Shadow of the West

[Novnarwen]

After the long conversation, Pelin had fallen back to sleep again. Tarkan on the other hand, had staid up. Rather uneasily, the Priest was walking around in the room, back and forth, muttering words of both prayer and despair. He couldn’t recall ever having been so insecure about something before. The feeling of being clueless and helpless had thus far been nothing but a distant feeling that had not dared touch him. Now, he felt it penetrating his mind, disturbing his thoughts and leaving him absolutely shaking with fear. Something had to be done; he knew that much, but what it was, he was still unsure of. How could he, a simple Priest, do anything now? The Orcs were swarming around in the city; a city that was beyond recognition. It had changed too much, and unfortunately for all of them, all of the changes had been for the worse! Ever since the Emissary had arrived, everything had gone wrong. The Queen’s death, he had to admit, was probably the greatest factor to why things had changed so drastically. Even though not a personal acquaintance of hers, he knew that nothing of this would have happened is she was alive. The accusations against the High priestess, the ruining of the Temples and the replacement of both Rae and Rhais were all in an odd way connected to the Emissary and his coming to Pasthia. It was particularly difficult though, to figure out what exactly had happened to the king. Was he only showing his true self, or was the Emissary responsible for driving the King to madness as well? It was obvious that the wild creatures roaming in the streets was also an effect of the cold-blooded murder of her Highness. Oh yes, he knew. It was a murder. When speculating in who the killer had been, he was disgusted by thinking that it was probably someone the king had hired, if it was not his half-brother himself.

He bit his lip. The lack of sleep and the worries that hung over him as a dark cloud had certainly had a great affect on him. Outside the sun was finally up; its rays reaching for him through the closed windows. For a few months ago, the Priest would have departed from his apartments by now with his head held high, and in his own odd manner, he would have found great pleasure in the nice weather. Currently, however, the once so proud Priest sat only silently to himself, and sighed when remembering what had passed. How ironic everything was; a few months ago he had dreamed of the life ahead, where he would be High priest of the new Temple, but when finally being here, present in the life that long had awaited him, he longed for what already was gone.

“Did you sit up all night, Father?” It was Pelin who had awakened from his slumber. He clapped his hands together, as if eager. It was nevertheless obvious that he was dreading this day; what had Tarkan decided?

When replying, it seemed that he was at loss for words. His tongue denied him to let it out, and he felt as if swallowing what he had first intended to say. How could he, a Priest, who was supposed to be a councillor, deny Pelin the decision he was waiting for, which ultimately was the answer to their troubles?

“Pelin, my good friend,” he started at last, urging Pelin to come sit next to himself before continuing. “It is true. I sat up all night…You have been such a good friend to me, even when I condemned you and acted unreasonably toward you. You have never deserved the treatment and the hard times I have given you, and I…. I, have never deserved your friendship.. and yet, you are here… You are here, and waiting for me to make a decision… when in truth, I’m not fit for that task… I cannot do it, because I don’t know what to do.” While talking, he looked down, studying the fabrics of the carpet that covered the stone floor. He felt ashamed, but he felt that it was the only thing he could do; for once he wasn’t telling lies or covering up his own feelings, he was talking from his true self that he had hid away for so many years. The feeling was indescribable; he felt neither good nor bad… just empty. Eying Pelin out of the corner of his eye, he started again:” I must talk to the priestess, but I don’t know how to… she is an escaped convict, and thus, I cannot approach her openly ...”

It was then that Pelin spoke. With lightening eyes, he calmed the Priest. “Leave this to me. I have an idea…” Tarkan opened his mouth to speak, but said nothing as Pelin rose hurriedly and aimed for the door. “Expect me back in a few hours. I promise that the news I’ll bring will be nothing but good. ”

Hearing his friend say this, he knew that Pelin had indeed forgiven him.

Feeling the strength and the steadfastness returning, two of the qualities that seemed to have gone missing the last couple of weeks, Tarkan eyed at last hope in the heavy darkness that was suppressing Pasthia into nothingness.

[Firefoot]

Siamak smiled internally at Zamara's response. It was becoming ever clearer to him why Khamûl would want to get rid of her; she had held a position of high repute, and had the personality to match it. She was scared, perhaps, but she did not back down. He was glad indeed that she was on his side.

His mood was sobered again as he explained the elves' situation: "It was not announced in these words, of course, but they are to be displaced from their homes and set apart in a special part of the city. Ever have they been speaking out against the changes being made, the occupation of the orcs in particular, and now I suppose the idea is to get them so that they can be watched more carefully. They are telling everyone it is so that they may practice their own beliefs in peace, but..."

Zamara's reaction was subtle, but Siamak caught a slight stiffening of her figure. After her own experiences, Siamak imagined that she understood all to clearly how it was to be caged in and watched carefully. "Surely their resentment will only grow?" she answered.

"It seems that Khamûl has thought of that, as well. Morgôs and his family are to stay here at the palace, as 'guests,' for what good it will do," said Siamak. "But even so, I don't imagine they will be able to do a whole lot - otherwise things could get nasty... not that it won't anyway," he added, almost to himself. "I think we can expect their support, when the time comes." Almost he was glad for the continuing worsening of Pashtia, for though the best case scenario would be for his father to return from madness and restore the kingdom, if he made the people even more unhappy they would be more the ready for change and more supporting of the ever-more probability of Khamûl's overthrow. Siamak doubted they would need to look far for support; the problem would be the immense opposition.

"So there is some good news in this," said Zamara.

"Small though it is, yes. And also: soldiers have been commanded to scour the city for you, but not yet has anyone imagined that you might be here in the palace itself. I think you will be safe for a little while yet." This was not much reassuring, to either him or Zamara. It would only be a matter of time, and Siamak did not know if they had enough. And if time was what they lacked, he could not afford to spend much more here with Zamara, if there was nothing else to go over.

He beckoned to Nadda who had been standing by, listening. "Have word sent to General Morgôs that I would speak with him today. Do not speak with him directly; give the message to one of his pages. I would not have you associated with this business by others if it can be avoided."

She acquiesced and departed from the room. Siamak again turned to Zamara. "I have no more news, good or bad. Is there anything else that you would speak with me about before I go?"

[Novnarwen]

The walk to the Palace was a rather uneventful affair. Despite the beautiful weather, people seemed to stay hid inside. Surely, there were obvious reasons why people preferred this, but it was still a pity; it was no longer possible for the average man to enjoy the simplicity of the weather as it seemed that all things were all other than gay. Still, one man, dressed in long black robes, was out and about. Entering the courtyard of the Palace, he halted for a moment, enjoying the tranquillity of the place that had always been filled with life. It certainly felt like ages since he had last been here, when the Emissary had first arrived. The King had thrown a banquet in his honour, as a welcoming gesture. Highly ranked citizens of Pasthia had all been invited to take part to drink and eat. The religious leaders, the former High priestess Zamara and Tarkan, had been there, as well as the nobles, Korak and Arshalous Even Môrgos and his family, the elves, had enjoyed the banquet in the King's hall. He, on the other hand, had enjoyed the gathering through a window.

In the early hours of that evening, he had located the perfect spot: a window, where he could watch the ongoing feast without being seen himself. All night he had stood there, his face glued to the cold window glass and his body leaning against the hard stone wall. Pleased by the accomplishment of the night, where he had learned of the King's decision, he was about to leave himself, when someone came up from behind and surprised him. At last, he had been spotted.

"Who're you?!" The gruff voice startled him. While day dreaming, he had almost forgotten why he was here!

"No one is being let in. Go away, beggar, or..."

The man in question interrupted;" I'm no beggar, and you will let me in." His eyes lit up as he said this, and with a sign the guard recognised, he let the black-robed man pass without further questioning. Followed by his dark shadow, he hurriedly climbed the stairs and went in.

The hall was almost unrecognisable in the dark. Squinting, he got used to the lack of light, and made his way to the end of it, where a door stood ajar. He didn't hesitate about entering; he would walk around in the Palace until he found someone who could help him deliver the message from Tarkan. His footsteps echoed in the empty room as he advanced from hallway to hallway. After almost ten minutes had passed, he finally met someone.

"Can I help you?"

"Can you deliver a message to the Prince and the Princess?" The figure asked immediately.

The young woman nodded, seeming confused. "I am just about to.. to….. the General," she said. Instantly, she looked uneasy, as if having said something wrong. He chose to ignore this, and asked again. After a moment, she nodded.

"You must promise me to tell no one of this, other than the people intended of course." Not waiting for the woman to reply, he continued.” I work for, or with, Tarkan, the priest." He spoke slowly, almost whispering. He took a step closer, making sure she could hear him clearly. "We know... We know about the priestess Zamara.." By the sound of her name, the servant jumped, looking terrified. "H-h-how..?" she pressed forwards, but the man didn't listen. Instead he took her by the arm and led her around the corner. "Listen to me. Tarkan is a wise man; by the help of the Gods he can see things; things that are, as you just confirmed, true. Now, don't think any more about that. Just listen. If you don't do as I say, it might prove fatal; fatal for you, the priestess, yes, even the Kingdom itself."

Hearing these words, the woman seemed to understand that she had just been involved in something she had never intended. The man studied her, hoping that she would do as he told her. In a brief second he thought he had done the ultimate mistake trusting her with this, but hearing her sigh, he knew that he had succeeded after all. What remained was the message itself.

"The priest must see Zamara. They must meet. At what time and where, I don't know, but Tarkan has something to tell Zamara; something of great importance. Now, off with you, and tell the Prince and the Princess precisely what I have told you. They may not send word for me, I have other business to attend to, but a messenger should be sent to Tarkan's residence as quickly as possible with the appropriate time and place."

He waved her off, and was about leave, when she stopped him. "May I ask who you are?" she said.

It suddenly occurred to him that he had in fact not introduced himself, but seeing the situation he found himself in, he realised that he had been wise. Being asked now, he could nothing but smile. "I am a servant, as you are ....?"

"Nadda," she said eagerly.

He left as quickly as he had come.

[Firefoot]

Only minutes since she had left, Nadda again stepped into the room with Siamak and Zamara. "Back so soon?" asked Siamak, puzzled. There was almost no way she could have been to Morgôs and back.

"Well... I didn't actually go to the General yet," explained Nadda, hurrying on before Siamak could say anything. "I was interrupted by another servant, he did not give his name, but he had a message for you and the Princess... and you, High Priestess. He came from the High Priest. Somehow, they know... know you are here. He said it was a dream, or something. But he insisted that the priest meet with you, High Priestess. He said a message should be sent back declaring the time and place. I came back here right away, as it seemed more important than your message to the General. I hope I have not done ill?"

"You did right," answered Siamak, both troubled and puzzled by this news. "This is indeed more important; I will have to talk to Morgôs later. Forget that message for now. My sister should be alerted of this; tell her to come here. That is, if there is no more to your message?"

Immense relief was etched on Nadda's face. "No, that is all he said."

"Very well. Go quickly to Gjeelea." He turned now to Zamara. "What do you think of this news? It is disturbing, I should say. I fear a trap. Do you think you shall go? I would go with you; it would be better that you are not alone."

[Kransha]

Morgôs didn’t feel well. He rarely felt well these days, but today he felt particularly bad: the sort of bad that portends infectious disease and illness, the sort of bad that forces the stomach to tie itself up into knots, the sort of bad that induced great pangs of agony…the sort of bad that Elves were not supposed to feel. He coughed silently, clapping a fisted hand to his dry, blue-lipped mouth to stifle the already miniscule noise even more. He felt oddly self-conscious, which was also very unusual for him, but he had a good reason. Everything around him seemed as stifling as his sickly and chronic coughing, dark and barren. The usual air of strength that filled him was gracelessly dimmed, its energy sapped. His only consolation was his reasoning. At least, thought the semi-General, his motives were well based.

The King was either mad or ingenious, and both options included a sub-clause portending mental instability. Khamûl’s newest orders were most outrageous, and news of his edict was already spreading through the land. Some might accept it as a righteous course of action, but who besides his mad zealots and those he had installed in seats of power actually agreed with him anymore? The power of Pashtia’s ruler was simply too great to challenge, so no one dared to, save for straggling resistance movements. Rebellion was expected during any campaign of change or reign of an unpopular king, but the rebellion that was bandied about to rival Khamûl’s orc hordes was so motley and so feeble it could not have crushed the regime of a tyrannical gardener. Pathetic was a word that might be applicable, but Morgôs tried not to think about rebellion at all. Getting involved in such a thing, for better or worse, would be bad for him. If he ever came into contact with revolutionaries, it would probably be in battle, with his blade dealing death to them at every turn. Such an order might well come from Khamûl. In reality, any order might come from the King in this twisted state, but Morgôs didn’t care now what came. He only hoped that the King would give him some order, just so he could restore the magistrate’s faith in him.

As the General meandered down the halls of Kanak’s royal palace, he began to piece together what had happened over the past weeks. The Emissary was now, officially, allied with Pashtia, he and his mighty sovereign Annatar. At one fleeting moment in all this time, after a bizarre and painful epiphany just before the sundering of reality occurred, Morgôs had known that this was a dark pact, his terrible dream revealing the fact to him. But suddenly his mind lay clouded and he could not grasp the fact any longer. He knew, and, with grim ease, accepted the alliance as he considered it. Whatever the decision of the King was, or his opinion, he had to accept the word of Khamûl as he had the word of his father and his father’s father before him. Once, he might’ve felt a vague spirit swelling in him, one of dogged rebellion and willingness to arouse, to rise and be counted with his own words. Today, as he wandered, the icy cold of the palace marble chilling his calloused, bare feet, he felt none of this. Instead, he heard a distant voice in his mind – his own – speaking quietly; thinking hard.

His wife and son would be at the palace soon, and a suite of some fashion was being furnished for his family. He almost laughed cynically – a suite, a set of rooms, when once he had had a mansion! Arlome would not be pleased, but she would accept it. Her adjustment would be hardest. Evrathol might have an easier time of it, but not by far. Morgôs would have to send envoys to get the books in his library and bring them by the wagon-load, if the King might allow it. What if the King said no? His thoughts lay as they were whisked from his mind on the wrinkled pages of every tome; they were of dire importance to him. If the King denied him this request, could he challenge this denial?

No, he could not refute the king. Doing so would mean death, even if the king spared his mortal life. His soul would be damned without question, not by the king or the law, but by his own past foolishness. Morgôs had never been impulsive, except on one occasion, and the words he’d spoken then haunted him now, as they sometimes did. He never dwelled on the decision he’d made…he could barely remember how long ago it had been. The General had never realized before that the decision would so alter his life as it had, but, as he contemplated, he was forced to admit that the decision had, in fact, had profited far more than it had been a detriment. If he still knew what he’d known before, he would be far more alarmed by the resonance of that past choice he made, but since the memory had evaporated, he was left with only gnawing regret.

The gnaw became a voice again, but not one he was used to, even though it was familiar.

“My lord, do not do this, I beg of you.”

The voice was familiar; his own. It sounded vaguely younger, but far darker in retrospect, and full of a terrified consternation. The next voice that rang coolly in the blank darkness was young, but spoke with an archaic, ancient style of nobility and regality, like a figure of old lore or literature might. “Wouldst thou betray me, my brother?” stabbed the voice into the expanse of night, sounding mortified, “I trusted your kind; saw them through the woes done unto them by my forefathers. I liberated them. Is this my reward?” There was little real anger or rage in the voice, but a betrayed vocal tone rode it. The first voice responded pleadingly. “Your cousin’s senses fly from him, lord – he may no more be looked to for aid or counsel. He is the consul of a dark thing, a fell and dark behemoth. He deceives you with his shadowed words.” – A dark warning.

“O’er time thou hast spoke truth to me, Warlord,” reprimanded the second voice, with caustic sting in its tongue, “and I have not turned from thine advice, but today the shadows dissemble in my hall. Join them, if thou wishest, but speak not to me of such evil.” The first voice interjected readily, diving in with no thought before doing so. “By my life and yours,” the second voice exclaimed, “do this not, for if you do you shall doom us all. Know you not what they call your kinsman? ‘The Black’ is his rank, and terror is his title. Leave him to his demise and live in his stead.” This dread word forced the second voice to rattle and tremble, but it spoke with a cold, sardonic voice instead. “And what assurances have I, Warlord my brother?” said it, using a similarly archaic acknowledgement, “If my kinsman is on the path to victory, what can I glean from this? Thou hast naught to dissuade me.” The challenge was swiftly answered. “I have my service, King of Kings,” retorted the first voice after a willowy pause, “for all time.”

There was hesitation then in the second voice. “For all my children?” it questioned, “And theirs after them? Grant me this, and thou shalt have thy way.” It affirmed at last. There was no pause in the first voice. “I shall.” Spoke that voice, not eagerly, but all truthful and willing. A grin could be seen through the pale darkness on the lips of the second speaker as he continued. “Warlord Morgôs Karandûn, if thou shalt render thy services to my sons forever after, and serve the throne unbidden, then I may rest in my grave assured of the safety of my sons. But, thou must only serve the true King of Kings, and no false lord or regent but the true heir of my house. If so, I shall be at peace - my dynasty preserved by thee in battle and in peace, for I have known your service to be of infinite value. Vow, Morgôs, that thou shalt not shirk this sacred duty to me, and my cousin will make his foolhardy way across the Sea of Ice alone.”

Again, no hesitation on the part of the first voice, though the words came with a terrible strained reluctance, as if there were millennia in between each resounding syllable. “To this end,” it said, “I will bind myself to them.” The second voice quickly bore up the banner of these words. “Be warned, Warlord,” it said, “I know you to be deathless. Until the day thou art slain, your service must not end. Thou art fettered to my line and shall uphold it in the highest until it falls…And if it falls, Warlord, thou shalt fall with it.”

“Forever shall I serve you, King of Kings.”

“Very well. Word shall be sent to the west of my dissuasion.”

“Thank you, my lord. Your wisdom is as deep as your armies are strong”

“And they shall be far stronger in time, my brother, thanks to you.”

Shaking uncontrollably by now, Morgôs staggered towards the halls that allowed entrance to the King’s meeting chambers, heavily guarded in this savage time. The time for drastic action had come, if he was to keep his promise and not be condemned to some sort of dark domain after life had ended for his disloyalty.

[Amanaduial the archer]

Zamara tried to think, her mind whirring and calculating as she stared almost angrily out of the window, her arms crossed and on forefinger thoughtfully tapping out a steady rhythm on her opposite forearm: keeping her thoughts steady and calm, trying to stop herself from panicking. Maybe the news of her death sentence and it's true horror had not yet sunk in; maybe it would not until too late. Either way, the Priestess seemed calm and collected when she next replied.

"Disturbing indeed, Prince Siamak," she murmured, frowning slightly. She sighed, almost dreamily. "I do wish Nadda had got this servant's name, just for something to make it less suspicious, even if one cannot cling to anything in these times..." Turning fluidly, Zamara looked at Siamak. "What do you think, Siamak? Should we risk it?"

Siamak frowned, shaking his head as he thought. "I think there is more to this message than meets the eye, Priestess. This servant...he did not give a name, and he then delivered a brief, mysterious message to a servant directly rather than sending the message through a chamberlain as would be more proper. An altogether secretive affair. What is more, while he did not give a name of his own-"

"- he now knows Nadda's," Zamara finished, nodding, her tone regretful. "And he knows I am here as well - she is young and easily swayed, Siamak, a trait that has been useful for us but which, I have no doubt, means that this servant left in no doubt that I am indeed here." She sighed, shaking her head, almost angrily. Nadda was perfect for the tasks they needed - simply to send messages to and fro, and to bring her what she needed discreetly. But when she was directly questioned? The young servant girl had no experience to dodge the questions as an older staff member would. But who of the older servants could be trusted now? Some had served the royal family their entire life: their livelivehood and even their lives depended on that set way of thinking. But then...but then, the older servants had grown up with the old gods and worshipped them their whole lives, worshipped, brought offerings, joined in the festivals, even got married or had family members laid to rest by the Priests and Priestesses of the old gods. And the weight that this sort of legacy had could not be ignored. The Priestess smiled slightly, heartened against the odds that maybe, if the time came, some would come to her aid.

But the more specific questions were currently pressing, and the smile faded within a second from Zamara's fine features as she once more considered this strange visitor. Something here stinks...the stench of incense on a funeral pyre. The question is: whose funeral is it? She shuddered slightly, tightening her jaw, and turned back to Siamak. "Firstly, we need someone else who can help us. Another of the servants. I am aware of the risk this has," she continued, holding up a hand as the young man began to voice his concerns. "But we need someone who can be trusted to keep our secrets and get out of the palace into the city maybe, if the need comes. One of the chamberlains maybe?" A figure sprung to mind and Zamara clicked her fingers as she remembered the name an instant later. "Jarult! Was that his name? A chamerlain here, I remember seeing him when I came to speak to your mother, and at the banquet... What?"

Siamak was shaking his head. "No good. Jarult was dismissed some months ago, along with several other members of my mother's train."

"Surely not all of them?" the Priestess replied incredulously. "That old nurse, the woman who helped with Bekah's funeral proceedings, an...Alanzian." Realisation hit Zamara and she stopped, resignation streaming over her features. "She is gone as well, isn't she?"

Siamak nodded grimly. "Homay has gone as well; a rebellion against the palace some time ag..." At Zamara's alarmed face, Siamak halted, shaking his head hurriedly. "Never mind, I shall talk to you of that later maybe, now is not the time to be deviating. What do you think of the priest's supposed proposition?" Siamak's tone told Zamara of the prince's obviously dubiousness on the matter, but despite the young royal's uncertainty, she could not shake the hope that maybe, just maybe, this was something she could trust. When fear is flowing steadily through the cracks, one grabs any bucket that one can and prepares to bail like hell - sometimes regardless of what one might miss in the frenzy.

"I...I would like to meet him, Siamak."

The prince paused for a second, trying to arrange his next sentence respectfully: a strange role reversal bearing in mind he was potentially in line for the throne and she was a doomed fugitive. After a moment's diplomatic mental shuffling, he replied carefully, "Do you think that wise, Zamara?"

Zamara sighed deeply, shrugging her shoulders as she folded her arms tightly as if against a breeze, and turned back to the window, where no breeze stirred outside the window. It was quite early morning, several hours still to go until midday. Time for morning prayer, she thought, but her thoughts seemed almost detached from the reality of the silence where the singing of the priestesses and acolytes and the answering chants of Rea's priests should have wafted on the breeze to the palace on the soft spring breeze. But spring seemed not to have alighted on the city this year: the gay, gentle breeze did not stir the deadly still trees that now drooped in the Pashtian sun, and even the very birds, normally ready to come from as far as Alanzia simply to sing their harmless, cheerful tunes through the streets and courtyards seemed to have forgotten. Or been silenced.

After a silence so long that Siamak was about to prompt the Priestess for an answer, she replied, her voice like that of a school teacher. "Do you know, Siamak, of the great plague that hit Pashtia some two or three centuries ago? Nearly half the city was wiped out by it, and the arguements still rage about what caused such a terrible disaster. But whatever the cause, many cures were tried out: poultices of goats' milk and herbs, bandages of nettles, spells, prayers, chants... But do you know what it was that was found to work?" She turned her head to look straight at Siamak. "Rancid fat."

Zamara seemed to smile to herself slightly, turning back to the window as Siamak remained silent and puzzled at this bizarre, rather foul punchline. After a second, she continued, matter of fact yet thoughtful. "You see, Siamak, it seems that in times of direst trouble, it is not always beautiful and shining cures that can work - sometimes one has to try shadier and somewhat, may I saw, more dubious cures, in the hopes that maybe, just maybe...a solution just might be found."

The pair were quiet for a moment and Zamara turned fully to Siamak once more, smiling slightly at him in the silence where the birds and the bells should have echoed through the city. A moment later, Siamak grinned. "Rancid fat it is then, Priestess."

[Firefoot]

"Rancid fat it is then, Priestess." Foolhardy though it may be, Siamak was persuaded that maybe there was some hope in such a venture. "So on to the time and place, since Tarkan left to us to decide. Though it would be risky to leave the palace, I think Tarkan would probably noted were he to come. And should we be discovered, we would not be able to escape the palace."

Zamara thought for a moment, then nodded. "Then the time should be in the evening, when people are returning home from their jobs. Two or three more cloaked figures on the street would not be marked at that time."

"Then, or a little before so that we do not return overlate," agreed Siamak. They would not want to be caught on the streets after curfew; then they really would be easy targets. "But where? Someplace where you would not be sought. What of the Temple of Rhais? Surely no one would think to find us in the place from which you fled?"

"Everyone who enters the Temple of the goddess is watched. We cannot go there," said Zamara.

Slowly they exhausted several options, from down by the wharf to the less-frequented inns to an alley in the market place. All had some faults: too crowded, no way out should they be discovered, too obvious... the list went on.

"Then I have but one more idea," said Siamak, clearly hesitant on the idea. "We could go directly to Tarkan, in the guise of worshippers to the temple." He was not sure he liked it; surely such a place would be full of the Emissary's men and other supporters of the king.

"Do you think that wise?" Zamara dubiously echoed Siamak's earlier question.

"I don't know. We are sending word to Tarkan anyway; perhaps we could ask him how safe such a venture would be," answered Siamak. Is this pushing luck too far? "We can also wait until Gjeelea gets here to send any kind of message; she may have a different perspective."

"That would be well," answered Zamara.

Neither of them said anything for a moment. Siamak was thinking about what Zamara had said about needing another servant's help. Abruptly, he asked, "Weren't you helped by another servant last night?"

"Yes, a man. Raefin."

"He's older, right? More loyal to the old ways?" asked Siamak.

Zamara seemed to realize what he was driving at. "Yes; I think we could rely on his help. He already knows I am here, so we need not risk telling more people."

"That's what I was thinking," Siamak said. "Once Nadda gets back, we can have her go find him."

[Amanaduial the archer]

All was still in the palace.

The cold, dusty desert air blew off the sands to the East of the Desert, chuckling as it played through the dark corridors and whispering mischieviously in the ears of the fitfully slumbering inhabitants of the rooms, empty and cold in their materialistic glory. The rich, thin material of hung up clothes and disturbed bedcovers stirred lazily, beads clattering sleepily and jewellery derisively tossed gently in the fidgetting fingers of the wind, before the palace's liveliest intruder danced away to find some sport in the streets below, sprawled in submission around the palace.

Outside, watched only by the silent, watchful moon above, the palace's other intruder was making her escape from her only sanctuary: venturing into a city that professed not to want her, and to a people to whom she was a vanishing last hope. The wind whispered through the servants quarters, playing past two disturbed beds, one a man's and one a young girl's, and followed their owners outside to where the man, cloaked against the night air and the night creatures, held open a furtive side gate. Three figures, slim, effeminate shadows against the muffled lamp above the gate, slipped through it guiltily but without fuss, and as silently as the moonlight, they fled to the sidestreets, keeping to the shadows. As the gate closed behind her, one of them hesitated, taking a long look up at the palace, her eyes yearning for some semblance of the life she had once had to return, for the darkness to lift; then the other, a taller woman whose dark curls peeped out of her hood, took her hand and, with a final farewell to her life, Gjeelea hurried on with Zamara after Reafin and Nadda.

To a spectator, the journey would seem uneventful for the four furtive figures, but to Zamara every second of the dark, dangerous journey was a battle against every nerve in her body and every wit in her senses telling her that to hide forever would be a preferable option. The city doesn't want you, Zamara, leave them to their evil and return to the Goddess... Painfully alert as she was of every inch of her surroundings, the Priestess nearly tripped into Reafin's back as he stopped dead, and the suddeness of his movement nearly made her cry out. Regaining her composure, the Priestess tried to calm her heavy, frightened breathing, and stepped around the servant, her soft footsteps the only sound in the dark street - a street that opened to the Temple of Rae.

Nothing moved. Even the wind seemed to still, hushing itself into silence as it watched the tableau in front of the ruins. Narrowing her eyes, Zamara took another step forward out of the safety of the street's entrance and looked around, squinting into the darkness for some movement or sign of life, of the Prince - of a trap.

Risking everything and overcoming the lump that seemed to be building inside her throat, Zamara uttered a single word, her voice echoing desolately into the stone temple and making Nadda leap in it's apparent volume. "Tarkan?"

Silence once more.

Then movement.

Zamara stepped back, fear leaping like a wolf to her throat as she grasped her staff tightly for whatever comfort or protection it could give - and nearly cried out in relief as the person who moved forward threw back his hood and in the dry and desolate moonlight, she recognised Tarkan's face. A sudden, overwhelming relief almost overcame her as she darted towards him and, after a moment's pause, the Priest and Priestess embraced formally. "Tarkan," Zamara began, her voice a whispered sigh. "Thank- thank you so much for coming."

"It was my duty, Zamara." Not for the first time, he did not prefix her name with it's title, and in that instant Zamara was reminded of her distrust for the older man. They may have been allies, but friends was pushing it; by not calling her 'High Priestess', he was, she was reminded bitterly, simply telling the truth - but it could also have been an expression of her ever-present wish for her high position. She took a mental step back, reminding herself to be careful.

Careful? You have come to discuss high treason, Zamara: taking care would be far too belated for any caution now to save.

“Tarkan, the Prince, is he here yet? He set off some time before us- ”

“I am here, Zamara.” The strength of Siamak’s youthful yet strong voice from the velvet darkness comforted Zamara. Tarkan nodded once. “Have you brought any others?”

Caution, however, belated, caught up with the Priestess. “A few,” she replied shortly, but not so curtly that attention might be drawn to it as she added, “and you?”

“Just one,” the priest smiled. “Just one.”

“Ah, your mysterious young friend, Pelin, I suppose?” Siamak spoke this time, his voice a little sardonic. Tarkan’s chin jerked up angrily as he looked around, but apparently could not quite place the young prince’s exact position as his eyes returned to Zamara then sought in the darkness behind him, around the Old Temple. “Yes…yes, Pelin is here with me, as always,” he murmured somewhat distractedly. The distance in his voice did not escape Zamara but although she frowned slightly, she said nothing, contenting herself with her silence: the Priest’s mind and its motions would soon be revealed to her, Rhais providing. Sure enough, the Priest turned to her again and his voice returned to a conspiratorial whisper. “Shall we go into the temple? I fear it is not…” he took a furtive glance around, apparently simply for dramatic effect. “…safe.”

Zamara’s hesitation must have shown, for the Priest frowned slightly, his face still dimly visible in the unveiled moonlight as he half-smiled. “There is nothing to be afraid of, Zamara; the Rae’s Temple is as unlikely a place as any for you to be found –”

“I am not afraid, Tarkan,” Zamara cut in. Taking a deep breath, her voice softened and she nodded more calmly at the Priest. “Lead the way.”

Tarkan nodded solemnly and turned towards the temple as he began to lead the silent, secretive procession of the night-conspirators towards his old domain. Hearing Siamak come up beside her, Zamara half turned her face to him and felt the prince’s hand brush hers reassuringly. Smiling, she leant towards him and murmured, “Tell the others to follow but without being seen: the Priest may be our ally, for the time being, but I refuse to trust any man who wilfully refuses to reveal his name.” The Prince nodded and silently peeled away from her towards his sister and the two servants still hiding from the moon in the street opening. Zamara took a deep breath and, bracing herself against all the darksome rumours she had heard of the Temple, she followed Tarkan. But in the night time, when shadows are rife in the streets, they have a way of finding their way into one’s mind…

Feeling her sandaled toes brush against something soft and surprisingly moist, Zamara looked down and, to her surprise, saw a subtly hidden patch of moss by her right foot: the stone under which it had made its home must have been disturbed by Tarkan’s foot. Bending down, the Priestess touched the moss supersticiously, her fingers gently stroking it’s half-dried out surface. “Protect me, Goddess,” she whispered almost inaudibly. The chill desert wind stirred once more, chiding her onwards, and Zamara straightened up again, raising her chin and setting off after Tarkan.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

The meeting with Morgos had been less than satisfactory. The Elf was now clearly mad, so lost was he amid the rumours of his own mind and the shattered and fragmented papers of his past. Khamul had left the room in disgust with himself for having thought that there would be help from that quarter. As he had departed the General’s wife and son had been brought to him by the orcs and the King had seen their looks of despair at what had become of the once great man.

He went to the banquet hall where he had first dined with Ashnaz all those months ago. There was to be another banquet tonight. The Emissary was there ahead of him, with all his men and the great orc captains. There was to be a celebration this evening of the Final Cleansing of the land. With the Elves now safely stored in their section of the city, the threat of rebellion was much lessened. The hall was filled with the raucous laughter of the orcs, and the words of the Emissary’s men which rang against the stone as steel blades. As always, the King was taken aback by their strange beauty, but this night they were particularly radiant – glowing with the purity of the work they had done this day in purifying the land of Pashtia. The King bowed his head in gratitude before Ashnaz’s chief lieutenants, and even hefted his cup in token of thanks to the orc general, before settling down to his meal beside the Emissary.

They ate in quiet, for his friend was curiously distracted by some dark thoughts that hovered about his soul. Khamul brushed up against his friend’s mind ever so gently, caressing him with his desires, but he found only a blank wall of concern. “What is it that torments you this night, my friend?” he asked.

The Emissary merely glared down at their food. It took a few more gently prods from the King before he would speak. “I fear for this land, my King. In my soul, I fear for it. There have been dark misgivings in my heart all this day, and they have been growing. There is treachery afoot.”

The King sighed. “There has been treachery afoot since the day you arrived, I am ashamed to say. So jealous are my people of you and of the friendship and loyalty you have shown me.”

“No,” the Emissary replied, “this is different. I have tried to commune with the Lord Annatar so that he might help me, but some power there is that blinds me to him this night,” his hands began to shake and his face went white. “I know not what it is…” he reached for his goblet of wine and swallowed deeply. Khamul was stunned by his friends manner and turned to his own cup for comfort. At the first sip, he realised how thirsty he was and drank another quickly. But still his thirst increased and soon his cup was empty. His head began to swim with the vapours of the drink. He looked about the room and saw that all those in it had begun to act strangely. Some had slumped over the table, while others staggered about or raved madly. But all drank, as though seized by the kind of thirst that afflicts desert travellers. The King looked down at his cup, and noted for the first time that there was a strange after taste to the wine…

He leapt up from the table and staggered back against a wall. As a monarch, he had long been trained in the ways of poison, but so shaken was he by the manner of his friend, he had not noticed until too late. His vision swam, and he could barely watch as those around him began to fall to the ground, their mouths opening in agony, a sickly yellow froth coming forth. He reached out for Ashnaz and took him for support, and in the eyes of his friend he saw the same terror or mortality that was in his heart. They fell to the floor.

A few seconds or hours later a pair of sandaled feet came before them. They looked up into the face of the old healer, Daliyah. She looked down at the King and the Emissary with a mixture of exultation and rage that shocked the King. She spat upon the Emissary saying, “That is for the death of my mistress!” and then she spat upon the King, “And that is for what you have done to Pashtia!”

A great blackness opened beneath the King’s feet and he pitched forward into the depths, wailing like a lost spirit…


…but he did not die. There was a light in the darkness, and it grew into an Eye. It was as though the Ring had become alive, and moved to look at him. The King clutched the Ring and the Eye and held it close to his breast. A voice spoke to him.

The time has come for you to join me fully, my friend. You have been divested of your mortal frame. Now you shall live forever through me, in the purity of your spirit.

“My lord Annatar!”

Nay, that is not my name. It is but a cloak that I use to turn the eyes of my enemies. For I am Sauron, lord of all.

“Sauron! Save me! I do not wish to die. My kingdom needs me, they must be saved!”

Aye, and that they will. But first you must join with me. You must swear yourself to me for all time. Do this, and I will give you the strength you need to wreak your vengeance.

“I have already pledged myself to you my Lord Sauron. Take me to your service.”

No. You have pledged yourself to the service of my weaker shadow; to the façade of craven friendship that I put on so that my enemies will not know my real strength. You must swear allegiance to me – behold!

And the King saw the truth. Before him, Pashtia burned as the orcs rampaged through it, enraged by the death of their captains. Unrestrained now by any Men, they ran unchecked through the land, filling it with a darkness more deep than any it had ever known. He saw the Elves being slaughtered by their hundreds; he saw his own family being taken from out of their rooms and dragged kicking and screaming into the courtyard where a gallows had been hastily erected by the orcs to hang all those whom they deemed responsible for the murder of their leaders. And then he saw another sight, more terrible. He saw the Emissary, his friend, Ashnaz – and the meaning of the Name was now clear to him – he saw the black hands of the Man about the throat of Bekah, choking the life from her, lusting after her destruction. He saw her broken body, and the blood that ran through the streets of his City…

….and he exulted. Such was the reward of treachery! So do those who opposed him deserved to be treated!

One Ring to rule them all! One Ring to find them!
One Ring to bring them all and in the darkness bind them!

YOU ARE MINE!

Khamul arose from the ground, the poison having done its work and passed him to the other side of mortality. At his side was his friend, but none could see them, for even though they did not wear their Rings they were invisible. Only a dark and terrible presence filled the orcs who had come to see the ruin of their generals. They fell back from the shapeless forms, gibbering in terror. “Bring us garments,” his friend cried, and soon black raiment were given them, pulled from the bodies of the slain Men of the West. They draped the clothes about them, giving form to their formlessness and a horrible shape to their terror. They stood forth before the orcs and proclaimed themselves for what they had become: “Behold the Nazgul in our power! Heed our commands and hear in us the will of our Lord Saruon!” The orcs fell to ground and prostrated themselves, crawling upon the floor like worms.

“Bring order back to this land! Cease the burning and the pillage, but send all our troops to the dens of the Elves and put them all to the sword. Spare none. See to it that the General and his family join their people. Round up the family of the King, bring them here and hang them from the gallows.” A rough cheer went up around the room as the orcs streamed from the palace like ants.

But the wraiths had one last command. “One battalion shall come with us to the temple. There is treachery there that requires our own attention. We shall kill all that we find there!” They raced from the Palace, screaming for blood, and their cries echoed into the night like the wails of lost creatures, only to be replaced by the screams of the orcs…

[Firefoot]

Siamak ducked back to relay Zamara’s bidding to the others. He was now wary of leaving the cover of shadows, even though little to no other light lit the open areas. Perhaps it was simply the setting of their meeting, or the purpose, or just Tarkan’s manner (which was irritating him, though not for any tangible reason), but Siamak’s unease had doubled since arriving at this place. This unease was confirmed when the still silence was broken by the raucous shouts of Orcs echoing in the city. Siamak’s skin prickled. What had happened? Surely it was only coincidental that Orc cries should be heard only after they had met up with Tarkan. What if this really was a trap? Taking a few deep breaths, he shrugged off the feeling of fear. If ever there was a time when he needed to think clearly, this was it.

He approached the figures cloaked in the shadow of a nearby building. The corners of his mouth turned upwards in reassurance, though this action relieved the tension not at all. “You are to follow us, but stay out of sight. Neither Zamara nor I trust Tarkan much.” He paused for a moment, listening. The Orcs were drawing slowly nearer; their peril heightened with each passing moment. He shared a brief look with his sister. “Be careful,” he whispered, then he was gone, following after Tarkan and Zamara.

He hurried after the way the two had gone, stepping into the temple proper. Granted, the temple was not whole, but still the temple of Rae seemed somehow unfriendly in contrast to that of the goddess, which had always felt more welcoming despite his misgivings about religion. He felt that this place held secrets – and not pleasant ones, either.

Seeing movement at the far end of the room, Siamak headed in that direction, wondering where they were going. He saw as he drew nearer that Tarkan was taking them back into the hallways and rooms behind the worshipping area. He paused a moment to make sure Gjeelea, Nadda, and Raefin were following all right before continuing. Had it not been for the lack of light, they would have had no problem, what with so many of the walls being partially demolished.

He caught up with Zamara and Tarkan near the top of a stairway that led down into the ground. Under normal circumstances he would have missed it entirely, but then, under normal circumstances he wouldn’t be here at all, he realized wryly. Tarkan had already begun to descend and the Priestess, by her stiff stance, appeared to be bracing herself up to go after.

“All right?” asked Siamak softly. She nodded jerkily and began the downward climb, Siamak a step behind her. The steps leveled off abruptly, leaving them at the start of a tunnel, into which Tarkan was already heading. The tunnel was cool, damp, and unlit and had a death-like quality to it. Perhaps he was being cynical, but Siamak noted that it had all the trappings of a perfect place for an ambush, among them being no other apparent way out. He wished that Tarkan had not chosen such an eerie location.

“What is this place?” he asked Zamara, careful not to let Tarkan overhear.

“I’m not sure,” she answered, but Siamak got the distinct impression that she had at least a suspicion of where they were headed. He was no longer sure that he wanted to know.

The tunnel was not so long as fear and distrust would have it seem, and they soon came to a small room, perceived by the feeling of space rather than the sight of it. Tarkan lit a torch from an unseen source, uncloaking the room of its darkness, though there wasn't a lot to see. Most prominant of the room's features was a table, an altar possibly, at the far wall. Siamak was now certain he did not want to know what was done down here. After lighting the room, Tarkan turned to face them. He did not, however, speak first.

“Now, Tarkan,” Siamak addressed him, deliberately not using the man’s title. Though his tone was polite, his words were to the point. “You have brought us here on very little information, expecting us to take you on faith. You did not tell, nay, refused to tell your purposes for calling this meeting; the only reason you gave us for coming was an apparent threat that you knew somehow where Zamara was hiding. We have come; now, is it too much to ask for some information?”

[Imladris]

The night was still...uncomfortably so, thought Arshalous as she glanced at the window, the scroll she was reading falling unheeded to the floor. Again the thought of her wedding day haunted her and she tried to not remember that she would soon be married to the lost king of Pashtia...

Dread filled her, numbed her with its chillness. She had not heard from the Princess, and she feared that the few who would stand and fight would consider her lost to the Enemy. That must not happen, she thought fretfully as she began to pace before the fire.

And yet, weren't they right if they thought she was lost to the Enemy? What could she do....there was nothing she could do with the Emissary lurking everwhere...

She slumped to the floor and wished that Semra was here to brew her a cup of tea. Speaking of Semra where was she? She had been sent to bring some flowers to the lady Hababa...Arshalous' stomach knotted unpleasantly at the thought of Hababa...she feared she was dying...another person lost...

Semra should have been back by now...what kept her in the dark?

And then, it seemed to her, that she heard a horrible sound -- a faint sound of screaming, and terrible cries...

The door slammed open and Semra hurled herself through it. Her face was white, eyes wild with fright. "They are slaughtering the elves, my lady!" she cried, her body shaking with fear.

Horrifyed, Arshalous glanced out the window, wondering if more orcs were coming for the innocent, for those who plotted for the demise of the Emissary and his friends...And it seemed to her that she heard footsteps echoing in the air...would she soon hear the chants of orcs, lusting for blood?

[Novnarwen]

Tarkan

Calmly, he descended the stairs. From behind, he could hear several pairs of feet following. When reaching the bottom, a rush of memories seemed to penetrate his mind. He had been so young at the time; he’d been proud to finally be acknowledged as a priest, especially amongst the elder, and did not question the meaning with the secret rituals. Why should he? He’d striven to be become a priest; surely, he was not interested in ruining everything he’d worked for. Later, he had given thought to this, whether these rituals really were in favour of the people, but not regretting any of it, he had let it be. He breathed heavily. The smell of rot and earth was exactly how he remembered it, as well as the damp air. The room itself seemed smaller than what it had been, but then again, it had been more than ten years ago since he had last been here.

As the company, consisting of the former Priestess, the prince, three of his servants and Pelin arrived, Tarkan lit a torch. He took a short walk around in the room, and lit the other ones that were hanging on each of the four walls. Tarkan took a moment to look at them. The now illuminated room revealed their expressions, which were filled with surprise and wonder. It was obvious that none of them knew that the Temple had a cellar underground.

“You have brought us here on very little information, expecting us to take you on faith. You did not tell, nay, refused to tell your purposes for calling this meeting; the only reason you gave us for coming was an apparent threat that you knew somehow where Zamara was hiding. We have come; now, is it too much to ask for some information?”

It was the prince who spoke first. Immediately, the priest wanted to reply. Instead, however, he waited. With a movement, he urged Pelin forwards. “Go upstairs and keep watch. If anything is out of the ordinary, stamp your feet three times on the floor above us. Now, go,” the priest whispered. He didn’t know why he wanted to keep Pelin’s task secret, but he concluded it was for the best. He didn’t want anyone panicking now, not when he was so close. Besides, this would probably be the only chance he and Zamara got to talk; it would be the only chance to try save the Kingdom from ruin.

Pelin didn’t at all seem satisfied by the task he had been given. He objected, but Tarkan insisted. “You must do as I say,” he said. “Go.” At last, Pelin took his leave. Seeing him take off, climbing the stairs, Pelin cast Tarkan one last glance; the priest could have sworn he saw hatred in the young man’s eyes. Could this really be the case? Shaking his head, he convinced himself that this was not so. Furthermore, he had to focus on the most important thing; he had a story to tell.

“Information ...” he began. “Why do you think I wanted to meet you, Zamara?”

The former priestess stood motionless in the somewhat dim light. Looking at her, he could see that she was thinking. He was sure she had an idea, but for some reason she did not answer.

“To make a long tale short, I will start with saying that some time after the former King’s successor was born….” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the Prince smiling. When seeing this, he felt angry by the injustice he had suffered. Why should he, as the son of a King, live as a simple Priest? The old hatred towards his brother, Faroz, and the prince flared up as it had hundred of times before. Gjeelea, he could not hate, regardless of her relations. The priest had to put great effort into hiding his true feelings, but not letting go of his hatresd he watched the prince standing unprotected before him. Within a second, the prince could be history. No, no, it was dangerous; he had to control himself.

“the Queen gave birth to yet another, who was named Faroz,” he continued, well aware of having left out Faroz’s official title. This seemed to have stirred the young heart of the Prince.

“King Faroz,” Zamara said, as if reminding him.

Turning to Siamak, he said slowly:” He, Faroz, might be your father, but he is not King, and he has, in truth, never been.”¨


**

On the floor above the Priest and his guests, Pelin stood waiting impatiently. The feeling of being excluded felt as being torn open, turned inside out. It wasn’t the first time he was being left out of secret meeting or other such events, but it hardly seemed just in this case. It was after all he who had managed to arrange this meeting in the first place. The Prince's three servants were allowed to stay. He, an educated soon-to-be priest was not to. Did he not deserve to be present?

A distant sound made him shiver. For an instant he managed to suppress his hatred towards the priest, who again had regarded him as subordinate, as he knew that this was about to change.

**

In the cellar a gasp of surprise ran though the company. Offended, the prince stepped forwards, but with a strict tone Tarkan said:” Please, you wanted information. You’ll have your turn. Now let me continue.” It seemed rather odd that the priest’s words could have such an effect on his listeners; his words had silenced them, but as he was touching a very sensitive topic, he thought it would be harder to keep them quiet. Questioning the King, his position, even his Royal birth, was after all not just an everyday conversation. In fact, Tarkan had crossed the line, and if ever reported he could be accused of treachery. He raised an eyebrow realising that this, in some way, was treachery.

“The questioning of Faroz’s true birth, reminds me of the question that I’m sure you’re eager to ask. Who, if not Faroz, is King?”

“You?!?" One could make no mistake; Gjeelea's mocking voice rang through the room. “This is pointless, nonsense,” she called out. “I’m not going to stand here listening to this mad man, who’s trying to convince us that the King is any other than our father. Siamak, Priestess, let us leave.”

For an instant, the situation seemed to get out of control. The Priest stood motionless watching Gjeelea’s outburst. He hadn't even known she had been present. Instantly, the situation had got out of hand. She, he thought, would be the hardest to convince. “My dear Princess, this is exactly where you come in,” he started. All of a sudden, it was clear to him that she too had a certain role in this, maybe the most important of all.

“Come in where?” she said. Her voice was anything but calm; she looked rather frustrated. Whether it was about the Priest’s last claim, or the fact that the Prince and the Priestess appeared to be eager to listen further, he did not know. Anyhow, while he had her attention, he decided to go for it. It was now or never.

“A great noble in Pasthia possesses the evidence; the evidence that proves Faroz’s falseness. It proves that he is not King, and is indeed not the flesh of the former King. There is proof, and you’re the only one who has the power to gain it. You are the only one who can make this right.”

Tarkan didn’t wait for the word the question ‘how?’. Taking a step closer, he looked with penetrating eyes at the princess. “The Lord Korak, your husband, has it. He has the former King’s will. He has the letter he gave to me, his son, on his deathbed, where he acknowledges me as heir and King!”

He watched the horror in their eyes as he spoke and finished. None of them moved. The three servants seemed to have stopped breathing.

“But… but.. how do you know Korak has it?” It was Zamara who spoke.

The priest was rather surprised, but satisfied, to have the priestess on his wavelength. He was glad he had reached out; maybe the ‘Royal’ Children would come along as well.

“A vision. A vision, sent from the Gods.”

“A vision? You tell us a vision has made you believe you’re the former King’s heir? You tell us a vision has made you believe that Lord Korak has evidence to support your belief?” Shaking his head, the prince sighed. It was obvious that neither the Prince, nor the Princess could take much more of this. Their faces and body language revealed more than their words; they were sorry for ever having agreed to this meeting, apparently thinking it pointless, as being under the impression that this was a tale of a lunatic, but most of all however, there was fear in their eyes. What if Tarkan spoke the truth?

“It seems that I have much to explain still.” The priest paused. “A vision yes. In fact, the same vision that told me the priestess here was alive. Where could I possibly get this information, if not sent by the Gods? After all, no one, except you, knew.” he cast a glance at Siamak and Gjeelea and the servants behind them. “Now, the rest of the story is just obvious. Korak wants to be King, isn’t that correct?” He didn’t wait for a reply or a movement, he just carried on. ”If he came forth with the secret information he beholds, he would never be King. Now, married to the daughter of the man who is believed to be King, he has still the chance to achieve his goal. He has no reason for revealing his little secret. You, Gjeelea, are the only one who can trick Korak. The prince, I have no doubt, will help you. So, this leaves me to the ultimate question; we have the power to stop the insanity of the King, we have the power to put an end to the Emissary’s influence and we have the power to make Pasthia as it once was, are you willing to grasp this chance?”

Silence.

“And… what exactly is my role in this?” Zamara asked, seeming confused.

“Oh, isn’t it obvious; uniting the religions of Pasthia…. With me, you will rule.”

[Amanaduial the archer]

Zamara stared at Tarkan in openly bewilderment - and more than a little skepticism which the past few months had taught her never to leave behind. With me, you will rule... Even out of context, the words seemed unreal to Zamara,and the fact they could be addressed to her a simple impossibility. Or maybe not so simple.... The Priestess's forehead wrinkled as she frowned and she massaged it with the tips of her two forefingers.

"You believe yourself to be the true ruler of Pashtia?" she asked softly. Tarkan nodded mutely in reply.

Either this was a belated stroke of genius or a cruel twist of fate: a desperate misplaced son, or a madman? Either way, Zamara wasn't entirely sure how it would help them. Not usually desolate, Zamara found the suffocating helplessness that she was becoming dangerously familiar with threatening to drown her as she turned away, arms folded, her head dropping back to stare at the ceiling, closing her eyes and sighing deeply. How did this help them, but to deepen their problems? To find themselves with such a dilemma... one thing was for sure though:

"If the King finds out, he will kill you," she said simply, without looking at Tarkan. Her eyes were fixed on the altar, or rather, on the wall behind it. The stones of one area seemed strangely disalligned with the rest around them, and yet slotted so perfectly together: so perfectly, in fact, that they were incongruous with the rest of the stones. Frowning, she began to walk towards the altar.

"I know, Zamara; that is why we must be so regretably secretive about this whole meeting..." Tarkan even gave a wry smile, but it was lost upon Zamara as she wandered behind the altar, carefully giving it a wide birth as if even being close to it could pass on its infectious evil.

"That and the fact that we have a hunted fugitive in our midst," Gjeelea cut in scathingly, wiping away the priest's smile. She sighed exasperatedly, throwing up her hands. "And another soon, I have no doubt: a dangerous madman! For Rae's sake, Tarkan, you tell us we risked our lives for this? Put the future of our country in danger for these...rantings?! Brother, let us leave this place-"

"The future of Pashtia is already in danger, sister, do you honestly think it can get any worse?" The normally restrained Siamak snapped the words viciously, making Gjeelea start slightly. The tension in the air was building between the siblings, suffocating in the small, dank space, crackling through the air like static; yet Zamara seemed almost unaware of it. Hushing them almost inaudibly, the Priestess raised her fist and tapped her knuckles first softly, then harder, against the stones. Thunk, thunk, thunk...and an echo: the row of hollow taps were followed by an empty, echoing tap that proved Zamara's suspicions. She smiled slightly, her slim lips curling up prettily as her long fingers stroked the stones gently. An exit.

Turning back, she noted that her discovery had not been noticed as Gjeelea stood almost nose to nose with Tarkan, the princess fiery and furious in her fear, the Priest remaining desperately calm, his hands out placatingly. Siamak shot the Priestess a strange look, then froze, silencing the pair with a sharp hand movement and a single hissed command.

After an instant, Zamara heard it too.

The Prince turned to the older woman, his eyes wide and alert. "Screams! Do you hear them? They...oh gods, Zamara, they are coming for us!"

"Sh-hh," Zamara hissed, holding up her hand as she cocked her head to the side, her eyes gazing upwards as if she might percieve the danger through the very stones themselves. Sure enough, there it was again: a high, terrified wail piercing the night before being sharply, chillingly cut off, the absence after it disappeared even more terrifying than the sound itself. And afterwards came the inevitable yet horrifying sound: orcs.

Swearing as she had never done before, Zamara cast around desperately, then made for the stairs; she heard Siamak call her name, but did not stop. Her robes held up high around her legs, Zamara sprinted up the ancient stairs, taking them two, three, four at a time in her desperation and fear, her long, dark hair streaming behind her. And as she reached the top and ran to the open entrance of the Temple, she saw, even with her weakening eyes, a sight that prophets would tremble before: a mass of orcs, pouring out of every corner.

And Pelin nowhere to be seen.

A roar of recognition went up and Zamara ducked like a rabbit into it's warren. But Gjeelea met her on the stairs and the woman was thrown against the side of the walls. Although she called the woman's name, Gjeelea reached the top only a second after Zamara had descended. The priestess could not see the younger woman's expression, and saw only how the girl froze, staring tranfixed at the mob - and then she bolted.

Biting off the woman's name even as she called it, Zamara choked down the last syllable: Gjeelea had her hood up, she may not yet have been recognised - let them keep it that way if possible. Dragging Reafin roughly up the last few steps, Zamara hissed furiously in his ear, "Follow the princess. Get her to safety: to the house of Lady Arshalous maybe. If she dies, I'll kill you." With that last, perfectly earnest sentiment, Zamara half threw the man out of the entrance and, stunned, he stumbled away after the Princess, his steps turning to a sprint.

Unable to spare any more time to the princess's fate, leaving it up the power of the goddess, the girl's own wit and Reafin's (hopefully) fleet feet, Zamara ducked back into the tunnel, closing the door behind her and, as an afterthought, bolting it. Pelin's fate was his own now: he had done a runner and left them, that was the harsh reality of it, and if either of the royal children came to harm because of it, Zamara knew quite honestly in her heart that she would destroy him. Besides, she smelt a rat... The lock would not last for long - it was an old, rickety contraption, built for sturdiness and not for looks, but against that blood-frenzied, barbarian horde, a fortress could not stand for long. Sprinting back the way she had come, Zamara was almost sobbing as she half fell into Siamak. "Orcs! Thousands of them!" she gasped desperately. Siamak's sword was drawn in a flash, the steel glimmering dangerously in the half light, although the smallness of it and the one man who held it against the might of what she had just seen seemed painfully hopeless and tiny: the last defiant gesture of an ant against the foot that descends to squash it. "Where is Gjeelea?"

Zamara shook her head. "Gone - Reafin is with her, but she bolted. I am sorry, Siamak..."

The prince hissed a single syllable under his breath, then looked up the stairs. "And we-?"

Zamara did not reply, instead grabbing the man's sword and running behind the altar. With all her might, she smashed it against the wall. The stones did not give. Yelling out in frustration and desperation, she pounded the hilt against the stones again, again, again. Behind the stones, something gave. Hands suddenly wrapped themselves around her own and she felt Siamak's muscles ripple under his cloak against her upper arms as he drew back to the side and, his hands almost crushing hers, crashed his entire weight against the hollow part of the wall behind the sword. With a deafening crash, the wall fell - revealing a hollow passageway.

Raising her eyes to the sky, Zamara sent a prayer of thanks to the gods - for, to be sure, after this, there was certainly someone watching over them and, priestess or not, she wasn't sure she really cared quite who at this very instant. Siamak unwrapped himself from around her and started into the tunnel and Zamara followed - then hesitated. Turning back into that awful room, she called to Tarkan. "Tarkan - will you not follow us?"

The Priest stood alone, a single figure in the suddenly large room, hopelessly small against the door that dwarfed him. Yet even as he hesitated, the sound of voices was heard directly above them. Unable to spare another instant, Zamara turned back into the tunnel and, grabbing for Siamak's hand for guidance in the darkness, she ran for her life - the image of that singular figure, painfully alone and deserted by the one he had trusted most in the world, burned on her mind...

[Firefoot]

Siamak was quiet for a moment after hearing Zamara’s account. As amazing as her story was, it was her manner that intrigued him more. It was as if that joy that he could only feel in a small part of his mind was present in full measure in Zamara. Indeed, the whole city felt full of it. He wondered tiredly how it was that he felt mostly mournful while the whole rest of the city rejoiced. He pushed the thought from his mind momentarily.

“Then General Morgôs… he lives?” Siamak inquired, and feeling some ray of hopeful joy at this thought.

For the first time, a flicker of a shadow passed over Zamara’s features. “I do not know; I have not seen him since the initial charge.” The light returned to her eyes. “I am sure he live somewhere in this city, though. He is an able leader and a skilled swordsman – and of the Avari, besides.”

Siamak nodded, not voicing his retort: It takes but one arrow – or sword-stroke – to slay the mightiest of warriors.

By this time, the pair had reached the temple and Siamak could see definite signs of a struggle. A handful of soldiers was gathered around, with most of their attention directed at a single form – the Lady Arshalous.

“What happened here?” asked Siamak.

“We are unsure,” said one of the soldiers, bowing slightly. “She burns with a fever like we have never seen before, though we can see no cause for it. The only mark on her is the burn on her neck. There are some who report that the Lord Korak and High Priest-” the soldier hesitated, clearly unsure of the proper title, before continuing, “-Tarkan had been held here as well. They are gone, now; presumably they escaped in the confusion of the battle. We think that they were to be executed,” he added with a nod towards the gallows.

Siamak’s brow creased. Tarkan was to be executed? Had he not led them into a trap? But if Tarkan lived still… perhaps he would find out. Perhaps not. Now Arshalous demanded attention. “Take the Lady Arshalous up the palace to be cared for. Send also for the healer Daliyeh.” And he gave instructions on where to find the old healer. “The old chamberlain, Jarult, is also welcome back at the palace.” If the soldier was confused by any of this, he did not mention it but accepted the orders with grace.

“Well,” commented Siamak, “now we know somewhat of Tarkan’s fate – it seems the only important thing left to find out is what happened to Gjeelea.”

“And it seems that shall not be unknown for long; look!” Siamak turned to where Zamara was facing and felt his own face pale at the sight. Some soldiers carried a makeshift stretcher, and even at that distance Siamak felt no doubt that the still form upon it was his sister. In the same instant he and Zamara hurried off in that direction; Siamak prayed they were not too late. He went straight up to the closest soldier, asking, “Is Gjeelea all right? Is she living?”

The soldier had sorrow in his eyes. “She lives, yes; the wound on her is fresh. But I have seen enough wounds to know when one is fatal. The princess will not live long.”

“For Rhais’ sake, then, let me see my sister!” said Siamak. Surely this was not true…

The soldiers did not dare argue and lowered the stretcher gently to the ground. Gjeelea’s eyes flickered open and she smiled slightly. “Ah, Siamak… Khamul’s gone, isn’t he.” She seemed to be having difficulty breathing.

Siamak nodded. “Yes… he – and the Emissary, and the Orcs – all fled at dawn. They’re gone.” Gjeelea smiled, but there was sorrow on her face as well. For the second time in as many days – as many years, even – Siamak found understanding with his sister.

“I heard… the sounds of the battle… and I knew that it was you… and Zamara,” she added looking to the Priestess. “I knew that you would do it… I tried to come…” Gjeelea’s breathing had become more ragged and her eyes now drifted shut. As much as he wanted to deny it, he knew that his sister was dying. So much death…

Abruptly, she spoke again. “You’ll be king, of course… Farewell, brother dear... Priestess…” And Siamak smiled a little, hearing the nickname she had always before used in scorn now used in affection. Then the message registered with him: you’ll be king, of course. He wondered that he had not thought of it before, and then turned his attention back to his sister. Her eyes shut again as her chest rose and fell, then rose no more. Siamak knew she was gone. Farewell, dear sister. Alas that they had not resolved their differences sooner, that it had taken a war to bring them together. He sighed, supposing that late was better than never.

Siamak rose from his kneeling position and addressed the soldiers. “Have her body taken up to the palace, that the necessary preparations might be made.” It seemed to him that he heard someone else talk, for the steady voice certainly did not match his turbulent state of mind. He gave the soldiers no more mind as his thoughts drifted. Was this the price of war? The price of peace? Or were they one and the same? Maybe it did not matter, for much good had happened as well – ultimately, more good than evil, for the evil had been banished. And through his sorrow, Siamak felt that flicker of joy grow stronger, for the evil and its sorrow would remain in the past, becoming only distant memory, while joy – and life – went on.

[Bêthberry]

Well might it be said, 'Healer, heal thyself,' for Daliyeh was herself wrapped in strange chills and had been since she had fled from the Lady Habiba's home. The woman had been beyond all care when the healer had arrived to see her. All Daliyeh had been called to do were the final acts of comfort to ease those who are passing to the well at the end of the world: annointing the woman with the scent of apples and placing pips under her tongue. Thankfully, that act had been completed before the bestial chaos arrived at the Lord Korak's home. Daliyeh had barely escaped, for with the arrival of the orcs came the same suffocating shadow which had nearly overwhelmed her at the palace hall when she had sought to stop He-who-had-been-king and his foul Westerling associates.

Somehow she had stumbled through the streets to her home. So chilled was she her ribs felt they would break if she dared move them to breath, like icicles falling from the trees on the mountaintops during Pashtian winters and splintering into shards. It was old Jarult who had nursed a small fire secretively at her side. At first it did nothing to warm the healer. Then in painfully whispered tones she advised Jarult to throw into the cauldron hazel nuts and a salmon as a last resort. The fat of the fish spattered and burnt both Jarult and she, yet both found themselves liberated from their fears of the Men of the West. Jarult then fed Daliyeh small sips of the broth and slowly the chill withdrew from her body.

"It is the old wisdom, is it not?" Jarult had asked her.

She nodded. So it was that both were of strong will and able body when the messenger arrived with the summons to the palace. Come ill or well, they marched resolutely through the streets, dismayed at the destruction of the orcs no less than of the tremours of the earth.

~ ~ ~

At the palace the healer was directed quickly to attend to the Lady Arshalous, whose chilled flesh spoke also of her near touch with undeath. Daliyeh build a large fire of scented leaves and laurel bush and set a cauldron to boil, filling it with white berries and hazels and salmon. Then making a poultice of the fruit and flesh, she held it to the burn on the lady's neck. It sizzled the flesh and smoked but Arshalous opened her eyes. Yet it was a long night that the two women passed before Arshalous was recovered.

And when the morning sun washed over the sky and inked into the cold rooms of the palace, the body of the Princess was brought before the healer. It was a fate too mournful for Daliyeh and she wept openly over the corpse of the daughter, as broken as had been that of her mother.

And when she was done with her observances for Gjeela, with the oils and apple scents, Daliyeh went out amongst the homes of the people, for there too were many others awaiting the dark folds of her arts on their journey to the world beyond.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Even upon his deathbed, Jarult remained guarded. Many had gathered about him in these last hours to wish him well on the journey, but he spoke little. Daliyeh was there, naturally, who had tended to him so carefully in this last illness. She could not save him, nobody could cure age, but she had given him much comfort. The King was there too with his wife, as was the High Priestess. He tried to smile at them all, to give them the comfort that they sought, but his mouth – so unused to the gesture in life – refused to soften to a smile now as he approached death. His sight failed.

There was a light then, and the presence of another there in the room with him, and yet not in the room.

Rhais? he asked.

Yes.

Did I live well?

That is not for me to say. Your life is your own to do with as you will. You have done what you felt to be good, and avoided doing ill – does that comfort you?

Yes.

Then let us say that you have died well. Come.

No, wait, please, I have questions. What will happen to Pashtia?

Oh, things will go on now as they have for time immemorial. The darkness that threatened your people has been held at bay, for a time…

For a time? Will it return? I fear for my people, for my land. Please, tell me what will happen to them.

The shadow always returns, as surely as night follows day. But do not worry, your people have passed the test. They will never fall under the sway of the Darkness, though there will be terrible times ahead. A terrible story.

But will it end well?

The story never ends, Jarult. Your part in it, however, is now complete. Come, now, you cannot stay here forever. It is just a short step to the other side.

Rhais?

Yes, Jarult?

Is it allowed for me to hear the end of the story? At least, the end of the story about the Shadow?

The voice sighed before answering, but when it spoke again, Jarult could feel her amusement. Very well. “In a hole in the ground, there lived a Hobbit…”

[Bêthberry]

* * * * To Elvenhome* * * *