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"Tell me, Arlomë: what do you think? And your husband? Has he said anything of immortals, of his lord's knowledge of elves?"
Arlomë pulled her eyes from the peaceful courtyard and turned them to meet Zamara’s. The memories of the night before, the strange chill, the words about the darkness and the Elves of the Emissary’s land, all flooded her mind, yet she did not speak at once. The High Priestess could see the tightness in the Elf’s eyes and the trouble that lay behind them.
“You hesitate to tell me your thoughts,” Zamara observed. “What is troubling you, Arlomë?”
“To be honest, Zamara, I am not sure.” Arlomë paused and looked at her hands. “I do not trust this Emissary.” The Elf quickly surveyed the garden, and then looked back to the High Priestess. Zamara met her gaze with furrowed brows, and silently nodded for Arlomë to continue. “I cannot say why, but when I met him...this strange...uneasiness came over me.” A look of surprise flickered in Zamara’s eyes, but she said nothing. “Maybe I am making too much of this.” Arlomë shook her head as though dismissing her confession. “In fact, I should not have said anything.”
Zamara opened her mouth to speak, but the young Tayfar entered at this moment. The young girl nervously lowered her head and presented the Elf and High Priestess with a small round tray made of a glossy clay. A fine, intricate design was carved into its center. It appeared chaotic at first, but then it became noticeable that the lines had the same source, and they grew into the earth like the great roots of a tree. Arlomë wondered at how the tray so delicately portrayed how Rhais fed all life. Zamara’s hand passed over the tray as she reached for her cup, and Arlomë was brought from her thoughts. As she looked up, the young Tayfar’s steps could be heard walking along the stone path toward the temple, and the Elf took her own cup and sipped the warm tea, smiling over the edge at the High Priestess, hoping Zamara had forgotten the confession she had made before the girl’s arrival.
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