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.”