[Kransha]

The ride to the palace was short, since Morgôs’ estate was so close to it. He stowed his horse at the royal stables, near the elegant, well-groomed steeds of the royal family, and headed into the palace, though the lack of guards and servants bustling about was somewhat alarming. Disconcerted, the General made his way to the main entrance and into the antechamber to find it, very oddly, empty, save for one figure; the High Priestess Zamara. Her presence took him aback, but he chided himself a moment later for being surprised. Her sort oft had business with royalty, probably relating to the temple building nowadays.

“General.” She said, bowing her head.

“High Priestess.” He said back, doing the same.

An awkward silence fell upon the two unmoving figures in the room. Morgôs tried to keep himself from shooting nervous glances at the High Priestess. He always felt peculiar around religious folk, though his spouse did not. They did not make him nervous, but his taste for them and their antics had been soured by past experiences. Still, the silence was irking him all the more. A whirring din thrived in halls just beyond the antechamber, rattling, clanging, and all sorts of confused sounds. They made Morgôs uneasy. After some minutes, he could not help but turn to the priestess and speak up. “I must apologize for last night.” He said, suddenly, but with the proper amount of grace in his smooth voice. The Priestess turned to him, unfazed by the sudden words, and spoke to him unsure of what he meant. “Apologize for what?” she patiently inquired.

“I addressed your colleague…” the elf searched for the name, memorable as it was, “Tarkan, as a High Priest. I assigned triviality to your station with a slip of my tongue, and for that I am sorry. My wits were not with me.” He gave a little apologetic nod, but Zamara waved her hand pleasantly, indicating that he should not do so. “Such things happen, General,” she said, “it is no blasphemy. You need not be sorry.”

Morgôs’ Elven eyes saw a strange brightness in her face, one he had seen before. She was a faithful woman, and a clever one; he could see this much simply by looking at her. He felt as if he should smile in return, but could not. Instead, he murmured a quiet acknowledgement of her kindness weakly. “You are…much more forgiving…than some others who share your profession.” Again she looked at him weirdly.

“Rhais is always forgiving;” she responded, “of those who uproot her earth and tear the trees’ roots from her, for she knows that it is their faith in her that is important. She gives us what we need regardless of our wrongs.” She did not blink as she spoke, and her gentle but enigmatic eyes lay open for Morgôs to peer into, but he knew it was rude to stare so foolishly upon one of her caliber. He wondered, for a moment, if she actually believed that tidbit. It was an archaic proverb, which might not be part of her branch of worship. Perhaps it was just a candid politeness on her part. He did know that Rae, the Sky God, was always pictured as vengeful and destructive, so Rhais, Rae’s technical opposite, would probably be aptly described as a forgiving, generous matriarch of a deity.

“What you say is true.” He said at last, “You have great wisdom.”

“My wisdom is that of the Goddess, General.”

Another proverb. Morgôs’ lip curled in distaste, but he stifled his annoyance, since his curiosity was far greater. She was probably full of these arcane words, and was no doubt supposed to say them as often as he could. The Elven General mulled over the situation, but did not try to understand the things that faith obligated one to do. He was about to turn away and continue his silent waiting, but Zamara’s voice hindered him. “What did you mean” she said to him, “about me being more forgiving than others who ‘share my profession?’”

“I was not referring to anyone you know.” Morgôs responded sharply, realizing that he’d made a mistake in his praise. He hoped Zamara would let the subject quickly drop, but she persisted. “Than who?” her voice intoned politely; so politely that Morgôs could not accuse her of prying, “Do I not know those who share my faith?” Morgos shook his head vigorously. “No, I meant your predecessors.” Said the General with simple bluntness, obviously trying to end the conversation, “I knew many of them; before your time, I think.”

The High Priestess, still unaffected, took the hint, saying only, “Ah.”

Silence between the two settled again, but was broken by Zamara for the second time. She whirled on the General. “I have forgotten myself. General, I met with your wife this morning.” Morgôs was, of course, surprised, and somewhat relieved to here this, but also annoyed further. “Did you now?” he said, his tone apparently fueled by that annoyance, but Zamara spoke too quickly to detect the change.

“Yes. She wished to speak with me.” The High Priestess looked as if she was going to continue, but Morgôs cut her off. “Tell me not what of,” he blurted, a little harshly, “for I do not wish to infringe upon her privacy…or yours.” He added.

“If you insist.” Zamara seemed to realize that not all was well with Morgôs, and she was right. The General looked away, saying only “I do.” in a cold, more raspy voice. And silence fell again.

Now that Morgôs knew where his wife was (or had been), he should’ve left, but did not. He had business with the Prince that he could attend to. He looked forward to seeing his “pupil” once again, and making the first of many plans for the boy’s future.