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Like most of the people of Salmacha, the priest Chanjask was tall and long-limbed, and his age was difficult to tell. His skin lacked the rough, oaken quality of his superior, Ucasta, so I guessed him to have lived forty or fifty years. He possessed bright, dark eyes that darted quickly from face to face in the crowded throne room. He was a clever man, if not a wise one; he knew which way the winds were turning, and he would set the sails of his life and career accordingly. 

He finished his recitation of the law as Mara had asked, and he bent to kneel on the floor, touching his brow to the marble tile and raising his hands in supplication—to the princesses, it would appear, though Mara still held the power to decide his fate. She dismissed him with a wave of her hand, and he stood, more quickly than his apparent age might allow. He backed away, holding his empty hands palms-up as though he were offering a gift. He let the gathered mass of noblemen envelop him, and I was certain he intended to disappear.