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Old 12-07-2004, 03:50 PM   #81
Nurumaiel
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Lady Hababa momentarily forgot Arshalous' words, and she sent immediately for Morashk. The pale servant entered, and as he looked spitefully from Arshalous to the King's messenger, the mother realised with a pang that it was not only her family that was torn apart, but the entire household. Her son hated his cousin and was disgusted by all besides himself, and the chief servant of the house, too, hated Lady Arshalous, as also he hated this friend of the family and servant of the King.

She dispatched Morashk to find her son, and, recalling how her conversation with her niece had ended, murmured quickly in the latter's ear: "Arshalous, I pray you: whatever you do, use no means of war to keep my son from the throne. I love him still, despite his many faults, and civil war would not resolve any problems, but only bring further pain, and extend our troubles to the people." And then she moved to follow Jarult from the room.

Morashk sulked as he saddled his horse, wondering what the King needed with their family, and why he had not been invited to go, as well. He felt some worry that his master would be at a loss for words without any assistance, and with his wicked cousin saying spiteful things towards him, which would more than likely confuse him. Morashk leapt astride his horse and gave him a rather sharp kick, as a way to release his anger.

He did not have to ride far to find his master, for the Lord Korak was returning from his ride, not wanting to leave his mother too long alone, though he would not have admitted it. She was apt to grow lonely without company. His Lordship's face darkened when he heard of the request for his presence. He said nothing, but merely turned his steed in the direction of the Palace, ordering Morashk to return to the house and prepare some good wine. Then he moved his horse onward to the Palace.

Morashk turned to obey his master's orders, and under his breath he cursed the Lady Arshalous and the King Faroz.
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Old 12-08-2004, 12:09 PM   #82
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"Tell me, Arlomë: what do you think? And your husband? Has he said anything of immortals, of his lord's knowledge of elves?"

Arlomë pulled her eyes from the peaceful courtyard and turned them to meet Zamara’s. The memories of the night before, the strange chill, the words about the darkness and the Elves of the Emissary’s land, all flooded her mind, yet she did not speak at once. The High Priestess could see the tightness in the Elf’s eyes and the trouble that lay behind them.

“You hesitate to tell me your thoughts,” Zamara observed. “What is troubling you, Arlomë?”

“To be honest, Zamara, I am not sure.” Arlomë paused and looked at her hands. “I do not trust this Emissary.” The Elf quickly surveyed the garden, and then looked back to the High Priestess. Zamara met her gaze with furrowed brows, and silently nodded for Arlomë to continue. “I cannot say why, but when I met him...this strange...uneasiness came over me.” A look of surprise flickered in Zamara’s eyes, but she said nothing. “Maybe I am making too much of this.” Arlomë shook her head as though dismissing her confession. “In fact, I should not have said anything.”

Zamara opened her mouth to speak, but the young Tayfar entered at this moment. The young girl nervously lowered her head and presented the Elf and High Priestess with a small round tray made of a glossy clay. A fine, intricate design was carved into its center. It appeared chaotic at first, but then it became noticeable that the lines had the same source, and they grew into the earth like the great roots of a tree. Arlomë wondered at how the tray so delicately portrayed how Rhais fed all life. Zamara’s hand passed over the tray as she reached for her cup, and Arlomë was brought from her thoughts. As she looked up, the young Tayfar’s steps could be heard walking along the stone path toward the temple, and the Elf took her own cup and sipped the warm tea, smiling over the edge at the High Priestess, hoping Zamara had forgotten the confession she had made before the girl’s arrival.
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Old 12-08-2004, 04:12 PM   #83
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Tolkien

Arshalous felt her insides grow numb as she rode beside her aunt. What did the King want with her? As one of the most reclusive of the nobility, she had rarely been summoned. Why now?

She remembered Lady Hababa's words concerning civil war...the thought was disconcerting and certainly had not crossed her mind. Though civil war was not desirable in the least, Arshalous wondered if it would really actually happen. Korak was a fool...and she deemed him a coward in some respects and he probably would shy away from a war as an untrained horse shys away from the clash of swords against shields.

But deeming that he was pig headed enough to go to war over it...wouldn't it be better to have the war over quickly than having Korak's folly sow seeds of quarrles that would bloom forth in civil war, or even war with a foreign country? She scratched her head and put away such thoughts. The present was yet pleasant and there was no need to trouble about thoughts of war until such time as was necessary.

However, she could not stop thinking about Korak. His mother remembered with fondness when he was a loving lad. Arshalous herself wondered what had happened to that lad -- he had probably shrivelled up and died. She remembered vaguely when he had pulled her hair and had broken her favourite ring when she was young...it had been the day his father had died. She remembered that day very vaguely. She remembered that he had been sad...and that she had been trying to cheer her up...she wondered if teasing counted as cheering up. It wasn't her fault that Korak was fun to tease, she thought resentfully...And then his anger had exploded like new wine in an old skin...and he had hurt her. It was only later that she had found out about her uncle's death...had she apologized? She didn't remember.
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Old 12-08-2004, 05:02 PM   #84
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“Usually when two countries have an alliance, they agree to support each other in war, and protect each other’s interests. They are usually trading partners,” answered Siamak. “Which is why the Emissary’s proposal of alliance seems to make little sense - the distance between the two countries are so great that none of these things are practical.” His calm expression belied his inner confusion over the issue. Gjeelea appeared to pass over this issue as trivial, though it could be she simply did not want to acknowledge the point. Siamak could never really tell with her.

“So, why else might the foreign lord look for alliance?” prompted his mother. It was a fairly familiar pattern, for this was the way his mother had always taught them: not giving them direct answers, but making them think for themselves. The situation now was rather altered than in the past, since she was not teaching them per se, but the queen’s manner was the same.

As this was the same question that had been stumping Siamak for the past day, and so he let Gjeelea answer. She was fairly forthcoming, saying, “Yesterday the Emissary said that a country can never have too many allies.”

“But why so far away?” countered Siamak softly. “Would not most rulers look to their neighboring countries first? And if he already has his the alliance of those countries nearer by, why does he want our alliance?” Though he was sharing his doubts, Siamak was careful not to show his opinions one way or the other, mostly because he wanted to get a better feel for his sister’s inclinations first.

Gjeelea seemed not to have an answer (For once, thought Siamak), but his mother encouraged them on, shifting the discussion slightly. “So why might we want an alliance with them?” This gave Siamak pause, and he realized that this was probably the better question to consider while deciding whether to accept. Certainly, it was food for thought, but right now he did not have a clear answer - he would keep it in mind while meeting with the Emissary later on.
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Old 12-08-2004, 09:22 PM   #85
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Gjeelea held back a sigh, and wondered why her mother had summoned her and Siamak to this questioning. The princess wondered why Bekah felt like making certain that her children remembered her lessons before speaking to the Emissary. Siamak asked questions, but none of them prompted the discussion further. Gjeelea squinted at his lack of opinion, or distaste for showing whatever opinion he might have.

"You do not ask the right question, mother," Gjeelea murmured, avoiding her brother's gaze but meeting Bekah's glance straight on. "What bothers me is what might happen if we were to refuse such an alliance. We know very little about his country, now that I think of it. What kind of impact might a refusal to the Emissary have on Pashtia? I highly doubt that the Emissary would travel all this way if he thought that our trust could not be won - or should not be won."

For a moment, none of the family members spoke. Gjeelea did not want to speak again, leaving her question unanswered. Yet, she hoped Bekah did not speak next, knowing it would only be another question that did not solve anything. Instead the princess looked to her brother.

"What are you saying, then?" Siamak asked, breaking the long, awkward silence. He stroked his miniscule beard in a thoughtful manner, and his eyes never met Gjeelea's as he spoke. "Do you mean to say that the Emissary is humouring us while we debate over trust that he knows we will give?"

"It is a possibility," Gjeelea shrugged as she cocked one eyebrow at her brother. His own brows furrowed at his sister's retort and nestled deeper into his seat. "I do not think either of us are in such a good position that we can rule out any possibilities, Siamak..." Gjeelea's voice trailed off as she remembered something that Siamak had said earlier.

...If he already has his the alliance of those countries nearer by, why does he want our alliance?

"Something is happening that we do not know of," the princess whispered, her voice so light and airy that even she could barely hear it. Siamak and the Queen must have heard the whistle on the wind, for they both looked to Gjeelea with a question in their eyes. Still the princess mused to herself. "Something big."

"What did you say?" Siamak prompted politely. Gjeelea blinked, snapping out of her thoughts for a moment, then smirked at her brother.

"Oh, nothing, Siamak my dear," Gjeelea replied loftily, returning to her regal, impatient manner. "Just thinking to myself. Now, where were we? Do you have another question for us to answer, mother?" Gjeelea waited for one of her companions to speak.

Something is happening to the west that we know nothing of...

Was this something Gjeelea would want to share with her sibling? She wondered this over and over as she revived the conversation in her mind. It certainly was not a huge discovery, just a tidbit that Gjeelea thought rather interesting and curious. Something to bring up with the Emissary this afternoon? Gjeelea mused, a light smile playing on her lips.
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Old 12-09-2004, 10:07 AM   #86
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Because the Person I love lives
Inside of you,

I lean as close to your body with my words
As I can –

And I think of you all the time, dear pilgrim.

Because the One I love goes with you
Wherever you go,
Faroz will always be near.

If you sat before me, wayfarer,
With your aura bright from your many
Charms,

My lips could resist rushing to you and needing
To befriend your blushed cheek,

But my eyes can no longer hide
The wondrous fact of who
You Really are.

The Beautiful One whom I adore
Has pitched His royal tent inside of you,

So I will always lean my heart
As close to your soul
As I can.


Faroz spoke the words just beneath his breath and tapped out the rhythm of the music upon the pillow beside him. With his other hand he stroked the Ring unconsciously. He had been working on the poem for a long time and it was almost finished. He ran through it again to fix in his memory the shape of the words, for like all of his compositions he dared not write it down for fear that someone might stumble across it and know that he indulged in poetry. Once, long ago, he had smuggled a young singer into his apartments, late at night and recited to him the few poems he had written, and then ordered the youth to sing them aloud. The King had sat upon his cushions, closed his eyes, and listened to the low melodies of the boy as they breathed Faroz’s words into existence. It was the only time he had ever heard his songs aloud. In wild moments of fantasy, he dreamed of finding that boy once more and bringing him back to Kanak to give a performance of Faroz’s songs to the Court, but such fleeting moments had grown fewer, and now hardly came to him at all.

He was shaken from his reverie by the entrance of the Lady Arshalous and, strangely, the Lady Hababa. He rose from his cushions and approached them, waving away the guards who had brought them in. “My Ladies, welcome. I am glad that you could attend upon me upon such short notice. But where is the Lord Korak?” The women curtsied low, casting their eyes upon the royal feet. Faroz endured this with the good grace acquired through thousands of the same kind of performance. How he longed, suddenly, for the slight inclination of the head given him by Ashnaz, whose eyes never left his own to seek the ground but remained fixed upon him.

“My son is taking the airs, my King,” the older woman was saying. “On his horse.”

The King did not allow this to ruffle him. He knew the general opinion of his preference for divans over horses, and how this had been received by the nobility. It irked him that what was, for him, simply a preference of how to travel had become a fad for some, and a political statement for others. What if I were to suddenly decide to go about naked? he wondered, a sardonic smile crossing his face. Would the nobility feel compelled to undress as well? And would those who insisted upon wearing their clothes suddenly be regarded as dangerous rebels? The Lady Arshalous was now speaking. “We have dispatched a servant for him, your Majesty, and he should be with us soon. Should we wait for his arrival before speaking of…whatever it is you have sent us for?”

The King shook his head impatiently. “No, he can be informed of our topic when he arrives. In the meantime, I assume, Lady Hababa, that you are here in his stead?” The older woman inclined her head by way of assent. The King wondered if she were capable of holding rational conversation, for he had heard that she was becoming absent of mind. Be that as it may, she was here now, and the King had to admit that he preferred her company to that of her son. He invited the women to join him upon the cushions that had been laid out on the balcony. The sun was now well into the sky and the canopy of silk cast a pleasing shadow on where they sat. There was a large kettle of tea steaming upon a low brazier and the King as host, according to the custom of his land, served them all. So it was in every Pashtian home, from the meanest cot of the poorest peasant to the Palace; it was one of the few social graces that the King both fully understood and appreciated in its purity and simplicity. As they were sipping their scalding drink, the King began. “I wanted to speak with you and the Lord Korak about the proposal to build a new High Temple to Rae.” Faroz saw the look of alarm and distaste which marred the otherwise fine features of the younger lady. The elder seemed more circumspect in her response. “I have not yet decided whether to build it, but it seems prudent for me to look into the matter of financing it. I believe that your son is in favour of the project?”

“Oh, yes, I think he is,” Hababa replied. “At least, he has spoken of it to me from time to time as something he should like to see. He believes that it is wrong to have one High Temple but two deities.”

“And do you think he would be willing to pay for part of such a temple?”

Hababa looked less certain about this and made a non-committal noise deep in her throat. “I cannot speak for my son on matters of money, Majesty.”

“Of course not, but if he is as keen upon the idea as you say, it is reasonable to assume that he would be willing to see it brought about? I am sure that his…piety…would demand nothing less of him.” Hababa merely hemmed, smiled and buried her face in her cup. The King, having scored this much at least, turned his attention to the Lady Arshalous. “You, I understand, are not so keen as your cousin to see the High Temple built.” It was not a question. “You are then undoubtedly wondering why I have asked to see you as well? For two reasons, really. First, your cousin, as rich as he is, cannot pay for the construction of the Temple alone. Second, I would be interested in hearing your opinion of the matter before I make my decision. Why do you resist the idea of a second High Temple? Are you so opposed to the idea that you would refuse any request for funds to see it built?”

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Old 12-10-2004, 04:05 PM   #87
Imladris
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Tolkien

Arshalous frowned into her cup and cleared her throat, shifting her gaze ever so slightly to see what her aunt thought about it. She had a perfectly calm...almost amused expression on her face.

"The High Temple would be showing unnecessary favour to an inferior," said Arshalous. "And yes, I do believe that Rae is inferior to Rhais, who is the earth mother. I do not pretend to understand how, exactly, she is the earth mother yet she is while Rae is merely the Sky God."

She darted a glance at the king, wondering how frank and blunt she should be. "If I had my way," she said tartly, "there wouldn't be another temple. The current High Temple has been enough...the gods are content with that. Why stir them to anger by giving a temple to Rae? Why curry their ill will with flattery?"

The King nodded, and asked again, "So you will refuse to give funds to it? You're cousin cannot pay for it himself."

She tipped her head slightly in assent. She was almost nettled by the question. How could he expect her to fund something that she disagreed with? It was unheard of it. She wouldn't actively oppose it, but she wasn't going to actively support it either. It reeked of weakness to pay for something merely because others wished you to do so. "It is not my problem," she added as an after thought, "if Lork Korak cannot pay for this Temple himself."

She sank back into the scarlet cushions, her eyes closed. "There is too much fuss about this temple," she said, almost to herself. "I do not understand why there is a need for it, why there is a need to change that which does not need to be changed. Unless, of course --" she opened her eyes at this -- "they want something more than a temple and that is only a mask for it. But I am likely being paranoid."
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Old 12-10-2004, 05:24 PM   #88
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Boots Tarkan's cynicism

The two men hurried down the narrow street. It was rather empty. Only the outlines of a few figures could be spotted; the figures moved quickly, casting long shadows as they went. Not a sound could be heard, except the sound of the two men’s pairs of feet against the stone floor, echoing slightly as they trotted on. The Priest went first, having Pelin just behind.

"Come now," Tarkan said suddenly, realising that the younger man probably kept his distance due to the difference between their social statuses; Pelin was only being respectful by walking behind his superior. Nevertheless, Tarkan stopped and turned, waved his hand and laid it at the man's shoulder. "Please, Pelin, why do you think I arrived at your apartments this morning?" he asked gently with a faint smile. He could see that the young man was rather surprised by being asked such a question, as it was not usual to question such things. In fact, it would have been rude if Pelin had questioned Tarkan's intentions by his coming. Tarkan watched the young man being silenced by the hesitation and insecurity that arose inside of him. Pelin gave the priest an odd look, which reflected both. By this, the Priest spoke again:" Is it that unusual for friends to have breakfast together?!"

Without letting the man answer, if he could answer, as Pelin seemed to be quite taken by this comment, the Priest hurried his pace, urging Pelin to walk faster as well. Shortly, they arrived the Temple of Rhais.

For a moment they stood silently watching it, raising their heads, gazing upwards. The huge cedar doors stood ajar, letting some of the dim light out on the street. Even though it was a Temple, raised to honour the earth goddess, Rhais, it was seemed as if it was a magical moment for Pelin, as the young man favoured Rae over Rhais, or so Tarkan chose to interpret this odd form of quiet ritual. Tarkan too though, felt something strange come over him, something which touched him and made him feel important. It didn’t after all matter that the Temple he served in was devoted to Rhais, as long as he himself was a truly devoted servant of the male God, he reminded himself of.

Suddenly, he shook his head, as if having been told to do so by some higher power. What were they standing here for, wasting time? A sudden urge to nudge the man next to him hard in his ribs, swelled up inside the Priest. He managed to restrain himself, thinking of his great accomplishment thus far. Pelin seemed to be captured in the illusion of being the Priest’s best friend. Tarkan frowned, watching Pelin standing motionless. “Tell me. Does your soul fully belong to the earth goddess, Rhais?” Pelin’s face expression changed. His eyes shifted, became dark and thoughtful, as if not knowing the answer. How can that be possible? Either you favour Rhais over Rae or the other way around! The Priest thought, feeling both annoyed and anxious. What if Pelin didn’t after all favour Rae? Whom could he turn to? Did anyone else in the Temple truly favour the sky god over the earth goddess? If he was left alone with his strong belief that Rae brought more and better to the people of Pasthia than Rhais, no new Temple would ever be built, certainly not in the honour of Rae, his God. Pelin was maybe useless after all. Tarkan alone would not be able to convince the King to build a new Temple, even if it was his half brother. Who else can I turn to? He asked himself over and over, almost forgetting, or ignoring, Pelin being present.

“Father, is it for me to answer?"

The priest's first reaction was the sudden need to slap him. Is it for me to answer...? he mimicked and repeated inside of his head.

"Dear, Son. Pelin if I may . . . I only ask because you seemed hesitant to enter, as if you didn't want to go in. What is keeping you? Is your lack of faith hindering you?" By this, Pelin opened his mouth to protest, but the Priest had his way with words and continued silently:" Pelin, Pelin, Pelin. Through my years as a Priest and a servant of the Temple, I have seen many devoted men and women leave; all of a sudden they have left and never come back. Not because they necessarily wanted to, but because their faith lessened instead of increasing! It is a pity every time to see such; souls being filled with longings to do something else. The saddest thing however about men and women like these, is that they do not realise that serving in the Temple would have been the best path to follow," he paused for a second to catch his breath. "I, not wanting to see you choose, what I call, the wrong path, merely imagined myself that you were favouring Rae over Rhais, and that this caused your hesitation for entering the Temple of Rhais. It is all right to favour one of the Gods of the other, though I do not recommend it. It will get you ill places. I know many who do though, and thus I really hope it was only this that kept you as I would not want to see you leave, as devoted as you are, and as believing in none and nothing will certainly have its effect on the human soul..”

He turned his back to him, raising an eyebrow, leaving him. Had he managed to scare him? He wondered. An evil smile appeared in the pale feminine face of his.

“Dear Father, if you let me . . .” Pelin started, tears in his eyes, as he caught up with the Priest who was about to enter the Temple. “Please know that I do not want to leave! I will never, I promise! It is true; I favour the one over the other, and that is only why I hesitated. But please, tell no one of this. People will think me crazy to serve and so spend many hours in a Temple where the honour goes solely to the earth goddess.”

The sound of Pelin’s words made Tarkan tremble. Not of fright, but of pure joy. Either, the young man truly favoured the male God, or he had been stricken with panic when Tarkan had supposedly been under the impression that he was leaving and never to serve in the Temple again. Tarkan’s mutterings about going to ill places if he believed in neither of them had probably also had a great effect on the poor man. Getting a grip of himself, as he had difficulties restraining himself for laughing out loud, he patted the man on the back. The Priest gave him an approving nod, and muttered a few comforting words under his breath. “I understand . . I understand . .”

"Now let us go inside and eat . . ."

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Old 12-13-2004, 09:14 AM   #89
Fordim Hedgethistle
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The Lady Arshalous was indeed an odd mixture of cunning and naivete. She was able to perceive that there were motives other than piety at work in the nobles’ desire for a new High Temple, and yet at the same moment she brazenly denied her King’s request. It had not been a command – it could not have been. Pashtian law expressly forbade any form of indirect taxation, but everyone knew that a royal request was something not lightly to be ignored. The Lady was well within her rights to deny the King, but it was a dangerous game for her to be playing. Faroz was neither vindictive nor vengeful, and from time to time it came about that one of the nobility would defy him. Had such a thing happened in his father’s day the one foolish enough to deny his or her king would usually end up charged with treason for an offense that had hitherto been unknown. Occasionally, such niceties as this would be skipped entirely and the offending nobleman found dead in his bed within a year. In the time of Faroz’s rule, such incidents had ceased, and for a time there had been those among the nobility who had seen this as a sign of the son’s weakness. But Faroz was somewhat more imaginative than his father, and his tactics, while more subtle, were just as effective in the end. Those who denied him found themselves suddenly faced with any number of difficulties. Petitions to the Court would be delayed, sometimes for years, before being heard. Certain privileges would be curtailed, and royal appointments for the offender would not be renewed. If the noble who had denied the King had trading interests, that same noble would find new permits and trading rights hard to obtain. In this way the King was able to bring home to his people the disadvantages of not co-operating, and sooner or later, he would get his way.

It had been a long time since he had been forced to make an example of anyone, and he found the prospect of having to do so now…distasteful. For years he had ruled unquestioned and unopposed, and he did not relish the prospect of an open display of disloyalty from someone as relatively unimportant as the Lady Arshalous. It would be better if she could be convinced today. Appearing unconcerned by her refusal, the King offered the Lady more tea. She accepted and as he poured it out he said, almost conversationally, “Are you very sure you wish to make such a quick decision in this matter? You do not appear to have considered it deeply, and yet you are willing to reject my request,” he allowed an emphasis to rest on this word, “almost immediately.”

The Lady seemed to catch at least part of his meaning and asked, “What more should I consider, Majesty? Are there other factors I have not taken into account?”

“None that pertain to the Temple, Lady. I merely ask that you reconsider your answer. I do not make such a request lightly.” He paused for a second and sipped his tea, then continued. “You are quite young, Lady, and I realise not much used to an active role in the Kingdom. If you would not mind a bit of free advice, it might do you good to become more involved. It is your choice, of course, but I would think that contributing to this Temple might be just the opportunity you need to make a place for yourself – to distinguish yourself amongst the other nobility. I can understand your reservations about the project, I myself share them. Like you, I believe that there may very well be – other factors behind certain people’s support of it. But that cannot be our concern, can it? Mustn’t we make our decisions based on what we believe and want, rather than from fear of what others might be planning? Besides, Lady, we are only speaking of what might be, today. As I said, I have not decided whether or not to build it – so what harm is there in lending your support to it now?” He eyed her above the rim of his cup, and wondered if she understood the choice he was offering her…and that it would only be offered this one time.
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Old 12-13-2004, 05:16 PM   #90
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Arshalous sat up straighter, a vague feeling of fear tingling in her stomach. Too late she realized that she had blundered in giving such a straight answer to the King; that was not how the game of politics was played. She had much to learn...she had spent far too much time away from court...far more to learn that she had realized.

She knew that the King's request was almost equivalent to a command. She remembered stories of nobles who had spurned a King's decrees -- they had not come to a good end, and the King's wish had ultimately been done. But the unfortunate noble had definitely come out of the ordeal with robes splattered with mud, and cowed like an insolent puppy. The image did not appeal to her.

She set down her cup on the low table, to better hide the trembling in her hands. The fear had given way to anger. Why should she have to give her word to pay for the building of a temple she did not think was right because a King ordered her to? Why did a King command her conscience...demand of her to do what he thought was right?

He knew that there might well be a plot behind this building of a temple...why would he want her to support that? Did he think that the building of the temple was for the good of the realm? She caught her breath at the thought, remembering, from the stories that she had read, that sometimes what you wanted must be given up for the good of others...she reluctantly realized that what the king said was true...foolish fears must not hinder them...

And was she not a noble of the realm who had sworn allegiance to her King? But when did that allegiance become willful blindness?

She weighed the two problems in her minds: compromising with evil (if the building of the temple could be considered evil) or if she was merely concerned with her own preference. She did not want to suffer for a preference...that would be a waste. And her vow to serve her king must be taken into acount as well...

She clenched her silken robes in her fingers. Inclining her head in a short bow, she said thickly, "Yes...my King...I will help pay for the temple."

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Old 12-14-2004, 08:17 PM   #91
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And so the morning passed between the Queen and the Royal Children. Each was warily supplying ideas, half afraid the other would take the idea and make more of it than the first had initially planned. Yet at least slowly they were gaining some sense of the wide range of issues the alliance implied. The sun rose higher in the sky, its beams shining hotly into the Queen's balcony and the white heat making their heads dizzy with its brightness. Through the open window came the unmistakable sounds of the market, shrill voices of vendors and sellers, counter-offers from buyers and customers, screeches and calls and cries of caged animals, birds squawking, half-wild dogs fighting for the offal thrown out by the butchers, children shrieking with the exuberance of childhood. This was the centre of the Pashtian economy, for even the large trading ventures and the private arrangements depended upon the wealth of the open market.

Homay brought in lunch, cucumbers and yoghurt, wilted greens, shaved, roasted meat layered over bread, figs and pomegranates and apricots, hot, sweet tea. The three ate in silence, for once letting the sharp prongs of words fall by the wayside.

Finally, after the three had eaten, Bekah returned to the question of the Emissary.

"We have not considered how such an alliance might affect the alliance with Alanzia." It was a simple statement, but something about saying it brought a tenseness to the conversation.

"Would your brother-monarch object?" Siamak inquired. He had always been curious about this uncle of his who he had never seen.

"He might. He might question if it would bring him into an alliance with this Annatar, without the benefit of choice," replied Bekah.

"Are we not free to make our own alliances?" asked Gjeela

"We are. Your father is," replied Bekah, "but, still, alliances can turn a country's interests in different dirctions. Siamak, has Morgôs mentioned if we have any scouts who can report to us about the western lands beyond the desert?"

"Not yet, but I can ask," the Prince replied.

"Surely that would take too long," objected the Princess. "Do we know how long the Emissary will stay?"

"A good question, Gjeela. I have not been told."

"What does he offer us?" Siamak asked.

"That I do not know either," Bekah replied, "although, it is said he did offer a gift, a magnificent gift. Have either of you seen it?"

"I saw a black pouch, a velvet bag, I think, and a flash of gold," replied the Prince.

"But it has not been displayed, has it? It has not been publically acknowledged and placed on display in the court?" Bekah tried to mask her interest in this, but her children could tell she was intrigued by this.

"Should it have been?" inquired Gjeela.

"It depends upon the terms of the offer of the alliance. Was the gift offerred to Pashtia in the person of her King? Or to the King personally?" Bekah became lost in thought and her children began to fidget. Their complaints over some of the food brought back her attention. "Well, I have kept you long enough, my children. I'm sure you have business of your own to conclude. My thanks for your patience and your attention."

Each child rose, offering Bekah a kiss on her cheek, a ritual each observed in private as well as in public. She remained seated as Homay showed the children out. Faroz has not shown me the gift. He has not displayed it to the court. Is it offered to him alone? Does this Annatar wish Faroz's alliance and not Pashtia's? She sat a long time wondering if she should ask the King about the gift privately, or challenge the Emissary publically about it. Then she roused herself, knowing she had other matters to discuss later with the High Priestess.
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Old 12-15-2004, 06:27 AM   #92
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Boots Evrathol

The morning had slowly passed over to mid-day. It was time for Evrathol to visit the temple. He knew that his mother, Arlomë was there, but this time it would not be the reason of his going; Evarthol wanted to see Tarkan. Some way or the other, he had been feeling restless since the meeting with Tarkan the evening before. He felt a bit guilty for not offering Tarkan the thoughts the Priest deserved. Yesterday Evrathol realised that he been too cold and restricted at the meeting with the Priest. Evrathol somehow wanted to visit him, to see if Evarthol had broken, or weakened the small "friendship" between them – if there even existed such a “friendship”. If so, he wondered if it had been ruined by Evarthol’s coldness. Hopefully, Tarkan wouldn't have noticed anything. Evarthol could have been over doing the whole scene, but he decided to pay Tarkan a visit anyhow.

The Temple rose before him like a noble, well served statue.

Taking a step inside, he realised that he hadn't been at the Temple for quite some time now.

Evarthol heard low voices. Looking just behind the corner he didn't see anyone. He reckoned it was his mother's voice. The corridor went slightly forwards then it took a turn. Evarthol followed it. The country yard that the corridor led too, also led to his mother...and Zamara - the High Priestess. Evarthol wondered if had come in a bad time since both of them seemed occupied with the heavy debate going on between the two of them. Feeling slightly embarrassed, he decided to stand there for a moment, listening. He realised then that it might seem that he was eavesdropping, something that was quite unsuitable for his noble character. Slowly, he straightened his tunic, walking swiftly out in the country yard. The two women were caught of guard and both of them seemed very much surprised to see the young elf there. "I apologise for coming unannounced. It was certainly not my intention. Please do forgive me," Evrathol said, in the most polite manner.

Arlomë looked at The High Priestess, as she was looking for approval, or so Evrathol thought. The High Priestess turned her eyes to Evrathol, as followed Arlomë. "No need to apologise, son," Arlomë began. "I'm just surprised to see you here, as you don't usually visit the temple. Please note that I'm very surprised, but not at all unhappy to see you. Quite on the contrary; It's delightful to see you here," Arlomë said, walking some steps towards him, before she stopped. Zamzara came from behind; her steps were far longer than Arlome's. "Indeed. I hoped to get a better look at you son after yesterday evening," Zamara said to Arlomë. The elf smiled weakly. Evrathol offered a short laugh, before he greeted both of them properly.

"So, mother, may I ask what you two were discussing?" he asked Arlomë. Arlomë remained quiet for a moment. "Well, what else is there to discuss than the Emissary these days?" She replied. "I should have known," Evarthol then said, smiling at Zamara. "It is not only the politicians who are curious, or even - should I say, worried - is it?" he asked Zamara quietly. The High Priestess looked at Evrathol, but didn’t answer.

"Now, Evarthol, dear, what is the reason of this pleasant surprise?" Arlomë then said, turning the discussion n a different path.

"Oh well, I have no other intensions than to please you, mother," Evrathol replied, smiling at Arlomë. She laughed joyously, but Zamara kept quiet. "No, dear, is that so?" Arlomë then asked, grinning. "Well, yes. I knew that you'd be here, and I thought I'd might pay you a short visit. Besides, I didn't get to talk with The High Priestess properly yesterday, so I wanted to make up for it," he said, looking at Zamara. "Well, I'm very glad you came. The Banquet was wonderful, wasn't it?" Zamara then said. "Indeed it was. I'm highly curious about the decision that his Majesty’s children are going to make," Evrathol said, without showing any lack of trust that the King had made the right decision when he had told the attendants at the banquet that it would be the Prince and the Princess who would decide whether they should be an alliance between the two countries. "Yes, that will indeed be very interesting," The High Priestess answered.

Their conversation was interrupted by the Priest. He was now standing in the country yard with his friend, and servant in the temple, Pelin. Feeling obliged to greet him, and also becoming aware of his true meaning of being here at the Temple, Evarthol decided to leave the two women. "Good day to both of you," Evrathol said, kissing the hands of both ladies.

Tarkan and Pelin were now on their way into the corridor, where Evrathol caught up with them. "Greetings, both of you," Evarthol said. "Ah, it's Evrathol, isn't it?" Tarkan said, looking at Pelin. "Indeed," Evrathol said, smiling. "We were about to eat, would you care to join us?" Tarkan then asked. "More than anything," Evrathol replied.
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Old 12-15-2004, 01:57 PM   #93
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Lord Korak, standing in the doorway, could not resist a little smile of smugness, and he went to Arshalous and bowed courteously before her, saying: "Lady Cousin, how kind it is of you to aid me in this endeavour." Then he bowed also to the King, and he kissed his mother's hand. "Your pardon, Majesty, for arriving late. I rode with all haste, but I regret deeply I was out riding at all."

"You could not have known that his Majesty would send for us, son," said Lady Hababa, patting Korak's hand. "I have taken your place in your absence. You have arrived most quickly."

He gave her a fleeting smile, and wondered why she talked so much. She was, no doubt, pleased that the two cousins would join forces on one subject, and more than likely she hoped that it would bring them together. Observing Arshalous' sharp face, full of spite, he could not think that there was any chance of it.

"You know what we're discussing, Lord Korak?" the King questioned.

"Yes, Majesty," said Korak, "or, at least, I believe I do. I heard my cousin's last words to you, and I gather that you are discussing the temple, and also that she has agreed to help pay for it. It is good news to my ears, to hear that I will be assisted in this venture, especially by my charming cousin." However well he concealed with mockery and spite in his voice, it could not escape his mother's ears, who knew him better than all others, and at once her hopes of a reconciliation were dashed, and she bowed her head sorrowfully.
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Old 12-16-2004, 09:18 AM   #94
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With the arrival of Lord Korak and the assent of Lady Arshalous the conversation turned to more practical matters of finance. The King spent the morning speaking with them both of schedules and supplies, materials and money. Throughout the conversations it became clear that there was a strange dynamic at work between the two cousins. The Lady, while opposed to the idea of the Temple, was intelligent and quick-witted about it. She demonstrated an innate grasp of the issues, and despite her lack of practical knowledge about construction, leant many good suggestions. The Lord, on the other hand, showed little more than enthusiasm for the High Temple, and clear malicious glee at the Lady’s having been forced to agree to it. In all other matters, his slow mind was useless to the King, and he found himself gradually turning entirely to the Lady Arshalous for counsel. Faroz at first thought that the animosity was entirely on one side, but within a couple of hours it became clear that the Lady had as little affection for her cousin as the other way around. The King was careful to hide his own interest in this, for the seed of a plan was beginning to form in his innermost thoughts. The hold that the Lord Korak had over him had galled him for too many years. With the Ring, there was now something that he could do about that, but the did not remove the danger of upsetting the delicate balance he had established in his kingdom with the promise of marriage between his daughter and Korak. Were he to do anything to upset that balance he had to make sure that there would be someone beyond the immediate circles of the Court to help him re-establish it. He realised that perhaps the Lady Arshalous would be the one to do that for him. He had cowed her with his threats, but not brought her to him. She was obviously loyal, and dutiful, but for his plans to succeed, he would need to find some way to bind her to him more fiercely.

The Lady Hababa was nodding in her cushions, and Korak’s attempts to appear interested in the discussions were becoming increasingly sporadic, when the Chamberlain Jarult entered to announce that the Emissary had arrived. The King noted with keen interest the sudden light that flashed from the Lady Arshalous’s eyes. Faroz eagerly bade the Emissary to join them upon the balcony, and ordered that the midday meal be served to them all out there.

Ashnaz came to them, resplendent in some of the clothes that the King had ordered taken to him that morning. Like a member of the Pashtian nobility he was clad in long robes of flowing material that hung to and swayed about his unseen feet. The clothes that he had chosen were, however, entirely black and there was neither ornament nor refinement to them. The light seemed to pass through his form leaving only a rich black shadow. His face, rising almost mysteriously above the material, was lit with a warm smile, and his handsome eyes glinted at them. His hair had been carefully brushed and swept back from his face, and Faroz could tell that he had oiled it after the fashion of Pashtia. It was clear that his friend had gone to some effort to close the distance between his own foreign nature and the ways of this realm. Rising to greet him, the King said, “You look well in those robes. I am happy to see you dressing in the manner of my realm. I have no doubt that you were warm enough yesterday in that close-fitting tunic! Is not this kind of dress more suited to my land?”

The Emissary bowed his head and placed his hand on his chest. Faroz could sense that hidden beneath his clothes where his hand lay was Ashnaz’s own Ring, and for some reason the King’s mind went back to his experience last night. Even at the memory the Emissary looked into his eyes and it flew into Faroz’s mind that somehow his friend knew all of what had passed. They gazed at one another in silence for a moment so brief that none there noticed it, but in that brief space of time, no more than a heartbeat, they exchanged a special kind of greeting, sealing a compact of a sort.

The servants came out with a meal of stewed fruits and slow-roasted vegetables, with several platters of fragrant rice. The King and his friend sat down upon the cushions with the others, and the Emissary apologised if he had come too soon upon the hour he had been appointed. “Not at all my friend,” Faroz replied. “You have arrived in good time. I only was so caught up in conversation on an important matter that I neglected to note the passing of time.” He turned to the others and once more resumed his duties as host. “I do not think that you have met the Lord Korak or the Ladies Arshalous and Hababa?”

“On the contrary, Majesty, I did have the opportunity of greeting the Lord Korak last night, and the pleasure of meeting the Lady Arshalous, although I am glad to do so again.” There was a moment of formal greeting between them all. The King noted the keen interest in his friend displayed by Arshalous, as well as the bored manner of Korak. The Lady Hababa shook herself awake for the introduction and after being reminded of who the stranger was, made a fair reply to his greeting. When his was accomplished, Ashnaz asked them what matter had kept them in discussion for the morning.

“We have been discussing the construction of a new High Temple in honour of the god Rae,” Faroz replied as he accepted a plate from one of the servants.

“Indeed?” the Emissary replied. “I regret that one of the things about which I am most ignorant is your religion, my King. I believe that you worship two gods? A male and a female, if I am right?”

It was the Lady Arshalous who answered him, telling him about Rae and Rhais as they ate. The Emissary asked many questions about them both, but it became clear that he was more interested in learning of Rae and of his role in their world. He seemed surprised that the sky god was not regarded as highly as the goddess of the Earth, and he asked why this was so. “The goddess Rhais is supreme over the god Rae,” Arshalous explained, “as it is from the Earth that life comes to us in the form of food and water. Without her, there would be no existence. It is also from her that we have the metals that we adorn ourselves with, and that allow us to fashion the tools that we use.”

The Emissary replied to the Lady. “But do you not owe light and life to your sky god, Rae? Is he not also one who gives you rain and sustenance for your crops?”

The Lady frowned at this, quite prettily. “Rain? Indeed, Rae will sometimes send us water from the sky, but it comes only once or twice a year, and always it is a cause for woe. The rains here are too heavy for our crops and wash them into the river. No, our crops depend upon the river and the water that we are able to divert from it to our farms. In ancient days, people believed that the river came directly from Rhais where she dwelt in the mountains, crying for the loss of her children who were killed by Rae. But we have long since learned that the waters spring from the icy fields that lie atop the mountains, and from the more gentle rains that fall upon their lower slopes.”

“Ah,” the Emissary said with mild triumph, “so you do acknowledge that it is to the sky that you owe water and life for your crops!”

“I never denied it,” Arshalous replied lightly, “but the rains that Rae sends are destructive. It is only the presence of Rhais’s mountains, and her goodness in diverting that rain to us in the Great River, that means we can use the water safely.”

Faroz laughed. “There you are my friend!” he said to the Emissary. “Such is the piety of the Lady Arshalous and many like her. Do not attempt to sway her!”

The Emissary smiled back and replied, “Never would I seek to alter one’s view of their gods, my King. I ask only because in my own kingdom, we too worship a god much like your Rae. I had hoped that by learning a bit more about Him, we might together find that we have more in common than we supposed.”

“And what is the name of your god of the sky?” the Lady Hababa asked, surprising them all that she had been alert during the conversation.

The Emissary turned his attention to the old woman for the first time since greeting her. “His name, my Lady, is Melkor, which means in the tongue of old, ‘he who arises in might.’ He is the greatest of all the gods, and so we worship Him and Him alone.”
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Old 12-17-2004, 12:19 PM   #95
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Boots

Tarkan

And so things had taken an interesting turn. It was obvious that Evrathol had something on his mind; why else had he come? Tarkan was overly convinced that the elf’s visit was not caused by his sudden urge to pray in the temple to the Goddess, as the elf seldom had been here. Nor was it very likely that he was here to really see his mother, as he had been pretty short with her and Zamara. Tarkan doubted Evrathol had all of a sudden turned very religious, and so, already, the Priest concluded that the elf had come to see him. At the banquet, the previous night, Tarkan couldn't help noticing the elf casting long glances his way; the elf had seemed very eager to catch his attention. Remembering this, the Priest's eyes lit up, now kindling with a strange light. He guessed what the Elf was thinking of; the Emissary. This would probably be the subject of their conversation. Greatly excited by this, what seemed like newly gained popularity; Tarkan invited the young elf to eat breakfast with himself and Pelin. Politely, the fair creature accepted.

Pelin and Evrathol settled themselves on two gigantic cushions; meanwhile the Priest placed himself, cross-legged, on the low divan in front of them. It was only fair that he did so. To them, in the Temple, he was their superior; he was their Priest. Shortly after, a young girl came trotting in, holding a tray laden with bread and fruits. Tea was also brought to them, smelling deliciously of various herbs. The three men accepted gladly.

"So, my dear Evrathol.. Have you come here to join the midday prayer?" Tarkan asked, being almost certain that it was not so. He tried to study the elf's reaction towards this blunt question, but he wasn't able to, as the dim light made it impossible to make out his fair face's true features. Instead, not even being slightly annoyed by this, as he was confident that the elf was thinking of the Emissary rather than the midday prayers, he sipped his tea. By the sound coming from Pelin, Tarkan judged he did the same.

"I must admit that I haven't," the elf replied calmly, after a moment's silence. Just as I guessed.. the priest thought to himself, holding his mask. Evrathol's voice was shaking slightly as if embarrassed by the Priest's inquiry. Tarkan frowned; he hoped he hadn't been too frank with him, but it didn’t matter in the long run care. (Evrathol would never be useful to him, so why care?) He had only been polite, trying to start a conversation. Curious, but polite. He didn't after all mind that Evrathol was here. In fact, he would be rather happy if he had joined the prayers, but the Priest knew that there was something else.

No one spoke for a few moments. It was as if none of them dared to speak, afraid that a secret that none of them would want to take part in, and keep secret, was going to be revealed. The strange feeling that had risen inside the Priest’s chest, when first seeing Evrathol, came streaming back. He felt petty where he sat, having no control over anything whatsoever. He had no idea what he was supposed to say, and he certainly didn't know anything of Evrathol's doings here; only that the most probable was that the Emissary’s visit to Pasthia was constantly on the elf’s mind, and that he thought the Priest could help him. Could he? He wondered. Could he help him? He had not himself been able to form an opinion of the stranger, and he had no idea when he would be given the chance either. His Brother seemed to have no interest in his thoughts on the matter; of the Emissary’s coming. Was it not natural to take council with friends, families and religious leaders? Realising this, Tarakn frowned in disgust. Again, he had been ignored.

"I must speak with you, about the Banquet.. and about my mother, Arlomë.."

Caught of guard by this sudden statement, coming from the man whose outlines he couldn't see properly, he felt his body tremble with anxiety to know what the elf was speaking of. Being absolutely stricken, not knowing what to say or do, he swallowed and said to himself: This has indeed taken an interesting turn..

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Old 12-18-2004, 10:50 AM   #96
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Siamak was endlessly relieved to have a break between the meeting with his mother and the meeting with the Emissary. He had forgotten just how wearing a conversation with his sister could be - all her “brother dear-ing” and subtly condescending manner had given him a headache and reminded him of the precise reason that he avoided extended conversation with her. And now he would have to spend even more time with her during the meeting with the Emissary, which was looming up only too quickly.

The meeting had not been without use, however; in fact, it had been very helpful. He had several new issues to consider, and though he was no closer to reaching a decision, his mind was clearer. He also had a better idea of the types of questions to bring up with the Emissary later on.

In an attempt to relieve the dull throb in his head and better his mood, Siamak decided to take a walk through the gardens. The sun shone clearly, and the day was warm but not uncomfortable for those accustomed to the desert climate. He confined himself to the more private gardens and saw no other people, thankfully. His walk had the desired calming effect and Siamak was soon ready if uneager to go through another round. He returned to his own quarters, wondering how long he would have to wait. He wanted to get it over with on one hand, but on the other he wished he didn’t have to do it at all. Duty again.

Gjeelea showed up first, looking refreshed and stately as ever. “Good to see you again, Siamak dear,” she said. Siamak could feel the headache returning already. He answered as politely as he could and showed Gjeelea to his reception room. When she saw that the Emissary was not yet present, the princess muttered something unintelligible; the only words Siamak caught were “Emissary” and “late.” Siamak sat on a low couch and Gjeelea followed suit, reclining nearby. He was uneasy in his sister’s presence, and she seemed to enjoy is discomfort. Siamak felt like a mouse being stared at by a cat who had decided a bit of sport was in order. Though tempted to feel intimidated, in a new wash of boldness Siamak returned her gaze with a glare of his own. Gjeelea appeared somewhat taken aback, but her expression spoke volumes, as if she were simply humoring him. Siamak wished he could speak out against her and show her that he would not be under her sway in this or any other decision, but he couldn’t. Right then, he hated her, hated her for her impregnable mental strength, and hated himself for not being able to stand up to her.

He was saved by a knock on the door heralding the Emissary’s arrival. Siamak collected himself as best he could as the Emissary was shown in. After one last look at him, Gjeelea turned her attention to the Emissary. Immediately, Siamak noticed that the foreigner had changed his manner of dress to Pashtia’s. It only made Siamak more wary. He would not be won over by the Emissary nearly so easily as his father had been.

“My apologies for being late. I was finishing up a fascination discussion with the king and some nobles over your religion,” said the Emissary. Siamak nodded absently.

“Emissary, my sister and I have not had the convenience of hearing all you have told our father, so I would ask that you would go over the terms of your offer of alliance again with us. Also, I am curious to know why your lord takes such interest in an alliance with a country so far away from his own,” said Siamak. He listened carefully to the Emissary’s answer, paying especial heed to his manner. His response was nothing Siamak had not expected, and though it seemed straightforward, Siamak could not dislodge the suspicion that in every seed of truth there was a grain of lie.
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Old 12-20-2004, 01:59 PM   #97
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With the departure of his friend, much of the life went out of the conversation for Faroz. He spoke idly with the women and Korak for a few minutes more, but ever his mind drifted away from where they sat upon the balcony, following Ashnaz through the corridors toward Gjeelea and Siamak. In just over an hour, the King would have to bathe and go to the great hall where he would hear petitions throughout the afternoon. His mind ached at the thought of these, and he longed for a time of respite before they began. For a while he was able to speak with the others about this god of the West, Melkor, but soon he excused himself. Rising, the Ladies Hababa and Arshalous bowed and took their leave, but Korak lingered for a moment. As soon as the Ladies had disappeared, the oaf began. “Majesty. I do not wish to demand, but I must ask when the marriage between myself and your daughter might take place. She is of age now, and I have waited many years.”

Faroz’s eyes narrowed. “Is there any reason for haste, Korak?” In private, he did not bother with pleasantries and formalities. Korak knew the King’s opinion of him.

Korak looked like a child who thought he was being very sly. “The people are beginning to wonder if you are sincere in your desire that we be wed, Khamul. I am afraid that if we remain unmarried very much longer, it will send a dangerous signal to those who oppose the match.”

“You will have your marriage in good time, Korak. I am not about to die any time soon.” Unspoken was the idea that delaying the marriage of his daughter to this man was, at least in part, an extra piece of insurance against his own untimely demise. He motioned for the Lord to depart, but Korak resisted.

“Khamul,” he said again, this time almost wheedling. “I must insist. I fear that if I am not married to Gjeelea soon, I will be forced to conclude only that you no longer intend to honour our…arrangement. I would hate to think that…”

Faroz fought down the desire to call the guards and have the fool thrown into chains. Fighting through the rage in his throat he said. “All right, Korak, you have my permission to speak to my daughter of this. You and she shall together settle upon a date at your earliest convenience. And now, I must rest.” Korak grinned like a dog just handed a large portion of meat. Bowing low he departed in a wave of self-satisfaction.

The King scowled at the wall and thought once more of how much he would like a misfortune to befall the oaf, and as before his mind went immediately to his friend and the Ring. He longed to speak with Ashnaz and take counsel with him – or, at the very least, to be in his company. An idea flashed into his mind, and almost as quickly as the thought itself he acted. Slipping his hand beneath his clothes his finger found the Ring and he put it on. As before, he felt suddenly much more solid in a shadowy world, but he was prepared this time and was not so disoriented as he had been last night. Moving quickly and quietly he left his chambers and stalked the corridors of the Palace. He passed several people, but his soft slippers made no noise, and if they noticed him at all, it was only as a chill beneath their skin.

Finding his son’s apartments, he entered as softly as the wind, and was thankful that none was nearby to see the door quietly opening and closing on its own. He followed the sound of voices and came upon Ashnaz and his children in conference. “The reasons for my Lord Annatar’s request are many, Prince Siamak. Your kingdom is rich in many crops and works of hand that are unknown in the West. My King and his friends would like to sample these goods. To do this, however, we must establish trade and, more importantly, a reliable trade route. This will require time and effort on both our parts. And there are other things to be gained by congress between our realms. Pashtia is well known for its art and philosophy – is it not a mark of wisdom that such knowledge can be exchanged? You may find that we in the West have lore of our own worth the knowing. But beyond all these considerations is the one that my Lord holds most dear, and it is the one I told you all but yesterday when I arrived. Is it not wise, in an uncertain world such as ours, to have as many friends as we can?”
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Old 12-20-2004, 03:27 PM   #98
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The primary silence in Siamak's room felt awkward for a moment, but Gjeelea adjusted to the tenseness that had settled over her and her brother. In the moments before the Emissary entered, Gjeelea wondered how things had become so estranged between her and Siamak. She almost felt as if there had always been an animosity between them. Gjeelea had been three years old when Siamak was born, and she remembered little of that time.

Gjeelea snapped out of her thoughts when the Emissary arrived, so she smiled pleasantly and put on her usual business-like façade.

Siamak took control of the conversation immediately. Gjeelea did not show her surprise in her brother’s suddenly straightforward manner, but the younger sibling had impressed her ever so slightly. He is learning, Gjeelea thought absently as the Emissary began to respond to the Prince’s questioning. But poor Siamak still has to learn, and he is learning too slowly. Father will have to choose between a slow learner and one who already knows.

The Princess expected the sort of answer given by the Emissary - it answered Siamak's question, but vaguely in a sort of rough, outlining thesis. It was the kind of answer Gjeelea had used many times in response to questions she did not like; questions that especially had answers that she knew were less than desirable in total truth. The Emissary spoke of trade mostly, and then he spoke of friendship in an uncertain world.

It would be foolish to just ask 'why?'...Gjeelea thought, musing on what she might say in response to the Emissary's words.

"How is our world uncertain, Emissary, that we need to have alliances with as many nations as possible?" Gjeelea pondered aloud, not meaning to sound so vague but unsure for a moment how to phrase her question and unwilling to spend more time rewording in her mind. "Surely there are times in life...which, perhaps, require more preparedness than others. Those times when one needs to be prepared for the worst in any situation. Those are the times when we are uncertain of which outcome will occur, knowing the best or the worst could happen. Yet, I think, you speak of a danger that we know nothing about at this time. Or perhaps I take your words too literally?"

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Old 12-22-2004, 06:12 PM   #99
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Pipe Evrathol

Evrathol noticed a sudden interest in Tarkan's eyes. It was as if they were lit up. Tarkan looked upon him with great excitement and curiosity. Then his face expression changed; Tarkan suddenly looked anxiously at him, he was probably wondering whether the elf was going to continue and tell him about his concerns regarding his mother and the Banquet or if Evrathol would hold his silence. Evrathol however sat quietly, not knowing exactly what to say or where exactly to begin. Pelin looked questioned at the Priest and not Evrathol, which would have been expected. Pelin sighed a little, just to show the Priest that he was still present.

"Pelin, my friend, please leave us for a moment, will you?" Tarkan asked the man, however he didn’t take his eyes of Evrathol. Pelin nodded quickly; but he didn’t see insulted or angry. Pelin had eaten well and drank enough, and he was more than willing to do what the Priest wished. "It's been a pleasure, sir," he gestured at Evrahol. Evrathol replied quickly; "The pleasure was all mine.” With that, Pelin parted from them. Tarkan and Evrathol were now left alone. Tarkan had by now gotten up from his seat on the divan. His paces were long and it didn’t take him ling to reach the door. He closed it quickly; he was most eager to get back to his seat, or so it seemed. He then found his way back to the divan and seated. This time he didn’t seem as comfortable as he had done before.

"Now," Tarkan began. "It's only you and I, Evrathol," he continued. "I did get the impression that you wanted to speak with me...alone..?" Tarkan then said. Evrathol knew Tarkan was pointing to the event where he had asked Pelin to leave them. "Well, yes," Evrathol replied after a short pause.

"First, will you let me apologise for my very rude behaviour towards you last evening?" Evrathol asked, quietly, but with a certain sternness in his voice. "What is this you speak of?" Tarkan then replied, looking very much surprised. Evrathol didn't know for certain if Tarkan pretended to be untouched by yesterday's events or if Evrathol had been exaggerating. Perhaps he had. By looking at Tarkan - his eyes- he seemed sincere, but the Priest might be fooling him. Oh, what a dreadful thought. Why would a Priest try to fool him?

"Well, I was a bit short with you last night. I may have been a bit arrogant and restricted - and now I'm here to ask for your forgiveness..." Evrathol continued. His voice was, as always, full of self confidence, but somehow, Evrathol seemed blunt. Maybe he was. Maybe the Priest wouldn't notice.

"Don't be silly, my friend," the Priest said, while smirking. Evrathol said naught; and there was a short moment with silence. "Let's hear what you really wanted to talk to me about...shall we?" the Priest suggested eagerly. Evrathol hesitated. Was he going to share his concerns with Tarkan? A Priest he hardly knew? Well, they knew each other well enough to speak in civil conversations in public as well as in private. But the topic Evrathol was about to share seemed like foolish thing to bring up. However, Evrathol knew it was too late to turn now and that the Priest wouldn't let him go just like that.

"I'm worried....or, not worried, maybe just curious," Evrathol began slowly. "As you probably know, my mother spends quite some time in the temple...with The High Priestess," Evrathol continued. He noticed that the Priest's eyes lit up of curiosity and excitement as Evrathol mentioned the High Priestess. "That I know," Trakan then let out. "Well, I'm not quite sure, but I do feel that The High Priestess has....a great...." Evrathol then said. He was looking for a words; the correct word. "Impact," Evrathol then said after a moment. "I think The Priestess has a great impact on my mother Arlomë. I'm not of the opinion that The Priestess is untrustworthy and uncivilized. I'm just not quite sure that this 'impact' she has on my mother is good for her...." Evrathol then concluded. Tarkan listened very carefully without any interruptions. But now as Evrathol had finished, Tarkan cleared his throat; "Are you inquiring that The Priestess is somehow using your mother to achieve....something?" The Priest asked suspiciously. "No," Evarathol replied quickly. "I'm not inquiring anything except for that I'm not certain that the relationship between the two of them is as it should be...." Evrathol knew how odd it might sound for the listener, any listener for that matter. He took a grape from the dish and swallowed it without even tasting the bitter sweet taste of it.

"When I arrived earlier, they were both in a heavy debate, but both were silenced as I entered the county yard. As for eavesdropping; no I'm not the kind, but I must be honest and say that I did hear some talk of the Emissary...." Evrathol spoke quickly, not taking a single breath. "I see..." Tarkan nodded and before he could say anything Evrathol was at his feet.

"I must be going," Evrathol then said. He knew he had been in the temple too long, and his father was probably anxious too see him. "Thank you for everything, and farewell," Evrathol said, waving his good byes to the Priest. "All so soon?" Tarkan then said, while his face expression fell. "I'm afraid so," Evrathol muttered. "Well, at least let me look into....it. Your concerns, I mean," Tarkan then muttered. "That is what I hoped for. Thank you," Evrathol then answered politely, smiling.

Taking his leave, Tarkan was left alone in the room. Evrathol went through the door, meeting Pelin just outside. "Farewell Pelin," Evrathol said quickly. "Sir," he said, bowing humbly.

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Old 12-23-2004, 04:51 PM   #100
Amanaduial the archer
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Silmaril Zamara - 'demons' afoot...

The midday bells rang through the capital city, chiming duskily from both ends, calling for a break to labours as the sun reached it's peak. Outside, for those in the fields, it was necessary for a break of an hour or two: when the sky god held the sun at it's very highest point, his glory spread far and beat down strongly on those who worked at Rhais' earth.

Did that mean the gods were in opposition? Zamara let the idle thought slip into her mind as her eyes drifted up to the face of the earth goddess above her where she knelt. It was an question without an answer, and thus Zamara let it rest: her goddess did not answer all her questions at her every whim, and it was best that way. She was closer to Rhais than anyone else in the city, but what would the goddess be if there was not still some seperation between them.

Zamara hummed softly to herself as she rose, a melancholy melody - a sung prayer to the goddess, a plainsong chant that would be sung this evening by the acolytes. The words slipped slowly from her lips, surrounding her as she stood in front of the goddess' statue, her hands, still patterned with henna, held together in front of her, her dark eyes half closed. She drew the chant to an end, sighed contentedly, and turned around to see two men standing at the top of the long central aisle between the pillars. They wore agricultural clothing, but still looked nervous, twisting their hats between their hands. One man looked to be in his mid years, the other, a taller, gangly individual, maybe a year or two younger than Zamara herself. As she approached, both men bowed in the form of the Temple, showing themselves to be familiar with Rhais - but by their nervousness, and the fact Zamara did not recognise them, she guessed they were from outside the city walls.

"May Rhais bless your fields and families," she murmured, her hands stretched to them. The older man rose at this, and the younger man followed suit hesitantly, as if not sure he was doing the right thing. Zamara smiled and nodded her head to both of them. "Good morrow, sirs. The Temple is free to worship in."

The younger man looked slightly panic-stricken, but the older man took charge quickly, his ruddy face serious. "It isn't for worship that we come today, High Priestess. We came...well, to speak to yourself, if it isn't too much trouble.

Zamara motioned for him to continue, and the farmer continued hastily. "My name is Farron, and this is Hastif, my nephew. We..well, we appear to have something of a situation at Hastif's father's farm. There is..." he seemed lost for words and the younger man butted in.

"A demon!" he whispered fiercely, reverently.

There was a pause, then Farron gave an irritated sigh, glaring at the younger. "Yes, yes, alright, thankyou Hastif." Having quelled his nephew, Farron returned his gaze to Zamara. "Unfortunately, High Priestess, that it one of the conclusions some of us have come to. It seems to be some kind of earth creature, but what sort we have no idea - none of us have seen the like before, not even the village elders. We are in no way saying it is demonic, as you might say-"

"Speak for yourself, Uncle, you han't seen the critter!" Hastif burst out again, then seemed to remember the High Priestess and redenned sharply. "S-sorry, High Priestess," he stammered, focusing his gaze on her ruby medallion. "I...well, me and my brothers saw the creature a few nights ago, having heard some sort of creaking noises across the farm. Isn't a creature around that makes such a noise, far as we know!"

"What does this 'creature' look like?"

"Look like...hrm." Hastif paused. "It's about...well, somewhat taller than myself, High Priestess, somewhat taller indeed - say three feet taller - but then, it did seem to be sort of...stooping. As for girth, I'd say 'tis a good two feet wide all around as well."

Zamara's eyes widened at the size of the creature, but something about the farmer's phrasing caught her attention. "'All around', you say. What do you mean?"

"Well, that's the thing, Priestess - strange thing it is, seems to be pretty much round. It was hunched in a corner, likesay, somewhat stooping. It's skin, or fur, or covering, is rough and dark brown, sorta dappled like, but that may have just been the torchlight. And the strangest thing about it..." Hastif leant forward fearfully, conspiratorially. "It...it seems to be almost entirely covered in leaves! Attached to it's body! And from in them, there are these two, glowing eyes....And these creaking noises..."

"Oh, I've heard them for m'self as well, Priestess," Farron butted in, shuddering. Strangest noises you ever did hear, and echoing for a mile around - like a barn creaking under terrible weight, like a huge tree about to be pulled down... Horrible."

"Worse some nights than others - some nights it's loud, and quite...horrible. But other nights it is...softer, like; quiet, so's you would hardly hear it, like it could let you drift off to sleep; almost like...almost like a sort of singing, Priestess," Hastif finished thoughtfully, his earnest eyes finding Zamara's.

Farron rolled his eyes again. "Bleedin' singing...'moment ago you were saying it was a demon, nephew! But please, Priestess: have ye any idea what it is?"

Zamara narrowed her eyes and shook her head slowly. "I'm not sure, Farron. Where is it that this creature is?"

"Some miles outside the capital, Priestess: Zatrin-a-Rhais?"

Zamara nodded: the village was well known to her. "I will come this afternoon: I have some business at the palace with Queen Bekah, but afterwards, I shall come, and try to identify what manner of being this is."

Both farmers nodded, grateful smiles coming onto their ruddy faces as they ducked their heads, twisting their hats again. "Thank you, High Priestess, thank you indeed. We'll...we'll be ready for you."

Zamara nodded. "Blessings of Rhais upon you, gentlemen, and a safe journey home."

Still murmuring their thanks, the pair ducked and bowed their way down the aisle and hurried out of the door, leaving Zamara to watch them go, her expression thoughtful. Truth be told, she had no idea what this creature could be: covered in leaves, round in girth, stooping and creaking, with glowing red eyes.... She frowned. Sounded like rural jiggery-pokery exaggeration to her. But her curiousity was piqued - she would go, most certainly, but not alone.

Turning around, she saw Tayfar at the top of the steps, dusting the feet of the goddess very busily. She regarded the acolyte's back with raised eyebrows for a few seconds: the girl had heard everything, she had no doubt. Devoted acolyte she may have been, but she was also an extraordinarily good eavesdropper. Ignoring this, she decided to leave the girl in suspense by ignoring the issue. "Tayfar, come, I need to prepare to go to the palace: my cloak and staff are in my quarters."

Tayfar scurried away with a silent nod and Zamara looked up thoughtfully at Rhais' face again, a questioning smile on her dark, handsome features. "What do you have in store, Goddess?" she murmured, softly.
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Old 12-24-2004, 07:33 AM   #101
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Apprehension worked on Bekah's thoughts like a dog worrying a bone. All the careful balancing of her life seemed about to collapse, a house of cards after all. At least, that is what she feared as she watched the heat of noon shimmer over the rooftops and buildings from her balcony. She sat at her small desk, writing and rewriting.

My beloved Brother-Monarch,

How pleased my husband and I were to hear of the birth of your child and the safe delivery of your wife. It augurs well that your blood and mine will flow like the life-giving river through time.

What news have you heard of the outside world or are you too ...


She gave up, drumming the desk with her quill and watching the small splatters of ink. Then she began again.

My Lord Faroz,

In the festivities of welcoming this Emissary of the Lord Annatar, we have not considered announching his arrival to our other alliances. Will you grant me permisison to write to Alanzia and ...


This, too, she soon gave up. These were the second and third attempts she had made to address this thought. Should her brother be told of this visitor? Was this suitable only for Pashtian discussion? Could she raise the point with Faroz and not be thought false to her Pastian role? Surely the nomadic tribes will have seen the Emissary's party travel across the land and with them news flew faster than vultures over a carcass. She rose and brought her oil lamp to her desk, setting it down carefully on her desk. Its scent of jasmine filled the room and might perhaps mask the odour of the burning paper. Bekah held each paper, twisted like a taper, over the flame, until each caught and then turned each upright, moving the papers back and forth slightly, watching the flames sway until only ashes were left, falling into the lamp itself. She jerked her hand, as she was too slow with dropping the last taper and the smallest flicker of its final flame touched her nail and singed it. As she sucked upon her finger, cooling the burn with her tongue and saliva, she could taste the ash and melted nail. Strangely, she knew the taste. Old, stale walnuts soaked in brine, with crushed wormwood. Or was she imagining it? How could it ressemble the burnt offerings from victory rituals of her long ago childhood in Alanzia?

She sat back upon her cushions and lay still, eyes closed, listening to the cicadas chirp and wondering if the other tiny noises she heard were other insects. It was not yet time for her ritual bath. Why were she and Faroz always limited to formal public interviews of courtly business? Could she not seek him in private, as he had come twice now in one day? Never before had the Queen entered the King's private quarters. Would she be admitted? Would Faroz's guards accept such an unusual act?

She rose, changing her tunic to lilac and covering her head and body with her outer garment of purple, her rajiba, the cloak denoting regal stature and masking her privacy by leaving only her eyes seen. Leaving her private bedchamber, she sought Homay and explainded her intent. Homay only looked at her closely, and said nothing. Without so much as a notice of her guards, Bekah left her room by her private door and wandered the short passage way to the King's rooms.

Bekah strode with deliberation, each step marking a soft soosh-soosh of her leather sandals upon the corridor's cool stone. Her feet were cold, a contrast to the slight burn on her hand. The guards looked up and stood to attention, saluting her with the royal address of "Majesty."

"These are days of much deliberation. We have court business and foreign affairs and matters of the private affairs of the Royal Children. I would speak with his Majesty about our daughter's marriage." She spoke with assurance and command, her manner suggesting such a request was normal rather than unusual. The guards bows and demurred to her, opening the door with an announcement, "The Queen wishes to seek an audience with his Majesty. She attends upon him now"

With those words, Bekah walked over the threshold she had never before crossed and into the private quarters of her husband. It was a world, a view, a life she had not expected to see, unlike what she had imagined Faroz would prefer. But such thoughts she put away as she sought him out, running through her mind the words she would say to him. Thinking of what she wanted to say, she at first did not realise that she was looking around for him, that he was not there to greet her. Then it dawned upon her. He was absent. She searched his balcony, peered behind the curtains of his deeply curtained bed, looked into his closets. Khamul was not here. She finally found her voice, "Majesty, Majesty, My lord Faroz."

She called not to him, but in a voice which she knew the guards whould hear. They arrived momentarily.

"The King is not here. You have missent me. Tell me where I may find him." The two guards rushed forwards, searching the rooms as she had done. Then an alarm went out.
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Old 12-24-2004, 09:30 AM   #102
Fordim Hedgethistle
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“I think you misunderstand me Princess,” the Emissary replied. “I blame myself. I come from a land in which we have known war and strife for far too long, and it has coloured our view of the world. The peace that you in Pashtia have enjoyed for almost a generation now is but newly established in our realms, and as a result my Lord and his people are ever wary of new conflict. There is no specific threat that we fear, nor do we perceive any such to be directed at you. Perhaps it might help if I explain somewhat of our more recent history…?” The Prince and Princess seemed interested in what Ashnaz would have to say on this matter, and even Faroz, who had heard much of that the day before, became intrigued by the possibility of new revelations.

Ashnaz asked if he might be seated before settling himself upon his cushions. He took a moment in arranging his robes about him. Faroz seized the opportunity to move further into the room. As he passed by his daughter he saw her shiver and glance about, and for a sliver of time Faroz was afraid that she might be able to see him, but as she glanced in his direction her eyes were fixed upon nothingness. Faroz indulged in another smile. He slipped by her and stood by a window where he could enjoy the sun, but its light and heat passed through him, leaving him chilled. Siamak turned toward the window, as though noticing the dimming of the light and his face took on an expression of faint alarm. Faroz followed his son’s eyes and noticed for the first time that in the full light of Rae’s glory he was casting a very faint shadow, like that which might be found beneath a thorn-bush upon a moonless but starry night. Siamak moved toward the window to investigate, but Faroz stepped aside into the shade once more.

“Is there something wrong Prince Siamak?” Ashnaz called out.

Siamak shook his head slowly, although is face still bore a thoughtful expression. “No, Emissary. I only thought I saw…nothing.”

“Well then,” the Westerner began, “to give you in brief the tale of my people…” He then began a narrative in which he retailed the story of the Lord Annatar, of how he had, alone among the Men of the West, sought out the friendship of the Elves, offering to teach them how to craft things of great worth. He told them of the wars between the Elves and Dwarves – a strange race of stunted men who lived beneath tall mountains and hoarded their wealth – and of how these wars had decimated the realms of both. An estrangement had grown between the Elves and the Lord Annatar, and then there had been invaders from the East and North, and hordes of monsters which he called orks emerged from their maggot holes to harry all. “As you can see,” he concluded, “there has been no end of conflict in my Lord’s realms, and all of it between races that could live in peace if only there could be understanding between them. Division and disunity have been the downfall of the West. At one time, in the distant past, there was but One who ruled all: the god Melkor. In his time there was neither war nor strife, nor any conflict between peoples. But then strangers from across the Western Sea came, bringing with them war and destruction.”

“I heard somewhat of this last night, Emissary,” Gjeelea put in. “These strangers from across the Sea were Elves, you said?”

“Aye, but not such Elves as you know here. These folk had been across the ocean to dwell with a mighty race of giants who gave them knowledge that is not fit for people of this world to possess. Having given them this knowledge and taught them how to make magical items of terrible power, these giants allowed the Elves – hardly Elves any longer in their pride – to return to Middle-earth. But those wars are long since over. For many years after their conclusion there was great enmity between all the peoples of the West, but my Lord Annatar has sought ever to mend these wounds, and to work for a time of peace like that enjoyed under the God Melkor.”

“You mean, your King seeks to unite all peoples under a single rule?” Siamak cried.

“No, no, my Prince! Those days are now long gone. Should there ever arise a King worthy of the role, then we can only hope that he would be chosen by the people of their own will, but until that time, we can make peace in the only way we can: through friendships, and alliances. This is why I am here. To ask for the alliance of Pashtia so that we can begin to spread this vision of universal accord throughout all the lands and not just the West!”

Gjeelea picked up an apricot and took an idle bite from it as she asked, “And what of Alanzia? Are they to be included in your new order?”

This caught the attention of Faroz. He had begun to wonder this himself, but had been reluctant to ask his friend for fear of the answer. If they were not to form alliance with Alanzia as well, that would present difficulties to the delicate balance between the two powers. If the Lord Annatar was to offer Alanzia an alliance, then would that included another Ring for its King? Faroz did not relish the idea of a rival monarch with the same power as he himself now enjoyed… “We can only hope,” Ashnaz replied, “that in time all nations will be united in peace. But as you yourself have said it is a mighty step we have made in approaching even a single realm so far from our own. My Lord wishes to see how things will fare with Pashtia.” It was a cunning answer, one that let them know that for the time being, Pashtia had been singled out, but it contained the slightest hint of a threat as well – if the Lord Annatar could not find alliance here, he might be willing to seek it with Alanzia.

Clamouring of feet and the clash of arms in the corridors drew their attention, and even as they began to wonder what was happening the guards rushed into the room crying out, “The King is missing, Majesties! You must come with us!”

Gjeelea and Siamak sprang to their feet with cries of alarm, demanding to be told more and why they must leave the apartment. “The Queen has ordered that the royal family be taken to a safe place until the King can be found. She fears that there is ill work afoot!” The guard who spoke could not hide the very quick glance that he shot toward the Emissary.

Faroz cursed. He knew instantly how the alarm had been raised: someone had come to his apartments to seek him out and found him gone – but who? There were few who were allowed access to his chambers, and none who would enter unless he had sent for them. The guards would never have permitted anyone to pass, on pain of their lives, except perhaps… The answer flashed into his mind at once. Bekah. Only she would be allowed to enter his rooms by the guards. She had come to seek him out. After all these years, why would she have chosen this particular time? He was furious with his wife, and had he been with her at that moment he might even have struck her for her impudence.

Faroz was shocked that the idea had come to him at all, and horrified at how…satisfying…it had seemed to him.

The clamour was growing and the King could hear panic growing in all the rooms of the Palace and spreading like an out of control contagion. He had but a few minutes in which to act before the situation would get completely out of control. He moved toward the door, intending to slip out, remove the Ring, and then re-enter. But as he neared the exit, the guards rushed forward to escort the Prince and Princess from the room, and one of them nearly collided with him. Faroz fell away from them and hit a wall, and a few eyes turned toward the sound. More guards arrived, making access to the door even more difficult. Through the window, Faroz could see riders pounding along the roadway from the Palace and he knew that within moments the news of his disappearance would hit the City. He no longer had any time, and reaching for the Ring he prepared to remove it despite the crowd.

Ashnaz stepped forward and spoke to the guards in a commanding tone that stilled them all. “Hold!” he cried. “Have you lost your senses? You are in the presence of your Prince and Princess, do not think to drag them from the room! Stand back, and let them proceed with you in dignity!” The guards looked upon his noble face and something in his eyes quelled them. In silence they fell away from the door. Ashnaz immediately stepped before the Prince and Princess, blocking their way, and bowing low said, “I am sorry to hear of this. If there is any aid that I or my men can lend you, we will of course do so!”

Faroz seized the chance that his friend had given him and rushed from the room. As he moved out the door he glanced back. Ashnaz had ceased to speak and was standing behind Gjeelea and Siamak and for a second it seemed as though he was looking directly into Faroz’s eyes. The idea thrilled the King. The corridors of the Palace were now full of people rushing to and fro, and it was difficult for the King to find a quiet corner. He finally found a place to be alone in a small passageway reserved for the passage of servants and he immediately removed the Ring. The instant he slipped it away beneath his robes a kitchen maid appeared from around the corner and stopped dead, her eyes growing wide with shock. She turned about as though to flee, but Faroz stayed her with a command. “What is happening in my Palace?” he demanded fiercely. “Have my people gone mad?”

The maid looked as though she would drop dead from the fear of being spoken to directly by her King. Doing her best to curtsey she stammered out, “The King is missing! Or, rather sir – Majesty! – they all thought you were missing. The alarm has gone out and the guards are tearing the Palace apart! Cook will be so angry at the mess they’ve made in the kitchen…”

“Silence,” he commanded, not roughly but it was enough to send the poor girl past the brink of tears. “Run along back to the kitchen now and tell cook that I shall send him whatever aid he needs in clearing up the mess. Now go.”

Crying now with relief the girl ran past him and disappeared into a small door. Faroz left the passageway and went to find his wife so that he could put an end to this madness.

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Old 12-24-2004, 03:52 PM   #103
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The training exercises did not go well, as Morgôs had expected. Wet-behind-the-ears lads, weighted down by dress uniforms and blades too heavy for their undeveloped muscles, did not an army make. Only a few seasoned veterans lingered quietly in the armies of Pashtia, and they seemed content to use their lengthy résumés to gain ranks by leaps and bounds, until they were all captains with cushy political assignments. The Elven officers and enlistees, the only ones that Morgôs deeply trusted besides his lieutenants, seemed far more comfortable in other units, segregated from the mortal men. For this prejudicial nature, Morgôs was further embittered against his own people. If they could not overcome the racial barrier, how could they expect the mortals to do their part and balance the equation?

Disregarding all this with a metaphoric wave of his hand, Morgôs returned his thoughts to riding. A glint lit his eye as the neat tiled road gave wave to reveal his an arching path which led, past a forested wall into his front garden and his estate, which lay spread out like a beauteous valley before him.

The house of Morgôs Elrigon was the largest estate belonging to a non-noble in all of Kanak. It had first been a smaller guard post, near the palace, but Faroz’ great-grandfather had had it renovated and expanded for Morgôs’ use, and turned it into a lavish villa to honor him for his achievements. Its size did not comfort Morgôs, or bring him joy, but it accommodated his hobbies; one of which he wished to practice. Steadily, he hitched up his horse outside, rather than in the stable on the villa’s western side, and rushed, a little too eagerly, into the structure. He hurried through it, his feet barely touching the marble floor and colorful carpeting as he traversed the complex halls until he had reached a delicate stairwell, where he descended to the place he most desired to be rapidly.

His library was, as a matter of fact, the part of Morgôs’ home which he most loved, and spent most of his time in. He would often become consumed by it, in a sense, and be so involved in reading, writing, translating, and drawing that he would remain cooped up in the archival vault for hours on end. Every once in a while, he might even spend full days inside, and correspond with his lieutenants via messenger. His wife would often show concern about his addicted habits, though his son was always oddly unaffected. It was a huge room, in comparison to most of the villa’s cells, with a vaulted roof and the look of an endless catacomb, with the peculiar musk of dry papyrus permeating the air within. It was lined, apparently, with veritable pews; narrow paths that stemmed from the single colonnade that led through the center of the room. The multiple rows were flanked by bookshelves that sprung up to the high ceiling, all brimming with books and parchment stuffed haphazardly into every orifice available.

All in the span of a minute he had reached the room, and now he knew not what to do in it. The world slowed to a calmer pace as he lost track of the speed or slowness of time. Slowly, he meandered down each row of books and shelves until he came to a quiet, secluded little cell at the end of one row, where several desks and tables sat, strewn with papers. Very slowly, as if undergoing some delicate operation, Morgos swung his cumbersome armor into an aged wooden chair, worn away and discolored by time. With tender, hesitant fingers, the general reached onto the desk and picked up the one book that was there. Feeling tranquility, he moved his gauntleted hand over the embossed leather covering, bound with iron like some impregnable tome, and began to pry it open, feeling the weak but faithful pages of vellum, two hundred or more, within. This contained, surprisingly, something he hated, but something that gave him comfort to do, for it was an addiction which bound him to this place.

Here was the true root of his obsession, his habitual solitary nature in the library. He studied a great many things, but all his studies strove towards one goal; to make a discovery, one that he had always felt he needed to make. The past of Morgôs Elrigon was not the happiest history, which was why he dwelled upon it in excess. Morgôs was an ancient elf indeed and had lived far longer than most others. In reality, he himself did not know his own age, as he had not kept exact track, but he knew he had been fully grown at the time of the building of Kanak by the first primitive Pashtian monarchs, which had been a little over 2000 years ago. He had some veiled memories of times before that, but not had stood the test of time, which was why he always copied the contents of every dream, petty vision, and flash of memory he had into journals of mad lore. Avarin History books gave him much information, pages forged by Elves before his first memories and passed to him, or rather, gathered by him together into this compendium of knowledge he possessed. But still, he could not find links to the one vague memory which most haunted his dreams – and dominated his nightmares.

Suddenly, Morgôs snapped himself from his contemplation, instead, for a change, of someone else doing it for him. He had to locate his wife, and his son as well. It was not often that he flew about in such a mad gait, flitting hither and thither with no purpose, and he feared his dear Arlomë might have become concerned. She was not in the house, which was odd, considering Bekah’s retinue (or most of it) had been dismissed today because of the ruckus involving the Emissary. There were only a few places which Arlomë frequented – that he knew of – and the palace was where she spent much of her time, even in off hours. With a prickling brow and a grave look about him, Morgôs hurled the dusty volume onto the desk he’d taken it from, where it landed with a thump and hastened out of the library and back to where he’d bound his horse, at a conveniently located hitching post that jutted from the southerly veranda. Without delay, he headed to the palace, which was not far.
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Old 12-25-2004, 01:40 PM   #104
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Tolkien

A tense awkward feeling descended upon the room shortly after the Emissary left the chambers. Arshalous drained the rest of the chilled tea in one gulp and glanced at Korak. There was a small attempt at conversation, but Arshalous was not in the mood for talking. Neither, apparently, was anybody else. She wished impulsively that she could just fall asleep like her aunt and avoid things like this.

She should just stand up and go, she told herself...but she wasn't sure if that would be considered rude by the king...and she did not want to do that. Thankfully the king himself took the innitiative and excused himself. Arshalous and Hababa bowed and went to find their mounts.

As Arshalous was swinging herself in her saddle, Korak stumped out of the castle, an absurd puppy grin on his face. It irked her that he was happy...but of course the foolish always were happy because they were not burdened by serious thoughts. She herself was still a bit ruffled that she had to help with the silly temple, but she could not help feeling pleased with building in and of itself. Besides matters of finance, the king and herself (Korak, of course, had taken no interest) had touched upon the appearance of the temple. Marbled supporting pillars, mosaic floors that told of the god's deeds...it indeed would be lovely. Pity that Rae was not more deserving.

The thought of Rae reminded her of the Emissary and she smiled to herself. That had been the gleam of light with the visit. He was intelligent, willing to learn...it was a pity that he worshipped this...Melkor, who was much like Rae. Yet who would want to worship a destructive god that was like Rae? Unless...unless his might was greater than Rae's -- maybe his might had a nobleness that Rae lacked. She would like to ask the Emissary about this new god.

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Old 12-25-2004, 05:40 PM   #105
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Silmaril

Wearing a light veil over her head against the heat of the sun, Zamara walked slowly through the city, almost alone in the streets: the workers had hurried home, or to shelter's at their workplaces, to rest for the hour around midday when it was too hot to work. As the High Priestess made her way through the streets, she noted that although empty, they did not seem deserted. After all, children did not heed the fiesta at midday - another adult rule to be disregarded, a chance to be free to do what they would while their parents and tutors were otherwise occupied. The children of the nobles, of course, remained inside, stifled by the heat and their studies; but outside, for a while, the urchins ruled.

Zamara paused in the shade of a house, watching a group of three small children as they played out some complex game. One child, a scruffy, sharp eyed girl of about nine, dropped two dice into a circle drawn in the dirt, and, along with the two other girls she was playing with, she watched eagerly for the result. Apparently it was a good result for the first girl, for she gave a whoop and clapped her hands together, grinning, as the other two turned to face each other, their hands on their knees. They whispered a few words, their high voices rising in volume until they ended with a shriek, threw up their hands, and pelted away in opposite directions, away from the circle. The girl who had dropped the dice, still seated, covered her eyes, and began to count loudly.

Zamara, unnoticed and unheeded, smiled to herself. How much simpler the world would be if run by children. A city of innocents. But even here, she noted, there were politics: between the girl's fingers, the High Priestess noted a slither of white as the girl turned her head. She was peeking. Zamara raised her eyebrows and couldn't help her smile turning to a grin, her white teeth peeking out themselves from her dark lips. The seeker, apparently noting that she was being watched, that she had been caught cheating, whirled around quickly, her hands coming off her eyes, and her eyes settled suspiciously on Zamara. The High Priestess held them impassively, then nodded solemnly to the girl. With surprising solemnity herself, the latter replied in turn, then, without a second glance at Zamara, she covered her eyes again and resumed counting. Then, with a sudden triumphant yell and without further ado, she sprang to her feet and ran away, calling out after her companions, seeking them, her bare feet slapping against the dusty cobbles. Yes, Zamara thought to herself, looking after her young friend under the veil. I could deal with a city of children.

The street lay empty now, and Zamara moved on, the clicking of the metal at the base of her staff the only sound, the sudden darts of light through her medallion as it swung on her chest the only sudden movements. As Zamara walked, she thought to herself. She had much to talk to the Queen about, and she had been frankly relieved when Tarkan had declined the offer of joining them to discuss the furnishings for the Temple: it would be easier to talk with the Queen alone. Not that Zamara wished Tarkan ill, far from it - but she was not sure Tarkan would say the same. The way he had acted last night had showed that, the way he had assumed the title of 'High Priest' rather than denying.

Zamara childed herself inwardly, pausing as the street widened into a large, cobbled courtyard, centred by a fountain whose water fell gently, idly, onto itself and around itself, it's playful sounds at odds to the serious thoughts of it's observer. Petty things, petty things...such things were not meant to be the essence of worshipping the gods, they were not meant to get in the way. But... the young woman's brow creased slightly and the lines deeped around her mouth as she watched the fountain fiercely. But they do get in the way.

She sighed, loosening her suddenly tight grip on the staff and moving on. Plans for the Temple to Rae troubled her: she knew not what this new building would hold in store for her. Whether, in fact, it would hold anything in store for her. How many times the power balance between the deities of Pashtia had changed she knew not, but Rhais had been 'superior' for many years - what would happen when that changed? Ritual, tradition, worship - were they to change also? Zamara worried.

And, of course, the Emissary. The young woman smiled ruefully to herself. Of course. One could not forget him when talking to Bekah - not even if she tried. What were his preferences in all of this? It was hard to say...who were the gods of the West? Zamar felt suddenly hopelessly ignorant - she had absolutely no idea. Did they even have gods? Surely every sentient being felt the need to pay heed to something that had created them, that sustained them, that laid them eventually to rest - surely even these blue eyed, pale haired men from those war-torn lands would feel the prescence of Rae and Rhais in some way?Zamara's eyes narrowed subconciously. She was still not sure she fully trusted this Emissary. The more she knew, the better.

And Siamak. He, also, makes a rather intriguing topic of conversatin.

Zamara smiled to herself thoughtfully. Yes, indeed; the young prince was a very intriguing topic...

Having arrived at the palace, Zamara climbed the steps smoothly, lowering her veil to be like a veil across her arms. She knocked on the door with the tip of her staff three times and waited for a few seconds - an unusual wait in a palace full of attendants. Eventually a flustered young man wrenched open the door, his eyes widening as he noted Zamara, her medallion and her robes in quick succession. He bowed briefly, and showed her in. "I come to see Her Majesty the Queen," Zamara requested. The man opened his mouth as if to say something else, then bit his lip and nodded stiffly

"As you say, High Priestess," he murmured respectfully. "I shall notify the Queen of your arrival." Nodding yet again, the young man excused himself (rather hastily, Zamara thought, puzzledly), leaving Zamara alone in an antechamber to wait.

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Old 12-26-2004, 11:54 AM   #106
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Boots Tarkan

Their conversation ended. Tarkan had remained motionless during most of the time Evrathol had spoken, only muttering a few words now and then to assure the elf that he was still listening, (quite attentively, I might add ). After a few moments silence, the elf had left hurriedly, saying his farewells to the Priest, who promised the elf to look into the matter. "We will talk again soon," he had said politely and smiled faintly as he took the elf’s hand in his and pressed it. Thus, he had left, leaving Tarkan immobile and alone. It had indeed been an interesting conversation which had taken an unexpected, but interesting, turn as it developed. Simultaneously as Tarkan had heard the elf speak, ideas were being formed inside of the Priest’s head; ideas which he were eager to keep to himself until he was ready to share them with the ‘right’ people. He sat down, his mouth halfway open. Already, he knew that Pelin supported him in building a new Temple in honour of the sky God, but did Evrathol support him as well? He frowned. The elf did so indirectly, Tarkan supposed, as he didn't seem to like Zamara, who was the most faithful and basically the only true representative of the goddess. This can prove interesting ... Tarkan thought to himself, sipping the rest of his tea.

Sitting comfortably, he was still uneasy by the words that were constantly being repeated inside of his head.

"When I arrived earlier, they were both in a heavy debate, but both were silenced as I entered the county yard. As for eavesdropping; no I'm not the kind, but I must be honest and say that I did hear some talk of the Emissary...."

Evrathol's words were in a way highly disturbing. They were all the same unimportant, he concluded fast. The priest couldn't really expect people to talk about other things; certainly not today, the day after the banquet, which had been held in the honour of the newly arrived guest, the Emissary. Tarkan too, would also probably have chosen this topic in a conversation, if of course; he had anyone to discuss it with him.

The expression the elf bore while saying it though, was probably the thing that bothered the priest the most. It was a worried expression, as if afraid that by the word 'Emissary' his head would explode. All right, the Priest thought to himself, knowing that he was exaggerating . . . just slightly. Tarkan was always being accused for exaggerating about things, but this was nevertheless different. Tarkan was only trying to digest what he had witnessed. One had to admit that it was highly unusual that someone came to him and told him of their concern of his very own colleague. Yes, Zamara, the High Priestess was a colleague. They didn’t have to like each other to be. It was even odder, if not awkward, that this person, in this case the male elf, had expressed his concerns when it came to his mother. His very own mother, Arlomë. And in best of all, Evrathol and himself were only acquaintances who had barely met! Tarkan swallowed. Was he being fooled?

Despite of the last terrifying thought, he could not help think about the elf’s sudden haste to leave. It must be taken into consideration though, that he left so hurriedly after confession about hearing his mother and the Priestess discuss the Emissary. Maybe he regretted telling me? Why?

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Old 12-26-2004, 03:25 PM   #107
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The ride to the palace was short, since Morgôs’ estate was so close to it. He stowed his horse at the royal stables, near the elegant, well-groomed steeds of the royal family, and headed into the palace, though the lack of guards and servants bustling about was somewhat alarming. Disconcerted, the General made his way to the main entrance and into the antechamber to find it, very oddly, empty, save for one figure; the High Priestess Zamara. Her presence took him aback, but he chided himself a moment later for being surprised. Her sort oft had business with royalty, probably relating to the temple building nowadays.

“General.” She said, bowing her head.

“High Priestess.” He said back, doing the same.

An awkward silence fell upon the two unmoving figures in the room. Morgôs tried to keep himself from shooting nervous glances at the High Priestess. He always felt peculiar around religious folk, though his spouse did not. They did not make him nervous, but his taste for them and their antics had been soured by past experiences. Still, the silence was irking him all the more. A whirring din thrived in halls just beyond the antechamber, rattling, clanging, and all sorts of confused sounds. They made Morgôs uneasy. After some minutes, he could not help but turn to the priestess and speak up. “I must apologize for last night.” He said, suddenly, but with the proper amount of grace in his smooth voice. The Priestess turned to him, unfazed by the sudden words, and spoke to him unsure of what he meant. “Apologize for what?” she patiently inquired.

“I addressed your colleague…” the elf searched for the name, memorable as it was, “Tarkan, as a High Priest. I assigned triviality to your station with a slip of my tongue, and for that I am sorry. My wits were not with me.” He gave a little apologetic nod, but Zamara waved her hand pleasantly, indicating that he should not do so. “Such things happen, General,” she said, “it is no blasphemy. You need not be sorry.”

Morgôs’ Elven eyes saw a strange brightness in her face, one he had seen before. She was a faithful woman, and a clever one; he could see this much simply by looking at her. He felt as if he should smile in return, but could not. Instead, he murmured a quiet acknowledgement of her kindness weakly. “You are…much more forgiving…than some others who share your profession.” Again she looked at him weirdly.

“Rhais is always forgiving;” she responded, “of those who uproot her earth and tear the trees’ roots from her, for she knows that it is their faith in her that is important. She gives us what we need regardless of our wrongs.” She did not blink as she spoke, and her gentle but enigmatic eyes lay open for Morgôs to peer into, but he knew it was rude to stare so foolishly upon one of her caliber. He wondered, for a moment, if she actually believed that tidbit. It was an archaic proverb, which might not be part of her branch of worship. Perhaps it was just a candid politeness on her part. He did know that Rae, the Sky God, was always pictured as vengeful and destructive, so Rhais, Rae’s technical opposite, would probably be aptly described as a forgiving, generous matriarch of a deity.

“What you say is true.” He said at last, “You have great wisdom.”

“My wisdom is that of the Goddess, General.”

Another proverb. Morgôs’ lip curled in distaste, but he stifled his annoyance, since his curiosity was far greater. She was probably full of these arcane words, and was no doubt supposed to say them as often as he could. The Elven General mulled over the situation, but did not try to understand the things that faith obligated one to do. He was about to turn away and continue his silent waiting, but Zamara’s voice hindered him. “What did you mean” she said to him, “about me being more forgiving than others who ‘share my profession?’”

“I was not referring to anyone you know.” Morgôs responded sharply, realizing that he’d made a mistake in his praise. He hoped Zamara would let the subject quickly drop, but she persisted. “Than who?” her voice intoned politely; so politely that Morgôs could not accuse her of prying, “Do I not know those who share my faith?” Morgos shook his head vigorously. “No, I meant your predecessors.” Said the General with simple bluntness, obviously trying to end the conversation, “I knew many of them; before your time, I think.”

The High Priestess, still unaffected, took the hint, saying only, “Ah.”

Silence between the two settled again, but was broken by Zamara for the second time. She whirled on the General. “I have forgotten myself. General, I met with your wife this morning.” Morgôs was, of course, surprised, and somewhat relieved to here this, but also annoyed further. “Did you now?” he said, his tone apparently fueled by that annoyance, but Zamara spoke too quickly to detect the change.

“Yes. She wished to speak with me.” The High Priestess looked as if she was going to continue, but Morgôs cut her off. “Tell me not what of,” he blurted, a little harshly, “for I do not wish to infringe upon her privacy…or yours.” He added.

“If you insist.” Zamara seemed to realize that not all was well with Morgôs, and she was right. The General looked away, saying only “I do.” in a cold, more raspy voice. And silence fell again.

Now that Morgôs knew where his wife was (or had been), he should’ve left, but did not. He had business with the Prince that he could attend to. He looked forward to seeing his “pupil” once again, and making the first of many plans for the boy’s future.
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Old 12-28-2004, 10:55 AM   #108
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Boots Tarkan

“Father?”

The priest turned around, being surprised by seeing the kind and innocent face of the young Pelin.

“I saw the elf leave..” Pelin continued being uncertain.

Tarkan, who had almost forgotten about his ‘dear friend’ after the interesting conversation with the elf, begged him come in. Pelin obeyed. This was not an ideal situation he found himself in. He would much rather be alone at this point, thinking it all through, especially taking the last bit of the conversation into careful consideration. He cursed under his breath. Was his brother doing it on purpose? Was the King not going to invite him to meet the Emissary? Would he, Tarkan, have to take things into his own hand?! It was outrageous; a Priest with his position, being the King's half brother, should have been invited to meet the Emissary when he came. Not a day or two later! He wanted to know who this so-called guest was! If Arlomë knew the Emissary enough to speak of him with Zamara, he was being ridiculed. He managed to restrain himself, seeing that Pelin looked at him, as if penetrating his mind to see what he was thinking. Tarkan ignored him for a moment, letting his thoughts float and touch the matter that concerned the High Priestess.

If Zamara had a bad influence on Evrathol’s mother, Arlomë, it would surely be a good reason to investigate her. Did the High Priestess use her position to influence people in a wrong manner? Would this be good enough reason to have her followed and watched by the authorities? Surely, if a woman like herself was taking advantage of people through her profession, it would not be supported by . . . anyone!?! With this rather calming resolution, which he intended, and was already very eager, to pursue, he remembered the Queen. She had invited Zamara and himself to the Palace to discuss matters concerning furniture in the Temple. The previous evening he had not accepted the invitation; most humbly, he had declined. Now, to his annoyance, he regretted. He thought for a moment, feeling an even stronger need to be alone, to think and come to a conclusion that would be to his satisfaction, but furthermore to act on what he already knew. He wanted to see Zamara; he wanted plan how he would present it to his brother and meet him, the King.

“I’m truly sorry, Pelin,” Tarkan said suddenly and rose from the comfortable divan. “I just remembered that I have an appointment with the Queen. Oh, I am terribly sorry,” he said, looking at the man as if he was devastated of leaving him. “Oh, that reminds me.. The High Priestess will also be there, so that leaves you in charge here.” Pelin looked surprised, but didn’t say anything. “It is needless to think that that will be any problem, am I correct?” the Priest said, smiling. “Now, off I go. Cheers!”

With stern steps he walked left the little room where they had eaten breakfast, grabbing his mantle on his way. Knowing that he would probably be quite late, he hurried out of the Temple extremely excited about what this would bring. Would they be surprised by him showing up? Was it rude first to decline and then to come after all? It did not matter, he concluded. The Queen and Zamara were welcome to think ill of him if they were comfortable with that; he did not care, as long as it would be his victory in the end, which seemed quite probable now as things had developed as they had.

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Old 12-29-2004, 02:02 PM   #109
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Silmaril Arlomë

The hard, stone floor felt cool against the Elf’s knees as she knelt on the temple’s floor. Her smooth face was upturned toward the face of the goddess, and her cool, blue eyes tightened as though she were in deep reflection. Arlomë could not shake the uneasiness that came over her the night before when she met the Emissary and overheard the conversation about the Elves of his land. Now her son’s sudden appearance at the temple only added to the troubles in her mind. What would her son want with the Rae’s priest? Evrathol had never shown an interest in the gods, although not for lack of education of them. Arlomë had been sure to teach him, as a child, the ways in which Rhais brought them life and cared for them, but as he grew he become separated from the temple and chose a path that more closely resembled the faith choices of his father. She wondered if Evrathol’s meeting with Tarkan involved the Emissary’s arrival, but she could not fathom what the two of them would have in common to discuss.

The soft thud of one of the doors that led into the main worship room brought Arlomë from her thoughts, and she listened momentarily to the swish of the silk robes worn by the one who had entered. With the silence only one of Elven kindred could use, the general’s wife rose and turned, watching the figure walking quickly around the rear of the temple toward the outer doors.

“Greetings to you once more, my son,” Arlomë’s voice was calm, but it reverberated throughout the temple’s walls.

Startled, Evrathol stopped just before reaching the heavy outer doors. “Well, Mother, I did not realize you were in here. I hope I did not interrupt your meeting with the High Priestess.”

“Not at all, dear. She had to leave for an appointment, but I wished to stay a few minutes to seek Rhais’ council.” As her last words left her mouth, she noted a spark of nervousness in his eyes, but he quickly masked it and smiled. “Did you find what you sought, Mother?” He asked. “Not yet,” Arlomë glanced over her shoulder at the statue, then brought her eyes back to her son. “But I know she will not let me down.”

At this, Arlomë turned and knelt once more to honor her goddess, and then she rose and crossed the temple. “I would like a word with you, Evrathol.” As she spoke, she slipped her arm through her son’s. “I do hope you will walk with me back to the estate.”
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Old 12-29-2004, 02:06 PM   #110
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“Now,” said Siamak, “would you care to tell us what is going on?” He felt little patience with the panicked guards who had interrupted their meeting and sent the whole palace into an uproar.

“The King has gone missing!” declared one of the guards.

“We know that,” snapped Gjeelea. “What else can you tell us?” Siamak privately agreed with her; this was ridiculous. How could a man whose chambers were constantly guarded simply disappear?

The guard in front who appeared to be in charge bowed. “Apologies, Prince, Princess. I am not sure what has happened, nor is anyone else in the palace. All I know is that the Queen went to seek an audience with the King, but he was not in his apartments even though no one saw him leave. And so we were ordered to take you some place safe.” Siamak frowned in mild concern. Surely there was a logical explanation for all this.

“Are you sure this is really necessary?” asked Siamak. His father would show up soon, and the whole episode would soon be dismissed as a mistake, probably on account of the guards. Siamak was not so sure, and he had a feeling that the guards were right: something evil was afoot. This was no mere coincidence, Siamak was sure; too many strange things had happened of late. That eerie shadow by his window, for instance. He had seen something, but what?

“Our orders...” began the guard uneasily. The Emissary interjected, “Perhaps you should go with them, until the King is found.” Siamak glanced at him reproachfully, having forgotten the Emissary was still standing there. Siamak sighed, and was about ready to acquiesce to the guards’ request when a messenger appeared down the hallway.

“The King is fine!” he announced. There was a collective sigh of relief from the guards. “The Queen sends word that the guards should go back to their posts.” And then he was gone to spread the word throughout the palace. “See? There was no need for such panic,” said Siamak. After another bow and a muttered apology their captain issued orders and the guards dispersed.

“If you don’t mind, I will return to my own rooms now,” said the Emissary. “If there is anything else you should like to know we can speak of it later.” Siamak nodded, “until we meet again, then.” With that, the Emissary departed. Gjeelea followed soon afterwards with barely a word his way, and Siamak was blessedly alone.

Siamak had grown weary of this meeting - everything the Emissary said sounded good: too good. From his mother’s teachings he knew that there were two sides to every war. While the Emissary painted pictures with words of how his lord’s motives were nothing but benevolent, Siamak readily accepted the words as only somewhat true. The Elves and... Dwarves? would have a different story. The hard part was figuring out how much and which parts were true. He had a feeling that the basic history was true, if somewhat shaded. He wondered about the Emissary’s god - Melkor - and these other Elves who had come from across the western sea. He wondered if any of these things had been heard of in Pashtia, long ago. Perhaps he would ask General Morgôs next time he saw him. Siamak wasn’t sure exactly how long the Elf had been living, but he knew it was several generations.

Siamak bit thoughtfully into a peach. He trusted the Emissary no more than he ever had, but he was feeling inclined toward accepting the offer. The threat of an emissary being sent to Alanzia if they declined had not been lost on him, and if the alliance did not precisely help Pashtia, it didn’t seem likely to hurt the country either.

At a knock on the door, Siamak stifled a grimace and called out, “Yes?” He had no desire to see anyone at the moment. A guard poked his head in the door and announced, “The General Morgôs wishes to see you. Shall I let him in?” Siamak nodded impatiently. “Yes, please do.”

The General entered and bowed slightly, fist to heart. Siamak smiled, saying, “General Morgôs, come on in and sit down.” He did so, reclining on the same couch that the Emissary had recently occupied.

“I had hoped you would come today,” said Siamak. “You see, the Emissary was here recently, and he mentioned some things about the Elves of the early days, and a god of his, Melkor.” Briefly Siamak described the Emissary’s words and finished with, “You have lived much longer than any mortal. Do you know of any of these things? Were such ideas known in Pashtia at one time, long ago?”
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Old 12-29-2004, 11:12 PM   #111
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Stalking hastily down the hall, Gjeelea felt a headache at the way things had so quickly gone from annoying to unbearable. Without a word from her the meeting and the chaos had ceased, and the princess now wandered aimlessly down the halls that had become so strangely part of her daily routine.

It ended too fast...

The sound of her sandals trudging along the marble halls echoed but was soon drowned out by the scuffling of guards from one wing of the palace to another. Gjeelea put a slender hand to her right temple and she winced at the blood rushing to her head. She closed her eyes and paused in the middle of the hallway for just a moment, rubbing her temple and trying to sort out the events of that morning.

She could not figure out why everyone felt so shifty around the Emissary. Gjeelea sensed Siamak's discomfort throughout the entire meeting. She knew the gossip of the palace all to well; she knew the nervousness of everyone regarding the Emissary. What Gjeelea could not figure out was why everyone felt so nervous around the Emissary. He had provided answers to every question - answers that satisfied Gjeelea because of the diplomatic manner of each one. The Emissary always gave just enough of an answer to please the inquiring mind but keep secret what needed to be secret. It was just the sort of way Gjeelea would have dealt with such a questioning.

Gjeelea snapped out of her thoughts, realizing that she was still stationary in the middle of the hall. She continued walking through the palace, not quite sure of any destination. Her hazel eyes focused on the intricate tiling of the walkway, she did not even see the person walking straight up to her until she bumped into him.

Looking up, Gjeelea prepared herself for some kind of trivial talk with a jittery maid or a guard that would apologize for bumping her. She lifted the corners of her mouth, ready to give a bright, half-hearted smile. This faltered into a slight frown when she saw who stood before her.

"Lord Korak," Gjeelea greeted the man she had run in to. The headache she had felt earlier rose once more to her forehead. Why now? The day could not get any worse. Gjeelea feebly lifted her lips into a polite smile. Her betrothed certainly did not look in the mood, his face grim and moody like it so often was in Gjeelea's presence. Why me? Gjeelea wondered again. "What brings you to the palace, Korak?"
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Old 12-30-2004, 01:23 PM   #112
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Lord Korak saw the darkening of Gjeelea's face, but he did not care. It did not matter what she thought of him, as long she would become his wife. Something deep inside of him shrank in disgust at this, and he recalled with what fondness Lady Hababa always spoke of her dead husband. She said they had loved each other. And how happy days had been at that time. Would it matter if both he and his future bride were alive, if they did not love each other? Perhaps their lives would be miserable, and the lives of their children. What would his own childhood had been if his parents hadn't loved each other? He did not love the Princess; he suspected strongly that she did not love him.

"Your father asked for me, Princess," he said coolly, casting aside those thoughts that rose to his mind. "There were some small matters to be discussed." He watched her keenly, and she gave a little wave of her hand as if to dismiss further conversation and continue on her way. "One of the subjects was our upcoming wedding," he added. "I desire to set a definite day for its happening."

"Oh," she said, her voice light, but a light coming to her eye. It was a look of interest, and something that was not quite fear nor anger, but more akin to revulsion. But he knew she did not think well of him, so he paid this look no mind, but rather fixed his attention upon answering her question of: "Have you decided a day, then?"

"No, Princess," he said. "Your father the King has left it for the two of us to decide. I come to settle the matter with you."
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Old 12-30-2004, 01:47 PM   #113
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Oh dear…Gjeelea thought, trying hard to hide the apprehension from her face. She had wondered from time to time when Korak would finally be fed up with the stalling of their wedding. The man seemed so fitful, and Gjeelea knew that all he wanted the power that might come to his disposal if she became queen of Pashtia. I should have expected this long ago.

The Princess would be dishonest in saying that she loved Korak by any means; she hardly even liked him, if she liked him at all. Gjeelea also realized that a marriage to Korak would be more of a ‘smart match’ than anything else. There had always been times when she had pondered the woman’s ability to deny an arranged marriage. Still, she also knew that Korak was a powerful man; he could influence many things in court matters.

“Well, princess?” Korak brought the princess from her thoughts once more, an impatient look on his face. Why is he always so unhappy? Gjeelea wondered fleetingly. How will I ever be able to live with him? How could I even think of having children? How could I be queen if I cannot even think to have children with my husband? Why must the men rule? Why was I born a girl?

“Could we maybe speak of this at a later time?” Gjeelea spoke calmly, despite all the questions and doubts flashing in her mind. “I…well, I…I have things to attend to and…”

“Actually, I was rather hoping we could take care of this now,” Korak nearly snapped at his betrothed as he interrupted her, and she took a step back from him. “I am tired of waiting.”

Well, I am tired of dealing with you entirely…Gjeelea thought, blinking to hide the eye rolling that she could not control in the presence of Korak. He should not speak to me that way. I could so easily deny him the wedding he so desperately wants. The thought struck Gjeelea, because she knew deep in her heart that it would not be easy to call of all marriage arrangements with Korak. Her chances of becoming queen without a husband were slim to none, and she knew that well enough to have to put up with Korak.

“Well…when would you like to hold the wedding?” Gjeelea asked softly, upset at the invisible restraint on her freedom. She hated feeling like she had no way out. No easy way out. “I suppose we should get this taken care of.”
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Old 12-30-2004, 02:25 PM   #114
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This was certainly not what Morgôs had wanted to talk about. In fact, it was something he avoided mentioning in any conversation. But, as bad luck would have it, it had not simply come up in conversation, in had come as a question from the Prince he’d sworn allegiance to a day before. He was more than just obligated to answer. “My Prince,” he said, his words coming slowly, “this is…a complicated matter, to say the least. You have read tomes of history, and have been tutored by the cream of Pashtian scholars, the finest money can buy or years of accumulated wisdom can procure. But, I am not sure your knowledge is quite adequate to understand my answer. Perhaps we should talk of something lighter, something simpler, yes?”

“I know little about you, General, besides what my father and his courtiers tell me. If you are to be my chief backer, I must trust you. If I am to trust you, I must know you.”

Morgôs could not tell whether this was wisdom or careful cleverness used by the Prince to manipulate him into answering him. Either way, he was trapped; he could not refuse to respond. Anyway, the Prince was right. He probably knew next to nothing about Morgôs – the general was sure he knew more about the young Prince. So, begrudgingly, the Elven General began a familiar long-winded yarn, one he’d told many of his kindred, and Siamak’s own father, but he shortened it severely now as he spoke.

“I have lived a great long time, Siamak; longer than even I know. Alas, my age in years is not known to me, but I can venture to guess. What I am sure of is that I have been alive longer than two thousand years, centuries of life, I suppose. Beyond that, my memory is blurred by time and cruel winds of the unknown. Past the foundation of Pashtia, I can remember little besides wandering in a land of barbarous tribesmen. Many of those savages still roam the boundless edges of our deserts and have nations in the north and south, but Pashtia rarely encounters them for they are very secretive nowadays, and, though some are hostile, do not attack us or make any war upon us. My memory has but a few baubles remaining from the time before Pashtia, and also few of Pashtia’s beginnings.”

As he paused for breath and to let the word sink in, Siamak lifted his hand with a halting gesture and spoke. “Forgive me if I sound impolite,” he said tactfully, “but I do not mean to know in excess of your age or years. My question is more specific, and begs an answer.” Morgôs gave an astute nod, understanding how boring his lengthy tales had been to Faroz when he was a boy and his father before him when they had asked similar questions. “Of course,” he apologetically replied, “it is I who is sorry. Sometimes my rambling is excessive, and becomes monotonous, or so I am told.”

But Siamak shook his head with boyish energy. “No, it is not tedious. Merely seek through your wells of memory to answer. Did Pashtians ever worship such a deity as this Melkor spoken of by the enemy?” Morgos certainly appreciated the Prince’s candor, even if there was a hint of polite dishonesty, but he could not aptly answer. “Melkor,” he murmured, dwelling on that sharp-sounding name in an unfamiliar tongue, “…I know not the name, though there is some vague familiarity. Enlighten me.” Siamak hurried to interpret, saying, “He is like Rae, said the Emissary. His name is in an old language, and it means, ‘he who arises in might.’ He is apparently benevolent, a lord of the sky and chief of all gods in the Emissary’s lands.”

“‘He who arises in might?’” mused the General, “A mighty name, certainly, but not one in a tongue I recognize. There were archaic gods in a time before your fathers ruled, when the kingdom was more an anarchy than a monarchy. But, there was no such god as this Melkor. There were more then there are today and separate patrons for Avari and Men, and different clans that traversed the sands. I believe that Rae and Rhais were primarily inspired by a mixture of Mannish and Avarin faith.”

Here Siamak spoke, sounding confused and mildly fazed. “A mixture? You make it sound as if it was concocted?” Morgôs knew that his mistakes this day were ceaseless seeming, and tried to correct himself to avoid seeming heretical. Nay, Prince Siamak.” he swiftly assured his would-be pupil, “I meant merely that our faith today was found through unity. It is hard to keep ecumenical politics in mind when speaking of such things. Your question is a deep one. I shall have to consult my own books, but the information will return to you through me. I would not withhold Avarin lore from my Prince.” He halted, satisfied, hoping that the Prince was satiated and would bring up something else.

Unfortunately, the something he brought up was a more dangerous conversation topic than the last.

“The Emissary said many things about Elves as well.” said Siamak, knowing this would arouse a spark in the General, “He spoke much of the Elven-kind in his home.” Suddenly Morgôs was hooked like a hapless fish on a barb and the Prince did not even need to reel him in to extract that fish from his comfortable peace and leave him flopping about out of water. Morgôs leaned it so quickly that Siamak jumped a little, and a grim light filled the eyes of the Elf. “W-what did he say of them?” The General said quickly, his voice raspy with anticipation and a nervous stutter developed therein. Siamak let a chuckle fall through as he saw the renewed eagerness of the General. “Now you wish to talk?” He said sarcastically, but Morgôs didn’t care.

“Yes yes, now tell me, what said he of Elves?” He was leaning closer, and Siamak saw the old glow of his face, paler than before. Taken aback, he replied. “He said that the Elves of his lands once lived across a great, far sea, on an island where they went centuries before. They lived alongside giant enchanters, who gave them arcane and terrible knowledge that singed them. I do fear that they are not as fair as Avarin Elves, those Elves of the West.”

Morgôs leapt at this, almost literally. His excitement grew greater, just as his tranquility decreased. He looked manic to the Prince. “Giants!” cried Morgôs, his voice suddenly filling the room, “What of the giants?” Morgôs had left the couch where had been and was practically hovering over the young Prince, who was repulsed by the new verve of the Avari. “He said very little;” Siamak replied with hurried defensiveness, “barely anything.” But Morgôs was no longer a hooked fish, but a insatiable predator in his own right. “He must have said something!” Morgôs cried out, “Tell me!”

Siamak recoiled fully. “General!” He said, trying calm the Elf, but to no avail. Morgôs’ hands, enveloped in scale-mail gauntlets, clapped down on Siamak’s shoulders. He nearly shook the Prince, his eyes alight. “Tell me!” He yelled, and his voice, lower and more menacing than before, boomed like thunder for a moment, and then died in his throat like a cough. The light left his eyes and his eyes left Siamak.

And then, all of a sudden, he fell back. Morgôs teetered and slumped on the couch behind, taking deep breaths. He clapped his hand to his breast and fell silent, leaving Siamak to stare, bewildered, at him from his seat. Of all the mistakes he had made this day, this was the most grievous of them all. He had assaulted the Prince of Pashtia! Was he mad? What had incurred this insanity in him that was so far beyond his control? He lay, trying to seize reality and draw it back to him. Slowly, he pushed himself off the couch and landed, on his knees, on the carpeted floor.

“My good Prince,” he said meekly, “I beg your forgiveness. I do not know what came over me, truly.” He looked, hoping the best but expecting the worst, to the Prince for forgiveness. He’d come seeking a willing pupil, and now had a good chance of having made, instead, a dire enemy. He only hoped that Siamak could understand that this was no common spasm, but a unique burst of madness, which he would never let happen again.
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Old 12-31-2004, 04:03 PM   #115
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By the time he reached his wife’s apartments the sounds of chaos has died in the Palace and order was well on the way to being restored. A seemingly endless stream of courtiers and soldiers came to speak with Faroz as he made his way, as though to reassure themselves that he had indeed been found. He brushed aside their questions with a wave of his hand, refusing to answer, and none dared press him any further. He did not enter Bekah’s rooms but sent word to her through the guards that he was well. He bid them tell her that he would speak with her of this incident at her official audience this afternoon.

The King made his way to his own rooms where he was hurriedly dressed by his servants in his robes of state. Long, richly flowing gowns of silk hung about him and his head was bowed beneath the weight of the thick silver crown of the Pashtian monarch by the time he reached his audience chamber, just a few minutes after the time he was due. The applicants and supplicants for the day were all there ahead of him, standing nervously against the walls, some of them in small groups, others laden with papers, and some few anxiously fidgeting on their own. The King was separated from them by a score of his personal guard, who took up their stations at the foot of the low dais upon which he reclined. The only person permitted to join him upon this was the Chamberlain Jarult, who stood hovering nearby throughout the afternoon, ready to answer any question and lend whatever counsel his King required.

The first petitions were those that he had put of yesterday, and they were all dull matters of trade. The King understood the importance of trade for his people, and he had worked hard to become conversant in the ways and manner of it (and in this, his Queen had been very helpful), but it bored him still. After these came a number of requests from various guilds and some members of the nobility. The one interesting moment in the afternoon came when he had to decide a dispute between two powerful lords. There was a question of ownership over a piece of land in the mountains and the law was unclear. In such a case, royal wisdom was the only recourse. Faroz listened to both petitioners, asked Jarult for a clarification of the law, and then questioned a number of witnesses procured by both sides. In the end he rendered the kind of decision that he had become master of: one with which neither side was entirely happy, but which they could live with.

Throughout the waning hours of the day his mind turned insistently to Ashnaz, and to the King’s own family. He wondered what decision his children would make concerning the alliance. The Emissary’s answers at the interview with the Prince and Princess had been fair and courteous, and Faroz had no doubt what his decision would be, were it still his. He wondered further about Gjeelea and her marriage to Korak, and how he was to handle his all-too-soon-to-be son-in-law. His mind sharpened as he again considered the difficult issue of whom he should name heir. Something would have to be done about that, and soon. He was sure that the panic which had gripped the Palace when he had been thought lost had been exacerbated by the confusion of who would take his place. He knew who he would want to take his place, should anything untimely befall him, but he knew as well how difficult such a decision would be to justify…

At last, the day’s petitions were over. Faroz ordered the guards to clear the room and to attend him in the corridor. He thanked Jarult for his service that day and asked him to leave as well. The King was alone while he waited for his wife to arrive for her audience…and he wondered what they would have to say to one another.
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Old 01-01-2005, 07:38 AM   #116
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Bekah had been rigid with fear and incomprehension when she could not find Faroz anywhere in his rooms. How was it possible for his whereabouts not to be known? Or had he deliberately sought privacy? It was impossible to believe that, yet lately Faroz had been so various, so petulant, so unlike his old self. The guards had been terrified that they had not seen him leave or had not been told what he was doing. Their alarm had placed the entire palace in a state of pandemonium, but clearly they were prompted not only by the absence of the king but also by their fear for themselvs. If the King had been harmed, they would be the first to be blamed. It was easy, Bekah knew, to point public fingers in order to placate general fears.
It was Jarult who had seen that matters were more decently controlled. He was a marvel of tact and discretion and understood protocol. He had come to her quietly, ascertained her discovery--or, rather, lack of discovery, and begun diiscussing with the palace staff alternate explanations even while he directed guards to search for the King. Then he had returned to speak with her in her quarters, where she had gone under double protection, and where the Prince and Princess were to be brought.

"Majesty, your presence in the King's quarters is itself a remarkable event." He looked her clearly in the eye but without any manner of insinuation or condemnation.

"It is, Chamberlain. Yet events recently have forced us to reconsider our habits."

"May I enquire how so, Majesty?"

"The presence of the Emissary seems to have upset people's expectations and altered their sense of duty and understanding of events. "

"And so," the chamberlain calmly replied.

Bekah looked at him, knowing how essential he was to the running of the palace and the kingdom.

"You believe I acted irresponsibly, Jarult?"

"I did not say anything of the sort, Majesty."

"No, you did not," Bekah replied with a slight smile, "but you are a master of masked meaning."

He stood quietly and did not comment on this characterisation of him, but waited for the Queen to continue.

"There are matters of state which I feel must be considered as we come to terms with the Emissary's offer. Matters which I felt I could not address in the King's public audience. For some reason, I am made apprehensive and sometimes have a feeling of dread pass over me. I sought the one person who I felt I could turn to, even if it was highly unusual."

Jarult nodded, but before he could reply, word came that Faroz was found, or, rather, that he had found those who searched for him and dismissed them.

"Majesty, I must withdraw to attend to the King, with your leave. But I will speak with him of your concerns and how they prompt you."

Bekah nodded, and Jarult bowed and withdrew, leaving her alone, but with a doubled guard at her door. She wondered why she was feeling more and more drawn to demanding hightened security. It was as if she were back in Alanzia and falling into its frame of mind again, believing that security comes from surveillance and policing. This was her reaction to the Emissary? How could she fault Faroz for reacting also, but in his own way?

Homay came and began the elaborate preparations for her public audience with the King. Bekah was apprehensive. He had stormed passed her quarters and left a curt message. She felt she no longer knew this man and could not tell what to expect. She passively accepted Homay's attentions until she was ready.

Waking this time with two guards behind her, Bekah sought out the small antechamber beside the audience room where she could always observe the King's actions and decisions but was not seen by those petitioning him. Suddenly, the audience was at an end and Faroz dismissed everyone. Her feet became clammy with stiffness and Bekah found herself fearful of Faroz for the first time in many, many years.

She forced her feat forward and entered the empty audience room with her usuall address and waited for Faroz to speak to her. Would Jarult have spoken to him of their conversation, she wondered.

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Old 01-01-2005, 10:01 AM   #117
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White Tree Evrathol

Evrahol was caught slightly of guard as he saw his mother. She was, surprisingly, still in the temple. She wanted him to walk with her back to the estate. Evrathol had no excuse to do otherwise so he would have to accept. It was a cruel thought; Evrathol had always enjoyed the company of his mother Arlomë. But lately, it was as if things had changed. After Evrathol's meeting with the Priest, he wasn’t sure if he would be able to concentrate and stay focused. Their conversation, where Evrathol had done most of the talking however, had made a great effect on him than he had thought in the first place. Even though Evrathol had been busy talking, it didn’t mean that he wasn’t able to watch and observe Tarkan; indeed, Evrathol had been observing the Priest closely and the Priest had been, after Evrathol’s calculations, fairly interested - Evrathol could tell by the Priest's eyes that had lit up all of a sudden when he mentioned the conversation between Arlomë and Zamara regarding the Emissary. When Evrathol took the conversation between the two women under more consideration, however, it didn't seem like anything at all. The subject on everyone’s lips these days was the Emissary and only him. But why then had they stopped as he entered the country yard and not mentioned anything of their previous subject as long as he was accompanying them? Yet again Evrathol thought about previous events, which were the main reason of concern. He had mentioned little of them to the Priest though, but for now it had been enough. Evrathol’s worries of Zamara the High Priestess, great impact on Arlomë remained secret – almost at least.

"Let us walk" his mother begged softly.

Evrathol forced a smile.

"I'm very sorry if I interrupted anything between you and..." Evrathol began once again.

"No, no, by all means," she interrupted. “That is not what I wanted to talk to you about,” she muttered.

The thick heavy doors leading out from the temple was no just in front of them. Evrathhol walked one further step and opened it. Arlomë passed him graciously, but on her way out, she stopped and looked around. Her head turned to all directions; her eyes could barely follow as she was moving quicker than usual. She then turned completely; her back against the door, her eyes turning to the alter. It was as if she was looking for something. "Mother...?" Evrathol whispered. "Oh," she muttered, without looking at him.

The world outside the Temple had moved on; it was no longer morning, and Evrathol realized for the second time that day that he had spent too much time in the temple; his duties demanded attention. He hoped he would be able to hasten his pace, with his mother following, but it looked like as if it was his mother who was in the lead; their pace was slowly and calm.

"As I said, I wanted a word with you...."
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Old 01-01-2005, 10:51 AM   #118
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Siamak, utterly confounded by the General’s behavior, stared at the repentant figure kneeling before him. Clearly the topic of the foreign Elves was a much more sensitive subject that he had realized. Morgôs had been the General of the Pashtian army for many generations; outbursts like this must be rare, or even singular. No one was acting themselves with the Emissary’s visit and strange tidings. Though still shaken, Siamak realized that the General was still a powerful ally.

“Yes, General, I forgive you. But, please, do try to contain yourself - I really have told you all I know. The Emissary spoke very little of these times long past,” said Siamak hesitantly.

“Thank you, my Prince,” said Morgôs, rising slowly back to his couch. Siamak could still see traces of desire of the knowledge written on the General’s face, controlled though it was. He almost wished he did have more information to offer. Judging by the General’s actions, Siamak knew the General had more than idle curiosity of the distant Elves. Just what it was, Siamak wasn’t sure, and he wasn’t about to ask. He decided the best course of action would be simply to change the subject and let the episode pass. His own questions had been more or less answered, even if the answers had left him less clear than he had hoped.

“I am sure you did not come to discuss such ancient knowledge," said Siamak with a slight grin. "Why is it, then?" In truth, Siamak already had a few ideas, but he did not enjoy guessing games. He had always preferred to jump straight to the heart of the matter, rather than bandy words about. Direct questions gave people less room to wiggle out, especially those who would give an answer yet evade the true intent of the question. It was not always necessary, but it had become habit. Siamak looked in curiosity toward the General, waiting for a response.
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Old 01-01-2005, 07:04 PM   #119
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“Why did you come to my apartments?” Faroz had not intended to be angry with his wife. But to have her there before him, so obviously afraid of him for the first time in decades was…intoxicating. He was aware, even as he spoke, of the injustice in his attack, for had he not himself visited her in her rooms? But somehow it made no difference to him. She had interposed where she had no place and where she was not wanted, and she had caused a panic in the Palace that would have all tongues wagging for weeks on end. There was no possible explanation for his disappearance from his rooms, and he was sure that there would be any number of theories. Faroz had already decided that it would be easy to blame the laziness of his guards, and to that end he would order that those who had been on duty be whipped for dereliction of duty. Such a punishment, while harsh, was not unusual for soldiers of Pashtia. He would order only ten lashes each, enough to put them to their pallets for a few days and to give them some scars, but that was all.

Bekah looked up at him. He could see that she was wondering about the Hall’s emptiness and that this made her nervous. For some reason, he felt that same disquieting surge of violence that had come over him earlier. He stilled the shaking of his hand by clutching at the Ring, and his wife noted this. When she spoke, she met his eyes and her voice was firm. “I felt, Khamul, that there were matters that we needed to discuss in private…”

“Yes yes, Jarult has already told me of your ‘concerns’ about the Emissary. I fail to understand why you feel the need to discuss them in private.”

Bekah’s eyes flashed at his tone and manner. She was a proud and noble woman, descended of a long line of warriors. Her fear and anxiety was quickly being replaced with something much sterner as she felt herself being confronted by her husband so openly. “And yet,” she said evenly, “you have cleared the Hall.”

Husband and wife gazed at one another in silence, as both pondered the subtle shift that had just occurred in their relationship. It was as though a small key had slipped its place in a lock – but whether to open or close something was as yet unclear to both. Never before had Faroz attacked his wife with such mockery or disregard. And never before had Bekah confronted him in so open a manner, or with so hard a countenance. They were opponents in this conversation, and the realisation of this came to each at the same time. Bekah shifted slightly in her clothes, concerned by what had happened. Faroz settled into his cushions, unconsciously mimicking Ashnaz. He did not ask his wife to sit. For a second longer, the tense stillness continued. Faroz did not know what to say to his wife, but as he stroked the Ring words came to him. “My wife,” he said in what appeared to be a conciliatory tone, “it has been a taxing couple of days for all of us. I realise that the coming of the Emissary has upset you, and I have no doubt that you find my behaviour difficult to understand. In truth, I am myself in wonder of how I have behaved. I am not one to explain myself, but as you are my mate, I shall say this to you: I believe that I have found something with the Emissary that I had never hoped for with any man – I believe that I have found a friend. Friendship such as this is something that I had not thought to enjoy as a King, and I fear that perhaps it has left me a bit…out of balance.” He finished, and Bekah knew that he would say no more on the matter. “Now,” he continued in a more business-like tone, “sit, and open your heart to me. What is it about the Emissary that concerns you?”
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Old 01-02-2005, 11:35 AM   #120
Nurumaiel
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"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?"
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