She stood over by the window, looking out on a part of the world that she would probably never see again.
The time had come for leaving, but she felt reluctant. She had not, she felt, had a great childhood here in the Tower of her parents. It had been a cold, distant childhood. A time of nurses and tutors and seeing her parents only infrequently, then often only in their ceremonial robes at the end of some great hall where the family had to adopt formal manners and rigid poses as some interminable duty was performed. Often, she suspected, the rituals were as mysterious and unintelligible to everyone else present as it was to her, except, of course, the High Priests. Jemilah believed the High Priests were the only ones who understood the ancient texts and rituals, but only as a way of continuing their power and influence over the life of the Tower and its lands, rather than any great belief in the supposed gods and the divine rights and duties of her family.
Now, though, Jemilah could hear the marching step of her escort, their heavy measured tread echoing around the stone walls of the corridor that led to her room.
Sighing, she turned from the window and prepared herself for the rest of her life.