[Amanaduial the archer]

Under cover of darkness, a lone figure stole through the Kanak, the streets deserted by all to whom the city truly belonged whilst yellow fanged usurpers prowled the streets. As the sound of feet - or were they claws? - came close, a street away, the figure paused, suddenly feeling all too obvious in the dim, starless sidestreet. Flattening herself in a doorway, Zamara desperately tried to meld into the stonework, staying as still as was humanly possible and praying to Rhais that the patrol would pass on.

The steps at the opening of the alleyway faltered as one of it's members hesitated, looking down the sidestreet and giving a guttural grunt to the others to wait. It emitted a long, drawn out sniffing, like a dog sniffing underneath a door for some small mouse or rat, and Zamara's heart seemed to stop within her chest, her blood freezing in the chill of fear. Slow, menacing footsteps came forward, one....two...three...steady and unrelenting as death as the orc started down the sidestreet.

"Come out, little mouse....we know you're here somewhere, come out, come out..." the orc crooned mockingly, it's fellows sniggering. They spread out along the street, one on each side checking the walls. The leader gave a cruel yellow-fanged grin. "Some naughty little girl or boy doesn't like the curfew? Should stay inside of an evening - you never know who might be out in the darkness..."

The orcs sniggered nastily, adding their own jeers, before the leader silenced them suddenly. Giving a low growl, he sniffed along the wall, taking short, violent inhalations, suddenly seeming even more eager and urgent, as if he had picked up on Zamara's scent. Shrinking down in her doorway, the priestess felt inside the shapeless cloak, barely shifting it, finding her medallion as she squeezed her eyes tight shut, like a little girl willing a nightmare to go away. The orc could not be more than a few feet away from her now, she was sure, sniffing all along the wall like a dog picking up on a scent, and the only sound in the starless city seemed to be those terrible, vicious sniffs and the pounding of Zamara's heart in her chest. She had never seen the orcs close up before, and the face which replaced the animal features of the orcish leader was the Emissary's: smug, calculating and smooth, smiling wickedly with those cold grey eyes as he destroyed her city around her. It was he, even more than the patrol, that Zamara feared. Please, take them away, don't let them find me here...

A crash at the end of the alleyway seemed to assail the darkness, the sound of a slate falling off a roof. The sound of it shattering seemed the loudest thing Zamara had ever heard, but what came after it was more terrible still: the sound of a human voice swearing.

The sound that saved Zamara's life.

The orcs' instant reaction covered Zamara's whimper as all heads turned towards the end of the alley, distracted from the game they were playing with Zamara. The leader set off immediately at a run with a yell that was more like a wolf's bay than any human sound, and they all responded and followed suit, thundering past Zamara's hiding place like a pack of wolves, baying with bloodlust as they pursued the poor unfortunate who had broken curfew. In her doorway, her back pressed so hard in that she could feel every individual stone cold through her clothes, Zamara huddled under the black velvet cloak that the Emissary had forced her to wear and which had now provided a perfect cover for her - any other time, the irony would have made her laugh, but the Priestess felt so numb that she was barely capable of moving.

The inclination would have been to stay there all night, never to leave that doorway and to remain until dawn stock still. As if an open doorway provided any safety from the orcs. Forcing herself into action with the thought, her powerful self will and the fear of discovery being all that kept her moving, Zamara held her cloak around her body and set off at a run. As her sandals slapped against the ground, she hopped on one foot then the other as she removed them and slipped them into the cloak pocket; she would run barefoot, despite the gravelly ground. Stealthily jogging through the darkness, stopping now and then as she crossed streets, Zamara warily made the hellish journey through the network of Kanak's streets towards the palace. But there was one obstacle she had not thought through.

The fountain courtyard.

The very place where the King had stood six months ago to welcome the Emissary to Pashtia: an open, paved square about twenty metres long and wide, centred by a magificent, three tiered fountain. Zamara gazed up now at the fountain which lay silent and still in the shrouded moonlight, it's white stone shining with faded magnificence: the water did not flow at night and lay instead tranquil in the stone pools. Beyond it sat the palace, hunched and foreboding, a dark place these days and, to Zamara, an impossible distance away.

The Priestess could have cried. How, how could she have come so far only to have this set in front of her? The square was bordered on all sides by unusually large roads, and if one of the orcs happened to look along one into the courtyard, she didn't stand a chance; or if, pausing for a moment to take in the city by night, a soldier in the palace looked out, she would be instantly spotted. If anyone was to see her, she may as well light a beacon and order a band.

But Zamara was a determined woman. A straight, twenty metre run across the courtyard without being seen? Improbable, but not impossible. In a city where one man's poisonous words could cause one of the greatest kings in Pashtian history to forsake all his forefathers before him had done, nothing was impossible. Clenching her fists, Zamara squeezed her eyes shut and uttered a soft sigh, crouching like a runner at the starting block...then, like an arrow froma taught bow, shot from the tributary pathway and sprinted at full pelt across the courtyard.

As she ran, every cell in Zamara's body seemed alive, seemed to twitch and scream it's prescence to all around, and her hood slipped down off her head, revealing hair that, although the gold braiding had been removed, seemed to wave frantically to all around, swinging in an ungainly salute to all around her head. Every breath was a smith's bellows in volume, every footstep a gunshot, every movement or thought torment in uncertainty.

Let me make it, Goddess...

...and an age later, throwing herself under the eaves of a gateway, she did.

Kneeling with her back pressed against the filigree of the gate, Zamara lay crouched and panting for several long moments, staring back at what she had just accomplished. Leaning back, she dropped to a sitting position and slumped against the gateway, offering thanks to her goddess - or to whatever had got her across that impossible mile, whether herself or Rhais, she wasn't exactly in the mindset to argue right at that moment. But her trials, it seemed, were not yet over.

"Who goes there?"

The terrified false bravado of the whispered voice pierced Zamara and she almost called out before a hand shot through the gate and covered her mouth. The woman struggled for only a second though, before a knife came to her throat, halting her movements and forcing her to sit still. The bearer of the knife paused momentarily and then, with sudden urgency, fierce, agile fingers left her mouth and groped their way to her neck, below the blade, where they found the medallion's chain. Lifting it with shocked, eager reverence, Zamara's assailant raised the medallion from her clothing and, as the clouds slipped lazily from the moon in a moment's respite, the ruby of Rhais hung glinting in it's light.

The dagger dropped from Zamara's throat and the footsteps backed up away from the gate. The Priestess scrambled to her feet quickly, hands raised but her face clearly visible to the pair of servants in the garden: barefoot and pale she may have been, but she was instantly recognised. The elder of the two, a weatherbeaten, leathery man of about fifty, stared in amazement and his jaw dropped open. "High Prieste-"

"Sh-hh!" Zamara flapped her hands desperately at the pair, looking franticallyn around the square for any sign of the orc patrols. The second servant, a young woman not much older than Tayfar, still did not move, but the man came forward, grasping Zamara's hand and running his fingers over it in awe as if to make sure she was real, not simply some spectre of moonlight, some shadow of starlight. Convinced that she was real, he gave a shocked, relieved grin, almost laughing, and unlocked the gate quickly. The hinges swung open with barely a squeak and Zamara slipped through quickly, closing the portal as quickly. The servant man still looked completely incredulous and, as if suddenly remembering, he bowed his head quickly to Zamara, gesturing for the servant girl to do the same. Zamara shook her head impatiently, grasping the man by his shoulders. "We have no time, sir, no time at all-" she hesitated, looking into the man's shocked eyes, then found the perfect solution to gaining his every co-operation. "You...your wife was a regular worshipper, was she not? You did not come so often because of commitments at the palace, but she...she came often..." Zamara narrowed her eyes, looking into the man's, then clicked her fingers, a sound muffled by the velvet cloak. "Reafin, am I right?"

The man looked as if the Goddess himself had recognised him. "Indeed, ma'am, indeed!" he replied, then hastily hushed his voice. "But quick, we cannot stand here gawking - come inside, Priestess, quick!"

Once inside the silent kitchens - it was near midnight and even the kitchen staff, a species who seemed almost nocturnal to others in the palace, had retired to bed - Zamara expressed her need to see Siamak. Reafin was doubtful, as he had a right to be, and Zamara continued urgently in a desperate whisper. "Please, Reafin, I...I must see the Prince, urgently. I can get myself through the palace most of the way, but to find exactly where Siamak's rooms are...well, I am not sure of the exact way..." she trailed off, her eyes pleading with the man's in almost desperation. "Please..."

The man barely needed to hesitate. As Zamara had correctly remembered, his wife, Rhais rest her memory, had been a devout follower of the Goddess - a fact which had led to her dismissal, although the given excuse had been an ongoing illness which caused stiffness of her fingers and slow movement; an illness that had eventually, quite recently, led to her death. As his thumb moved over the plain gold band on his ring-finger, Reafin made up his mind. The Emissary may have held sway over the city as a whole, but individuals still had their own minds. He nodded to the silent servant girl. "Nadda, take the Priestess to Siamak's rooms - be as quiet as you can, disturb no one and light no torches. You can find your way in the dark, can't you?"

Nadda nodded mutely then apparently felt the need for some vocal consent and curtseyed clumsily to Zamara as she squeaked her affirmation. Zamara breathed a sigh of relief and clasped Reafin's hand gratefully. "Rhais bless you, thank you, Reafin. I may owe my life to you, thank-"

The old man waved away her words with a leathery hand, shooing her out like a fond grandmother chasing a child. "No time, no time, go!"

Zamara gave him another brief smile then, gathering her cloak and robes so that they did not rustle on the floor, she followed Nadda, scurrying off into the dangerous dark of the palace...