It was the same man. Same height and build, same dark garments. The moon touched his features. He was young, she thought. Only a little older than herself. Not bad looking, either, despite a peculiar edge, a hardness, in his gaze. She took a deep breath, swelling her favorite assets.
Then, suddenly she dropped her pose and brightened. “I know you,” she said. “You came down with the workers* caravan-”
“I need you,” he interrupted throatily.
She met his gaze. He had beautiful eyes full of warmth and charm. “Of course,” she answered, remembering why she was there, why he was there. Yet, there was more hope in her voice than seduction. She thought briefly of the meal she would buy come morning, and maybe an apartment. She hated sleeping in the alleys, constantly afraid. All she had to do was please him, and that shouldn’t be hard to do.
He had such beautiful eyes’
“Come with me,” he said softly, holding out a hand.
She took it. His touch warmed her; his hand felt soft and uncalloused. That puzzled her. If he was one of the workers sent to rebuild the wall around Sanctuary his hand should have been rough. Yet, it pleased her that it wasn’t, and she pushed that concern aside. There was something else she was supposed to think about, something she should say. What was it?
“The cost . . .” she hesitated awkwardly, unsure of the usual charge. “I mean. well, a sheboozh?” Oh, damn, she thought. That’s far too much for a common street whore. A whole gold coin!
But he moved his other hand close to her face. She caught just the flash of the requested payment before he made a fist and the money disappeared,
Tiana couldn’t believe her good fortune. Gold and beautiful eyes. The gods were with her this night after all. He really did have the most incredible gaze, full of oceans and full of darkness, full of promises.
“Come with me,” he said again. His voice was the high wind, and when he spoke no more she still heard his words. He was the sound of the night.
She looked into his eyes. Hand in hand, they stepped from Sabellia’s garden niche and onto the pathway. Out of respect for the silence that shrouded the park the gravel refused to crunch beneath their tread.
Unable to help herself, Tiana smiled.
The moonlight continued to shine on the small bust in the Promise of Heaven.
Over the rest of Sanctuary, Darkness began to chew.
The full moon poured its radiance perfectly through the skylight above Sabellia’s altar, lending an opalescent sheen to the graceful sculpture of the goddess. Her flawless marble features shimmered as the smoke of incense swirled upward from a score of braziers set in the floor at the hem other skirts. It rose higher and higher like a wizards-weather mist, caressed her sensuous curves, curled toward the silver disc and out into the night.
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.