only by the fires of men. Marvelously carved figures of the goddess and her son
rose behind their altars. Such a representation of Savankala was not allowed,
however. A man could look upon the moon and stars; a man could see the
lightning. But who could see the Thunder or bear to look upon the blazing face
of the Bright Father Himself?
As she approached the sunlit altar a young, white-robed novice came forth to
greet her. Chenaya made the proper obeisance to her god and ignited the stick of
incense the young priest offered. She spoke a soft prayer and watched the smoke
waft toward the open skylight.
When the incense was consumed she spoke to the novice. “Will you tell Rashan
that I am here?”
He bowed gracefully. “He has been expecting you, Lady Chenaya.” He left her,
disappearing into the maze of corridors that honeycombed the temple.
Rashan, called the Eye of Savankala, appeared moments later. He was a grizzled
old man. There was a toughness to his features that suggested he had not always
been a priest. Or perhaps it was that difficult, she thought, to rise through
the priestly hierarchy. It had taken him years to achieve his position and
title. Indeed, before the coming of Molin Torchholder, Rashan had been the High
Priest of the Rankan faith in this part of the Empire.
He smoothed his gray beard, and his eyes showed a rare sparkle as he came
forward. “Lady,” he said, taking her hand. He dropped to one knee and lightly
kissed her fingertips. “I was told to expect you.”
She pulled him to his feet. “Oh, and who told you?”