[Kransha]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What do you mean?” queried Arlomë.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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