[Amanaduial the archer]

The door opened a crack and Zamara froze, feeling Siamak's body stiffen against hers at the same instant. Closing her eyes, she sent a prayer to Rhais, or to Rae, or...or to anyone who might be there. Since she had heard the voice in the Temple, that kindly voice, she had suspected as much: had suspected that there was more than her own goddess out there. That voice had conveyed hope, however distant: a voice from a land where there was yet light, when all the Priestess could see was darkness. What does it matter now? You couldn't understand the words she said: they were in another language. If you cannot understand the Goddess, how can she possibly understand or help you?

Trust in mankind, Zamara; trust in the man who is at this minute risking his life and everything he ever could have been for you.

Zamara opened her eyes. As the shutter opened further and the fingers of the light reached out to stroke her face, her eyes glittered darkly in reply. Reaching out, she caressed the hilt of Siamak's blade: the Prince himself seemed paralysed, his eyes fixed on the shutter.

"Prince Siamak?"

The words were little more than a whispered croak, disbelieving, fearful, yet with hope: the voice of an enemy? Zamara's brain barely processed the tone as her eyes widened and she tightened her finger's around the one weapon that the fugitive pair had between them. But Siamak reacted quite differently - as he pushed back his hood from his face, just for second, Zamara's heart stopped. Suicide. But the Prince's expression was one of glee as he took a tentative step forward. "Jarult?" he replied softly, his voice as incredulous as the stranger's. The stranger gave a muffled gasp and Siamak grinned widely, pushing his hood back fully and starting toward the window. Fearing to speak, although she knew they were doomed now, Zamara grabbed Siamak's arm desperately - but the prince seemed unconcerned. He half turned towards her, giving a small smile. "Zamara, it is alright: he is a friend." Ndding at her as he spoke, he turned to the stranger. "And this...is the High Priestess Zamara."

The stranger didn't move and Zamara was unable to see his face in the light against the backdrop of alleyway darkness, but she noticed, with the clarity of one who is about to die, that his hands were trembling very slightly. There came a scream from far off and Zamara ducked reflexively, spinning around, her fingers still twisted in Siamak's cloak, and the prince started, his hand jumping to hers. Wild-eyed, Zamara looked back at Siamak and whispered hoarsely, "Footsteps..."

The stranger must have heard them as well, for the shutter closed with a snap, shutting out the thin sliver of light and with it any hope of rescue. Or did it?

A moment later, there came the sound of multiple bolts being drawn back behind Zamara. Her hand leaping to her mouth to stop herself screaming, Zamara jumped back from it, flattening herself against the opposite alley wall - but the withered, lined face that appeared at the doorway was a vaguely familiar one. Her eyes widened and Siamak rolled his eyes. "Finally..." he muttered, grabbing her by the wrist and propelling the stunned woman forcibly into a dimly lit corridor, sparsely furnished but somehow homely: more homely than any place that either Siamak or Zamara had dwelt in for several months at least. Jarult's home.

Looking around the room, Zamara felt her knees buckling beneath her weight. Catching herself against the wall, she took a deep breath, trying to steady her fluttering pulse. Holding out a hand, she bowed her head to the man opposite, the man who had quite possibly just saved her life. "Jarult?" she hazarded, going from the word Siamak had hissed earlier. The man nodded and took her hand. Suddenly lost for words, Zamara simply gave him a grateful smile. "Thank...thank you. Thank you so much..."

The man waved her words away with his free hand, shaking his head as a broad smile cracked his weary face in half. "No, no, High Priestess, don't thank me; Siamak, you have no idea how I have longed for your face over these months."

"And I yours, old friend," the prince replied. As they began to talk, Zamara crept towards the window, her thoughts straying. The house seemed to consist of two modestly sized rooms on the ground floor and probably the same above, as most of the houses in the poorer districts did; as most of the houses around the Temple of Rhais did as well. The poor turned to the gods in the hopes of finding something more worthy in the next world than had been given in this, something that made this one worthwhile....as she had, she supposed. Zamara's fingers crept inside her cloak and she touched upon the medallion that she still wore, the one item that she would wear until her death, whether her position was recognised or not. Closing her eyes, Zamara reached out with her mind as she did in prayer. Thank you.

...and a flash of light crashed across her vision. The Priestess stumbled against the wall of Jarult's home...but it was no longer there, replaced by rough, dark stone, cold even through her cloak. But it was nothing to the cold that was coming, the chill that she could feel approaching, creeping slowly, insistently through her body, seeping like damp into every inch of her soul. Against it and the buffeting wind, the Priestess tightened her cloak around herself, shrinking against the unfamiliar wall, and all around her she could see shades rushing around her, past her, barely recognising her existence. And in return, she could not see their faces, could barely distinguish anything of them, grey shades of their former selves - living ghosts.

Another great flash of light seared Zamara's eyes and she winced, yet somehow, rather than covering her eyes, she strove to see beyond it. That was no flash of lightning: it had not rained or even come close to the storm that would be required for nearly a year. For a storm to come so suddenly and without any warning was impossible...

But impossibility didn't come close to what Zamara was about to witness.

Voices...voices....they rose in volume and pitch, getting gradually louder as the cold got steadily more intense, scraping their nails against her eardrums as the volume rose to a scream, high and terrified, chanting strange words over and over. A shade fell at Zamara's feet and reached up to her - but her desperate words were whipped away and after an instant she shrivelling away, like ashes scattered to the window. Paralised, Zamara raised her eyes to look up...

Just as there had been in her dream. Horsemen...there were horsemen riding upon the shadow, shades of men, cloaked and covered from head to toe in black, their faces invisible, each bearing a sword in one hand. And on the other hand...

Zamara's fingers tightened on her medal and one of the horsemen jerked visibly, his horse rearing as his hands pulled back viciously against it's bit. As Zamara gripped the medal fiercely, standing her ground against the wind and the storm of shadows, the figure raised it's sword and pointed towards her...

...but the blow never came - or not from the horseman anyway. A sudden, stinging slap across her face sent her reeling against the wall and she bit back the pain, lashing out with one hand and in the process letting go of the medal. The woman who had slapped her laughed and leapt back, spry for an older woman - or maybe just well practised. She smiled grimly, raising one eyebrow. "Welcome back, High Priestess - how do you feel? What...what happened?"

Zamara's eyes widened in disbelief and she struggled to sit up further, slumped as she was against the wall. Blinking several times, she cocked her head to one side. "Daliyah?" Her response to seeing the woman, so coincidental and perfect in its timing, was as disbelieving as Siamak's had been upon recognising Jarult. The old healer smiled and nodded, squeezing Zamara's hand. The Priestess gazed at her, amazed - then remembered the flash of light across her vision and the terrified foreign chanting and sat up. "By Rhais...Siamak, the elves! The Emissary is destroying them!"