I want a strong foal from her.”
The priest’s eyebrows shot up. “You want me to bless copulating horses?”
“You’re a priest, aren’t you, the Eye of Savankala?” She embraced him and gave him a quick peck on the cheek. Rashan had lived at Land’s End while he oversaw the building of her private temple on the shore of the Red Foal. They had shared many late night discussions, and he had taught her much.
“Very well,” he agreed, rolling his eyes. “But we must speak this night before we part.” He turned to follow Gestus, but continued talking over his shoulder.
“I’ve had another dream. You must hear the message. It was the voice of the
Thunderer himself.”
She watched him go, saying nothing. But his words disturbed her. His walk and bearing were those of a warrior, not a priest, and his body was developed as befitted a Rankan. Yet a priest he was, and first among Savankala’s hierophants.
Yet, lately, Rashan had been having dreams, messages from the god, he claimed, visions that foretold Chenaya’s future and her destiny. All through the winter they’d argued the meaning of his dreams. Not messages at all, she’d tried to convince him. Just the wishful thinking of an old man who saw his nation decaying around him.
She clung to that argument now as he disappeared inside the stables with Gestus and the Tros. There could be no truth to his dreams. She was not the Daughter of the Sun. That was only a name, an appellation pinned on her by arena spectators and fellow gladiators. Nothing more.
There was movement on her right side. She had forgotten her other guest.