[i][u]West of the Savarian Gates[/u][/i]

The red sun beat down on the lands of the East, blasting the desolate landscape with heat unknown anywhere else on Thurius.  The rocky plateaus were high and hard, giving way to the sifting ergs that rolled southwards and rising into the vast mountains that sprawled across the north.  This land, the disputed territory between Sindhus and Savaria, was not a place that allowed weakness.  The predators hunted alone, the prey died alone, and even the flora wore prickly armour.

A great cloud of dust rose in the distance, slowly drifting across the clear blue sky.  The sound of hooves pounding against the rocky ground was heard before the perpetrators could be seen, thundering across the crest of a barren hilltop.  The riders were few in number, wearing loose linen tunics of vibrant patterning and cloaks of brightly coloured silk.  Most of the horsemen had a weapon hanging from their belt, sabres encrusted with gems and gilded with fine silver and gold.  Two of the foremost riders carried long lances, each with different standards waving at the end of their pole-arms.  The men rode down the windswept hill, passing a trench lined with guards cloaked in mail and white linen, and entering the encampment of the Sindhusi legions.  

Thousands of tents stood in orderly rows, each with banners denoting their numbered position and ranking on the field.  The quarters nearest the edge of the camp were utilitarian and small, each with room for six soldiers and all their equipment.  As the riders continued deeper into the halted army, the tents increased in size, but remained plainly raised and almost completely without decoration.  Ordered pairs of eastern infantrymen patrolled the tent line, marching up and down the camp.  Occasionally, the riders could spot a figure cloaked from head to toe in pristine white vestment, the inverted triangle of displayed clearly where their faces would have been had they not been entirely covered.  Disciples of the Sacred Path.

When the riders reached the exact centre of the camp, they dismounted.  Laid before them was a massive bonfire, around which a great many soldiers and disciples sat and talked. Nearby the fire, a group of larger pavilions that had been erected - large tents of plain white colour, each with an inverted triangle displayed clearly on each of the silken walls.  The largest tent was raised to form a pyramid, wooden framework connecting the fabrics and keeping the structure grounded and making sure it held shape.  [i]Sindisi[/i] stood as straight as the mountains, ringing the silk pyramid with their plated mail.  Each slave-soldier wore a crimson cloak, fastened at the plates of steel that covered the midsection, and a plume of red ribbony that hung from their conical helmets.  As the men approached, now on foot, the [i]Sindisi[/i] braced their shields, bringing spears down to bear at the approaching visitors.  The men stopped in their tracks, placing hands on their sabres as they realized that the slave-soldiers would not permit them into the tent.

Instead, the flap was opened from the inside, and a figure dressed in crimson robes all but identical to the ones worn by disciples of the Sacred Path stepped forth.  He waved a hand, his vestment flowing with his movement, and the [i]Sindisi[/i] raised their weapons.  The Zealot gestured for the visitors to enter, disappearing back into the pyramid.  The men hesitated for a brief moment, warily eyeing the slave-soldiers as they passed into the commanding pavilion.

Inside, the pyramid was as orderly as the rest of the camp.  Books were stacked on tables at the back of the structure, columns of thick tomes and stacks of paper on each.  Simple cushioned settees were arranged to face one another in the centre of the pyramid, seating several Zealots clothed in the same crimson that distinguished them from simple disciples.  A table filled with flatbread sat in the middle of the Zealots, who spoke and drank tea, paying no regard to the new visitors.  Standing nearby the dining clergy, three figures standing in full plated mail addressed a woman sitting at a small table. 

The woman wore crimson silk, same as the other Zealots, but her robes opened in the midsection to reveal a shirt of mail with a series of enameled plates wrapping around the torso.  Her armour was coloured a deep red, a shade darker than the robe that cloaked it.  Her face was not covered like the other Zealots - instead, the woman's vestments wrapped around a crested helm, fluted and topped by a transverse array of red feathers.  Her exposed face was narrow, sharp, and visibly scarred.  Her hand was raised to her temple, which she massaged as the men before her continued to argue.  The woman's eyes flickered to the entrance as she saw the visitors come through the main flap but she quickly regained focus on the discussion at hand.

"The rioting lasted for two days, and even after the garrison cornered the mob in the public square, the people continued to fight."  The speaker's ranking sash was coloured a plain silver that matched the mail that he wore underneath it.  Like the rest of the men, he wore his hair in the traditional military knot. "Dispersing the mob took nearly an entire night, during which several of our soldiers were killed and many wounded."

The woman pursed her lips.  "And the mob?  What casualties did they suffer?"

The man looked uneasy retelling the statistics.  "Once the rioters were surrounded, those that fought were easily dispatched.  Hundreds were killed.  All but three of the suspected instigators went with them.  Those that were captured are held in the citadel of the city, awaiting their holy punishment.  One of the captured is a holy figure, a hermit of sorts.  People have gathered outside the citadel, begging mercy."

“Good.  A chance for a standard to be set.”  She said.  “We intend to burn them, correct?"

A murmur of agreement rippled through the assembled advisors.  "The men are to be set on the Path, yes."

The woman stood up, smoothing the papers arranged on her desk.  "This unrest is more about bread than it is religion.  Now that we've finally and completely destroyed the marauders and demons that plagued our merchants, food will flow to the people."  She looked up.  "I want the instigators desolated, not burned.  They will be shown tolerance, and we will have order."  She glanced at the man in the silver cloak, her mouth briefly twisting into a frown.  "Make certain it is done in public.  The mob should see their leaders expire.  If these demonstrators decide that our mercy was lacking, you will have them in their homes before they can raise fists against us again.  Your governance over this region has been adequate until recently - I trust you do not intend to make failure your new trend?"

The man reddened, but he seemed more embarrassed than angry.  "I will not lose control again, you can be sure.“  He gave the woman a curt nod, brushing past the other advisors and newcomers alike as he left the tent.  The woman watched him leave and then turned her attention to the remaining men.  "I have visitors, noble masters.  We will meet again once midday draws to close."

The lords voiced their agreement, following their comrade's footsteps and leaving the pavilion.  Once they had gone, the woman directed her attention to the group of newcomers, their elegant clothes marred with dust from their journey.  She bowed for the lead man and then offered him a seat at a set of cushioned seats near her table.  "I will not speak with your entire entourage," she said matter-of-factly.  "Tell them to wait outside, and I shall receive Your Highness with traditional customs and tea."

The prince of Sindhus looked reluctant to send his companions away, but he complied nonetheless.  They left, and the tent was clear of everyone save himself and the High Zealot.  

"I did not expect to find you discussing matters of state, nor did I wish to interrupt you, dear Azima.“  The prince smiled, smoothing his quilted tunic as he moved to sit down.  The heir to Sindhus was a typically handsome man, with a finely groomed beard and the golden tattoos that eastern nobility had found fashionable as of late.  Unlike the officers that had just made their exit, his long black hair was worn on his shoulders rather than held neatly above his head.  "It is good to finally see you again, half-sister.  I only met you and your brother once as children, and it was so desperately brief that I could not even call you my sworn friend."  He tone became serious for a moment.  "I am deeply sorry to hear of your sibling's demise, by the way.  We can only hope that he is a ranking officer in the Bright City as we speak."

"He apparently died well.  I thank you regardless."

The younger Razah smiled amicably.  "Indeed.  Onto happier subjects, I suppose.  The capital prospers in your absence - Razatash has never in our history had such a majestic aura about it.  Perhaps I can show you the palace as it looks now?  One day, one day.”  His confident smile widened.  “I must say, you have become a strikingly beautiful woman.  Why do you burden your visage with clothing so unwomanly?  You do yourself a disservice."

Azima did not look impressed.  “Womanly clothing does not usually stop arrows."  She frowned.  “I have heard you know much of womanly clothing, but little of arrows.”  The High Zealot stood, moving to her desk and retrieving a ceramic pitcher of earthy-smelling Sindhusi tea.  She poured it into two painted cups and took them back to the low table where the prince was waiting.  “Your name is Razah, but I see little of your father in you.  The Emir’s last wish was to have you brought to the middle realms on the dawn of your twentieth year so that you might learn to command men.  If I am not mistaken, that day passed over six months ago.”

Prince Razah smiled again, but there was little warmth in his expression.  “I truly left when he had me summoned.  Unfortunately, my journey was slow, and hindered by weather and issues with my supply."  He took a sip of his tea, visibly disappointed with the taste.  "What does it matter?" He continued.  "I am here now, am I not?  I have brought the royal seal and am ready to receive your religious approval of my righteous rule."

Azima placed her own tea on the table, folding her arms around her back and clasping her hands together.  "Our father dictated your arrival personally.  It was one of his last commands."  She paused.  "He was a towering hero.  They called him sickly behind his back, called him weak of heart and body.  They said an army would never follow him. The [i]Va'ad[/i] couldn't control him, and so they feared him.  He may have been crippled by that horrific disease, but his will never faltered.  He was a righteous man."  The High Zealot looked down on the prince, arching a single eyebrow.  "The [i]Va'ad[/i] seems to love you, though.  I suppose you think that's because you're a good ruler, experienced in all your years of eating and sleeping?"

Razah's smile slipped away.  "I don't know what you're insinuating-"

"I insinuate nothing.  The [i]Va'ad[/i] loves you because they can control you, and through that, they can control the path that all-mother Sindhus travels."  The High Zealot unfolded her arms.  "They have showered you with praise, consorts, and wealth until your head swelled to the size of the palace you dwelled in.  You are their puppet."

The prince stood abruptly, knocking his tea aside as he rocked the table.  "How [i]dare[/i] you speak of the noble school of the east like you are above it!  Like you come from anything but a pathetic mountain house, emboldened by my father’s misguided favour for your mother and his silly devotion to your pathetic religion!”  He jabbed an accusing finger at Azima.  "My loyal ministers told me my father had instilled you with his arrogance, but I had not expected he had given you such a degree of insolence!  He may have treated you like a daughter, but I am his true born male heir, and now that the disease has finally taken him, my right is to rule.  I will not suffer your words of madness any longer - I will return to the capital and demand that you disband your command.  This fanaticism that my father so willingly fostered has clearly spiraled out of control, and I must do my duty as Emir to end it!"

The High Zealot maintained her composure throughout his tirade, eyeing the heir to Sindhus with an indifferent gaze.  “Hear me now,“  Azima moved to her desk, delicately lifting a piece of aging paper and holding it close to her face.  "As my words are sacred law."  Her eyes drifted towards the paper, which she began to read aloud.  "I, Razah Va Azuri, do hereby decree that my power as Emir of Sindhus and First of the East will not pass to my eldest son, Razah Sa Marzo, for he is not equipped to hold my power.  The title shall be held in sway until another can be found to rule, decided by a council of my choosing.  These are my words, my orders, my law.  It shall fall to the most trusted and honourable High Zealot of Sindhus, Azima on the Path, to right any deviance from my last command.”  The High Zealot stopped reading, looking at the prince, who had paled considerably since his outburst.  "His words end there, empowered by the very same royal seal you have brought here today.  This is the original copy, but he put many more to paper, and I assure you, they have been delivered to the officers intended."

Razah stood like a frozen monument, his mouth agape.  "My father has stripped me of my birthright?” He croaked.  "You forged this document.  You have made my father speak this treason."

"The important masters already know this paper is authentic.  I showed them this page when you failed to arrive on your twentieth day."  Azima glanced at the saber sheathed at the prince's waist.  "I am on the council your father speaks of.  They will convene in the capital, and the majority legions will be scattered to make certain the Emir's words are obeyed."  She pursed her lips.  "And they will be.  I care for the sacred law, unlike your wretched ministers and the corrupt [i]Va'ad[/i]."

Before the prince could reply, the flap of the tent opened, and a line of [i]Sindisi[/i] stormed into the pyramid.  They stood at attention near the exit, blocking any route of escape.  The prince looked to the slave-soldiers, and then back to the High Zealot, panic beginning to take root in his eyes.  "What is this?  Do you have ill designs on your own kin?”  He dropped to his knees, grasping for her hand.  "I am your brother, Azima!  I am your monarch!”

“You are weak.“  The High Zealot stared down at the prince, a small frown appearing on her face.  “Sindhus cannot be weak now, not while the world upon her with such envy.“  She turned her back to the prince, waving her hand in signal to the [i]Sindisi[/I].  Two of the slave-soldiers moved forward, roughly grasping a wailing Razah and dragging him from the tent, where he could see his guards lying in the sand, each of their throats cut.  Whimpering and kicking, Prince Razah Va Yatash was dragged away by the leading [i]Sindisi[/i].  He cried out for the soldiers gathering to view the commotion to assist him, but the legionaries remained still.

The High Zealot stepped out of her pavilion, scanning the crowd of soldiers that watched grimly as their prince was clasped in irons and pulled away to an unknown fate.  She examined the faces of the legionaries, trying to discern whether they approved of her action or not.  

There was silence for a few tantalizing moments as the High Zealot stood before her legions.  In the midst of the crowd, someone raised their fist and covered it with their open hand in an eastern salute, bellowing a cry of [i]Varidis[/i] - commander.  Suddenly, the encampment exploded with cheers of the same sentiment, and in a few brief moments, the soldiers erupted into praise for their leader.

Satisfied with the response, Azima on the Path turned to the officer that was closest to her.  “Arriah,  fetch the royal seal from my poor brother's traveling equipment.  He has suffered a bout of strange madness and entrusted the safeguarding of the seal to my person.  In addition, instruct the officers of both the jade and phoenix legions to prepare their troops and remain here while you lead the bulk of my forces east.  I will ready my vanguard personally, don't bother yourself with it.”  The armoured figure nodded, marching off to obey her command.  The High Zealot took her last look at the men before her, returning to the shade of her pyramid tent while her triumph echoed through the arid plateau.