Shadow of the West

[Nurumaiel]

"I care nothing for the Emissary," said Lord Korak, and he stood from his chair, raising himself to his powerful height. He did not stand over her, however, and seek to intimidate her, but he paced to one end of the room before returning to the table. He opened his mouth to speak, but he was cut short, for the door opened and the servant Morashk slipped in. He paused when his darting eyes rested upon the Lady, but with no change of expression he glided onward once again, and stopping at the table he poured a goblet of wine and gave it to his master.

Lord Korak was relieved at the presence of his servant. Morashk was quick-witted, and cunning, and on more than one occasion had served as the brain when the Lady cousin paid a visit. Morashk was servant, confidant, and also counselor. He took care that his master said nothing that might give the Lady an unfair advantage, and he advised his master on what to say in reply to her. It aggravated her, to see Morashk whisper in the Lord's ear, but she could do nothing about it, save spit out spiteful comments. Morashk did not care; all that mattered was that his master did nothing foolish. More than Lord Korak appreciated his servant's counsel, he appreciated that the two of them shared a hate for the Lady cousin.

"Master, I could not help but hear you mention the Emissary," said Morashk, smoothly, and with a crafty look at the Lady. "Perhaps you should end this visit, and prepare yourself for the banquet."

Lord Korak gazed into the eyes of his servant until the meaning was clear to him, and then with a satisfied smirk he shook his head. "No, I will let my guest stay a little longer to entertain herself."

Morashk's pale, spidery hand extended, the long fingers spread wide. "Then, Master, you will not care at least if I take the gift for the Princess and bind it so it will not be damaged on our little journey to the Palace?" He took the necklace, and let it run through his hands as if it were a river of gold and rubies. "What a fine gift for the Princess, my Lord," he said, as if to himself, and as if he were forgetting the presence of the Lady. "Her worth is surely high, if you are willing to lavish her with such presents." His shifting eyes rested upon his master's face, and his look was meaningful.

The Lord Korak understood, and he spoke, saying: "Indeed, servant, her worth is high, as is the worth of any woman who is presented with such a gift. There are women whose suitors cannot afford any gift; they are to be pitied. But to be detested are the women who have no suitors, who are thought so base and ugly as to have no one to cherish feelings for them."

Morashk's eyes glinted, but he ignored the Lady Arshalous, though he was deprived the satisfaction of seeing the anger he hoped was in her face. Lord Korak was gazing at his servant impatiently, obviously wanting him to go about with his task. "I will withdraw then, my Lord, and fulfill my task," he said. "But, my Lord, do not linger long. Time passes, and the banquet is fast approaching."

"I will entertain my guest a little longer yet," said Lord Korak, "for she has not yet satisfied my generosity by accepting the wine I have given."

"Yes, my Lord," said Morashk, and he slunk to the door. There he paused, and he turned, saying, "M'Lord, what, pray, shall I do about your Lady Mother?"

"My Mother," said Lord Korak, in surprise. "I had forgotten about her."

"Shall she attend the banquet?"

"If she wants to, I suppose she must," said the Lord. "Go at once and seek out one of her maids, servant, and send her to my Mother to help her prepare. Then fulfill your task of the gift, and do not forget to set out the finest in my wardrobe."

"Yes, m'Lord," said Morashk, and he bowed. Yet he did not withdraw, but, with a quick glance at the Lady Arshalous, added: "Those women who are loved by no men... they deserve not to hold the title of 'Lady.' A Lady is one who is loved, and who is fair of face." His eyes flicked to his master. "Like your mother, m'Lord."

"Yes, yes, like my mother," said Lord Korak, impatiently, and he waved his servant away. When the door was closed softly, he turned to the Lady Arshalous. "You too will be anxious to prepare yourself for the banquet, my lady cousin, if you plan to attend. Yet I insist you drink the wine first. It is not poisoned as I have said. I swear it is not poisoned. At worst it is bitter, made of ill-chosen fruit. I will not let you leave this table without accepting my offering first. So drink, cousin, and then go prepare yourself for the merry banquet."

[alaklondewen]

The palace buzzed with excitement as the banquet preparations neared their completion. Deep blue eyes watched intently as the servants busily dashed around the small tables that filled the grand banqueting hall, setting out fine dishes and arranging elaborate centerpieces. Every detail would be perfect before the guests arrived. The aromas of freshly baked breads and sweet sauces from the kitchens slowly filled the hall and mingled with the fresh fragrances of the scrubbed and finely dressed ladies of Queen Bekah’s entourage. The hushed voices of the young women twittered with expectations and new gossip.

Draped in fine silks of deep turquoise with gold embroidery lining the hems, Arlomë silently stood, isolating herself from the mortal misses. She stood out greatly from the others. Her skin was milky instead of darkened from the sun, and she stood a full head above most of retinue. The elf cared little for the young women and did not share their utter excitement for the festivity. This was not her first banquet in the presence of the king and queen, nor would it be her last. The mortals found such immense pleasure from such trivial things. Turning her mind from their mindless chatter, Arlomë wondered about her husband and his whereabouts. Actually Elrigon had been heavily on her mind since she laid eyes on the strange men from the West. The couple had only seen one another briefly before they returned to the palace grounds, and Arlomë had not had time to probe his mind about the Emissary. During his arrival, the elf woman had peered silently through the curtains from her place behind the queen and wondered at the meaning of this man’s motives and what the ramifications would be to the kingdom. Elrigon would better know about these matters, and he would put her mind to ease as he always did.

The final minutiae were in order, and Arlomë gave her nod of approval to the chefs. They had done well with the little time they were given. The elf then, after a sidelong glance at the still chattering ladies, took her leave from the hall to find her beloved.

Slipping through a small side door, Arlomë entered a narrow hallway that ran the length of the banquet hall and met with one of the smaller entrance rooms on the east end of the palace. Rich chestnut carpeting accented the great mural of the desert landscape and its red tipped mountains that filled the left wall. On the right, intricate tapestries hung that delicately depicted the daily activities of the Pastian citizens. One displayed three average, yet beautiful, women filling their water basins, while another showed a strong lad caring for his steed. Arlomë slowed her pace as she neared the entrance hall. A small empty room lay to her right, and she slipped through its small door. The room was darkened with the setting of the sun, and the elf caught her reflection in the great window the occupied the far wall. Stepping closer, Arlomë studied her appearance. The gold of the stacked bangles that hung at her wrists glittered from the light that filter into the room from the hallway. Her eyes, lined with blackened kohl, had seen millennia of cares, and yet still looked youthful when they sparked with interest. Her long arms gracefully untied and than retied the turquoise scarf tightly around her raven hair. Once satisfied she nodded to her reflection and spun on her heel to reentered the narrow hallway and make her way to the entrance hall.

Before directly stepping into the hall, she paused and glanced around the corner. To her surprise a solitary figure stood alone in the vastness of the king’s hall. His form and stature was as familiar to her as her own. A small smile spread across the elf’s face, and she crept silently toward his back. He made no movement that expressed any knowledge of her presence, so she took even more care to approach unnoticed. Slowly, carefully, her fingers reached...oh so silently, toward the General’s back...

[Imladris]

Arshalous swirled her goblet, staring at the wine. His servant had poured Korak a glass...surely it was not poisoned as he had said. Raising it in a slightly mocking toast, she stood and took a small sip.

He had not been joking when he said that the wine might be bitter. Her own wine was much better than this. "Well, it is a pity that such a great grand lord such as yourself can't afford to have better wine than this," she said with a curling smile as she handed the goblet back to him. "I, my lord, have already made myself fit for the feast. I thought that I would drop by before going to the palace and hear your thoughts about the emissary so I wouldn't have to hunt you down and drag you from the Princess' presence."

She watched with undisguised pleasure as his handsome twisted and became splotched with red and purple. With a stiff curtsey she bowed and strode from the room.

Whistling for her mount she swung herself into the saddly, and loped from the premises.

Why did Korak and herself have such hateful relationship? She tried to remember if there had been an argument in the distant past or if they had always been that way. It was terrible that she had to fear poison from her own cousin.

She glared at the roadside and spurred Telitha into a gallop until they came to the walled gardens of the palace. Handing her horse to a nearby servant, she strolled into the gardens. She let her hand fondle scarlet blossoms as she walked passed and every so often she would lean down and bury her nose in their fragrant petals.

As she drew near the courtyard, she looked up and saw the Black Obelisk pierce the sky. She bowed down, and murmured a soft prayer of rote to the Earth Mother...with a muttered, half-praise to the sky god for she did not want to purposely call down his wrath upon her.

[Orofaniel]

The garden surrounding the Palace had been neatly polished for this particular event; the flowers were blossoming, giving one and all the scent of delicacy and beauty. The statues stood still but they seemed alive this evening. The water in the fountains was dancing; the spectacular water drops made the eye heed no other objects, as they made such a comfort to the troubled mind. Evrathol gazed upon it all; he couldn't remember when the palace had been so full of magnificence and beauty as in this moment. Was it a new place he had come too? Intrigued and fascinated by the sudden, but interminable, beauty of the garden, he walked swiftly over the ground. Evrathol could feel the heaviness of his clothing; the sweet coloured robe he wore was of the finest fabrics. His boots were high and showed great confidence, reflecting the elf that wore them. His face however, still holding the usual mask; stiff and unchanged. His hair was hanging down on his back, neatly in a braid, while some of his hair hung loose around his ears. It made his face look broader.

The guests were going to be of the finest rank. Evrathol wondered what he was doing among them; clearly because he was the General's son and because he was a part of the Royal Court, but he couldn't quite understand what he'd done to earn such a great position among these fine and noble guests. He, however, didn't object, quite on the contrary; he embraced the possibilities he had, what else was he to do?

The room he was standing in right now didn’t quite capture Evrathol’s interest as much as the garden had done; the carpet was of a ghastly colour that he wouldn’t be able to describe in words. Evrathol, however, smiled - being polite as he is. He looked around himself, digesting the new atmosphere that was filled with new impressions each time he turned around. Standing there quietly, in his own thoughts, one of the servants stepped up to him. "Excuse me, sir," he said politely. "You are the good lord Evrathol, are you not?" the servant continued while making a small gesture with his hand. Evrathol nodded, full of confidence, wondering what the servant wanted from him. "Her Majesty, the Queen, has asked your parents to meet her at the banquet entrance," the servant then started. "I see..." Evrathol interrupted. He should have known the Queen's kindness to ask the General and his family to attend her during the banquet. He sighed a little, but waited for the servant to finish. "I believe they are already with her, although I'm not quite sure," he said looking around. Evrathol knew what he was thinking; Evrathol had come late as the banquet was now about to start. The servant then turned to Evrathol once again, explaining him that Evrathol was expected to attend them. "Thank you, my good servant," Evrathol then said. "At your service," the servant said, smiling weakly as he was dismissed.

Walking across the floor, he wondered where the General and his wife might be. Perhaps they were already at the banquet entrance, he didn't know. He decided to follow the elegant hallway that he had approached; It was far longer than he would have imagined at first, it was, however, neatly decorated with tapestries that even Evrathol found enchanting. The result of walking down the long hallway was nothing else than the banquet entrance. He eyed two figures in the corner; knowing that by the black raven hair and the fine figures, it had to be the General and his wife - Evrathol's parents. Walking towards them, they didn't notice him at first, as they seemed to be preoccupied with something else. By looking at his mother, he felt that the time of his arrival had been most inconvenient, not only for his mother, but both of them. They seemed to take no heed of him, as they were heavily debating things of great mattes- or so it seemed. They did turn however, as soon as they heard Evathol's voice.

"General - father - I hear you're expected me..." Evrathol let out, now standing right in front of them. Evrathol's voice was as always, full of confidence. He then bowed to his mother, who looked ever so charming this evening. "Thank you my dear," she said as Evrathol kissed her cheek. "Good evening son," his father said, smiling, but he didn't seem too joyful. "My apologises for having to let you wait. It was very wrong of me; please do forgive me," Evarthol then said, first looking at his mother, then turning to his father. Morgôs nodded, but took no heed to what Evrathol had said. "Do not worry, my son," Arlöme said, pausing before continuing; "Her Majesty, the Queen, has not arrived yet."

"Have you seen the Emissary?" Morgôs then asked Evrathol, breaking the short silence that had occurred.

"Nay, unfortunately not. Not yet at least," Evrathol said, feeling obliged to use the word "unfortunately" as he cared little for the newcomers and the gifts. He didn’t return the question to his father as Evrathol had the feeling that Morgôs hadn’t met the Emissary himself yet.

"That is why they are holding this banquet, is it not? In the Emissary's honour?" Evrathol continued, lowering his voice. He knew, of course, the answer to his silly question, but he found no other way of continuing the conversation. "Indeed it is," Arlöme answered quickly.

"You don't tell me you've seen him, do you?" Evrathol asked his mother a bit surprised; he had the impression that she might have since her answer had come so quickly. "No, not really, maybe a small glimpse. Just a small one," she said firmly.

Evrathol raised an eyebrow, but his mother didn't notice it. He wondered why his father was speaking so little this evening.

[Bêthberry]

"No, my lord, I do not chide you so much as merely express a concern over this Emissary's mission. You could well have been right in choosing his company all day, if you learned from him what his manner of address and purpose is, or that of his lord. And it will be well if someone watches over the Emissary closely at the banquet, to see what his habits and tastes are."

Faroz stopped short and looked at the woman who was his wife. Here, again, she was pointing out, as she often did, that there are always many possibilities and choices rather than simple ones. But before he could say anything, she reminded him that she was without headress and her final state accessories, and asked if he would wait for her to complete her dressing.

"I shall wait for you in my private courtyard." She bowed as he withdrew, relieved at how she had been able not to show surprise at his unexpected appearance. She was indeed "Mayiam, Lady of Cool Water." But his sudden appearance in her private quarters, after absenting himself for so long, had brought the sensation of burning hot air to her lungs. She gasped for cool air and wondered again at his actions.

~~~~~

He sat hidden in a corner of the courtyard, bored for the time being while he waited for the banquet. He heard movement and, hidden behind shrubs in full leaf and bloom, watched her appear from the far door. She moved with aplomb and dignity, not the graceful, quick and lithesome movement of a young woman, but with the calm demeanour of a self-possessed woman. She moved first to a statue at which she knelt, her head looking up at its top and her hands held up, palms facing the statue itself. He peered towards her more intently as he sought to understand her actions. Almost unconsciously, his hand sought out his inner pocket and caressed his ring, willing it help him gain a sense of what was in her mind and being, what thoughts she was conveying to the air. Yet he did not put it one, not yet. He held his eyes more sharply on her. It was a deliberate, knowing, shrewd gaze which sought to lay bear her inner thoughts and desires. He followed every movement of her hands, her arms, her shoulders, the curve of the purple silks over her hips and thighs, her feet lost to his sight under the amethyst pantaloons which billowed out from under her gown. He saw her sit back upon her legs, dropping her hands almost in a sense of tiredness and leaning her chin upon her chest. Then, he watched as she leaned slightly and slowly rose to move to the seat under the cedar tree. In the dark of early evening the jasmine flowers she wore around her waist and as part of her headress glowed with an eerie sheen. Darkness clung to him and he sat back, a shadow among shadows, but his keen eyes followed her every movement.

She was not sure when she became aware of a chill feeling in the air around her. She felt the hair on her arms rise as she fought against a shiver. She was in her own garden. What made her feel this way? She looked around but saw nothing. In the busy manner of preparations for the banquet, all hands were in the kitchens and hall; even the guards had been called away. Strange, she had become inured to their presence as she had to that of her servants. Was it their absence which made her feel so strange? A cold sweat trickled down her back and between her breasts and she felt sickish, as if she wanted to bathe again and wash this cold air off her body. She rose suddenly and went to seek the King in his garden, now strangely anxious to see him.

The Emissary allowed himself a knowing, shrewd smile. So this was Faroz's queen. A fortuitous occurence. He had not realised he had stumbled into her private garden. This place was a maze of gardens and courtyards. Such a fond silliness these people showed towards the natural world. So she was so little protected? He rose, pleased with his discovery but unsatisfied that he learnt no more. Then he sought out the courtyard Faroz had sent him off to in the first place, where he could mingle and feign ignorance of events here. And he would have to remember to control his face carefully when he saw her again at the banquet.

[Nurumaiel]

The Lord Korak glowered at the door. How he hated his cousin, how he hated her! It was well that she had come to see him. At his own home he felt some power, but when at her dwelling-place he had some reason to fear. She had been afraid of him, and when he thought of this the scowl was swept off his face and replaced with a cruelly content smile. She had feared poison in the wine, odd as that was, for he had told her there was none. Yet she did not trust him. She had twisted her goblet in her fingers, looked down into it, brought it to her lips, but had never sipped from it, not until the end. The parting blow, she thought her words were. All the hateful things he wanted to say were contained in the bitterness of that wine, without him saying something that might hurt him. "Bitter wine, my Lady cousin?" he said, and he took up his own goblet. "For you, yes. But only for you."

Morashk crept into the room, and he pressed into his master's hands a package wrapped with fine red cloth and twined and bound with gold. Lord Korak took it, and he looked approvingly at it. "The Princess will be well-pleased with her gift," he said. "Now, Morashk, I trust my mother is preparing herself, and I trust also that you have chosen a fitting outfit for me?"

"All that you ask has been done," said Morashk. He moved to the table and began to clear it of the goblets, and he saw that the Lady's cup was not full. So she had actually sipped from it, despite her fears. He hoped that she, riding home this moment, was pale and fearful, wondering if there was indeed a poison, slow to take effect. He smiled with delighted malice at the thought.

Lord Korak ordered for good wine to be brought to him, and he departed from the room that still bore the ill presence of his cousin. He went to his own room, still lighted only by the fire, and inspected the clothing of rich blue, embroidered with gold. It would do well enough. The gold twine was taken from his beard, and the dark hair combed out, and then re-braided with greater care, and with better and more gold. He let his hair fall loose, and he put on his banquet outfit, and then Morashk entered. The servant braided his master's hair with great care and skill, for that was always his task, on account of Lord Korak demanding perfection at least and being unable to ably braid his own by reaching over to the back of his head. Gold was braided there, too, and the Lord Korak surveyed himself in the mirror. He turned, and, going to his wardrobe, selected a cloak of deep yellow, and Morashk arranged it about his shoulders. And then, thus prepared, he sat back on his couch with the goblet of good wine in his hand, taking care not to disarrange his clothes, and he sent Morashk to bring his mother.

When his servant went, the silence drew upon him and led his mind to think of what had just occurred. The Lady Arshalous was a horrid little thing, and she had been since she was a child. They had always hated each other. Or, no, perhaps not. Where had it begun? The day his father had died, when he was only a very small child. He had been full of sorrow that day, though he had long-since forgotten his father, and his sorrow had been manifested in anger. The Lady Arshalous was always annoying, but she had been thrice so that day, and had teased and mocked until Korak could bear it no longer. He tore the bits of fake jewelry, that she as a child wore, from her wrists and from her throat, and pulled at her hair, and called her names, and she had never recovered from it, though long ago she had forgotten why she hated her cousin. Or, at least, this was why Lord Korak hated his cousin. He could not say how it was for her, and when her hatred began. More than likely from the first moment she set eyes on him, she was such a spiteful creature. How he wished he could pull her hair now, and tear her jewels away.

Oh, and poor Morashk, for he...

But his thoughts were interrupted then, for the door opened and a slender, pretty little maid slipped in, her hands clasped before her and her eyes meekly on the stonework. He glanced at her, and turned his eyes to the door again, for his mother entered. Her once-beautiful skin was wrinkled, her rich, luxuriant dark hair had turned grey and was flecked with white, her light girlish step was replaced with a weary one, but she held herself tall and was beautiful still. Korak rose, and crossed the room, and gently kissed his mother's cheek, for he could not help but love her, despite that he thought her foolish and sentimental. Her large brown eyes, shadowed with many sorrows, looked up into his face, and she spoke, saying: "I heard voices, my dear one. Who were you speaking with?"

"My Lady cousin paid a short visit," said Korak.

"Your words were bitter?"

"There were as they ever are, Mother," said Lord Korak, and a sigh burst from her and she shook her head sadly.

"Remember at least, dear son, that she is the daughter of the sister I loved very much," she said.

"Yes, Mother," said Lord Korak, but he laughed inwardly. How sentimental of his mother! It mattered not to him whether the Lady cousin were a relative or not. All that mattered was that they hated each other, and that he sought to avoid her whilst seeking her out to hurt her in any manner possible.

"The horses are saddled, m'Lord," said Morashk, his pale face peering around the doorway.

"And yours too, I hope, fool," Lord Korak growled.

"Yes, my Lord," said Morashk, with some sauciness in his tone.

"What an impudent servant!" cried Korak, in frustration. "He has assumed that he will be permitted to come to a banquet at the King's Palace! It is well for him that he is so useful, or I should be rid of him. I could send him to my Lady cousin."

"That would be cruel to him," said the mother.

Lord Korak put his hand on her back and turned her about, and they moved away, with the little maid following behind. They went out into the cold air, where Morashk stood waiting with two horses, and two more of a smaller kind, though not quite ponies. Lord Korak helped his mother upon her small steed, and with a grunt of reluctance assisted the maid, with a scowl at Morashk, who was already upon his mount. Then he mounted into his own saddle, and, by his mother's side, led the little company in the direction of the Palace, where lights shone and the soft strains of music played.

The banquet was beginning.

[Novnarwen]

"Father, you're aware of the banquet which will be held at the Palace shortly? Are you not?"

He opened his eyes. The sleepy state he had just been in was interrupted by a squeaky voice. He didn’t turn immediately, just rose briskly from his kneeling position. He gave a little snort, before casting his black mantle furiously with his right arm. He reminded an awful lot of a bat, which made the young man jump, as if scared. The Priest frowned, turning to the man who had entered his chambers. "Banquet?" he raised an eyebrow, bit his lip and gave the man a grim look. "Of course, my dear Son," he said with a firm voice, emphasizing 'dear'. The Priest hurried over to the young man's side, approaching him with elegance. He laid his hand on the other man's shoulder and smiled evilly. "I am indeed aware of it, but I will never be able to make it ON TIME!!! . . .Do you know why?!?" The tone of his voice changed drastically, and it was obvious that the male Priest was working himself up into a frightful temper. His brow turned suddenly fiery red; meanwhile the veins on his neck went dark purple.

What had he done to deserve all this? What had he done in his life to deserve such a cruel and despicable punishment? Inside of him, his organs were turning. The anger, with which he was filled, was making him dazzling red all over. He tried to restrain himself, whispering curses the man next to him could not hear; he reproached the god or goddess who had sent him this incompetent Servant. A man, his age, his position, deserved better. This was degrading. He made a sigh and tore himself away from the Servant. "Be gone, Son. Be gone from my sight." The Priest heard the footsteps die away. He was alone.

He cast himself onto some of the big cushions on the floor, sighed sorrowfully, feeling sorry for himself. "I do not deserve this. That arrogant little oaf. How could he forget to tell me. A banquet! He knows I like banquets, especially those at the Palace. Oh... Dear, dear." He shook his head slowly. "Alas, what a world. It has truly turned on you, Tarkan..."

The Priest rested his head on one of the bigger cushions, staring out in thin air, while thinking. Could he not change his life? The life he was living now was certainly not to his likeness. It lacked of happiness and pleasures, position and respect. How could he gain it, a man like himself? He realised that he still had much of his life ahead. Tarkan was only in his mid-thirties, though, looking quite a lot older. His face was without a wrinkle; thus appearing quite young, but his eyes were dim and sombre, underneath, there were, as painted, large dark rings, which made him appear old after all. The paleness in his face was a proof of this unhealthy way of living. The life in the temple or in his chambers, praying all day, doing his rituals, fasting and everything else that had something to do with religion and the god and goddess, was eating him up inside. It was not that he didn't enjoy it; he did to a certain degree, but he didn't feel that he accomplished anything. He felt empty, as if deprived from all riches in the world; riches such as respect. He was nothing to anyone. Well, that was not completely accurate. He was the King's half-brother, but he would never gain any position for that reason. He was nothing to the King, but he was related to him, which meant at least something. Also, he would probably become a High Priest if the new temple was built, but it didn't mean anything. As far as he knew, people were caring less about religion than ever. The feeling of being abandoned struck him with the power of a clock which strikes six times, which means that it's time for evening prayer.

He let his gaze wander. The cushions, on which he laid on, were of green fine fabrics, a mix between cotton and silk. He touched the surface, feeling the smooth material under his fingers. He had several of these cushions, each in different colours. They matched perfectly and gave thus the room a very lively look, not suiting the priest's personality. The walls were painted light green, whereas the strips of wood were moss green, but were almost covered completely by pictures and tapestries; several amongst them were portraying Rea or the goddess of the earth. In front of him, there was a low table, of dark wood, where he usually sat when eating. To his left, stood a rather big altar, of which he used every day. Incense of every fragrance was released from here, giving his chamber a cosy and rather mystic atmosphere. Aside from that, he did not have many belongings which were his and his only. He lived in simplicity, such as, after his opinion, all priests, priestesses and other who wanted to commit themselves completely to faith should do. He lived by the biggest temple of the goddess of earth. There were a few private apartments and chambers, only available to true men and women in faith. He had a few things though, other than the described cushions in the living room. He owned a bookshelf, where there were placed about fifty to hundred books, of which mostly was religious literature. It stood at the far end of the Hall which led into the room of where he sat now. The bed he slept in every night was also his own. The bedroom was the smallest room of his apartment, and faced the east. When awakening, he could to see the morning blossom, making the night fade away, through the window. Also belonging to him, were a few fine clothing, which included robes, mantles, trousers and shirts, of pure silk or other fine fabrics; all with rich embroidery with golden, silvery or any other matching colour.

He had almost fallen asleep, as he had closed his eyes pleasantly, dreaming about the world of Kings and all their riches, when he was reminded of the banquet. He sprang up, not certain about what he was to do. It would be embarrassing to show up late, yet it would be worse if he didn't appear at the banquet at all. He frowned, tapping his foot on the floor which was covered by a brown carpet. What was the banquet for anyway? Had the young man, whom served in the temple heard wrong? Why there would be a banquet on a day like this, Tarkan didn't understand. Why he hadn't been informed in advance was even more peculiar. He ran out of his chamber, out of his apartment, and knocked on the first door that he met in the Hallway.

"Father," the young man said with a bow, when opening the door. He lowered his forehead for Tarkan to kiss it.

"Dear Son... I must apologise for my behaviour earlier. I hope you were not offended by my complete lack of forgiveness," he said, calmly, not meaning a word he said.

"Do not apologise. It was your right to get angry, Father." The young man, whose name was Pelin, said quietly.

Tarkan stared at him, trying to hold his mask. Did this young man sincerely believe him, or was he faking it? How dumb could a man become? He wondered, but didn't dare think more of it as he was eager to question him about the banquet. He gave the man a gentle smile, before opening his mouth. "It is hard for me to believe that a man can forget about a banquet, especially when it's taking place at the Palace. But I do forgive you, my dear. Let us not think evil thoughts of each other, as it will bring no good to either of us," he said with a grin, and clasped the man on his shoulder. "Regarding the banquet . . .Were you told why such evening is taking place in the Palace? What is the occasion?" he asked politely.

Pelin shrugged; "Of that I do not know for certain, nor was I told much. But it is said, from rumour that an Emissary has come to offer the king an alliance. You are invited to the banquet to sit quite near the King, I believe. You should hurry." The young man's eyes lit with excitement, and Tarkan could feel that he got even more eager by every word that came from his mouth.

Thanking him and adding a false smile, Tarkan went to his own apartments again, rather curious about this person - this Emissary.

[Amanaduial the archer]

Through the stone corridors and past the private temple courtyard Zamara hastened, her shadow dancing surely over the carefully cultivated plants and small statues around the sides; the fingertips of one hand lightly and absently brushed the low wall around the courtyard. In her other hand she held a slim mahogany staff, plain dark wood that twisted around itself in a natural spiral to the more bulbous top, where a natural knot hole had been taken advantage off and set with a piece of facetted sand-crystal: otherwise it was plain, apart from the practical gold-leaf tip at the base that tapped softly on the floor as Zamara walked. Coming to the end of the corridor, she turned left opened the unlocked door that led into the temple: rarely if ever were the doors locked in these places, for none of the citizens would even think of entering. She frowned slightly, making a mental note that, as there were outsiders, this may have to be taken into account, but it was only a brief thought. Sweeping surefootedly down the lamplit spiral staircase, her robes trailing behind her, and entered the Temple through the inner sanctuary behind Rhais great statue. But the priestess was never in such a rush that time could not be taken for her goddess: rather than simply passing Rhais (unthinkable for anyone, and practically blasphemous for a priestess!), she came to stand directly in front of the statue and knelt in the typical bow to the goddess.

Tayfar, standing at the door with another of the acolytes waiting to accompany Zamara, heard the soft sounds of the other woman's robes swishing across the stone floor of the temple, and straightened up hastily. As she looked into the temple, she saw Zamara frozen at the depth of her bow, her delicately painted hands held in front of her in the motion of vulnerability and her back to the door. All the naptha lights were lit throughout the temple now, as night approached, with special attention paid to the area around the statue, and in their flickering light the golden strips through the High Priestess' wavy hair seemed to shine and dance, and her white robes seemed to glow, her elegant, feminine figure bathed in a soft circle of light. As if she is a goddess herself, Tayfar thought awefully, then shook herself, allowing herself a quick genuflection to Rhais at such a strange and possibly wicked thought, before bowing in unison with the other acolyte as Zamara walked towards them.

The trio passed down the great steps in a triangular formation, the two younger women walking behind the High Priestess as they made their way first to Tarkan's apartment: it was right that the foremost leaders of each deity's worship would enter the banquet together. Zamara bid Tayfar and the other - an older, silent girl by the name of Sedaar - to wait at the bottom of the steps as she walked forward and tapped three times on the door with the end of her staff. It opened immediately and a young man of Zamara's height bowed deeply to her in silence. The woman's smile greeted him when he straightened up - she recognised the young man from the temple. "Good evening, sir: is the Priest ready?"

"May the sun and blessings of Rea shine upon you, High Priestess Zamara." A slightly grating but genial voice spoke from behind other man before he himself could answer, and Tarkan emerged, splendid in his own fashion in the same way as Zamara, his shirt and robes over it picked out in fine embroidery, made of rich, dark silk.

"May Rhais' lend her blessing and fruits towards you, O Priest," Zamara reciprocated formally, pressing her palms together and raising them to chin level. Tarkan gave a dry smile as he stepped forward and covered her hands with his palms, and they both bent their forehead together solemnly. Parting, they moved down the steps, the younger man closing the door - and locking it, Zamara noticed - and hurrying after them, falling into step with Tayfar and Sedaar behind Tarkan as they made their way through the moonlit streets towards the palace.

Zamara inquired politely as to Tarkan's health, and they exchanged a few sparse pleasantries, slipping to first name terms rather than their formal titles (which were many and varied), before she moved onto the matter that she wished to hear his view on: although their jobs were, superficially, similar, the Priest and Priestess rarely talked or saw each other, and as they were quite different people, this appeared to suit both quite well. This distance, and their own personalities, caused some stiffness and formality between them; but despite this, Zamara did respect her male counterpart's views on matters that concerned them both - such as this one. "Tarkan, I presume you have heard of the newcomers of - the emissary and his retinue from the West?"

The older priest shrugged his thin shoulders lightly. "Not much, Zamara. I was...less aware than I should have liked of this banquet, and it's reasons," he replied, glancing briefly over his shoulder at the man who followed, who blushed and averted his eyes. Zamara wondered about this, and about the shy grin that Tayfar then exchanged with him, but didn't comment. She frowned a little, the stark white kohl dancing on her forehead. "You do not know of them?"

"Are they particularly remarkable?"

The priestess raised her eyebrows and smiled at Tarkan, cocking her head slightly to one side. "They travelled over the great desert, just to see the King - and, I believe, to present him with gifts. They wish for an...alliance, I believe."

"An alliance between the East and the West?" Tarkan's voice was slightly incredulous. The woman nodded sagely in agreement. "Exactly, my lord. It is strange indeed..."

"Their other purposes? Have they expressed any way in which they would like to...seal this alliance?"

Zamara paused. "I had not thought of it, Tarkan. I do not think they had expressed any will for marriage with the princess; if they were to, I think it may cause more trouble than it's worth with Lord Korak." She looked up ahead again and took in the grand sight of the palace, lit and decorated splendidly, the sounds of business and merriment already coming from inside. She nodded once to Tarkan as she caught his eyes again, her dark gaze emphatic. "No doubt we will find out tonight their intentions, for the sake of our deities if nothing else."

Tarkan looked at her questioningly as she said the last part, but did not speak, for as they came to the grand, arched entrance of the palace, a servant, obviously waiting for them, came forward and bowed deeply. After addressing them formally, he conveyed her majesty's wishes that the priest and priestess dined on her table that night. Unruffled - for it was quite usual - Zamara consented and, dismissing Tayfar and Sedaar (along with Tarkan's attendant) with another servant, she readjusted her grip on her staff, took a deep breath of apprehension, and followed the servant along with Tarkan.