Shadow of the West

[Bêthberry]

Bekah was pleased that the banquet did justice to the King's stature and to the skill and talent of the palace servants. The cedar and myrrh were burning in the tall standards. The food was arrayed splendidly and spoke of the variety of fleshes, both of meat and of plant, which Pashtia had to prepare. Bekah made a note to remember to commend them tomorrow, after a public acknowledgement here before the music and entertainments began.

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Firefoot]

Siamak reeled. He had not seen this announcement coming, for though he had been listening, he had still been considering the High Priestess’s words to him in the garden. He knew his own expression must be a reflection of those around him, sharing their shocked expressions. There was, of course, one major difference in the way it affected him and them; that being that he was the Prince, and this monumental decision was now up to himself and his sister. He supposed he would probably be having some lengthy discussions with his sister in the very near future, a task he did not look forward to. Already he could feel the weighty burden of this choice upon himself; it was one thing to distrust this offer of alliance, but quite another to actually be the one to accept or turn it down.

He turned to his sister, curious at how she was taking the news. Though surprised, she also looked immensely satisfied. He would not be surprised if she had already made up her mind, since she was so inclined to quick thinking and hasty decision making, while he would spend a few hours making up his mind on anything of even medium importance, considering all options. Undoubtedly, she thought he could simply be cowed into following her choice - he seldom stood up to her. Not in this, though, he vowed to himself. He would not let any decision be made unless he felt it was for the best.

He noticed how quiet it was in the large hall, and realized that the nobles were probably expecting some kind of acceptance from either himself or Gjeelea. She understood this at about the same time, and spoke up before he did, which was something of a relief to him. He was not sure he could put together any comprehensible sentences at the moment.

“We will not take this burden lightly,” Gjeelea announced in her sickly-sweet voice. “And I am sure I speak for my brother in this as well. We will consider all possibilities before reaching a decision that I’m sure will benefit Pashtia in years to come.” Siamak simply nodded, having nothing to add. He wondered if she meant what she said; though she always sounded sincere and her speech was certainly proper, he had learned not to listen to closely to her. All around the room burst into amazed chatter, discussing the king’s announcement.

Siamak turned to his own table. His father was smiling at him and Gjeelea, pleased and confident in his choice to let the two of them decide. The Emissary was alternating watching the king and the siblings, a look of intrigue upon his face. Other than general surprise, Siamak had difficulty surmising the precise opinion of each of the others. To his father, he said, “I am honored that you would entrust this decision to myself and Gjeelea, though I must admit I am rather overwhelmed. You certainly threw the entire royal court through a loop, as well,” Siamak added with a grin.

“That he did,” murmured the Emissary. It seemed as if he wanted to add more, but refrained. Siamak wondered if he had missed something while talking to the High Priestess; it did not seem like the Emissary to still his tongue if he had something to say. The Emissary was now looking slightly discomfitted. Siamak could almost hear him wondering whether such a decision on the part of the king was normal in Pashtia or wise, and Siamak found it highly likely that many of the nobles were wondering about the latter themselves.

Siamak soon recognized another responsibility that this burden would entail: in addition to discussions with the princess, there would also have to be conversations with the Emissary himself. Siamak both eagerly awaited and dreaded these visits. He would be prepared, now, for the enchanting quality of the Emissary, and he would be properly wary, so that was not a concern. He was also very curious about the Western lands, and wanted to hear what the Emissary might tell about them. In fact, he should have looked forward to these meetings very much had it not been for the warning of his intuition - always there was that.

Tentatively, he asked the Emissary, “Would tomorrow afternoon be a good time to meet? I should like to know more about your proposal of alliance before making any decisions.” He figured that the afternoon would be an ideal time, because he would have time to talk to some others first, namely his sister.

“Tomorrow afternoon would be fine,” was the Emissary’s courteous reply. Siamak realized he had left his sister out of these plans, though he wasn’t sure it mattered as she would do as she liked anyhow, and he hastily added, “Gjeelea, I trust this will be a convenient time for you as well?” She nodded impatiently. “Yes, yes, fine.” Siamak dropped out of the conversation for the most part, content to listen. His thoughts were too busy jouncing around, now that he had finally wholly grasped the enormity of the choice before them. There is something... sinister about the man. They paid the gods no heed - I am not sure it bodes well. His lord wishes only for friendship with us. When you are king...

[Bêthberry]

The strange, wafting chill which had accompanied Faroz's private discussion with her had disconcerted Bekah. For some reason she had momentarily recalled those few minutes in the garden. The chill had been dissipated only by the fluttering of Faroz's warm breath as he whispered to her before he rose to address the assembled guests. She was relieved he had understood, though, that mistrust and jealousy were spreading because of this Emissary. She was but little surprised at his announcement, however irregular it was, for she had long thought both their children needed a specific focus for their actions. Faroz had misunderstood her over that; it was not the Emissary she was annoyed with, but Siamak himself for failing to take up the conversation with the General and, once again, running out. Perhaps later she would clarify that with him. Meanwhile, while Faroz spoke, Bekah had watched the Emissary closely for his reactions.

The man's look had been keen, polite, courteously interested. He was clearly a sophisticated, even suave courtier who understood much of courtly interactions. His lord Annatar had obviously chosen one skilled in negotiation. Yet she felt this man was also accustomed to winning his own way. It had been the slightest of suggestions until Bekah had seen the jawline harden and the eyes glint at the news he must deal with others besides the King. As Faroz had announced the precedures his children should follow before making their decision known at court, the Emissary had looked away from the King, his eyebrows signaling his dissatisfaction, until his eyes found Bekah's upon his. Scorn and derision flashed over his face for the merest second and he whispered, "This is your doing." His anger startled her but it gave her her first substantive reason to mistrust this man's mission.

"My lord makes his own decisions, Emissary, yet he takes counsel from all who understand the needs of the country." A turn of his thin lips suggested the Emissary was not impressed with such policy.

"You seem not to expect women to play a role in policy, Emissary? Does your Lord Annatar allow only men at his court?"

The Emissary had not replied to this question. As quickly as his anger had appeared, he had replaced it with a bland mask of indifference towards her.

"You misunderstand me, lady. I merely seek to understand Pashtian customs. I was not aware of the role the Queen plays in ruling the country."

"My role, Emissary, is to support the King and provide the best counsel I can to ensure the country continues prosperous and peaceful."

"Which she does droitly," interrupted Faroz, when he had returned to the table, with some interest, after observing his Queen and the Emissary in the tense, private conversation.

The Emissary gave a low and formal nod with his shoulders to the words of the King and withdrew all attention from the Queen. Faroz sought his place beside Bekah, sitting so closely beside her that her hand nearly touched the folds of his clothes which held the ring. He would know what this had been about.

"You disapprove?"

"No, Majesty, on the contrary, I believe it valuable to give the Prince and Princess such a close look at the intricacies of making decisions for the nation."

Bekah turned to the Emissary. "You see, Emissary, my Lord now seeks to know my opinion of his decision."

Faroz looked questioningly at the two of them, but the Emissary was saved from a direct reply by the arrival of Siamak and Gjeelea at the table. Bekah watched closely at the faces of her children. They had handled the surprise withe composure and for the first time she felt she could see some sense of maturity and responsibility in their faces. She listened as Siamak addressed the Emissary and made plans for meetings and she tried to read the Emissary's face at his requirement now to deal with at least two others. Then she turned to Faroz.

"My Lord, the Emissary had believed I had something to do with your decision and he spoke of his surprise that the Queen would be involved in matters of state. I assured him I had not, as your words just now have proven. His land must be very different from ours. Can we not hear from him some features of his country, which he shared so eagerly with you this day?"

[Kransha]

The words of the King presented a great surprise to all in the room, though some pretended not to be flustered, and feigned full understanding. Morgôs did not need to pretend for, even though he was taken aback by Faroz’ statement, his nature did not reflect his surprise. He looked, to the wandering eye of others, to be as calm and collected as any man would be on an average day, with naught to do but be calm. Inwardly, he was reeling, his mind racing. This proclamation by the king was more than controversial, it was dangerous. Faroz, even in his ‘naïveté’ as he and the Emissary had discussed, was not inept or witless. He knew that his daughter was no firm rock in a tempest sea, nor was she any bastion of safety. Her decision might well be too wistful, too passing and fleeting, not befitting of such a crucial decision. Decisiveness was something Morgôs valued, but he always had the time to consider options, a perk of immortality. Being overly decisive was a sure path to dissolution. It was not a healthy idea to place the crown so early on his children’s head before an heir had been chosen.

Faroz’s parents had been rash as well, and Morgôs remembered his severe rejection of their choice to marry young Faroz to the heiress of Alanzia. A silly political scheme it had been, one meant to sway the fickle hearts of commoners. This was the same, a ploy, nearly condescending to many, but Morgôs saw through it. Truly, Faroz was an honest man, if not a cruelly efficient one, and this plan would work to his advantage. A transfer of regency to his children would do more than just decide the matter of the Emissary, but it would allow Faroz to glimpse his two offspring making an important decision, and how they went about it, which would help him make his own decision about who his heir would be. Also, as dank as the thought he entertained was, this might also be an easy method to shift some responsibility from the shoulders of Faroz, leaving him in power, but effectively removing the blame for any wrongness of his youthful children. But, Morgôs knew the King better than this. That was not his keenest motivation.

Either way, the situation gravely troubled General Morgôs. He trusted Prince Siamak, from what he’d heard, but did not fully allot that trust to Gjeelea, who might hold greater sway over the decision at hand because of her commanding air and strength in the court. She had the nature of a youthful woman, full of folly, as Morgôs had been told. The Elf wished that he knew more, that he had met one of the two royal progeny on one occasion, but he had not, and he regretted his avoidance of social functions. He knew too little of those who would someday rule, and did not have the time to learn, as he had with the Kings of yore, Faroz’s forefathers.

Faroz had spoke of earlier of Morgôs career, truthfully, as if the General were an antique of great value to him. Since Faroz was a boy, Morgôs had trained him in the ways of war, so that he might learn the ways of strategy, tactics, and of the military essentials that one might need to govern. Nine generations of Pashtian kings had been trained by Morgôs in those ways, tutored by him. This would be the first generation in two centuries that would not place a ruler on the throne who he intimately knew. He had not taught either Siamak or Gjeelea, and though they were both more than a decade old, he had met neither of them formally until this very night, and only knew them from hearsay, and the reports of courtiers in the King’s halls. Morgôs had not offered to tutor young Siamak, because of the long-running debate as to whether he would be King or not, and he had some qualms about teaching Gjeelea. He supposed that, whenever the King chose an heir, he would have to teach that one at least a little, to prepare him or her for the throne. He admitted that he would've liked to train Siamak, if only to know him better, but Siamak seemed gravely hesitant, which effected Morgôs adversely.

Now, Morgôs did not feel at ease with the situation. He worried for the present, and the choices that would be made. He had long hoped to secrete some manner of alliance between himself and the young Prince, who he had just now met, and this seemed a perfect time to distill a drop of his influence in the boy. The Elf fleetingly decided what he would do, a swift endeavor, hasty for him, but a promising one as well. Studiously, he leaned forward against the table’s edge and directed his gaze at Siamak. “Prince Siamak,” he said, as Queen Bekah, Faroz, and the Emissary talked of other things nearby, “may I speak with you after the banquet? I have a matter which must be discussed to speak of.”

Siamak looked at first flustered, but, after a pensive second, nodded, and looked with just concern to his father, who was mulling over a question from his wife. “If my father allows it, I would be honored.” Said the Prince, shy, but obviously interested in the prospect. He seemed to have taken to the General right away, which was a definite bonus. Without polite hesitation, Morgôs whipped around in his seat to the King and interrupted his conversation. “Your majesty?” He said, assuming that the King had heard the exchange. He had, as the Avari quickly learned.

“So long as you do not enchant the mind of my son with your sly mind, Morgôs.” Faroz said, smiling, interjecting the words as a side-note to the General before he prepared to resume his other dialogue. The General realized the nature of his rudeness, severing the King’s train of thought with his terse words. “I could not, milord.” He said quietly, not meaning to disturb the King, with an apologetic gesture, “I am too enchanted myself to attempt such a feat.” Faroz turned to him again, very patient despite the continual interruptions of his Elven commander. “I cannot control my son’s conversations, General.” He said then, “You need not gain my permission.”

With a simple motion, the Elf bowed his head, “You are as judicious as you are wise, you majesty.”

“I need not flattery from you, Morgôs,” said Faroz in response, “it does not suit you.” The king the turned to his wife and the Emissary, to resume where they’d left off, but, before he did, Queen Bekah leaned towards him and whispered something silently into his ear. He shot a glance at Morgôs as she spoke to him, and the General could not help but wonder what she said, but tried not to think of the suspicions the Queen held, or the praises, or whatever it might be that she now told the King. With a disquieted look, Faroz began to answer the question that the Queen had asked a minute ago, and Morgôs looked sharply at the Prince, who returned the look, confirming that they would parley after the festivities had concluded.

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

What was her father thinking? Gjeelea inwardly tried to calm her immense shock, disgust, and horror at the announcement her father had given. She wondered if King Faroz wanted his children to strangle each other, for surely that was the only thing that could possibly come of the two trying to work together. Gjeelea did not even know how many times she and her brother Siamak had gotten along, but she knew that if she remembered the times, they could be counted with the fingers of one hand.

On the outside, Gjeelea kept her face calm, accepting, and smiling. Her inner turmoil could never reach the outside; the princess would not allow such weakness to be shown to so many people that might manipulate her. By keeping how she really felt on the inside, her enemies saw only what she wanted them to see. Gjeelea knew all to well that her father was making some kind of test out of giving this decision to both of his children. The princess wondered at how her father needed to go to such extremes to help him decide who would be his heir.

When Siamak set up a meeting between the Emissary and the two royal children, Gjeelea wanted so badly to scowl at her younger brother. Whatever decision she made – and she would make it quickly with the grace and ease she felt any ruler should have – Gjeelea felt that she would have little trouble convincing her brother to bend to her opinion. Of course Siamak had his voice in the matter, but Gjeelea also knew how often Siamak actually used his voice to begin with. The princess had often used her brother’s introverted nature against him, much to her own advantage; this occasion would be no different.

Instead, Gjeelea nodded and hastily agreed to the time arranged, and then left the company of her meek little brother. The desert snake that hunts with cunning and craft will be sure to return home with a meal first, she thought as she lost sight of Siamak. Pashtia needed a ruler who did not need to think long to make the right decision; Siamak always seemed to need some modicum of time to mull over any kind of matter, simple or complex. Time was precious, and Gjeelea saw no point in wasting it by comparing and contrasting for the right answer.

The only weight that Gjeelea could feel holding her back when people questioned her ability to rule was the need for her to marry. Her betrothed would become king, and that gave Pashtians – most importantly King Faroz – another person who’s worth and ability needed to be contemplated. Gjeelea had doubt in the general view of Lord Korak; her father was not like the silly girls at court who fawned over his good looks. King Faroz knew deeper than appearance, as did many other important figures that would help decide who became the next ruler of Pashtia. Gjeelea had no doubt in her ability to keep great influence in matters of state if Lord Korak should become king. He was stupid and blind of intelligence. She counted on the dense folly of her future husband, even, for if she did marry someone more admirable and intelligent, she would certainly have less say in how Pashtia was ruled.

All these things pushed to the forefront of Gjeelea’s mind as she weaved through the crowds trying to find the betrothed that counted for so much in her hopes to become the ruler of Pashtia. She needed to portray a happy picture to her parents and to the court, no matter how she really felt about Lord Korak.

[Orofaniel]

Evrathol was, as everyone else, stunned by Faroz's decision. Twice, he had looked back and forth as his mother and father; His eyes were about to pop out of his head, and the worst part was that Evrathol hadn’t been aware of that such looks might seem rude and inappropriate. Morgôs, his father, had been just as surprised as his son, or so Evrathol had thought. His mother however, hadn't really shown any signs of disagreement to Faroz decision, nor had she seemed overenthusiastically. Evrathol offered Gjeela a smile as their eyes met, but he couldn't help himself thinking that the choice the two siblings were going to make, would end up like a total disaster. The two of them were as different as two siblings could possibly be, both of were young and a bit immature; Gjeela, a young lass, was sharp tongued and much enchanted by everything that could be called “gossip”. Simiak, who Evrathol favoured over Gjeela, was most likely to be oppressed by his sister as he was often seen as weak and not very confident. This meant that Simiak would probably not have much to say in the decision the two of them had to make. Evrathol concluded that the final word would be Gjeela's. Evrathol couldn't see how Faroz had placed such a decision on any of them. However, if it was the Majesty's decision and therefore it was definitely final. Evrathol accepted it and respected it, but he didn’t have to understand it or agree on anything whatsoever.

After more thought, however, Evrathol figured that this could make things even more interesting. Maybe Faroz was going to choose his heir based on the decision his children made.

Thinking about His Majesty and his announcement, he eyed the Priest Tarkan. Evrathol saw that Tarkan was watching him. Evrathol was embarrassed because he had forgotten to greet him and the High Priestess. How un-thoughtful of him. Leaving the table for a moment, smiling at his mother, he went over to Tarkan "Good evening," Evrathol said awkwardly, but not in a way that Tarkan, or anyone else for that matter, would notice it. Tarkan smiled weakly, greeting the elf. "I can see you and your family have found your way to the King's table," Tarkan muttered. Evrathol was a bit surprised over the remark of this, so he nodded humbly; "Well, Her Majesty insisted. And to be quite frank; The King and the Queen are excellent people, and I am indeed honoured to sit at their table tonight, with the Emissary himself."

Tarkan didn't respond to this. Evrathol wondered what the Priest was thinking. It was hard to say. Tarkan was indeed a hard person to read, and since Evrathol, himself, hadn't met him or spoken to him too many times, it was ever harder. They had, however, occasionally exchanged words. "So, you have met His Majesty's guest?" The priest asked Evrathol. "Barely," Evrathol muttered. Evrathol had only greeted him, nothing more. "But, your father seems to be establishing an acquaintance with the Emissary, is he not?" the priest replied immediately, looking over to the King's table; Morgôs was currently not speaking to the Emissary, but he had done so earlier that evening. "Well, I wouldn't put it that way..." Evrathol said, moving his eyes from Morgos to the Emissary. In fact; Evrathol could not tell whether his father, Morgôs, was impressed by the Emissary, nor could he tell if Emissary was impressed by his father. "What way would you put it then..?" Tarkan then continued. Evrathol shrugged. It wasn't in his nature to shrug, because he usually knew what to say, but the situation required such an action as he had no idea where Tarkan wanted with these questions. "Oh, forgive me, son; I've treated you unjustly - asking you all these questions. This is a celebration and my questions surely are inappropriate," Tarkan then said, smiling at Evrathol. Yet again, Evrathol didn't know how to respond;" No, please sir. We're all interested in the Emissary and his business here. I can't imagine another way to find out without asking questions!" he said laughing softly. The Priest joined him soon.

A woman was moving towards them; her head just visible above Tarkan's shoulders. Evrathol recognized her; it was the High priestess Zamara. "My good lady," Evrathol said politely, bowing. Zamara nodded while she smiled. "Greetings to you as well," she said looking back and forth at Tarkan and Evrathol.

"Zamara," the priest muttered.

"Tarkan," Zamara then said, nodding once again.

Evrathol had only met the High Priestess a couple of times. He would consider himself more acquainted with Tarkan than Zamzara, but it would be a good time now to expand his contacts.

[Firefoot]

Siamak was intensely curious about the General’s wish to speak with him. Obviously, he wanted to talk in private or else he would have spoken his mind during the banquet. He supposed it would probably be about the Emissary, as the General had brought it up so shortly after his father had made the announcement, but it could be something else, though Siamak did not know what it could be. Nevertheless, Siamak schooled his expression as if it were only a matter of business and turned his attention to the present. He listened with interest to what the Emissary was saying, though he was having trouble processing everything so quickly. He contributed to the conversation as necessary or when the opportunity presented itself. The hour became late and so the banquet began to draw to a close.

The ensemble of musicians who had been the entertainment for the evening wrapped up for the night and guests began to trickle out of the banquet hall, though some of the nobles lingered, chatting. Servants began to inconspicuously clear away the plates of food, many of them being empty by now. Siamak waited for as long as was proper and took his leave, bidding those remaining at the table a good night.

“General Morgôs,” he said, getting the Elf’s attention. “Take your time to finish up anything you need to here, and meet me in the courtyard.” The General nodded, and Siamak departed from the great hall. The night air was refreshingly cool, though not chilly, and the stars twinkled above. The courtyard was dimly lit with torches and the light spilling out from the banquet hall, and Siamak saw that there were a few people gathered to converse here rather than inside. He selected an out of the way location to wait for the General, and it was not long before General Morgôs emerged from the hall, spotting the prince almost immediately. After greeting each other, Siamak spoke.

“Would you prefer someplace where we could be alone to speak, or is the courtyard fine?” he asked.

“Somewhere private, if that is all right,” General Morgôs replied. Siamak nodded. “Certainly. Come with me.” He led the General through a side gate of the courtyard, silently passing through the public gardens into one of the more private ones. Like the courtyard, the only light was a few torches and the slight light of the crescent moon. The sound of trickling water attested to the nearby fountains, and night bugs were chirping.

“No one will disturb us here,” said Siamak. Unable to suppress his curiosity any longer, he asked, “Now, General, what is it that you wish to speak to me about?”