Dayme looked up, seeking Sabellia's shadowed gaze. He knew she was with him, present in this first full moonlight of autumn as it illumined her altar. He felt her power, felt her touch upon his heart.
"Cheyne," he murmured as he knelt. "My Cheyne." He prayed no other words aloud. He didn't need to. Sabellia knew him well. The goddess had set her mark upon his soul.
He reached inside his tunic and extracted a small bundle of white silk. Carefully, he unrolled it. Several strands of fine blond hair gleamed in the moonlight. A silver thread bound them into a delicate lock. How long had he carried them in secret, those hairs stolen from her brush? Three years? Four?
He laid his small offering on Sabellia's altar. It was not a gift of great value, but it was very dear to him. The goddess asked no more. Dayrne bowed his head. But suddenly prayers would not come.
Where had she gone, his Cheyne? Why hadn't she waited for him to return with the One Hundred? He closed his eyes; it was easy to picture her face when he closed his eyes. In the silent sanctity of the Rankan temple he whispered her name.
Chenaya.
But in his heart he called her Cheyne, It was one of the names the gladiators had given her in the Rankan arenas. Hard as metal they had said of her. That wasn't true. She was tough, yes, but he had seen the softness buried deep in her soul, the piece of her she kept hidden from the world and from her father.
She was a child, sometimes. A spoiled child. Yet he loved her. Cheyne, he thought. My Chain. Chain that binds me beyond reason. He shook his head in a moment that was a mixture of pity and joy. Let me never be free. He looked up at Sabellia's face. She seemed almost to mock him as she peered down through the swirling incense, and he knew that was one prayer the goddess had already answered.
But where had Chenaya gone?
He thought again of that strange portrait hanging in her room. The power of it was startling, but though he admired the artistry, each time he looked upon it a subtle fear tingled through his spine. Unmistakably, it was Lalo's work. But when had she posed for it? Lowan Vigeles said she had brought it home one night, shut herself in her room until dawn, and departed with the morning, saying nothing to anyone. Not even her father knew more.
Dayrne suspected, however, that Rashan did. The old priest had made a habit lately of going to Cheyne's room and staring at the portrait with that queer smile of his, peering through half-closed lids at Chenaya's face and the resplendent sun that framed her, seemed to caress her, an effect that went far beyond mere paint and craftsmanship. Her hair flew into fire and light; her eyes shone like tiny suns. Chenaya was beautiful beyond any woman he had ever known, but not even she was so glorious as Lalo had rendered her.
Strange as those things were, though, there was something else that stirred terror into his blood. The painting radiated a tangible warmth.
Could it be true what Rashan claimed? Was his Cheyne truly the Daughter of the Sun? Or was it all some trick?
He turned his gaze back to Sabellia, who governed matters of the heart. If Cheyne was a goddess or some avatar of Father Savankala, then what hope could there be for any love between them?
He touched the few strands of hair he had placed on the altar- They belonged to the goddess now. He bowed his head, uttered one last prayer, and slowly rose to his feet.
The Temple of the Rankan Gods was quiet and dark. He shook his head, feeling shame for his people. The construction of the temple had never quite been completed. The outer shrines with altars for Savankala, Sabellia, and Vashanka had been finished, but many of the inner ritual chambers and priests' quarters were still in various stages of completion. There should have been a festival in Sabellia's honor this night of nights. Rashan had elected, instead, to take his priests and hold the ceremonies at the smaller, private temple at Land's End which was not only completed, but sanctified. It didn't seem proper to Dayme, though. That temple was Savankala's hallowed ground. This hour should belong only to Sabellia.
Well, he was just a gladiator. What did he know of priestly affairs?
He walked through the temple, his sandals ringing softly on the smooth stone floor. Lonely, troubled, he made his way outside, down the high steps, and into the avenue.
The street appeared empty. It would be foolish, though, to rely on appearances. Even with the street gangs smashed, there was still danger in the Sanctuary nights. There were too damn many alleys and shadows in this town. Sanctuary. He smirked, considering the name. As if a man was safe from anything at this end of the empire.
He wrapped a lightweight cloak about his shoulders and moved soundlessly down the street. Like the rest of Sanctuary's citizens he, too, knew how to turn invisible, to become a shade or wraith, as he wandered the darkness of Uptown. Cheyne would have mocked and teased him. She would have strode brazenly down the center of the road. Unlike his mistress, though, Dayme had no taste for confrontations.
He bit his lip and cursed her silently for leaving him behind. Where the hell are you, Chenaya, he wondered bitterly. Then, thinking of Lalo's painting. Who the hell are you?
Worry and confusion gnawed at his insides. Rashan, he thought, furrowing his brow. He owed himself a long talk with that sunstruck priest.
Daphne worked the training machine with only the moon and a single torch to see by. She leaped and dodged as four spinning wooden arms swung at her head and knees. Sweat gleamed on her body, ran in free rivulets down her throat and chest, down her arms into the hand that held an immense sword. Once, the sword had been too heavy for her. No longer.
For a time her mind was utterly free, devoid of thought or concern. The smooth working of muscle, the stretch of tendon, the pulse of her blood, the heat in her flesh-these were the only things that existed for her. She breathed the cool air of night, felt the crunch of sand beneath her sandals, listened to the rhythmic whoosh of the whirling machine. Nothing else mattered for her.
But when the arms began to slow she stepped clear and drew a deep, frustrated breath. Then, she leaned on her sword and looked around, strangely aware of the silence and her aloneness. She would not have called it loneliness.
A few lamps burned in the windows of the estate. In the opposite direction a few more lights showed distantly where the new barracks had been built at the easternmost wall of Land's End. Beyond the wall the sky glowed redly with the bonfires that Rashan and his priests had made, where they celebrated by Chenaya's temple on the shores of the Red Foal.
She was alone as usual, on the outside looking in again. But it didn't bother her. Practice was what mattered, and training and hard work. Dayme would be angry if he knew she was out here so late, but she didn't care. He was only her trainer, nothing more. He'd made that abundantly clear. Her hand clenched and unclenched on the hilt of her sword, though, when she thought of him.
She didn't care, she didn't care at all. But she raised her weapon suddenly and carved a great chunk out of one of the machine's arms. The breath hissed from her as she struck. Then, she stood for a moment and trembled. It was not Dayrne, she told herself. It had nothing to do with him.
It was that damned husband of hers.
Kadakithis had summoned her to the palace again. Again, he had begged her for a divorce. Begged! A prince of Ranke! No matter that divorce was forbidden among the Royal Family. Hell, he'd practically crawled on his knees to convince her.
What had she ever seen in that man that had made her consent to marriage? It certainly hadn't been his thin, spindly body or his face with a chin that could stitch sailcloth, or that armor-piercing nose. It certainly hadn't been the execrable poetry he once had written, or his mediocre talent on the harp.