The Dead of Winter- - Thieves World 07 (18 page)

Rosanda put on a faint, patient smile. "So I wouldn't talk about Daphne?" That startled Chenaya. Her aunt was perceptive, too. More and more about Rosanda surprised her.

"You needn't worry about that," her aunt promised. "But the palace walls are going to shake when word gets out. Are you planning to take her to the Festival of the Winter Bey?"

Chenaya picked up the orange, peeled it, and took a juicy bite. "Festival?" she said with barely contained interest. An amusing idea began to form in her head. She hadn't yet decided how or when to reveal Daphne to an unsuspecting Sanctuary.

"The Beysa is hosting a lavish celebration to honor the seasonal aspect of their fish-goddess." Rosanda smiled again and winked. "They tie Mid-Winter to the moon rather than the sun. Our festivals will be long done with. Literally everyone who's anyone will be there."

Chenaya hid a grin behind her water goblet as she sipped. "Thank you again, Aunt Rosanda. I'm in your debt."

Rosanda nodded with mock sobriety, but she struggled to repress a giggle. As her aunt left, Chenaya noticed there was decidedly more bounce in her old step. When the door closed and Chenaya was finally alone, she sprang out of bed. She loved parties, and this festival came at just the perfect time. Gods, how she would enjoy it! She went to the window, drew a deep breath of fresh air, and gazed up at the sun that rose in the east. Thank you. Bright Father, she prayed, Savankala, thank you!

She dressed hurriedly in a short red fighting kilt. Around her waist she fastened a broad, gold-studded leather belt. She added a white tunic, then sandals, and tied back her long hair. Lastly, she set on her brow a golden circlet inset with the sunburst symbol of her god.

On the grounds of the estate, midway between the house and the Red Foal River, Chenaya and her gladiators had constructed a workout arena. It was crude by capital standards. There was no seating for spectators, but there was a complete series of training machines, iron weights for strength development, wooden and metal weapons of all types, and even a huge sandpit for wrestling or small matches. Of all the household, only Lowan Vigeles was exempt from the vigorous daily training sessions.

Her eight warriors and Daphne were already hard at work. On the sand, Gestas and Dismas slashed at each other with real weapons, testing each other, each secure in the other's skill and control. To the inexperienced eye it looked like the final climax of a long and bitter blood-feud. She nodded approvingly. These eight were the best the Rankan arenas had produced. There were no longer crowds to fight for, no games, no purses, but she was damned if she'd let that fine training fade.

Daphne stood attentively beside Dayme before a rack of weights. She was dressed much like Chenaya, but without the leather belt. That honor was reserved for one who'd triumphed in an arena death match. Daphne had never fought. But looking at the scratches and bruises on the young woman's legs, recalling how she'd disposed of the brothel keeper, Chenaya wondered just how long it would be before she too wore the band of an accomplished warrior. Daphne hung on Dayrne's instruction as he explained a particular curling movement, and she took the heavy weight without complaint when he told her to. Her face twisted in a grimace as she strained, but she executed the motion perfectly.

"Are you sure this is what you want?" Chenaya said as she joined them. "Up at dawn every day, working until your body aches all over, bleeding or bruising in places you never knew you had? It's no life for a Rankan lady." Daphne performed one more perfect exercise, then she set the weight aside. She met Chenaya's gaze unflinchingly. The sun shone brilliantly in those dark eyes, shimmered in the thick, black luster of her hair. She pointed to the mottling on her legs. "There's no place I haven't bruised or bled already." She crossed to another rack, took down an old sword. The hilt was too big for her grip and the blade too long, but that didn't matter to Daphne. "And you're a lady, Chenaya." She said the words as if they were an accusation. "Yet you slaughtered half a dozen men to break me out of that hell on Scavengers' Island and another six at the quay before we got away. On top of that you saved us from those men last night. You ask if I want this?" She raised the sword between them and shook it so the sunlight rippled on the keen edge. "Cousin, this is freedom I hold in my hand! With this, you go anywhere, do anything you wish. No man dares touch you unless you want him to. No one orders you. Nothing frightens you. Well, I want that same freedom, Chenaya. I want it, and I'll have it!" Chenaya regarded Daphne for a long, cool moment, wondering what door she was about to open for the younger woman. Daphne was but a few years her junior, but an age of experience separated them. Still, there was a fire in Daphne's eyes that had never been there before. She glanced once more at those scratches and bruises, then made up her mind.

"Then I'll train you as I'd train any slave or thief sent to the arena. When you stand on this field in those garments you're no more than the least of my men. You'll do exactly what I or Dayrne or any of them tell you. If you don't you'll be beaten until you do. It will break your spirit, or it will make you tougher than ever before. I pray for the latter. If you agree, then you'll learn every trick and skill a gladiator could want, and you'll learn from the best teachers." Chenaya walked a tight circle around her new pupil. "Whether that will make you free or not ..." She faced Daphne again and shrugged. There were many kinds of freedom and many kinds of fear. But Daphne would have to learn that for herself. "Now, say that you agree to my terms. Swear it before the Bright Father, Savankala, himself."

Daphne hugged the sword to her breast. The sunlight that reflected from the blade made an amber blaze across her features as she swore. "By Savankala," she answered fervently. "But you won't beat me, Chenaya. No one will. I'll work twice as hard as your best man."

Chenaya hid a knowing grin. It was easy to say such a thing now. But when her muscles began to crack, when the training machines knocked her to the ground, after the first broken bone or the first slice of steel through skin-would she still prove so eager?

"Then pay attention to Dayrne. He'll be responsible for your daily regimen. Of all the men I ever fought in the games only he gave me a dangerous cut." She showed the pale scar that ran the length of her left forearm. "Couldn't bend or use it for nearly a month. Some physicians even thought I would lose it. Fortunately, the gods favored me."

Daphne put on a smirk. "But I've heard rumors that you never lose." Chenaya frowned. She had fostered the rumors herself to frighten opponents. Nor were the rumors untrue, though only she and Molin Torchholder knew the details of her relationship with Savankala the Thunderer. In truth, she couldn't lose at anything.

But here was a chance to teach Daphne an important first lesson. "It may be true that I cannot lose, Daphne," she said sternly, "but not losing is not the same as always winning. And remember, even winning can cost a very dear price. Be sure you're willing to pay it."

She turned away, but Daphne stopped her. "I've taken your vow, and on this ground as I train I'll call you Mistress as the others do." Something flared in the young woman's eyes, and her hand closed around Chenaya's wrist. "But you swear now, too, to remember your promise to me." Calmly, but quite firmly, Chenaya freed herself from Daphne's grip. "I've already given you my promise. This afternoon I'll begin to search."

"I want a name, Mistress," Daphne hissed, giving special emphasis to the title,

"and I want a throat between my hands. Soon." Chenaya reached out casually, seized Daphne's tunic, easily lifted the smaller woman up onto the tips of her toes. She pulled Daphne's face very close to her own. She could smell Daphne's breath. "Don't dictate to me; don't threaten, even with subtlety," Chenaya warned. "And don't ever play games with me." She set Daphne back on her feet and motioned for Dayrne to resume the training. "Now work hard. And make up your mind to let Dayrne touch you. Each day he'll massage the soreness from your muscles." Then she winked. "And in four days you and I are going to a party."

"Where?" Daphne asked suspiciously.

"The Governor's Palace," she answered lightly. "Where else in this city?" She left Daphne then, chose a manica, a buckler, and a sword from the weapon stores and went to engage both Gestas and Dismas at once.

She had changed to leathers again to move through the afternoon streets. One sword hung from her weapon belt, and two daggers were thrust through straps on her thighs. She wore a heavy, hooded cloak to conceal her face and to keep out the chilly cold that seemed to bite right through to her bones. In daylight, more people braved the streets. Apparently, the different factions that tried to carve up the city restricted their activities to nighttime. That suited her. She had plenty to attend to without the minor distractions of wild eyed fanatics.

The doors to the Temple of the Rankan Gods stood open. She mounted the marble steps one at a time and went inside. At the entrance she paused, pushed back her hood, gazed around. The structure was magnificent, yet it had an odd, unfinished feel to it. The interior was lit by hundreds of lamps and braziers and by a huge skylight that illumined the prime altar with Savankala's own glory. Above the altar an immense sunburst of polished gold burned and shimmered and cast reflections around the huge chamber.

On either side of Savankala's altar were smaller altars to Sabellia and Vashanka. They were of equal beauty and craftsmanship, but they were illumined only by the fires of men. Marvelously carved figures of the goddess and her son rose behind their altars. Such a representation of Savankala was not allowed, however. A man could look upon the moon and stars; a man could see the lightning. But who could see the Thunder or bear to look upon the blazing face of the Bright Father Himself?

As she approached the sunlit altar a young, white-robed novice came forth to greet her. Chenaya made the proper obeisance to her god and ignited the stick of incense the young priest offered. She spoke a soft prayer and watched the smoke waft toward the open skylight.

When the incense was consumed she spoke to the novice. "Will you tell Rashan that I am here?"

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."