelled – the thanks for that can go to our distinguished guest the Snake,” she added bitterly. “Apparently more time needed to be spent on the Temple to Rae-” she paused, looking at Siamak with a ghost of a smile on her lips. “Did Tarkan get his coveted title of High Priest in the end?”

Despite her attempt at dry humour, Siamak simply looked trouble, and motioned for her to continue her story. Her worry increasing, Zamara did so.

“I had not had the statue in the temple replaced – despite my attempts, help was refused, as all manpower was to be spent on the building of the temple and, it was rumoured, on the build-up of an army, although for what cause I did not know.” Siamak once more looked unhappy, but Zamara persevered. “So instead a number of smaller statues had been placed around the temple. As was befitting the death of a Queen, the period of mourning was still in process – incense was burnt around the Temple almost constantly.

“But it was these things that were to be my downfall. As I prepared the Temple for the evening’s worshippers, a terrible banging sounded on the door and it was demanded that entrance was granted to the king’s men. They…they said they had come charged with rooting out treachery and treason against the crown of Pashtia…”

Astounded, Zamara signalled for the door to be opened, and from that wet and windy night emerged not two, or three, or four soldiers, but about a score, and all led by one of the Westerners, one of the Emissary’s men. It was he who marched down the aisle of the Temple without paying any heed or respect to the Temple, approaching Zamara directly. The man’s arrogance and lack of courtesy in the house of the Goddess frankly appalled her, and the High Priestess turned to fully face the man, drawing herself up furiously. “Gentlemen, what is the meaning of this behaviour in the Temple of Rhais?”

Like a flash of thunder in the storm outside, the Westerner threw back his head and laughed. He actually laughed. Tossing his pale hair arrogantly, he looked disdainfully around the Temple as if what he saw was below him: as if he was amazed, amused, pitying. Tearing his eyes away from the pathetic toys of the temple, the Westerner looked back at Zamara and signalled to two Pashtian soldiers to come forward – soldiers Zamara knew, men who she had seen before and conversed with in lighter days. Drawing out a scroll from under his cloak, the man began to read sanctimoniously and pompously. “You are under arrest on counts of treason against the King of Pashtia; what is more, you are accused by the crown and allies of the crown of witchcraft and sorcery, and of deliberately leading astray civilians with whose care you were entrusted; with abusing your position; with abusing your relationship with the crown and allies of the crown; and of the worship of demons and spectres. From now, you shall be stripped of your title until your trial before the Glorious King Khamul of Pashtia, at a time deemed worthy. Have you anything to say in your defence?”

The words struck Zamara again and again, a thousand blows in a single shot, pummelling and winding her, leaving her breathless and speechless as her world seemed to close in. As the two soldiers came to either side of her, Zamara smacked their hands away like a being irritated with flies and gathered herself against this attack. “Tr…treason? And ‘witchcraft’ and ‘worship of demons’? What sort of foul joke is this?” she demanded, attempting to regain her ferocity, to quell this foreigner – to quell the fear in her heart. But the man remained unmoved. “If you fight, things will become worse for you,” he replied stiffly. Anger flashed through Zamara’s eyes, the otherwordly blue in them glinting dangerously beyond the surface. “Become worse?” she thundered. “You profess to destroy my entire world, you, who came but a few months ago to this country. How could things get worse than these libellous accusations and lies?”

The Westerner took a step back, gasping and raising on hand to his throat as he held the other up as if to ward her away. “Stay away, sorceress!” he choked as if something tried to strangle him. “I can see the madness that moves through your eyes – you will not take me into your power –”

Zamara sneered, folding her arms, disgusted at this melodramatic act – but the soldiers, it seemed, were lapping it up, and even the acolytes seemed uncertain. The Westerner instantly jumped on this act of ‘open rebellion’. “See how she sneers at the name of the king, at the face of those who try to help the civilians!” he announced triumphantly to the Temple as a whole. Turning back to Zamara, his eyes glinting with glee, he hissed, “Traitor!”

This was too much: Zamara took an angry step forward towards the Westerner – and was instantly seized by the two soldiers at the other man’s signal. Trying to fight against their firm grip, Zamara glared at the Westerner furiously and called harshly out to him – before realising her duty still extended to this position. Halting her desperate actions, the High Priestess became still in the arms of the two soldiers and, dignified to the last, the walked herself out haughtily before them.

Having finished her tale, Zamara was now once again standing by the window. Seating herself slowly in the cushions, her demeanout that of an injured queen, she leant forward wearily, her head resting on one hand as she murmured sardonically, “And thus came the fall of the High Priestess of Pashtia.”

Siamak remained silent for a moment, apparently stunned by what he had heard. Leaning forward towards Zamara, he reached out a hand to her and rested it on hers. “Priestess-”

“I believe it is just plain ‘Zamara’ now, your majesty,” came the bitter reply. Siamak hesitated, then began again, self possessed and strong. “Priestess,” he repeated. “Whatever has been said against you, this was one of a great many injuries done against the people of Pashtia since the Emissary arrived. Surely if-“

“What other injuries?”

Siamak looked sorrowful. “There are a great many to tell, Priestess Zamara, if we only had – what was that?” his voice dropped to a murmur as he interrupted himself. Zamara looked up, her eyes alert and watchful and she glanced towards the door. A voice, muffled through the wood and full of restrained anger, was speaking to Nadda – a female voice, directly outside their door. Siamak signalled desperately at Zamara to hide somewhere, but it was too late: she door opened suddenly and there, looking wild yet somehow triumphant in the doorway…was Gjeelea.

[Novnarwen]

Tarkan

He gasped for breath as he sat up in his bed. The images in his dream were still floating in his head. Had this been a vision? As a young boy, he had had visions, but when becoming older they had disappeared. There was little difference between a dream and a vision, but he was able to distinct the two, having much experience with both in the past. It struck him as odd that these images could be a vision though, but thinking of the credibility of these images in a time such as now, he realised that they could in fact be true.

The Priest heard the sound of the silent snores coming from Pelin. Since the day that Tarkan had told him of his heritage, that he was in truth the real King of Pasthia, Pelin had in some way come to like him more. Tarkan didn't know whether it was due to the fact that he hoped for a good position at his court when (or if) becoming King, or if his new form of respect really reflected their friendship. Tarkan didn't at all mind Pelin's company anymore; he had proved himself a trustworthy fellow; not once had he even approached the King with Tarkan's secret. There were of course several reasons for that, among them: the fact that the King had grown so powerful and the darkening of Pasthia. Not even Tarkan dared approach his brother any longer, not that he had any chance to either. Once, his whole plan had depended on Pelin's disobedience, (that he would indeed tell the King of Tarkan), but this didn't bother him now. Things had been moving in such a pace lately, that the always watchful priest hadn't been able to keep up. It seemed nearly impossible to grasp the throne now, as Gjeelea was married with the ‘honourable’ Korak, and the King had the mysterious Emissary at his side as his councillor. At this time, he didn't need the throne though. There were, if possible, far worse things that needed to be taken care of.

"Pelin, you must awake." Getting out of his bed he nudged the tiny fellow that lay on the floor. Slowly, Pelin opened his grey, weary eyes. The two of them had been fasting for several weeks in a row, and their intense praying for aid in the madness of the King had set mark on both of them. Pelin, who had been a rather handsome man, with green sparkling eyes and always a nice tanned colour in his face, had large, dark rings under his eyes. The last bit also counted for Priest himself. During the last weeks, their skinny bodies had turned ungainly, and both of them looked as if they would fall apart and break into thousands of pieces if anyone came near and touched them. Their faces had a ghostly appearance; pale and withering, and they were the very images of unhealthy, sick and soon to die men. On top of it all, neither of them had the chance to visit the temple very often, having to stay inside after curfew and avoiding the foul creatures that patrolled the streets, and thus, the lack of fresh air hung as a grey cloud over their heads.

"Morning already?" Pelin asked, being in the good belief that he would finally get something to eat. Fasting didn’t mean not eating at all; they ate dried bread before the sun rose, which meant early in the morning, and just after the sun had set, in the early evening. Sometimes they poured themselves a goblet of wine, to dip their breads in, to give it a better taste, but richly drinks and foods were becoming seldom in the Kingdom of Pasthia.

"No. I'm sorry to wake you up, but I think I had a vision. Oh... What horrors await us if this is true." It was unlike Tarkan to seem so lost, and if the Priest had said this half a year ago, people would wonder of what illness he suffered.

With questioning eyes, Pelin rose and seated himself opposite of Tarkan. "So it is true?"

"Have you seen it too?" The Priest asked amazed. Pelin nodded. Seeing Pelin in front of him, having shared this vision with him and probably being just as surprised as himself by what seemed like a miracle, Tarkan's eyes lit up. It had been a long time since he had smiled, but in the early hours of this day, he finally did. Pelin forced a smile too, realising what Tarkan thought; Rae or Rhais, or both of them, had paid them for their devotion and belief that their Gods would help them and now they had.

"The priestess Zamara is alive and well. I knew it. I knew the King was lying. It was just an excuse to ruin her." It was humanity who spoke, humanity that had lain hidden, closed behind bars in his soul for all this time. Discussing this with Pelin, and the other aspects of their vision, which included the King proposing to a mysterious woman that neither of them had caught the name of, Gjeelea fleeing in front of the King's eyes and the Prince talking to the Priestess, they knew that the ruin of these Lands were close if nothing was done.

It was time to unite the powers that still remained. The priestess Zamara still had followers, and if the two of them, plus Pelin, could find a way to work together, that would be the only solution. He and Zamara had to put the past aside, and think of the future, if there was still one that awaited them. They had to confront each other and confront the truth that the two of them were the only two who could bring the Kingdom on the right path again. Already, the Priestess had good connections with the Princess and the Prince. Could not the four of them take control, even if it meant taking Faroz down from the throne and placing him in a tomb? Yes, this had to be it; a union of people in Pasthia who still had some power, and use this power to drive the shadow that possessed the King far, far away.

[Firefoot]

A shot of panic raced through Siamak at the sight of Gjeelea. Why had he not thought to go someplace less known? Anyone seeking him would come to his rooms! But what was she doing here? And why now? He could think of few worse people to show up; namely his father or the Emissary, but for all he knew Gjeelea was on their side anyway. At any rate, she would not be on his side - but maybe, just maybe, she would have reasons to keep this meeting secret. He had seen very little of his sister in the past months; beyond her marriage to Korak he knew little of her activities, and so did not know where she stood.

Nevertheless, he kept his features even. Gjeelea would receive no edge on him by means of the emotions betrayed on his face. He stood stiffly; Zamara was similarly rigid behind him.

Looking distraught, Nadda pushed her way indignantly past Gjeelea. “Prince, I tried to keep the Princess back, truly; I told her you would not see her now, but she would not listen to me.” Siamak sighed. Of course Gjeelea would not listen to the servant. “You did your best,” he said, with an annoyed glance at Gjeelea. “Just try to give us some warning next time.” Nadda nodded, dipped a curtsy, and returned to the entrance room.

He now returned his attention to his sister, who had clearly taken stock of the situation. Gjeelea looked unusually disheveled, and that, combined with the late hour, set off warning bells in his head. Something would be wrong; to him, she had always been the picture of unassailable strength. Perhaps she had been hit harder than he had realized by the changes in Pashtia - but now something drastic must have happened. Actually, she looked worse now than she had the day Bekah had been murdered.

He did not sit, however, nor did he invite his sister to do so. He greeted her coolly. “Gjeelea, I have not seen you for a while. Why now?” There was a flicker of something, worry, perhaps, on Gjeelea’s face. It was just enough to remind Siamak that Gjeelea was human, too, and whether or not they had been friendly in the past, maybe it was time to change. She had, after all, come here on her own, so maybe it would be foolish to think that she was on their father's side. “Is something very wrong?”

[Nurumaiel]

Morashk stood silent for a moment, then he lowered his fiercely burning eyes and snatched the letter. He paused, waiting for any further orders, but seeing there were none, he turned and hurried away.

It was odd that he should hate her. Once in days gone by he would have died before he would hate her, though he would have hated willingly anyone who spoke ill of her. Perhaps that was why he still felt scorn and contempt for his master, overruled only by his loyalty. Lord Korak had always said ill of the Lady Arshalous, and once Morashk had hated him bitterly for it. Now it was what drew them together, so Lord Korak considered Morashk his chief servant. But the hatred for Korak had not vanished completely, but had only lessened. He still felt no fondness for his master.

And he felt no fondness for the Lady Arshalous. Then why was he so upset at her acceptance of the King? Well, it was, after all, a mere dream he loved, for the Lady Arshalous had never been what he thought she was. He had learned that when he heard her lashing words, her anger that a servant had presumed to tell her... But now, with her acceptance of the King, all last flittings of that shadowy dream were disappearing, and that was painful to him.

Since she had scorned his love so long ago, it was a relief to be able to hate her bitterly now.

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

“Oh, yes, Siamak…something truly terrible has happened,” Gjeelea wanted so desperately to cry, but she could not – would not – not in front of her brother or the Priestess Zamara. The feeling of overwhelming defeat had long since washed over her, and for the first time ever, Gjeelea did not know how to push the feeling away. She stifled a whimper and smoothed the wrinkles of her disheveled robe. Her brother and the Priestess looked at her expectantly, but the princess waited a moment so that she could regain inner composure before speaking. “I know not what we can do, Siamak, to change this.”

“What has happened, Gjeelea?” Zamara asked calmly, her voice soft. Gjeelea wondered if she was ready to handle the news that she had brought. The princess wondered how Siamak and the Priestess would react.

“I was with the lady Hababa and…and my husband,” Gjeelea began. “Then Lady Arshalous came to visit, and we spoke of many things. We spoke of the darkening of Pashtia, and the evils that have settled here among us.” The princess gazed over at her brother, letting her eyes meet his. At first, doubt had consumed her – she wondered if her brother would help her. Yet surely if he was meeting with Zamara, he would find the news horrifying as well. “Then, even as we spoke, Khamul arrived from no where – truly it was as if he had risen from the shadows.”

“And?” Siamak prompted, his voice passive but his eyes betraying other emotions of discomfort and impatience.

“He…Khamul…the king – my father, our father – he asked Arshalous to marry him,” Gjeelea murmured, her heart sinking even as she retold the story to her brother and Zamara. “And Arshalous consented – it is to happen as soon as possible.”

[Kransha]

Quill on paper – quill on paper – quill in ink – quill on paper

Repetition was not boredom to Morgôs, it was torture. He had never been able to endure it. Every campaign of his unique, every stratagem one and only, every tactic different from the one devised before or after it. Doing the same thing again and again was a curse. He wrote nothing but numbers and words equally inconsequential in between, scratching his feathered quill spitefully against parchment, carving out what he’d been ordered to. After a brief vocal discharge (in his mind, at least) all was silent but for that terrible scratching. The palace seemed empty, a great ghostly vault, haunted by noiseless beings that left only the echoing noise of their footsteps and nothing else. Morgôs found himself yearning for company.

Being immortal eventually instilled an indelible sense of time in one, and a total immunity to impatience, but sitting at a desk for months, day after day, hour after hour, word after horrible word, left the Elven former General feeling sicker than he was. He waited, contemplating, hoping for many things. He hoped someone would come by to make the hours go quicker, he hoped the King would favor him again, he hoped for hope itself. Skeptical as he was of Faroz-Khamûl, he wished more for his favor than his anger, and greatly desired that favor to fall upon him again. The days of his glory were gone, his passion and prowess waned. What had become of Morgôs Elrigon, he thought with mournful irritation and confusion.

“General?”

Morgôs, realizing that his head was drooping, long, grayed hair unfurling onto the desk-slab, snapped upward, feeling the bones in his back crack stiffly. His head arched and inclined, his body maneuvering sideways on his seat to see a young page in the heraldic garb of the court standing nearby, a number of thickly-laden scrolls bunched up under his arm. “Yes?” he murmured, fumbling to pull the parchment he was scribbling on in his now illegible chicken scratch towards him, “What is it?” A depressing thought flashed through his mind. He was actually afraid of what the page might say about his work habit to the King – afraid of the gossiping words of a meager courtier, no more than twenty years old.

“Have you filled out the recruit ledgers, sir?” Recruit ledgers, yes. Morgôs had been passing merry, merry hours filling out ledgers that recruited this month’s recruits from the populace. Technically, there were no “recruits” since most of the Pashtian army consisted of orcs, but Morgôs still had to rewrite the crude, foreign names of the orcs month-by-month, as well as transcribing their pompous titles. Torture. “Yes, lad, I have.”

“The King appreciates your services.” The boy smiled dimly and advanced. Morgôs willingly, but with a foul look on his face, organized his parchment into piles and shoved them across the slick stone table towards the page. He took them, stuffing them under his arm with the other papers. As he gathered them up neatly, Morgôs leaned forward on his chair, looking towards the page with enigmatic intent in his eyes. The look of an Elf was always mysterious to mortal kind, and most especially to the young who did not understand it, or had little real experience of it that they could draw upon in context. “Your predecessor said the same to me the other day. I wonder now if it is true.” The boy halted; his work slowing as he shot a quizzical glance of the Avari. “My...predecessor?” he wondered allowed, looking uncouth with lack of experience as he did. Morgôs gave a similarly grim nod. “Yes, the page who came to me the day before. He said, word for word, what you have said today. And his predecessor said the same before him, and so on. You all say it, but I do not think the king appreciates my services at all.” His face was serious and grave, but the remark he tossed off sounded almost glib. Still, the page shook his head as if he knew. “Milord, I am sure he does. I do not know, I admit, but still-”

“I don’t need your condolences, child. Go to your master.” Morgôs shooed the boy away disdainfully, but the page hesitated, and barely budged. He looked at Morgôs confusedly. “Milord,” he muttered, half under his breath as if he thought Morgôs did not need to hear it, but was saying it to him anyway, “You are my master.” The General’s shoulder arched a little as a half-grey eyebrow on his forehead rose. “What do you mean? The King is your master.”

“No, sir. The pages who collect your ledgers are assigned to you. We all serve the king, but my prime duty is to you, as long as you reside in the palace for your daily hours. Technically, it is a loophole in the structure of my service, but most courtiers indulge it. All the nobles in court have pages and servants, though we consider ourselves assistants more than menial laborers.” The speech sounded rehearsed, even though Morgôs could not imagine the boy had ever used it before. Perhaps, though, he had practiced it if the occasion ever presented itself to him. “So,” he ventured, raising his hand with a questioning, affirming gesture, “I command your duties?” The page nodded without hesitation. “Very well.” Morgôs considered this, leaning back against the cold, sturdy back of the seat, letting his billowing cloak sag like a misty cloud over the black stone. “Then I command you to remain here. You can take the ledgers to his majesty later in the day. For now, I have another task for you.” Though he remained dark in mood, an eerie, satisfied glint beamed from the bottomless orb of his eye. He lay his hand and arm upon the table, sweeping several sheets of blank vellum from the slab, and leaned forward, placing his gloved hand beneath his chin and positioning the armored elbow of that arm on the table.

“Sing me a song.”

The boy looked at him, awestruck. “What?” He almost choked. Morgôs clucked his tongue, “You heard me lad. All Pashtians can sing, and Pashtia has many songs. Sing me one.” The boy gawked at him for a moment more, then nodded dumbly, knowing not what else to do. He coughed again, several times, clearing his throat in a melodramatic fashion as Morgôs’ fingers tapped impatiently on the stone, and, eventually, began.

“The songs are sung in Kanak of the day that Khamûl won,
The Lord of all the windswept lands beneath the golden sun,
With sword and shield, spear, blade, and bow,
The strength and power of his will grow
On the day that Khamûl won, oh-”

The passionate, grandiose verse was cut off by a protesting grunt and words from the General. The page stuttered to a fumbling halt. “Not that one, by Rae’s blue sky, that is not the song for me.” The page looked at him with apology written all over his face. “I am sorry, milord. It is a well-liked song in Kanak these days.” But Morgôs snarled deeply, under his audible breath and voice so that the page did not detect it. “Do you know, boy, any older songs? Any songs of battles in the time before King Khamûl, if such a thing is possible these days. Something less anthematic, perhaps, and a bit more rousing.” The boy nodded a dumb nod again, saying, meekly, “Yes, General, I do, but I fear it is not as rousing as you might like…” he paused, hesitant in a fearful way, “It is about you, milord.”

“Good,” Morgos said resolutely, “sing.” With considerably more hesitation, the page began, singing softly at first, trying to sound far from “anthematic.” His verse was steady and slow continually, with as hint of mournful emotion deep within its clouded, vague metaphors and winding words…

“Ah Karandûn, in the twilight of the sands,
The beacon of the stars your way alights,
Into the valley, to the shadow of the bladed night,
The reaping dark is at last conquered.”

“Ah-lara Karandun, in the sunset of the sands,
Grim-looked night its toll may take,
But all men’s souls shall not be shaken till the day has come,
Golden day shall come again…”

The boy’s voice faded, though his mouth remained open as his eyes widened and looked towards the general.

Morgôs sat, upright in his chair, eyes half-closed; mouth quivering strangely, a peculiar glow welled up beneath his thick eyelids. He hands, lay on the table before him, twitching like those of a seizing man. The page was about to venture a question, to ask if the General was alright, but before he could, a wind blew through the windowless room, and a gentle, wafting sound filled the air, seeming to permeate the area like a cloud of wonder. Words formed from nothingness and the blowing of the sparkling wind took shape, forming single, articulate sounds. “Aure entuluva…”

The beautiful, magical silence was shattered a moment later by manmade thunder, as Morgôs’ clenched fist slammed down on the table so hard that the stone splintered and cracked, chips of it whistling in several directions. The slab sagged beneath the mighty fist, empowered by some unknown source. The page, shot backward, startled out of his wits, and fell to the floor. The beautiful moment, so perfect, was now filled with Elven fire. The General, not even paying heed to his hand, severely bruised from the action, stalked away from the table and past the fallen page, murmuring cold, emotionless words as he left the room.

“Take your accurséd ledgers and begone. I must speak with the King.”

[Firefoot]

“But... but Mother...” The words died on his lips. How could this be? His mother was but six months dead. Not only was this new action of Khamul - his father - entirely improper, but it was also an insult to his mother’s memory. Why? He met Gjeelea’s eyes, and for the first time that he could remember he found not scorn or disdain, but understanding. She understood, because she had already had these thoughts.

“He is mad.” Siamak spoke quietly but with conviction. Gjeelea nodded mutely.

“Come sit down,” said Siamak, momentarily diverting them from the subject and reminding Siamak of Zamara’s presence. Here, Priestess he thought, remembering her earlier query. Here is one of those many injuries that Pashtia has sustained.

Having settled on to the couches, though none of them quite comfortably due to the thick tension of the situation, Siamak asked, “Was Arshalous willing, do you think? Or did she have no other option?”

Gjeelea paused for a moment, thinking. “She said she did not trust the Emissary. I did not think she would accept if she had the chance. But she had no strength of will while talking with Kham- our father. She made no resistance at all.”

“So whose side is she on? Can she be trusted?” asked Zamara, seeing where Siamak was headed.

“I would like to say so... but I think we will have to wait and see,” answered Gjeelea.

“‘Wait and see,’”repeated Siamak. “That’s what we’ve been doing this whole time, haven’t we? Waiting and hoping that maybe it would get better, but it’s gotten worse. Pashtia grows darker as Khamul’s - and the Emissary’s - power heightens.” As he spoke, the irony that the one called “Shining One” should be the one to bring about the darkness of the country occurred to him. “If we wait any more, Pashtia will be beyond saving. We need to do something - now.” He paused. Dare he say it? “We need to drive out the Emissary and his influence - and to do that, we may need to drive out Khamul himself.” He wondered if this could really be his father that he was talking about so calmly. But this man was not his father save in name only. If the real Faroz was still there, he had been buried in the madness of Khamul. Siamak had made the distinction and committed himself to it. He would not look back.

[Amanaduial the archer]

"I would like to say so...but I think we shall have to wait and see." Gjeelea's words were careful, and struck a bitter chord: the actions of even those such as Arshalous could no longer be certain. Zamara rose from her seat, a sudden, violnt motion, and headed for the window, her arms crossed and hands tucked into the black cloak, and her expression angry.

"Foolish woman!" she spat furiously, surprising both the royal siblings although she was ranting to herself as much as them. "How...how could she do this? Arshalous is a wise woman, she is certainly not stupid - and she was loyal to Bekah! Why, she was one of the women who annointed the Queen after her death..." she stared out of the window, her expression pensive, nibbling her lip, before she looked away sharply, clenching her jaw angrily.

Gjeelea rose behind her. "I do not think she really had a choice, Zamara..." she said quietly. Zamara did not respond, and after a moment, Siamak continued.

“‘Wait and see." His voice was almost mocking of his sister, although both the women knew that it was not Gjeelea who he was angry at. "That’s what we’ve been doing this whole time, haven’t we? Waiting and hoping that maybe it would get better, but it’s gotten worse. Pashtia grows darker as Khamul’s - and the Emissary’s - power heightens. If we wait any more, Pashtia will be beyond saving. We need to do something - now." As he hesitated, Zamara looked across at the young man, speaking with such calm self possesion and assurance. He was five, maybe six years younger than she, only in his late teens, but he spoke like a king himself. She willed him to go on, knowing what he was about to say, what he needed to say, but not sure if he could. Go on...

"We need to drive out the Emissary and his influence - and to do that, we may need to drive out Khamul himself."

Gjeelea gasped quietly, but Zamara felt herself smile, an action that felt almost unfamiliar to her after her forced period of mourning. She nodded slowly, approvingly as she eyed the young prince. You have spoken our worst fears, the very root of our problem as all can see it - but you have been the first to say out loud the solution..."

Zamara walked slowly away from the window until she stood in front of the prince where he sat, looking down at the young man. Then, very deliberately, she knelt in front of him, lowering her head. "Prince Siamak, I offer you a pledge of my allegiance as long as you follow this cause."

"And I, Siamak, Prince of Pashtia, do so accept the allegiance of the High Priestess Zamara and this alliance with her." Siamak's respond was quick and fluid, almost as if he had been practising...or as if he had done this before recently. Lifting her head, Zamara raised an eyebrow more informally. "May I ask you a question, Siamak?"

Siamak almost visibly braced himself.

"Who else recently swore allegiance to you?" The question appeared to catch Siamak off guard, as he blinked suddenly in surprise, but otherwise his face remained emotionless - a talent that the Prince had that Zamara was quickly becoming familiar with. She smiled gently. "I merely inquire for the interests of knowing exactly who else will be coming with us."

"I do not think-" he began stiffly.

"Please, my lord?" Zamara interrupted firmly. That probably counts as treason as well, she thought ironically. But it worked. Siamak stared at her hard for a long second, then nodded. "General Morgos," he replied quietly. "Several months ago, after the banquet." His lip twisted wryly. "The banquet to 'honour the emissary'," he added bitterly. Zamara nodded, sitting back. "I thought as mu-"

An urgent knocking on the door caused all three in the room the jump, startled. Zamara got to her feet quickly, tensed to run as she looked around for somewhere to hide. But the door opened before she could do anything, and it was Nadda's head that poked around the doorway. "Your majesties, there are footsteps coming down the adjacent corridor - I looked and it is a man I do not recognise although he wears servants' livery."

"Description?" Gjeelea ordered stiffly.

"Tall, dark, somewhat...oily looking..." Nadda began uncertainly.

"Morashk...?" the princess murmured to herself. Looking to her brother, she added, "A servant of my husband's household, and a most unpleasant one at that, if it is indeed he." She caught Zamara's eyes. "You need to hide."

Zamara looked hopelessly at both of them - but through the crack of the doorway they themselves could now hear the footsteps as well, approaching distinctly down the corridor. Soon he would no doubt be speaking to Nadda... Siamak signalled urgently towards a screened doorway leading out of the room and Zamara headed as quietly as could towards it, slipping through and positioning herself just within the dark room, hidden but able to hear. Standing frozen and pressed against a wall for the second time that night, Zamara felt the rush of fear of discovery once more thrill through her veins. Frozen in the darkness, she heard a man's voice speaking indistinctly with Nadda outside, closed her eyes, and waited...

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Ashnaz was waiting for him at the assigned place. Khamûl removed the Ring and stepped into the small enclosure formed by the tall hedges of his private garden, his feet making hardly a sound even upon the dry gravel of the pathway. He had learned how to move quietly and quickly, flitting from place to place like a wraith in the night, for even though the power of Annatar’s gift shielded him from men’s eyes, he could still be heard and felt. So accustomed was he now to walking upon the balls of his feet that it had become habit, and even when visible he would often be upon people before they knew he was there.

“How did it go?” the Emissary asked him, his lips curling into a handsome smile.

“As we foresaw,” he replied, his heart settling once more in his chest. Of late, he had become anxious when apart from his friend for more than a few hours. So much had he come to depend upon the wisdom of his counsel and the comfort of his presence that he felt its absence like the gaping of an open wound. He resisted the urge to take Ashnaz by the hand.

“So the Lady Arshalous is to be your wife.”

“Aye, that she is.”

“And did she seem pleased at the prospect?” Ashnaz smiled again, and Khamûl’s heart lightened as though it were the dawn.

“Not very,” he replied. “Although she was more pliable than we had anticipated. Perhaps she truly can be saved…?”

Ashnaz shook his head sadly and reached out to take the King by his shoulder. His hand was warm and strong, even through the heavy leather of his glove. “I do hope so, my friend, for her sake as much as for our own. But where did you find her? With whom was she speaking when you made your intentions known?”

“So you saw,” the King said. “I should have known that you were watching me from afar.”

“You never leave my sight, my friend. Never. My thought and my will, and that of my lord, is ever upon you. You know that.”

“And great comfort I take from it, too.” He paused to return his friend’s gentle look of concern. “It is too late for her then, isn’t it?”

“You saw with your own eyes: she was deep in the treacherous plottings of your daughter. You found her at the house of your great rival, the worm who would keep you from the throne that is yours by the right of your own strength. I would counsel hope, but I fear that prudence leads me to warn you against the Lady Arshalous.”

The King felt tears come to his eyes, and his head bowed. For a moment, just a moment, his will sagged and his shoulders slumped. In that instant, if there had been any there to see the King who had known and loved Faroz in foregone days, they would have seen the change that had been wrought upon him by the power of the Ring and the honeyed lies of Its lord: for in that moment he appeared as an old, tired, and worn out man; as though he were bent beneath a terrible burden he staggered toward the Emissary, and perhaps by some trick of the light, it seemed as though he faded somewhat as he come into the embrace of his friend, as though he were putting on the Ring, though it was still in his pocket. “Oh what am I to do?” he gasped between his sobs. “Is there nobody I can trust? Is there no-one I can turn to?”

The Emissary held him like a child. “You are not friendless, Khamûl. You know that.”

“No,” he said, “I know. But you, who have ever enjoyed the love and trust of the lord Annatar, you cannot imagine what it is to be so steeped in the mud of treachery that the very smell of it makes you blind with revulsion. At times I think it would be better for me simply to flee with you back to your land, and to leave Pashtia to its own fate.”

“A lesser man might seek that route, but you are the King in this land, and you bear the burden of its care. You cannot abandon it to those who would defile it with their sin.”

“You are right, of course, as always, my friend. But my heart quakes at what I must do. Is there really no other way?” The only response he got was a slight tightening of the Emissary’s arms about his shoulders. “Very well,” the King murmured into the dark of the night. “I am prepared to do what I must. The sin that threatens my kingdom must be destroyed. I must be merciless and purge the state of those who plot against it. All who oppose me will die.”

“Even your children? And your affianced wife?”

“Yes. Even them. They have their part to play yet, but when they have fulfilled their roles, they will join their allies in the nameless place where they shall howl out their agony until the Final End.”

[Firefoot]

This time, Siamak felt only dull surprise at another unexpected visitor. Like moths to a candle...

"If it is that Morashk, what reason might he have for coming here?" Siamak asked his sister. "Could he have followed you?"

"He may have. It is some time since I have left, though, and I do not know how he would know to come here."

Siamak frowned. "Hm. Perhaps it is not him, then. There are many in the city who might fit that description." He heard the door open and close, and Nadda's voice talking with another. "Shall we find out?" Gjeelea assented, and Siamak led the way into the outer room.

Nadda and the other turned to them upon hearing their entrance. Siamak looked the newcomer over. He was as Nadda had described: tall, rather dark, and oily looking. No ordinary servant, Siamak thought as he noted the way the man's manner did somehow not fit with the servant's clothes he wore. He looked familiar, but then Siamak supposed he may have seen the man before: Gjeelea's wedding, perhaps, should it be Morashk. He turned a questioning look to Nadda.

"He would tell me neither his name nor his business, majesties," Nadda explained.

Siamak turned the look to the man. "Well? Who are you, and what is your business here?"

[Nurumaiel]

Morashk was not accustomed to be spoken to in such a tone. He had considered his position elevated because of the favourable way his master looked upon him, and when his master had married the daughter of the King, he had considered his position further elevated. He straightened his back and looked steadily into the Prince's eyes.

"My name is Morashk," he replied, "and I come bearing a letter for the Princess Gjeelea, wife of my master." He intentionally described her thus, and noted with some satisfaction the expression of distaste that crossed her face. "The letter is from the Lady Arshalous."

He looked from one to the other, and then took a keen glance about the room.

"I have further been instructed by my master," he went on, "to escort the Princess back to his home at her earliest convenience. He... fears for her safety." The mocking tone in Morashk's voice was not disguised. Princess Gjeelea already suspected, at the least, that his opinion was not high of the Lord Korak, whatever his feelings of loyalty might be. "If she is busy at the moment, I will wait for her."

[Bêthberry]

While the lords and ladies of the realm talked and plotted and dithered and while Khamul fell ever more under his terrible obsession with the Ring and Ashnaz and the Lord Annatar, the people of Pashtia and its capital city came to experience at first hand the true effects of the dark evil which was dominating their land.

The tribute that was filling the King's coffers did not trickle down to the people. For instance, damage caused by the monsoon season's heavy rains was not repaired. Damns, dikes, the stone culverts could no longer carry the previously abundant quantity of water and irrigation. Crops, which had at first sprung up well, were dying in the fields and the city's water supply was dwindling. Roads and fields which were damaged by the brutal war were not restored, with the consequence that trade, interrupted by the war, was slow to pick up. Supplies in the city were being depleted and not replaced. And the orcs which marauded around the city cared little what damage they caused; in fact, they seemed to delight in spreading destruction and fear. Khamul's attention was being drawn to events that did not aid his country's economy but served only the vile interests of the dark lord.

As always, it was the poorest citizens who faced the truth of Khamul's rule first. Jarult, for instance, the old Chamberlain who had been dismissed so abruptly, saw evidence around him daily of want and deprivation. He had at first been able to seek some solace in the furtive friendship with old Homay, but suddenly she stopped coming, shortly after a series of riots were brutually put down by the orcs. Jarult had snuck around to the room which she had found when she had been dismissed from the Palace, but no one answered his knock, not even a harried landlord or landlady. He had asked around for her, but frightened looks on people's faces reminded him that she was remembered as an Alanzian, an enemy.

He was at his wits end with worry when Dilayah, the healer stole into his small building one day, and called to him. They met, even during daylight, furtively in a small passage behind large bins of garbage and refuse.

"How are you Jarult? You look not well."

"None of us look well these days, healer. A disease is spreading amongst us which appears to be robbing us of our well being."

He cautiously directed her to a small corner, where the sun for now was shining and providing them with some warmth. His face looked sallow, but so did that of the healer.

They sat quietly together for some time and then began to speak of those who were missing. There were many, but Jarault's mind turned mainly on Homay.

"I have not seen her since the riots."

Dilayah nodded her head. "They caught us off guard. We were talking by the well, and the crowd came storming in. I was pushed aside and was able to crawl out of the way. Homay was recognised."

"She was named as an Alanzian?"

"I heard several shout that, calling her an enemy and a traiter. One voice even claimed she had killed the Queen."

"No! No! Not after everything we knew and tried to speak of!"

"Our words fell on deaf ears."

"Was she taken?"

"I could not see. The crowd was surging all around me, and then the orcs struck."

"I heard. I mean that literally, healer. I could hear the cries and screams and even the crushing of bones and spilling of breath."

"Even after it was over, they would not let us take our dead."

"Was she among the dead?"

"I never found her body."

"But many were taken and never seen again."

"There are strange fires burning in some of the smithies. The air is sickening. Not many speak of it."

"I do not believe that the Lord Korak ever contacted her."

"He didn't? So, there is no hope in rousing at least some degree of interest?" The old Chamberlain slumped against the dry, dusty wall, his face as dull as the faded mud bricks.

"I believe the High Priestess struggles to maintain the old faith, but her lines of communication are cut, and there are whispers everywhere that the wind carries words beyond their intended."

From her pocket, the healer drew out a small package, wrapped carefully in palm leaves. It held two wafers, the kind of small sweet which she knew Jarult enjoyed. She would have given both to him, but he refused, insisting that they share the small ritual of hospitality. A small trickle of tear ran down his face, leaving a dark streak of dust on his face. Homay had become a dearer companion in his exile than he had admited, and she had been his last hope.

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

Snatching the parchment from Morashk, Gjeelea wondered what Arshalous had written. I had not given her much chance, the princess realized as Morashk waited for her to speak.

"I am not yet finished with my business here -" Gjeelea began, sending a backward glance to her brother.

"Then I shall wait for you..." Morashk interrupted.

"No," Gjeelea snapped. She was not in the mood to deal with Morashk, and she did not need him slithering around gathering information for Korak. "No, Morashk, you will return to your master and inform him that I wish to remain here at the palace for an extended period of time."

"But my lady, I received strict orders -" Morashk was a mask of calmness as he tried to refute Gjeelea's orders.

"You will go and you will inform your master that I will return at a later time," the princess said, in a commanding and angry manner. "My husband will understand that I am just as safe here as I would be at his home."

"As you say, my lady," Morashk was led out by Nadda.

Gjeelea looked to her brother, who in turn went to bring Zamara back into the room. Letter in hand, Gjeelea pulled at the creases and gently pulled it open. Her hazel eyes flicked across the page, reading the handwriting and grasping the information given in the letter.

"What does it say?" Zamara asked as she and Siamak reentered the room.

"Arshalous writes of her fears and doubts for becoming queen," Gjeelea replied softly. "Then she goes on to say something about the good of Pashtia..." the princess tried to conceal the confused look on her face. "Read this," she handed the letter to Siamak and Zamara. As they read it over, Gjeelea thought over and over again about the letter. "Do you think she is trying to tell us something? Something she could not write in the letter in case it did not reach me first?"

[Firefoot]

Siamak nodded, thinking. "It sounds so. It is almost as if she were writing the letter in a reply, based on information we already have..." In a flash of insight, he clarified, "You were with her, right, when Khamul proposed? What were you talking about before he came?"

"The Emissary. She said he was... evil." It was clear that Gjeelea had made the same connection as he.

"Perhaps, then, the Emissary and his following are the evil-doers she mentions? We will need to make sure, but I think Arshalous is trying to tell us she is on your - our - side." He smiled slightly and handed the letter back to Gjeelea. "Let's hope. She will have power in her position as queen. She may be of help."

"If she has the courage," commented Zamara, almost to herself.

All of us will need that, thought Siamak. But he said, "Yes, that will have to be proven. But for now, we will have to find out if she is with us, if that was truly what she meant to imply. I think we should also look for allies elsewhere - I will talk to General Morgôs - but tomorrow, or maybe it is today now. The night is growing old. But now - Gjeelea, you told Morashk that you would be staying at the palace, and that will probably be common knowledge before long. But, you, Priestess, you called your temple quarters little more than a prison. So am I correct that you do not wish to return there? I am sure we could find someplace that you could - stay."

[Amanaduial the archer]

Hide, you mean, Zamara replied silently, her lip curling slightly. But what other choice did she have? Stay, hide, it was all one: one must what one must, that was what she had always been taught; and what she must do now, whether she liked it or not, was hide.

But Zamara had also been taught that no matter how dark the situation seemed, there is always another choice, another path that can be taken, however shrouded. The darkness that crept over the kingdom allowed little light to fall now on the choices of even the highest nobles, and Arshalous had, it seemed to Zamara, leapt to the one choice that she probably felt she was forced to make; but even in times so dark, a shred of light still crept through from the cracks in th floor of the heavens, a shred of light that illuminated Zamara's ultimate choice - and Arshalous's. I will not hide forever...

The Priestess nodded, showing no sign of her inner turmoil, although at the mention of her house-arrest, she couldn't help but glance anxiously out of the window. "I do not think I could return there if I wanted; no doubt it would 'sorcery' could be the explanation for my escape, and just another reason to condemn me. Maybe escaping seems to have made things worse, but I could not have stayed a minute longer..." she shuddered slightly, remembering the Emissary's cold, relentless grip on her arm as he forced her to her knees, effectively forced her to bow to him. Shaking away the memory, Zamara nodded to Siamak, a shadow of a smile gracing her expression. "My thanks, Prince Siamak, Princess Gjeelea." She extended her grace to the princess not out of diplomacy, but for the change that seemed to have come about in the woman: a new strength, but also a quietness. A fear that even Gjeelea could not entirely hide. She must have married Korak after all, Zamara noted resignedly as she spied the gold band on the princess's finger. And for the first time in how many hundred years, the marriage must have been performed in the Temple of Rae... A sudden, more frightening thought came to Zamara, and she started slightly at it.

"The gods..." Zamara looked anxiously at the royal siblings. "He really did have them destroyed, did he not?"

Gjeelea looked shaken at the wording used by the Priestess. "The emissary effectively closed the temples, and the Temple of Rae was transformed into a temple for the...the new God." Here she glanced sharply at Zamara, as if unsure of how the Priestess would take this, then seeing Zamara's simple, impassive expression, she continued quickly, "But I would not say he has 'destroyed' Rhais or Rae..."

"Destroy the worshippers and you destroy the gods," Zamara replied softly. Looking down, she sighed softly, closing her eyes for a moment as she shook her head. The snake had told her mockingly one day of the downfall of the old gods; had told her that the people now shunned her petty, false gods, to worship the true One... She had ignored him, had shut her ears to his laughter and mockery, waving it aside as false. But now to find the truth in the statement? Zamara squeezed her eyes tightly shut, then looked up again at Gjeelea, bright eyed. "And the name of this one god?"

"His name...his name is Morgoth."

"Morion...i yára úmëa..."

The words slipped from Zamara's lips so softly that they were like a mere whisper of wind, softer than the glimmering of a distant star - distant as the voice of a faraway god. Both the prince and princess felt a shiver up the back of their necks as they watched the Priestess gazing out of the window. As if fearing to break a spell, Gjeelea replied almost in a whisper, "What did you say?"

Zamara looked around suddenly, as if awoken from a dream, and blinked. Shaking her head, she frowned slightly. "I..nothing. It does not matter." Shaking off the strange, creeping feeling at the back of her neck, Zamara blinked a few more times and turned to the children together, opening her mouth to speak, before something outside the door creaked: nothing more than a rogue floorboard, but nonetheless the sound made all three jump and Zamara almost bolted for the doorway again. Feeling foolish, Zamara gave a small, nervous smile despite the tension, and turned to Siamak again. "Your majesty, you were saying something about a hiding place? Have you anywhere in mind?"

[alaklondewen]

In the course of several months, life had changed dramatically for the General’s wife. Before the fateful day of Beckah’s death, Arlomë had been a respected and active member of Pashtian society. Now she rarely left her estate unless absolutely necessary, and then, only in the heart of the day, when the disgusting Orc soldiers did less harm and the Elves in Kanak were treated with slightly more respect than after the instated curfues. Her faithful mornings spent in the temple of Rhais were no more as the goddess’ worshipers had been forced from the temple and threatened if they were to praise her in public. Arlomë, with her son’s aid, built a small alter in the North-east corner of the home, where the Elf now performed her daily meditation and prayer.

Then…there was Morgôs. Arlomë had watched her husband deteriorate into a shadow of his former stature. She did what she could to keep him physically healthy, but something else what eating away at him and he would not let her in to help him as she may. She had strength…enough for both of them (so she thought), but he would have to open up to her. He did not speak of it often, but she knew it hurt him to be placed in an ornamental position, filling out papers instead of using his wit and instinct to lead men on the battlefield.

Yes, her world was changed. The elf reflected as she closed her eyes tightly and let the warm evening breeze lift her hair loosely from her shoulders before it continued around the garden swaying the long tree branches and making their leaves dance. So much had happened, and more was to come. She knew not which way fate would move, but something was going to come to pass that would change the course of her life and those that were close to her. She could feel it in her bones.

[Firefoot]

Siamak thought for a moment before responding. Zamara’s hiding place would have to be somewhere that could be easily accessed without causing suspicion, yet it could not be anyplace where people, servants or nobles, regularly went. He was thinking that it also ought to have more than one exit, so that she would not be trapped should her location be discovered. She had to be able to escape. Tricky requirements... then he had it. It was so absurdly simple, he almost laughed: who would think to hide Zamara in a guest’s chambers? Not very many were currently being used; few people visited the palace nowadays. As for exits, he now recalled the old servants’ entrances which led into nearly all the rooms in the palace - his own chambers had one. They were unused now, and had been unused for any conventional purposes for several generations now.

“Yes,” he said. “I know of a place. I can take you there now, if you like.” Zamara agreed and she and Gjeelea both made for the door.

“No, not that way,” said Siamak, heading into the room where Zamara had previously hid. “This way.” Remembering Nadda in the entry room, he called for her to come as well. After all, the fewer the people who knew the better, and someone would need to bring Zamara meals and such.

Looking slightly puzzled, the three women followed him to the inobtrusive door, designed to blend in with the room. He tried the door; it creaked softly as it was opened. “The old servants’ entrance,” Siamak explained for Zamara’s benefit. “It’s not really in use anymore.” After they filed through, he shut the door to, leaving it slightly ajar so that it would not be hard to find. He took a moment to orient himself. He had only been back here a handful of times, and not once in several years. Left goes towards Khamul’s rooms... right towards the guest rooms, and then a dead end. Right it is.

The passageway was plain, unlike the richly decorated hallways that were more commonly used. The walls were plain stone, and several doors lined them until the way turned out of sight. He concentrated on the number of doors they passed, trying with mild difficulty to remember where each led. Finally, he stopped. If he was correct, the room was about the same distance away from his and Gjeelea’s apartments. Out of the way, but not completely obscure in location. The door opened with more trouble than the one in his own rooms had, but it squeaked less.

It was exactly the type of place he had wanted: these rooms would not be used by any prominant palace guest, so they were smaller, but certainly they were a finer place than one would normally think to hide an accused traitor. Here, the servant’s door opened directly into the bedroom, so the two entrances to the room were not visible to each other.

“What do you think?” he asked. “You have two exits - three, if you count the window - though I doubt anyone will look for you here.”

[Orofaniel]

"The garden is not the same, is it mother?"

The whispering did not affect his mother; she stood there, steady as a rock, but Evrathol knew she was feeling weaker than in her earlier days.

Months had passed since the death of Queen Bekah. Evrathol remembered it like it had been yesterday. His eyes had seen much throughout his long immortal life, but the events of that day that he had witnessed would stay with him forever. He could remember how the Emissary had come to his mother's gardens. The cold and ruthless man that had disturbed the peace in Pashtia had been standing here, on this very spot. Evrathol shivered by the thought of it.

It was Evrathol's suspicion that the Emissary had killed Queen Bekah with his own hands that had been the greatest terror of them all. But how could he prove it? Evrathol was not to keen to go against the Emissary and his men alone. He knew he would not be strong enough to do so. But why hadn't Morgos, the general, taken more responsibility? He wondered what role the Princess and the Prince played in all this. Where they still mourning, perhaps, he wondered. The questions regarding the future of Pashtia tormented him, for he had no answers. He knew little of what was really going on in the Palace as he had not been there after the Queen's death. However, he had no wish of going there, because he was afraid the sight of it would weaken his hopes for a new and better Pashtia.

Oh, these ill events that has taken place in Pashtia...." Evrathol sighed. Indeed, many ill events had taken place.

He looked at his mother. She was grave and paler than usual. His mother had been devastated after the Priestess Zamara had withdrawn from her duties, and apparently gone mad. The Temple that had been a place for peace and quiet and his mother had used this as a place to collect her thoughts. Now however, she had arranged a small alter in her own home with Evrathol’s help. Nevertheless, Evrathol knew it was not the same.

"No, the gardens are different, I'm afraid," Arlomë then said quietly.

"But Mother, your plants....they need to be looked after," Evrathol said softly. "Many of them have already withered and died...Will you not see to the few that are left?" Evrathol continued. Arlomë remained quiet. "I have tried to look after them for you, but I do not share your knowledge and wisdom. Please, you must not let all of them wither. You used to..."

"That time has passed, son," Arlomë then interrupted. "The Pashtia we knew before is fading away…withering....But I feel that something is going to change. I do not know what it is. Do you feel it?"

Evrathol looked at her, amazed by her last words. His mother hadn’t been so enthusiastic about anything in a long time. However, he still sensed weariness in her voice. "I do not know what I feel. I just know that this Pashtia is nothing like it used to be - the evry same thing you are saying, in other words. It cannot continue like this. We must do something. Like we said we would do after the death of the Queen. Remember? Remember my suspicion?”

"Speak naught of it, son, because I dare not remember it. But please, let us speak with your father. He knows more about the events inside the place, don't you think?"

[Amanaduial the archer]

Zamara looked in astonishment around the room, clean, airy and devoid of black: more pleasant than her own quarters had been in several months, since her imposed withdrawal. She almost laughed, her face splitting into a grin as she turned back to Siamak and nodded enthusiastically, approving. "It is perfect, your majesty - more than perfect." She laughed, but the joyful sound was muted so as not to attract attention; a joy snuffed and muted for fear, as all now seemed to be in Pashtia. "Thank you, Siamak, thank you indeed."

The prince smiled back graciously and gave a stiff little nod to the Priestess before he turned to Nadda. "You will be in charge of the High Priestess's welfare; see that she has her meals on time and the like - but do it absolutely secretly, do you understand me?" Nadda shrunk a little before Siamak's direct, commanding tone, but nodded. "Of course, sir. But...but so many of the servants follow the old ways still-" she blurted out.

"I know, and their time to help shall come," Zamara answered swiftly. Nadda seemed about to say something before her manners when speaking to noblemen caught up with her and she shut her mouth sharply as if slightly mortified with her speaking out of turn. Zamara smiled to her and took the servant girl's hands. "Your time shall come, Nadda; but you must be patient. Do not mention my coming here to anyone, anyone at all. Only Reafin knows other than you - it must stay that way, alright? It must." Her words were urgent, but she managed to keep her desperation out of them, coming across as intense but unruffled - she hoped - as she held the girl's hands tightly in her own. Nadda nodded quickly, her eyes saucer-wide. Zamara smiled and let go, leaving Siamak to dismiss her. As the servant girl scurried away through the labyrinth of tunnels that Siamak had illuminated to them, Zamara took a deep sigh and looked around her 'new room'. As she did so, she suddenly felt such a swell of gratitude that was only matched by her weariness, and she stifled a yawn as she turned back to the royal children. But before she could speak, Gjeelea stepped in. "No more talk for now, Zamara; you must rest. And so must we, brother," she added, turning to Siamak. The prince gave her a slightly curious look but it was well masked. "You will be sleeping in the palace tonight, Gjeelea?"

The princess nodded. "I would not disturb my husband at this time," she replied, the words stiff as if they sounded false in her mouth. "I will return in the morning."

Siamak did not comment. After both her and Gjeelea had bid her good night and departed, Zamara turned back into her room and, without further ado, crossed the room to the bed and lay, exhausted with the night's adventures. The crisp, cool white covers felt exquisite against her skin as she slipped out of her thick dark cloak and then, after a moment's thoughts, out of the white robes, but even as she tried to relax in this haven, her mind kept working. Had her vanishing trick been noticed by Pashtia's 'occupiers' yet? If not, it would not be long before it was - and then what? Her trial was already a postponed death sentence, she had no doubt, and once it was found that she had mysteriously escaped and vanished into the night without a trace - why, it would no doubt simply harden the evidence in the minds of her enemies. And she seemed to have so many enemies now.

Closing her eyes tightly, Zamara sighed deeply, feeling suddenly sadness rather than anger against the city that had turned its back on her. Since the Emissary's arrival...or was it? It seemed that everything had gone downhill from there, since the building of the new temple and the death of Queen Bekah, but was it then that things had started? Maybe her downfall had begun before then and the Emissary was merely a catalyst; had her time simply come, the time for the old gods to fall?

No. No, she knew it could not be true. There were followers still, those who would stand behind her even now - Reafin, the servant who had even this night risked his job - her very life - in getting her into the palace rather than calling the patrols upon her. And the royal children - they went against their father and plotted his downfall for her safety and for the ways of life that she stood to uphold, as they themselves did. They were not moving on on the side of the Snake, corrupted as Faroz had been; they were making a stand, quietly, oh so quietly - but even the smallest whisper can make a change, even the smallest grain of rice can tip the balance. And indeed, Zamara wondered about the warmth which Gjeelea's tone had almost had when she had spoken to Siamak - it was not something that had been there before. Were things changing even at that level? In times of trouble, such small differences were all that it took to shift the pebbles, the boulders, the mountains. And to destroy the corruption of the Snake and his strange, mysterious 'one god', mountains would have to be shifted. Maybe...maybe even now, when all seemed dark, the light could yet be found, the candle yet illuminated.

There was hope for the West yet. As long as human decency strove to prevail over the darkness and unfeeling politics of those who didn't care for the state they governed; as long as there were some with backbone; as long as one voice could stand to raise another, another, another; as soon as a thousand voices stood to make a stand, brought about by one pebble shifting in the landslide... as long as faith, courage and hope remained, there was hope for the West yet.

Checking the door was locked, just in case, Zamara closed her eyes and went to sleep with the voice of a kindly goddess echoing in her thoughts.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

The sun rose red, spilling light across the parched fields like blood and spilling onto the sands of the desert which soaked it up, taking it into itself and preparing to unleash it later as a scalding heat that burnt the very air. In the Palace, Khamûl awoke from his nightmares of black, nameless things clawing at him, and of the echoing Voice that raged against him. He came to consciousness quickly, as he always did, but as he opened his eyes it was as though some vestige of his night’s visions remained with him, for against the light of the archway which lead to the balcony he thought, for the briefest sliver of time, that he saw a pale form. It was shaped as his wife had been, and it was as a cool cloud of silver before the angry red of dawn. It seemed for a moment as though the figure raised its hand to him, but then the morning wind came in through the arch and blew the form away into shadow. There was a sound just below hearing very much like a sigh, and Khamûl felt a touch upon his neck – firm, and not malicious, but neither comforting nor tender. It was as though the shade that passed by him were trying to tell him something. He held on to the thought and placed his own hand at his neck where he had felt the touch, and as he did so he felt his throat constrict and tighten. He started up, his breath catching in his throat and for a terrible heartbeat he thought that he beheld the face of his friend Ashnaz bending over him, and he could feel talons ripping at his throat.

But then the vision was gone, to be replaced by the smiling face of his friend. They had taken to sharing the Royal chamber so that Khamûl could benefit from Ashnaz’s presence at all times. At first, the Emissary had slept upon a low pallet beside the King’s bed, but the mattress was large and there was room upon it for several men, and so the Emissary had made up his bedroll upon it with the King. This had not seemed at all strange or alien to the King, although he did still take care that none of the servants would see it.

They arose, and took their breakfast, and as the sun rose and lost some of its crimson, the King’s mood improved. They ate in silence, but still they conversed with one another through their inner eyes. It was how Khamûl had come to think of the Ring; for he saw it in his mind now at all times as a burning wheel which gazed at him with command and love. From it he could see the mind of Ashnaz and as they took their food they exchanged their night’s dreams. As usual, Ashnaz’s were of far lands of green landscapes, well-ordered and governed with might fortresses and many peoples working toward one goal, one god and one future. Over these lands there ruled the one lord, benevolent and careful with the peoples he commanded, and they worshipped him for his greater wisdom and might. These visions calmed Khamuûl, and with the help of his friend he brushed from his mind the memory of the terrifying vision of his wife that had come to him with the dawn.

Their meal was interrupted by a frantic messenger who was shown in by the orc guards. The man’s face was filled with loathing for the creatures who had escorted him, and he was trembling with terror…of what, Khamûl could not imagine. “Majesty,” he began shakily, “I have come from the quarters of the High Priestess…” he caught the look in the Emissary’s eye, “I mean, of the former High Priestess Zamara.” He paused there.

“Very well,” the King snapped, “and what news have you of the withch?”

“She…she is gone, my King.”

“Gone! How, where what do you mean?” the King raged. He was terrified by the news, for it had come as a surprise. The Ring had given him such powers of sight, that he had convinced himself that there could be no more surprises for him, but as he cast his mind forth he realised that over Zamara there was some kind of mist hiding her from his view. He grew frantic, pacing about the room and he cast his mind to his children, holding the Ring now in his hand so tightly that its gem bit into his fingers drawing blood, but they too were gone – disappeared behind a veil of fog much like that which he had seen at his window this morning. And at the idea there was a touch at his throat once more, and his breath caught. He whirled about locking his eyes with Ashnaz but the look in his friend’s face came like a blow, for instead of calm confidence he saw that he too was confounded by something. They opened their minds to one another and it became clear in an instant that neither of them could see as clearly or as far as they had the night before.

“Find her!” the King cried to the soldier. “Scour the city for her. Spare no house or building – she must be found! I have been lenient so far, too lenient, in allowing her trial to wait for so long, but no more. As soon as she is brought before me in chains I shall pronounce her doom!” The soldier rushed from the room with the orcs grinning at his heels like dogs.

Ashnaz placed a hand upon the King’s shoulder to calm his rage. “You are right, of course, my friend to be enraged. But do not proceed so hastily. The witch has many deluded followers in the City and she cannot be brought to justice without offending them. Let it be known abroad that she is mad; she has clearly run away from her caretakers in a fit of wildness that can only present a danger to herself and to those who might help her out of a misguided pity. Let the people know this, and it will be easier to pass the judgement against her that we know she deserves.”

Panting with the effect of his emotion the King placed his hand upon the Emissary’s own. “You are right, my friend, of course. As always, you are wise and right. Let it be so known.” But the Emissary did not depart right away. “There is more you wish to discuss?”

“Yes, Khamûl, it is the Elves.”

“The Elves?” he asked. “What have they to do with this? Do you suspect them of having aided Zamara in her escape?”

“No,” was the slow reply, “but they have ever been the supporters of the old religion – by the accounts of your own archives it was their myths that gave birth to the heresies that Zamara preached. It is likely that they will resent her being brought to heel. You have already seen how they openly speak out against your orcs. There have even been clashes between Elves and orcs. For their own safety, then, as much as for the safety of your throne, do you not think it wise to bring them where they can be looked after?”

“You have often spoken of such a plan. What do you mean by it?”

“Let there be a special part of the City set aside for the Elves. Have them brought there where they can live apart from Pashtian society and have their culture without it endangering the beliefs of your people. There, too, we can keep them under guard in case their resentment against the orcs leads them to violence.”

“You speak truth, my friend. Let that be done as well. But,” he added after a thought, “let the General Morgôs remain at the Palace where I may keep an eye upon him. He will be a useful tool for me in this. No doubt the other Elves will resent being displaced, and it may assuage them somewhat to see that their most noble hero remains at my side. Have the orcs bring his family to the Palace as well. We shall keep them all here…as our guests.”

The Emissary bowed. “Majesty, I will see that this is all done.”

[Amanaduial the archer]

The lake was smooth and calm, wider and vaster even than the desert, stretching so far into the distance that it terrified Zamara. And it was unlike any lake she had even heard of, for along it's surface ran small ripples, moving as if with some purpose although the air was still and there was no wind. Reaching out with one bare foot, Zamara stretched out her toes towards the water, trembling slightly. The water lapped up towards her, and she leapt backwards from it as it chased her feet up the soft white sand. Smiling foolishly, the woman realised that she was not really afraid of the waves, although the vast lake's strangeness confused her greatly; for this, undoubtedly, was the Sea, an almost immeasurable expanse of waters that those nomads who had travelled farthest spoke of; an expanse of waters that stretched so far that anything could lie beyond it... Zamara smiled serenely, looking out across the waters with her hand shaded across her eyes.

And in the distance, something stirred.

Puzzlement in her blue-brown eyes, Zamara watched the horizon, watched for this movement: a shadow that stirred across the water. And it was getting larger now, she saw. As if it was coming nearer to shore. Her smile flickered as she watched it, and she rubbed her arms as a chill seemed to creep up from nowhere, a chill bound to shore by no wind, for the air still remained deathly still. Taking a hesitant step backwards, her anxiousness increasing to fear, Zamara could not understand the feeling that the shadow brought; the images of fear and pain that seemed to dance at the edge of her vision, cracking like whips as they taunted her. And the shadow seemed to taunt her too, for in a second it was almost upon her, the blackness covering the beach, shrouding her vision all around in fog and mist, in a sense of hopelessness that could never be removed. She felt tears well up in her eyes, but fought the urge to run as the shadow whipped around her, stirring up a wind in the air, whipping a vicious tumult up upon the waters. A wind that seemed to whisper her name. But the priestess did not move, staring straight into the blackness although even the very sand around her seemed to shrink before it and every sense in her body told her to run. She stared it out, the blue in her eyes shining fiercely as she willed herself not to move, to have the strength not to break down.

Horsemen...there were horsemen riding upon the shadow, seven of them, shades of men, cloaked and covered from head to toe in black, each bearing a sword in one hand. And on the other hand...on the other hand, shining as brightly as a star with but with subtle fierceness of a hidden snake, something burned, some small object set alight and burning fiercer than the sun...

And before their ride, the very earth began to tremor beneath Zamara's feet. "I will not yield to you," she bellowed fiercely into the shadow, injecting into her words a confidence that she did not feel as she struggled to remain upright; but her voice seemed futile, tinny, muffled by the black fog that now closed in, enveloping her, suffocating. "I will not yield to you..." Again, the wind whispered her name, a sibilant, insinuating hiss...

With a yell, Zamara struck out with one arm, flinging herself forward...into Nadda. The woman's unexpected strength and the fierceness of her reaction from sleep surprised Nadda and the servant girl found herself slammed against the wall in an instant, the furious High Priestess's hands pinning her shoulders to the wall. Unaccustomed to sleepwalkers or anything of the type, the girl yelped then quailed against the wall, terrified of the monster that Zamara had become. A second that seemed like an age passed in total silence and stillness before Zamara finally seemed to see what she beheld, and she blinked and stepped away hurriedly from Nadda, rubbing one eye with the heel of her hand as she took a long, shaky breath and blinked a few more times, truly coming too. Yawning, she looked apologetically at the servant girl who still cowered against the wall then looked away, mortified by her sudden rage. "My apologies, Nadda, I...I did not...you startled me from a dream, that is all. I was-" she stopped abruptly, suddenly sensing that relaying her dream may not be the wisest thing to do. Why, she was not sure; for if you tell a nightmare to someone, it does not come true. Isn't that what her mother had told her?

Shaking muddled childhood supersticions from her mind, Zamara collected her thoughts and took another deep breath, more controlled this time, and set Nadda with her straight, no-nonsense gaze - with eyes that seemed bluer by the day. "No matter, it was merely a dream. That...that is all." She nodded, half to herself, and not for the first time, wondered if she really was as mad as the Emissary had made her out to be. Certainly from the fear in the servant girl's wide dark eyes, Nadda seemed to have very little doubt of that. Smiling, she bid the girl a more proper good morning, but Nadda's barely reply, uncharacteristically skimping on ceremony for the first time in her career at the palace, almost bursting as she was with her news.

"High Priestess, I have bad news, I'm afraid: it is the Emissary, he...he made an announcement this morning." Despite herself, Nadda hesitated, eyeing Zamara almost warily. The Emissary's persuasive words had been so convincing, and although she had not believed it before, the girl was now having trouble considering that all he had said was untrue - the actions of the calm, collected woman in front of her barely a moment ago were surely not the actions of a sane women.

Zamara drew herself up a little, as if bracing herself for a blow. When Nadda hesitated, she croaked softly, "What did he say?"

Nadda paused for a moment longer, but could not contain herself. "He has said you are mad and-"

"-that your execution shall be carried out as soon as you are found. Good morning Zamara, and it does seem a shame to greet a new day with such grim news." Siamak's matter-of-fact tone was at odds to Nadda's exciteable voice and Zamara turned slowly to greet him. The question of how long he had been standing there, hands calmly clasped behind his back, standing erectly by the doorway, crossed her mind non-too-briefly. She smiled haplessly, raising her eyebrows. "My...execution?" she replied carefully. "And my trial...?"

Siamak clenched his jaw and, for once, dropped his eyes so her was looking just to the side of her face, avoiding her eyes. "Why does a madwoman who runs from her caretakers with the help of demons need a trial?"

Zamara's swift intake of breath was short as a pistol shot as it cut through the silence of the room. Then she gave a small snort of laughter and shook her head, causing both prince and servant to look at her in blatant surprise. But the laughter was short lived, and Zamara's face fell once again, melancholy and resignation settling on her features as she turned away from Siamak and went towards the window, although she did not go too close for fear of being seen - although it was unlikely that anyone would look up into this quietly concealed window from the pathways below. Not half a mile from where she stood in a forgotten, disused guest bedroom, the owner of the palace paced uneasily in his own quarters, hesitating only to look out of the window, seeing the same view as Zamara herself now gazed upon. It would little have comforted either of them, fallen priestess or falling king, to know that the other was suffering the same as they themselves were - voices and visions that came not only in night but in daylight too, the premonitions and fears made semi-solid creeping out of the cracks and crannies that surrounded their dwellings in a land that could be Paradise...The shadow comes closer from across the waters...

"Does Gjeelea know?"

Behind her, Zamara heard the rustle of Siamak's clothing as he shrugged, a spontaneous movement performed even though its intended reciever was not looking at him. "I have not yet spoken to my sister; I do not know if she has yet returned to Korak's house," he replied. "But Zamara, it was made as an announcement - I regret to say that the entire city knows. And as for the elves... well, there is bad news for them as well."

Zamara's head twitched suddenly as she raised her chin defiantly against the very sunlight outside as she prepared herself. "Tell me," she commanded softly.