anything, and revealed the ultimate manner of her death. All in a single dream.
Now it was Rashan who dreamed! And if his dream was not false-if it was a true
sending from the Bright Father…. She shut her eyes and refused to think about
it further. Of course, the dream was false. No more than the wishful fantasy of
an old priest who saw his empire fading.
“Have you thought more about what I asked when last we met?” she said, changing
the subject. “It is more important now when the streets are so dangerous. You
know I’ve come before only to find these doors closed.”
Rashan held up a hand. “I’ll build your small temple,” he told her. “You can ask
nothing that Rashan will not grant.”
“What about Uncle Molin?” she said in a conspiratorial tone.
Rashan looked as if he would spit, then remembered where he was and hastily made
the sign of his gods. “Molin Torchholder has no power in this House any longer.
Your uncle has turned his back on the Rankan gods. He reeks of dark allegiances
with alien deities. The other priests and I have agreed to this silent mutiny.”
He spoke with impressive anger, as if he were pronouncing sentence on a
criminal. “I will build your temple, and I will consecrate it. Molin won’t even
be consulted.”
It was all she could do to keep from throwing her arms around the old priest. It
thrilled her to see others defy her uncle. For too long his schemes and plots
had gone unopposed. Now, perhaps there was divine justice after all.
“Build it on the shore of the Red Foal at the very edge of our land,” she