A look of utter confusion lingered on Walegrin’s face. He whispered to the priest in an overly loud voice. “What was she talking about? Gods and cosmic forces, all that? I’m beginning to think Molin is right. You’re all insane!”
Rashan shook his head, doing his best to calm the excitable commander. “You’ll leam soon enough,” he said, low-voiced. “Tempus is hundreds of years old, they say. Imagine all his power, maybe more, in the person of such a young woman.” He made a bow in Chenaya’s direction. “She is truly the Daughter of the Sun.”
Chenaya ground her teeth. “Shut up, Rashan. I told you, I’m tired of that title and your little fantasy. Now leave us. You’ve done your part this night, and
I’ve got plans to discuss with the commander.”
Rashan protested. “But the dream,” he reminded her. “We’ve got to speak.
Savankala summons you to your destiny.”
She waved him away, her irritation growing. Such talk was disturbing enough in private. Before Walegrin, she felt a genuine anger. “I said leave us,” she snapped. “If I’m really who you think I am, you don’t dare disobey me. Now go!”
Rashan stared sorrowfully at her, not angry, not disappointed, patient. “You don’t believe,” he said gently, “but you will. He will show you. When you look upon his face, you will know the truth.” He raised a finger and pointed at her.
“Look upon his face, child. See who you are.” He turned, strode toward the gate and beyond.
She sighed, her anger turned suddenly upon herself. Rashan was her friend, and he meant well. She resolved again not to let his delusions interrupt that friendship. In such troubled times and in such a city as this, trustworthy comrades were hard to come by.