“He left on a mission last night,” Chenaya told her newest student. “He’s attending to some business for me that will take him to various parts of the
Empire. While he’s gone, Leyn will be your trainer.” She pointed a finger at
Daphne. “And no complaints. You’ve whined enough this morning. Even the least of my men has plenty to teach you. Now, on your way, Princess.” She put special emphasis on the title, a not-so-subtle reminder that Daphne’s rank counted for nothing while she wore fighting garb.
Daphne rose with deliberate slowness, giving a haughty toss of her waist-length black hair. “As the mistress commands,” she answered with false meekness as she moved toward the door. But before she passed through and out of sight she added, just loud enough for Chenaya to hear, “bitch.”
It was one more cause for Chenaya to smile. After all, she didn’t train automatons-she trained gladiators. And fighters without some spit in their souls would never be worth a damn. She’d kept a close eye on Daphne; for a princess she was coming along just fine.
Chenaya headed for the practice field, but before she got much farther than her door she bumped into her father. “Ummm, pardon me,” she said, leaning one hand on the door he had just closed. “Isn’t this Aunt Rosanda’s room?” She batted her eyelashes in mock innocence, knowing how such an expression usually irritated him.
But this time Lowan Vigeles imitated her, batting his own eyelashes. “I knew all those expensive tutors were a fine investment.” He tapped her on the forehead with a fingertip. “I brought your aunt a breakfast tray. Nothing more lascivious than that.”