[Amanaduial the archer]

While the patrol finally let Jarult go, to hurry home, there were others who did not obey the curfew so strictly, no matter who was patrolling the night. Where she might have been tucked up in bed, like a good little girl, Zamara was not ready to give in so easily to the dark powers that possessed her city.

In a room that resembled a house of mourning, the walls covered in black, the balcony windows lay wide open into the night and in front of them Zamara stood as if frozen. Similarly draped in black, her arms were crossed over the long, plain velvet tunic she was now obliged to wear over her white robes: a floor length, long sleeved garment that hid the Priestess's shape. It's wide, heavy hood, designed the shade her face and hair, lay redundant on her back now though, and she had left the tunic front open, despite the cool of the evening air: as she looked out into the night, the medallion of Rhais glinted dully on top of her white robes, the brightness like a reminder of hope against the darkness that surrounded it. And if there was one thing that Pashtia needed now, it was hope. Her beautiful features were now gaunt and her dark skin and hair dull, for she had been under house arrest in the redundant temple for nearly four months, pending her 'trial'; they strove, it seemed, to break her down both in body as passage to her mind, and she had been getting by on what very little they cared to give her. But despite her outward condition, her eyes still shone with that strange blue inner light, and her mind was ever working, working, working against impossible odds in a society that she could not reach. Trapped in what had been her haven.

A knock sounded on the door behind her and it opened almost immediately afterwards, as if Zamara's permission to enter was not required. The Priestess did not turn, simply closed her eyes and drew the tunic slowly over her chest as if suddenly exposed to a chill breeze, covering the medallion. Covering her only ray of hope.

"Good evening, Lady Zamara." Both familiar and dangerous, a mellifluous and soft, self possessed voice greeted the woman from the doorway, it's owner stepping forward towards her slowly, taking his time as if the clock belonged to him. Like everything else in this now accursed city.

Zamara did not respond, opening her eyes and looking straight forward out of the balcony window, her teeth clenched tightly together. She would not respond to a title that was not hers. A sigh sounded, a sound carefully crafted to irritate and set the teeth on edge, and Zamara sensed rather than heard the man come forward: she had long learned that the Emissary walked more silently than any elf. As he came to stand beside her, the Western man looked into the Priestess's proud, noble face and laughed softly, condescendingly, almost cruelly. "Still silent, Zamara? But you talked so freely to the king, did you not? I should like to hear you speak again - such fire, such pitiful bravado..." his voice was filled with mock admiration that covered lavish pity. Zamara did not respond, forcing herself to remain silent. The Emissary smiled smugly and leant towards her. "Not to worry, I have no fear that you shall sing again when your trial comes, Zamara. To think it, a Priestess on trial for treason, for blasphemy, for...sorcery."

"I am no witch, snake, and you know it." Zamara's reply was sharp and quiet, but full of restrained fury, and she did not deign to look at the Emissary, her gaze remaining striving into a night where the moon's light was smothered by clouds.

"Ah, so you are still alive then, sorceress? I thought maybe you had made some treaty with your demon goddess to leave this world - take the easy way out rather than face trial." The Emissary laughed, his grey eyes glinting wickedly in the sparse candlelight. Looking Zamara over greedily, he flicked at her hood lightly with long fingers, tsking quietly. "You promised to wear this up, Zamara-"

"I promised nothing of the sort, snake," the woman snapped, jerking away from the Emissary's hands, her black eyes glinting themselves but with fury rather than amusement. As she did so, her tunic fell open and the medallion came into full view. The Emissary's eyes widened in shock, then he threw back his head and laughed loudly. Regaining his composure, he raised an eyebrow at Zamara. "Oh, Zamara, what is that now? Your comfort blanket, your trinket against the darkness? What use are trinkets now, my Lady, when your so-called goddess has been exposed for what she really is?" He took a step forward and, despite herself, Zamara took an uneasy step backwards, away from him.

"It is not what she really is! Rhais has always been the goddess of Pashtia-"

"The voices of demons spoke through you, witch, no goddess!"

"No! That is not true!" Despite herself, Zamara's voice had taken on a slightly desperate edge and her anger was showing through, her frustration bursting out of her like an overflowing dam.

"You led your king astray and now you shall pay for it!"

"No!"

"Yes!" The Emissary's cruel eyes shone with enjoyment as he relished the word, hissing it like the namesake that Zamara had given him. He continued to advance on her, backing her up against a wall. "You knew it, Zamara, you knew it and now Khamul knows, he shall destroy you as I know he should. The pitiful idols of this city shall fall and in their place shall reign the one true god, my lord Morgoth! You have worshipped like heathens for long enough your pathetic idols, and now all shall come right - what female god could ever compete, you foolish-"

The sound of Zamara's hand as she slapped the Emissary's face rang through her quarters for what seemed like an hour. Stunned, he took a step away from the Priestess as he raised one hand to his face where the unnaturally pale skin was already darkening to an angry shade of red. Zamara glared at him with the ferosity of a cornered animal. "You're a monster," she hissed. Clenching her fists, she took a sudden step forward, raising her hand again to strike the Emissary. "You monster!"

The man's hand snaked out with unnatural speed, catching her wrist before she made contact with his face. Pitilessly, he twisted her wrist around and, with a gasp of pain, the Priestess sank to her knees, her arm wrenched up behind her back.

"You are nothing, Zamara and now, before all who once worshipped you, I shall show that." The Emissary pressed his mouth close to her ear as he almost spat the words at her in a sinister hiss. "By the city you loved and served, you shall be destroyed!"

With a last, vicious twist of the woman's wrist, the Emissary pushed Zamara so that she crumpled against the wall as he got to his feet. Looking down at her disdainfully, the man gave a brief snort of laughter, as if she was too worthless even to consider, then turned and left the room without another word. Zamara flexed her fingers experimentally as she massaged her wrist, fighting away the tears of anger that sprung to her eyes as she ran her delicate fingers over the deep red welts that his fingers hand left, so hard had they dug into her skin.

When she looked up again, the Emissary had vanished.

~*~

The time of waiting had passed. Zamara would not wait, a prisoner, any more. Guarded during the days, the risk of the orcish patrols during the night: these fears were nothing to her any more. The Emissary or one of the others of his company had come every day since the beginning of her captivity, and Zamara would not wait for the next time. Despite her bravery, despite her stubborness and determination, despite her very nature, tonight she had been truly scared of the man who had forced her to the ground. Never before had any man laid a hand on Zamara with such terrifying force, and she had felt that every bone in her arm would break like match-sticks under his grasp. Remembering Bekah's crumpled body, everything now made sense to the Priestess, the gaps filled. He did not have her murdered by one of his minions, and it was no accident the way Bekah died. The snake did it himself...

Zamara gulped back her fear, rearranging her disshevelled clothing as she stood, taking hasty breaths of air, attempting to slow her racing heart. There was not an instant to lose. She had thought to wait, to bide her time, but one way or the other, this ruthless western murderer would take care of her sooner or later if she was to stay. No, the time had come. The time was now.

She would risk the patrols: even the guards retreated to their homes at night, for who would be foolish enough to try to escape even under a death sentence when a breathing, walking, slavering death sentence in a different form was travelling the city in packs? But that was just something Zamara would have to risk; climbing over the balcony rail and scrabbling with her feet until they contacted the solid surface of the roof below, the former High Priestess of Pashtia began her escape into the dangerous, yellow fanged night.

And where to go? Well, how many people remained in the city with both their wits and their power still about them? One reply sprung to mind, one pair that could still recieve her, but was it too dangerous a solution?

After all, on whose side were the royal children now?