[Amanaduial the archer]

Catching Arlome's eye, Zamara smiled and nodded her head to the elf. She was unsure of the elves in general - their familiarity the immortals seemed to have with Rea and Rhais seemed to verge on blasphemy sometimes - but Arlome herself had been a devout worshipper for as long as Zamara could remember - longer, in fact. It made the High Priest feel slightly awed, that she held her position over one who had worshipped the goddess through thick and thin for many times Zamara's own lifetime, far beyond the time when she herself first even heard of the earth goddess and was captivated by her. But then, maybe that was the problem with the elves: there is only so much strength that rapture can hold over so many years. Arlome's husband, the General Morgos, was not, to Zamara's knowledge, a regular worshipper at either of the temples, or at the Black Oblisk and smaller shrines scattered over Pashtia - the gods had grown tired for him, Zamara guessed, as they became for many Pashtian Avari. Arlome worshipped regularly, and she knew the High Priestess quite well, having been around Rhais' Temple since Zamara was a child; but the Priestess thought now that maybe if it was to become her occupation, after more than the usual lifetimes of men, worship would lose it's flavour, perfection, wonder that made it so special for Zamara herself. It was a revelatin, the priestess thought: that everything could be tired of eventually, once the urgency of mortality was taken away.

But Arlome was certainly not jealous of Zamara's position: she was beyond such things. Unlike some. Zamara’s dark eyes flickered towards Tarkan, the movement disguised by the thick dark kohl around her eyes, and lingered momentarily on the Priest, who was pre-occupied with conversation to one of the nobles. But even so, his eyes were dark and some thought moved in them that was not, she mused, entirely caused by the other man’s conversation. She swirled the thin red wine thoughtfully (in the heat of the desert, unwatered wine was simply unpractical) and looked away from the Priest again.

"Thank you, High Priest, but you're too kind.”
“Tarkan will do for tonight, kind Sir."

The false modesty in the Priest’s voice tasted strange in Zamara’s wine as she took another sip at her glass. She did not dislike the Priest: they were as different as earth and sky, but there was a mutual respect between the two of them. But Tarkan’s reaction to Morgos’ words…He had not refuted the title: he would take it all too easily and if she had not been there, Zamara was sure he would have kept up the title as his own. The thought, more of a fact, did not upset her: but in the light of the possible building of a new temple to Rea, and the selection between Siamak and Gjeelea as heir, it nagged a little at her mind. There was more power in the balance here than she had suspected.

Arlome was still watching her, she noticed, and as Zamara returned her gaze, the elf tipped her head to the side, discreetly beckoning the High Priestess over. Zamara was slightly puzzled, but Arlome’s eyes slid over towards the Emissary where he was talking with her husband and the king. Zamara nodded and, excusing herself, she picked up her staff and unfolded herself from her kneeling, reclining position, and made her way over to the Royal Table. It was time, after all, for her to pay her respects to the Western Emissary – and to allow him to pay his respects to Rhais.

“…apologies, my Prince. I am new to your realm and not yet familiar with your ways. I meant nothing by my comment, and I hope that neither you nor your sister will hold it against me.”

The Emissary’s smooth voice sent a shiver down Zamara’s spine, although she couldn’t have said why: the comment, the tone, the light ripple of quiet, smiling laughter around the table – it was all light and innocent, no need for worry out of context. She had no time to consider it though, for, smiling, the King looked up and saw Zamara standing nearby the table, modestly waiting. She bowed deeply to him and, rising, the king replied in like, allowing the High Priestess to advance towards the monarch. Reaching towards Faroz, she touched his the top of his head lightly, saying a prayer under her breath, her eyes closed. Opening her eyes once more, she nodded her head respectfully. “Rhais bless your house, King Faroz.”

“It seems she has tonight, High Priestess,” Faroz smiled, gesturing at the merry guests. Arlome and her husband made a little space and Zamara knelt beside them, giving the elf woman a grateful smile. The nobles around the table nodded courteously to the Priestess and she murmured her thanks and greetings, before catching especially the gaze of the Emissary. He had not bowed or even inclined his head to her, a fact that was glaringly obvious; and although his grey eyes were innocent, Zamara was fairly sure it was not lack of knowledge of Pashtian customs that was stopping him from showing respect to Zamara and her goddess. But in his eyes there was a sort of respect – an admiration for the mysterious Priestess of a foreign land. She was nothing like others he had seen, and his lord had not told him of any like this: young and undoubtedly striking, the light flickering across her dark skin and in her eyes, the white strikes on her cheekbones and between her eyes and dark eye makeup making her seem strangely ethereal. And outdated, he added with a cruel inward smile. She was harmless in herself, he thought, but she commanded a lot of power over these people, especially the women, and even the elves. Religion, then, was a very certain way in…

“Good evening, priestess,” the Emissary said silkily. Zamara did not flicker at the exclusion of her full title – she barely noticed it. A server topped up a flute of wine as she laid down her staff beside her. “Good evening indeed, sir: welcome to Pashtia. I hear you were learning something about our customs?”

“And your monarchy too, Priestess.” The Emissary gave a slightly rueful smile that did not fit well on his sharp, smooth features. Zamara inclined her head with a small smile but beyond that did not slip into informality, and did not offer her own name: she had decided that to keep a more formal stance with the Emissary. He continued. “You are the priestess of the gods of Pashtia?”

As his eyes flickered up to hers, Zamara felt what seemed like a shot of lightning along her body, and her hand jerked by her side. Arlome turned quickly, her expression concerned, but Zamara did not look back at her, simply shaking her head with a considerate smile although under the table she squeezed the elf’s hand gently, and a bond of understand passed between them. At the edge of the conversation, Siamak stood inconspicuously with a few murmured words and started towards the door of the hall. Ignoring the goosepimples that suddenly adorned her bare shoulders, Zamara replied to the Emissary. “I am the High Priestess of Pashtia – I serve Rhais, the goddess of the earth. The Priest Tarkan –” she gestured towards Tarkan. “–is the Priest to Rea, the god of the sky.”

“Just 'Priest'?”

A flutter of stillness fluttered across the table and Zamara felt her fingers stiffen against Arlome’s. “What do you mean, sir?”

The Western Emissary paused, his oddly still eyes fixed on Zamara’s, then he shook his head, shrugging lightly as he took another sip of wine. “Oh…nothing, High Priestess. I merely wondered as to the difference between Rea and Rhais.” Noting Zamara’s unsure hesitation, the Emissary shook his head and rolled his eyes good-humouredly. “’Looks as if I’ve slipped again – I apologise if I have offended you, Priestess: I still have much to learn about Pashtia.”

Zamara smiled, her warmth returning to her smile. “Where the Goddess is concerned, sir, I would be glad to help you to learn. If you will all excuse me, please – I would just like to step out into the outside air for a few moments.” Picking up her staff, she followed Siamak out of the doors. She had wanted quite urgently to talk to the young prince, and this was a better time than ever to ask about Siamak’s opinion about the Emissary. First a slip up over the monarchy, now over the gods…how naïve is this Westerner, really?