[Amanaduial the archer]

“High Priestess,” he began, the use of her proper title intentional, “I must say, I am surprised by your visit. Very few people can get past the patrols at night.” He smiled grimly. “I am glad you did. Now, why is it you have come?”

Zamara smiled gratefully at the use of her full name and pulled back her hood from her face, pushing her dark out so that it feel free across her shoulders and back. Free. As she was now - or closer, at least, to that impossible goal than she had been but an hour earlier. Looking around, still uneasy, she checked that the door was closed, then walked further in, walking to the shuttered window - she had little worry about anyone seeing her from there, now that the curfew had been imposed. Her fingers fidgetting over each other as she stared out of the window into the utterly still night and after a long moment's hesitation, she turned to Siamak. "I had no choice, Prince Siamak," she replied, her voice soft but her answer frank.

“What do you….” The young man frowned slightly, gesturing for the woman to sit on on one of the low couches around his room. Sitting stiffly, Zamara perched among the rich finery of the cushions, so different from what she had become used to in her sparse apartments, and faced Siamak. Had he given in to the Emissary's dark powers? Zamara had no way of knowing what had become of the alliances that had been set in Pashtia since she had been placed under unofficial house arrest - the Snake had told her some things about the movements of the nobles, but who knew if what he had said was true, or just more poison? She twitched her head to one side, taking a sharp intake of breath and looking away from Siamak suddenly. The prince leant towards her concerned. “Priestess, are you alright? If you are feeling overtired, maybe you need to rest?”

Zamara froze, then looked up slowly at Siamak. “Need to…rest?” she replied incredulously. Gritting her teeth angrily, she fixed Siamak with her straight, no-nonsense gaze. “Prince Siamak, what were you told about my withdrawal from the public eye four months ago?”

The young man seemed uncomfortable, and shifted slightly in his seat, averting her eyes from the woman’s. “You withdrew very suddenly, High Priestess – it all seemed very suspicious at the time. But Khamul – my father – ” he corrected himself, as if having to remind himself of the fact. “issued a statement saying that due to the destruction of the Temple and…other stresses…you had become…ill. Because of your illness you were unable, for a time, to complete your duties…” he faltered and finally trailed off uncertainly under Zamara’s sceptical gaze. She raised one eyebrow. “They said I had gone mad,” she stated frankly. Siamak did not reply, and his silence was answer enough. Zamara gave an angry snort and looked away, rising from her seat and striding towards the window. “Yes, well, maybe they were right after all – to escape from the Temple under the eyes of the Snake and his guards and walk through streets infested with monsters – yes, maybe that is madness indeed…”

Siamak frowned. “’Escape’?” he answered questioningly.

Zamara turned to look at the young prince, her silhouette, cloaked in black, seeming to meld into the starry night. For the first time, the prince noted how her indomitable energy seemed to be lacking, the wildness in her sleepless eyes, the new lines on her youthful face – lines of worry, of pain, of grief. She bit her lip and rubbed at her tired eyes with the heel of one hand, then sighed and looked away out of the window again. “Yes, Siamak, escaped, for that is the only word for it.”

Turning, the erstwhile Priestess of Rhais slowly resumed her position on the cushions, sagging into them. “Let me explain, your majesty. I do not, I fear, have time to check your alliances, for my story shall be long enough in the telling. Just know this: I have always been loyal to my country, and I have always been loyal to your family – both Khamul and Queen Bekah.” She sighed sadly, averting her eyes from Siamak’s, and her tone softened. “Yes, Queen Bekah...I would have followed her leadership no matter where it took me. Your mother was a brave woman, Siamak, and a good leader, although she never had true chance to show it for herself. She was a wise woman…”

Siamak inclined his head as thanks for her words. “Is that why you are wearing black, Priestess? Mourning clothes…”

Zamara gave a harsh laugh and shook her head bitterly. “I would wear mourning clothes for your mother in any case, Prince, but these? No, these clothes are forced upon me as a sort of penitence for my wicked deeds,” she spat sarcastically. Seeing Siamak’s confusion, she added, “Why, did you not know, Siamak? Less than three months after your mother’s death and funeral, I was tending the Temple, as usual. Attendance was already starting to flag, and the regular services were more often or not cancelled – the thanks for that can go to our distinguished guest the Snake,” she added bitterly. “Apparently more time needed to be spent on the Temple to Rae-” she paused, looking at Siamak with a ghost of a smile on her lips. “Did Tarkan get his coveted title of High Priest in the end?”

Despite her attempt at dry humour, Siamak simply looked trouble, and motioned for her to continue her story. Her worry increasing, Zamara did so.

“I had not had the statue in the temple replaced – despite my attempts, help was refused, as all manpower was to be spent on the building of the temple and, it was rumoured, on the build-up of an army, although for what cause I did not know.” Siamak once more looked unhappy, but Zamara persevered. “So instead a number of smaller statues had been placed around the temple. As was befitting the death of a Queen, the period of mourning was still in process – incense was burnt around the Temple almost constantly.

“But it was these things that were to be my downfall. As I prepared the Temple for the evening’s worshippers, a terrible banging sounded on the door and it was demanded that entrance was granted to the king’s men. They…they said they had come charged with rooting out treachery and treason against the crown of Pashtia…”

Astounded, Zamara signalled for the door to be opened, and from that wet and windy night emerged not two, or three, or four soldiers, but about a score, and all led by one of the Westerners, one of the Emissary’s men. It was he who marched down the aisle of the Temple without paying any heed or respect to the Temple, approaching Zamara directly. The man’s arrogance and lack of courtesy in the house of the Goddess frankly appalled her, and the High Priestess turned to fully face the man, drawing herself up furiously. “Gentlemen, what is the meaning of this behaviour in the Temple of Rhais?”

Like a flash of thunder in the storm outside, the Westerner threw back his head and laughed. He actually laughed. Tossing his pale hair arrogantly, he looked disdainfully around the Temple as if what he saw was below him: as if he was amazed, amused, pitying. Tearing his eyes away from the pathetic toys of the temple, the Westerner looked back at Zamara and signalled to two Pashtian soldiers to come forward – soldiers Zamara knew, men who she had seen before and conversed with in lighter days. Drawing out a scroll from under his cloak, the man began to read sanctimoniously and pompously. “You are under arrest on counts of treason against the King of Pashtia; what is more, you are accused by the crown and allies of the crown of witchcraft and sorcery, and of deliberately leading astray civilians with whose care you were entrusted; with abusing your position; with abusing your relationship with the crown and allies of the crown; and of the worship of demons and spectres. From now, you shall be stripped of your title until your trial before the Glorious King Khamul of Pashtia, at a time deemed worthy. Have you anything to say in your defence?”

The words struck Zamara again and again, a thousand blows in a single shot, pummelling and winding her, leaving her breathless and speechless as her world seemed to close in. As the two soldiers came to either side of her, Zamara smacked their hands away like a being irritated with flies and gathered herself against this attack. “Tr…treason? And ‘witchcraft’ and ‘worship of demons’? What sort of foul joke is this?” she demanded, attempting to regain her ferocity, to quell this foreigner – to quell the fear in her heart. But the man remained unmoved. “If you fight, things will become worse for you,” he replied stiffly. Anger flashed through Zamara’s eyes, the otherwordly blue in them glinting dangerously beyond the surface. “Become worse?” she thundered. “You profess to destroy my entire world, you, who came but a few months ago to this country. How could things get worse than these libellous accusations and lies?”

The Westerner took a step back, gasping and raising on hand to his throat as he held the other up as if to ward her away. “Stay away, sorceress!” he choked as if something tried to strangle him. “I can see the madness that moves through your eyes – you will not take me into your power –”

Zamara sneered, folding her arms, disgusted at this melodramatic act – but the soldiers, it seemed, were lapping it up, and even the acolytes seemed uncertain. The Westerner instantly jumped on this act of ‘open rebellion’. “See how she sneers at the name of the king, at the face of those who try to help the civilians!” he announced triumphantly to the Temple as a whole. Turning back to Zamara, his eyes glinting with glee, he hissed, “Traitor!”

This was too much: Zamara took an angry step forward towards the Westerner – and was instantly seized by the two soldiers at the other man’s signal. Trying to fight against their firm grip, Zamara glared at the Westerner furiously and called harshly out to him – before realising her duty still extended to this position. Halting her desperate actions, the High Priestess became still in the arms of the two soldiers and, dignified to the last, the walked herself out haughtily before them.

Having finished her tale, Zamara was now once again standing by the window. Seating herself slowly in the cushions, her demeanout that of an injured queen, she leant forward wearily, her head resting on one hand as she murmured sardonically, “And thus came the fall of the High Priestess of Pashtia.”

Siamak remained silent for a moment, apparently stunned by what he had heard. Leaning forward towards Zamara, he reached out a hand to her and rested it on hers. “Priestess-”

“I believe it is just plain ‘Zamara’ now, your majesty,” came the bitter reply. Siamak hesitated, then began again, self possessed and strong. “Priestess,” he repeated. “Whatever has been said against you, this was one of a great many injuries done against the people of Pashtia since the Emissary arrived. Surely if-“

“What other injuries?”

Siamak looked sorrowful. “There are a great many to tell, Priestess Zamara, if we only had – what was that?” his voice dropped to a murmur as he interrupted himself. Zamara looked up, her eyes alert and watchful and she glanced towards the door. A voice, muffled through the wood and full of restrained anger, was speaking to Nadda – a female voice, directly outside their door. Siamak signalled desperately at Zamara to hide somewhere, but it was too late: she door opened suddenly and there, looking wild yet somehow triumphant in the doorway…was Gjeelea.