[Amanaduial the archer]

All was still in the palace.

The cold, dusty desert air blew off the sands to the East of the Desert, chuckling as it played through the dark corridors and whispering mischieviously in the ears of the fitfully slumbering inhabitants of the rooms, empty and cold in their materialistic glory. The rich, thin material of hung up clothes and disturbed bedcovers stirred lazily, beads clattering sleepily and jewellery derisively tossed gently in the fidgetting fingers of the wind, before the palace's liveliest intruder danced away to find some sport in the streets below, sprawled in submission around the palace.

Outside, watched only by the silent, watchful moon above, the palace's other intruder was making her escape from her only sanctuary: venturing into a city that professed not to want her, and to a people to whom she was a vanishing last hope. The wind whispered through the servants quarters, playing past two disturbed beds, one a man's and one a young girl's, and followed their owners outside to where the man, cloaked against the night air and the night creatures, held open a furtive side gate. Three figures, slim, effeminate shadows against the muffled lamp above the gate, slipped through it guiltily but without fuss, and as silently as the moonlight, they fled to the sidestreets, keeping to the shadows. As the gate closed behind her, one of them hesitated, taking a long look up at the palace, her eyes yearning for some semblance of the life she had once had to return, for the darkness to lift; then the other, a taller woman whose dark curls peeped out of her hood, took her hand and, with a final farewell to her life, Gjeelea hurried on with Zamara after Reafin and Nadda.

To a spectator, the journey would seem uneventful for the four furtive figures, but to Zamara every second of the dark, dangerous journey was a battle against every nerve in her body and every wit in her senses telling her that to hide forever would be a preferable option. The city doesn't want you, Zamara, leave them to their evil and return to the Goddess... Painfully alert as she was of every inch of her surroundings, the Priestess nearly tripped into Reafin's back as he stopped dead, and the suddeness of his movement nearly made her cry out. Regaining her composure, the Priestess tried to calm her heavy, frightened breathing, and stepped around the servant, her soft footsteps the only sound in the dark street - a street that opened to the Temple of Rae.

Nothing moved. Even the wind seemed to still, hushing itself into silence as it watched the tableau in front of the ruins. Narrowing her eyes, Zamara took another step forward out of the safety of the street's entrance and looked around, squinting into the darkness for some movement or sign of life, of the Prince - of a trap.

Risking everything and overcoming the lump that seemed to be building inside her throat, Zamara uttered a single word, her voice echoing desolately into the stone temple and making Nadda leap in it's apparent volume. "Tarkan?"

Silence once more.

Then movement.

Zamara stepped back, fear leaping like a wolf to her throat as she grasped her staff tightly for whatever comfort or protection it could give - and nearly cried out in relief as the person who moved forward threw back his hood and in the dry and desolate moonlight, she recognised Tarkan's face. A sudden, overwhelming relief almost overcame her as she darted towards him and, after a moment's pause, the Priest and Priestess embraced formally. "Tarkan," Zamara began, her voice a whispered sigh. "Thank- thank you so much for coming."

"It was my duty, Zamara." Not for the first time, he did not prefix her name with it's title, and in that instant Zamara was reminded of her distrust for the older man. They may have been allies, but friends was pushing it; by not calling her 'High Priestess', he was, she was reminded bitterly, simply telling the truth - but it could also have been an expression of her ever-present wish for her high position. She took a mental step back, reminding herself to be careful.

Careful? You have come to discuss high treason, Zamara: taking care would be far too belated for any caution now to save.

“Tarkan, the Prince, is he here yet? He set off some time before us- ”

“I am here, Zamara.” The strength of Siamak’s youthful yet strong voice from the velvet darkness comforted Zamara. Tarkan nodded once. “Have you brought any others?”

Caution, however, belated, caught up with the Priestess. “A few,” she replied shortly, but not so curtly that attention might be drawn to it as she added, “and you?”

“Just one,” the priest smiled. “Just one.”

“Ah, your mysterious young friend, Pelin, I suppose?” Siamak spoke this time, his voice a little sardonic. Tarkan’s chin jerked up angrily as he looked around, but apparently could not quite place the young prince’s exact position as his eyes returned to Zamara then sought in the darkness behind him, around the Old Temple. “Yes…yes, Pelin is here with me, as always,” he murmured somewhat distractedly. The distance in his voice did not escape Zamara but although she frowned slightly, she said nothing, contenting herself with her silence: the Priest’s mind and its motions would soon be revealed to her, Rhais providing. Sure enough, the Priest turned to her again and his voice returned to a conspiratorial whisper. “Shall we go into the temple? I fear it is not…” he took a furtive glance around, apparently simply for dramatic effect. “…safe.”

Zamara’s hesitation must have shown, for the Priest frowned slightly, his face still dimly visible in the unveiled moonlight as he half-smiled. “There is nothing to be afraid of, Zamara; the Rae’s Temple is as unlikely a place as any for you to be found –”

“I am not afraid, Tarkan,” Zamara cut in. Taking a deep breath, her voice softened and she nodded more calmly at the Priest. “Lead the way.”

Tarkan nodded solemnly and turned towards the temple as he began to lead the silent, secretive procession of the night-conspirators towards his old domain. Hearing Siamak come up beside her, Zamara half turned her face to him and felt the prince’s hand brush hers reassuringly. Smiling, she leant towards him and murmured, “Tell the others to follow but without being seen: the Priest may be our ally, for the time being, but I refuse to trust any man who wilfully refuses to reveal his name.” The Prince nodded and silently peeled away from her towards his sister and the two servants still hiding from the moon in the street opening. Zamara took a deep breath and, bracing herself against all the darksome rumours she had heard of the Temple, she followed Tarkan. But in the night time, when shadows are rife in the streets, they have a way of finding their way into one’s mind…

Feeling her sandaled toes brush against something soft and surprisingly moist, Zamara looked down and, to her surprise, saw a subtly hidden patch of moss by her right foot: the stone under which it had made its home must have been disturbed by Tarkan’s foot. Bending down, the Priestess touched the moss supersticiously, her fingers gently stroking it’s half-dried out surface. “Protect me, Goddess,” she whispered almost inaudibly. The chill desert wind stirred once more, chiding her onwards, and Zamara straightened up again, raising her chin and setting off after Tarkan.