He bowed gracefully. "He has been expecting you, Lady Chenaya." He left her, disappearing into the maze of corridors that honeycombed the temple.
Rashan, called the Eye of Savankala, appeared moments later. He was a grizzled old man. There was a toughness to his features that suggested he had not always been a priest. Or perhaps it was that difficult, she thought, to rise through the priestly hierarchy. It had taken him years to achieve his position and title. Indeed, before the coming of Molin Torchholder, Rashan had been the High Priest of the Rankan faith in this part of the Empire.
He smoothed his gray beard, and his eyes showed a rare sparkle as he came forward. "Lady," he said, taking her hand. He dropped to one knee and lightly kissed her fingertips. "I was told to expect you."
She pulled him to his feet. "Oh, and who told you?"
He raised a finger toward the skylight. "He sends the signs and the portents. You make no move He does not know about."
She laughed. "Rashan, you are too devout. The Bright Father has more to do than watch constantly over me."
But Rashan shook his head. "You must accept his plan for you, child," he urged. "You are the Daughter of the Sun, the salvation and guardian of the Rankan faith."
She laughed again. "Are you still insisting on that? Look at me, Priest. I'm flesh and blood. I'm no priestess, and certainly no goddess. No matter how many dreams come to you, that will not change. I'm the daughter of Lowan Vigeles, nothing more."
Rashan bowed politely. "In time you will learn otherwise. It isn't for me to argue with Savankala's daughter. You will accept your heritage or reject it as fate decrees." He went to stand before the altar of Vashanka, and his shoulders slumped. "But there is a void in the pantheon. Vashanka has fallen silent and will not answer prayer." He turned and leveled a finger at her. "I tell you, Chenaya, if something has happened to the Son of Savankala, then the time will come for the Daughter to accept Her responsibilities."
"No more of this talk!" Chenaya snapped. "I tell you, Rashan, it borders on blasphemy. No more, I say!" She paused to collect herself. The first time Rashan had suggested such a thing it had frightened her beyond words. She herself had received dreams from the Bright Father, and she knew their power. In such a dream Savankala had granted her beauty, promised she would never lose at anything, and revealed the ultimate manner of her death. All in a single dream. Now it was Rashan who dreamed! And if his dream was not false-if it was a true sending from the Bright Father.... She shut her eyes and refused to think about it further. Of course, the dream was false. No more than the wishful fantasy of an old priest who saw his empire fading.
"Have you thought more about what I asked when last we met?" she said, changing the subject. "It is more important now when the streets are so dangerous. You know I've come before only to find these doors closed."
Rashan held up a hand. "I'll build your small temple," he told her. "You can ask nothing that Rashan will not grant."
"What about Uncle Molin?" she said in a conspiratorial tone.
Rashan looked as if he would spit, then remembered where he was and hastily made the sign of his gods. "Molin Torchholder has no power in this House any longer. Your uncle has turned his back on the Rankan gods. He reeks of dark allegiances with alien deities. The other priests and I have agreed to this silent mutiny." He spoke with impressive anger, as if he were pronouncing sentence on a criminal. "I will build your temple, and I will consecrate it. Molin won't even be consulted."
It was all she could do to keep from throwing her arms around the old priest. It thrilled her to see others defy her uncle. For too long his schemes and plots had gone unopposed. Now, perhaps there was divine justice after all.
"Build it on the shore of the Red Foal at the very edge of our land," she instructed. "Keep it small, just a private family altar."
Rashan nodded again. "But you must design it."
"What?" She gave a startled look. "I'm no architect!"
"I'll handle the mechanics and the geometries," he assured her. "But you are the Daughter of the Sun. The core design must spring from your own heart and soul."
She sighed, then remembered her other errand. It was getting late, and the gods knew she didn't want to worry her father. She clasped the priest's hand gratefully. "I will design it," she said, relishing the idea of a new challenge. "We'll begin immediately. The cold mustn't stop us. My thanks, Rashan." She pulled up the hood to conceal her face and started to leave. But at the door she stopped and called back, "And no more dreams!"
Outside again, her breath made little clouds in the air. She hadn't meant to spend so long with Rashan. The daylight was weakening; a gray shroud had closed over the city. She hurried down the Avenue of Temples and turned onto Governor's Walk, passing with a wary eye the same corner where she and Daphne had been attacked the night before. It was quiet now; the shadows and crannies appeared empty of threat. She turned down Weaver's Way and crossed the Path of Money. At last, she reached Prytanis Street and her destination.
The air seemed suddenly colder, unnaturally cold as she pushed back an unlocked gate and approached a massive set of wooden doors. She knocked. There was no answer, nor any sound from within. She gazed around at the strange stone statues that loomed on either side of the door. There was a curious atmosphere of menace about them. They cast huge shadows over the place where she waited, completely blocking the sun. But she wasn't frightened. She embraced Savankala in her heart and felt safe.
The second time she knocked the door eased open.
There was no one to greet her, so she stepped inside. Eerily, the door closed, leaving her in a foyer lit by soft lamps. "Enas Yorl?" she called. The words echoed hollowly before fading. Chewing her lip, she wandered deeper into the house. Everything looked so old, covered with the dust of centuries. Brilliant pieces of art and sculpture were half-hidden by cobwebs. The air smelled of must and mold. She wrinkled her nose and went through an interior door.
Halfway across that chamber she stopped. A shiver crept up her spine. It was the same room she had just left behind.
"Enas Yorl!" she shouted angrily. "Don't play your wizard's games with me. I want to talk." She hesitated, waited for some kind of answer. "I thought you had a servant," she continued impatiently. "Send him to guide me to you, or come yourself. I'll wait here." She crossed her arms stubbornly, but on the far side of the room another door opened. She thought about it, then sighed. "Oh, all right. Whatever amuses you."
Once again she passed through the door, and once again found herself in the same room. "I've heard a lot about you, Enas Yori," she muttered, "but not that you were boring."
Again the far door opened. To her relief it was a different room. The smell of mold was gone, replaced by a heady incense. Instead of soft lamps, braziers glowed redly, providing the light. This new room was much larger, full of shelves with books and old furniture. Thick carpets covered the floor. In a corner an odoriferous vapor steamed from a large samovar.
At the opposite end of the room was a huge chair on a low dais. Someone, completely obscured by a voluminous cloak, sprawled upon it.
"Pardon me if I'm mistaken," the figure addressed her, "but most people tremble in my presence. You're not trembling."
She batted her eyes innocently. "Sorry to disappoint you."
He held up a hand to silence her, and he pulled himself more erect. "You have the mark of a god upon you." Two red eyes gleamed at her from beneath a hood as spacious as her own. "You are Chenaya, called by some the Daughter of the Sun."