Prologue: A Defeat

‘You did what?’
The Aeilfin king’s words rang coldly through the chamber where he and his councillers were assembled. More than a few of the lords and ladies of his court were present, as well; but they were all wisely ignoring the conflict going on. One by one, the king fixed his blue-eyed gaze on each uneasy advisor, daring them silently to speak. Finally, one of the bolder ones did.
‘We agreed to the Zehndair offer of parley, yes.’
Their liege almost snarled with exasperation; not a man inclined to temper, it was like someone else going into a screaming tantrum. ‘I cannot believe it of you! What in Ilamal’s good name could have induced you to such foolishness? The Zehndair have no hope of winning this seige; Hasandor is a strong city, we have food enough, and besides, we can outlive any Zehndair. We have nothing to lose by denying them parley and letting them sit outside our gates. So why, tell me, did you agree? And without my consent, too,’ he added in a dangerously silky voice.
‘They cannot win this war simply by coming here to talk,’ pointed out another advisor. ‘And we made it clear that only five would be allowed in. They cannot win,’ she repeated.
‘I know. And they probably know that too.’ He sank down onto his plain throne with a sigh, the angry fire gone from him. He put a grey hand to his temples and rubbed gently. ‘And that’s what worries me. Why do they want to parley if they won’t gain anything from it? They surely know we won’t yield the city, or anything.’ He lowered his hand and looked around again. ‘But it’s too late now, I presume. When are they supposed to come?’
As if in answer, the door to the hall where they waited opened and another Aeilf entered. ‘Asarmiridain, my lord. The Zehndair are here to see you.’
The king nodded. ‘Show them in.’ As the Aeilf departed, he shot a last look at his councillers. ‘If anything, anything at all, goes badly with this, I lay it on your heads. I never wanted a parley.’ He shook his head and fell silent.
Then the Zehndair entered, and king and advisors switched into formality instantly. Short where the Aeilf were tall, beige-skinned rather than grey, and with black hair as opposed to silver, the Zehndair were the opposite of the Aeilf in almost every respect. And the two races hated each other. Almost constantly at war, it was almost a miracle that both could live in the same world.
The Zehndair now in the chamber numbered five, as the Aeilf had dictated. They were dressed in elegant but serviceable clothes; tunics, pants, and knee-high boots. One of them near the back of the party held a wooden staff, taller even than an Aeilf, in one hand. It was made of wood, plainly carved. It was unremarkable in appearence, but the Aeilf king eyed it with suspicion nonetheless. He had no trust whatsoever in the Zehndair.
The foremost Zehndair stepped forwards and made a mocking leg towards Asarmiridain. ‘Your majesty was kind to let us parley.’
Asarmiridain snorted. ‘It was not my doing, Cathadan.’ He recognized the speaker; King Cathadan of the Zehndair. They had met more than once, and never on friendly terms.
The Zehndair king shrugged. ‘Whoever it was, then. It’s of no importance. You see, Asarmiridain, I have quite an important matter to discuss with you. It concerns this.’ And he gestured for the staff, which was passed to him.
Ignoring the insult he’d been given by Cathadan’s lack of a title in addressing him, Asarmiridain spoke. ‘What about it?’ The sense of unease was growing in him, like a great weight in the very pit of his stomach. To his sides, he saw more than one counciller and several of the nobles shift their stances nervously.
‘This.’ He muttered a word that even Asarmiridain’s keen ears could not catch, and the staff changed. Hundreds of intricate designs joined the simple carving already on the wood. The top of it bulged, the wood almost melting away to become a glowing blue orb about the size of an Aeilf’s fist, set in a golden claw at the top of the ornate staff. ‘Recognize it?’ Cathadan asked casually after the transformation had finished.
Every Aeilf in the room stared at the staff. Asarmiridain rose slowly to his feet. ‘What... is... that?’ he said, pausing between each word. If it was what he thought it to be... Then all was horribly, impossibly, ruinously lost.
Cathadan’s look was annoyingly condescending. ‘You don’t even recognize your most precious thing when you see it? The Staff-’
‘Of Ilamal,’ Asarmiridain finished shortly, his stomach gone leaden. The staff of the great goddess of the Aeilf herself, lost millenia back, before the memory of even the oldest Aeilf now alive. The orb of which must remain above the heads of all Aeilf present. The bearer of whom all Aeilf must obey without question. In the hands of the Zehndair, now. It was indeed the end. ‘How...’ He changed what he had been going to say in midsentence. ‘How did you get it?’
Cathadan laughed, a malicious sound. ‘That’s no concern of yours. Kneel!’ He began to lower the tip of the staff.
Asarmiridain watched it fall as if time had slowed down. Instinctively, although he had been born after the staff had been lost, he- and all the other Aeilf in the room- went onto their knees to keep the shining orb above their heads. But Cathadan was not yet satisfied. Smiling vidictively, he continued to let it drop, watching as the Aeilf moved with it. They first sat back onto their heels, then leaned forwards onto hands and knees, and finally lay flat on the ground with their heads pressed to the marble floor. And the Zehndair king laughed. ‘You admit your defeat, Asarmiridain?’ The Aeilf sprawled in front of the throne nodded his head, still managing to keep it against the cold floor. ‘Good. Now come here.’ He lifted the staff’s orb enough to let the conquered king move over towards him, not standing, but still on his knees. At Cathadan’s feet, he stopped, and looked up at him. No trace of emotion could be seen on his grey face. Blue Aeilf eyes locked with Zehndair black as the king spoke. ‘You will swear this oath.’ He held out his hand.
Asarmiridain took it and stared at the white floor while he repeated in monotone the words Cathadan dictated, words binding him and his race into slavery.