where

It smelled of incense; sage and smoke danced and mixed, almost strong enough to be repulsive but repulsive enough to be sacred. The priest moved the curtain aside, and saw the magician in his seat by the table laden with cards. A tea set sat on one side. 

The magician gestured to the seat across him, with the wave of a hand. He poured his guest a cup of rosehip tea into a chipped porcelain cup. The floral scent mixed with the incense, conflicting but not confusing the tongue. The priest looked pointedly, took his cup, then fell ashamed of the first impression he made. 

The magician paid him no mind, as he busied himself with his preparations. He looked at his guest, prodding him for the next step, the question.

The priest put down his cup, and put his hands together. In an attempt to remain as vague as possible, as he cannot afford anyone learning about his disposition straight from his mouth, he asks, "Where am I?"

The magician smiled and shuffled his cards overhand, producing a series of muffled whooshes. He cut the deck and picked out one card that jumped out from the others. He laid it down on the linen-lined table for the priest to check out. 

Three of Cups, reversed.

Of course, the priest had no idea what under heaven that meant.

"Your reading," the magician answered. "Where you are."

"No, you don't understand," the priest countered, laying both hands on the gem-laden table. They trembled. His cup of tea trembled. "I don't know where I am, I'm lost."

"You have problems relating to a group that was previously a supporting influence," the magician continued. "The, uhm, what's it called? Your monk club."