Shadow of the West

[Nurumaiel]

"I have no fixed day to name," said Lord Korak, "but, if possible, within the month. I desire to have this done as soon as it is possible."

"Do you have any particular reason for hurrying so?" the Princess asked.

Lord Korak looked into her eyes. Did she not know? No doubt she did realise his hopes of rising to become King, but he would not give her this reason. Why should he? It would be most unlike him. "My mother grows aged," he said, unashamed at his brazen lie, for he had never considered his mother, "and I do not know how much longer she will live. Every day brings her death closer. I would wish her to be present at the wedding, as my father cannot."

She said nothing, and he wondered if she sensed his lie. It was of no matter. Whether she knew he was lying or not was not important. It was important that he didn't tell her the truth. She could not hold his words against him and try to escape the match.

"Do you have any objections to setting the day for sometime before the end of next month?"

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

Every bone and nerve in Gjeelea’s body told her to cry out ‘Yes! I have a problem with it! I do not want to marry you at all! Not now, not ever!’ Yet still the princess held her tongue for a moment, considering her words carefully. Besides the fact that she did not want to marry Korak to begin with, she wondered if she actually had any issues with marriage in the next month.

There are some things I need to straighten out with him…Gjeelea thought, looking at her future husband and seeing past his handsome exterior to his lying, deceiving inner motives. It might be too bold to come outright, and tell him that I know he only wishes to marry so he could be king. I hope he does not think I am stupid enough not to realize what he really wants. Gjeelea wondered if Korak fully understood that just marrying her did not mean he would become king. His atrocious attitude turned off so many people from liking him at all, and the princess sought to remedy that – for she knew that if she and Korak were not presentable to the public and her family then neither of them would rule.

“Might I speak with you in private?” Gjeelea asked of her betrothed. Korak looked down at his feet for just a moment, and then fidgeted like debating over the choices. “I assure you it is very important and has to do with our future – the future after our marriage.”

After another indecisive pause Korak nodded his agreement. With a sly smile Gjeelea took his big hand and led him away from their former spot in the middle of the hall. She dragged Korak back to her quarters, where she bade the servants to leave and give them privacy. Korak sat on one of the low couches, leaning back on the embroidered cushions and waiting for Gjeelea to speak. In his eyes Gjeelea could almost hear his thoughts screaming something to the extent of, this better be worth my time, princess.

“Marrying me does not mean that I will be named heir and that you will become King, Korak,” Gjeelea stated simply. She decided to be blunt in her conversation, as blunt and as honest as she could have been with the man she would marry but probably never love in any way. She paused in her speech, for she knew that her words had stated a fact Korak already knew. The princess almost feared to say what she had planned to tell Korak next, afraid that he would come up with a hurtful rebuttal to which she would have to show no hurt reaction. She turned away from Korak and looked out the curtains of her window. “All you want is to become King – for the riches, the title, I assume – all I want is to become queen. If you had not noticed, our marriage is not a popular idea to very many people.”

Gjeelea hated to say that the naming of Faroz’s heir was a popularity contest, but she knew that was what it really came down to. The princess knew that even if Faroz wanted her to be queen, he could not name her queen if it would cause a political and social uproar from the citizens of Pashtia. The same deal went for Siamak – Faroz could not (would not, as far as Gjeelea could tell) name Siamak his heir unless his son had achieved some amount of approval from the people. Turning to Korak, Gjeelea walked up to where he reclined and sighed, wishing things could be different.

“It comes down to who the people like more,” the princess murmured to her betrothed. “Unfortunately, Siamak only has to account for his own actions. My becoming queen depends on both of us.”

There came a long pause between the two. Gjeelea knew she was regurgitating information that Korak might have already contemplated in his own time. What the princess hoped to accomplish was to make the thoughts into reality for Korak. She hoped he would take seriously the words that she said to him.

“Korak, you are a good liar,” Gjeelea finally said outright. “Do you think you could pretend to be happy sometime? Pretend that you want to be king for reasons other than the riches and the lifestyle? We need to show Pashtia that we care – even if you actually do not.”

Another pause. Korak opened his mouth to speak, but he did not and the princess wondered if his words caught in his throat, or if he had something to say but thought better of it. Gjeelea went to the door of her bedroom and opened it, gesturing for Korak to make a gallant exit. He stood, still waiting for an answer about their marriage.

“How does next month sound?” Gjeelea asked silkily, her voice soft and calm – the persuasive voice she seemed to use all to often. “We need to spend more time together – not just for our sake either. We need to show everyone that this is right, that this marriage is good. Next month, or soon into the month after? Does that please you?”

Gjeelea hoped so – she was not in the mood for negotiations.

[Nurumaiel]

Lord Korak reflected. What the Princess said made sense, but he wondered if she meant it. Perhaps she really did love him (he was handsome, after all) and was using this as an excuse to convince him to give her pretty speeches. Yet it did not matter what her real motive was, as long as it accomplished his purpose. And his purpose was to become king.

If only he had better purposes!

He hurled the thought from his mind with great force. It was something his mother was always saying, whenever he would speak of his plans and hopes to her. Hope was hardly the right word for such plots. Ambition was better. That was something else she told him, one day when she was angry. How she looked when she was angry! He had a lurking suspicion that for all her frailty and weakness of old womanhood, she was much stronger than he. If he struck her on the cheek she would fall, and a blow from her would feel as nothing, yet she seemed to have the power to harm him in a way that he could not recover from, or refrain from harming him. And she refrained.

Why did he always think of her at times like this? Why did her annoying speeches of morality come into his mind?

His mother did not matter. What mattered at the moment was that Pashtia saw they cared - even if they didn't. He stood and went to the Princess, and, taking her hand, kissed it, and said: "Whatever you say, my love."

[Kransha]

The Prince was obviously either too befuddled or too weak to consider prosecuting Morgôs for his assault. It had not been very violent, but any physical attack on royalty was a crime worthy of imprisonment. Siamak probably did not realize it, but he now held something over the General. Morgôs knew he would have to be gravely wary. He sat down again, allowing the tension of the situation to be slowly assuaged by a brief passage of time, and then spoke again, trying to be as tactful as possible as he answered. Quietly, clasping his hands together carefully, he said, “I have sworn to you fealty, Prince Siamak.” in a gentle tone of voice.

“This much I know.” Siamak retorted, “You need not be coy now.”

“Of course.” Morgôs spoke apologetically, looking dejected, but then perked up suddenly, arching his back and budding forward, his keen eyes looking into the youthful, curious eyes of the Prince. “You, Siamak, are the first son of the royal family for over five generations that has not been placed under my wing as a student. Your father was both a protégé and a philosophical acolyte of mine, until the age came that his father began to personally groom him for the throne. You have not known me during your lifetime, and I did not teach you as I taught your father and his father. The reason for this, I suspect, is because it is unsure whether you will be King or not. Your sister, Gjeelea, was, at one time, recommended to be my student by your father, but the plan was rejected before she even knew of it because of the turmoil such an action might create. Now, though, I have chosen he who I think would be the greater monarch.”

This was a great admission by the General, but Siamak knew it was merely repetition, and, looking unimpressed, said simply, “I am honored, but you still speak of things I know.”

“I want to teach you.” Morgôs shot, curtly, taking Siamak a little aback, but not much, “No offense meant,” he continued, “but I have heard tell of your noncommittal position in the court, your lack of frequent political action. If you are to be King, you must be taught the ways of Kings, the old laws, philosophy and theology; things untaught by your carefully scanned royal teachers, censored scholars who would not dare tell you in excess of any failures your ancestors made. You must learn of the guidelines of kingship, so you may take the throne from the grasp of your sister, who seems to have a firmer hold on it than you.”

There was an ill silence that diffused over the two, and Siamak seemed to consider. It was a whole minute or more before he spoke up again, and when he did, all he said was a repetition of Morgôs’ proposal. “So,” he murmured, contemplative, “I have accepted your allegiance, now you wish me to accept your tutelage?”

“Yes.” Morgos was launched. “If you accept, I will return regularly to the Palace and share wisdom that I can with you. I will teach you the ways of war and politics, but more than what you’ve been taught. I, unlike your teachers, have lived most of the history granted you in tomes of lore. Your father was able to respect this tutelage, but did not fully grasp it. Your grandfather embraced it and became one of the greatest monarchs Pashtia has known in centuries. I can make you into that, Siamak.” Morgos realized the danger of saying this, but it was crucial. He did have to rear the Prince if he wanted the right Pashtian on the throne. He had to make Siamak strong, even if that meant guiding him every step of the way. It was far better than allowing Gjeelea and Korak to gain the throne, dooming his people and, possibly, the country. His speech was fueled by eager intensity, and he continued with avid Elven grace. “I can make you a King, but beyond that. I can make you greater than your grandfather, if you fully take in what I teach you, without revealing the extent of the teachings to your parents.” He was again energized, but careful not to become excited, for fear of accidentally becoming mad again. He simply spoke, using his oratory prowess, projecting grand rhetoric throughout the lavish room. “I can tell you far more than I’ve told any King before you,” he said in conclusion, brandishing his fist for illustration, “and give you the grooming of a true King of Pashtia, a mighty lord with the power of an immortal mind behind him.”

[Novnarwen]

Tarkan

The sight that met him, once inside the antechamber, was not exactly surprising, yet it was still highly uncomfortable. Tarkan had realised when closing the door that he had been just slightly harsh towards the boy, and perhaps he'd spoken too loudly. It had not been wise of him. Nothing that could make others believe him cruel and coarse was good; not if he were to succeed in life. He hoped the word of his strictness, or cruelty as some most likely would say, would not reach any others than those who had been present. However, knowing that gossip was a common interest amongst most of the people who worked here, and others, he knew he was being naïve; the word would spread and he would be accused for treating the boy in an inappropriate manner. Was he going to deny this if he was confronted? At the time, in the Hall, he was overly convinced that how he was approaching this young boy, was perfectly appropriate; he knew he could have been calmer and not as rash, but he'd only acted as he saw fit. Surely there was no doubt the boy had been rude, both in appearance and how he had spoken; his grin was definitely one of a silly youngster, trying to be smart with adults or of those of higher rank and he had also been aware of his words, which were almost words of mocking.

Now facing the Priestess, he wondered whether Zamara had heard or seen what had been going on in the Hall for the past five minutes. Positively sure that he didn’t want to find out, whether she had heard or not, as he would most definitely not benefit from anything she might hold against him someday, Tarkan tried his very best to act as normal. He gave a faint smile as he turned away from the door and approached silently.

"High Priestess Zamara," he said and nodded politely. When seeing the surprise in her face, probably of his coming, it occurred to Tarkan how embarrassing this was. Why had he changed his mind? To avoid Pelin? To think about the conversation he had had with Evrathol? Now after this, he would probably have even more to think through; the incident with that oaf of a boy in the Hall for instance, was one thing. And if this wasn't enough, he didn't know what this meeting with the Queen and the High Priestess would bring. He frowned; at least now he would be able to observe Zamara. He'd never thought about this before; the way Evrathol had out it, talked about her as if a sly snake. He was exaggerating again, but did not care. He would watch her every move during their session with the Queen. However, when taking it into consideration, he knew that if Zamara was how Evrathol had describes, it was not very likely she acted the same way with the Queen. The Queen was different. It was how Zamara treated, and manipulated, normal people, like Arlomë, that counted. Realising this, he knew that all of this would be in vain. His coming to the Palace was a complete waste of time.

"Tarkan," he heard The High Priestess say after a while, interrupting.

It took you a while, he thought to himself rather amazed. Do you greet all in this way? He gave a faint smile to emphasize that he'd heard it, but it was probably so faint that it was impossible for anyone to see it.

The meeting with the Queen, his decision to come after having decline, was terrible mistake. He wanted to jump to his feet and run. Only the slightest hope of being able to meet the King later gave him the strength to stay.

[alaklondewen]

Arlomë slowed her pace as soon as she and Evrathol were past the temple, and once again, she slipped her arm gently through her son’s. "As I said, I wanted a word with you...." She paused as she collected her thoughts and figured out how she would start. An accusatory tone would only prove to distance her son from her...that would never do. Lifting her eyes, she looked into her son’s handsome face. He looked so much like his father. Arlomë smiled and lovingly patted his arm with her free hand. “I hope you had a pleasant time last night at the banquet.”

“Yes, Mother, I enjoyed myself.” Evrathol looked at his mother and tilted his head, raising an eyebrow in the process. “And you? Did you have a nice evening?”

Arlomë looked away into a vague distance. “Yes, it was nice. Have you seen your father yet today?”

“No, I have not seen him, Mother.”

Nodding, Arlomë continued, “Nor I. I had hoped to speak with him...” Her voice trailed off, and the pair walked in silence for a few minutes. Another Avari passed them on the street, and they both nodded their heads in greeting. “I overheard the Emissary talking about the Elves in his kingdom...” She spoke quickly and only looked at Evrathol when she’d finished. “He spoke of them like they were the enemies of Men.”

“Really, did he say how?”

“No, just that they brought some great Evil to their land...his words troubled me, my son.” Evrathol just looked ahead. His brows furrowed in thought. “I wish to speak more with your father about it.” Her son nodded but said nothing. “Now, Evrathol, what business had you in the temple this morning? I have tried my best to teach you about the deities, but this is a sudden interest...” Arlomë’s tone changed and her words were soaked in motherly concern.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

“You flatter me, my wife, and seek to distract me from your Alanzian interests with this talk of my…of our realm. You claim to be acting only for Pashtia, and yet you come before me to ask how we should inform our greatest rivals of a proposed alliance with another power!”

“I did not know,” Bekah’s voice was calm and level – steely, even, “that we still considered Alanzia to be a rival. Are Pashtia and Alanzia not allies now as well? Are not we married to one another, my lord, and have we not brought into the world two children who shall unite the interests of both kingdoms when one of them takes the throne?”

Faroz sighed. “Such a history as we share with Alanzia is not simply put aside in the course of a single generation, lady, nor are such animosities removed with a single marriage, no matter how…productive. This is something that you have never understood. You have done an excellent job with the education of our children and either one could be a capable monarch given time and experience. Our son, I fear, lacks ambition sufficient to the tasks of rule and our daughter has too much. But they are young yet and there is time still to hone either one of them into keenness.”

“Has your majesty been taking thought or counsel as to whom you will name heir?” Bekah was quick to ask. Despite the sudden shift in the King’s thinking, she had been eager to put the question to him.

“No,” he replied somewhat brusquely. “But you have asked me how we are to proceed with your brother. You fear that he will take offence should we ally ourselves with the Lord Annatar. But what you fail to grasp, lady, is that the situation is somewhat different now.” The Queen merely looked at him, allowing only the faintest hint of curiosity to intrude into her features. The King suddenly waved his hand at her and in an impatient tone and manner said “Oh do sit down, lady. You look like a statue there, rigid with such formality!” The Queen seemed to pause for a moment before settling herself upon her cushions. The King continued. “I have passed the decision of alliance to our children – the children, as you have stated, of Pashtia and Alanzia. Your brother is well aware of your lessons to them about your homeland, and he has – no doubt – entertained hopes for many years that they will prove more…tractable…to his demands when one of them assumes power. How then can he blame me, or fear that I am making a decision against him, when that decision is being made by his own niece and nephew?” Bekah’s eyes grew somewhat wider as she realised the care that had gone into the King’s decision, and she wondered at the nicety of his acumen. “So you see, my Queen, it matters not to me what you tell your brother-King so long as it is you who tells him. So long as he is assured that this decision is being taken by Siamak and Gjeelea, under the careful advice and guidance of yourself, what has he to fear from it?”

The Queen bowed her head slightly, saying, “You have already accused me of flattery, lord, so I know not how to reply to this other than to say that your reasoning would appear sound.”

Faroz smiled indulgently at his wife and seized the Ring in his hand. He caught himself toying at it with his fingertip and had to pull his hand away, for he realised that he was on the verge of allowing it to slip onto his finger. Bekah saw the sudden motion and said in an innocent enough tone, “Is that the ring given you by the Emissary, lord? Might I see it?”

Faroz had to quell a sudden revulsion at the idea of showing it to his wife. He clutched it as though to hide it from her, but then thought better of it. To deny the request would be to call more attention to the Ring than he wished. He smiled as easily as he could and slipped the Ring from its chain. “Of course you may, my Queen.” He held it out to her and said, “You may approach.” Rising from her place at the foot of the dais, the Queen ascended the few low steps to where the King reclined. She kneeled at the top of the stairs and bowed her head to him formally, then reached for the Ring. In that moment Faroz had to fight down a gasp of horror, for instead of his wife he saw before him an aged and ragged crone, grasping at him with gnarled fingers tipped with red-dripping claws. In his revulsion he pulled his hand back just as she touched the Ring, and it slipped from his grasp. It fell to the stone of the dais, where it rang like a bell as it bounced once before the King snatched it up once more. His heart was pounding with terror, and sweat beaded upon his forehead as he clutched it.

The Queen looked at him with alarm. Faroz forced a smile but on his pale face it appeared as a grimace of pain. “You must excuse me, lady. It was a sudden fatigue that came over me. I am afraid that I perhaps have overextended myself in the last couple of days.”

Bekah nodded and said something comforting, but she left her hand outstretched. With an effort of will, Faroz returned her gaze and was relieved to find that his wife was once more as she had ever been, and no longer the nightmare figure she had become. It was only with the greatest of effort that he managed to pass the Ring over to her, and as soon as it left his fingers he desired it with a physical longing unlike any he had ever known.

[Firefoot]

Siamak studied the General carefully. He did not know why he was hesitating so. Everything Morgôs had said was true, though it was rather dispiriting to hear some of them aloud. Siamak realized that this must be how his father viewed him and his sister, and this viewpoint made his desire for the kingship very distant indeed. He wondered if it was really worth trying - he could not change who he was. Siamak did not necessarily want to be great - the Morgôs’ mention of his grandfather sounded rather ominous. Siamak had known his grandfather hardly at all, and whenever he heard tell of him it was generally with reverence little less than that of the gods. And yet... the idea of Gjeelea and Korak on the throne was unspeakable, and in the end this was the deciding factor. Siamak felt a burning desire to oust his sister in this. Always, always had she dominated in social and court matters. Siamak wanted it to be different, but he honestly wasn’t sure how - if the General thought he could change this, Siamak was willing to let him do so.

Siamak nodded. “Yes.” Now that his mind was made up, he spoke firmly. “You may teach me.”

Morgôs’ face was warmed by a slight smile, and Siamak noted a glint of approval in his gray eyes. “I will make you into a king, Siamak,” he said, and the edge of enthusiasm was impossible to miss - in fact, in was catching. Siamak could not help but grin.

“When do you wish to begin?” asked Siamak, barely unable to contain his curiosity. He wanted to know exactly what it was that the General would teach him, and just how different such lessons would be.

“Very soon,” answered Morgôs. “I would say now, except that the day is drawing late. Would the day after tomorrow be agreeable to you?”

“That would be well,” said Siamak. He, too, wished it might be sooner, but both he and the General had other responsibilities as well. Morgôs rose from his couch, as did Siamak.

“I must be going, now,” he said. “I will see you soon, and be ready for a lesson unlike any you have had before.” The words were said lightly, but Siamak knew them to be true. He did not know Morgôs well, but he was beginning to understand his intense personality. Beginning to.

“I will be, General,” said Siamak, showing Morgôs out. “Good evening.” Finally, Siamak shut the door on who he hoped was the last visitor. It had been an interesting day, and he knew that with his upcoming lessons with the General that there would be many more of those days to come.

[Amanaduial the archer]

Zamara may have had the weakness of always finding the best in people, but she was not stupid. She saw through Gjeelea's act immediately, and knew why she was doing it. She just couldn't fathom what she actually intented to achieve....

She couldn't conceal her surprise at what the princess asked her though, and felt a pang of concern despite her skepticism. Gjeelea actually seemed in earnest in what she asked: she seemed to truly want Zamara's opinion, not only on the Emissary, which was to be expected, but on the role of women in Pashtia. But then the princess looked quickly away from her, avoiding her gaze and looking down almost coyly and sighing prettily. “Can you help me – comfort me – High Priestess?”

Zamara's compassion nearly vanished at the return of this exaggerated act. The princess's questions still stood - but Gjeelea's acting was such that a dangerous thought came to her now also: the question as to what Gjeelea's motives and intentions were for asking her these things about Korak. It seemed to Zamara that the young princess, although publicly stating any preference between the two deities, had always favoured Rae, a source of smugness for Tarkan. Zamara mused what Tarkan thought of Gjeelea's sudden change of preference; she had not spoken to the Priest for quite some time. Gjeelea's confusion also concerned Zamara: it was a difficult, and rather serious worry, for any of Rhais' believers but most especially for one of the royal family and possible future monarch, to think that the goddess had 'abandoned' her. She rose, taking a few steps away from the bench as she mused on these things, fingering the ruby medal thoughtfully. Zamara had become priestess for her devotion: politics had not been her realm for long, unlike the princess, who had been embroiled in for her entire life. What if she already has an alliance with Korak? Maybe she is trying to turn my words against me, to throw me...?

Zamara almost laughed at herself as she caught the thought. Absurd. Spinning around, she fixed Gjeelea with a straight, frank stare, and the princess almost seemed to flinch. "Princess Gjeelea, there will always be unwritten rules, no matter what society you are in; even in the temple, there are always hidden rules. And if you will allow me to speak frankly, while you must not try to aggravate these rules...there are some which you may sometimes be better leaving alone or skirting around. I believe that you would be a powerful leader, Princess, as much as any man; our society is such that you show this power." She hesitated, then continued, not sure if she was pushing the line. "It...it is up to you, Your Majesty, to use your powerful nature well."

"So...so you think I should not marry Korak?" Gjeelea stood quickly, stepping closer to Zamara, her eyes glittering in the light of the lanterns that lit the corners of the Temple. Zamara did not avoid her eyes: it was not in her nature. Her voice was neutral. "An alliance with a powerful family like the Lord Korak's would be most beneficial politically, Princess. But you must be open with yourself, and allow that to develop as well. And as for Rhais..." Zamara shrugged lightly. "The Goddess will never abandon you as long as you are true."

She smiled suddenly, the expression at odds to her serious tone, as she realised that she was only about seven years older than Gjeelea. Then she realised the other matter that Gjeelea had no doubt come about, and her smile faltered slightly. Inwardly, she sighed heavily, but her smile remained outwardly as she tilted her head slightly to the side, beginning to walk down the illumined walkway along the carved wall of the temple, Gjeelea walking beside her. "Was there aught else that you wished to ask me about, Princess?"

[Kransha]

Morgôs was taken aback, but did not show it. He had not expected this question. Arlome had never before shown such an interest, since Morgôs always indicated that the work he did was of little value to him and would be less so to her, and most of it might be upsetting. As long as he remained a functioning participant in the world’s machinations, she did not bother to inquire after his work. He was very unprepared to make the transition to having his work screened by her – he feared it might frighten or confuse her, and cause the advent of more dogged questions which he would be loathe to answer. Nervously, he fished for words to reply with. “This is not the best time for such a question.” he said at last.

“When will the time come, then?”

Not knowing how to respond, Morgôs did not. Arlome continued. “Elrigon, in the last month you have spent more time in here than you have in some years. You are not who you were. What has affected this change?” she walked towards him again, slowly, with a mournful somberness in her, her eyes filled with a degree of hope, but also of confused sadness. “Tell me this at least.”

The pause that fell upon the Elven General was unsteady and dark, but, after a minute, he begrudgingly gave the answer. He knew it could not be hidden forever. “The Emissary.” Arlomë had a subtle reaction, and Morgôs guessed that she did not comprehend what he meant – or she was trying not to. “What about him?” she inquired with tranquil nonchalance. Morgôs sighed quietly and replied with a grave tone. “He brought word of our kindred, other Elves in the west, as you may know.”

Still, Arlomë looked unaffected. She made an unnoticeable noncommital noise, and an unseen look of troubled recognition fell upon her face for a moment, but the General did not see. Morgôs took another deep breath, he knew she must have been told of this, but she did not know as much as he. While in communication with the Prince, Morgôs’ had, in his subtle Elven way, discerned or drawn out more. Calmly, the General was prepared to admit this now, or he knew he would get no peace from his spouse. “The Emissary told much more about the West-Elves to Prince Siamak, apparently.” He added, softly and meekly. Arlomë was at last jolted from her state of graceful serenity.

“What makes you think thus?” She said curiously.

“He told me.”

There was a pause again. Arlomë knew, actually, that Morgôs had communicated with Siamak at the festivities a month ago in honor of the Emissary’s arrival, but she did not know of his frequent talks with the young Prince of Pashtia since then, and had good reason to be a bit suspicious, since he had told her of no such thing, and he usually told her anything important that occurred. Arlomë moved closer to her husband as he turned away, trying to evade the full extent of the question that had not yet been asked, but was clearly written on his wife’s face. Morgôs sat tiredly in his chair and slumped into it, laying one arm on the desk before it, and spoke again.

“Siamak told me some of what the Emissary said to him, information which, I assume, is unbeknownst to all others save him. Siamak is not the most careful person when it comes to letting certain things slip out. His tongue is not yet trained to remain silent when it should be.” This bout of information was a trove he had not intended to let slip for quite a while yet, but it was coming out now, and he could not stop himself. He was unable to consider his wife’s next question before his mind automatically initiated an answer. “What did he tell you.” She asked, and he dutifully replied. “Not much, but enough to explain some of my own scribbles, and confirm the accuracy of others. It was also enough to cause some forgotten facts to come into my mind. If they were once forgotten, I certainly could not allow them to be forgotten again, so…” he trailed off, and gestured at the pile of newly written volumes stacked on and around his desk.

There was no reply from the other party again. Morgôs had kept his eyes from looking to Arlomë during his monologue, but looked at her now. She was unemotional, upsettingly so. This meant she was unwilling to convey whatever emotion was inundating her. Morgôs turned away again and leaned down, sliding one leather-bound book from the pile next to his desk. No dust had collected on it. He lifted it and hefted it in his hand; it was not necessarily heavy or weighty, just above average size. The General new what this book contained by heart; it was the most harmless of his volumes.

The tome contained drawings and some remembered descriptions of landscapes, as well as amateur maps forged by himself, an amateur cartographer. Most pictures depicted a place he did not know much of, but had numerous memories of floating around in the deep darkness of his mind. It was a lake he remembered, the contours of which occupied most drawings, and a forested shore-land beside it. Drawings of trees and landforms foreign to Pashtia were in the book, different forms of plant and some animal life that his mind had constructed images of from memory. They were mystical, more so than they were realistic, and so alien to Pashtian lands that they could be thought of as fantastic. Morgôs did not know where the images came from, but he guessed that he had known them at one time long, long ago, before the establishment of Pashtia. It was an interesting record and set of sketches, but utterly watered-down, unlike some other books.

He pushed himself up from the chair and extended the book to his wife. “Here,” he said, “quench your thirst with this. I must to the palace to take counsel with Prince Siamak. I do not believe I shall be long. I hope that, when I return, your questions will be lessened. Farewell.” He did not even let her open the book before he had swept himself past her, pulling his trailing cloak behind him, and left the room.

[Imladris]

Arshalous glared at Korak before looking again at the construction of the temple. She could see what he was thinking, could see the mean glint of victory like some rat who had outsmarted a cat for a little crumb of cheese without realizing that the cat actually had the whole piece between her paws. "You think you have won cousin, triumphed over me in some petty way," she said, "but you actually haven't."

He laughed at her then his handsome face contorting in disbelief. "Not only are we working together but we are working together for a cause you vehemently disagree with! How have I not won?"

She smiled softly and played with a pebble with her sandled foot. "Because, dear cousin, my helping you build this temple is proof that you simply were not rich enough to do it." She stopped, relishing the look of his face paling, and then turning purple red. "It means that I had to help you...I had to help you get what you want. You couldn't have done this without me. Without me, this temple wouldn't even exist -- or else the sky god would have had to wait a much longer time for his temple. If anything, Cousin," she added, narrowing her eyes, "you should be thanking me, instead of gloating."

She looked at him for a moment, her lips turning into a smirk. "Oh look!" she said suddenly, her eyes pointing at the departing form of the Princess. "There goes your lady love! Will you hasten after her, adoring the very ground her sandals touch, and proclaim your love again before the watching public?" She scoffed. "It disgusts me," she hissed, "the way you pretend to love her."

"Who says it is a pretend love?" asked Korak angrilly.

"Oh do not recite your lies to me, Korak. The people will see soon enough that the only thing you desire is the throne. And if they do not see it and if they welcome you as King then they are fools." She would have gone on to say that the King was a fool for even letting it take place -- for even considering Korak an heir when he had a perfectly good son, but she realized that such rash words spoken before Korak would turn her into a fool and end in a traitor's death.

[Nurumaiel]

Korak clamped his teeth together and bit back an angry retort. His mother once told him that if he grew angry and defensive at an accusation of another, it meant he was guilty of what he had been accused of. If the scheme was to work, he must pretend to all, even Lady Arshalous, that he loved the Princess.

Morashk, still skulking in the shadows, noticed that his master was refraining from answering. Good, good! He had seen many sharp words exchanged between the Lord Korak and the Lady Arshalous, and in all of them Korak had answered without thinking. But if only he could keep his face from speaking! The way he coloured, the way he paled, the way he scowled, the way fear slipped slowly in... his face was too expressive. Morashk resolved he would bring it up. Was he not his master's advisor?

"What of the fact that you are helping me?" said Korak, drawing himself up. Ah, now he towered above her! It gave him a feeling of strength. "You live in a world of illusion. You think the fact that I accepted your help means I am stooping. This is not so. I told the King I would fund the building of the temple, and never spoke a word to ask you for help. I was not even present when you agreed to assist me." He was standing in the doorway, true, but what did that matter? "'Twas the King asked your help, not I. You consented. And I, as a gracious, noble act, accepted your offer of help. I see nothing humbling about this."

Morashk was creeping closer. The Lady Arshalous would have a reply ready. She was not one to give in to defeated rage, as her cousin was. The Lord Korak would perhaps need assistance.

But Korak gave his cousin no time to answer. It was an effective way, he thought, to end words with the victory on his side. He had the last word, whether she wanted to speak her not. He bowed slightly at the waist, with a cruel, mocking smile. "I bid you good day, cousin," he said. "Your assistance in building the temple earns my utter thanks. 'Tis a pity that the King so called you to do what you vehemently opposed. But, my lady, it is a good cause, as all things you oppose are." And then he turned and strode away to find the Princess Gjeelea.

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

What a strange man, Gjeelea thought as the Priest greeted her. She had seen Tarkan on many occasions though rarely did the princess address him directly or have proper conversation with him. His awkwardly flustered and feminine facial features made a funny combination, Gjeelea decided.

“Is this a bad time, Priest?” the princess asked, looking at the wheelbarrow full of odds and ends. She looked up to the red-cheeked Priest. “If you are busy I could come at another time.”

Catching Tarkan’s flickering gaze, Gjeelea peered at the man. He truly was an eerily strange man – the princess did not know a thinner man, or a taller one. Tarkan’s greasy black hair, matched with his pale skin, gave him the look of a dying man.

“Oh, no…no, of course not, princess,” Tarkan sought to control his faltering voice. “I can always spare a moment. What is it you need?”

“I had hoped, Priest, to learn your feelings on the Emissary,” Gjeelea began. “My brother and I have a difficult decision to make, and I seek not just to please our own desires in the matter but to reach a decision that works for everyone.”

[Imladris]

"Your assistance in building the temple earns my utter thanks. 'Tis a pity that the King so called you to do what you vehemently opposed. But, my lady, it is a good cause, as all things you oppose are."

Arshalous stepped back as if Korak had slapped her cheek. Her dark eyes flashed as Korak strode back on his heel, his slinking servant accompanying him. She would ignore his poisoned insult, but she would not let him disillusion himself further upon certain other matters. She dashed over to him and stopped in front of him, forcing him to stop. "You said that I helped you," she whispered softly. "Let me tell you now that I do not help you. I help the King. I do this for the King. Not for you. But because he asked me to."

With a glance of disdain, she strode away from him. The wind pulled her hair and made her bracelets tinkle merrily. She wished that she could shush their voices, for they laughed when they should weep.

And why should they weep, she asked herself mockingly. Because her cousin had insulted her? But he had never said that before. Had he? Or had she been deaf to it.

She twisted the rings that sparkled on her fingers. Korak was no man -- all his courage, all his wit, all his rude leavings stemmed from his servant. He was no noble. He was no better than she.

[Bêthberry]

Bekah knew better than to be influenced by the conciliatory tone which Faroz had finally adopted. Usually he employed it, after his anger, to lull an opponent into an unwary disclosure, which he would then turn to his own account in recompense for the initial error. Yet he had never, ever used this method with her. But he was now and even worse he seemed to be enjoying her discomfort. How much the arrival of this Emissary had changed him. Or brought out something in him that had usually been quiescent. She watched him stroke this ring that others had spoken off and saw a flicker of something cross his face as his tone changed. She felt a chill of fear rise in her along with anger that she should be so treated.

Her discovery of his absence must have angered him greatly. That must mean, she thought, that it not a legitimate absence. He must have been hiding something or somewhere, for his whereabouts not to be known. He had refused to account for himself. A king, of course, need not account for himself, yet the event here was of such surprising moment that, under previous circumstances, she felt sure he would have explained himself to her. Yet he had not. And had chosen to blame her. How dare he!

But Bekah bit her tongue, as she always did when she felt overwhelmed by her emotions. The sharp prick of slight pain worked to calm her, as she knew it would. She sought for precious few moments in which to construct a reply which would placate her husband without provoking him. She forced down the snear which had threatened to break out on her face and she recalled how common a response that had been in her father in Alanzia. How long ago she had learnt that anger and violence only incited greater fury! Yet here she was now tempted to return to the old ways. Well, she would resist them, especially as it seemed Faroz was somehow wanting her to display those old traits. She would not give him the satisfaction.


"With your leave, Khamul, you misunderstand my concern. Or rather, we have not had the opportunity to discuss the matter. It is not with the Emissary himself that my concern lies. I am happy for you that you find in him a pleasing cordiality. I know how onerous are the duties and responsibilites inherent in balancing affairs of state and welcome your opportunity for friendship."

"What concerns me, my lord, is how this offer intrudes upon the careful peace which you have so cunningly constructed for Pashia. The land now prospers in no small measure due to your efforts to over come years of desolation from war. I feared to speak publically of this as I know many here still remember me as a Princess of Alanzia, an enemy come into the heart of the country. I fear what this offer of alliance will do to upset the accord with Alanzia. I fear what my brother-monarch might be tempted to do if he should hear from other ears that you have sought an alliance with another country."

"You are always thinking of Alanzia. Alanzia!" he retorted. "You have even filled out children's heads with stories of the country."

Bekah bristled at the unfairness of his claim but she kept a tight hold on her feelings. Her head would rule, she determined.

"My lord, what monarch can rule in his country's best interests if he does not know what lies beyond his own borders? Shall our children be at the mercy of their uncle's understanding of the affairs of state? I came here ignorant of your ways and terrified that I would be treated as an enemy. Instead I found a king and a husband and a country which did not demand power so much as enterprise and proserity. My lord, you listened before you made your decrees and ever sought a balance between conflicting desires. This was not the way I had been raised and I learned the merit of your way. I wanted our children to appreciate that merit. They could do so only by understanding a way that lacked such kingly vision."

Faroz settled back into his pillows, absent mindedly toying with the ring again. He still did not invite her to sit down.

" I wished to ask you how to proceed in this matter in my private correspondence with my brother. You had not yet directed me how to inform him of the Emissary's arrival and I felt that such an announcement needed to be made. He should not be able to claim that I had hidden the matter from him. Yet only you could appreciate fully--or I felt could appreciate fully--the delicate balance of the situation, for only you and two of our courtiers know of my correspondence with him."

Bekah stopped. If he would not invite her to sit down, she would stand as tall and as proudly as she could. Her fear she masked, for she felt that would only incite him more. She dared not tell him bluntly that she felt he was betraying matters of state by his own reckless personal behaviour. It was the first time she had felt unable to be honest with him. That in itself was a chilling as the strange feeling which kept haunting her whenever he moved to touch this ring.

[Novnarwen]

Tarkan

It is a rather fine Palace, Tarkan thought to himself while climbing the stairs. It was built of hewn stone and reflected strength and steadfastness. It rose proudly up from the ground, stretching high upwards, almost touching the white clouds, which floated restlessly over his head. Tarkan gazed at it, thinking of the riches that lay within these strong walls. It was almost unimaginable to think that his very own half-brother lived in this luxurious way, meanwhile he himself hardly had anything at all. How ill fortune he had witnessed, how unfair it was. Tarkan bit his lip, in bitterness, and hurried up the last steps and went inside. It couldn't be avoided the feeling that rose up inside of him; he was always slightly pained by seeing how his brother lived compared to himself. The walls were covered with beautiful tapestries in glorious colours. Pictures, painted and drawn, of sceneries so green and pure hung side by side. The soft splendidly weaved carpets lay as if scattered on the floor; there were cushions and divans along the walls in the Hall, and the servants seemed to do their very best in keeping those who sat there pleased by bringing them cool drinks and fruits of various kind.

With an obvious jealous expression on his face, he waited to announce his errand. As a servant was passing by, (Tarkan loosing his patience by now,) he grabbed a hold of him.

"I am here to meet the Queen. I believe that she is unfamiliar with my coming though."

The servant pointed straight ahead to a door, an antechamber where he could wait.

"So, not invited?" the man asked suddenly, seeing that Taran was not to release him just yet. "Oh, sorry! I meant not expected , as in if you were not expected" he continued hastily, emphasising the word 'expected' the first time it was mentioned to make up his mistake.

The Priest, thunder stricken by the rude behaviour, tried to hold his mask. He was certainly going to report this, but to whom, he did not know.

"Whom do you work for?" His voice was filled with anger, as he did not manage to hide his utter disgust of the man in front of him.

"The King, sir."

"The King?!? Don't be smart with me," he said. His face was turning red as he said this. The anger he felt swelling up inside of him could be reflected in his dark eyes, which seemed to suddenly light up with a burning fire; a fire of hate and disgust. His jealousness had taken command. The thick vein which was abnormally visible in his forehead, turned purple. The priest's figure seemed to enlarge where he stood, and his figure cast a large shadow which laid the room into darkness. Everything was silent. The people who were present stood immobile and watched, surprised and bewildered by such an event taking place in the Palace's Main Hall.

The Priest bit his lip. The last sentence could be misinterpreted by people; he understood that much. He had not wanted to imply that no one were to work for the King, as if against him; he'd just wanted to report the servant's behaviour to his superior, who dealt with the staff and their business. He frowned, still holding the servant by the arm. "Who deals with the staff around here?" he asked again, this time choosing his words with care. "I want to talk to your superior! I will not take this rudeness from you! I refuse! Now, fetch me your superior! If you don’t find him this instant, I promise you, " he lowered his voice," I’ll make you wish you had!"

If the servant boy had had the chance to loosen himself from the priest’s grip, this would be the time; Tarkan’s anger seemed to have reached it’s definite height. Yet the boy, who had probably not reached his twenties; he certainly didn’t look like he was older, moreover younger; he was slender and short, and his face bore the features of an innocent child, stood motionless.

"I’ll go," the boy managed to press forwards at last. "I’ll fetch him!"

"The King?"

"No, you just told me to ..."

Tarkan interrupted. "Let the King know that I would like to meet him after my meeting with the Queen. Tell him that it’s urgent!"

The priest released the servant from his grip, waving him off. "Silly boy, be gone before I change my mind and do make you fetch your superior!!"

Tarkan watched the boy run as fast as his legs could bear him out of the Hall. He hoped he would deliver the message to the King; if not personally, then deliver the message orally to someone else who could. Tarkan wondered whether his brother would decline a meeting with him. It would not surprise him. The two of them had in fact never been too close, yet, they had never shown, in public that is, any real signs of dislike of one another. Tarkan let his gaze wander, discovering that people were casting glances his way. This Palace is filled with incompetent poultry, he thought to himself, the King will lose face if he doesn’t do anything… With a sly smile on his thin womanly lips, he cast the mantle he wore backwards and entered the antechamber the boy had directed him to.