Shadow of the West

[Bêthberry]

Bekah had felt a chilling, lightning-like sensation at the brief touch of the ring before Faroz had pulled his hand back, but she had not really understood the sensation, so startled was she by the pained expression of her husband's visage.

Now the ring lay inert in her hand, a simple gold band embellished by a single gemstone, which flickered in the late afternoon light of a waning day. It was beautifully crafted, pure in its form and understated in its decoration. She closed her fingers over it and hefted it in her hand, trying to imagine its weight in gold. She had ignored Faroz's offer to be seated as a way of maintaining some authority herself in the face of his obvious displeasure with her.

"What pray tell are you doing with it?" inquired Faroz, clearly disturbed but dissembling his concern by trying to imply her fault yet again.

"Merely trying to determine its weight. Is it pure or false gold? Have you tried to bite it? Some thin golds go soft in the desert heat." Bekah was sincerely curious about this object, as both an item of diplomacy and an object of great appeal to Faroz. She wanted to know why it had grabbed his fancy so quickly. What was its appeal? She wondered. She knew he would never tell her directly, so she determined to test its attraction for him. She lifted the ring to her lips as if to bite the gold.

"You toy with its value and would mar its beauty," Faroz responded. "You don't appreciate the delicate nature of this diplomacy." He reached out to take it but Bakah pulled her hand away.

"No, my lord," she remarked. "I merely wished to ascertain the value of this Annatar's regard for you. You are not usually swayed by material concerns.?"

"It is not the ring which influences me," he claimed, wanting to take it from her but for the time being not wishing to divulge that feeling, or perhaps even admit it to himself.

Bekah wondered at this. She realised she had the opportunity to understand how powerful this gift was if she pressed the matter. Could she? Dare she? Her life in Pashtia had been devoted to soothing relations between her homeland and her adopted land but now she sensed that matters were moving beyond her ken or ability to direct or move them. Faroz had ever been her staunchest collaborator; she had no other ally or confidant as close as he in Pashtia. And now he was melting away from her, butter in the heat of the day. She was profoundly disturbed by this turn of events.

"You have said the Emissary offers you a friendship greater than any you have ever known. Yet rings mark fealty, confederation, coalition. They signify obligation and vows to others, an embargo of sorts on freedom What has he offered you? What has this Annatar promised that is greater than the allegiances of the peoples of this area. What is the West to us?"

Faroz relaxed somewhat, directing his thoughts to the discussion at hand. He sat back upon his cushions, still longing for the ring, and eyed his wife, marveling at her appearance now and the vision he had had of the old crone. Was that her true heart? He wondered. She had always masked herself to him, a guileful woman like all her kind. Or was that her future? Will she become so frightful and terrible? The King began to ruminate upon the other possible abilities this ring might provide him in addition to making him invisible. Will it foretell the future for him? Would it allow him to see true motivations? The thoughts intrigued him and he became once again more withdrawn from his wife.

"What a limited mind you have, what a small vision, if you cannot imagine what wealth might lie beyond our knowing. You, who proclaimed that a king must know what lies beyond his boundaries." He stopped himself from speaking further, running his hand over his face in an effort to control this unaccountable urge to rebuff her.

"A king must also know himself. Do you?" Bekah dared reply, as she looked from him to the ring and rolled it around in her hand.

He was taken aback at the freedoms she was taking with the ring as much as by her impudence.

"You have such little regard for gifts of state?"

He rose from his cushions and took two steps towards her.

Bekah stepped back, bringing her hand up and spreading her fingers, so the ring showed clearly upon her palm. It cast a strange feeling over her and she almost sensed it was changing, becoming smaller.

"Shall I try to wear it so I can improve my understanding?" she asked. Her arm was becoming heavy and she felt she was drowning in waters she did not know, but she would persist in learning as much as she could of this affair.

With a roar, Faroz lunged towards her, grabbing her hand by the wrist and twisting it, turning her arm. He reached over and caught the ring as it nearly fell a second time. Feeling it once again within his grasp he felt a surge of anger at her and a supreme sense of power over her. He pushed her arm more until she was pulled over and a look of pain crossed over her face. Could he hear her bone snap? The thought pleased him and then shocked him. He could not imagine how he had come to relish the thought but he did. He let go her arm, which fell by her side, bruised already and swelling.

Bekah uttered not a word, nor cried out in her shock. Never before had he struck her or even threatened her. She staggered, slightly, as she fought to gain control of the pain and reached out with her uninjured arm to lift and hold the injured one against her. She raised her head and looked straight at him. For his part, Faroz stepped back from her, feeling an immense relief at having the ring back in his possession. Breathing heavily, he held it tightly and then slowly returned it to his pocket. Only then did he look at Bekah's face and her arm. Suddenly, he was overwhelmed with a sense of remorse. He must be under greater stress than he had imagined.

Behind the dias, hidden in the curtains, someone stood silently, struck with horror at the event he had just witnessed. Jarult the chamberlain.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Faroz calmed the pounding of his heart with an effort of will. Now that the Ring was once more pressed against his body, he felt the rage and anxiety that had seized him like a madness flow from him as wine from a broken vessel. Not wine, he corrected himself, like filthy water from a ditch. What have I done? He gazed upon his wife, and saw the one person in his world upon whom he had depended through all the trials of rule, and he saw the rage and pain in her expression. Her arm hung by her side like a broken thing, raw and raging with her suppressed fury. Faroz felt shame for what he had done, and he found it difficult to meet her eyes. He reached out to her with his own hand, but the Queen flinched away. Faroz felt the rebuke of her gesture, and his shame only grew. “I am sorry, my wife,” he said, using a more tender tone to her than any he had used in years. “I do not know what came over me.” Liar, you do know, you know well what it was… “I have already said that it has been a taxing day. It would appear that it was more taxing than I thought.” He passed his hand before his eyes and seemed to sag. “I grow tired, lady.”

“Perhaps his majesty should seek his bed then.” Bekah’s words were as jagged stones, cold and unyielding.

“It is not the fatigue of this day, lady. I fear that I begin to feel the weight of the crown more heavily. Perhaps it is the talk of naming my heir, or perhaps it is just the years of having been King, but I find myself more and more contemplating the rest of my life with…” he searched for a word.

“With what, my lord?” Bekah asked, curious despite her hurt and her rage.

“With I know not what,” he ended quickly, his attention once more reverting to his wife. “I am selfish, selfish and cruel. I have hurt you and all I can think of are my own troubles. Sit, my wife, please I beg you, and let me send for doctors to see to your hurt.”

“No Khamul,” she replied. “It would be best if no-one knew of this…incident. Should word go forth of this…attack,” he could see how she struggled to say the word, as though it gave a new reality to what had just happened, “think of how it would be received by our children, or by my brother. I will say that I fell upon the stairs to my apartments.” Saying so, she moved to place her clothes over the arm so as to hide the violence done to it, but she had difficulty doing so for the hurt. Faroz moved to help her, but she once more moved away from him, her eyes blazing, and she completed the task, painfully, on her own.

Faroz felt moved to try once more. “Please, my wife, accept my apologies and give me forgiveness. I have never raised my hand to you before, and I swear now by Rhais and Rae that never shall I do so again.” Unless. . . “Never,” he said aloud, as though speaking to someone else. “And may the vengeance of the gods come upon me should I break this vow.”

Bekah remained impassive and impenetrable. Bowing formally she said only, “I accept the apology of the King, and for my part I swear that I shall seek neither retribution nor revenge for his act. But now,” she added quickly, as though to forestall any further conversation, “may I have your permission to depart, lord? For I would like to return to my apartments and call the physicians after my accident.”

Faroz simply nodded dumbly, and watched his wife depart. Almost as soon as she had gone the Chamberlain entered the room, a little too quickly. His face was unreadable, but Faroz wondered if perhaps he had seen what had transpired. Jarult’s expression betrayed nothing, however, as he announced that Priest Tarkan was in the outer room, waiting to speak with the King. Faroz hid the look of distaste that he felt beneath his skin and bid the Priest be allowed to enter. Jarult bowed and departed once more to fetch the Priest in. When Tarkan arrived at the far end of the Hall he bowed to the King, who had resumed his place atop the dais, and scurried forward.

“Welcome my brother,” Faroz began formally. “What is it that brings you to the Palace?” Tarkan smiled nervously and licked his lips before starting. He was not an impressive figure, for all that he was the bastard son of the former King. Despite their close connection, Faroz knew little of Tarkan, but what he did know was less than satisfactory. He was an ambitious, yet strangely apathetic man, who kept more or less to himself, indulging, no doubt, in such schemes as he could for his advancement, and yet never moving openly with them. It was not without a certain amount of irony, then, that Faroz looked upon the man.

For though the Priest knew it not, Tarkan was the rightful King of Pashtia.

[Amanaduial the archer]

The Priestess was a patient woman, but her patience was being sorely tried as she waited outside the Queen's apartments, so eager was she to talk to Bekah. But she controlled her impatience and waited in the awkward, stuffy silence of the palace antechamber, unsure of what to say to Tarkan. The Priest, however, didn't feel the need to talk much, after some initial small talk - he seemed caught up in his own thoughts. So, after finishing off with pleasantries, the two descended into silence. Well, if you could call it that. Sound as muffled throughout the palace, despite it being an open, stone building, by the tapestries and rich rugs all over the palace, so very little noise pervaded the antechamber; but Zamara couldn't help noticing that Tarkan's breathing really was very loud.

After several rather uncomfortable minutes in which the Priest seemed rather disinclined to talk, the sound of a servant's feet were heard coming down the corridor. Zamara stood in anticipation. Tarkan sent her a condescending, superior look, then rose slowly and almost regally - and maybe it would have worked on anyone else, Zamara thought disapprovingly. The Priest was just about the least majestic individual she knew...

"The King will see you know, Priest Tarkan," the servant said nervously, eyeing the Priest with nervousness as if he was about to run. Zamara wondered about this - Tarkan had never struck her as being particularly terrifying. Sneaky, maybe, but terrifying...not so much. Tarkan smiled and, with a last, almost mock-courteous bow to Zamara, he left, radiating self-satisfaction at being called up first. The servant sent the Priestess an apologetic glance, then scurried after him.

Zamara narrowed her eyes after Tarkan. Of all the cheek, why had he been called first? Realising she was being petty, Zamara rose abruptly and turned to the tapestries on the wall behind her, inwardly seething. Tarkan had been sniffy with her today, almost as if she was beneath his notice, and what with that performance at the banquet in addition to that...Zamara shook her head, her eyes barely focusing on the delicate, angular figures in the tapestries. It seemed many people were changing, whether because of the Emissary or not. Evrathol's visit to the temple, the General Morgos' apology... And then there was the other matter, the matter of what Zamara had seen the other night, on the way back from the banquet, as she had chanced to look up at a balcony of the palace.

The priestess pursed her lips, her brow furrowing as she stared intently at the tapestries. Her eyes were indeed turning slightly blue, an unnatural colour for the Pashtians - she was not sure if others had noticed, but Zamara, although she didn't know what it was, had realised early last year that it was affecting her sight. But she was so sure of what she had seen...

One minute the king was there, the next....vanished!

Sinking into these worrying thoughts, Zamara's eyes suddenly caught on a detail of the tapestry. It seemed to be an early history of Pashtia, and was quite faded, but Zamara could still clearly see the images of a large group of people marching - or were they running? - away from a green, grassy land, women, children and all. But there were rather few children, and the weaver had caught the expressions of the people quite vividly: they wore faces of weariness and aged wisdom. Avari? It was what the pictures looked remarkably like, but there were far more of the elves that Zamara thought were in the city in the present age. At the front of them, one particularly elf stood out, his stance defiant, his face shaded by a silver-grey helmet with a magnificent white plume - obviously a leader of some sort. And behind...a damp stain marred the picture, making it hard to see who stood on the grassy land, making it was an indistinct mass of black, jagged shapes. But one figure the Priestess could see quite clearly: a tall, dark figure, his hand raised high, holding a sword, his dark face completely shadowed by a terrible helmet.

There was something about this figure that made the Priestess stop, and a shiver traced down her neck, the fine hairs at the nape rising as if in warning, despite the heat of the antechamber. But despite the way this figure stood out, he was like no elf she had ever seen - he seemed mannish, but somehow all-powerful... She wondered at how a picture, faded as it was, could convey such strength.

The writing beneath the figure was obscured by the damp, so Zamara moved on. She narrowed her eyes, bending down slightly, her long dark fingers tracing the pictures back in sequence until she came to the image a few frames that made her stop: a battle scene. She could see the defiant Avarin leader standing frozen, looking up at something as if in horror, and, following his gaze, saw...

Drat! Confound these stains! The picture was blurred, the dyes running into each other, but still, some details remained clear in the object of the elf's attention: the dark figure. His hand was held high still, but this time holding not a sword but something smaller, that glistened somehow, but was so tiny. Zamara leant in closer to see if she could work out what it was...

The sound of light, quick footsteps caught Zamara off guard and she spun around, her robes rustling softly. The sound must have caught the visitor's attention, for the footsteps stopped - a visitor with most astute hearing indeed then! She wondered whether it was one of the Avarin. Stepping forward so she could see around the corner into the corridor, Zamara smiled at Morgos himself, who stood with the expression of a trapped rabbit.

"Good day, General," Zamara said warmly, smiling at the elf.I was just thinking about you... "I was not aware you were visiting the King today?"

"Oh...no, no, I came to see the Prince," the General replied, seeming distracted. As soon as he had said the words, he somehow seemed to regret it, snapping off the end of the last word as if trying to take it back. His stern, wary gaze rested on the High Priestess, and then flickered past her to the tapestry - he must have noticed her looking at it before, she guessed. Had he seen this tapestry before? Zamara deliberated on whether or not to tell him about it - sure, what harm could it do? He had surely seen something like this before...

"General Morgos, later in the day, it is necessary for me to leave the city and go to some of the farms to the East. I wondered if I would be able to borrow an escort of a few of your soldiers?"

Morgos frowned briefly. "May I ask what this visit is about, that you might need protection?"

Zamara shrugged her shoulders lightly. "There are many strangers to the city of late, General, many changes." Her eyes rested on his as she hesitated, then added, "It is...a strange matter. Some villagers think they have seen a...a demon."

It was all the elf could do not to raise his eyebrows, Zamara noticed with slightly amusement. "A demon?" he repeated impassively.

"It is what they said. A strange creature, round in girth and larger than a man, without fur but apparently covered almost entirely in leaves, from which...eyes could be seen. And apparently creaking, almost like a song." She shrugged again. The General's intense, unbinking stare made her feel slightly self-concious. But there was a change in his expression now, which had come about as she was speaking, and he had taken a step forward when she mentioned the leaves. "Cr...creaking, you say, Priestess?" he said slowly.

Zamara nodded. "It is what was told to me. Why, have you any idea of what this creature could be?"

The elf hesitated, then shook his head hastily. "I shall arrange a guard for you. Was there anything else you wished to speak to me about?"

Zamara made up her mind. Stepping back, she angled herself slightly towards the tapestry behind her. "General Morgos, are you familiar with-"

A sound that Zamara recognised as the Queen's voice came from within her appartments, muffled by the silks on the doors so that the Priestess could not hear the exact words; it was closely followed by the commanding voice of what sounded like a chamberlain. Her call to enter, she presumed. She took a step away from the tapestry, almost guiltily. "Excuse me please, General-"

"Of course. Good day, High Priestess." With that abrupt dismissal, the elf was gone, striding away down the corridor. Zamara watched him for a second, then looked towards the tapestry thoughtfully...before dispelling all thoughts of it from her head and pushing open the door of Bekah's chambers to enter. Little did the Priestess know how important the faded, worn pictures of the bright elf's battle with this dark, godly figure would turn out to be...

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Jarult awoke with a start, and immediately the coughing was upon him. Every morning this happened, and he sat upon the edge of his bed, his thin frame wracked with spasmodic pain as he hacked and wheezed, until it was over. Each day, it seemed, the attack grew a bit longer and a bit more ferocious and someday soon, he knew, it would end in his death. He did not regard the thought with any emotion, only acceptance. He had lived his life well and done good service to the King and to the King before him. He would go to the seat of Rhais with confidence.

When he was finally able to stand, the aged Chamberlain went out of his bedroom and into the courtyard of the small villa sheltered beneath the imposing wall of the Palace. It was, he had been told, an abode far beneath his station but he liked it all the same. It was small and bare and comfortable. He took a slight breakfast in the grey light of pre-dawn and collected his thoughts for the day ahead.

It had been just over a month since the coming of the Emissary, and still the courtier from the West remained a mystery to the old man. The meetings between the Emissary and the King had dwindled of late, which was good, but the King had taken to retiring to bed early and not allowing any visitors to his chambers at night. Jarult was made uneasy by this, for the memory of what he had seen pass between the King and Queen was still raw in his memory. He had watched both keenly since then, but on the surface they appeared unchanged by the encounter. In general, the uproar caused by the appearance of the Emissary had subsided, until the presence of the Man from the West had become part of the background to life in Pashtia.

This change had been helped by new and disturbing developments much closer to home. The new High Temple to Rae had been approved by the King and was already being built close by the Temple to Rhais. More disturbingly to Jarult was the news – or, rather, the lack of news – from Alanzia. Commerce with their northern rivals had always been sporadic, but of late it had ceased altogether. It had been weeks since any traveller or news had arrived from there. Even the Queen’s correspondence with her brother had ceased.

Jarult felt the touch of a cool breeze run down his thin neck and he shivered, drawing his cloak more tightly about him. Soon it will be the cool season, he reflected. The nights will grow chill and the winds will come from the mountains, perhaps bringing rain. He quickly uttered a prayer to Rae that he withhold the fury of the water that fell so unnaturally from the sky.

The thought of rain turned his mind to other, even stranger matters. Reports there were abroad of demons and monsters. Strange beings like the giants of old, the peasants said, were stalking about the farmlands. Others who ventured into the desert returned with tales of monstrous man-like fiends who travelled in packs like wild dogs, ravening and destroying what they could find. Most harrowing to Jarult, though, were the tales of ghosts. Whispers there were of creatures which passed unseen in the night, freezing those who felt them with terror. From within the Palace itself there had come rumour of doors that opened on their own, and of curtains moving when there was no wind. Some of the servants had even claimed to have heard footsteps along empty hallways in the dead of night, and one impressionable girl had sworn that she had felt a touch like that of a man’s cloak brushing up against her. Jarult knew better than to believe such gossip, but it worried him still, for such news could not augur well…

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

The morning sun brought tingling warmth to Gjeelea’s face as she walked through the marketplace of Kanak. She had spent more time in the city and out of the palace since her conference with Korak about a month earlier, usually with her betrothed in hopes that the people would see them happily together before their marriage. Gjeelea had also gone more often to the temples since the Emissary’s arrival. She visited both the construction site of the new temple of Rae and the standing temple of Rhais. The latter was her destination that morning.

Her daily walks comforted Gjeelea from the stresses she found harrowing in the palace – dealing with her brother, with Korak, with the gossiping court ladies. She hardly ever got headaches since she had started perusing the city, even when speaking to Siamak or arguing with Korak.

“Oh, my lady! Princess Gjeelea!” The bookkeeper’s wife called to the princess from the little shop off the main market way. A bright smile lit on her pudgy face, a smile that was returned half-heartedly by Gjeelea as she walked over to the stocky little lady.

“Good morning, Rafiqa,” Gjeelea greeted the aging woman, bowing her head slightly. Rafiqa did the same and gestured for Gjeelea to enter her home. The princess stepped gingerly into the sunlit entryway, looking left to see a large room filled with shelves that were in turned filled with books and parchments. To the right Gjeelea saw Basit the bookkeeper, Rafiqa’s husband, sitting at a desk piled high with thick volumes. Basit lifted his head and stood when he saw the princess. With a deep bow he greeted her.

“How wonderful it is to see you again, my lady,” Basit said, waving his arm. “Welcome again to my humble home – you are free, as always, to make yourself at home as well…” he paused. His brows furrowed together. “You are not with the Lord Korak this morning?”

“No, Korak is spending the morning with his mother,” Gjeelea replied, though it was a lie. She did not know where Korak had gone off to that morning. “But thank you, Basit, and good day to you,” Gjeelea murmured, nodding to both Basit and Rafiqa before turning into the huge, book-filled room to her left. The princess had come to Basit’s bookshop at least once a week in the past month, to read the tomes of knowledge and visit Basit’s family. It was just one more activity that Gjeelea looked forward to outside of the palace.

The princess weaved her way around short aisles of shelves, not quite sure what she was searching for. She stopped as she turned a corner and caught sight of a little girl sitting on a stool next to one of the shelves, reading a long stretch of parchment. The girl looked up when she heard Gjeelea, and with a toothy grin the child beckoned for the princess to join her.

“How are you this morning, Tendai?” Gjeelea addressed the girl as she pushed back her white headscarf and kneeled down on the floor next to her.

“Very good, princess!” Tendai informed Gjeelea, nodding to the parchment in her hand. “Last night I climbed to the top of father’s ladder, and found this on the top shelf. It is very good, but I am almost finished, and I am afraid to climb to the top again and find a new one.”

“I will get a new story for you before I leave,” the princess promised as she peaked at the words on Tendai’s page. “What is this story about?”

“A noble lady,” Tendai explained. “Her father arranges to have her marry his friend. She is in love with her best friend.”

“I see,” Gjeelea mused. If I had a best friend, I would rather be in love with him than Korak any day. “What happens, then?”

“Well, her best friend is only a cook in her house,” Tendai continued with the story. “And the girl does not want to make her father sad. But she decided to run away with her best friend rather than say no to her father, or marry someone she did not love. They have run away, and I have not finished, but I think that they get away safe in the end. What a brave girl, leaving her father, right?”

“Right,” Gjeelea agreed softly. “Very brave.”

“Princess?”

“Yes?”

“Do you love Lord Korak?” Tendai asked the question in an offhand manner, peering anxiously at the top of the nearest shelf. Gjeelea stood, brushing slight specs of dirt off of her white gown. She moved to the bookshelf and reached to the highest ledge, picking through some of the books as she thought of how to answer the question.

“Of course I do,” Gjeelea lied.

“That is good, then,” Tendai replied, satisfied. The princess handed her a new book to read and said farewell before turning away and leaving the room. Gjeelea thanked Basit and Rafiqa for their hospitality and left the bookshop, continuing on her way to the temple of Rhais. Some citizens gave the princess a warm smile, a slight bow, or perhaps a good-natured wave if they chanced to recognize her. Gjeelea wondered how things would be if she became queen, or how they felt about Korak.

When Gjeelea finally reached the temple of Rhais, she stood still for a moment outside the temple, admiring the monument. The princess knew that the temple of Rae could not compare to the architecture of the home of the Earth-goddess. Surely construction had improved bit by bit since the building of Rhais’ home, but Gjeelea almost felt that the division over Rae’s temple and the controversy might affect the building of it. Something about the intricacy and beauty of the temple of Rhais made Gjeelea feel safe and comforted.

The princess would never argue for one deity over the other – it would not be good politics. She carefully skated around divine discussion, never willing to trample on someone else’s view of Rae or Rhais. Gjeelea had grown up revering both Rae and Rhais, and she would show no favor towards either; were they not both divine anyway? Still, Gjeelea knew that the reasoning behind building a superior temple to Rae was wrong. The only popularity contest Gjeelea wanted to deal with was between her and Siamak. Her thoughts of competition dwindled as she entered the temple, searching for the High Priestess.

Gjeelea rarely spoke to Zamara. Today, though, the princess sought to speak to the High Priestess about the Emissary. Gjeelea and Siamak had not come to a conclusion on the Emissary and his offer for an alliance, nor had the two agreed much in their conversations. The tension between brother and sister had likewise come between their ability to negotiate and speak calmly to one another. There were many things that the princess had yet to say to Siamak about the matter of the Emissary, and yet Gjeelea also sought the opinion of valued Pashtian citizens. Zamara, Tarkan, Lady Hababa – Gjeelea had yet to converse with these people on their views of the Emissary.

Taking further steps into the temple, Gjeelea found Zamara kneeling before the statue of Rhais.

“High Priestess?” Gjeelea prompted softly.

[Imladris]

Arshalous stood overlooking the building of the new temple. Her arms were folded, the slim golden bracelets glittering in the sun. She spent most of her days here now...if her money was being spent on a temple she did not agree with then she could at least over see it and make sure that it was beautiful. It was much more than Korak would do, she thought with distaste, a sneer flickering across her face. The man had only done it for political purposes, of that she was sure.

She moodily thought of the "romance" between the princess and her cousin. How could the king arrange for his daughter to marry that excuse for a man was far beyond her. And she thought it disgusting how Korak could pretend to love her...it was despicable that a noble should lie like that...she frowned and spat the dust between her sandled feet.

She saw the Princess Gjeelea pause in front of the Temple of the Earth-Goddess. Arshalous wondered again what the royal siblings were going to decide about the Emissary. She bit her lip, wondering what their misgivings were...she herself had seen nothing but good character from the Emissary.

The lack of communication from Alanzia was odd, but she did not find it as disturbing as others. If there was trouble between the two nations it was better this way instead of firey words...she herself wished that it was that way for herself and Korak. Of course, maybe the silence of Alanzia was caused by something dire...but why conjecture the worst when there was no reason to believe that something horrid had happened?

She shifted uneasily on her feet, the rumours of demons and ghosts and giant, ravaging men that roamed the country side gnawed at her...she could not pass it off as mere superstition...

She smiled softly to herself. The creatures that had fallen into the mists of the forgotten had arisen...and was that not a thrilling thought?

[Nurumaiel]

The building site for the new temple was not empty that day. Lord Korak arrived upon his horse, and swept a glance over it all. The temple he had strove for was coming into being at last. He could see the money he relinquished building up before his eyes in the form of a majestic building. Yet... if he had been in charge of the building, and not just the funding, he would have made it more majestic than it was. Especially that one spot that he could see from the corner of his eye.

It was then he noticed the Lady Arshalous. His lips turned downwards in a deep frown, and for a moment he considered returning to his home. But, no! He recalled swiftly that when the two of them stood upon this ground, he stood as the victor. The Lady Arshalous, who so opposed the idea of the new temple, was also funding it. She was working alongside him, working for something she did not want. He held the upper hand here. And he thought in passing that the one spot did not look so very bad after all, but it was simply the Lady Arshalous' presence by it, fouling it and making it look dark and dreary.

Lord Korak dismounted and moved towards his Lady Cousin, leading his horse along by the reins. Perhaps it did not occur to him that horses were disapproved of by the King, or perhaps he was merely being defiant. Morashk, lurking in the shadows, wondered this. Of course Korak knew that the King disapproved, but perhaps he did not know that he really did disapprove, and it was not merely a show. Lord Korak was always putting on shows himself. Disloyalty? Morashk laughed at the thought. He would die for his master, but he would not refrain from thinking of him as he would.

"My Lady Cousin," said Korak, bowing slightly. He wondered what would happen if he kissed her hand. She would probably strike him. That would never do in public, when he could not strike back. For the Lord Korak would have no qualms about striking back... if there were not many eyes watching.

He turned then, and looked at on-going temple with approving eyes. "It is a magnificent prospect we see before us," he said. "And it could not have been if you had not been so gracious as to give some of your wealth for it. Perhaps it is odd that we are working together, or perhaps it is merely a usual occurrence in fate. Nevertheless, we are working together, and achieving a temple to the sky god. You are achieving a temple to the sky god, dear cousin."