[Amanaduial the archer]

Far from that central square where battle began to build in silence, in a small, unlit terraced house, silence also reigned. As still and expressionless as the statues at the gates of Pashtia, Zamara sat straightbacked and silent in a chair in Jarult's house, staring straight forward as if in some silent vigil. But it was not upon any target or landscape that her eyes were fixed, but rather at some point seemingly beyond the dingey creamy-grey of Jarult's wall, fixed upon that point with such fierce intensity that it seemed as if she had almost stopped breathing such was her concentration. The only sign of life that the Priestess showed were in her fingers, constantly moving: one moment absently straightening her robes in her lap, the second moment running the tips distractedly down the velvet of her cloak; and most of all, flitting almost nervously over her medallion, always darting away before they settled there, moths drawn to a flame but nervous and unsure of what would happen if they settled on the ruby's fierce, dark flame.

From her position at the window, the second figure in the room watched the Priestess sidelong through hooded eyes, as if waiting for her to make some move. Daliyeh and Zamara had talked long before, after Siamak had left, speaking with the urgency of those condemned about each other, about Pashtia, about the Queen, even about the goddess herself - a goddess that Daliyeh had begun to doubt ever since her very profession had been warped and blackened by her forced tending to the orcs; a goddess who Zamara had seen and hoped- no, believed would come to their rescue. Maybe it was on this point that they had fallen silent, neither wanting to shatter the other's vision and both desperate to hold onto what they had. So now the talking had ceased and only silence reigned: reigned over this tiny, frozen kingdom in which the two subjects, Priestess and Healer, used to taking command and being in charge, were utterly helpless. Frozen.

Suddenly Zamara started up, knocking the chair over in her haste, her eyes wide and her head cocked slightly to one side as if listening, a desert hare alert as the fox approaches. Daliyeh started slightly at the sudden movement, but was then fully on her feet. "What, what is it?" she whispered, fearfully.

"Did you not hear that?" Zamara replied, her tones also hushed. Daliyeh opened her mouth to reply, but Zamara held up a hand suddenly, her eyes staring into a different beyond as she listened intently. A smile, half fearful, half excited, flitted across her fine, dark features and she nodded almost imperceptibly. "There," she replied, her voice little more than a sigh. She smiled more widely this time and nodded as the sound repeated itseld, striding out into the hall and grabbing her cloak, throwing it over her shoulders. Daliyeh, perplexed, remained still, then she too heard the sound: a horn, a horn blowing in the distance. She gasped quietly, her hand coming to her mouth, then she ran out to Zamara where the Priestess stood with her hand on the doorknob. "Zamara, wait!"

The Priestess turned to look at her, and for a moment Daliyeh drew back as something in the younger woman's eyes flashed that was perhaps not entirely unlike what Zamara herself had seen in the eyes of the Nazgul: something ancient, deep and dark, beyond it's bearer and beyond Pashtia itself. But the old healer had seen much in the last few months that would have made any weaker than herself quell and fall away in horror, and she was made of stronger stuff than that: her hand remained on Zamara's arm. "Priestess, please, wait. Where will you go?"

"Siamak does not want me there; therefore I must go to him." The reply was soft yet measured and totally determined. Zamara seemed somehow distant: part of her had already reached the square where the battle was being fought, and stood already beside the young prince. But the part that remained now turned to Daliyeh, her dark eyes pleading with her, the blue flashing in the brown. "I must go to him, Daliyeh."

The old healer searched the priestess's face for a moment, trying to find some logic, some reason, some hope. But as Zamara turned the doorknob and stepped out into the darkness, all Daliyeh could see was the face of a young woman who had seen far more than she should have, a woman who had passed a premature death and who, in her second chance, now balanced the fate of a people on shoulders too young to bear it. She pursed her lips and let go of Zamara's arm, but signalled for her to wait a moment as she disappeared into the dim half-light of Jarult's home, emerging a few moments later bearing a long, slender item wrapped in cloth. Zamara gave her a questioning look as she took the surprisingly heavy item, then unwrapped it. Recognition dawned and, grasping the hilt of the old chamberlain's sword, she pulled it free from its hilt in a sudden fierce motion, turning the blade so that it glimmered dully in the moonlight, the stars flashing off a blade old yet fierce yet - not unlike the Pashtian people themselves. She smiled.

Replacing the sword in its hilt, the younger woman awkwardly wrapped the belt around her waist, and as she stepped out into the street the weight of it thumped against her leg, both awkward and reassuring at the same time. Looking up at the stars in the clear, desert sky that greeted her, Zamara imagined how many people were looking at those very same stars right at that very same moment; and how many of them would live to see the next morning. Turning back to the healer, Zamara took a deep breath and kissed the old woman's hands lightly in an unspoken thanks. Daliyeh smiled bravely in return, a mother watching her child go off to fight the impossible foe, and sniffed, turning away: hardened though Daliyeh had become by her trade, she was not past the tears that now sparkled in her old, dim eyes. "May the gods go with you, Priestess; may they help you to win this fight."

Zamara looked up at the stars above, then fixed her eyes again at Daliyeh, that look of wisdom beyond her years settling in them once more. She smiled sadly. "Oh, Daliyeh," she replied softly, the soft, wistful smile sighing across her features. "We cannot win this fight."

And with that she was gone, hood pulled up and cloak wrapped around her as she blended into the darkness of the starless shadows and hastened to find Siamak; hastened to the battle that would decide all of their fates.