Beneath A Crimson Moon

Beneath a Crimson Moon by Christine M ichels Chapter One .................................................................. 1 Chapter Two ............................................................... 10 Chapter Three .............................................................. 20 Chapter Four ............................................................... 29 Chapter Five ................................................................ 37 Chapter Six .................................................................. 45 Chapter Seven .............................................................. 52 Chapter Eight ............................................................... 60 Chapter Nine ............................................................... 68 Chapter Ten ................................................................. 77 Chapter Eleven ............................................................ 85 Chapter Twelve ........................................................... 93 Chapter Thirteen ....................................................... 100 Chapter Fourteen ....................................................... 109 Chapter Fifteen .......................................................... 117 Chapter Sixteen .......................................................... 124 Chapter Seventeen ..................................................... 132

Chapter One The Thadonian night was as black as the sand of the Rassu Desert. The moons had not yet risen, and the illumination of the innumerable stars overhead was no more significant than the incandescence of an ember-beetle. M ist rose from the cobbled lanes in ghostly tendrils as the heat they'd absorbed during the day escaped into the cool night air of the seaport city of Cylon. Sounds ech oed eerily. But it was not what she could hear that bothered Singai. It was the itch between her shoulder blades, the tightening of her scalp. She was being followed. As unobtrusively as possible, she checked the positioning of the sword concealed beneath the ample folds of her flowing trader's burnous in the baldric upon her back. Ven-Gura she sent to the companion housed within the gleaming golden weapon, can you sense who is following? I do not know them, Singai. Them? There is more than one? Being careful to betray no hint that she was aware of them, Singai did not pause or even hesitate in her purposeful stride. There are three. Two to your right and one to the left. They are Dalig, Singai. I sense their companions. Dalig! She'd just this evening completed her investigation into the local arm of an enormous smuggling ring specializing in banned Earth goods, and had yet to impart the intelligence she'd garnered: chiefly that the hated and feared Dalig warrior guild was once again active and deeply involved in the smuggling operation. Could they have somehow learned of her? Were they attempting to ensure that she never passed on her information? Singai— Yes? There is another man, more distant, also to the left. I am uncertain as to whether he follows or not. He is difficult to sense. He is not Dalig then? No. Singai broke the communication, but remained in constant awareness of her surroundings. In becoming a Sotah warrior, she had taken as her symbiotic companion the entity housed in the metal from which her weapon had been forged. Ven-Gura was a member of the species known as Iyi'Sefir. And there was not a day that passed that she did not give thanks for his presence in her life. Ven-Gura was friend, guardian, and instructor. M ore parent than she had ever had. A part of her. Glancing casually to each side, Singai studied the streets, trying to determine when her stalkers would make their move. In another couple of squares, she would leave the waterfront tavern-and-warehouse district behind and enter a neighborhood of shops and stylish inns. A fight would be more quickly noticed in the shop district. That meant that they would probably make their move soon. Singai frowned. As a trained warrior, she was by no means a coward. And if Fortune were with her, she knew that she could best two warriors. But the thought of facing three armed fighters—possibly four—alone did not bode well for success. She hugged the shadows, seeking a means to disappear. If she could just maneuver behind her stalkers, perhaps she could even the odds a bit by confronting them one at a time. But the walls of the buildings in this district seemed to form one solid barrier. Any doors she encountered and checked, as unobtrusively as possible, were firmly locked. She could find no way to lose her pursuers. A moment later, the point was moot. They are closing, my friend, sent Ven-Gura. With one swift flowing movement, Singai removed the smaller decorative sword at her waist and released the catch on the dark crimson trader's burnous she had worn over her trousers and tunic as her disguise for this assignment. Allowing the burnous and useless sword to fall to the ground, she reached over her right shoulder and drew her weapon, her companion, from its baldric.

Turning to confront her stalkers, she saw three large shadows advancing on her. Only their white headbands and armbands were visible in the intense darkness, for the indigo hue of their garb merged with the night. Dalig, as Ven-Gura had warned. A slight widening of her eyes was all that betrayed her instinctive fear. Training quickly overcame it. Shoving the apprehension into a small compartment in the back of her mind, she focused on surviving the coming confrontation. As warriors, the Dalig were as accomplished as the Sotah. The two guilds, however, were diametrically opposed. Where the Sotah sought justice and right, the unscrupulous and malicious Dalig, like their symbiotic companions the Fena'Gece, sought only personal advancement through coercion and corruption. Just two years earlier, they'd sought, as part of a much larger plan, to usurp the entire planet, and it was only at tremendous cost to the Sotah that they'd been defeated. Singai had fought in that battle, had lost friends in the encounter. She had hoped it would be over for a time, but it seemed the war was not yet finished. As one, the Dalig drew their broadswords. The icy, whitish blades of their companions glowed aberrantly in the moonless, misty darkness. They studied her in silence. Although certain Thadonian warrior guilds were known to utilize bravado in their fighting techniques, neither the Dalig nor the Sotah warriors ever wasted precious energy on unnecessary vocalization. Singai's mind raced. Had they sought her out by chance, merely because she was a despised member of the Sotah? Did they perhaps intend to continue decimating the Sotah numbers, one by one, until there was no one left to oppose them? Or had one of her informers perhaps worked both sides of the puzzle, turning her over to the Dalig even as he'd informed her about their renewed activity? Singai scrutinized them in the darkness, her eyes straining to observe the twitch of a muscle or the tensing of fingers that would prelude an attack. And then, as one, the Dalig leapt. Ven-Gura sang, becoming almost weightless as Singai met the first attack and, with reflexes that had been honed to lightning speed through daily drills, managed to parry all three blades. But she needed to be able to go on the offensive, to eliminate at least one of her opponents, in order to survive this contest. In the space of a few seconds, while she faced her adversaries again, seeking an opening that wouldn't get her killed, the first moon rose. It was the smaller Wandering M oon and its golden rays were feeble, but in its faint illumination the gilded glow of the Sotah broadsword intensified, making it appear somehow stronger and more vital than the chalky Dalig blades. Whether illusion or not, some of that strength flowed into Singai. She struck at the man nearest her. He parried, and she struck again. Back and forth; strike for strike. Even as she fought, his companions began to move in from the sides. She tried to maneuver in a manner that would force her opponent to stay between herself and his companions, but it was an impossible task. No matter how she moved, she always left herself open to one of them. In desperation, she gathered her strength and used her greater agility to vault over her opponent while simultaneously stabbing downward. The surprise maneuver worked. She managed to penetrate his guard, inflicting a deep wound in his upper chest. He froze, screaming in agony as the purity and power of her weapon conflicted with the corrupt symbiosis he shared with his Fena'Gece companion. But the Dalig, warrior would not be out of the contest for long. Her strike had not been fatal, and his companion would heal the wound readily enough. Fortune had not been with her. The fighter's anguished wail had not even faded when Singai, aware of the desperate nature of her position, pivoted to confront his nearest companion. She was too late. Even as she attempted to block his thrust, the icy Dalig weapon cut deeply into her side. The agony of that malignant contact was more unbearably painful than the wound itself. As much as she tried to contain it, a scream escaped her and she sank to her knees in the grip of a paralysis unlike any other. Energy flowed in waves from Ven-Gura as he attempted to alleviate her suffering and heal the wound. But would his aid be timely enough? The Dalig warriors prepared to finish the uneven contest. Throwing off the fleeting moment of paralysis, ignoring the warmth of the blood flowing from her side, Singai struggled to her feet, fighting for her life. One of the Dalig warriors raised his sword to finish what they had begun. And then, out of the darkness flashed a whiplike length of light. For an illusory instant, time slowed to a crawl. Singai observed the strange phenomenon as it snaked toward her. But before trepidation had a chance to register, the cord of light wrapped around the Dalig's upraised arm, halting the strike that might have ended her life. And in the next second, the warrior's limb, still clutching his weapon, fell to the ground. What manner of thing was this? Dazed, still in pain despite Ven-Gura's healing efforts, Singai could only stare in incomprehension as the Dalig uttered a howl of pain and surprise before collapsing to his knees beside his severed appendage. With his remaining hand, he scrambled frantically to retrieve his weapon. Singai knew by the expression on his face the exact moment that he once again touched his sword and his Fena'Gece companion began to block his suffering. A severed limb was always a terrible wound, yet it was easier for a symbiotic companion to halt the bleeding and block the pain generated by a weapon that possessed no power than it would have been had the wound been inflicted by the like of Singai's diametrically opposite Sotah blade. The two uninjured Dalig warriors shifted away from her, for she was the lesser threat at the moment, and while keeping one eye on her, they turned a portion of their concentration to this new threat. With a single venomous look in her direction, the third Dalig, the pain of his severed arm obviously suppressed somewhat, rose to join his companions. Singai drew a deep breath and accepted the momentary reprieve for what it was: a chance to heal before the battle was reengaged. For she had never run from a conflict and would not begin now. But from where had this unexpected aid come? She searched the shadows out of which the shockingly proficient cord of light had issued. Nothing. Wait! As her eyes grew more accustomed to the dense shadows, she could perceive a form. He was garbed entirely in black, little more than an insubstantial shadow in the night. And then he stepped forward, into the faint illumination of Thadonia's smallest moon.

Despite herself, despite all her years as a warrior, Singai couldn't control the internal start of apprehension that ricocheted through her system. This man did not look like a savior. He looked . . . menacing. Dangerous. As he paused, surveying his combatants, his shoulder-length black hair whipped back briefly, caught in the grasp of an errant breeze. He carried no sword, no obvious weapon of any kind, although there was a small stick, perhaps the length of a forearm and half the diameter of her wrist, in his right hand. Was it the source of the strange light whip? He moved forward again, observing the Dalig from beneath lowered brows, his eyes shrouded in impenetrable shadow. His cloak, as black as the night itself, billowed around him like the sooty wings of some nether creature as he advanced. A shirt, as dark as everything else about him, concealed his wide torso. Black boots and black trousers hugged his legs. They were the strong, sturdy, well-shaped legs of a runner ... or a fighter. Singai swallowed and gripped her sword more tightly. Was she about to face someone equally as sinister as the Dalig? *** Daemon Quinn stepped from the shadows, cursing himself for having followed at too great a distance. He had been told that the woman's Sotah warrior senses were acute, and he hadn't wanted to betray himself. Now he had been put in a position of doing that regardless, and her life was in danger. Cold anger gripped him as he reset his Barak, a unique weapon developed for the exclusive use of the Guardian investigators native to the planet Fortuna. His surprise attack had drawn the attention of all three of the warriors away from the woman. The one whose arm he had removed surprised him. The How of blood ceased almost immediately and the man, although obviously laboring, rose to face him, his weapon grasped in his remaining hand. Daemon didn't understand why such an injury had not taken the warrior out of contention, but he didn't bother wasting time on speculation. He studied the three men before him. Trained fighters by their stance, but no match for him with the Barak. "Leave now, and save your lives." He made the offer in an unemotional voice—not because he felt any particular clemency, for he couldn't remember the last time he'd felt strongly about anything, but because once, long ago in his past, he had despised unnecessary killing. And despite everything, some remnant of the man he'd been then, remained. There was, after all, enough death in the universe. His opponents, however, showed no sign of accepting his offer as they soundlessly began to advance. Two took up flanking positions, while the third—the wounded man—moved directly toward him. Accepting their decision, Daemon calmly pushed the button on the Barak, flicked his arm, and sent the laser whip lashing out at the man on his right. This time he didn't bother to avoid vital organs. The whip cut through the man's shoulder and chest, searing his heart and severing his spine. He fell, and Daemon quickly recoiled the weapon, focusing on the remaining two warriors. Time had moved quickly. In the scant minute that it had taken to remove their companion from the contest, the two remaining fighters had cut their distance to him in half. They were too near now for him to use the laser whip effectively. The man on his left was nearest, representing the greater threat. With a brush of his thumb, Daemon adjusted the setting on the Barak and sent a single piercing beam of light shooting across the ten feet separating him from the combatant. It caught the warrior in the chest, burning a hole through his body. For a moment he froze in midstep, as though something or someone supported him, and then, soundlessly, he collapsed. Daemon quickly pivoted to confront the last man. He was upon him! With his single remaining arm raised high, the warrior slashed at Daemon with his strange phosphorescent white broadsword. Instinctively, Daemon parried with the Barak, forgetting that he held a laser rather than a sword. The cutting-torch-sharp beam cleaved the metal of the warrior's weapon, virtually cutting it in two. As the top portion of the blade toppled and fell back against the hilt, held in place by clinging bands of heated metal, two things occurred: The warrior began to howl in pain, clutching anew at the stump of his severed arm; and the weapon itself appeared to release a high-pitched keening while glittering colored tendrils of... something stretched and writhed from the freshly cut edge of the sword's blade. "M ove away from it!" The woman's voice, frantic with warning, reached him, and Daemon leapt back just as those bizarre luminous filaments seemed to lunge toward him. In the next instant, she rushed past him. Staying as far away from the sword's glowing fibers as possible, she raised her sword and struck the warrior, ending his agony with one precise strike. As he fell and life's light faded from his eyes, so too did the glow in the filaments lessen and die. With curiosity drawing his brows together. Daemon sheathed his Barak and moved forward to examine the strange weapon. "Don't touch it," the woman warned. "The entity will not be completely dead yet." A faint stab of incredulity raised his gaze to hers; she regarded him warily. "Entity?" he asked, as his eyes raked the shadowy and indistinct image of the woman standing before him. She was average height for a Thadonian woman, and slender, with fine-boned, elegant features framed by flame-hued hair worn in the elaborate braided style typical of a Thadonian woman. He couldn't discern her eyes, but remembered them from his earlier surveillance. They were of such a brilliant blue that they'd instantly summoned to mind the hue of a tropical ocean. And her fair complexion was so translucent that it seemed to glow with an inner light, granting her an almost ethereal appearance. "Yes. These men are Dalig," she replied, as though that explained everything. Abruptly, she sighed and closed her eyes, seeming to sway slightly on her feet. Daemon forestalled the question poised on the tip of his tongue as he took a quick step forward to catch her up in his arms. Her eyes flew open and her response was immediate. "Put me down!" He studied her expression in the faint moonlight. She was an enigma to him, and—since virtually his only joy in life came from solving mysteries—she fascinated him. "You seemed about to faint." She was outraged. "Don't be ridiculous. I was merely marshaling my strength. I am Sotah. Please put me down." Ignoring her for the moment, he asked, "How is your wound?" She studied him in mute appraisal, obviously still wary of him and his motives. "I saw them wound you before I was close enough to help," he explained. "How is it?" "It is almost healed." His expression must have revealed his skepticism, for a scant second later she insisted, "It is!" When he didn't immediately accept her assertion, she began to struggle slightly in his arms. "Put me down. Now! I thank you for your aid, but I do not require you to carry me." He wondered at the strange, almost alarmed expression the moonlight revealed in her eyes. Surely she didn't fear him. Somehow, he hadn't expected that of her. She was so ... dauntless. But then, most people tended to fear him on one level or another. Why

should she be different? He had been trailing her for some time now, never catching up with her, destined it seemed always to arrive in the places she had been on the day that she had left. Although frustrating, it had allowed him to gather more information about her than he might otherwise have garnered. And one thing he had quickly learned was that Singai was rarely the same person twice. As a Sotah warrior, she was an investigator. And in every investigation she conducted, she shed her own identity, taking on a new one as easily and as completely as a performer. "Imnen!" she addressed him with the Thadonian title of respect while at the same time managing to convey a tone of authority. "I must insist that you release me at once." Since she figured prominently in his own near future and the last thing he wanted to do was amplify her mistrust of him. Daemon obeyed her directive, although he kept his hands near to catch her should she sway again. Despite her protestations, she was clearly weak, but she maintained her feet. "Let me check your wound." "It's not necessary. M y companion has stopped the bleeding." He saw no companion in the area. Was she delusional? "I'll determine that for myself." She stared at him obstinately and he realized that his tone had bordered on adversarial. He was not accustomed to diplomacy. "Please?" he added, the unaccustomed courtesy wooden on his tongue. "If you do not allow me to check it, I will insist on carrying you to the nearest physician." Her health was too important to the solving of his current mystery to allow it to be jeopardized over something as treatable as a wound. She stared at him in exasperation, her brows knit together as though she wasn't quite certain what to make of him. "Oh, very well," she muttered rather ungraciously. "Look at it. Not that you'll be able to see much in this light." Daemon almost smiled. "I have a light." When the switch on the Barak was set on its lowest setting, the weapon became nothing more than an innocuous, very bright light. He directed it at the area on her left side, where she pulled up her slashed tunic to enable him to examine the wound. He noted that, in a deceptively casual manner, she'd kept her broadsword conveniently in hand against any possible threat he might represent. He found her caution admirable, if a trifle misplaced. "Who are you?" she asked. Squatting at her side, he offered her his surname. "M y name is Quinn." In the months that he'd been here, he'd learned that Thadonians— who did not use birth names and surnames in the manner that Earthers did—were uncomfortable addressing him by his given name. He'd been informed that a human birth name was the equivalent of a Thadonian heart name and should be used only by those close to him. He didn't fully understand the practice, but he bowed to it. "I am Trader Betana," she said. And then, looking down at the sword in her grasp, she apparently thought better of her ruse, for it was obvious she was not a trader. "Also known as Singai." Daemon had known her name, but he was careful not to betray that knowledge. "I'm pleased to make your acquaintance, Singai." "You're not Thadonian, are you, Quinn?" Her tone was getting stronger, and for the second time tonight, he noted with a curious sense of detachment the seductive quality of her husky voice. The first time had been in the tavern when he'd regarded her covert meeting with a local trader named Takil. Once a voice like hers would have attracted him, pulled at him, seducing him with its raw sexuality and entrancing femininity. "No." He responded automatically, scarcely aware that he'd spoken at all. Damn! There was too much blood to examine her wound properly. "So where are you from?" she asked as he pulled a kerchief from the inner pocket of his cape. "Fortuna." Upon her entry to the tavern earlier, he had recognized Singai instantly from countless descriptions, yet none had prepared him for the actuality. As he observed her from the security of a dim comer in the Tavern of the Five Stars, something about her—her presence? her beauty?—had prompted everything within him to go still. It was a warning from his subconscious mind that somehow, on some level, she was a threat to him, to the peaceful equanimity in which he existed, to that icy blackness at the core of him that kept him detached and unscathed. He would be cautious, but he was hard-pressed to explain his reaction to her. Singai was quite lovely, he mused, but certainly not exceptionally so. He reached out to begin cleaning the blood from her wound, but hesitated in midgesture, suddenly leery of touching her. When he had demanded to see her wound, his interest had been purely for business' sake. If she was the woman he sought, the woman who would satisfy the terms of his contract, he needed her alive. Therefore, his personal peace of mind demanded that he assure himself that her wound was not serious. And it was also essential that he obtain a DNA sample to determine whether or not she truly was the object of his months-long quest. A blood sample obtained in this way would save him unnecessary clandestine efforts in obtaining the specimen by other means. Yet, for some reason, faced with the sight of her soft white skin stained with blood, he felt a stirring in that deep dark hole where his emotions had once lived. And that bothered him as little else did. Daemon shook his head, disgusted with himself and furious at the inexplicable loss of his dispas-sion. He was imagining things. "Is something the matter?" He started slightly. "No. Of course not." He began dabbing at the blood staining her side, intending to finish this quickly and break the disturbing contact between her warm female flesh and his chilled fingers. "I've heard of Fortuna. It's an Earth colony world, isn't it?" He frowned and forced himself to focus on her words; even so it took a moment for their meaning to register. "Fortuna is a colony world of Earth," he replied absently, "but its government is independent." Did his fascination with her go beyond the aloof captivation of the mystery she represented? he wondered. No, he concluded a second later, that wasn't possible. Daemon Quinn had been relatively untouched by such things for years. His work had become his mistress, the only thing of consuming importance in his life. Still, he was more aware of her than he should be. Aware of her attractiveness. Aware of her very femaleness. Aware of the scents clinging to her warm body: sweat, and blood, and . . . something infinitely feminine. And that was disturbing. Very disturbing. Ruthlessly, he squelched his inappropriate and undesired perceptions and completed cleansing away most of the blood staining

her soft white skin. With some amazement, he realized that beneath the moist smears of blood, her wound had indeed undergone some form of accelerated healing. It had sealed and now looked only faintly raw and a bit tender, but certainly not life threatening. Straightening, he carefully tucked the kerchief back into his pocket and stood facing her. Having witnessed her injury, he didn't understand this at all, but he had to accept the proof his own eyes had given him. "What is that weapon?" Singai gestured vaguely toward his hand. "It's called a Barak." "Yes, but what is it?" Seemingly of their own volition, his eyes traveled over her in the pale moonlight, from the tips of her small booted feet to the crest of her head with its mantle of fiery hair burnished by the subtle radiance of golden moonlight. "In the Kanisian language on Fortuna, Barak loosely translated means harnessed lightning." "It's a type of laser weapon then?" "Yes." "So you must be a Guardian." He studied her watchfully. "How did you arrive at that determination?" He wasn't trying to conceal his vocation, although it would have been nice to maintain his anonymity for a short while longer, but he was curious to know how she'd reached the assumption. She shrugged as she adjusted her clothing and sheathed her weapon. "You're from Fortuna. You don't look like a smuggler, yet you carry a strange and powerful weapon that would be banned here for anyone without special authorization. Add to that the fact that the Sotah have had a difficult time keeping up to the demand for investigative abilities in the last couple of years and that Fortunan Guardians have been mentioned a number of times as an alternative by those who can afford to pay their exorbitant fees, and it simply makes sense." Exorbitant fees? he mused silently. His lips actually twitched. "I am a Guardian," he conceded. "And your wound does seem to be almost healed." He scanned the darkened streets surrounding them and saw nothing untoward. Still he couldn't risk losing her now. "But I think I'd better escort you to your lodgings." "That's not necessary." His investigative mind already at work, Quinn ignored her statement—for he intended to escort her whether she so chose, or not —and focused instead on what had happened here. It was very possible that, once he had tested the blood sample he now possessed, she would prove to be the person who would satisfy the terms in his contract. Singai was the third possibility in his quest to fulfil his agreement, and his last prospect. If she did not suit, then he would have to admit defeat. That rankled. It would be the first time since he'd become a Fortunan Guardian that he'd be unable to satisfy the terms of a contract. Yet she had been attacked and almost killed. He couldn't ignore the possibility that someone had learned of her possible importance to him and was working against him. Or ... could the attack have been triggered by her own investigative work? He turned his speculative gaze back to her. "Do you know who these men were, Singai? Or have any idea why they attacked you?" She shook her head. "Other than the fact that they are Dalig, I know nothing about them. As for why they attacked, the mere fact that I am Sotah may have been enough justification for them." Daemon stared thoughtfully at the blank wall of a nearby building. He had learned enough about Thadonian life in his time here to realize that there were numerous warrior guilds and that sometimes they disliked each other rather intensely. M ost often such guild clashes were appeased through arranged combats in an arena of spectators. But he'd heard little about the Dalig and the Sotah. Relaxing slightly, Quinn decided he'd accept Singai's assessment for the present. After all, his client had given him no reason to expect opposition. But he would remain vigilant, for experience had taught him that clients were not always entirely honest. Singai pulled some black squares of cloth emblazoned with some sort of blue symbol from her pocket and, moving away from him, began dropping them onto the bodies of the dead men. Despite himself, Daemon was lured from his musings by the observation. "What are you doing?" "The bodies will be discovered and reported soon—certainly by morning. This lets the city guards know that the kills were lawful ones so they won't waste valuable time attempting to track down a murderer." "I see." Daemon catalogued and stored the information that the Sotah were, in effect, licensed to kill. On Fortuna, even the Guardians were expected to show just cause before a panel of colony judges for a killing. And that, to his way of thinking, was as it should be. He wondered what kept the Sotah honest. "What stops any citizen who happens to find the bodies from taking the pieces of fabric and keeping them for their own nefarious purposes?" "You mean using them to thwart the investigation of an actual murder?" "Yes." "The fabric pieces disintegrate when handled, and they leave residue on the hands of those foolish enough to handle them directly. If the pieces remain untouched, they disintegrate within a couple of days of being outside a Sotah warrior's specially constructed pouch." "I see." Despite their lack of technology and primitive lifestyle—although to be truthful Tha-donia wasn't much more uncivilized than Fortuna—the Thadonians seemed to be amazingly sophisticated in some ways. At the completion of her task, Singai retrieved the deep red burnous and small decorative sword she'd worn earlier and began walking away. Daemon fell into step at her side. After a moment, she gave him a sideways glance. "What are you doing, Quinn?" "Escorting you to your lodgings." "I told you that wasn't necessary." Quinn nodded. "So you did. This is for my piece of mind. Would you prefer that I follow at a distance?" Singai's gaze narrowed. "Like you were doing earlier?" Daemon blinked in surprise. So she had known of his presence. Or suspected, at any rate. Well, there was no sense in lying. "Yes," he responded directly. Singai nodded and stared ahead thoughtfully. He could almost hear the wheels turning in her mind. "I think I prefer you at my side then," she said after a moment. "I don't know you well enough to trust you at my back." He nodded slightly in acceptance of her blunt reasoning and they entered the shop district. Here lanterns containing phosphorescent lumo gel hung from regularly spaced carved-and-decorated poles. Daemon found the increased illumination a curse,

for he could not seem to keep from glancing at Singai in appreciation of an attraction whose source he still did not understand. He studied her curiously. Despite the aura of femininity that surrounded her, she radiated confidence in this man's domain in a manner in which few women did. The weapon she carried would be heavy; it suggested a strength belied by her slender frame. Since many Thadonian women carried swords, it was only the nature of the weapon itself that was unusual, for the broadsword was typically a male weapon. Thadonian women's swords tended to be the smaller, ornamental weapons worn at the waist—like the one Singai carried with casual indifference in her right hand. After a time of silence had passed, he noticed she too was looking sideways at him repeatedly. "Is something wrong?" he asked. "I don't" suppose you'd like to tell me why a Guardian would be following me?" Daemon gritted his teeth. He dearly wished she hadn't surmised that. Not yet, at any rate. "Let's just say that you could be the person I'm searching for to fulfill a contract, but I'm not certain yet." "Somebody's looking for me?" She apparently knew enough about his vocation to know that the Guardians were not assassins and had arrived at the only logical conclusion. Daemon glanced at her. "Why is that so unbelievable?" She looked away, an inscrutable expression upon her face, and didn't reply for a time. When she did, it was merely to ask a question of her own. "Who?" He didn't have to ask what she meant. "I can't reveal that yet." She nodded, accepting his word more easily than he had expected. A moment later, she changed the subject entirely. "Where is your... creature?" "Creature?" She nodded. "I just realized that I saw you earlier. In the tavern, you had a creature sitting on your shoulder." "Ah." So she remembered him from the fleeting survey she'd made in the tavern. Again she surprised him. She had astute powers of observation. He admired that. "It's called a M orar." He pointed overhead. "M orars are flying creatures. It's following." Singai looked up. "I can't see anything. How can you be certain it's not lost?" Daemon just shrugged. He wasn't about to go into an explanation concerning the bonding and mind-link process that occurred between a For-tunan M orar and a human that survived one of its stings. "I know." She studied him for a moment in the moonlight, then gestured ahead. "M y inn is to the right, in Tamryn Square." He noted that the sign at the comer identified the upcoming square as the one she'd mentioned. It actually wasn't that far from the lodging he'd taken for himself at the Lintue Inn in Crozer Square. A moment later they halted outside the inn that Singai indicated as hers. A sign proclaimed it the Koonet Inn. Daemon frowned, wondering why they would name an inn after a small weasel-like creature like the koonet. The lintue, as a rather elegant bird of prey similar to an eagle, had a definite appeal. But a koonet? "So, Quinn," Singai said hesitantly, drawing his eyes down to hers. "I thank you again for your help this night." She looked away briefly, revealing the elegant line of her throat in the moonlight. When she looked back at him, she fixed him with a direct gaze. "Will I turn to find you following me tomorrow and the day after that?" He shook his head. "I'll know very soon if you are the person my client seeks. If so, I will return and we'll discuss it. If not"—he shrugged and cast his gaze over a distant rooftop—"then in all likelihood, you will not see me again." For the second time that night, he perceived . . . something, a faint stab of discomfort perhaps, at the thought of not seeing her again. He ignored it. Any woman who could prompt such unrest within him in a single evening was not for him. Eight long years ago, he had stopped feeling all but the most mundane of emotions—safe feelings—and the word love had been stricken from his vocabulary. He had long ago decided that he would never care for another person again. Daemon was aware that Singai searched his averted face for endless seconds, but he refused to meet her gaze. Finally, she sighed. "All right, Quinn. Then I'll hope that I will not see you again. I have too much to do to become involved in your investigation. Have a good night." And with that, she turned and entered the establishment. Daemon brought his gaze down off the rooftops and observed her slender figure. Then, turning in the direction of his own lodgings, he summoned the M orar with a quick telepathic call. Come, Griv. Quinn glared into the darkness as he walked. Something was bothering him—making him morose—and he struggled to identify the sensation. When he did, the realization startled him so much that he actually paused in his steps- Loneliness! For the first time in years, he actually/eft . . . alone. Clenching his fists on the edges of his cloak, he pulled it more securely about him. A shield against unwanted emotion. Subtle artifice that made him disappear into the night, cloaking him in anonymity. Daemon felt the M orar alight on his shoulder although he hardly noticed it, so intense were his thoughts. Nor did he observe the form of a man concealed in the dense shadows across the street from Singai's inn. A man who watched Singai as she entered her lodgings, and observed Quinn's leave-taking. A man with the sharp-eyed gaze of a lintue and the dusty clothing of a traveler.

Chapter Two As Singai closed the door to her second-floor room, her eyes immediately sought the window. Was Quinn still out there? Her pulse gave a small leap at the thought. She hesitated, resisting the unfamiliar longing that plagued her. Then, uncertainly, she surrendered to the compulsion and moved slowly to the window to see if he was still in sight. He was gone. She took a deep breath, wondering at the strange feeling he induced in her. He bothered her, frightened her in some strange way, and yet... he fascinated her too. Both the fear and the fascination were alien to her. What was it about him that she found so compelling? What was it about him that she feared? Pensive, she removed the burnous and crossed the room to hang it from a clothing hook on the wall. When Quinn had mistakenly thought her about to faint earlier, and had swung her up into his arms as effortlessly as though she were a child, she'd felt ... feminine. It had been a long time since she'd been aware of her own femininity, a long time since she'd remembered that she was a woman. She didn't think she liked the feeling.

Among the Sotah, all were brothers. Sexless kindred. Any physical relationship between members of the guild was forbidden. To the other members of the Sotah, Singai was a companion and someone to be trusted. No more, no less. Among the members of her guild, it had been easy to be more than a woman, to be respected for her capabilities. Through training and practice, she had learned to compensate for the physical weakness of her femininity with dexterity and proficiency. And there were few among her brothers whom she could not best in a contest. She needed that edge. That assurance that she would never again be incapable of defending herself from a man with violence and subjugation on his mind. In becoming Sotah she had all but renounced her femininity. Oh, she'd had relationships with men over the years. Occasionally. Rarely. Three times actually. But they were always nice, safe relationships with gentle, nonthreatening men. Casual relationships. Unemotional relationships. Forgettable relationships with men whom she would never fear. And perhaps that was precisely why she feared Quinn: because for some reason he had awakened her feminine instincts from their long slumber, drawing her, fascinating her as no man had ever done. And yet, he was not a safe man. She knew instinctively that he did not fit into her own carefully constructed acceptable-male mold. He was a man comfortable with violence. A man who lived without even the tempering influence of a companion. A taker, not a giver. A man whose very appearance was menacing, threatening. If she lived a long life and never saw Quinn again, she would not forget the moments she had spent is his company. He was unforgettable. In her mind's eye, she pictured him as clearly as though he stood before her. And again, her heart skipped a beat. Why? She could see nothing in that image to account for the strange sense of awakening. He was of average height for a Thadonian male—which probably meant he was slightly above average by Earth standards—and of dark complexion, very like the Vaileuans. Now that she'd recognized him as the man from- the tavern, she realized that his shoulder-length hair was a very dark brown rather than the black she'd initially thought. But his brows were thick and black, arching over unreadable eyes. His eyes! Intense, dark brown eyes—an unusual eye coloration on Thadonia—they reminded her of the thick, sweet dark chocolate that was sometimes imported from Earth. And there were shadows in the depths of his eyes that had nothing to do with their shade. But perhaps the shadows were only the natural result of life as a Guardian. By the moons above, she knew how difficult an investigator's life could be—especially on nights like this. Thank the priests that such nights came few and far between. She had come to accept the fact that killing was something she would always find difficult, for not even the carnage of the war two years earlier had inured her to death. Removing her baldric and moving toward the bed, she tried to picture herself differently. Had she not become a warrior, what would her life be like? Would she have been like Traesha? Ancient memories stirred. Traesha had been with her on that fateful day that had altered the course of both their lives. And where Singai had turned away from her femininity, Traesha had embraced it, using it as a tool. By becoming a Kvina, a courtesan, Traesha had begun to charge men dearly for the privilege of her favors. It was her way of fighting back, her revenge. Singai shook her head. She could never have followed the path that Traesha had. The very thought nauseated her. So what then would she have done if she had not become Sotah? Would she be a lady, with a husband, a household, and children? Would she have had an ordinary life? But when the picture formed in her mind, she found herself terrified by its sameness, its frailty, her own vulnerability, and quickly thrust it away. One thing was certain. Having tasted the life she now possessed—despite its dangers—she could never settle for such a mundane existence, even were the choice open to her. Which it wasn't. When she had become Sotah, Fortune's favor had removed her from the realm of ordinary love. What man would accept as his consort a woman who was a warrior? A woman who, as Sotah, must serve in the capacity of an investigator at least a few months a year? What troubles you, my friend? Singai was startled by Ven-Gura's intrusion. She hadn't realized her emotions had been strong enough to disturb him. "Nothing, Ven-Gura. Just memories." She frowned. And why was she thinking these things now? Because of Quinn? Shaking her head in self-disgust, she thrust all pensive thoughts aside. Removing Ven-Gura from the weapon sheath, she carried the sword into the bathroom for cleaning. When she was satisfied that all traces of blood and gore had been washed away, she dried the weapon and began to polish the unique golden metal that, as yet, had been found nowhere in the explored universe except on Thadonia. Ven-Gura— I am aware, Singai. Did you receive any impression of the man who came to our aid? The one calling himself Quinn? There was a pause. The Iyi'Sefir rarely answered questions without consideration, and sometimes intense deliberation. Very little, my friend. Unlike many of the species you call Earthers, his mind has an unusual aspect to it that makes it difficult to sense. He reminded me in some manner of a Feheran. "A Feheran?" Singai's brows arched in surprise, for she could think of no one who seemed less like a member of the Fehera race. The Fehera were an exceptionally tall, thin people with brilliant white hair and skin so pale it possessed a bluish cast. They were also extreme pacifists—whether as a result of religion or a genetic factor, no one knew. That alone would have precluded Quinn, for had he been Feheran he would not have aided her this night. However, since Ven-Gura did not see with physical eyes, the resemblance was undoubtedly something unseen. Singai considered the gleaming blade with frowning concentration. Without exception, the Fehera were a telepathic race. Although she'd never heard of a telepathic Earther, she supposed they weren't an impossibility. And technically, although he was of Earth extraction, Quinn was For-tunan. Perhaps the Fortunan people had developed telepathy on their colony world. She asked Ven-Gura if that was the similarity he had sensed. There was a short pause. I believe he may have some telepathic ab ility. However, if he does, it takes a very different form from that exhib ited b y the Fehera. Singai considered Quinn's assertion that he knew his creature followed. "Interesting," she murmured. Finished polishing the sword, she examined it with fondness and ran a caressing hand down its surface. Due to the shortage of Sotah warriors precipitated by the war, she and her companion had been working virtually nonstop for many months. No doubt Ven-Gura, who, even when resting absorbed many of her emotions, was feeling almost as worn out as she. Yet there had been no time to allow him a period of dormancy to replenish his resources. Although the Iyi'Sefir—and the Fena'Gece, too, for that matter

—required a symbiotic companion to live, they could exist for thousands of years in a dormant state that was much like human unconsciousness. And sometimes, for brief periods of time, this state was actually necessary in that it allowed them to cast off the emotions and needs of their companions for a few hours and exist in total silence. Ven-Gura, it has been a long time since you rested. Would you like to replenish yourself this night? She and Ven-Gura had just concluded their part of the investigation into the influx of banned Earth substances. She had learned all she felt she could here in Cylon. Although another probe undoubtedly waited to be conducted the instant her superiors received the information she'd collected regarding this one, surely she could afford to drop her psychic shield for a few short hours and afford her companion a limited period of dormancy? It may not be safe. You have already been assaulted once tonight. If the Dalig assault had been linked to her investigation, having tried and failed, they would realize that any attempt to prevent her from passing on her information would come too late. "That is why I believe it to be safer than any other. The attack has already occurred." Unless—Singai frowned thoughtfully—unless the Dalig attack came immediately—for she did need to perform the traditional ritual cleansing before establishing the link with the priests of Sotah. It aided in achieving the level of relaxation necessary to make contact. Tom by indecision, she caressed the metal blade, at once both cool and warm to the touch. Yet if she didn't allow Ven-Gura the necessary rest tonight, she was certain that there would soon come a time when she had no choice. And that time might not be as propitious as this. Ven-Gura responded after a brief pause. If you are certain, then I believe I would enjoy a brief period of dormancy, Singai. "Good. We'll wait only until I've eaten and bathed, and am ready to contact the priests." As you think best, her companion agreed, and Singai set him aside for time. A vision of the mineral baths invaded her mind, and she sighed in anticipation. The idea of immersing herself in the waters of the hot-spring bathing chamber on the first floor of the inn, the contemplation of all that soothing warmth on her tired muscles, was extremely enticing. But as she pulled the bellcord to order whatever meal the inn was serving that day, the enticement of the baths slipped from her mind, and her thoughts once again flitted back to the Guardian, Quinn. Would she see him again? she wondered. Tonight, or tomorrow? Then, compressing her lips in irritation, she thrust the thought aside. She didn't have time to be sidetracked from her work by a Guardian's search, so she had best hope she did not. *** As soon as Quinn entered his rather large room at the Lintue Inn, Griv, who looked like nothing so much as a miniaturized version of a mythical dragon, left his shoulder and flew to the small circular bed in an alcove of the room, which he seemed to have claimed as his territory while they were there. For Quinn's part, the presence of the small second bed, which Thadonian men designated for their women, was completely beyond his understanding. After all, the only reason he'd even have a woman in his chamber would be to share his bed. Shaking his head anew at the idiosyncrasies of alien cultures, Daemon removed his cloak and threw it carelessly upon his own much larger bed in the center of the chamber. He wanted to begin the DNA tests immediately— as always when under contract, he felt driven to complete it. However, he curbed his impatience, knowing that he would focus better if he first bathed and ate, despite the fact that he had no appetite at the moment. Besides, he didn't want to risk handling the expensive testing equipment until he'd purged the tension that conflict always induced in him. "Are you hungry, Griv?" "Yes." Although the Fortunan M orars were telepathic, they were capable of learning speech. However, they were slow to acquire a complete grasp of human language, and rarely spoke more than three or four words together until they'd been bonded for a considerable time. Regardless of that limitation, Daemon had found his link with the creature almost invaluable in his work, for he'd discovered he could use the connection with Griv to see through the M orar's eyes, or hear through its ears. Although, to be truthful, he hadn't been especially grateful when he'd initially been stung by Griv: The potent M orar venom, which affected the human brain within seconds, had nearly killed him. In actuality, many M orar victims did perish. Thankfully, however, comparatively few people were ever stung because the creatures tended to avoid human contact for the most part. When they did sting, sometimes—as in Daemon's case—it was not done in anger, but in the quest for the tel-epathic link with which Daemon was now blessed—or cursed, depending on his point of view at the time. However, the reason behind this desire for a link was something that only the M orars themselves understood. After moving to a cabinet across the room. Daemon opened a drawer. "Thadonian honey or Fortunan nectar?" Nectar. "You're going to have to start taking it easy, or we may run out of the nectar." Although Griv communicated no word. Daemon sensed his acceptance as he removed a long slender tube of yellowish nectar from the drawer and offered it to the M orar. Almost immediately, Griv's long, ridged, grayish-pink tongue, forked at the tip, emerged from between a score of needlelike teeth to be thrust unerringly into the tube. A M orar's tongue contained two hollow tubes that worked like straws to draw the nectar into their mouths. Within a minute, the nectar was gone and the creature was satisfied. When their size was taken into consideration— about the same as a domestic cat—they actually subsisted on very little in the way of nourishment. "Home?" Studying his reptilian friend. Daemon reached over to stroke its warm, dry, gold-and-copper scales soothingly. "Are you beginning to miss your hive?" "Yes." Daemon considered him. The Fortunan M orars, as hive creatures, were dependent upon periodic social interaction with their own kind in ways humans had yet to understand. The bonding between a human and a M orar lessened that need somewhat, but it was still there nonetheless. Daemon had never expected to be here so long. Already, he'd been on Thadonia four months in search of

the one woman who would satisfy his client's very specific requirements. Even if Singai did meet those requirements, there was no way he'd be able to conclude the contract quickly. "Do you think you'll be all right for another couple of months?" There was a slight hesitation. Yes. Daemon nodded and stroked the M orar's body again. "We'll find a way to get you home as soon as possible. You have my word." With that, he moved across the room to pull the bellcord in the signal that would have the inn's prepared evening meal delivered to his chamber. He had quickly learned that, on Thadonia, more primitive conditions necessitated a simpler lifestyle. Although there were eateries that provided a more extensive menu, in the inns and taverns, a single type of meal was prepared on a daily basis for their patrons. Last evening's had been an excellent meat-and-vegetable pie. The memory prompted Quinn's stomach to grumble slightly, and he realized he was hungry after all. If the meal happened to be delivered before he was through bathing, it would simply be set on the table in readiness for him when he emerged. Having ordered his dinner, and needing to cleanse the battle dust—both real and imagined— from his skin, he went into the bathroom to draw a bath in the large, tiled Thadonian tub. The plumbing system wasn't elaborate, but it was functional. A little more than an hour later, having enjoyed a meal of roast meat and some type of biscuits, he placed his used dishes on the floor in the corridor outside his room to be collected by the inn's staff, then began to set up the DNA testing device. He had had to order the equipment specifically for this commission, and had taken special training in operating it. Despite a growing familiarity in using the SolCom Lab, he still found himself treating the expensive device with almost excessive caution. But he couldn't help it. There was not another that he knew of on the entire Thadonian planet. Setting it on the table, he checked its power setting. It was fully charged, as he knew it should be. Throughout his travels, he had ensured that the solar-powered apparatus maintained a complete charge so that it would be ready when he needed it. He turned it on, took a few minutes to consult the manual, and set all the switches and dials properly. Then he allowed the machine to go through its initialization routine while he collected the kerchief containing the sample of Singai's blood from an inner pocket in his cloak. When he returned, the computerized equipment was already displaying its first instruction on a small screen in its center. Place material containing cellular sample in left vial. Since the left vial was barely larger than a laboratory test tube, Daemon cut a small piece of bloodstained fabric from the kerchief to place into it. Almost immediately the clear tube became opaque as it seemed to fill with a metallic-looking silver vapor. Please choose one of the following: 1) Test 2) Comparison "Comparison," he said and waited for the next prompt. Has comparison sample b een previously analyzed? Yes / No "Yes." Please specify which previously analyzed sample is to b e used for comparison. The initial sample, provided by his client, showed as number one. Number two was that of the first woman he had tracked down, in the neighboring Sulaiv Empire. And number three was a sample from the second woman he had believed might be . the one he sought. Neither, however, had proved to be a match for the sample provided when he'd been contracted. "One," he said. His gut was growing taut with tension. He didn't want to consider what he would do if this sample did not prove to match either. He'd exhausted all the evidence he possessed to reach this point. Processing time approximately one hour. Please wait. With a sigh. Daemon raked his fingers back through his overly long hair and leaned back in the chair, stretching his legs out before him in a semblance of relaxation. The next hour was going to be very nerve-racking. His thoughts turned to his secretive but affluent client. She had refused to tell him why she sought the particular woman to whom the blood sample belonged, yet the situation had roused his interest. Questions. M ysteries. They were what all investigators thrived on, but he more than most. They were what kept him going, gave him reason not to give up and simply disappear into the blackness in his soul. Daemon must have dozed because when the device beeped, signaling the completion of its analysis, he started. For a fraction of a second, he stared at the flashing message on the screen in incomprehension, for he'd never seen it before. And then, his tired brain interpreted its meaning, and he bolted upright in his chair. Match found. Singai was the person his client sought! As the full realization of that penetrated, he found he had mixed feelings. Something within him stirred at the thought of seeing her again, while his conscious mind wished that the person who'd suited his client's criteria had been anybody but the woman known as Singai. Still, he had the successful conclusion to another contract in sight. All he had to do was return Singai to the client in question, receive the balance of his payment—and the answers he'd been promised— and he could be on his way.

Sure! drawled a voice in his mind. Daemon started and looked at the sleeping M orar suspiciously, but realized almost immediately that the thought had come from his own mind. For Singai had made it clear that she didn't particularly like the idea of taking time away from her own duties. And truthfully, were their roles reversed, Daemon would have felt much the same way. So he'd simply have to come up with an offer, or a threat, she couldn't refuse. *** Singai lay in the steaming water of the mineral bath and allowed her thoughts to drift. And as they seemed wont to do in the last hours, they returned to Quinn. She blamed the occurrence on the questions he had raised in her mind. What reason could anybody have had for hiring him to find her? The possibility that Quinn had been hired to find her in relation to some crime did not even occur to her, for as Sotah she would immediately be found innocent in any case. The nature of the Sotah's symbiosis with their Iyi'Sefir companions was such that, were they to commit a crime against morality, their link would quickly decay. Her link with Ven-Gura was pure and intact. So if she was the person Quinn sought, for whatever reason, who could have hired him to find her? And what could be the reason behind it? An orphan since birth, she had no family, and had never had any particularly close friends—other than Traesha. The closeness of the children in the orphanage had always been an illusion based on necessity something that quickly dissipated with the coming of adulthood. None of her childhood friends would have sought her out, for she was only a reminder of a condition and a time they would rather forget. She herself always felt vaguely ashamed of her beginnings, despite the fact that it was no doubt her training within the orphanage that had helped instill in her some of the self-confidence she now possessed. Nor could Singai think of any adult acquaintance with whom she'd lost contact who might want to reestablish communication. The only people who regularly sought contact with her were the Sotah priests or her brothers within the guild, and they need only send a message along the nexus that linked them all to locate her. No, after considerable thought, Singai reached only one conclusion: The Guardian was mistaken in the possibility that she might be the one he sought. That thought brought with it a vague sense of disappointment, which she refused to acknowledge. The cleansing portion of her ritual complete, Singai climbed from the bath and toweled herself dry. Now she had only to don her Sotah uniform and she would be ready to make contact. The trousers were loose fitting and entirely black, the insides of the legs constructed of leather while the outer portions were fashioned of fine, silky but durable leiran. At knee height, the trousers were laced into the tops of black boots. Her black shirt, also made of leiran, was adorned with strips of leather across the chest. Onto these strips of leather had been embroidered the symbols that designated her a Sotah warrior. The color in which they'd been stitched, blue, indicated that she was designated as a protector of the emperor in the Rafat Empire. Her ablutions complete, Singai lifted the heavy mass of her long red hair off her neck. The damp tendrils irritated her, and she contemplated cutting it short again, but so many of her assignments called for blending into the masses that, if she cut it, she would probably end up having to wear a braided wig much of the time. That would be decidedly worse than styling her own unruly hair. Throwing a yellow trader's burnous over her Sotah uniform to conceal it should she chance upon a fellow guest at the inn, Singai exited the bathing chamber. She had not even begun to climb the stairs to the second level when she was approached by a man wearing a dark cloak still damp from the night's mists. His hair was shoulder length and black except for two snow-white streaks that fanned out from his temples like wings. His features were regular and tanned, handsome in a scruffy, unshaven way. His boots were dusty, and his garments worn. He looked like a common drifter or traveler, until. . . Singai narrowed her eyes. Until one looked more closely with eyes trained to truly see. Then the clothing began to appear somehow out of place, for the man had a noble deportment never seen in a drifter and rarely in such a casual traveler. For an instant, he stared at her as though in a shock of recognition. And then the look was shuttered. "Imnana, you are the woman who calls herself Trader Betana, are you not?" He used the name she'd employed for herself in the investigation here in Cylon. His forehead creased and he glanced back over his shoulder as though to ensure they remained unobserved. Singai bowed her head slightly in acknowledgment. "I am Trader Betana." Although the frown did not fade, the tense line of his lips softened slightly, as did the expression in his dark blue eyes. "I have a message for you." Pressing a piece of paper into her hand, he immediately turned to leave. "Wait!" she called after him. He turned to face her, but hurriedly continued walking—backward—toward the door. "If you'll wait a moment I'll get you a few pengi for your trouble," she offered. "There is no need, Imnana. I've been well paid." And with that, he was gone. Devoid of the man's poised presence, the empty corridor suddenly seemed more silent than usual. Frowning curiously down at the paper in her hand, Singai climbed the stairs to her room. Sitting upon her bed, she unfolded it. Take care. It is not over. Do not become complacent. Your lives, yours and that of your friend, are dependant upon vigilance. I will help you if I can, when I can, upon your journey, but you must not depend on me. Should you see me again, I ask that you do not betray your recognition of me. What wasn't over? What friend? What journey? By the moons, what did the message signify? And who had written it? The message meant nothing to her. Surely it had been meant for someone else. Yet the man had asked for Trader Betana. She frowned, replaying their brief meeting. No, he had not. He had directed the message to the woman calling herself Trader Betana. "Magar!" Singai swore, one more small rebellion against her femininity, for on Thadonia women did not swear. And with a fierce frown of concentration on her face, she rose to pace the room, to think. Singai— Yes, Ven-Gura. What troubles you? She told him. There was a moment of silence as her companion considered. I know not what the message means either, Singai. However, I think there is little to be gained in pondering the imponderable. Continue with what must be done and disregard the puzzling message until something occurs to give it meaning. As for staying vigilant, that is always good advice. But perhaps it

would be best if I postponed dormancy for a while longer. "Nonsense!" Singai said aloud. "I cannot risk you. You must rest, or we run the risk of your psyche enforcing dormancy. Is that not so?" That is so. I would be unconscious for a time. "So what if this dormancy occurs in the heat of a conflict? Would that not be a much worse time?" There was a pause as her companion sought an argument, and found none. Yes, Ven-Gura acknowledged. That would be a much worse time. I will accede to your wishes, but only for a short time. A few hours will be enough to replenish me for an entire moon cycle or more. "Agreed." With a nod that she knew her companion could perceive through his mysterious psychic senses, Singai turned to prepare. You shall have your rest, my friend. She removed her long-sleeved tunic and retrieved the weapon from its resting place on the bed. Then, naked from the waist up save for the binding that secured her breasts, she held the broadsword in both hands, her arms extended before her. "Withdraw, Ven-Gura." As she spoke the words, glittering incandescent bands of light, in varying shades of blue, green, red, and yellow came out of her arms and began to undulate down toward her wrists. Gradually the glittering strands merged, becoming fewer in number, and rainbow hued. After one final loving caress of her hands, the strands withdrew into the weapon and Singai's symbiotic psychic bond with Ven-Gura was broken. She felt tired and bereft, but she knew the feeling would pass quickly. Ii was a natural side effect of disconnection. Lowering the weapon, she placed it on the bed, then she retrieved the special wrapping she'd had constructed for use during Ven-Gura's dormant periods. Next, she began to disassemble the broadsword. The blade of the weapon was, in actuality, three distinct segments with the hilt affording a fourth piece. As the tip of the blade slid away, the golden radiance of the weapon lessened. It continued to abate with the removal of each segment until, when the base of the blade came away from the hilt, the glow faded entirely. Now the sword looked to have been constructed from nothing more than a sheenless yellow metal. Singai laid each segment carefully upon a rectangular piece of black leather, ensuring that each was securely strapped in place, and then she rolled the leather into a wide belt. This is how she would carry VenrGura whenever she left her chamber, for never had she been able to leave the Sotah broadsword behind. It was simply too important to her to risk its possible theft. And now it was time she contacted the priests of Sotah, and through them her brothers, to pass on the names of the principal traders involved, and the other information she had. As usual, once the intelligence had been gathered by the Sotah, it would be the emperor's guards and local city guards who would work together to curtail the smugglers' operations in the area. *** Quinn was just preparing to leave his apartment to call on Singai when there was a heavy, rather ponderous, knock at his door. M ore like a thump actually. Frowning curiously, he answered it. It took a moment for him to recognize the information broker with whom he'd been working. "Karnin!" The man, usually so impeccably groomed, looked terrible. One eye was blackened and swollen shut. The flesh around the other was stained the most amazing shade of wine, intensifying the green of his one visible eye. His lips were swollen and twisted into a grimace, and his normally clean salt-and-pepper hair hung in damp, filthy strings. After a hasty glance down the corridor to ensure that his business acquaintance was indeed alone, Daemon grasped the man's arm and tugged him into the room. The information broker traveled extensively, as did all those who worked for him, but Daemon had not expected to see him again unless he himself initiated the contact through the network of Feheran telepaths, who were kept apprised of the broker's location. After closing the door securely and latching it, he sat Karnin in the nearest chair and then hastened to pour the man a glass of the only liquor he had in the room. The Thadonians called it Tanos, which literally translated meant amber, and it was the closest thing to Scotch whisky—his favored drink—that Daemon had found on the planet. He poured himself a glass too and sipped at it, managing to curb his impatience until Karnin had swallowed half the liquor in his glass. Then his impatience escaped the bonds of his will. "What happened?" Kamin attempted a grin, but it didn't work well. "I've looked better, haven't I?" Daemon nodded shortly and waited for the broker's response. Kamin sighed and rubbed his bruised forehead with a scraped and battered hand before beginning. "It looks as though someone is not happy about your investigation. Both of the women with whom you spoke in the Sulaiv Empire are dead. I don't know how much they may have revealed concerning your purpose before they died." Kamin's voice roughened with emotion and he paused to clear his throat before continuing. "I assume that what they revealed would depend on how much you told them. However, something they revealed led your pursuers to me." Again he paused and swallowed convulsively. But his tone was emotionless when he continued. "I'm afraid I was no more proficient at withholding the information they sought than the two ladies. Without the timely intervention of my blood-crazed dyre, there is little doubt that I would now be dead." "I see." Quinn was aware that the large goatlike dyre used by the Thadonians as mounts could never be ridden into battle because the scent of blood crazed them, prompting them to attack friend and foe alike. He had sold his own footsore mount without a qualm upon arriving in Cylon. In his opinion, there was simply no comparison to the reliability of a horse. In fact, any trace of emotion that stirred in him these days was usually brought on by his attachment to his horses. But at the moment he concentrated wholly on what he needed to know from Karnin. "You escaped?" He nodded. "And I came to warn you, for you've been one of my better clients. I fear, though, that my injuries may have prevented me from traveling as quickly as your enemies." "What did they want?" Kamin shrugged slightly and then grimaced at the pain the action induced. "They wanted to know who you sought and why. They wanted to know how many more women were on your list of possibilities and what their names were. And they wanted to know where to find these women... and you." "And what did you tell them?" Daemon asked the question quietly, with as much compassion as he was capable of generating, for he knew that only the most exceptional men could withstand torture no matter how strong they believed they were in their

private thoughts. He affixed no blame to Karnin, but rather to the men who had done this thing. Kamin rubbed his face again. "Everything I knew." His expression was grave, and there was a wagon load of self-disgust in his voice. "Everything," he repeated. He stared down at the glass of liquor in his hand for a moment, and then, grimacing, he lifted it with a trembling hand and tossed the remainder of the drink into his mouth. A second later, he met Quinn's gaze again. "I told them that you only had one woman left to see, that she was Sotah, and that her name was Singai. I told them that she was allegiant to the Rafat Empire, and was currently working in the port city of Cylon in Vaileu territory." His gaze slid away from Daemon's to center on the opposite wall. "And just as I had informed you, I told them that my information had her planning to meet a trader in the Tav ern of the Five Stars tonight just after the time of the evening meal." "That's all?" Kamin nodded. "I couldn't tell them your reason for seeking out these women, because I didn't know." He sighed. "It seems you were wise not to tell me." "And what did you tell them about me?" Kamin shook his head. "That was the one area where I managed to hold something back. I told them only that you planned to be in Cylon, but that I had no knowledge of where you would be staying." Daemon nodded and turned to pace the room thoughtfully. A second later he stopped at the window and stared out into the darkened street below. "How many men were there?" "Seven." "Do you have any idea who they were?" "No." Kamin's voice came to him quietly. "They were definitely warrior trained, but they wore no guild colors. I had never seen them before." Daemon thought back to the attack on Singai. "Could they have been Dalig?" "Dalig?" Karnin echoed the warrior guild's name with such incredulity that Daemon turned to face him. "Yes," he confirmed, watching the man's expression carefully. "Dalig." What undercurrents were at work here? "But their guild was all but decimated in the war two years ago. It's said that only one in twelve of their warriors survived that conflict. And I have seen none." "That doesn't mean they're not around, does it?" Daemon asked rhetorically. "Could the men who accosted you have been Dalig?" He needed an answer. Karnin stared at him silently for a moment. Finally, he nodded. "I suppose they could have been," he mused. "They weren't using Dalig blades, but they are perfectly capable of using normal swords in the interest of concealing their identity." He swallowed and considered the possibility a bit longer. Then he nodded more decisively. "Yes," he said. "They certainly could have been Dalig. But for your sake, I hope they weren't." Normal swords? Quinn wondered at that, but ignored that portion of Kamin's reply for the moment. "Why?" His confusion was genuine. "What makes them so unusual?" "M ore infamous than unusual, I would say. You really don't know?" Daemon shook his head. "Of course, you're a foreigner." Kamin nodded sharply as though the reason behind Daemon's ignorance had just occurred to him. "I tend to forget that because you speak the language so well." The expression on his battered face grew infinitely more serious, and he lowered his gaze to the empty glass in his hand. "The Dalig are bonded, physically and psychically, to entities housed in the metal from which their weapons are forged. This gives them a tremendous advantage in any battle. The entities have the capability of healing their companions quickly, so unless a wound is very serious, or fatal, it takes only a matter of minutes for the warrior to be whole again. No one knows the full extent of a Dalig warrior's capabilities, except a Dalig, but they are formidable." Quinn stared at the information broker, but his gaze was turned inward. Kamin's words explained much that had confused him earlier tonight: the Dalig warrior's ability to continue fighting when he should have been near death, and Singai's frantic directive concerning the warrior's weapon. Don't touch it. The entity will not be completely dead yet. Yet questions remained. Daemon frowned thoughtfully as he replayed his encounter with Singai. What was it she'd said? Something about her companion having healed her wound. "Are the Sotah also bonded in this way?" "Of course," Karnin confirmed. "They are the only ones capable of meeting the Dalig in an evenly matched battle." "Hmmm," Daemon murmured thoughtfully. "Except of course when the odds are increased in the favor of the other side." He didn't like this. He didn't like this at all. It didn't concern him much that these warriors were after him. He, with his Barak, was a match for them as long as he was not too badly outnumbered. But the fact that they sought to murder Singai worried him. Why did they seek her death? What possible importance could the woman he sought to meet the terms of his contract have for the warrior guild? And most important, how long would it take before more Dalig warriors found her? There had only been three fighters tonight. That meant that there were at least four others out there. Enemies, seeking her. And once again he felt a faint stirring in his gut. Apprehension? If he was to meet the conditions of the contract with his client, Singai had to be alive. Shoving away from the wall, he began to pack his things. As he worked, he spoke over his shoulder to Kamin. "I'll be leaving now. The room is paid until the end of the week. You're welcome to stay until then." He turned and faced the other man. "And thank you, Karnin, for your help. I won't forget it."

Chapter Three Singai knelt on the floor of her room, all lights extinguished because the darkness helped her to focus, and centered, calling upon the power of Sotah. Slowly, slowly, as she found the balance within herself, the leashed force within her expanded. Submerging emotion. Becoming tangible. Shielding the force rising from her body from the psychic awareness of indiscriminate others, Singai confined it to a prescribed form as she'd been taught long ago. Since the priests would not be expecting her contact, her concentration needed to be intense. Only once each year—when the Silver M oon rose over the summit of Kalos M ountain and the new Sotah were invested—was

communication with the priests actually mandated. And then the communication was a universal one, linking all Sotah, creating brotherhood. Gradually, as it assumed the correct dimension, Singai permitted the luminous-green force to rise from her body, watched incandescent embers of light dance within the energy as it transformed. And then, bowing her head, she released it. Scintillating sparks danced over her body, and the call of Sotah went out. The effervescent force of her call penetrated the walls and sped eastward, like the blazing tail of a comet, invisible to all save herself and the priests for whom it was intended. Singai continued to concentrate as she guided the communication to the distant mountain range that ringed the planet. Long minutes passed. A whispery touch. Was that it? Singai reached for it, felt it become more tangible. Yes. She opened her mind, allowing the distant priests access to the information she carried. The smuggling organization she'd been investigating was powerful, an organization within an organization, for many of its members were influential members of the Traders Guild. The illicit shipments they received were prepaid and then dropped from orbiting shuttles at previously agreed upon sites. As Trader Betana, she'd joined the guild and managed to gain the trust of some of the lower echelon smugglers. She'd even made some purchases of banned Earth products—which she'd later turned over to agents of the emperor— in order to establish her credibility. But when she'd attempted to purchase the Earth weapons the Sotah knew were arriving here, she was told the buy wasn't possible. The reason that none of the weapons had surfaced on the black market was that the Dalig were acquiring them all, ensuring that they maintained exclusive ownership of the weapons. In hindsight, she now wondered if the Dalig were not behind the entire smuggling operation. Their numbers were on the rise again, and they were not as particular concerning membership in their guild as were the Sotah. But where were the illicit weapons going? Where were they being kept? For what purpose were they being sought? She transmitted the questions that still haunted her. For, with the Dalig, the Sotah could be certain of only one thing: Their intentions would not bode well for most Thadonians. Singai sensed dismay. A sudden increase in the Dalig presence is being noted the world over, she was informed. Rumor states that they are planning to seize their own empire, although this has not as yet been confirmed. Singai winced inwardly. Once again the Dalig were rising in power, and even the Sotah, with all the advantages afforded them by their symbiosis, were no match for an army of Dalig armed with the advanced weapons of Earth. What would you have me do? she asked of the priests. Still immersed in the Sotah communication, she only vaguely heard, as though from a great distance, a knock at her door. Although the link was silent for the moment, she had not yet received the signal that would tell her the communication was over. Since she could not break off the contact without being forced to go through the entire focusing routine again, she ignored the knock, concentrating on her transmission. Finally came the response. There are many aspects of this currently b eing investigated. We await information. Singai knew that a piece of the smuggling investigation was ongoing in virtually every port city on the continent. She had exchanged information with her brothers many times in the preceding weeks and months. You have worked without stopping for over a year now, Singai. Rest. Do as you will until you are contacted. And then the link was b roken. The glistening outline that was the power of Sotah had just faded from her body when, abruptly, the door to her room opened and a dark form entered. Sidling quickly to one side, the figure shut the door. Singai's breath froze in her throat. Whoever had knocked had obviously assumed her not in residence and had decided to lie in wait. And since she could conceive of no nonaggressive motive for anyone to break into her chamber, she could arrive at only one conclusion: The intruder was an enemy. Relying on the knowledge that her enemy's eyes would not yet have adjusted to the darkness of her room, Singai rose in a silent fluid motion and moved into the shadows along the wall, where her shortsword hung in its scabbard from a clothing hook. She saw the outline of his head turn as she moved. Following her? Had he sensed her movement? His head turned back the other way as though scanning the room, and with a sense of relief, she silently took her sword in hand. Keeping to the densest shadows, Singai advanced on the intruder. Then, shortsword extended, intending to immobilize and disarm him, she leapt. What happened next happened so quickly that the entire sequence was nothing more than a blur of motion. Her wrist was grasped in a viselike hold as her intruder somehow pivoted, reversing their positions and placing her in front of him. Her sword fell from suddenly nerveless fingers to clatter to the floor. And the intruder's muscular arm clamped about her waist, holding her hard against a powerful and decidedly masculine body. The smell of him enveloped her. Not unpleasant, but disquieting. He was too close. Fear clamored in her brain for expression, but she ignored it. So he'd managed to drastically curtail her greatest fighting skill, her agility; she wasn't dead yet. She rammed her foot down hard on his instep while simultaneously throwing her upper body forward. The move was supposed to catapult him over her back, leaving him sprawled on the floor before her. It didn't. Singai was rewarded for her efforts by an irritated male grunt before a decidedly large hand clamped over her throat. Her neck felt suddenly very small and fragile. His warm breath stirred the fine hair next to her ear sending shivers down her spine. "Another move like that and it'll be your last. Is that clear?" He spoke in a harsh whisper. Singai closed her eyes for an infinitesimal second, seeking the core of strength that only Ven-Gura could provide, and then remembered that she was alone tonight. Alone! She must rely on her own wits and abilities in this confrontation. "Is that clear?" he asked again, slightly louder. She didn't try to nod against the pressure of his hand on her throat. "Yes," she whispered fiercely. "Who are you?" he demanded. She frowned at that. He had broken into her room without knowing who she was! That didn't make any sense. Some kind of test perhaps? "Trader Betana," she murmured carefully. His hand tightened slightly on her throat. "Yeah. And I'm the President of Earth. You're not in a position to play games with me, lady. Try again."

President of Earth! The words stunned Singai. No Thadonian spoke in that manner. And there was something just the tiniest bit familiar about the fierce voice murmuring into her ear. Wasn't there? If only it wasn't so dark. "Quinn?" She felt the breath arrest in the chest at her back. A frozen moment of silence enveloped them. "Singai?" "Of course, it's me," she choked out fiercely past the constriction of fingers. "By the moons! Who else would be in my room?" He rubbed his slightly abrasive chin against her temple in a manner that sent her insides into a disturbing tumble as he took a deep breath as though trying to identify the scent of her freshly washed hair. "M mmm," he murmured. "Who else indeed? Why didn't you open the door?" His tone was low, almost. . . intimate. She tried to move away from him, but his grasp hadn't loosened in the slightest. "I was in the middle of something. Now will you please release me?" He ignored her request. "In the middle of something ... in the dark?" His tone was slightly incredulous, but the constriction of his fingers on her throat eased. "Yes. In the dark." She bit the words off angrily, refusing to elaborate, as she struggled more determinedly against his iron grip. Besides, it was none of his business what she was doing. "Now let me go!" She spoke in a normal voice for the first time. "Singai—" "What?" she snapped. "Stop squirming." For all the abrupt command in his words, they sounded somehow choked. For an instant she didn't understand. And then she felt something hard and rather prominent pressing against her backside. Something that hadn't been there only a moment before. Instantly, she froze. Fear once again clamored for expression—an ancient fear this time, the fear of a helpless young woman. But she was no longer that young woman, and she fought it back, conquering it as she sought to conquer all weakness. Nevertheless, the knowledge of his condition and what it meant served to thoroughly disconcert her. She took refuge in anger. It was his fault not hers. If he'd just released her as soon as he'd learned her identity, she wouldn't have squirmed against him. "Release me!" she ordered. "Yes," he agreed. "I think that's a good idea. However, I want you to move directly across the room and activate the lumo gel. Agreed?" "You still don't believe I am who I say I am?" She sensed a shrug in his voice when he spoke. "Your voice is familiar. I just want to ensure that voice and form correspond." "Very well, I'll activate the lumo gel." He released her and Singai wasted no time in reaching the barely visible stand by the bed, which contained one of the room's sources of lighting. Rotating the lid of the spherical container, she aligned the holes in the cover with the holes in the jar itself to allow air to come into contact with the gel within. As the gel began to glow, illuminating a portion of the darkened chamber, Singai hastily turned to face her intruder. "You're not very trusting, are you?" He shrugged, making no apologies. "There are a lot of accomplished impersonators in the universe, and I've encountered more than my share." Quinn stood in her room as calmly, as confidently, as though he belonged there, looking equally as dangerous as each of the other times she had seen him. As though there were something fierce and defiant within him. Something untamed. His chocolate eyes glittered at her from the shadows provided by the insubstantially lit room and his own lowered brows. He gave the illusion of being incredibly handsome, but in reality he was not, she decided. His nose was slightly ridged in one spot as though it had been broken once and had not healed properly. His whisker-shadowed jaw was a bit too aggressive. And his eyes were a fraction too intense. But despite those Haws there was something profoundly magnetic about him, something that prompted even Singai—who was normally too busy to be interested in men in the slightest—to take notice. Perhaps it was simply the potent aura of masculinity that surrounded him. Perhaps it was his hard, muscled body. Or perhaps it was the quality of danger itself that was so mesmerizing. Whatever it was, it engendered an awareness of him that she was determined to ignore. She had no time for it. Submerging her inexplicable fascination beneath a layer of ice, she asked, "What are you doing in my room?" "You didn't answer my knock." "And you took that for an invitation?" Since he'd never been one to make stammering explanations, Daemon remained silent while he thought the situation through. Normally her anger would not have concerned him overmuch, but he had not lost sight of the fact that his ultimate goal was to deliver her to his client in the Kazer Empire, and the Kazer Empire was a great distance away. It would be much easier to escort a willing woman from one empire, across another, and into a third than an unwilling one. Studying the woman standing before him, he wondered how to explain without angering her further. "Well?" Singai demanded, as she moved to the fallen short sword and retrieved it. He decided on an abbreviated version of the truth. "I've learned that someone is systematically murdering the women I've contacted concerning my present contract. I think the attack on you earlier tonight was linked to my investigation. Since there will probably be another attempt, I felt I should be here." Singai studied him for a moment in frowning concentration and then shook her head. "Actually, I'm fairly certain now that the attack was linked with my investigation. Why would the Dalig care whom you contact? Besides, you had not even approached me yet at the time they attacked." "True. But some warriors, Dalig or not, had learned that you were next on my list. If the attack earlier tonight was not their doing, you can rest assured there will be another." Singai continued to frown at him, her beautiful face luminous in the muted glow coming from the single lumo-gel container. Almost musingly, she walked across the room to activate the other two luminary globes. Daemon remained where he was, watching her, waiting for her to reach her own conclusions. She moved with an almost feline grace. Her hair, unbraided now, fell in undulating waves of flame to the middle of her back. He felt an alien and almost irrepressible desire to tangle his fingers in those soft, fragrant tresses. Suddenly, she pivoted to face him. "So," she said, "despite the fact that I am not the person you seek to fulfill your contract, you feel that my life is in danger because you have spoken with me?"

Daemon bowed his head. "That's about it," he agreed. "Except you're wrong about one thing." Her brilliant turquoise gaze fixed on his face. "What's that?" "You are the person my client is seeking." "That's impossible!" She suddenly plopped down on one of the huge cushions surrounding the low Thadonian dining table. "There must be some mistake. I've thought this through carefully, and there is no one who would be seeking me." Daemon shook his head and moved to sit opposite her. "No mistake. I've done a DNA analysis." She stared at him. "What is this D-N-A analysis?" she asked, her tongue stumbling over the English terminology that he'd thrown into the conversation for lack of a Thadonian translation. In the interest of expediency. Daemon took the time to carefully describe the test, and its accuracy, to her. As he concluded, she eyed him rather fiercely. "But you did not have a sample of my D-N-A. And even if you had, what could your client possibly have given you to compare it to?" Quinn shook his head. "You're wrong. M y client had an old sample of dried blood. And ... I had a sample from earlier tonight." Her eyes widened in sudden comprehension. "So it was riot concern that motivated you. I should have guessed." "Your continued good health is important to me." "But only in so far as it pertains to the successful conclusion of your contract. Correct?" Daemon could not argue that. Nor did he desire to. His work had been his entire life for too long. To acknowledge now the possibility that there might be another motivation coloring his actions was to undermine the very foundation of his existence. He couldn't do it. "That's what I thought." Sarcasm and disdain positively dripped from Singai's tongue. Her attitude intrigued him. "Had I known you desired something more of me"—he allowed his eyes to rake her boldly, suggestively—"perhaps I could have been more attentive." Singai's eyes narrowed. "I think you should leave now." Daemon met her angry gaze for a moment, contemplating the possible explanations denoted by her attitude. Was it possible that, on some level, she was as intrigued by him as he was by her? He studied the awareness reflected in her eyes and received an answer to his question. The possibilities were fascinating. He had little doubt that, with a bit of convincing, she would be a willing lover. He could take her, appease his own uncharacteristic fascination with her, and be done with it. But . . . there were other considerations here. He felt a stab of exasperation. After rising smoothly to his feet, he looked down at her. Despite his best intentions, he had served no purpose here tonight but to annoy her, putting his own goal of her willing accompaniment father out of reach. "You're right," he said mildly, "I should leave. We can speak on this more tomorrow. I'll be just down the hall should you need me." Singai sprang to her feet, her wide-eyed gaze fixated on his face. "You're staying here?" "Of course. I changed residences the moment I realized you were in danger." He studied her expression again. Was that fear he saw in the depths of her eyes? Or something else? "Does that bother you?" She ignored his question. "I thank you for your concern, Quinn," she said with just the smallest hint of sarcasm. "But I will not require your protection. I have lived without it for a number of years now, you know. So I'm certain I can handle any threat that may arise. And as I told you, I am certain that the Dalig attack tonight was a result of my own investigation. It had nothing to do with you." A small demon within Quinn wanted to point out that, had it not been for his protection earlier tonight, she would in all likelihood be dead this minute. However, he held his tongue and nodded. "I hope you're right. However, in the event you're not, I am two doors down on the left." He had tried to get the room next to hers, but it had already been let. Singai made no comment, merely closed her door. Daemon listened to the lock click into place before moving down the hall to his own room. The M orar's eyes snapped open as Daemon entered. "There could be trouble tonight, Griv. If you hear any sounds in the corridor, I want you to make certain I hear them too. All right?" Yes. Not even bothering to remove his boots. Daemon lay down on the large Thadonian bed, folded his hands behind his head, and stared at the ceiling. What was it about Singai that so intrigued him? Was this just a more intense form of the sexual attraction he had felt for numerous women over the preceding years? An attraction that would dissipate the moment his carnal appetites were served? Or was it something else? He'd never met a female quite like her before. She was a female warrior who wielded a man's sword. A woman at the forefront of her sex in defying Thadonian tradition by forsaking household and children in favor of a vocation that was traditionally male. A woman of strong convictions who placed her life on the line on a daily basis, not for the sake of a contract, but because she believed in what was right and good. Next to her, some distant part of Daemon recognized just how dark his own heart had become. How jaded his view of the universe. But it had not always been so. Once, for a brief illusory period in his life, he had actually believed the universe was a place of light and good. Once, for a few short months, in a cruel cosmic joke, he had tasted love in his otherwise loveless life. He tried to turn his thoughts away from the past, to focus on the present for there remained a tiny part of him that had not been numbed by the cold blackness in his soul. A small part of him that remembered pain. He tried to close it off, to shield it, but it was too late. Corinda! that small piece of his heart cried out. Corinda. His wife. His soul. His reason for being. Gone these last eight years. Raped and murdered with their child still in her swollen belly. Quinn gritted his teeth, caging the wrath and anguish within his soul. Struggling to subdue it, to confine it, he stared unblinkingly up at the ceiling until his dry eyes burned.

Sweet, innocent Corinda, who'd never had a black thought in her life, had not deserved to die. He remembered her as though it had been only yesterday that he last saw her. Corinda with her golden hair, sun-kissed skin, and topaz eyes. Everything about her had been radiant and golden. Just hearing her voice had been enough to brighten an otherwise gloomy day. He hadn't been able to get enough of her, or her of him. They'd touched constantly. M ade love incessantly. And then, in one day, their lives had ended. Corinda's in fact, and his in spirit. It was the day that the space rat, Varek Auls, followed Corinda home from doing the marketing and broke into their small home. He'd done it for vengeance, Daemon had later discovered. Auls had murdered Corinda in payment for an imagined slight that had occurred when she'd rebuffed the man's advances on one of his previous stops on Fortuna. Daemon finally gave in to the burning need to close his eyes. The sting was intense, and a droplet of acidic moisture escaped his tightly closed lid to lie unheeded in the crease of his left eye. Why hadn't he sensed that something was wrong? Why hadn't he been there? She was so important to him. Somehow, in some way, he should have known. He should have been there to protect her. Although he hadn't yet decided to become a career Guardian, he'd been a Guardian then, serving his mandatory two years as a protector of the Fortunan people. A protector! And yet he'd been unable to protect his own wife. But by the time Daemon had been summoned home to cradle his wife's broken body, Varek—employed by a freighter docked at Santon for mere hours—had already escaped. As he held his young wife's body in his arms, Daemon had sworn that one day Varek would pay. There had been a witness to his crime, an adolescent boy who had run to get help . . . too late, and Daemon had learned everything he needed to know to track the space rat down. It had taken two years. One year to complete his training as a career Guardian and gain the legal right to become a hunter of men. And another year to trace the man who'd murdered the only good person he'd ever had in his life. Two years before he had fed the raging hunger for revenge that writhed in his gut. Had Corinda cried out his name before she died? Varek said she had. When Quinn had finally caught up with him, Varek had taunted him with that knowledge. Daemon swallowed, as something dark and ugly coiled within him, induced by that imagined cry. It was after killing Varek that he began to change. In that place where once he had felt love and later the raging need for vengeance, there was nothing but a cold, dark hollowness. It settled in the core of him. He felt little beyond the ordinary everyday sensations of hunger and tiredness. He cared even less. Only his work brought him any sense of completion, a reason for continued existence. It could never fill the huge hole that Corinda's absence had left in his life, but it helped. He accepted only the most difficult assignments or those that intrigued him. And the successful conclusion of the next contract became the only thing of importance in his existence. Some of his assignments had come from the Fortunan government, but—unlike most Fortunan Guardians—the majority of Daemon Quinn's appointments were off world, on Earth or one of the space stations. For in the coldness of space, he found a measure of peace, a semblance of tranquility, as though the darkness in his soul recognized in the blackness of space a kindred emptiness. And now, somehow, that peace, that sameness of existence that he found through his work was threatened. By Singai. He remembered the scent of her freshly washed hair he had smelled as he'd held her earlier. The sensation of her softly curved backside pressed against him. The glow of her tropical eyes and the wild-honey huskiness of her voice. And his body betrayed him, growing hard with his craving for her. He wanted her more than he'd wanted a woman in a long time. A very long time. And that was dangerous. He should seduce her, take her and be done with it. Satisfy his body's hunger for her and exorcise the demon of her attraction from his senses. But he had never before felt this carnal craving for a person who was the focus of an investigation. During an investigation—especially one like this where a threat had already materialized and he needed his senses to stay sharp—he could not afford to allow his body's sensual appetites to cloud his instincts. So since he could not afford to indulge his senses, it would be best if he simply returned Singai to his client as quickly as possible and was done with her. He searched his mind for a means of speeding the return journey to Kazer. He'd seen large ships at dock. He and Singai would undoubtedly be able to move more quickly by water than land. He was not particularly fond of sailing, but was not averse to it in the interest of convenience. And it was beginning to look like it would definitely be convenient to be rid of the beautiful female warrior as soon as possible. *** Singai was thoroughly disgusted with herself. She'd been lying in bed trying to sleep for hours, but had come no closer to that desired condition than a light doze constantly disturbed by memories that were somehow altered by her unruly mind—transformed into erotic dreams. Dreams of strong arms lifting her, holding her against an unequivocally masculine chest. Of chocolate eyes devouring her with their dark flame. Dreams of large hands stroking her throat with restrained power, moving down her body. Dreams ... of Quinn. What was the matter with her? She wasn't certain she even liked the man. And she certainly didn't need or want such a dangerous man as a lover. But try as she might, she couldn't forget him. He had invaded every corner of her mind. And despite what she told herself, she found herself looking forward to their next meeting. It was as though the slumbering part of her that had awakened, stirred to life by his mere presence, had declared independence from her thinking, conscious mind. She had never felt so intensely alive as she did during the moments spent in his company. Even the moments when she wanted to kill him for regarding her as little more than a piece of merchandise to be delivered to his client. Her lips tightened. It wasn't the first time she'd been regarded thus by a male. But it was the first time that it had bothered her quite so strongly. She had expected more of Quinn. Although why she should have, she didn't understand. Perhaps because he was of Earth descent, and Earthers were known for their liberated views. Enough! she told herself. She needed sleep. When next she awoke, it was the darkest part of the night. That time just before dawn when the moons had set and the sun had not yet risen. When the chill in the air was enough to bring gooseflesh to any patch of exposed flesh, despite the inn's heating

system. She stared up into the blackness, wondering what had awakened her. In the next instant, she caught a flash of something coldly luminous in the darkness to her right. A Dalig blade! Before she could even turn her head, the chalky coldness was at her throat. "Not a sound!" The voice, coming from a shadow slightly more substantial than the surrounding night, crackled with hate. "Get up. Slowly!" Warily, Singai did as she was bidden. Her first thought was for Ven-Gura. Why, oh, why, had she insisted on her companion having his rest tonight? How could her instincts have been so wrong? Had Ven-Gura been aware, he would probably have been able to warn her of the Dalig's approach. And he certainly would have been able to offer her a much higher chance of survival. Now she had only her wits and her natural deftness on which to depend. "Dress," her captor ordered. Singai groped for her clothing in the dark. "I might be able to move more quickly if you activated the lumo gel." She also hoped for a clearer impression of her opponent to aid her in her plans for escape. "No." A pause. "Where is the Guardian?" Singai felt a start of surprise. So the Dalig attack did have something to do with Quinn. "I have no idea," she lied. "I haven't seen him since earlier this evening." The Dalig warrior said nothing. His eyesight must have been better than hers in the pitch-blackness, however, for as soon as she'd pulled her tunic into place over her loose-fitting trousers, he prodded her ungently with his weapon. "Let's go." Singai didn't bother to don the wide belt containing Ven-Gura. Her companion was useless to her in his present state and probably much safer here than around her waist. Aloud, she asked, "Where are you taking me?" "M y colleagues have a few questions to ask you." There was a smirk in the Dalig warrior's tone. And then he was opening the door to the corridor. "M ove!" he whispered curtly. "Quietly." It was as they approached the door two down from her own that Singai remembered Quinn's offer, and the fact that maybe, just maybe, she would have some assistance in getting out of this. Come to think of it, it did indeed seem to be Quinn's fault she was in this. Whatever this was. She stumbled, falling against his door with a muttered curse. Almost immediately, her Dalig captor grasped her upper arm in a painful grip and jerked her to her feet to whisper in her ear. "Another stunt like that and my colleagues will be disappointed. Understood?" Singai nodded. Yes, she understood. She understood that this Dalig would be just as happy to kill her now as to take her to his friends. She understood that she was probably on her own. And she understood that, if she were to have any chance at all of surviving this night, she had to make her bid for freedom soon, while she still had only one opponent. Completing their navigation through the inn without incident, they stepped from the back door and headed across the gravelly rear courtyard toward the stables. Either her captor intended to tie her to a mount secured there or, worse, his colleagues waited in the shadows. Singai refused to contemplate the second eventuality. Cognizant of the futility of attempting to escape the Dalig as long as he was alive, for he would overtake her quickly by utilizing his companion's senses, Singai made her move. Jerking out of her captor's complacent grasp, she leapt into an aerial cartwheel that placed her a good ten feet away from him. And then, like a coiled spring, she leapt again. Only this time, she hurtled toward him, hoping to strike his head with a powerful kick and take him out of the contest. But the Dalig was fast, and as accomplished as any Sotah. He rocked his head to the side and slashed at her leg as she sailed toward him, striking her and throwing her off balance. Her calf shrieked in agony, and Singai landed in a graceless heap. Her entire body quivered with the effort expended in overcoming the anguish of contact with the malevolent Dalig weapon devoid of Ven-Gura's aid. Clenching her teeth, she contained her tormented scream and reduced it to an anguished moan. Her jaws ached with the effort as hate and the determination to live, to win, flared in her breast. Fixing her gaze on the advancing Dalig warrior, she allowed his diabolic grin of anticipation to fuel her and gathered her strength. If she wanted to survive, she must triumph with her own strength of will. There were no other options. Then out of the darkness flashed a whip of light. Familiar now. And although the weapon was appallingly efficient, almost unfairly so, at this moment it was welcomed. Singai closed her eyes as relief flooded her limbs making her weak, and she missed the demise of the Dalig warrior. When she opened her eyes again, it was to see a tall, wide-shouldered man, clad and caped in black, standing over her. Big. M enacing. Yet somehow reassuring. "You took your time, Quinn," Singai murmured. And then as the agony of the malignant wound in her leg flared in her mind, awareness fled. With a soft sigh, Singai began to sink to the ground. She never made it. Daemon caught her in his arms, lowering her gently to the ground as he keyed the Barak for light and checked the seriousness of the gash in her leg. It was deep, quite serious, but despite the copious amount of blood pooling beneath her limb, he saw no sign of arterial damage. After ripping the lower half of her slashed trouser leg away, he tied it about the wound to slow the bleeding and then lifted her in his arms. As Quinn held her against his chest, only one thought seared his mind: Saints help me! I was almost too late again. But the thought was fleeting and he didn't bother trying to interpret what it meant for him. Instead, his mind turned to the Dalig threat. He hadn't realized that the Dalig were so accomplished at concealing their presence that not even the M orar's acute senses would perceive them. It wasn't until the warrior was moving down the corridor with Singai, who took no pains to conceal herself, that Griv had heard them. Thank the saints that the Dalig had not been intent on immediate assassination. Men come. The message came from the M orar, where he sat perched atop the stable on watch. All right. Come to me. An instant later. Daemon felt Griv alight on his shoulder and they hurried into the inn. The approaching men might not be linked to the dead Dalig warrior in the courtyard, but he was taking no chances. He had just begun to climb the stairs to the second floor, as quietly as possible to avoid the possibility of witnesses and supposition concerning the night's events, when Griv spoke again. Sick. "Yes, she's sick," Daemon confirmed in a murmur. No. Hurt sick.

Daemon frowned, his concern for Singai's welfare making him a bit testy concerning the M orar's, at times, cryptic simplicity. Biting back his irritation he pondered the creature's words. No, she's not sick; the hurt is sick was what he came up with. "Do you mean the wound is infected?" Ves. Daemon didn't bother asking Griv how he knew that, for he'd tried such queries in the past with no success. Apparently the M orar simply knew things without understanding how he knew them. And since M orars had senses that far surpassed humans in many ways. Daemon accepted the creature's word as fact. He surmised that, since the wound was fresh, whatever poisons had entered it couldn't be too severe yet. But he would have to move quickly to disinfect it. Perhaps the companion Singai carried in her weapon could help. He frowned thoughtfully, wondering where the weapon was. It could be that the Dalig warrior had simply caught her by surprise, but she hadn't been holding the broadsword earlier when she'd mistaken Quinn for an intruder either. Nudging Singai's chamber door open—it hadn't been closed properly—he carried Singai to the bed. The open door behind him allowed enough light from the corridor to enter for him to see. Griv left his shoulder to perch on the bed next to Singai while Daemon activated the lumo gel and rushed back into the corridor to his own room to retrieve his first-aid kit from his own belongings. Hurry, sent the tiny dragonlike creature. He seemed worried. Daemon ignored the goading for he could move no more quickly than he was already. Reentering the room scant seconds later, small black medical kit in hand, he closed the door behind him and moved to the bed. Singai was extremely pale, her breathing rapid and shallow. Quickly, he removed a hypo-spray vial of blood coagulator and clicked it into position in the applicator. Then, setting it aside for a moment, he removed the makeshift bandage from the wound and examined it. It still seeped a considerable amount of blood. He couldn't see any signs of the infection he knew was there, but he knew how to combat it as long as it wasn't some strange virulent strain of bacteria found only on Thadonia. Since the coagulant was itself laced with a powerful antibacterial agent it should help fight the infection, but he also intended to inject Singai with the kit's strongest antibacterial and antiviral agent. After that, it would be pretty much up to her. Picking up the hypo-spray, he treated the wound with the coagulant. Almost immediately, the seepage of blood began to slow. So far, so good. If he'd been wrong about there being arterial damage, the coagulant might not have worked. With a glance at Singai's pale features, he set about gently cleansing the site of the injury and sealing the edges of the wound with surgical tape before injecting the antibacterial.

Ten minutes later, he had finished all that he could do. Singai remained unconscious.

Chapter Four Daemon pulled the stool that sat before the writing desk over to the side of the bed—it was the only thing in the room that resembled a chair since Thadonians tended to favor huge figure-molding cushions—and sat thoughtfully observing Singai. Her fiery hair cascaded over the pillow like a lava flow. Her naturally pale complexion had grown even paler—if that was possible. And her thick lashes—a darker auburn than her hair—sent tiny fan-shaped shadows onto her pale cheeks. Even now he found her beautiful. She was a stranger to him, and yet she wasn't. After weeks of following her, gathering intelligence concerning her and her movements, he felt that in some ways he knew her better than anyone. Had he ever felt that way on previous assignments? He couldn't remember. Griv cocked his head at him as though not understanding why Daemon had stopped working. Hurt sick, he reiterated. "Yes," Quinn murmured. "I know. I've given her something to fight the infection. That's all that I can do. Now we just have to wait and see how she does." All? "Yes." Abruptly Daemon straightened. "No!" He'd forgotten about the broadsword! Rising, he began to search the room. A moment later he sighed in frustration. By all the saints! What could she possibly have done with the weapon? At the moment, she definitely needed this companion that was reputed to be capable of healing her. For all he knew, her need of her companion could be quite desperate, and he wasn't prepared to wait for the signs of infection to become obvious. A dead Singai would earn him nothing—not even a resolution to a mystery. Had the Dalig warrior disarmed her? Daemon stared across the room in concentration, bringing into focus his memory of the fighter. No, he was certain that the man had not had the weapon on him. He made another circuit of the room, this time checking more thoroughly, behind things, beneath things. He lifted a wide black belt that had been left neatly folded on one of the cushions, moved the cushion, found nothing beneath it, and was about to replace the belt when he halted. The leather sash felt unusually thick and hard. His curiosity prompted him to examine it more closely. Sure enough, it contained fastenings. He carried the strange belt to the writing desk and began to undo the intricate lacing along the edge. A minute later, he folded out the leather. There before him was a broadsword in four distinct segments. It took only a cursory examination to ascertain that the sword had been designed to be disassembled and was not broken. However, he couldn't be certain that the weapon was the one he sought. It had none of the golden luster it had had earlier. In fact, it was a rather dull metal with a faint yellowish cast. His brows drew together in puzzlement. Well, even if it was the wrong sword, what harm could there be in assembling it and placing it near Singai? Lifting the hilt from its leather protection, he held it up and snapped the first portion of the blade into place. Was it his imagination, or did the weapon actually look a little less dull? He glanced at the single illuminated luminary globe near the bed. The intensity of the light hadn't changed. Interesting. He snapped the next two portions of the blade into place. Immediately, the weapon seemed brighter. Almost as though some internal source of illumination had been triggered by the mere act of assembly. But was it the correct sword? It certainly looked more like the one Singai had carried than it had when he'd first unwrapped it. Yet... he couldn't be sure.

Where is Singai? The words resounded demandingly in his mind. Daemon started and looked toward the M orar even though he knew the words had not come from Griv. The creature sat just where he'd been the last time Daemon had taken note of him: keeping vigilance over Singai. Quinn turned his eyes back to the blade. So it was the right one then, the sword containing her companion. But how did he go about communicating with it. The voice spoke again. Who are you? Where is Singai? "My name is Quinn," Daemon responded, deciding to try the direct verbal method. After all, he shared no link with Singai's weapon and he wasn't certain two-way mental communication would work. If the capability existed, one would think the weapon would not have had to ask his identity. "Singai is right here. She is hurt." What happened? "She was struck by a Dalig weapon." There was a pause during which Daemon sensed tremendous worry and . . . something else. Guilt perhaps. Is she conscious? "No." Then she cannot perform the joining ritual. A wave of despair—not his own—washed over him. Daemon frowned. What the hell was going on? Why couldn't the sword sense Singai as Griv had always been able to sense him? Aloud he asked, "What joining ritual? I thought you were already linked." We were. However, Singai allowed me a period of dormancy. During such times, the link is disconnected. It must be reestablished before lean help her. Daemon cursed beneath his breath. Staring toward the unconscious woman on the bed, he thought for a moment. "Can't you perform this joining ritual from your end?" There was a long pause. It has never been attempted. "Well, now is as good a time as any to find out. Tell me what to do." A pause. You must position me so that I am in contact with both of her hands; and her arms should be bare. "All right." If this works, once the joining has b egun, you must have no physical contact with Singai or me. I don't know the consequences, b ut they could b e serious for all concerned. "Understood." After carrying the weapon to the bed, he positioned Singai's unconscious form as directed, joining her hands over her abdomen. Then he placed the hilt of the broadsword over them, touching both, and stepped back to wait. Now that his physical connection with the broadsword was broken, he received no communication from it. Ever conscious of the caution he'd received, Quinn maintained an almost wary distance. He looked at Griv, intending to warn the M orar to keep his distance as well, but the admonition appeared unnecessary. Although still perched on the bed, Griv had drawn back to a safe distance. He still appeared concerned though. For the first time, Daemon had time to ponder that. Why are you so troubled about the woman? He asked the question mentally, fearing that verbal communication might interfere with whatever Singai's companion was doing. She is good. Daemon frowned in momentary confusion. You Mean she's a good person? Yes. Daemon shrugged mentally. So much for explanations. Although he'd forgiven the M orar for stinging him, and had grown to care for the creature a good deal, he doubted that he'd ever understand it. In the next instant, his attention was distracted from Griv. Rainbow-hued bands of light spiraled along the blade of Singai's weapon toward the hilt, toward her hands. Reaching the hilt, they began to separate into glittering strands of incandescent light. The glowing filaments paused for a moment, as though feeling their way, and then they began to weave a sinuous path over the pommel, weeping down onto the hands of the unconscious lady warrior. Daemon stared, entranced by the process. In the next instant, Singai tensed despite her insensate state. The undulating multihued threads crept up her arms, higher and higher, until suddenly, with a muffled groan, Singai pressed her head back into the bed, arching her pale throat as though in agony. What was going on? Why was she in more pain rather than less? Daemon stood staring down at her indecisively, torn by the unfamiliar desire to do something to help her, to remove her from danger, and the knowledge that her companion had bade him not interfere. Slowly, even as he watched, the filaments of atomized light disappeared into her arms, assimilated by her flesh, and she relaxed. Had the symbiotic psychic bond between Singai and her companion been reestablished? He paced around the bedchamber, wishing he knew more about these Sotah and Dalig warriors and their relationships with their companions. Thank the stars, Kamin had come to warn him when he did, or he would not even have known enough to be aware of the importance of Singai's unique weapon. A short time later, a soft sigh from the direction of the bed attracted his attention. Singai stirred. He moved to the bedside. For a moment, she stared up at him in confusion. "How long have I been unconscious?" He shrugged. "A little more than an hour, I think. It is dawn." In the next instant, she looked down sharply at the sword resting upon her touching hands. She grasped the hilt of the weapon in unsteady fingers, then turned her eyes back to Quinn. He couldn't read the expression in their depths. "Ven-Gura tells me that you have saved my life." "It was nothing. Forget it." "I cannot. Thadonian tradition—" She broke off and returned to her original statement. "I cannot forget it." But Quinn knew what she'd been about to say. He'd studied Thadonian culture and traditions thoroughly before coming here. Thadonian tradition stated that a victim's life, once spared, was irrevocably linked to that of his rescuer until he either returned the favor or was released from any obligation. In most cases, of course, the rescuee was immediately liberated from the covenant. He hadn't released Singai because, quite simply, he'd forgotten about it until her words had jogged his memory. However, when he thought about it, he decided it might be expedient of him to hold the debt a little longer. He didn't like coercion, but he certainly

wasn't above using it if he had to. He'd wait to see how matters progressed. Setting her broadsword aside, Singai began to move into a seated position on the bed. "You should rest longer." Ignoring him, she sat up. Now he recognized the expression in her eyes. It was wariness. "What is it you wish of me?" For an instant. Daemon considered her. "You think I helped you only because I want something from you?" She observed him for a moment. "Didn't you?" He had, of course—even before he'd been reminded of the obligation she now had to him. And it bothered him that she knew him so well after so short a time. But there was something that bothered him more. And that was the sudden realization that not once in the time since he'd followed her and her Dalig captor from the inn, had he thought of his contract. He stared at her as she forced him to examine his motivations. Would he have helped her had she had nothing to do with his current contract? If the DNA test had proved she was not the person he sought? Uncomfortably, he faced the realization that he would have. Because she fascinated him. Because she was a mystery in her own right. Because ... he wanted her. But he couldn't tell her that, and she was still awaiting a reply. "I aided you out of common decency. Or does such a thing not exist on this world?" "So you would have done the same for anyone?" He nodded shortly, lying. "Of course." Had he seen another woman in her position, he could say that he might have helped had the notion occurred to him, for he'd often felt inexplicably compelled to protect women. But a man? In truth, it was unlikely he would have aided a man without knowing the circumstances surrounding the altercation. It was the creed by which he lived. There was nothing wrong with it. So why, with a pair of judgmental tropical-blue eyes fastened on him, did the creed by which he had always lived suddenly seem deficient—even to himself? To hell with her and her lofty ideals! After studying him for a moment, Singai nodded, though she was clearly not certain whether to believe him or not. Rising, she strode away from him. "Well, regardless," she said over her shoulder, "I think it is past time we discussed exactly what role you expect me to play in this contract you have. It was mere hours ago that I met you, and already my life has been completely disarranged. Who is this person who seeks me? And why are they wanting to see me?" "I gave my word that I wouldn't reveal her identity until we were on Kazerian soil." He shrugged slightly. "As for why she wants to see you, I was paid extra for the inconvenience of not being informed. However, I was assured that her motives were amicable." He studied Singai's rigid posture. "I would know if that was an untruth," he assured her. Singai pivoted to face him, an incredulous expression on her face. "Kazer!" She seemed to have heard only a small portion of his explanation. "You expect me to drop everything to accompany you— a person I've just met—on a journey that will take at least six weeks, without knowing why? For no good reason other than the satisfactory conclusion of your contract? You're—" Daemon decided it might be prudent to interrupt; she sounded as if she was just getting warmed up. "I know it sounds like a lot. But, yes, that's what I'm asking." Singai raked her fingers back through her tangled and unbound tresses. "I can't go to Kazer. Going to Kazer would disrupt my work for weeks." The conclusion of his contract depended upon his ability to deliver her to Kazer. Daemon clenched his teeth as a surge of frustration sawed through him and then was gone. "You mean you won't?" Singai considered him, neither confirming nor denying his interpretation. "By the moons! I've just met you. I know the Guardians have a reputation for being honorable and trustworthy, but what you're asking is too much. And since you refuse to reveal who or what is behind this contract, the situation simply becomes completely impossible. I'm sorry." "You're sorry?" His tone deceptively mild, Quinn moved slowly toward her, stalking her. The maneuver was one used by aggressive males as an intimidation tactic, and Singai immediately recognized it as such. Grinding her intuitive fear into submission, she stood her ground, refusing to retreat. He hesitated briefly as he perceived that her response was not the one he'd expected, and then he began to circle her. "I don't think you're sorry." His voice was a soft, falsely seductive murmur now as he brushed against her. He seemed intent on maintaining body contact of some kind; faint brushing touches of his arm to her shoulder, his chest to her back, his rock-hard biceps to the outer curve other breast. And each contact sent' her senses into chaos as ancient fears warred with awakening womanhood. She forced herself to ignore the feelings. To observe his tactic objectively. And she was forced to admit that he was good at intimidation. Very good. He was so big, so menacing. The sharp, quickening sensation of danger, combined with something unrecognized, undulated up her spine to settle as a peculiar excitement in her chest. The same excitement she felt in a contest when faced with a particularly difficult combatant. And though every female instinct within her screamed retreat, training countered, holding her immobile. This was a contest, a battle for dominance, and she refused to retreat. Abruptly, Quinn reached out to grip her upper arms, pulling her close so that he could stare down into her face with demanding chocolate-hued eyes. Singai's heart gave a solid thump. Their bodies were too close. M uch too close for comfort. Although they did not touch anywhere except where Quinn grasped her arms in his large hands, had she taken a deep breath, her breasts would have come into contact with his chest. She breathed shallowly. Apparently satisfied now that he had her undivided attention, Quinn continued speaking. "I'm sorry to have to inform you, Singai, that you do not have the option of declining. Either you accompany me willingly, or—" His eyes locked on hers, swept the contours of her face, and then moved back to hold her gaze captive. A dark flame flared to life in the mysterious depths of his irises. The bottom of her stomach fell away in a reaction that had nothing to do with fear as she stared up into that implacable countenance and recognized the heat in his gaze. Desire. But she didn't want to be desired by a man like him, a man whose very appearance was dangerous. She liked nice men. Gentle men. Safe men. "Or what?" The challenging tone she intended completely failed her, and she was appalled at the breathlessness of her query. She swallowed, a futile attempt to alleviate her suddenly dry throat. "Or I will call you on the debt you owe me." He too spoke in a husky undertone as his eyes released hers to travel down,

stopping only when they reached her lips. Fastening there. Debt? He knows the tradition? She had not voiced it earlier because she sensed he might use it against her if he knew. But it seemed that her caution had been for not. His face drew nearer. He was going to kiss her. She knew it as surely as she knew the sun would set. And every traitorous beat of her heart resounded in her ears in anticipation of the event. She wanted him to kiss her. Scarcely even a finger's breadth separated their lips. His warm breath feathered over her features. Singai's eyelids drifted closed. "Which would you prefer?" His rich baritone drifted over her heated senses, intoxicating, seductive, the words meaningless beneath the appealing timbre. "Hmmm?" Singai forced her eyes open. Why didn't he kiss her? What was he waiting for? It had been so long since she'd been kissed. So long since she'd encountered a nice man outside the Sotah who was not wary of her. "Willing?" He traced the fingertips of his right hand over her brow, although he still maintained a grip on her upper arm with his left. "Or coerced and unwilling?" Even the scent of his breath was arousing. It smelled vaguely of expensive Tanos. "Which would you prefer?" Suddenly, the meaning behind his words penetrated Singai's befuddled senses. "Zyk!" she swore as she simultaneously shoved at the immovable hunk of masculinity before her. He seemed oblivious to her anger. "That is not the kind of word I would expect to pass a Thadonian lady's lips." He traced the pad of his thumb over her cheekbone. This time Singai fought the seductiveness of his touch. "Shame on you, Singai." "In case you have not noticed, I am not a Thadonian lady. Now release me!" "So it's to be unwillingly then, is it?" he asked, maintaining his grip on her. She struggled briefly in his grasp, but it was to no avail. "You cannot mean to hold me to the debt. Just a moment ago you said you helped me out of decency. Did you lie?" "No. But I do not lose well. If you do not accompany me willingly, I will be forced to hold you to the debt." "And if I choose to ignore the tradition?" Singai stared up at him defiantly even as she cringed inwardly at the thought of flouting the ancient custom. To her knowledge, no one had ever refused to acknowledge the debt if it was demanded of them. "You are aware that in these modem times the life debt is more formality than anything, aren't you? It is a courtesy to release the one you rescue from all obligation." Quinn merely shrugged and said, "One way or another, you will accompany me." His statement sounded suspiciously like a threat. Singai made no response. He wasn't offering her any choice but to accompany him if that was what he wished, for he'd saved her life—once certainly, and possibly twice. But she needed time to think. "Let. . . me . . . go." He seemed to consider the idea, but the dark flame in his eyes continued to sear her with its heat. "That sounds like an excellent suggestion," he murmured. "The intelligent thing to do, but—" Something restless and hungry prowled through his eyes. By the moons! What was the man muttering about? "Quinn—" And then, without warning, his lips were on hers, hot and demanding and devastating to the senses. Singai stiffened, fighting him, fighting her own desires. But it was no use. Her heart leapt into her throat to perform a staccato dance that sent her pulse into chaos. Her knees turned to water, forcing her to hold on to Quinn out of sheer necessity. And her mouth opened to the demanding pressure of his kiss of its own accord. Quinn's arms encircled her body, clutching her close. Too close. Her nipples began to tingle with painful awareness as his chest compressed her breasts. His arousal pressed insistently against her abdomen prompting her body to send devastating waves of molten heat radiating out to rob her of strength and reason. And her senses swam. Singai lost track of reality as she fell under the potent spell of Quinn's concentrated masculinity. And then, suddenly, as though he'd been burned, he released her. Taking a deep breath, he met her dazed gaze. "I apologize, Singai. That should not have happened." Were it not for the slight roughness her trained ear detected in his tone, Singai would have thought him completely unaffected by their kiss. Dumbfounded, she stared at him as he moved away from her. Frustrated desire and anger burned within her in equal proportion. And she was plunged back in time. Back to a summer when she and Traesha had fallen for the dark and dangerous allure of two young men. When they'd been unable to rein in their own raging hormones. When they'd learned the cost of being female. And in that moment, Singai hated Quinn. Quinn took up a position at the window, his back to her. And slowly, Singai raised her fingers to wipe the taste of him, the sensation of him, from her kiss-swollen lips. "I could kill you." There was heat in her voice, but even she wasn't certain whether from enmity or thwarted passion. He continued to stare from the window. "For that?" "For that. And for threatening me." He nodded without turning. "You could try. But you won't." "What makes you so certain?" "Because if you'll admit it to yourself, you're as curious about why my client wants to see you as I am. And you won't kill me for the kiss because you enjoyed it. No matter how angry you are right now, you're too objective to blame me entirely for what happened." Singai swallowed. He was right. By the moons, how she hated that! After a moment's pause, he continued. "I'll be the first to admit, however, that I was the major player in ... what just happened. It won't happen again." Singai moved to take a seat on one of the cushions at the low dining table. She was suddenly very uncomfortable with this man, for he affected her in ways in which she had little experience and even less defense against. Could she believe him when he said it wouldn't happen again? Did she even want his promise? For she was honest enough with herself to admit while one part of her feared him, feared the effect he had on her, another part of her was more than a little disappointed that he'd ended the kiss. Yes, she thought, as she ruthlessly crushed the taunting recall of the most memorable kiss she'd ever shared, if she were to accompany him, she did need his assurance that it wouldn't happen again. She didn't have time in her life for the kind of affair she would have with a man like Quinn. She didn't have the strength to deal with the emotional upheaval that would follow. Not right now. But his promise didn't change the fact that she still didn't want to go to Kazer.

Yet if she didn't go, she'd never know who searched for her or why. And he was right about that. She was curious. And she could think of no way to repay him for the gift of her life without doing as he asked. Magar! Her thoughts were going in circles. She no longer knew her own mind. Across the room, she heard the rustle of clothing as Quinn ceased his surveillance of the street and turned to face her. "As much as I dislike the implications, Singai, I meant what I said about you accompanying me to Kazer. You don't have a choice." Singai stared at him, studying him thoughtfully. Very well, she'd admit to herself that she wanted to go, but not on his terms. Not without knowing anything. Wetting her lips, Singai spoke slowly, choosing her words cautiously. "I've just concluded my current investigation, so in that way, my going with you is possible. But I refuse to go until you at least tell me who it is who seeks me." He began to shake his head in the negative, and she quickly said, forestalling him, "Look. You yourself said that someone has been murdering the people you contact. Do you have any idea why?" Quinn hesitated. "No," he admitted. "I thought not. Do you know if you too are a target?" "I believe so, yes. But not a primary one." "And I'm not likely to be free of either you or the Dalig threat until you complete this contract of yours and I find out why this person is seeking me. Correct?" "Yes." Singai nodded. "So then what if something should happen to you en route? Shouldn't I at least know where I'm going so that I can continue the journey alone?" Quinn regarded her thoughtfully. "You do have a point," he said after a moment. Another moment of silence, and then an abrupt nod. "Very well." He approached her and stooped to whisper in her ear as though he feared the walls themselves had ears. "The woman who is seeking you is Empress Narice of the Kazerian Empire." He straightened and stood, looking down at her. His nearness, the warmth of his breath stirring the fine hair next to her ear unsettled her so much that it took a few seconds for his words to register. And when they did, she was so stunned that not a single coherent thought formed in her mind for endless moments. Finally, she asked, "Are you certain?" He nodded. "There is no mistake." The Empress Narice! Singai considered, but she could think of no reason for the empress to expend so much time and expense in a quest to find her. It just didn't make sense. Unless . . . Her brow furrowed. Could it be something concerning the Sotah? The Sotah were aligned with the emperors and empresses in their respective empires. Protectors of the rulers. Singai stared thoughtfully at the blank off-white wall across the room. She and her colleagues had been delving into the smuggling operation for months now. Perhaps the empress knew something that affected the investigation, and she wanted to impart it personally. But why her? And how had the empress obtained a sample of her DNA? Singai frowned, trying to remember if she'd ever been wounded on Kazerian soil. Had one of her belongings, perhaps stained with blood from a wound, come into the empress's possession? "Very well," she said, looking up at Quinn. "I will accompany you. Willingly." She contented herself with the assurance that, had she been truly unwilling, there was no way that Quinn could have taken her anywhere. Quinn's lips softened slightly although not enough to be termed a smile by any stretch of the imagination. "I'm glad." For a moment, a strange awkwardness settled between them. No longer at odds, they had entered a new phase of their relationship and it was difficult to know how to proceed. Then curiosity prompted Singai to ask another question. One that had just occurred to her. "How long have you been on Thadonia searching for me?" "Four months. M uch longer than I intended. You are not an easy lady to trace." "Good." She smiled in satisfaction. Quinn merely stared at her. She had the impression that his thoughts were turned inward. An instant, later he proved the accuracy of her instincts when he said, "I've been considering the possibility of traveling by sea to shorten the return journey to Kazer." Her eyes widened. "Have you ever traveled the Thadonian seas?" "No. Why?" "Our oceans are not like the tame Earth oceans I've read about. Enormous and vicious sea creatures inhabit our waters. We occasionally lose entire ships to their attacks." "Surely some ships large enough to provide adequate protection must ply the waters." Singai nodded shortly, conceding the validity of his supposition. "Yes, but they are expensive." "Well, we will worry about that after I speak to the dock master. In the meantime"—he took a seat on one of the huge cushions flanking the table where she sat—"tell me a bit about what you were involved in here. Why did you think the Dalig attack was linked to your work?" Singai hesitated. It went against her nature to discuss the investigation with anyone other than a Sotah brother. "Why do you want to know?" He shrugged. "It's possible that, in some way, my purpose here—and yours—are linked to the Dalig guild in the same way. If that is so, I'd like to understand what we're facing beforehand." Singai pondered his words. If, as she suspected, Empress Narice wanted to see her concerning something to do with the Dalig investigation, then Quinn was right. And if they were going to be on the same side, he deserved to understand the contest. Truthfully, since he had saved her life, it was unlikely that he intended her any harm. Besides, Ven-Gura had assured her the Fortunan Guardian could be trusted, and she accepted her companion's judgment implicitly. Rising, she strode thoughtfully across the room, unconsciously putting some distance between herself and his disturbing presence. Then she gave him a summarized version of her investigation. When Earth had initially made contact with Thadonia, the Thadonian council of rulers had decided that any influx of Earth products would have to be slow and controlled so that it did not interfere overly with the natural progression of Thadonian development. About the only things that they'd accepted thus far were medical supplies and training for Thadonian doctors. However, there were always those who attempted to circumvent the law and gain a technological advantage for their particular guild

or clan. "What kind of goods were they smuggling?" "Anything." She looked at him, gauging his reaction. "Everything from clothing and computer components to Earth weapons." "Whoa! Let me get this straight. You've been delving into something like this alone?" She frowned, confused as much by the direction of his query as by his incredulity. "Here in Cylon, yes. When solitary involvement entailed too much risk, I merely hired local bodyguards for support. They do what they're told without asking too many questions." Quinn continued to stare at her. "What is it?" she asked. He shook his head. "I can't decide whether you're incredibly brave or remarkably foolhardy." She shrugged, dismissing his concern. "Necessity dictates the method. Prior to the war two years ago, two or three Sotah together might have worked on an investigation like this. Now, with our numbers so decreased, we are adapting. Finding ways of working alone without endangering ourselves too severely. So far, it seems to be working. In some cases, the formidable reputation of the So-tah precedes us, which can help considerably. I have seen petty criminals give themselves up for incarceration at the mere mention of our guild's name." He nodded. Then after considering her for a moment, he again changed the direction of the conversation. "So who's buying these smuggled products?" "M ost of the items make it onto the black market, where local city guards can track them down and confiscate them. The weapons, however, are going elsewhere. Our information leads us to believe the Dalig are stockpiling them. M y brothers among the Sotah are still seeking answers in that regard." They fell silent, each involved in his own thoughts. Quinn decided he'd do well to get her away from here as swiftly as possible before she got herself involved again in tracking down the elusive weapons. He hated to leave her alone at the inn while he made travel arrangements, but she'd be even more at risk in public. Besides, he didn't think the Dalig would attack again so soon. "I think I'd better go find a dockmaster. I want to leave tomorrow morning. Do you have any recommendations concerning who to speak to and where to find him?" She lips tightened mutinously. "I really dislike sailing." "It will be faster." She considered a moment longer. "That's true." She sighed in capitulation. "There is a dockmaster for every ten quays. The best thing to do is walk the docks until you see a ship that suits your needs—preferably very large and well maintained— then find the nearest tavern and ask after the dock-master. In Vaileu Territory, the taverns are where most business is conducted." Daemon's jaw tensed as the statement provoked memories of his own father and countless taverns, but he nodded. "All right." Turning away, he caught sight of the M orar still sitting patiently on Singai's bed and called, "Come, Griv."

Chapter Five Having singled out a ship christened The Defiant Lady as the best for his purposes. Daemon sat in a comer of the tavern awaiting the arrival of the dockmaster, who was said to be expected. Amid the sea of clamorous humanity that made up the tavern's patrons, Quinn remained alone, marked as alien by the presence of the winged reptile on his shoulder and by his unique dark appearance. Noting the three empty tables that surrounded his own in the otherwise crowded and raucous tavern, he wondered dryly whether they could be attributed to himself or the M orar. Probably both, he concluded. He had occasionally been told that an aura of danger surrounded him. The obvious wariness of the nearest fellow tavern patrons would seem to support that observation. He supposed that his preference for dark clothing probably aggravated the aura that others perceived. Yet for his own part, when he examined his reflection, Quinn saw neither what made men wary, nor what had so often intrigued their women. Not that he particularly cared. The invisible boundary formed by the tavern clients' natural wariness of the M orar and himself didn't bother him in the least. In fact, he often fostered just such aloofness, preferring his solitude. Companionship and friendship brought responsibilities and ties. Dangers that made a man weak and exploitable. Quinn wanted no one to worry about but himself. . . except—for brief periods of time—the occasional person who was the subject of one of his investigations, as Singai was now. He had to care f6r her and protect her in order to meet the terms of his contract. After all, he had a reputation for being the best, and to be truthful, he rather liked the distinction the completion of commissions that others viewed as impossible afforded him. The M orar's head swung sharply, brushing against his cheek as it tracked the movement of a tavern patron with its keen vision. Quinn automatically reached up to stroke its warm, dry reptilian scales soothingly. M aintaining a view of the entrance. Daemon listened to the boisterous sounds of enthusiastic Vaileuan conversation flowing around him. The Vaileuans were the most prominent race in this area of the Rafat Empire, although, since many of the Vaileuan clans still maintained a nomadic life-style, most permanent businesses were still operated by peoples of other extractions. Quinn found the Vaileuan exuberance and zest for life refreshing after the more subdued ambience of the taverns and inns in the Sulaiv Empire. To be candid, however, a good portion of the tumult surrounding him could also, no doubt, be attributed to the nature of the tavern's clientele. Situated so near the waterfront, the Tavern of the Five Stars was crowded with sailors on furlough, who had been added to the typical amalgamation of diverse humanity characterizing a tavern in Vaileu territory. The taverns here were typically the domain of business people of all descriptions. Even the occasional woman. And fully half of all Vaileuan business transactions seemed to take place over a mug of fine Rafatian ale. A young waiter moved within hailing distance, and Daemon raised his empty mug, signaling for another drink. Eyeing the M orar warily, the boy worked his way in a rather comical sidestepping fashion to Quinn's side. "You wish another ale, Imnen?" "Yes, Juntal," he said, using the Thadonian word of respect for an adolescent male. "Quickly please." He placed a few pengi on the table as incentive for swift service and watched the boy move across the room to the bar with its faded and slightly stained turquoise tapestries. Although occasional hints of deteriorating elegance surfaced here and there, the once opulent interior of the

tavern had long since disappeared beneath a patina of clean but worn and unpretentious informality. As the boy set a fresh mug of ale down before Quinn, scooped up his money, and moved swiftly away, a subtle alteration in the atmosphere signaled that once again somebody was entering the establishment. Daemon turned his head in the direction of the door and went still. There were two men. The first was easily identifiable as Feheran by his seven foot height, thick snow-white hair, pale skin, and ice-blue eyes. But Quinn paid him little heed for it was the other man whom he recognized. Trader Takil. The man with whom Quinn had observed Singai meet the previous evening when he'd been following her. Takil would almost certainly have to be involved in the smuggling operation that Singai had just wrapped up. An informer? he wondered. Or a smuggler? Daemon swallowed a mouthful of chilled ale and set his mug on the table with particular care as he regarded the trader. Takil was a large, barrel-chested man with a florid complexion and longish brown hair that was dulled and tarnished by streaks of gray. His keen dark green eyes, however, left one under no illusion that Takil was anything less than qualified for his position in the Traders Guild. With a rather flamboyant openhanded gesture that set the loose sleeves of his red-and-white-striped robes waving, Takil chose a table and offered the huge cushion opposite him to his companion. For the first time, Quinn allowed himself to examine the trader's associate fully. To his surprise, from the description he'd received, he recognized the Feheran man as the dock master for whom he himself waited. Now what would Takil be doing speaking with the dockmaster? Something personal? Or . . . ? Griv— Not wanting to draw attention to himself, or to the M orar's capabilities, he used his mental link with the creature. Yes? There are two men over there. He indicated the direction with a slight gesture of his chin. A man in striped robes, and another with white hair. Do you see them? The M orar shifted slightly on his shoulder. Yes. I need to know what they are discussing. Can you hear them? There was a pause, and then Quinn began to hear the conversation—not through his own ears—but reflected by the M orar into his mind. . . . large package to go to ReiDalgo, Takil was saying. I need a reliable shipper who will ensure the cargo arrives safely. How large? A crate, Takil elaborated, about the size of a coffin. When did you want this crate to leave? asked the dockmaster. It must leave tomorrow morning on your fleetest and most seaworthy vessel. Quinn saw the dockmaster shake his head. That would be The Defiant Lady, and all the cargo space aboard her for tomorrow morning has been booked. Can your package not go on the next ship? The Shadow Song is due in tonight or tomorrow. What difference would a day or two make in the voyage to ReiDalgo? Trader Takil leaned back to look down his long nose at the dockmaster. It is not for you to question the difference, Korland. There is a large difference between seventeen days and nineteen or twenty. I will pay you handsomely to find the space. Move less important cargo to The Shadow Song. What is this merchandise that is so important? The Feheran dockmaster eyed Takil shrewdly. Don't try to read my mind Korland. I learned long ago how to keep my thoughts to myself. As for the shipment—Takil shrugged— it is simply an order for a shopkeeper in ReiDalgo. Nothing perishable, but he needs it quickly. And why do you come to me again so suddenly? asked Korland. You haven't dealt with me in many months. Takil straightened, his trader's composure faltering slightly as anger hardened his features. Precisely because you ask too many questions, dockmaster. If you do not want my business, rest assured I will take it elsewhere. Not wanting either of the two men to feel his gaze, Quinn scanned the bar and thus missed whatever physical reaction the dockmaster might have had to Takil's ploy. But he heard his words. Now, Takil, calm down. I didn't say that I don't want your business. And you know that, as a reputable dockmaster, I have to ask questions. I cant have my ships being used for unlawful purposes; I would risk the loss of my license. As for your shipment, let me ask my assistant to bring the roster. Perhaps we can accommodate your cargo. The Feheran closed his eyes and immersed himself in the telepathic communication only his kind, on this world, were capable of. According to what Daemon had been told, they could transmit messages to other Feherans and to a few select sensitives among other races. They could also receive thoughts from virtually anyone—if the sender was willing or particularly unwary. However, it was only with other members of their own Fehera race that true telepathic communication was possible. Which was why a network of Feheran communicators had been set up to circumnavigate the entire world. The Feherans were the Thadonian equivalent of one of Earth's computerized communication systems. They could send a message in mere seconds to the other side of the world. Which meant that virtually nothing happened on this world that someone among the Fehera didn't know. Yet they jealously guarded their secrets as the key to maintaining their role as communicators in Thadonian society. Korland opened his eyes and assured Takil that his assistant was on her way. Then the men's conversation subsided into more mundane matters as they awaited her arrival. Quinn allowed his attention to drift as he pondered what he'd heard. It was pretty obvious that the dockmaster either knew or suspected that Takil had smuggling affiliations. However, his caution was fighting a losing battle with his avarice. Daemon had little doubt that the man would find room for Takil's shipment. He frowned thoughtfully. But why was Takil suddenly seeking an alternate shipper? Could it have anything to do with Singai's investigation? Perhaps his previous shipper was about to be caught in a net that Takil was fully aware of? And what was he shipping? Daemon cursed his insatiable curiosity and the direction his thoughts were taking. There was a lot to ponder here and he had time for none of it. But the question uppermost in his mind was, could this shipment possibly contain some of the Earth weapons that Singai had been unable to track— earth weapons destined for the same Dalig guild who sought to cancel his contract? If so, it seemed he had a vested interest in preventing those weapons from reaching their destination. Or at the very least, informing Singai's people so they could be confiscated. For even his Barak, which was on par with one of Earth's lasers, was outdone by a blaster. Setting his mug down on the scarred wooden table with a slight clunk, he allowed his eyes to drift briefly over the patrons of the tavern. It seemed a casual glance, even to himself, but in actuality his mind catalogued and processed everything and everybody he saw, his photographic memory storing the picture in its entirety. Was there a future informant among them? An employer?

Someone whom he might be hired to apprehend? A moment later, a dusky-skinned, sapphire-eyed Vaileuan beauty entered the establishment, papers in hand, and moved directly toward the table where Takil and the dockmaster sat. Korland took the sheaf of documents from his assistant with a nod and began poring over them, muttering and shaking his head as he did so. Daemon unashamedly resumed eavesdropping. No ... no ... no, Korland said for each entry as he ran his finger down the roster. Ah, wait. Yes, I think this fellow will not mind waiting another day or two as long as I compensate him for the inconvenience. He lifted his eyes to Takil. I believe I can accommodate your shipment. Trader, provided we can reach an equitable price. Quinn listened to them haggle with only partial attention as he wondered how much he'd have to pay to secure a couple of cabins on the, apparently, almost full Defiant Lady. For not only was it the most seaworthy looking ship at dock, but he had every intention of finding out exactly what Takil wanted shipped so quickly. *** Some time later. Daemon climbed the stairs to the second floor of the inn with a thoughtful expression on his face. He had managed to secure passage for Singai and himself, but unfortunately the situation was far from ideal. He'd been unable to procure two cabins for their journey. In fact, he'd been forced to pay a rather exorbitant fee for one—although it was guaranteed to have two berths and to be roomy and comfortable. But he was almost certain he could expect a very defiant reaction on Singai's part when she discovered that circumstance. And Singai looked entirely too tempting when her eyes flashed with anger. For himself. Daemon found the idea of sharing a cabin with Singai disturbingly intriguing—particularly in view of the assurance he'd given her. The situation was bound to raise the level of temptation to torturous intensity. He sighed. It would be a very long and trying journey to ReiDalgo. His expression must have echoed his internal morosity, for when Singai opened her door a crack in response to his knock, her brow immediately creased with concern. Swinging the door wide in silent invitation, she asked, "Is something the matter?" He shook his head. "Nothing serious," he assured her as he walked across the room to the window. He saw no one unusual in the street below. "I reserved passage for us on a ship called The Defiant Lady. However, they only had one cabin left, so we'll be forced to share accommodations for the voyage." He waited for a diatribe that never came. Curiosity prompted him to turn to face her. She was frowning thoughtfully, but looked relatively unconcerned. "Are you all right with that?" She shrugged. "I have shared accommodations many times with my Sotah brothers. I will simply look on you as a brother." Quinn nodded, not certain that he liked the idea, but knowing it would be safer. For both of them. M oving forward, he joined her at the low table. "M y foray to the docks may have been more productive than we anticipated. I overheard something that might help your colleagues in their investigation." Singai went still, watchful. "What do you mean?" "That trader you met with last night... Trader Takil?" She nodded. "What about him?" "While I was waiting for the dockmaster, Korland, he and Takil came in together. It seems that Takil has very suddenly switched dockmasters. Korland wanted to know why he was suddenly coming to him again." He poured himself a glass of tepid water from the decanter in the center of the table. Singai's eyes clung to his face. "And?" she prompted. Quinn shrugged. "Takil demanded that Korland make space on the fastest, most seaworthy vessel he had leaving in order to take a crate to ReiDalgo. Korland was reluctant at first, said he didn't want to risk his license, but in the end, avarice won out. Takil's shipment will be on The Defiant Lady." Singai continued to stare at him. He could almost see the wheels turning in her mind. "It sounds as though Takil might be shipping something that he doesn't want caught in the net I laid, doesn't it?" Then a thought occurred to her. "You have very good hearing, Quinn, to hear all of this in a Vaileuan tavern. They're very noisy." Daemon shrugged. "Actually, Griv heard and relayed it to me." "Ah, I see." Singai nodded and cast a glance at the M orar, which still sat on his shoulder. "I suspected there was more to the creature than was plain to see." She rose and, clasping her hands behind her back, began to pace thoughtfully back and forth. Quinn merely observed and admired the view. After a few moments, she spoke. "ReiDalgo is only two days short of the port city of Dalbon in the Kazer Empire, which would have been our destination anyway, is it not?" "Yes." "We would be forced to travel overland for another day from Dalbon anyway to reach Teman and the empress's palace. And Teman is only about five days journey overland from ReiDalgo—which would mean an increase in travel time of only two days—if we took passage only as far as ReiDalgo. Assuming we didn't stay overlong in ReiDalgo, that is." Daemon didn't say anything, for she was simply planning out loud. He waited for her to arrive at the decision he'd already made. Abruptly, she halted in her pacing and pivoted to face him with a determined expression on her face. "If Takil's shipment is going to ReiDalgo, then that's where we'll have to stop too. At least long enough to determine where it's going." Daemon nodded. "I've already secured passage to ReiDalgo." She eyed him suspiciously for a moment. "I see." Then a second later, she nodded. "Well, I'm glad we think alike, Quinn. Thank you." "You're welcome." His eyes connected with hers and held. She saw something stir in the dark depths of his irises. Something wild and magnetic. Her heart sped up. She had difficulty catching her breath. And she couldn't have said a word to break the power of his gaze had her life depended on it. But, abruptly, he did. Rising from his seat, he explained that he had some packing to do and left. Singai stared at the closed door, wondering at the strange, tense undercurrents between them. Then she took a deep, calming breath. Perhaps she had not been wise to agree so readily to sharing a cabin with him. He was not Sotah. But why had Quinn seemed to expect that she would be contentious about the accommodations? She paced and pondered the question for a moment, and then, abruptly, her brow cleared. She'd forgotten. Relationships between Earthers were governed by a much different set of rules from those on Thadonia, the major point of difference being that Earth was a monogamous society whereas Tha-donia was not. It had to be something to do with that. Quinn

had obviously expected her to feel threatened in some way by the necessity of sharing quarters with him. Threatened? Well, perhaps she did, but she didn't think it was in the way an Earther would expect. Quinn was a threat to her only insofar as he appealed to her a great deal on a physical level, and she had no time or desire for a relationship with a man like him. He was dangerous rather than safe, unscrupulous rather than nice, and intimidating rather than nonthreatening. The antithesis of the type of man she was willing to accept into her life. Yet she would have to be constantly on guard, for he intrigued her in ways no other man had ever done. *** It was near dawn, and still dark as pitch, when Daemon asked the innkeeper to bring around the hackney to take him and Singai to the docks. Although he'd been walking the distance since his arrival in Cylon, when he'd taken lodgings in the area, and the docks were certainly close enough to arrive in plenty of time for The Defiant Lady's dawn leave-taking even on foot, he didn't relish the idea of giving their pursuers another chance at Singai. In addition, he had too much gear to carry the entire distance. Since he would have had to hire a dyre each for Singai and himself anyway, they might as well enjoy the comfort of riding in a carriage. Once they reached ReiDalgo, they would soon get their fill of riding dyre, he had no doubt. As Singai approached, still playing the part of the lady trader for their voyage, he offered his hand to aid her in climbing into the carriage. For a moment, he thought she wouldn't accept it, for she looked from his hand to his face and back again before hesitantly placing her small hand in his. As his fingers closed around it, swallowing it, holding her captive, a pulse began to leap erratically in her throat. Warrior lady or not, there was something very fragile and vulnerable about her. And then she stepped into the carriage, tugged her fingers from his, and broke the spell. Griv left Daemon's shoulder to perch on the roof for the short journey since he disliked small enclosed spaces, but Daemon hardly noticed. Climbing aboard, he leaned back in the carriage seat and forced himself to appear relaxed despite his awareness of Singai seated next to him. He could feel the heat of her thigh against his on the narrow seat. He could smell the faint scent of her perfume. And he resolutely turned his attention elsewhere as the carriage began to make its way over the cobbled streets toward the docks. The driver. Daemon had noted, was a thin young man who yawned repeatedly, betraying the fact that he'd been summoned from his bed too early. The dyre, as large as Quinn's own Fortunan-bred horses, were a matched pair. Both had long, silky brown hair, two gnarled rust-hued horns rising like spikes from between their ears, cloven hooves, and long, graceful necks. To Daemon's mind, they looked like a strange blend of goat, camel, and giraffe—with one notable exception which none of the aforementioned creatures possessed. The dyre had three eyes: one on either side of their heads for peripheral vision, and one centered in their forehead for forward viewing. Although the Thadonians swore by them, Daemon found the creatures homely and unreliable. What good was a mount that was almost certain to panic should its rider be attacked and blood be drawn? He missed his own horses, currently stabled in Teman under the Empress Narice's protection. He'd transported Duchess and Czar to Thadonia for the express purpose of riding them on this quest, but upon arrival, he had been told that he would be unable to find suitable stabling for them on his journey. Of Fortunan quarter-horse extraction, both beasts were beautiful, reliable, and loyal. If he had the time and the inclination, he was certain he could teach the Thadonians a few things about what a mount should be. A few colts bred by Czar would be all it took. Daemon mentally shook his head at his own musings. Czar was demigelded at the moment, having been injected with a type of stallion birth control that controlled his urges and made him a more reliable mount without destroying his capabilities as a sire, and the medication wasn't due to wear off for another four months. And even if Quinn could stay a few extra months, it certainly wouldn't be long enough to begin a Thadonian horse dynasty. He was dreaming. "What are you thinking?" Singai's husky wild-honey voice broke into his musings. Turning slightly to meet her curious turquoise gaze, shadowed now by the predawn darkness, he shook his head. "Nothing," he said. "Just daydreaming. Why?" He didn't want to talk. He wanted to pull her across his lap, plunge his fingers in her flaming hair, and kiss her senseless. He wanted to feel her soft body next to his. He wanted to bury himself within her and exorcise this damned passion. But he could do none of that. She shrugged, obviously making a determined effort to ignore the tension between them. "You looked so pensive." As he stared at her, trying to make sense of her words when his own thoughts were running along other avenues, she caught her bottom lip briefly between pearl-white teeth. For some reason he couldn't fathom, the action struck him as incredibly erotic. "Pensive?" he managed to repeat. It was his turn to shrug. He'd play along with her efforts to build a congenial relationship. After all, they did have to spend considerable time together over the next few weeks. "I was merely thinking about my horses." "Horses? These are Earth animals. Correct?" He nodded. "And Fortunan. Actually I think we raise more of them on Fortuna now than on Earth. They are our mounts and beasts of burden." "Like the dyre?" Daemon shook his head. "M uch better than the dyre." "Tell me about them." Daemon hesitated. Her earnest expression communicated genuine interest, and yet he wasn't accustomed to talking about himself or about his interests. Singai must have sensed his reticence, for she asked, "What do horses look like?" And he found himself telling her about them. He told her about the beauty of horses, and about Czar and Duchess with their wonderful deep, dark mahogany coloration. He told her about the stamina and reliability of horses bred to survive the primitive conditions of Fortuna. And he told her about the intelligence and loyalty of the equine breed. By the time he concluded, the driver was already pulling to a stop on the quay. "They sound like wonderful creatures," Singai said. "I hope I get the chance to see them before you leave." Quinn gave her an enigmatic glance. "I'm certain you will," he said as he opened his carriage door and stepped out. Not bothering to try to puzzle out whatever hidden meaning he might have, Singai directed her gaze out the carriage window to study the ship at dock. It was a superbly outfitted vessel, very well maintained. Its varnished traelarch-wood hull glowed in the light of the lumo-gel lamps lining the quay, and three huge masts rose high into the predawn sky, pale spires against a velvet black

backdrop. Before she'd managed to look her fill, Quinn, with the M orar firmly planted on his shoulder once more, opened the carriage door and offered her his hand. But she couldn't touch him again. Not when the simple act of placing her hand in his had wreaked such havoc on her system. "I can manage, thank you." Besides, she'd always hated being treated as though the accident of birth that had made her female also made her weak. She could exit a carriage quite well on her own. Quinn withdrew his hand without comment and continued to hold the door until she'd exited. A moment later, the driver climbed down to aid them in unloading their gear. After setting their luggage on the rough wooden surface of the dock and bidding them a hasty farewell, he was on his way. Undoubtedly to seek his bed again and try to sneak in another couple of hours of sleep. The carriage had barely pulled away when a man carrying a roster came forward from the direction of the ship. "Your names?" he asked with a cordial bow of his head. Quinn replied for both of them and the man, after checking and confirming their passage, beckoned a handsome young dockhand forward. He had the dark hair and skin tones of a Vaileuan and large, liquid midnight-blue eyes. If Singai had been an artist, she'd have wanted to paint him simply to capture his expressive eyes. "I am Rael," the dockhand said, giving Quinn's strange reptilian companion a distrustful glance. "I will assist you with your bags." As Singai turned to follow Rael up the gangplank, Quinn grasped her elbow in a strangely proprietary gesture that was no doubt prompted by an innocent motivation to steady her as they ascended the gangplank. Nevertheless his action unleashed a score of riotous sensation within her. Not wanting to betray herself by pulling away from his touch—although that was what instinct prompted her to do—she merely took a deep breath and schooled her features as she placed one foot in front of the other. On deck, they were greeted by a man who introduced himself as Captain Dakier. "Captain," Quinn returned the greeting with'a nod. "What is that?" Captain Dakier indicated Quinn's winged companion. "It's a Fortunan M orar, Captain. Domesticated and completely harmless." Daemon had come to know the words that were necessary to allay the suspicions of others. And they were true, as far as they went, for Griv would never attack another human being unless that person represented a threat to Quinn or the creature itself. It was the word domesticated that tended to give people the impression that Griv was a pet rather than a free-thinking, independent creature. But it seemed to be necessary to foster that impression in order to avoid problems. The captain studied Griv curiously for a moment. "It won't dirty the cabin?" Quinn shook his head. "They're very clean. And in fact, he will probably prefer to spend much of his time perched in the rigging out of doors, if you don't mind." "I suppose it won't be a problem. Wait until I've had time to warn my men of his presence though so he doesn't take someone by surprise." Quinn nodded. "Of course." The captain nodded to Rael, who turned to escort them to their cabin one deck below. "This is it," Rael said a moment later, pausing in front of a small wooden door. Upon opening it, he deposited on the floor the portion of their belongings that he carried. After informing them where they might find the galley, and when meals were served, he departed, leaving Singai and Quinn to survey the quarters they would share for the next nineteen days. The deck and walls were varnished hardwood. There were green curtains over both the porthole and the small window that looked out into the narrow passage that accessed the cabin. The green accent was carried to the bedding on the berths, one of which occupied the wall to the right of the door, and one of which was straight ahead. A small round table with ridged edges that would prevent dishes from sliding onto the floor occupied the center of the room. The table was flanked by two chairs, which appeared to be snapped into supports embedded in the decking. The M orar left Quinn's shoulder to take up residence on the footrail of the bunk that sat before the small round porthole. He cocked his head at Quinn almost as though he was .. . communicating. Pondering that, and the possible intelligence level of Quinn's M orar, Singai stepped forward to investigate a small door to their left. It led into closetlike lavatory facilities, which consisted of a commode, a sink, and a large jug of room-temperature water. It seemed that sponge bathing would be their only option for cleanliness while on board the ship. With a fatalistic mental shrug, she turned back to sweep the cabin with her gaze once more. Quinn seemed to dwarf the cabin with his presence. "What do you think?" he asked. She shrugged. "As cabins go, I suppose it's quite adequate." She began to make her way toward the bunk she'd already unconsciously chosen, but was forced to halt when Quinn didn't move aside to let her pass. The last thing she needed was to initiate physical contact by brushing past him. Her gaze lifted to his face, drifted over the powerful planes of his strong cheekbones to the whisker-shadowed attractiveness of his strong jawline, and settled on his full lips. Then she tore her gaze away. "It does seem a bit cramped though," she managed to murmur. He nodded and gave the cabin a sweeping perusal of his own. "Do you have a bunk preference?" he asked as though he hadn't felt the strange tension between them. Singai swallowed. If he could remain unaffected, then so could she. "I'd prefer the one away from the porthole, if you don't mind." He studied her with interest. "Any particular reason?" "It's not unheard of to wake and find that one of our Thadonian sea creatures has reared out of the water to peer into the ship. The two worst are the prowl and the fremak." She gave an only slightly exaggerated shudder. "I don't think I could stand seeing the soulless black eye of a prozel staring in at me as it plans its dinner." But her words didn't seem to bother Quinn. He picked up his bags and deposited them on the indicated bunk, then turned to her. His eyes fastened on her face in a manner that made heat rise in her cheeks despite all of her intentions. But when he spoke, his words were completely innocent. "Would you like to go above deck to watch the ship leave the docks? It will be dawn soon." She stared at him in confusion. Was there something they were supposed to do at dawn? "What does dawn have to do with anything?"

Quinn shrugged slightly and turned away from her. "Nothing really. I thought you might like to see the sun rise. I've noticed that the sunrises here are rather spectacular." Singai studied the man before her. He was an enigma. He looked so fierce and hard, so dangerous, that one would assume him to be unmoved by anything. And yet, in just one morning, she had listened to him speak with affection about a species of riding beast —though she thought he would probably deny the sentiment were she to point it out to him—and now she learned that this uncom promisingly masculine man could admit that he'd noticed the beauty of a sunrise. It was something she herself had not admitted in years for fear of being seen as too feminine by those around her who must trust in her Sotah abilities without question. But there was no one here now to whom she must prove herself. "I think I'd like that," she responded, not quite masking her intrinsic caution. A few minutes later, they stood side by side on deck. Singai wrapped her fingers around the gleaming metal railing and stared at the shore. Although the sky was beginning to take on a predawn grayness, scores of lumo-gel lamps still illuminated Cylon's waterfront. It was alive with the hustle and bustle of people rushing to make it aboard in time for sailing. M ost seemed to be business men, traders, and professionals. She caught sight of only two women. One, she thought, was a physician or perhaps a medical assistant, for she carried a large bag emblazoned with the medical symbol: a life-giving Termon tree. The other woman was a trader, like herself on this voyage. And then something caught her eye. Or rather someone. A young woman, scarcely more than a girl, dressed in the deep orange of mourning was being escorted up the gangplank on the arm of a holy man garbed in the white robes of the Revalton sect. She looked around with frightened and bewildered eyes. Something about the young woman called out to Singai. An ancient recognition that the girl was much as she had been once, before she'd been robbed of her innocence. She watched as the child-woman and her escort stepped onto the deck. The holy man spoke to the captain, gestured to the girl and her belongings, then embraced his charge before departing. Glancing nervously at those around her, the young woman hesitantly found herself a position at the rail from which she watched the holy man's departure with anxious eyes. Singai looked at Quinn, saw that he too had been observing the girl. Their eyes met and something nameless and unrecognized passed between them. Then, as though he understood the question in her eyes without her voicing a word, he nodded and gestured slightly with his chin toward the girl. At that moment, Singai didn't stop to consider how it was possible that two virtual strangers could communicate so well without words. Or that a man so hard, so impassive, could discern the needs of a young girl. But it would occur to her later, and she would wonder about the strange moment of connection she'd shared with this man from another world.

Chapter Six Singai made her way to the girl's side and stood companionably with her for a few moments until the young woman glanced in her direction. "Hello," she said. "I am called Trader Betana." "M y name is Aleida." Singai barely heard her hushed response. They remained silent for a moment, but it was not a relaxed silence, for Singai sensed the young woman's tension and fear. "The holy man," Singai said quietly after a moment, "is he a relative?" Aleida silently shook her head, although she continued to gaze longingly after the man. In another moment, he left the brilliantly lighted dock area and disappeared into the predawn grayness. "Where are you headed Aleida?" The girl shivered as though the errant breeze had chilled her. "To ReiDalgo. I have relatives there. M y parents . . ." She trailed off for a moment and gulped back a sob. "They died," she concluded on a hoarse whisper. Knowing that there were no words she could say to ease that pain, Singai put her arm around the young woman's shoulders and gave her a slight squeeze. "Fortune is at times unkind," she murmured. Then after a brief pause, she decided to focus her conversation on the future in the hope that it would aid the girl in getting past her grief. "These relatives you go to in ReiDalgo," she said, "what are they like? Do you perhaps have a cousin your age?" Aleida shrugged. "I don't know. I have never met them." Singai frowned inwardly. That made things more difficult. No wonder Aleida was frightened. "Well, I'm sure it will be fine," she said, giving the frail shoulders beneath her arm another slight squeeze. "Are they your mother's family?" The girl nodded. "M y mother's brother, his three consorts, and their children." . "Well, then they are bound to have some children close to your age, aren't they?" Aleida shrugged and said nothing. Singai allowed her her silence and made way for Quinn, who had moved to join her at this new space at the rail. "The sun is rising," he said. And sure enough pink and violet and orange streaks stained the horizon like luminous bands of paint on an enormous canvas. Even as they watched, the streaks began to shimmer and writhe, stretching ever farther across the lightening sky like the flickering flames of a tremendous blaze. It was beautiful, Singai acknowledged. And she had denied herself such beauty for far too long. They watched the phenomenon for a few more minutes. Then the gangplank was pulled up, and with a few shouts from the sailors, and a few creaks and groans from the anchor as it was hauled in, the ship began to slide away from the dock. Shouting men crawled amid the rigging, and slowly, the sails began to unfurl. Singai lifted her face to the freshening breeze that had arrived with the dawn, cushioned her knees against the softness of one of the bright yellow life preservers that lined the deck, and smelled the sea air. "Smell it, Aleida," she murmured. "Can you smell it?" The young woman dutifully lifted her face to the breeze and nodded. "It's only the sea air." "Ah, but do you know what makes the sea air smell so unique?" Singai asked. Aleida looked at her and shook her head. "Salt?" she ventured. Singai shook her head. "It's the scent of life, Aleida. All the mysterious life that we don't understand that lives beneath the sea. There's so much power down there." Then, realizing she was speaking more to herself than to Aleida, she stopped; she didn't want to frighten the girl. Swallowing a bit self-consciously, she flashed Quinn a glance where he stood silently at her side in silent

support of her befriending the young woman in need. He gave her a penetrating look, which Singai suspected saw far more than was on the surface. "So, Singai, if you have such passion for the sea, why do you have such a dislike for sailing?" Singai hesitated. Should she tell him? The incident was more than ten years old, and yet it was as clear in her mind as it had been the day it happened. The tiny boat loaded with young people, most still at least three or four years from adulthood, on an excursion at sea. Following the boat owner's instructions, they were staying within sight of shore. Just barely. It was a faint blackish line on the horizon. Everybody was laughing and having fun, splashing each other with water scooped into cupped hands. And then ...suddenly, the fun had ended. Without warning, a fremak rose out of the water. For an instant, the young people had frozen in terror and the silence was so intense that Singai could still remember the sound of the waves lapping at the sides of the boat. She stared up into the fremak's red eyes as it glared down at them, and she remembered thinking that this was what it was like to face death. At that moment in time, she hadn't yet felt the paralyzing terror that would grip her later. Rather, she'd been gripped by a strange, bone-chilling numbness as she waited for the huge creature to make its move. To lower its head with its mouth full of razor-sharp teeth, which could cut a human body in two, and pluck its chosen meal from the boat. But what followed was even worse. As the momentary paralysis wore off, a number of the thirteen young people aboard the boat that day began to scream in terror. The noise angered the fremak. It shook its head, spraying them all with water, and then it dropped its huge serpentine body down upon the boat, shattering the small craft. A few people, like Singai, were lucky enough to grasp a piece of the craft and pull themselves aboard. Those who weren't fast enough lost their lives, for their thrashing attracted the fremak to its feast. Even now bile rose in Singai's throat as she remembered the crimson tint that had stained the ocean waters around her. She'd been too terrified to watch, too terrified to move, and so she had squeezed her eyes closed and wished that she could close her ears as easily. She'd wanted to shut out the sounds of the fremak's gory banquet as it rose out of the water again and again to crunch down on another body. She'd needed to shut out the screams of her dying companions. She'd yearned to shut out the sound of her own panicked breathing. Three people out of thirteen had survived that day to make it back to shore. Yet even now, so many years later, Singai could not bring herself to speak about it. Perhaps soon. Perhaps when she need not fear that the person she told would blame her, as she blamed herself, for not trying to aid some of her dying companions aboard her small piece of flotsam. But not yet. So she faced Quinn with a closed expression that betrayed nothing. Shrugging in answer to his question, she said, "If we could sail along in clear sight of the shore, I would love sailing. It's out there"—she pointed seaward—"where the monsters are, that I don't like to be." Quinn studied her for a moment, his shrewd gaze trying to see beyond her words. Then he nodded. "Well, let us hope that we don't meet any of your Thadonian monsters." *** It was much later, after sharing an evening meal of stewed vegetables baked in a crispy crust, that their conversation turned to Takil and his mysterious crate. "Do you have any idea how we can get access to the hold?" Quinn asked. "What problems we may face?" Singai considered. "The access to the hold will almost certainly be locked, but that shouldn't present a problem. The lock is easily picked, and the hold is unlikely to be guarded unless they're transporting a very special cargo." She frowned slightly. "What I've been wondering is how we're going to find Takil's particular crate among all of those sure to be in the hold?" "We'll need the manifest." "And do you have any ideas how we can get our hands on that?" Quinn rose to pace thoughtfully from one end of the cabin to the other, and Singai found her eyes following him. Admiring him. He moved with the smooth fluid grace of a quarcat. It was as though there was something primitive and elemental within him that called out, appealing to something equally as primal and elemental within herself. Some powerful thing, the existence of which she'd never suspected. And that was frightening. She was coming to believe that the aura of danger and wildness that clung to him was, for the most part, one of nature's illusions, yet it continued to intrigue her for reasons she didn't understand. He intrigued her for reasons she didn't understand. It was as though he were two people in one body. The cold, aloof, and ruthless man that was the outer shell he revealed to the world. And a more sensitive, caring one of whom she'd caught such fleeting glimpses that she wasn't certain she hadn't imagined it. Abruptly, Quinn's smooth baritone voice drew her from her dangerous musings. She focused her attention on the present with a sense of relief. "I have some equipment that I want shipped so that I don't have to pack it around on dyre once we reach ReiDalgo. I'll go to the captain and ask to have it crated and stored in the hold. I'll probably be able to get a look at the manifest then." "What good is a look at the manifest going to do? And besides, didn't you say the hold was full?" Quinn nodded. "The hold is full, but the testing equipment I want to ship isn't large, just bulky. I'm reasonably certain the captain will be able to find the space." He paused and looked at Singai. "And as for getting a look at the manifest, I have been blessed—and cursed, it seems at times—with almost instantaneous recall of anything I see, Singai. One look at the manifest will be all I'll need." "Oh. I understand," she said. But she didn't understand at all. How could someone recall what was on a page if he did not have time to read it? "All right. Then I'll leave that aspect of things up to you." She would simply have to trust that Quinn could do as he contended. After all, he seemed to have aided her considerably already. She frowned inwardly. Why was he helping her? He did not have to tell her about Takil's shipment. And yet he'd been so interested in pursuing the crate that he'd actually maneuvered the situation to ensure that they'd have a chance to investigate it. One would think that the question of the weapons was almost as important to him as it was to her and her Sotah companions. Yet that made no sense. "What's bothering you, Singai?" She started and met his inquiring gaze. There was nothing to be gained by dissembling. "Why are you helping me, Quinn? You did not have to tell me about Takil, so why did you?"

His expression was inscrutable as he met her gaze. Then he shrugged, turned his back to her, and moved to the center of the cabin to stare out the porthole positioned over his bunk. The gesture was one that she'd come to accept as habitual. Whenever he was thoughtful about something, Quinn looked for a window. Finally, he spoke. "I'm not sure myself, Singai. All I can say is that, since I'd heard the nature of your investigation, Takil's sudden shipment roused my damnable curiosity. And whenever I can, I like to satisfy it." He turned to regard her and shrugged in a self-deprecating manner. "I have even been known to lower my exorbitant fee by rather substantial sums for clients whose financial situation was less than affluent, simply because their situation presented a mystery that piqued my interest." He folded his arms across his chest. "Then there is the consideration that those weapons apparently are destined for Dalig, and the Dalig are trying to cancel my contract by taking your life. I can't allow that." Singai considered him for a moment, then nodded her acceptance of his brutally honest explanation. There was no danger of duplicity on his part. "So when will you speak to the captain?" "Now is as good a time as any." A few moments later, Daemon made his way along the narrow corridor toward the companion-way, which led to the upper deck and the captain's cabin. Another passenger descended, brushing past him in the narrow corridor. At first glance, the darkly clothed man, like so many others in general appearance, meant nothing to him. But as the picture resulting from that glance reached his brain for storage, a comparison was made, and he felt certain that he'd seen the man's face before. He whirled, trying to catch another glimpse of him before he disappeared. Too late. But he didn't think he was mistaken. He had seen the man before, or someone very like him. But where? And if he was right, was the man's presence a coincidence? *** Having learned from the captain that his own freight would be retrieved that evening when members of the crew would be in the process of redistributing some of the cargo in the hold. Daemon was ensconced in the cabin with Singai. Waiting. They couldn't make their own little foray into the hold if the crew was there. And he couldn't leave the cabin until his equipment had been picked up for storage. Truth be told, he was already finding the enforced close quarters with Singai nerve-racking. It was nearing time for sleep, and Singai had begun to ready herself for bed. He avoided looking at her, but... it wasn't helping. Her every move produced a whisper of sound that made him want to look to see what she was doing. The slight clunk of her baldric hitting the wall as she hung her broadsword from a hook. The rustle of her clothing as she changed from her day clothes into her sleeping tunic beyond the closed door of the lavatory. The sound of her hairbrush raking through her long, silky hair as she released the torturous-looking, elaborate braids she wore by day. The soft pat of her bare feet against the hardwood decking as she walked from the small lavatory, passed his bunk, and sat on her own. With his hands clasped behind his head in a determined effort at nonchalance. Daemon gritted his teeth and stared at the ceiling. "Quinn." Her honey rich voice reached across the cabin to him, weaving its way into his brain in a way that he knew would make it unforgettable. "Yeah?" he asked rather shortly. "It will be a rather boring and trying voyage if we do not speak. Have I done something to make you angry?" "No." "Then perhaps we could talk?" He shrugged and sat up. Why not? Talking couldn't be any more torturous than sharing the cabin, could it? Aloud, he asked, "About what?" "This morning you told me about your. . . horses?" He nodded and she continued. "Will you tell me about your M orar?" "He's not really mine. M orars are not domestic animals." And so he found himself explaining what he knew and understood of the M orar's complex relationship with its hive, its need to return home periodically, and his own rather unexpected bonding with this particular M orar. Singai flashed a glance at the creature as she considered his words. "So this animal, which seems to be very intelligent, chooses to become your friend." "Essentially, I guess. As much as they choose who they will sting, they choose the recipient of bonding. According to Griv, they seldom sting out of anger, but I haven't really obtained an explanation I understand as to why he chose me." "Interesting." Daemon flashed a glance at the M orar where he sat on the perch he'd chosen for himself—the foot railing of Daemon's bunk— with his eyes closed in apparent sleep. He had no doubt that Griv was listening to every word, despite appearances. "Yes," Daemon agreed. The room fell silent for a moment and Singai stared at him thoughtfully, only to look hastily away whenever he met her gaze. She had something on her mind. "What is it, Singai?" he finally asked. "What?" She looked surprised. "What's on your mind?" She shrugged, negating the importance of her musings. "I was just wondering if you're married. Do you have a family back home?" Quinn felt everything within him grow still. "I am not married," he said evenly. "And I have no family other than a distant aunt on Earth." Singai studied him for a moment as though she sensed that something in her query had bothered him and she sought the reason. Finally she spoke again. "Well, I guess it's your turn to ask me something of Thadonia that you would wish to understand better." "Like what?" "I don't know. Surely you must have encountered some custom or saying that you do not fully understand." He considered. "Well, now that you mention it, what's this heart name about?" It was Singai's turn to frown. "That is difficult for me to explain because I cannot really conceive of it being any other way. However, I once asked my friend Rainon about his penchant for throwing Earth words into sentences when he addressed his Earthbom wife. He said that he'd grown accustomed to the use of endearments. We do not have such things in the Thadonian

language. Here, at birth, we are granted one name by our loved ones. This is the heart name. It is the name by which we are known to all those who care for us. When we are older and begin to interact with others outside the family unit, we choose the name by which we will be known to outsiders. Do you understand?" Daemon nodded. So the heart name took the place of endearments, which did not exist in the Thadonian language. No wonder his first Thadonian acquaintances had been so uncomfortable when he'd offered them his complete name, both given name and surname. He studied Singai where she sat demurely on her bed, her ankle-length sleep tunic tucked around her. There was nothing the least bit overtly seductive about her, and yet with her flame-hued hair tumbling around her shoulders in kinked disarray from the braids, she seemed exotic and beguiling in ways he couldn't describe. "And what is your heart name, Singai?" Her brilliant blue eyes widened in surprise, and he caught a glimpse of something in their depths. Shock? Pain? He cleared his throat. "Forget it. I shouldn't have asked. I guess I didn't understand your explanation as fully as I thought." Singai found her voice. "It's all right. I didn't tell you that the heart name is something that is very private. We tell no one outside the family with the exception of those we grow to ... love." "I see." They fell silent for a few minutes, each trying to avoid the other's gaze. Daemon could not remember a time when he'd felt so uncomfortable in the presence of a beautiful woman. If he'd not made that ridiculous promise to himself, and to her ... If he'd felt free to pursue her, then this troublesome feeling of awkwardness would never have come into play. At that moment, there was a knock at the door. "Imnen?" a voice called. With a sense of gratitude, Daemon rose and answered. A young sailor, reed thin and still in the gangly stage of his late teens, stood there. "I am here to pick up a package to be stowed, Imnen." "Of course." Stepping back. Daemon indicated the wooden crate containing the DNA testing equipment—now carefully repacked according to very specific instructions. In mere seconds, the sailor shouldered the crate and was on his way. As he left, the exterior breeze seemed to draw some of Singai's seductive scent past Daemon's nose and out the door. He closed the door behind him with a renewed sense of frustration. Saints! How was he going to endure two weeks of this torture? As he turned back to resume his position on his cot, he tried to find a plausible excuse that would allow him to escape the cabin until she fell asleep. "Quinn?" "Yes?" "Another reason that I—" She broke off, then began again. "I don't want you to think that I was angry when you asked about my heart name. I wasn't. It's just that I"—she shrugged—"I don't really have one. You see I was orphaned at birth." Daemon frowned thoughtfully. "I see." He'd known she was orphaned. The Empress Nance's background information had included the knowledge that the flame-haired child he sought had been the only survivor of a caravan decimated by bandits. From the intelligence the empress had garnered, the almost newborn child had actually been carried away by the brigands, as part of the loot, presumably until she became too much trouble for them to care for. Then, also presumably, she'd been dumped on the steps of an orphanage. Where? When? Both were questions the empress had not had answers to. There hadn't been much to go on. But challenged by the mystery. Daemon had begun digging into the past, into the records, and into the minds of people he met. In one city, there was an old woman who, because she'd feared for the newborn's life, had tried desperately to convince a band of brigands who'd stopped to demand milk to leave the hapless red-haired child with her. In a town farther on, there was an old man, his lips loosened by a few drams of ale in the local tavern, who remembered an infant squalling loudly from a pile of rags stuffed into the overlarge saddlebags of a traveler's dyre. And in another city, a woman who remembered a toddling redheaded girl-child in the orphanage where they'd both lived. Piece by piece, organizing the information he garnered and comparing it to the information given him by the empress. Daemon had come closer. When he'd felt certain that the woman he sought had to be one of three women—all from orphanages within the same general area—he'd hired the information broker to help him track them down. And, once again, as he'd come to expect, he'd succeeded. But not once in all that time, until this minute, had he thought to wonder what being an orphan on Thadonia might mean. Not once had he considered the pain an orphaned little girl might endure on a world that put so much emphasis on family. There were no single-parent families here. Few widows who did not marry again. And only those children for whom there were absolutely no living relatives to be found were ever placed in orphanages. And now he was left asking himself one heart-wrenching question: Had there been no one at the orphanage to love that small flame-haired girl? To hold her and comfort her hurts? To care enough to give her a heart name? He swallowed uneasily, wondering why it should even have occurred to him. He'd had very little affection in his life, and he'd survived. Yet somehow it stirred something in that deep dark soulless place within him to think of a small Singai hurting. So deep in thought had he been that, when next he looked up, Singai was asleep. Now there was no reason to leave the cabin. Still thoughtful, he bent to remove the knife from his boot and slip it beneath his pillow before removing his boots and readying himself for slumber. The questions that had plagued him since taking this assignment returned to race through his mind in never-ending circles. How had his powerful client come into contact with the unremarkable child of a farm family? How had she gained the blood sample of this child who was a mere infant when her parents had been killed and she had disappeared? And who had ravaged the caravan from which the infant had been stolen? *** It was late the next evening before Daemon and Singai could make their foray in search of Takil's cargo. Before she'd even completed her descent into the hold, Singai perceived that it was dank, dark, and definitely much cooler than the upper decks. Since she had expected as much, she wasn't particularly bothered by the close atmosphere. She waited quietly at the bottom of the narrow ladder for Quinn to lower the hatch and click the lock back into place, thus concealing their illicit entry into the ship's nether regions from anyone who might happen by on the deck above. The action of closing the hatch, however, also plunged them into pitch-blackness. For a few moments, as Quinn descended the ladder, Singai could see absolutely nothing—not even her hand in front of her face— for Quinn had told her not to bother with the cumbersome proposition of a lumo-gel lamp.

With the absence of sight, the other senses intensified. She could hear every creak and groan the huge sailing ship made. Hear the cold oceanic waters lapping at the hull with deceptive calm. And smells almost too numerous to identify: old wood, the new wood of some of the crates, the tart smell of crated fruit and aging cheeses, all combined with the ever present scent of the ocean. In the next instant, light flared to life in Quinn's hand as he triggered the versatile Barak, and Singai's eyes once again began to function. As she got her first thorough look of the hold, her brows arched in surprise. It was more crammed than she had imagined. Crates lined the walls, usually three deep and four or sometimes five high—extending virtually to the planks of the deck overhead. Narrow passageways, no wider than necessary for a man to walk between them, threaded through the piled crates. She swallowed and turned to Quinn. "I'm glad you know where to find the shipment. We could have spent the entire voyage in here and still not have found it." Quinn nodded, his features once again shadowed and rather intimidating in appearance. Without responding to her comment, he looked around and then moved off down an aisle between two huge stacks of containers. As Singai fell in behind him, he muttered, "Let's just hope it's not on the bottom of the pile." Since she didn't know if he was talking to her or to himself, she made no response. Their hopes were in vain. Takil's shipment, despite being a late addition to the roster, was against the far side and loaded three high with six smaller containers. Singai heard Quinn mutter something that sounded distinctly like a curse, but since it wasn't in Thadonian, she couldn't be certain. He very guardedly passed her the Barak, ensuring that her fingers curled around the device in precise positions. "I'll need you to hold this while I move some of these. Be careful not to touch the switch." Singai studied the device. She'd been curious about it since the first time she'd seen him use it. "Why?" she asked. "Would the light whip emerge?" Quinn shook his head and gave her a wry smile. "Worse," he said as he picked up a container and moved it into the aisle—the only free space available. "It would stop working. You see that clear panel beneath the switch?" "Yes." "That scans my thumb or fingerprint each time the setting is changed and matches it to one of the prints stored in the Barak's memory. Should someone else attempt to activate or change the setting on the weapon, the Barak shuts down and has to be reprogrammed." He set another crate on top of the first. Singai frowned and examined the weapon briefly. "Interesting." Then, continuing to hold the Barak so that it would illuminate the area, she turned her attention to the business at hand. Takil's shipment was about six feet long, three feet wide, and a bit more than two feet deep. As soon as Quinn had finished moving the smaller containers from atop Takil's crate, he pulled a short but sturdy bar from the tool pouch he had strapped around his waist for the night's foray and began to pry at the securely nailed boards that formed the lid. Singai stepped forward, impatient for confirmation of her suspicion—that Takil had been feeding her information while at the same time working against the Sotah investigation. Anxious also to finally uncover some indication of what was happening with the Earth weapons they knew were arriving periodically on her world. The first board came loose to reveal only a small bolt of Rafatian silk. A flash of disappointment speared her, but she quickly reined it in, reasoning that Takil would certainly have taken some measures to conceal the nature of his shipment from prying eyes. The weapons would naturally be near the bottom of the crate. Despite the reasoning of her intellect, impatience gripped her; she longed to do nothing more than set the Barak aside and aid Quinn in ripping the boards from the lid of the container. It took all of her considerable resources to curb the impulse. The discovery of what was happening with the smuggled weapons meant so much to her, to her guild, and ultimately to the security of the Thadonian people. The idea that a piece of the resolution to their problem might be near at hand was almost intoxicating in its power. . Finally, the last of the boards came free and she leaned forward to shove the expensive bolt of fabric aside with her free arm. Beneath it rested a layer of strangely formed flesh-colored pieces of rubbery fabric. She looked at Quinn. "What are they?" His lips twitched briefly before he regained his habitual solemn expression. "They are anti-grav cups." Singai frowned at his use of a foreign expression. "What are they for?" "Um"—he cleared his throat, glanced at her chest, and quickly lifted his eyes to her face again— "well. . . women use them to ... support their breasts." "Oh." Singai felt a surge of heat in her cheeks and quickly looked back into the container in an attempt to conceal it. "What would Takil be doing with them?" "Selling them on the black market in ReiDalgo would be my guess." Quinn cleared his throat again. "They'd probably sell extremely well." He began shoving the highly personal items aside to look beneath them. A moment later, having shifted another layer of smuggled Earth fabrics, he paused, a frown firmly entrenched beneath his midnight brows. "What is it?" "Nothing." He shook his head. "There's nothing here but the wood bottom of the container." The disappointment was crushing. "That can't be!" "You wouldn't think so," Quinn agreed and took a step back to stand frowning at the carton. "Hand me the Barak, would you?" he asked a moment later. Singai complied and watched as he bent close to the container and began examining it with the small but intense light. Then he reached into the crate again and began to tap along its sides. "Hmph!" he snorted. "What is it?" "A false bottom, I think." Retrieving his small pry bar, he began to work at the bottom board on the crate. When the end of the board came loose, rather than sagging away, it still seemed to be attached to something. Frowning even more fiercely, Quinn moved to the other end of the container to repeat the process. Once again, instead of falling away, the board, although loosened, remained more or less in position. "Well, well." He turned to hand Singai the Barak. "Hang on to this again for a bit, will you?" She nodded silently, carefully grasped the weapon, and watched as Quint bent to examine his handiwork. He made a generic sound that seemed to signal some kind of breakthrough. "What?" she couldn't help asking. "A drawer," he murmured. "Just a simple drawer." Grasping the edge of the loosened board, he tugged. Sure enough, as it moved

out, it became obvious that it was attached to a traylike drawer surface. And on that surface were . . . blasters and stunners and lasers. "The Earth weapons!" With the thrill of success racing through her veins in intoxicating measures, Singai threw her arms around Quinn in celebration just as she might have done with one of her Sotah brothers. A brotherly hug. Only Quinn was not one of them. In the next instant, when she felt his arms close around her, she became distressingly conscious of that.

Chapter Seven As he felt himself the recipient of her exuberant embrace, felt her very feminine form pressed against his body, Daemon closed his arms around Singai in a reaction that was purely instinctive and looked down into her upturned face. It was a mistake. Her brilliant blue eyes, illuminated by the Barak held just behind his left shoulder, sparkled with excitement. Her luminous complexion glowed with its natural light and the flush of victory. And her full peach-tinted lips were stretched into a glorious smile that revealed her perfect pearl-like teeth. Saints alive! How could he have ever have wondered at the source of her beauty. It was there for all eyes to see. She was stunning! Even as he watched, her eyes widened with awareness of him, her smile slowly faded, and she began to loosen her grip on his shoulders. Irrationally, involuntarily, his hands were there to halt her. He wanted her! Her embrace seemed to have sparked a raging inferno where only a small, controllable spark had existed scant seconds earlier. "I'm sorry," she whispered. Then before his mind could register her words or try to understand them. Daemon groaned deep in his throat and surrendered to the inferno in his blood. Even as he lowered his head to capture her lips with his, he knew it was a mistake. He should have taken her before his desire reached this point. Before his carnal hunger had become so strong. Even now, if only she'd fought him, pushed him away, or simply stood unresponsive in his arms, perhaps he could have resisted that call. But her lips moved beneath his in welcome and a moan of capitulation issued from her throat. Singai clung to him, her fear of big, dark, intractable men fighting an internal battle with her newly awakened womanhood and losing. The moist darkness of their surroundings enfolded them, its chill receding before her own feverishly rising temperature. Reason faded away. In that moment, it didn't matter that they were from different worlds. That their vocations were completely incompatible with the development of a personal relationship between them. Nothing mattered except the passion arcing between them and the need raging through their veins. As Quinn took command of the kiss, slanting his hard mouth over hers to delve his questing tongue between her lips, she lost all sense of time and place. It didn't matter where they were, for in Quinn's arms she felt... as though she belonged. Her toes curled. Her limbs lost their strength. And her senses soared. She had never before known a man's embrace to be so intoxicating. In the next moment, there was a low bang, as of heavy wood on wood and Singai and Quinn burst apart. M oving quickly, with the self-preservation skills honed by years spent in investigative work, Quinn grabbed the Barak and extinguished the light. Then he hunkered down next to Singai behind a stack of shipping containers. Almost immediately, the sound of a male voice broke the heavy stillness of the hold. "Get this. Get that. Don't nobody ever sleep in this place?" the man grumbled loudly to himself. Silence except for the shuffle of footsteps as the crewman carried his lumo-gel lantern deeper into the hold. "Zyk! Where is that wine?" M ore shuffling. "Ah, there you be." There was the sound of rough wood being dragged against equally uneven planking, a grunt as something was hoisted, then the sound of retreating footsteps. Not until the hatch was lowered back into place, plunging them once again into unrelieved darkness, did Singai heave a sigh of relief. On the heels of her sigh, Quinn once again triggered the Barak for light. The sudden interruption had served to squelch her passion, leaving Singai feeling a bit embarrassed by her earlier actions. She tried to avoid Quinn's gaze, but found the task impossible in light of the work still before them. To her surprise, although his eyes still smoldered in a manner that made her heart skip a beat, he merely looked at her for a moment before gesturing to the crate they'd torn apart in their quest for the weapons. "Let's get this thing back together, shall we?" She nodded and moved to hold the light closer while he gently hammered the nails back into position. When she finally felt confident enough in the steadiness of her voice to speak, she asked, "Where did the roster say this shipment is supposed to be delivered?" Quinn replied without halting in his work. 'To a shopkeeper named Norval in Dahlyn Square." Singai nodded and frowned. That was all well and good, provided there was no subterfuge involved in the destination. She and Quinn could travel to Dahlyn Square and wait for the arrival of the crate from the docks. But what if the address was a cover of some sort? What if the crate was never intended to arrive there? "I wish there was some way of marking this crate to differentiate it so that we could actually follow it," she mused aloud. "I don't want to take the chance of losing it. It's too important." In answer, Quinn pulled a small bottle of something from his pocket and, with a flourish, sprayed the end of the crate with a large florescent orange circle. Singai was shocked. Now everyone would realize that someone had tampered with the shipment. How could he do such an irresponsible thing? "What—" Quinn raised a hand. "Wait," was all he said. A moment later, the circle faded from sight, becoming invisible. Singai frowned in perplexity. Although she was relieved that the circle was gone, she didn't see how an invisible marking would help them track the container through the streets of ReiDalgo. Quinn must have seen the question in her eyes, for he removed a strange object from his pocket, looked through it, altered the setting slightly, then handed it to her. It was rather like a captain's glass, but very short in comparison, with two places for the eyes to peer through. "Look," he said. Hesitantly holding the strange object to her eyes, she looked at the end of the crate. The orange circle revealed itself as plainly as day! Intrigued, she lowered the glasses—ensured that the circle was indeed still invisible when she was not looking through them— then raised them again. She looked at Quinn. "This is wonderful! It will be perfect."

Daemon enjoyed her enthusiasm. It made him view some of the conveniences he'd lived with all his life through new eyes. While she continued to experiment with the binoculars, he marked the other sides of the crate and, after pocketing a pair of anti-grav cups for some reason he refused to examine, replaced the lid. The last step would be to seal the contraband back into the crate, leaving no sign that the container had been tampered with in any way, but he wanted a closer look at what was here first. There were countless stunners and lasers and approximately ten lethal blasters in the tray, along with one device he didn't recognize immediately. Lifting it from its bed of cushioning fabric, he examined it. "What is that?" Singai asked, drawing his gaze. "I've seen a blaster before, and I recognize the stunners and lasers from descriptions, but"—she gestured toward the device in his hand—"I've never seen one of those." "I haven't either," he conceded. "But I've heard about something called a sonic blaster developed for the Stellar Legionnaires. This has to be one. Its wide, bell-shaped muzzle would disperse the sound, giving it a wide field of effect." Singai's frown deepened. "And what does this sound do?" "From what I understand, it paralyzes anyone caught within the range of effect. If the sound is maintained for any length of time, the quarry will lose consciousness." "Why would anyone design such a thing?" Daemon shrugged and replaced the weapon in the tray with the others. "It was designed to immobilize enemies without having to physically injure them or kill them. And it's reputed to be very effective. However, it has its limitations. The sound doesn't penetrate stone or similarly dense substances. So if the target has shelter, it can be virtually useless." A moment later. Daemon completed his reconstruction of the crate, replaced the smaller containers atop it, and they left the hold. After a stealthy journey through the ship, they made it back to their cabin without incident. Once there, he caught Singai eyeing him strangely a couple of times. When he glanced at her to see the same expression a third time, he said, "Is there something wrong?" She shook her head. "No. It's just that—" "What?" "I would like to make contact with the priests of Sotah to pass on what I have learned." Daemon frowned, not understanding. "And?" "The process involves a ... kind of psychic ritual. I need"—her gaze slid away from his—"privacy." "I see." He thought about that for a moment and decided he could go above. If anyone asked about his presence at such a late hour, he could use the pretext that he was having difficulty sleeping. And it wouldn't even be a lie. "All right," he said, as he rose from the reclining position he'd adopted on his bunk. "I should be able to find something to occupy my time for an hour or so. Will that be long enough?" She nodded. "Certainly. And, Quinn"—already at the door, he turned back to face her—"thank you." He nodded silently and left. * * * It was a bright sunny afternoon a few days later and Singai was enjoying what had quickly become her daily visitation with Aleida while Quinn chatted with some of the crew nearby. But they weren't the only ones on deck by any means. Although The Defiant Lady was predominately a freighter, it seemed that every passenger she had was on deck enjoying the pleasant weather. Aleida had managed to put aside some of her fear of the unknown and, at Singai's urging, was beginning to view her voyage to live with strangers in ReiDalgo as the commencement of an adventure. The young woman was chatting more comfortably now, her girlish mind flitting from this topic of conversation to that with the facility of youth. The current focus of her attention was Quinn's M orar, which had taken up a post on the rail very near. "Look at the talons on its feet, Singai. Wouldn't its claws hurt Quinn's shoulder?" "I don't know, Aleida," Singai responded absently. "Perhaps it has a means of retracting them." A moment of silence. "I don't think so. And look at its wings. They look like gold leather, but you can see through them when the sun's shining. You can see all the little bones and even the veins. Except they look black." Singai glanced at the creature and nodded, but found her attention wandering ... to Quinn. Neither of them had initiated physical contact of any kind since that night in the hold. Yet she'd often caught him watching her with that unique smoldering gaze that did strange things to her insides. There was something very compelling about him. Something that made her want to feel his arms around her—despite the imprudence of it— more with each passing day. He was standing amid a group of sailors, speaking companionably, a part of the group, and yet somehow set apart. Wherever he was, no matter how many people there were around him, Quinn seemed somehow alone. Not lonely, but solitary. As though something within him scorned the need for companionship that plagued lesser mortals. As though he cared nothing for anybody, but could take them or leave them with equanimity. As though he didn't feel he deserved friendship or affection. Now where had that thought come from? If there was any man who looked in less need of her sympathy, it was Quinn. Singai watched as the sea breeze freshened, tugging a few strands of his ebony hair from the queue at the nape of his neck. The strands whipped against his face and fastened there, no doubt caught on the abrasive surface of his whisker-shadowed cheek. She'd noticed that he shaved every morning without fail, and yet by midafternoon, his cheeks were once again stubbled. She watched now as he brushed the strands away and continued his conversation. Her gaze switched to the crewmen with whom he spoke. In observing the people around him over the past days, she'd noticed that the men never quite lost their reserve, as though some instinct told them they had to be wary of this swarthy solitary man. These crewmen were no exception. Although they were unfailingly polite, even cordial, they were guarded. Singai frowned thoughtfully. And yet she had noticed no such reservation among the women. In fact, the women seemed fascinated by him, drawn to him. Especially the lady physician. Singai scanned the deck, seeking the attractive woman whom she now knew as M alene. Sure enough, the physician stood at the rail, her avid gaze fixed, not on the ocean, but on Quinn. Singai felt a surge of emotion, foreign and unpleasant, and frowned as she sought to examine it. Possessiveness! Jealousy! Why would she feel these things when she had no right to feel anything at all concerning Quinn? "All passengers below decks!" The bellow startled her from her thoughts, and she focused her surprised gaze on the captain's

deck. "Is something wrong?" Aleida asked. She gave the young girl's shoulders a squeeze. "I don't know, but we'd best do as the captain says." Other passengers were already making their way below deck. She and Aleida, ensconced in the stern, would have to hurry if they didn't want to be the last. As Singai rose and gently pulled Aleida to her feet, her eyes scanned the ship and the seas around it seeking a possible reason for the order. But she saw nothing. How peculiar! And then her gaze panned upward to the sails overhead. A number of crewmen hung in the rigging, their gazes all intently fastened in the same direction. Alarm bells began to clang in her mind. What did they see? Fear began to claw at her. "Hurry, Aleida!" Why did the child have to choose now to dawdle? Holding the girl's hand firmly in hers, she began to pull her across the deck. "Wait!" she called breathlessly after Singai. "M y shoe—" "You can get it later. Hurry!" Singai ordered as she continued to tow the resisting girl in her wake. They had reached the area parallel with the com-panionway and were crossing the deck to join the last of the passengers descending to cabin level when there was a spine-chilling shout from overhead. "Beware! Prozel!" Without stopping, Singai looked over her shoulder. "Magar!" she breathed as the sun glinted off of the blue-green scales of the mammoth sea monster. The prozel was one of the largest she'd ever heard of, but then it would have to be to have been attracted to a ship of this size. It rose out of the water to a height easily equal to that of the center mast, and it seemed entirely capable of floating alongside the ship that way without difficulty. It stared down at the deck of the ship with flat, lifeless black eyes as large as a wine barrel. At least twenty of its scores of huge, long snakelike tentacles fanned the air around its massive round head. Singai caught a glimpse of its comparatively small beaklike mouth and shuddered. The monster's mouth was still large enough to swallow a man whole. The entire observation took seconds, and Singai gripped Aleida more firmly as she raced toward the open hatch. There was enough life in the oceans to feed these things. Why did they insist on preying on humans every chance they got? And then Aleida must have looked back, must have seen the leviathan seeking to devour them, for she screamed. And screamed. And screamed. Singai continued to tug at her, but Aleida had become a dead weight at the end of her arm, slowing her to a crawl. Frustration sawed at her, even as the young woman's screams frayed her nerves. Aleida was almost full grown and destined to be much taller than Singai; she was too big for her to carry. And yet, somehow, she had to get the girl and herself to safety. There was no one near enough to help, and she'd lost sight of Quinn long ago. Abruptly Singai halted. Ignoring the threat of the prozel, she concentrated only on getting to safety. Yanking Aleida around to face her, she slapped the girl, shocking her into silence. "Quiet!" she barked. "Your screams will only attract it. Now you must hurry!" Before she'd even seen the girl's nod, she tugged her back into motion. She'd scarcely gone three steps when Aleida screamed again and stopped so suddenly that her hand was torn from Singai's grasp. Singai halted and looked back to see what the problem was, but. . . Aleida was gone. With terror clawing for purchase in her brain, Singai looked for the screaming girl, allowed her horrified gaze to be drawn up to the monster that hovered over the ship. For an instant, she could only stare in horror. Aleida hung from one of the creature's tentacles. She saw the appendage begin to bunch, tightening around the girl, and in the next instant, Aleida's screaming stopped and she went limp in the monster's grasp. "No!" Singai screamed. No! She wouldn't stand by and watch another young person die for a sea monster's meal. Her hand went to the short sword at her waist, but it took only an instant to decide that it would be useless. Heedless of the fact that she was betraying her Sotah vocation to anybody still above decks who might take heed, she pulled Ven-Gura from the baldric concealed beneath her trader's robes. Ven-Gura— I am aware, Singai. I am going to throw you at the prozel's eye. If I can blind it, perhaps it will drop Aleida. A slight pause. I will have to see through your eyes, Singai, in order to be able to correct my trajectory. And if I penetrate too deeply into the creature's flesh, I may find it difficult to return to you. Singai drew back her arm, aiming the gleaming golden weapon at the leviathan from the deep. If you cannot return to me, Ven-Gura, then I will find a way to come to you. We must do this. I understand. Singai felt her companion's presence in her mind, tangible now as he used her senses to see and hear the events taking place. Then, with a leap, she raced forward, wanting to get as close as possible, adding her momentum to Ven-Gura's speed, before releasing the weapon. Her plan failed. Before she could release the broadsword, she felt herself gripped around the torso and plucked from the deck of the ship. "No!" she screamed in rage, as she hacked at the near impervious scaled limb with her sword. It was this scene that Daemon confronted as he launched himself up the companionway and out of the hatch, Barak in hand. He'd made one of the gravest errors of his life by leaving the weapon in the cabin, where it would not draw unnecessary attention and questions. But there was no way now to go back and undo the error. The instant he'd realized there was trouble, he raced against time to collect the weapon, hoping against hope that it wouldn't be needed. But his hopes were in vain. The creature—holding three people in its grasp: the young girl that Singai had befriended, a crewman, and Singai—was already beginning to slow, backing away from the ship. "No!" As he recognized Singai's slender form clutched in the grasp of the leviathan's tentacle, an icy fear the like of which he'd never before experienced raced through his veins. There was no room in his mind for thoughts of fear for himself. No room for anything save one all consuming thought: He had to save her or die trying. To do that, he had to draw the creature's attention for a few more seconds; he had to keep it from submerging with its prey. He rushed forward, waving his arms to attract its notice. "Hey, you bastard!" He shouted in English, unaware that he did. Knowing only that he had to make noise. "Why don't you try me on for size!"

It worked! The sea monster moved forward, hovering over the ship like some huge dark demon. Daemon didn't hesitate. Triggering the Barak's laser whip to its longest length—a setting rarely used because it tended to be more difficult to control—he sent it flailing toward one of the tentacles that clutched a human form. In the next instant, there was a horrible rumbling howl as a severed tentacle and an unconscious human form plunged into the ocean waters. A glance told him it was the crewman, but he could do no more for him now. It would be up to his shipmates to pull him from the waters. Daemon was vaguely aware of shouts behind him. Of men racing across the deck. Of the ship slowing as sails were lowered. The creature, enraged now, somehow sensing that he was the source of its pain, sent a tentacle flashing down toward him, but he was ready for it. He lashed at it. Due to the angle of the attack, the laser didn't amputate the appendage, but cleaved it into two useless segments. Once again the creature released an unearthly howl that reverberated around him. He ignored it and took a split second to study the situation. Singai was still struggling in the creature's grasp— alive!—but the girl was unconscious. How much more could she take? His brain processed the information on a fraction of an instant, and before the monster's howl had even reached its crescendo, he sent the whip flashing toward the tentacle that held Aleida. A scant second later, the appendage with the girl still entwined fell rather heavily to the deck of the ship. Daemon winced inwardly. Fortunately the distance had been no more than twenty feet or so. Provided she had not struck her head, Aleida should have survived the fall. He hoped. But again, he had no time to do anything more to aid her. Not yet. Not while Singai was still in that thing's clutches. He readied the Barak, but the immense beast was backing off, wary now of this tiny man creature that could inflict so much pain and injury. "Not yet you son of a bitch," Daemon murmured beneath his breath as he raced toward the stern of the ship, trying to close the distance that the creature had put between itself and him. "I'm not through with you yet." The leviathan slowed its retreat, attracted despite itself to his movement, and without hesitation, Quinn let the laser whip fly. It barely reached the tentacle. For an instant, he had thought it wouldn't. That he had failed. And then he saw the tentacle loosen, saw it collapse to hang loosely by a mere thread of tough scaled flesh, and Singai was falling into the blue-black waters of the Thadonian ocean. The sea monster roared its rage and pain one last time, then sank beneath the roiling swells. Daemon uttered a brief, fervent prayer that the beast would not return; then, without a second thought, he grabbed two of the small life preservers that lined the deck and plunged into the ocean after Singai. Icy water swirled around his head before he broke the surface. Buoyed by the life preserver around his torso, he searched the waters for a sign of Singai. Nothing. The huge swells of the ocean waters kept him from seeing her. But certain of her general position before he'd dived, he swam in the direction he knew she had been. Finally the waves shifted in a manner that enabled him to catch sight of her. Having somehow managed to replace her weapon in its sheath and divest herself of the hampering folds of the yellow burnous she'd worn that day, she was swimming toward the ship. "Singai!" She turned her head slightly. Their eyes met. And then the waves separated them again. He continued to swim toward where he'd last seen her. Seconds stretched into minutes that seemed like an eternity. He kept a wary eye out for dangers lurking beneath the surface as he fought his way to the crest of a swell. Finally, he reached her. "Here," he said breathlessly-as he passed her the spare life preserver. "Put this on." As soon as she had done as bidden, he secured the two preservers together so they couldn't be separated again by the whim of an oceanic current, and he turned his attention toward the ship and rescue. The swells were large. He couldn't see a lifeboat, but a number of crew lined the rails of the ship, shouting and pointing to Quinn's right. Excruciatingly long moments later, they caught sight of the rescue craft. And then there were hands pulling them aboard. *** As soon as they were back aboard the ship, someone wrapped them in thick blankets and thrust a hot, spicy beverage into their hands. Daemon almost burned his fingers on the cup, but never took his eyes from Singai's pale face, blue-tinged lips, and chattering teeth. Was she all right? "Aleida?" she asked, concern clouding her features. "She'll be fine." It was the lady physician's voice. "Her ribs are badly bruised, and she has a slight concussion, but she'll recover." Singai nodded wearily and closed her eyes as she sipped the hot beverage. Quinn experienced a powerful urge to scoop her up into his arms, rush with her to their cabin, and care for her. He fought it, telling himself that she was in capable hands. That the worst thing he could do would be to get that close to her. If he didn't watch it, before he knew it he might actually begin to care about her. And that would be disastrous. But all his internal arguments faded into obscurity when he saw Singai rise to her feet and sway. Brushing aside the helping hands of the crew, he caught her in his arms and carried her below. Although he was forced to allow her to negotiate the narrow companionway on her own, he descended with her, supporting her until they reached the lower deck, where he lifted her into his arms again. To his surprise, she uttered not one word of argument against his solicitude. That worried him. Kicking the door to their cabin closed, he carried her to her bunk and gently set her down. The darkness of late afternoon was descending, and he hastily activated the lumo-gel lamps to combat the shadows of-the cabin before turning back to Singai. Her wet clothing—and no doubt his as well— had soaked through the thick fabric of the blanket, dampening it. Her body was racked with shudders. Her hair hung in wet rat-tail braids the color of old copper. Her nose was red with cold and her lips were just beginning to lose that awful bluish cast. Yet to him, she had never looked more appealing. His heart gave a strange thud that was even more terrifying to him than the frantic tempo it had adopted earlier when he'd first seen her in the monster's grasp. That he'd attributed to the possible loss of his contract. This . . . this he would ignore. Kneeling at her side, he smoothed a strand of hair back from her pale cheek with a finger that was more gentle than it ought to have been. Was this woman with the Amazon heart getting beneath his skin? Had she somehow wormed her way into a place of

importance in his life when he wasn't looking? Daemon immediately scoffed at the idea. He was attracted to her—that was all. It had been a long time since he'd had a woman, and Singai was most definitely a woman. Abruptly, her hand fought its way up through the folds of the blanket to cover his, to press his palm against her cheek. He watched her from some distant, detached part of himself, and realized that she was coming to care for him. How or why, he didn't understand. No doubt, she was falling for some fantasized composite she'd manufactured in her mind. "I thought that I would die without—" She shuddered and hiccuped slightly and the words froze in her throat. "Thank you, Quinn." Saints! Didn't she know yet that he didn't have a heroic bone in his body? That he didn't do a damn thing that didn't suit his own purposes? "Don't look at me as though I'm some kind of hero, Singai. I have a contract to fulfill, remember?" He ignored the flash of hurt in her eyes. Her pain would keep her safe. "And right now, you need to get out of those wet things before you die of a chill." He paused for a moment in indecision. She was shuddering so badly he was certain she wouldn't be able to undress herself. Yet the last thing he needed right now was to play lady's maid. The sight of Singai's nude body now, when his resistance was so low, could prove disastrous for both of them. "Can you manage?" She studied him a moment, those tropical-blue eyes of hers searching for answers to questions he didn't even understand. Then she nodded. "Y-yes, of c-course," she murmured. "Thank you." But she couldn't. He'd moved across the room and turned his back to offer her privacy. Yet even from that distance, he heard her chattering teeth and the frustrated sounds she made as she struggled to disrobe her shudder-racked body. Biting back a curse, he turned, saw that she'd managed to get nowhere, and moved back across the cabin to help her. He intended to accomplish the task with brisk, impersonal efficiency. But somehow, when he looked down into her fragile features, the intention deserted him. With a gentleness he had not known he possessed, Daemon withdrew the wet blanket and hung the baldric containing her sword companion from the hook where she always kept it. He was faintly surprised that she'd managed to hold on to the weapon, but he supposed that—not even for life—would she have let her companion sink to the bottom of the sea. As he aided her in removing her sodden tunic and trousers, he tried not to notice the beautiful white globes of her breasts with their cold-puckered coral nipples. He tried not to notice the burnished red curls clustered at the juncture of her thighs to hide her womanly secrets. He tried not to notice her long, pale, elegant legs. But... he failed. By the time Singai was clad in her night shift and snuggled beneath the dry blankets of her bunk. Daemon had an erection the size of the damned sea monster that had caused all this. And, he felt contemptible for thinking of her in that way when her only need was warmth. He turned away, seeking a reason to leave her for a moment, to regain control. His eyes lit on the table. "You need something warm to drink. I'll see if they have any more of that spicy drink." "It's c-c-called rhelet," she said from her cocoon. "But you sh-should ch-change your own clothing f-f-first, or you may t-take a fever your-self." He looked down at his own sodden clothing in surprise. "Yes, I guess I'd better." He was perhaps more accustomed to cold oceanic swims than Singai was, for he'd often taken part in the Fortunan endurance swim, but it said something for her capacity to affect him that he hadn't even noticed his cold and discomfort. He winced as he bent to root through his belongings for a change of clothes. Of course, he had more pressing concerns at the moment. After selecting some dry clothing, he stepped into the small lavatory to change. Then, feeling much more comfortable despite his still heightened state of arousal, he went in search of the rhelet. He returned a short time later to find Singai shuddering almost uncontrollably beneath the blankets. He touched her forehead and cheeks with concern. They were cold. Frowning he lifted the blanket enough to check the temperature of her arms. Ice cold. Damn! He was no doctor, but he knew that she needed to be warmed up quickly. The question was how? Trying to conceal the depths of his concern, he said, "Here's the rhelet." Sitting near her head, he aided her into a sitting position and held the cup for her as she managed a few sips. When she was finished, he took a few sips himself and rose to set the remaining beverage on the table. "Quinn?" "Yes?" "S-sleep with me?" Daemon froze. Despite the fact that he knew she was ill, his traitorous mind immediately conjured up all the secret fantasies that had been tormenting him. He swallowed. Saints help him! She must have sensed his hesitation. "I'm just a-asking y-you to hold me, Quinn." Of course, she was asking him to warm her. And she was right; shared body heat was the best cure for the kind of cold from which she suffered. But... Daemon swallowed again and glanced skyward wondering which errant saint had devised this torment for him, and what sin, in particular, he would be atoning for. "Of course, Singai," he managed to say in an even tone.

Chapter Eight It was two hours before Singai stopped shuddering. Two hours before she began to sleep normally in Daemon's arms. Two hours of heavenly hell for him as his body reacted to her proximity without the slightest consideration for the seriousness of the situation. Ignoring his unruly cravings for the moment, he promised himself that as soon as she was well, he was going to forget his agreement, seduce her, and work this passion he held for her completely out of his system. Finally, his own eyes closed, and he dozed. It might have been an hour later or it might have been five minutes later when he came awake with a shock as a surge of sensation, propelled outward from his loins, rocketed through him like a jolt of electricity.

His eyes flew open and his gaze encountered a pair of the most attractive blue eyes he'd ever seen. He found himself mesmerized, incapable of looking away. The color had returned to Singai's complexion. Her lips were once again a lush coral. Her complexion once again looked like thick, rich cream. And her eyes sparkled with vitality. At the moment, her cheeks were slightly flushed, but the flush was easily recognizable as being engendered by nothing more sinister than simple embarrassment, for when her eyes dropped from his the blush intensified. "I'm sorry," she murmured in that thick wild-honey voice of hers. "I was shifting position. I... I didn't mean to wake you." For a moment. Daemon's voice eluded him. And when it returned, he'd forgotten what he was going to say, what she had said that required a response. He'd forgotten everything but the consuming need to taste her. "Look at me, Singai," he murmured. She swallowed audibly and shook her head. Placing a finger beneath her chin, he raised her head slightly. "Look at me, Cynyr." Without evening thinking, he'd called her by the Thadonian word meaning honey; that was, after all, what she'd reminded him of from the start. But on Thadonia, where such endearments were never used, his words generated shock. Singai's eyes shot up to his. "Cynyr? Why do you call me by the name of a food?" He smiled slightly and ignored the voice of reason in his mind. The voice that told him he shouldn't callously seduce this woman just because he wanted her. Reason be damned! And with one gentle fingertip, he traced the line of her throat. "Because," he replied, "you have a voice as thick and rich as wild honey." His finger moved up to trace the line of her cheek. "Your skin is as creamy as the whipped honey in Sulaiv." His eyes swept over her tousled braids. "Your hair is the color of the spicy honey they sell in the markets in Cylon. And"—his thumb moved over her lips while his voice lowered to a murmur—"you taste as sweet as the finest honey." Singai's breath caught audibly, and she licked her lips. The pulse beneath her ear fluttered wildly under his fingers, and he thought cynically that he hadn't lost his touch. He'd always known, instinctively, what words to say to a woman to make her his. "So," Singai said, her voice no more than a whisper of sound, "this is the heart name you have chosen to know me by?" Quinn cocked his head slightly, studying her intently. "Is that what I've done? Bestowed a heart name?" Singai nodded, her eyes never leaving his. "Then, yes. Cynyr is the name I think of you as." Singai thought about it for a moment. "I suppose that, after being described so flatteringly in comparison to the cynyr, I can hardly be insulted by being compared to a food." She nodded. "I think I like it." "Good." "Quinn?" "Hmmm?" he murmured. He lowered his head to nuzzle her ear. Felt her shiver as the warmth of his breath feathered over the sensitive area. "What is your heart name?" "Daemon," he whispered as his tongue touched her earlobe. She gasped in reaction to his touch. She was so responsive, so unconsciously seductive. "M y name is Daemon." "Daemon," she repeated breathlessly. "I—" "Shush, honey," he murmured. And then his hunger for her lips could no longer be held at bay. He was hard and hot with wanting what he'd foolishly told himself he could not have. He would have had better luck in trying to stop his heart through sheer force of will than he did in trying to deny himself a taste of her sweet mouth any longer. As his tongue delved between her lips, Singai quaked in his arms. Her hips flexed, rocking against him briefly as she moaned deep in her throat. And he knew she wanted him too. He tightened his arms around her, pressing her body to his, letting her feel the length and breadth of his sex against her soft abdomen. Letting her feel the extent of his desire for her. Letting her feel an infinitesimal fraction of the pleasure he could give her. For lovemaking was like everything else he did. If he was going to be bothered doing it at all, he prided himself on doing it well. But Singai's reaction was not what he expected. Rather than melting against him, she stiffened, drawing away from him slightly. Puzzled, he lifted his head to look down into her eyes and saw fear reflected there. Why would she fear him? Surely she v.'asn't still a virgin? "Singai?" He began to ask her that highly personal question, but she interrupted him. "I'm sorry," she murmured breathlessly. "I thought I could do this, but I... I can't." "What's the matter, Cynyr?" She lowered her eyes from his, took a breath as though to say something, then merely shook her head. "Nothing. It's nothing to do with you. It's me." Pulling out of his embrace, she distanced herself as much as possible on the narrow bed. "I'm sorry. I just. . . can't." He stared at her, trying to interpret the signs he was reading, but it was impossible. He would simply have to ask. "Are you ... a virgin?" Her gaze flew up to meet his as her cheeks flamed with color. "No! It's not that." "What then, Singai? I don't like mysteries. Remember?" She shook her head, once again avoiding his gaze. "It's not something I talk about." Daemon sat up, his eyes on the glossy surface of the cabin wall. He had little doubt that he could convince her to talk . . . eventually. He had extensive powers of persuasion that seldom failed him. The question he faced now was, did he want to? Did he want to know the deep dark secrets of her life? Did he want to risk coming to know her that well? It smacked of caring, of the closeness of friendship. And that was one trap he'd vowed never to fall into again. Perhaps this was one mystery that would best remain unsolved. "Are you angry?" Singai's soft query intruded on his thoughts. He looked over to where she'd scooted up into a sitting position to lean against the bulkhead, and he met her solemn gaze. "No," he said. "Intrigued. A bit puzzled, perhaps. But not angry." "It's not you, Daemon. Really. It's just that—" She took a deep breath as though gathering her resources, and he knew she was going to try to tell him. Part of him waited, curious and intrigued as to what she might say, while part of him felt like clamping a

hand over her mouth to forestall her. "I was raped once, a long time ago, Daemon, and I—" She sighed and picked at an imaginary piece of lint on the bedcovering. "It was the summer I turned fifteen. I had been taken in by a family for a few months to help with the younger children in exchange for board and education. It's a common enough arrangement and one that older orphans often take advantage of. Anyway, they had a daughter, Traesha, who was only a few months younger than I, and we became good friends. "One day, Traesha's mother asked us to go to the market to get a few things for her. We had purchased the items and were lingering a bit, enjoying the freedom of being away from adult supervision, when two very handsome young men approached us. They flirted and teased us unmercifully while all the time they lured us farther and farther away from the busy marketplace. Looking back now, I can hardly believe how naive we were. We were so flattered by their attention, for they were young men not boys, and by the time we realized that we were far from the crowds and safety, it was too late." Singai's throat worked with emotion, and Daemon thought that perhaps she wouldn't go on. She really didn't need to, for he understood clearly what must have happened that day. Or thought he did until she spoke her next words. "There were three more men in the alley where they took us. Dark, strong men in a shadowed and smelly alley; the buildings around us were abandoned. There was no one to hear our screams. No one to help. And soon we stopped screaming because they enjoyed our fear, laughed at our screams." She closed her eyes and her throat worked again. "When night came, they drank and drank until they were so drunk they passed out. It was our chance to get away and we took it, but we were different people when we left that alley from when we'd entered it." "I understand," Daemon murmured. It was the only comfort he could offer. "Do you?" she asked. "I can't make love with . . . with—" Her hands fluttered as though she might catch the word she needed floating by, but it wasn't there and she fell silent. "With whom?" he found himself asking. "M e?" She shook her head. "No. With . . . dark men, with strong men." Something within Daemon grew still. He knew now what she was trying to say. Dark men. Strong men. M en capable of violence. M en like Varek Auls. And himself? Something writhed in that deep dark hole within himself at the thought of anybody thinking him capable of that kind of violence against women. And that Singai should feel that. .. . Saints above! Had he become so very villainous? Did he seem that dangerous? What would his sweet young wife have thought of him were she capable of seeing him now? But his mind shied away from the question, afraid of the answer. He looked at Singai and realized, for the first time in his life, that he was a coward, for he wanted nothing more than to run. He wanted to run from the banked fear in her eyes. Run from the correlation his mind was now drawing between his gentle young wife and this young female warrior— because of their similar suffering. And he wanted to run from the feelings she was stirring up inside him. Things he'd sworn never to feel again. Ten-.demess, compassion . . . caring. But already those hated emotions were prompting thoughts completely foreign to the man he had become in the last eight years, questions alien to the man he was comfortable being. Could he give Singai what he'd been unable to give Corinda? Could he give Singai back the piece of her soul that had been stolen? Could he, in some way, restore her faith in men? He almost laughed. How was he, a man who was no longer certain he could find his own soul, to help a woman like Singai recover hers? It was a daunting task. One suited to a much better man than he. And he should leave it to him. But the challenge of awakening her to lovemaking as it was meant to be experienced fascinated him. And he sensed it would be an awakening, for it was control that made Singai feel safe. And with him, she would have to relinquish that control. "Singai?" She shifted to meet his gaze. "Yes?" "Do you really believe that I would hurt you?" She studied him for a moment. Then she shook her head. "No, intellectually, I don't believe you would. But in here"—she touched her finger to her chest—"I'm not so sure. I knew it would be this way. That's why I've never let myself get close to anyone before." His senses sharpened at that. "So what was different this time?" "I—" Shaking her head, she fell silent and began to pick at the blanket. The fool in him was determined to pursue the matter. "I'm very attracted to you, Singai. You know that, don't you?" She hesitated and then nodded. He sensed her confusion almost palpably. It was probably the first time since she'd become Sotah that she'd encountered such a situation, and her warrior's heart knew only one thing: to fight. And so she fought any emotion connected with the surrender of love-making. Because she could not trust. "Are you attracted to me, Singai? She looked at him now, her eyes fierce in her pale face. "Yes. You know I am. I wanted this. I thought I could do it. But—" "You're afraid," he finished for her. "Of me." "No!" Her eyes closed. "Yes." Her fingers closed into fists on the blanket. "I don't know. M aybe." "Do you trust me, Singai?" Once again, she met his gaze with a fierce expression. "I don't know. Why?" He considered her. "If you want me to, I'll find them and kill them for you." She smiled slightly at that, her lips curving into a taut line. "Thank you, but that won't be necessary. They're already dead." He wondered briefly exactly what they had done to her, then remembered that he really didn't want to know. Besides, he received the distinct impression that Singai had exacted her own revenge, exorcised her own demons. He reached over to brush a tendril of hair from her cheek. "I'm going to seduce you, Singai." Her shocked gaze flew up to connect with his. "I'm going to make love to you like you've never been loved before. And you're not going to be afraid of me because you're going to be too busy enjoying yourself. There's only one thing you have to do." "What's that?" she whispered. "Trust me," he said as he stroked the soft line of her jaw with a gentle finger. "Can you do that?" She hesitated. "We have no future together, Daemon. You know that as well as I." There was no future for him with any woman, but he said nothing of that. He merely shrugged and said, "So we'll take and enjoy the time we have."

"No lies?" she asked. "No false promises?" "No lies or false promises," he assured her. "You have my word." "All right," she said. "Then I will do my best to trust you." He smiled slightly. "Good," he said, and he rose to seek his own bunk. He could feel Singai's eyes on him. "Quinn?" He turned to meet her confused expression. "I thought. . ." She trailed off uncertainly. "I said I was going to seduce you, Singai. If you know when it's going to happen, or what's coming, it's not much of a seduction." "Oh." He heard the disappointment in her voice and decided that this was going to go very well. Oh, yes, very well indeed. Anticipation was one of the most powerful aphrodisiacs. After turning out the lamps, he removed his shirt and crawled into bed. *** A strange rhythmic tapping drew Singai slowly up from the depths of sleep. Looking across the cabin, she wondered why Quinn didn't stir. He was normally as alert as she, maybe even more so. She shifted. The insistent tapping was coming from the door, but it didn't sound like a knock. What was it? The tapping at the cabin door began again and she rose a bit crankily to investigate. It was still dark, and she was very tired. She jerked the portal open impatiently, prepared to tell whoever it was to either knock properly or not bother. But the second the door was open. Daemon's M orar flew past her, so close that he skimmed her face with his wings. Turning, she saw that the creature had taken up a position at the end of Daemon's cot and sat looking at his master. Some nuance of its posture told Singai it was worried. And that worry transmitted itself to Singai. Barely conscious of her action, she closed the door, activated the lamps, and moved across the cabin to Quinn's side. He didn't stir. Bending closer, she could feel the heat radiating from his body. He was on fire with fever! Her hand explored his face. He moaned slightly, but remained caught in the grip of feverish sleep, his cheeks flushed and hot. His lips were already cracked and dry as the fever seared him from the inside out. Oh, Magar! He'd caught what the Thadonian people called Ocean Fever. When she'd sat, racked by chills, Singai had feared that she might get it, but had prayed that she would not. Fully a third of the people who caught the fever after swimming in the cold Thadonian oceans died. Now guilt and worry crept out of the dark comers of her mind to claw at her. If one of them had to get the fever, it should have been her. With Ven-Gura's help, it was unlikely she would have died. And she would gladly have taken the suffering onto herself to save herself the fear of Daemon's death. He would not even be sick if he hadn't jumped into the cold ocean water to rescue her. And had he not taken care of her first, drying her, warming her, he might have avoided the dangerous chill. She rushed to the small lavatory and poured tepid water from the pitcher into a basin. The M orar watched closely as she began to sponge Daemon's face in an attempt to lower his fever. She hesitated before lowering the sheet and beginning to bathe his upper body. It was the first time she'd seen his powerful chest naked, for he never removed his shirt until the cabin was dark. But he had an extremely attractive chest, she decided. The M orar continued to observe every move she made, but Singai barely noticed its presence. She was too intent on restoring Quinn to health. He would not be safe until the fever broke, and that could take anywhere from one day to three days. If the fever broke. But she refused to think that way. The fever would break because it had to. She refused to consider the possibility that she might lose this man when she had just found him. The day was long. She left Daemon's side only to get more water and to request some broth from the galley to spoon between his lips. It was during her last foray to the galley that the cook informed her that the seaman who'd also fallen in the water during Quinn's rescue had died of the fever. Her worry compounded. Quinn might need all his strength to fight this, but he was a stronger man than the seaman. He would win. He had to. He'd promised to seduce her, and she was going to hold him to it. The day left the way it had arrived, with Daemon clutched in the grip of the deadly fever. Needing to sponge his back as well, Singai lifted his big body as well as she was able and propped a pillow behind him to keep him from rolling back. That was when she noticed the scars. They were old scars, ridged and white with the passage of time, but they'd once been deep and painful. The marks crisscrossed his back like . . . like the marks of a whip or a switch. But who could have whipped him and why? she wondered as she wiped a cool cloth over the ancient injuries. M oments later, Singai rose and activated the lumo-gel containers, but beyond that, she scarcely noticed the passage of time as she worked continuously, tirelessly. He was slipping farther into unconsciousness, farther away from her. His big body shuddered and shook. His breath had begun to wheeze in and out of his lungs. And his face was red with the internal fire generated by the sickness. Magar! She had to do something. She looked at Ven-Gura hanging on the wall. What can I do? Use the power of Sotah that is within you, my friend. Give him your strength. Singai's gaze returned to Quinn. Yes! Why hadn't she thought of it. By using the power of Sotah, which sought balance in all things, she could share her strength with Daemon and add to the force fighting the fever. It was something Sotah warriors rarely did, except in extreme circumstances, for it left them weakened and vulnerable. But it appeared that there was no alternative. Not if she wanted Quinn to survive. And that was something she wanted so much that the strength of the wanting terrified her. The M orar creature made a noise, drawing her attention for the first time in hours. The noise had sounded like a word, but she didn't understand the language. Of course, whatever words the creature spoke would be uttered in the language of its world. She shook her head at it and shrugged, conveying her lack of understanding. At that, the M orar moved to the floor in front of Quinn's cot and began to tug with its clawed feet at the bag stowed securely beneath it. With a glance at her patient to ensure he would be all right for a minute without her at his side, Singai rose and moved to pull out the bag for the M orar, wondering at its intent. Releasing the fastenings on the soft-sided case, she sat back on her haunches to await some sign from the creature as to what it was trying to tell her. It immediately began clawing at a smaller black container with a large red cross emblazoned on its side. Following the creature's

lead, she opened it and immediately recognized its contents as medicinal. She sighed in discouragement. There was no medicinal treatment for Ocean Fever. Had there been a hope of anything medicinal working, she would have called the physician. But the people who recovered from this virulent fever did so on their own. None of the Thadonian herbs or drugs had ever worked. She grew still, repeating her own thought in her mind. None of the Thadonian herbs and drugs had ever worked. But what she held in her hand were not Thadonian drugs. They were Earth medicines. Frantically, she began lifting the bottles and vials from the case, checking their contents. But she couldn't read them. This was useless. Hopeless. How could she give something to him without knowing what it was? How it would work? She sat back on her haunches again in despair. The M orar squawked at her and cocked its head. It was no doubt seeking to understand why she wasn't leaping to Quinn's aid with the bounty she'd been provided. She frowned down into the medicine case in her hands. Zyk! There had to be a way. The physician! If she, like many of the Thadonian physicians, had been accepting training from the Earthers, perhaps she would be able to read the labels. Or failing that, perhaps she might recognize the drugs. Excited by the possibility, she leapt to her feet. "Stay with Quinn," she said to the M orar. Then she was out of the cabin and working her way down the narrow corridor to the cabin from which she'd seen the physician emerge many times. M alene opened the door almost immediately, and Singai wasted no time on preamble. "Do you know what any of these are?" she asked, thrusting the small case beneath the physician's nose. "Will any of them help against the Ocean Fever?" The physician stared at her a moment in startlement. "The man named Quinn has the Ocean Fever?" "Yes." Singai shook the case she still held before M alene to draw her attention to it. Very calmly, and much too slowly from Singai's point of view, the physician took the case, set it on the table, and began to examine its contents. M alene picked up each small receptacle, examined the label and then the contents. Still, she said nothing. "Well?" Singai demanded impatiently. The physician turned back to face her. "There are some of what the Earthers call antibiotics here. They may well help. I don't believe they can do any harm if taken properly." "Tell me what to do." M alene held up one bottle full of tiny pinkish capsule-shaped pills. "I would try giving him two of these four times a day." Singai frowned. "He may not be able to swallow them. I'm barely getting liquids into him." "Crush them. Put the powder into his mouth, and give him a small amount of water." With a quick nod, Singai retrieved the medical case, absently thanked the physician, and rushed back to Daemon's side. She would do both, she decided. Help him to fight the fever with his Earth medicines and, utilizing the power of Sotah, share her strength with him. That way, he would be sure to triumph against the fever. Crushing the pills as she'd been directed, Singai knelt at the bedside and tipped the powder into his mouth from the palm of her hand before dribbling a small amount of water into his mouth. In a convulsive, involuntary action, he swallowed, and she sponged his feverish body down again. Then, satisfied that she'd once again done all that she could do for a time, she sat back on her heels to settle into the meditative state that was required for her to be able to share her strength with him. She lay her hands on Daemon's too warm chest, palm down, and centered, expanding her own energy, allowing the perceptions of the body beneath her hands to penetrate deep into her mind and access the power of Sotah. Almost immediately, she could feel Sotah moving through her, into the body she touched, enveloping them both in its radiant strength. A shimmering field of energy encompassed them, equalizing and balancing all that was within its scope. It was one of the most basic disciplines of Sotah: symmetry in all things. As soon as Singai felt the drain of her energy cease, she knew she had done all that she could for Quinn. Brushing his ebony hair back from his fevered brow, she studied the man who had come to mean so much to her in such a short span of time. How was this possible? And how would she survive when he left? But she refused to think about that now. The important thing was that he live. After that. . . after that, she would face whatever came as it came. Singai woke with a start, surprised to discover that she'd fallen asleep. But she should have realized that the drain of her energy would make it difficult to stay alert. Now she jumped to her feet to check on her patient. His entire body was drenched with sweat. The fever had broken! Just to be on the safe side, she pulverized a couple more pills and coaxed Quinn into swallowing. He began muttering deliriously, words in another language that held no meaning for her. She listened absently until she heard one word she recognized: her own name. What was he saying about her? she wondered as she studied his darkly handsome face. Squawk! Her eyes flew to the M orar once again perched at the foot of the cot watching over Quinn. "Yes. He's going to get better," she said, aware that the animal probably couldn't understand her. But the words themselves made her feel better, almost triumphant. They had fought the fever, and they were winning. It was midaftemoon of the next day before Quinn regained consciousness. Except for a slight residual flush, the fever had relinquished its grip on him. He blinked and slowly turned his head to look at Singai. "What happened?" His voice cracked with the strain of disuse and weakness. "You have had Ocean Fever." He frowned. "Ocean Fever?" She nodded. "It's something many people get after swimming in our oceans. Especially if their immune system is in any way stressed." He seemed to nod slightly in understanding, then closed his eyes. "How are you feeling?" she asked. He made a slight movement that Singai interpreted as a shrug. "That depends on whether this is the beginning or the end. Am I getting worse or better?" Singai allowed a small smile to touch her lips. "You've already been through the worst. You're getting better." He nodded. "Thank the saints for that," he murmured. "I feel like I've been trampled by a herd of dyre." Within the next few hours, Daemon began to fervently wish that he could have remained unconscious throughout his entire recovery. Every touch of Singai's hands as she continued to sponge the perspiration from his body became pure torture. He was painfully aroused but too damned weak to do anything about it. Why did that part of him have to be the first to recover? It was

embarrassing, not to mention agonizingly frustrating. If Singai noticed his suffering—which he didn't see how she could have failed to do considering how personal some other ministrations had been— she tactfully avoided mentioning it. Finally, it grew late. Assuring her that he was well on the road to recovery and that he could now survive without constant care, he insisted that Singai take to her bunk and get some rest. She was looking frazzled. By early the next morning, Quinn felt much better although, to his chagrin, he was still so weak that he had to support himself by holding on to the walls and furniture in order to make it to the lavatory. Just the short trip there and back had made him break out in another of the cold sweats that seemed to be the fever's manner of leaving his system. Singai, of course, had awakened at his slight movement and had insisted on helping him back to the cot whereupon she immediately set about sponging the sweat from his body again. "Go away." He was not in the best of moods, to say the least. He tried to push her hands away, hut she simply ignored him. "The fever sweat must be washed away," she argued, "or the sickness may return." And by the time she was finished, he was once again fully aroused. He wanted nothing more than to bury his swollen shaft within her soft sheath. To make slow tender love to her. And to feel the rippling and quaking of her body as he brought her to fulfillment. But his fantasizing only made things worse, and a moan of frustration tore its way up through his throat. "Are you in pain?" He swallowed and bit off one word. "No. Just leave me alone will you?" Singai searched his face. He didn't know what she saw there, but after a moment, she nodded and returned to her bed. *** Daemon had been fully recovered for four days, and Singai did not think much of his idea of seduction. It was almost as though, now that he knew she wanted him despite her instinctive fear, he was drawing back. Oh, he kissed her a couple or three times a day —always when she least expected it—but his kisses lacked the scorching intensity that they'd had before. Now the flames of his passion were banked, more controlled. He'd kiss her, thread his fingers through her hair, perhaps caress her breast lightly, and then . . . nothing. Just when she'd begun to enjoy the sensations, to bask in her burgeoning arousal, he'd break it off. It was frustrating, and she was beginning to get irritated. "Hello, Singai," M alene greeted her as they met in the companionway. Since Singai had betrayed her identity as Sotah on the day of the prowl attack, most of her shipboard companions had begun calling her by her own name. It might prove dangerous in the long run, but there was little that could be done about it now. She hadn't yet decided if she would attempt to reclaim her traders's identity when they reached ReiDalgo, but she doubted it. An identity, once lost, was more difficult to reclaim than simply setting up another. She could use a burnous to camouflage her Sotah identity when necessary without becoming Trader Betana. Having just come from taking a careful tour of the deck with Aleida, Singai was now returning to her cabin. She was still a bit worried about the young woman, and Aleida had insisted on staying close to the hatch, but at least she wasn't frozen in fear in her cabin. Singai knew how important it was to face your fears before they crippled you. Her lips tightened as her thoughts returned to their previous course. She only had one fear left to face, left to conquer, and now that Quinn had more or less informed her that he was going to help her get over it, she was anxious to accomplish the task. But Quinn was not cooperating in the way she'd envisioned at all. "Hello." He rose from his bunk to meet her as she entered. "Did you enjoy your stroll?" "Yes, thank you." She turned to close the door, but before she could turn back, Daemon's arms encircled her, pulling her hard against his big, athletic body. "Don't!" "Don't?" Slowly, he turned her to face him, but Singai found herself unable to meet the questioning look in his eyes. He lifted her chin with his finger. "Look at me, Singai." Feeling a renewed surge of resentment for this obdurate male, she complied. "What's the matter?" "Nothing! I'm just not in the mood for this." "This?" he asked, studying her expression closely for a moment. Singai dropped her eyes, afraid that he would see far more than her pride was prepared to let him see. He brushed one of her looped braids back, away from her neck, and his thumb caressed the sensitive spot beneath her ear. She gasped slightly, tilting her head unconsciously into the caress. "What exactly is it you're not in the mood for, Singai? And remember our agreement." Her eyes flew up to meet his deep dark ones. "Agreement?" "There are to be no lies between us. Not even small ones." She closed her eyes in sudden despair. Did he have any idea what he was asking of her? Would he strip her of her pride? And yet it was she who had asked for the agreement, and she couldn't expect it to apply only to him. "What is it you're not in the mood for, Singai?" he prompted again, his voice low and infinitely more seductive than she remembered. She couldn't tell him! She couldn't! But bound by her own agreement, she had to. She felt a surge of anger that he had placed her in this position, and she used it to bolster her. Lifting her eyes to meet his once again, she let him feel the full force of her ire. "I'm not in the mood for any more of your games." His gaze sharpened. "Games?" "Yes. Your tormenting little games of seduction are driving me crazy. Just. . . just don't touch me anymore, all right?" "No," he murmured. "It's not all right." And then, before she could do more than try to decipher the expression on his face, his lips were on hers. Hard, hot, and demanding, they launched a carnal onslaught that she was powerless to resist. His tongue invaded her mouth, and her heart began to hammer. She found herself confined between the cabin wall and his big, hard body as his hands roamed freely over her body. Touching. Caressing. Tormenting. Her blood was on fire. He parted her legs with a persistent nudge of his knee, and pressed his warm solid thigh against that heated part of her that she so wanted him to touch. And she strained against him, seeking an end to the horrible tension. A release that she'd never before felt, never before felt the need of, but knew instinctively that he could give her. "Easy, honey. Easy." She heard his whispered words, but didn't understand them until she felt his hands on her hips easing her back off of his thigh. Then his hands were on her face, gently stroking her chin, her cheeks, her temples. "Tell me what you really want, Singai." Pride deserted her completely. She knew only that her body thrummed with need. She felt her face flame with embarrassment, even as she met his eyes, but she forced herself to say the words. "I want you, Daemon."

As though her words had been the key to a lock, she saw an answering hunger, raw and elemental, flare in his ebony eyes, and she knew she'd said the right thing. "And I want you," he murmured.

Chapter Nine Without breaking eye contact, Daemon lifted her in his arms. Singai wrapped her arms around the powerful, tawny-fleshed column of his neck and was haunted by a dreamlike memory of how it had felt to bury her cold nose against its warmth when he'd carried her to their cabin after the brush with the prozel. "Are you all right?" he asked solemnly. Singai nodded, and he carried her across the cabin to stand her gently in front of her bunk. Grasping the hem of her tunic, he began working it up over her body, blazing trails of fire with his fingertips in its wake. And then, in the blink of an eye, he pulled the garment over her head and discarded it. His eyes fell to the binding on her breasts, and despite herself, despite her raging desires, Singai felt a moment of unease. But she shoved it ruthlessly aside. She refused to be emotionally crippled by her fear any longer. Daemon said something. "What did you say?" she asked. "Remind me that I have a gift for you," he murmured, his eyes still on the breast binding as his fingers sought its fastening. "A gift?" He nodded. "Later." And he unfastened the binding to throw it carelessly after the tunic as his gaze riveted on her bare breasts. But there was no expression on his face, and the half-closed lids of his eyes hid any emotion they may have communicated. Was he pleased? Displeased? Did he find her attractive? For the first time in her life, she wished that she'd had more experience with men. His fingers trailed down the slopes of her breasts to circle the areolae and her breath caught as a jolt of heated electricity sliced through her. He murmured a word she didn't understand, then lifted his hooded eyes to hers. "You are so beautiful, cy-nyr. So perfect." When he pulled her into his arms, his kiss was gentle and consuming and just as devastating as the last one. Her senses exploded and her fingers curled helplessly in the fabric of his shirt. She felt his hands cupping her bottom through the thin fabric of her trousers, lifting her, pressing her gently against his thickened shaft. And once again desire sliced through her, hot and potent, anesthetizing the fear that refused to leave her entirely. His fingers found her waistband, untied the drawstring, and allowed the cool satiny fabric to fall, pooling at her ankles. Then he lifted her in his arms and laid her naked body gently in the center of the narrow cot before lying down at her side. But he was still fully clothed, and the contrast bothered her. Besides, she wanted to see that magnificent chest of his again. Her hands found his shoulders and moved down to begin unfastening the buttons of his shirt. But she only managed to loosen half of them before he stopped her, his hand closing over hers to stay her. "Not yet, cynyr. This time is for you. I am at your service. Tell me what you'd like me to do." Singai's eyes widened. Tell him! Her cheeks flamed with crimson heat. "I can't." "Sure you can." And he lowered his head to nuzzle her neck, to nip gently at her ear, to feather his warm breath over that sensitive area. Her eyes drifted closed. "Do you like that?" he murmured. Swallowing her instinctive embarrassment, she nodded. She thought she felt him smile against her cheek, but couldn't be certain. And then his big hand was on her breast, lifting it, testing its weight as his thumb stroked her taut, tender nipple to even greater attention. "Do you want me to touch you here?" M olten heat shot through her as his hot breath feathered over her other nipple and her body arched into the sensation. "Yes," she whispered. And his hot moist mouth closed over her aching nipple. "Daemon!" she cried out in panic at the intense feeling as her hands curled into fists, one in the bedcovering and the other knotted in the fabric of his shirt. "Trust me, cynyr. Remember? Just relax. If you feel anything you don't like, you only have to tell me and I'll stop. All right?" She decided to test him, for there was something she wanted. Very much. Opening her eyes, she met his hot gaze. "I don't like your clothing. I want to feel your skin," she murmured. "I want you naked with me." For an instant, she saw something fierce and hungry shadow his eyes, something almost frightening in its intensity. And then it was gone. After a moment's hesitation, he nodded. "All right." His lips trailed tender kisses over her cheek and temple, then, pulling away from her, he rose. Despite the fact that it had been her request, Singai barely stifled a cry of loss at his desertion. She felt so ... alone without him. Her gaze clung to him impatiently as she waited, watching him slip the shirt from his torso. The bronzed bare flesh of his upper body gleamed with health and vitality. Her gaze roamed the hair-covered expanse of his wide chest and saw the restrained power vaunted by his hard pectoral muscles. She saw the leashed strength evinced by the rippling muscles of his bronzed arms. Saw the brawn revealed by the corded muscle of his abdomen. And her heart tripped a beat. In her opinion, she had never seen a more perfect specimen of the human male. Then, still clad in his trousers, he was back on the cot before she could protest his partially clothed state. Reaching for her, he lifted her to her knees. She didn't understand his purpose at first, not until she felt his hands begin working at her braids. It took him only a minute to undo what it took her half an hour to accomplish each morning, but as his gentle fingers massaged her scalp and combed through her hair, she didn't mind. Adjusting the draping of her hair over her shoulders, he studied her, his eyes roving from her braid-kinked hair slowly down over her breasts and abdomen and thighs, then back up again. By the time his gaze fastened on hers, the dark flame in his eyes was enough to scorch her with its heat. And then, without warning, he scooped her into his embrace and lifted her until his hot mouth closed over the tip of her passion-swollen breast. Singai almost screamed at the exquisite agony of sensation that rushed through her. And as he laved her breast, tugging at the tender nipple, a great yawning chasm of need opened up within her. Her limbs turned to water, and she clung to him. Dazed. Fevered. Delirious. Threading one hand into her hair, he immobilized her head as he moved back up her body to plunder her mouth. Arching her over the fulcrum of his arm at her waist, he robbed her of equilibrium, for he became the only constant in her small universe. She

wrapped her arms around the sturdy column of his neck and hung on, for that was all she could do in the face of this storm of passion. His arm slipped lower. She felt his hand caressing the twin rounded cheeks of her behind, fondling the bare flesh. Nudging her legs apart with his knee, he pressed his thigh against that part of her that burned with desire, ached with emptiness. And an uncontrollable shudder rippled through her.. She moaned softly. He answered, groaning deep in his throat, and his mouth left hers. A savage glitter lit his eyes as he looked down at her. She shivered beneath his regard, but not from fear, she realized with a sense of triumph. She felt too intensely woman, female to his male, to be afraid. As he gently laid her down on top of the blankets, his gaze devoured her. Her flesh tingled. The nipples of her swollen breasts contracted almost painfully as his smoldering scrutiny raked her body from head to toe, hesitating briefly at the soft triangle of burnished-copper curls at the junction of her thighs. "Magar! You are more beautiful than I had imagined," he said, his voice thick, husky. Bracing his arms on either side of her, he leaned forward to capture her lips and ravage her mouth with another of his potent kisses. He released her lips and seemed about to join her again on the narrow cot, but she protested. "Your trousers," she reminded him as her hands trailed down the silken hair of his warm chest to the waistband of the only garment remaining between them. She wanted to see him naked. She wanted to feel him, flesh to flesh, his heated body next to hers. She wanted . . . him. M ore than she'd ever wanted a man, she wanted him. In her arms. Inside her. Filling her aching emptiness. Never taking his eyes from her, he rose and undid the fastening on his trousers before sliding the black fabric over his narrow hips. His manhood jutted, heavy and pulsing, from a thick copse of black hair at his groin. And then, before she had time to blink, he had joined her on the narrow bed. His large warm hand closed over her breast, and so sensitized to his touch was she, that that simple caress discharged a bolt of sensual electricity that caused her body to arch uncontrollably as her hands blindly sought the anchorage of his shoulders. Before she'd even recovered from the paralyzing burst of charged energy that ricocheted through her system, his mouth replaced his hand at her breast. It closed over the distended tip, scorching hot and tantalizing, tugging at the tiny crest as he raked the sensitive nub with his tongue. A soft mewling sound escaped her lips as every vestige of strength left her limbs and her body became a mere accumulation of supersensitive nerve endings for him to manipulate to his will. His hand trailed slowly down her body, stopping briefly to torment her navel before heeding the invitation of her arching hips to travel lower. Even then his touch was only more torment. He stroked the soft inner flesh of her thighs, combed through the crisp tangled curls of her mound, and trailed his fingers delicately over that most heated part of her, stoking the hot coals of desire into an inferno of passion without offering the slightest alleviation. "Daemon!" she cried, unable to stem the tide any longer. She didn't know for certain what it was she sought in his touch, but she knew she needed him. Now! He merely lifted his head from her breast to look into her passion-dazed eyes with a dark, smoldering gaze and to smile a lingering, complacent smile that sent her heart into a cartwheel. "Soon," he promised. "I want to make absolutely certain that this is what you want." And he raised himself over her to gain access to her other breast and lowered his head to torment her to the brink of madness. At the same instant, he pressed one finger slightly into the moist crevice between her thighs. "Daemon!" she cried again in desperate yearning, as her hips surged upward in search of an end to the exquisite torment. And then he was nudging her knees farther apart as he knelt between her thighs. Yes! Oh, yes! But still he held himself back. The blunt head of his broad shaft pressed unsatisfyingly against her, his chest hair tormented her sensitized nipples, as he leaned forward to capture her lips in another ravenous kiss. Again her hips surged upward in uncontrollable invitation, both enticement and demand. "Please, Daemon. Now!" He lifted his head. His lips curled in an infuri-atingly sexy smile. "You are too impatient, Singai." His voice was a thick baritone rumble, roughened by passion. "Relax." "I can't." Her voice emerged on a near wail of despair, but she was too far gone to care. Pride and composure had long since been trampled by volcanic passion and carnal upheaval. He bent his head to wrest exquisite penance for her impatience from each of her throbbing breasts, tugging at the crests, each in turn, with his hot tormenting mouth until she was almost sobbing with the frenzy of her need. And then he entered her. Enormous and hard and lava hot, he filled her to bursting. She cried out, her hands clutching at the rough flesh of his scarred back. Then he slowly withdrew before slowly squeezing back inside. He repeated the maneuver, withdrawing completely with each stroke, quickening the pace with each stroke, driving her closer to the point of madness with each stroke until... a wave of sensation impacted, carrying her away on its surging crest. And then another and another. He swallowed her cry of release with his mouth and, with a hoarse groan, joined her in liberation. Panting with exhaustion, she opened her eyes to gaze upon the man who had so thoroughly thrown her senses into chaos. She had never suspected that making love could be so ... consuming, so completely fulfilling. Their hearts hammered in unison as she gazed into his eyes with a sense of wonder and discovery. Then Daemon rolled to one side, taking her with him, and Singai curled her fingers into the silken hair of his chest and closed her eyes in the grip of a lassitude unlike any she'd ever felt. Her last conscious thought was that she might have made a mistake in allowing Daemon to seduce her, for something told her that now she was well and truly ensnared. But she was glad of the days they had left to explore these newfound feelings before reaching ReiDalgo. And then she slept. *** It was dark when the lights of ReiDalgo became visible off the port bow. Although the passengers would disembark, Quinn had discovered that the freight would not be unloaded until dawn. This meant that he and Singai would have to find accommodation nearby. Accommodation that would allow them to keep ah eye on the unloading of one very special crate from the hold of The Defiant Lady. Singai stood with her arm around a trembling Aleida as they watched the lights lining the shore become more distinct. "It's so big," the girl murmured in awe. ReiDalgo was one of Thadonia's largest cities, and its lights seemed to extend for miles. Singai

nodded in acknowledgment of her observation, but said nothing. Aleida had made a complete recovery from her ordeal with the prozel. And now, once again, her most overwhelming concern was the unknown: What would her life with her uncle and his family be like? Singai could do nothing more to reassure her, but she could stay with the girl until she'd been met by her uncle. And that was what she intended to do. Whether Quinn understood her need to stand by the child or not, she didn't know. In fact, she hardly understood it herself. It was some nebulous feeling of kinship stemming from the shared circumstance of being orphans, she supposed. But Quinn stood at her side in silent acceptance of her desire to lend support to the young girl, and she found herself thankful for his compassion. It was something one might not have expected of a man like him. But she had discovered in the last few days that very little about Daemon was as she might have expected. He was a perceptive male when it came to understanding the people around him. And that in itself was unusual. He was unstintingly courageous and completely uncompromising—even ruthless—in his defense of those whom he viewed as his responsibility. Singai had pondered that in the last few days, wondering if it was self-defense that made him hold himself apart from others. For a man like Quinn, a Guardian, caring for others too much could be dangerous. And yet she had sensed something more: a darkness at the core of him, a wound on his soul. And that she still did not understand. Would he ever share that dark, hurting part of himself with her? Did she want him to? Their relationship was so new. And, like a newborn dyre struggling to find its balance, she sensed that it did not yet have the strength to bear excess strain. Would it ever? Perhaps. If it had time to grow and gain strength. But his world was not hers, and hers not his. That obstacle seemed insurmountable. The shouts of sailors called her from her somber thoughts as the ship drew nearer the shore. "Are you all right?" The tone of Quinn's deep seductive voice wrapped itself around her heart and squeezed. She wanted to shout, No! I'm frightened. As terrified of the unknown facing us as Aleida is the unknown facing her. But she merely swallowed and nodded. "Yes," she managed to say. "Of course." He studied her face with his too perceptive dark chocolate gaze for a moment, then nodded his acceptance of her assertion. Changing the subject, he said, "We'll have to buy a pair of dyre as soon as we've secured rooms. We'll want to be ready to leave immediately in the morning." She nodded, glad to have a new direction for her thoughts. "There's a dealer I know of not far from here. He carries reliable stock." Aleida tugged at her sleeve. "Do you suppose that is my uncle?" She was pointing at a large blond man standing beneath the pooling light of a lumo-gel lamp. Dressed in dark clothing, he was quite obviously staring toward the ship although the distance was too great to discern his expression. "Does he bear a resemblance to your mother?" The young woman scrutinized the man more carefully. "I think so," she said cautiously. "He's got the same color of hair." "Then I would say it's possible that he is your uncle. We'll know soon enough for certain." It turned out that the man was indeed Aleida's uncle. He'd been waiting dockside for the girl for hours, and he was a bit tired, but —to Singai's relief—he was obviously a kind man. After loading Aleida's luggage into the carriage he'd driven from home, he introduced himself as Stassen and thanked Singai and Quinn for befriending his orphaned niece during the journey. When Aleida, showing less stress now that she'd met her new guardian and accepted him, declared that Singai and Quinn had not only befriended her, but saved her life by rescuing her from the clutches of a prozel, Stassen was astounded and seemed to feel it necessary to repay them in some way. "Please," he asked for the second time, despite the wary glances he kept flashing at the M orar sitting on Daemon's shoulder. "Won't you accept my hospitality while you are in ReiDalgo?" Quinn smiled slightly. "Your hospitality would be welcome, but I'm afraid we still have some business to take care of." Finally, Stassen accepted their decision, handed his niece into the dyre-drawn carriage, and climbed aboard himself. "Farewell, Singai," Aleida called as the carriage began to roll. "Farewell, Quinn." With a twinge of sorrow, Singai returned her wave knowing that she would probably never see the child again. Then she bent and picked up her luggage, as Quinn did likewise, and they went in search of a water-front inn—not Singai's favorite choice for lodging, but in this case they had few options. Hours later, having settled themselves in an inn that afforded them a view of The Defiant Lady— just barely—and having purchased the dyre they knew they would need to follow Takil's illicit shipment, Daemon and Singai shared a companionable evening meal. Abruptly, Singai spoke, "I've been wondering—" She broke off as though uncertain how to continue. He studied her, noticed the Hush on her cheeks. "Wondering what?" Her brow furrowed in thought and she stared at the opposite wall for a moment. Finally, she seemed to find the words she needed. "I've been wondering exactly what information Empress Narice gave you—besides a blood sample, which I have no idea how she came by—that aided you in finding me. I mean, I could give you a sample of blood from just about anybody, but that would only provide you with the final step in identifying them as the person you sought. So how did you find me?" Quinn considered thoughtfully. The empress had instructed him to keep her identity secret until they were on Kazerian soil—a directive that he'd been disinclined to heed based on Singai's logic that, if anything happened to him, she needed to know where to go—but the empress had not told him to keep secret the scanty pieces of evidence that eventually led him to Singai. And so he told her of the cold trail he had followed in search of a redheaded infant girl. "Eventually, after following one faint lead after another, I came to the orphanage where you were raised in DeiVanko." He spoke of a small city just over the border from Kazer in Sulaiv territory. "I met an old woman there who remembered caring for three redheaded infants during the time period I was interested in. The other two were a bit older than you are but—since no one knew any of the children's true ages—I couldn't overlook any possibility." He met Singai's gaze and smiled. "She even remembered your names. I couldn't believe my luck." Singai nodded. "That would have been Nirena. I remember her as a kind but stem caretaker." She paused to sip her tea. "So then how did you find me? I have traveled much in my adult life." Daemon nodded. "It was at that point that I began dealing with an information broker. Eventually, based on the names and descriptions I gave him, he sent me to you." Singai nodded and fell silent, pondering his words. Finally, she sighed. "The more I know, the less sense it makes. I had thought her interest in me to be connected with the Sotah in some way. Now that seems unlikely. Why would the Empress Narice possibly

have an interest in an orphaned baby girl?" Daemon had a theory on that, but since he had not been told why himself, he didn't think it appropriate to speculate aloud. What if he proved to be wrong? No, it was definitely wise to hold his silence. "I don't know, Singai." He turned his attention back to finishing his meal. The saints only knew when he'd have a chance for another this good. Camping while traveling overland by dyre did not lend itself to the preparation of gourmet cuisine. Not that gourmet cuisine could be found in a waterfront inn either, but the food was definitely superior to the camp food he'd had more than his share of since coming to this world. A cook he was not! Of course, this time he wouldn't be traveling alone. He gave Singai a speculative look. Could she cook? he wondered. At that moment, a faint noise from the direction of the door drew his attention. It was a furtive sound. The slight scrape of a shoe, a whisper of fabric against the roughness of a wall, drawing closer. He realized immediately that he had not heard the sounds with his own ears and looked at Griv, who sat perched on the sill of the open window. The M orar's head was cocked slightly as he listened to the sounds outside the door. Quinn rose, his hand moving to his waist to withdraw the Barak from its holster. "What?" Singai began to speak, but he waved her to silence. Immediately, she moved across the room to retrieve her own weapon. At that moment, the door opened and a dark figure slid inside. It took Quinn only a second to realize he recognized him. It was the darkly dressed man whom he'd caught a glimpse of on the ship. And for the second time, he felt as though he should know him from somewhere. For an instant more, the knowledge still eluded him and then he placed him. This man had been among the tavern clients in Cylon. "Who are you? What do you want?" The man ignored his question and pinned him with a gaze that held considerable wrath. "Why do you tarry here?" he demanded. "She is in danger. You both are in danger. They know you are here." To Daemon's surprise, Singai stepped forward. "This is the second time you have issued a warning. Who are you? And who do you warn me against?" The man's midnight eyes turned to her, examined her. "Who I am is not important," he said in a gravelly murmur. "You may call me Vartan, if you wish. And you know who it is that seeks your death." "You warn me of the Dalig," Singai said, studying Vartan. Quinn, watching the exchange, wondered at the undercurrents he sensed. Singai mattered to this man, was important to him in some way, yet she didn't even know him. "Of course," Vartan acknowledged. "You are so easily recognized," he remarked almost musingly. "I knew you the second I laid eyes on you. And you can bet that they will have no trouble following you." Singai's gaze sharpened. "How do you know me? We have never met. And why are you suddenly so intent on saving me?" She brushed her hair away from her face with an agitated hand. "For that matter, perhaps you can explain why the Dalig are suddenly so determined to kill me?" For the first time, the man's piercing eyes slid away from hers. "I cannot tell you anything." Vartan looked back at Quinn, seeking, it seemed, to appeal to his protective instincts. "Why do you not get her away from here?" But despite the stranger's apparent concern, Quinn didn't trust this man, who was quite obviously a fighter of some kind. He moved with the stealth of a Guardian. Had the eyes of a man who had seen death, recognized it, and no longer feared it. And he wore the dark clothing of a man who liked to be able to disappear into the night. Even his hair was black, marred only by two white streaks fanning out from his temples like pristine wings. Then with a start, Daemon realized that it was himself he saw in the aging warrior before him. He would be this man in ten year's time. Somehow, the idea was not that appealing. Vartan looked from Daemon to Singai and back again. Saw that Quinn was not about to tell him anything. "You must leave," he said. "They may well attack tonight for you are nearing Kazer and they are determined that she never reach Kazerian territory." Daemon narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. What game did this man play? "Why should the Dalig warrior guild care so much about the arrival of a single woman in Kazer?" The warrior's lips tightened in frustration. "M ust you have answers for everything?" "I don't like working in the dark." He seemed to fight an inner battle of some kind. Finally, he spoke again. "A rumor—nothing more," he asserted firmly, "simply a rumor that left the palace on unruly lips concerning the empress's search for the infant child. The Dalig began to move against the search almost immediately, for it was said that the empress searched for a child who resembled her own daughter much as she herself resembled Singai's mother." "And why would the Dalig move against that?" Vartan moved away from the door, paced across the room as though wondering what to say and how to say it. Finally, he turned again, spearing Quinn with his gaze. "We don't know why, but we believe the Dalig guild plots to steal and rule their own empire—a haven in which they can rebuild their numbers and then expand outward in conquering hordes." Daemon frowned, analyzing his words. "So the empress and her heir are in danger of assassination, and by placing Singai at her side, she will preserve the life of her child. Is that it? Yet obviously, if the Dalig are already seeking to murder Singai, that portion of her plan is a failure." Vartan shrugged. "The empress has a daughter, yes. But she may not have the strength to hold the empire against such a Dalig assault, if one comes. As for why Singai's death is sought by the Dalig"— he shrugged again—"I cannot answer that for certain, but I believe it is because she is Sotah." "I don't follow?" "The Sotah always rally to protect their own. This Sotah"—he gestured to Singai—"is about to be placed in a position of some influence in an empire that the Dalig covet." Daemon pondered that for a second and then shook his head. "Has to be more than that," he concluded. "They killed the other two women I contacted as well, and they weren't Sotah." "Then I must presume that they have simply been ordered to ensure that the empress's substitute heir never reaches Kazer.. Since they did not know her identity, they were simply being thorough." He looked to Singai as though to impress his point upon

her. "As they will be again if they find you here." Quinn shrugged. "Regardless, we can't leave here until dawn." "Why?" the warrior demanded, the single word laced strongly with anger and frustration. Daemon looked to Singai. The investigation into the smuggling was hers. If Vartan was to leam their purpose in waiting, it had to come from her lips. Singai looked from him to the mysterious warrior and resheathed her weapon. Then she lifted her gaze to study the man again. Daemon thought, from the way she cocked her head, that she might be having a telepathic conversation with her companion. A moment later, without preamble, she said, "We intend to follow a crate of smuggled Earth weapons to its destination. We need to know where the Dalig are stockpiling them." Vartan's black brows drew together to form a thick line. "There is a crate aboard The Defiant Lady?" Singai nodded. He frowned, somehow managing to look worried and furious at the same time. "I didn't know that." "Of course not. How could you?" But Vartan didn't respond to Singai's query as he once again paced the width of the room and back again. Finally, he said, "It could be a trap." "How so?" Daemon demanded. "They knew you were on that ship. You were watched the moment you disembarked." Daemon shook his head. "Ah, but I didn't book passage until I already knew the smuggled goods were going to be aboard." Vartan thought about that and nodded. "All right. But if they even suspect your interest in it, the crate could still be used as bait for a trap for you—if they don't achieve their purpose tonight. You must be very wary." He looked from Quinn to Singai and moved back to the door. "Since it is obvious that you will follow your own course, I can do no more here. Do not expect to see me again." Then he opened the door wide enough for his body to slip through and was gone the same way he'd come. Quinh looked at Singai. "You've seen him before?" She nodded and moved to her bags. He watched curiously as she briefly searched her belongings before extracting a piece of paper, which she handed to him. He read the message, but it was as oblique as the man who'd written it. With a shake of his head, he handed it back to her. "Well, I guess all we can do is stay vigilant tonight. If we are to be attacked, as he seems to think we may be, I want to see it coming." "Yes. I'll ask Ven-Gura to be alert as well." * * * It was almost dawn, and the predicted attack had not come. Quinn and Singai had slept in shifts with him taking the second watch. Now he sat in the predawn blackness watching her sleep. Somehow, she had penetrated the iron shielding around his emotions. Somehow, in some way, she had begun to matter to him. And that was dangerous. It made him vulnerable, and her as well. He didn't know how—didn't understand it—but he knew that it had happened. He wouldn't admit it though. Not to her. For after hearing Vartan's words, his own suspicion concerning the reason for the Empress Narice seeking Singai- had gained more weight. And if what he believed turned out to be true, then Singai would have enough to deal with without the added burden of loving a man who could not share her life. Love. There it was, the word he'd dreaded for so many years. It had crept back into his mind and vocabulary after little more than three weeks in her company. The knowledge terrified him. How could he have been foolish enough to begin to care again? Especially to care for a woman who was in danger, a woman who lived a life always on the edge of peril? A woman who would almost certainly lose her life one day—not to old age—but to violent death? He closed his eyes against the remembered pain of that kind of loss. He couldn't live through it again. It would kill him. No, it would be far better to deny his feelings for her and leave her when this contract was concluded, never to know the minute of her death or the manner of her dying. Coward! He ignored the word that flared in his mind. And opened his eyes to watch the Thadonian sunrise. Saints! It was one of the most beautiful sights he'd ever seen. What a vibrant and rich world this was! And then he saw a stirring on the docks and reluctantly pulled his gaze away from the glory of nature. "Singai," he called softly. "They will begin to unload soon." The placement of Takil's shipment in the hold ensured that it would not be among the first to be unloaded, but they didn't want to risk missing it either. She woke and was instantly alert. "Although it seems that Vartan was wrong, I think it might be wise if I colored my hair and wore a cloak or something, don't you?" she asked as she rose. "Color your hair how?" he asked suspiciously, hating the thought of all that beautiful red hair disappearing, but recognizing the possible need for it. "We don't have much time." She looked at him and read the reservation in his expression. "Don't worry. It washes out easily. It's something I use regularly since red hair tends to stand out more than is desirable at times. And it takes only a moment to put in." He nodded, accepting the need, and watched as she strode to the washroom. When she emerged moments later to hastily repack her belongings, she was a brunette. Still attractive, but Daemon definitely preferred her own hair color. As he studied her form in profile, it became obvious that she'd finally begun to wear the anti-grav cups with which he'd gifted her. Initially she'd refused on the grounds that they were contraband, but Daemon thought it had more to do with a long-standing desire to camouflage her femininity. It was nice to see her beginning to take pride in it. "Still no sign of Vartan's assassins?" Quinn shook his head. "Not so far. Let's hope he is wrong about everything else too." But somehow, deep inside, he felt certain that at least part of what Vartan had told them was true and that what they had yet to learn would change Singai's life irreversibly. Pulling the binoculars from his pack, he began to watch the freight being unloaded. As soon as Singai had completed her packing, she wordlessly came to take his place at the window while he changed and did likewise. Then, munching some biscuits left over from the previous night's meal, Quinn called Griv to him, and they left. Singai wore a long navy cloak that concealed the Sotah tunic and trousers she'd readopted after having betrayed herself aboard The Defiant Lady. Daemon wore what he always wore: black.

Singai waited out front, in the shadow between two buildings, where she could keep an eye on the cargo being unloaded, while Quinn saddled the two dyre and led them around. "No sign of it yet?" he asked, taking up a place at her side. She shook her head. The minutes dragged. Singai's vigil was so intent that her eyes began to water as she squinted against the bright morning sunlight. Quinn watched a tear track down her cheek from the outer corner of her eye. "Here," he said, tapping her lightly on the arm, "let me watch for a while." Quinn estimated that fully forty-five minutes passed before he saw the marked crate being carried down the gangplank by three burly men. "Here it comes." Singai straightened and followed his gaze. "The one just now coming down?" He nodded, and they watched it being loaded onto a wagon drawn by four dyre. Then, not taking the time to have their own dyre kneel as was customary, they leapt aboard their mounts. Watching the wagon pull away, they waited until it had gone some distance before leaving the relative security of the narrow alley to follow. Ever conscious of Vartan's warning, though he still didn't understand the mans interest in Singai's well-being, Quinn kept a vigilant eye out for a Dalig assault.

Chapter Ten As they trailed the cargo of Earth weapons through ReiDalgo, the streets were just beginning to fill with shopkeepers and vendors rolling their kiosks into place. But nowhere among them did they see a Dalig presence. Which didn't mean they weren't there, of course. But if they were, they were being extremely cautious about exposing themselves, for the nearest Dalig Ven-Gura sensed were at least a mile distant. In addition to concealing themselves physically from Singai and Quinn, they had to be shielded psychically from Ven-Gura, just as Ven-Gura, in turn, shielded Singai from detection by a Dalig probe. It turned out that Dahlyn Square was quite a distance across the city and in a less-affluent shop district. The wagon they were following had just disappeared behind the tall gray-painted gates of a shop compound attached to a building constructed of the pink stone so prevalent on Thadonia when Ven-Gura spoke. Singai, there are Dalig near. I can sense one of their companions. His shields slipped for a fraction of a second. Singai and Quinn were just turning into the square itself, intending to investigate the compound as discreetly as possible. Where? Can you tell? There was a moment of silence. No. It was just a fleeting contact, and now it is gone. They are shielding again. But they are near. Singai drew her dyre to a halt and looked over at Quinn as he, casting her a questioning glance, also halted. Speaking in subdued tones, she explained. "Ven-Gura says there are Dalig near, but they are shielding themselves and he can't pinpoint their location." Quinn nodded and took a quick scan of the area. "Then Vartan may have been right. They could be laying a trap for us." Singai studied the square. There was very little cover available, and the shop into which the wagon had disappeared lay at the end of the square. A number of people strolled the walks or drove dyre pulling all manner of conveyances, and any of them could have been Dalig. "I don't like it," she murmured. "We can't just walk in and ask if the weapons are being stockpiled in that shop, but there doesn't seem to be any way to approach the place without being seen." "Which is probably why they chose it," Quinn pointed out with aggravating logic. Singai ignored his statement. "M aybe we should try the back way." M inutes later, they made their way into the narrow alley between Dahlyn Square and Regeiter Square. The shop walls and compound fences were not as well maintained back here, but the alley was still cleaner than some Daemon had seen. The fences were uneven because some jutted farther out into the alley than others, but at least they offered more cover than the front approach. He and Singai, leading their dyre, clung to what cover the solid fences provided as they approached the shop's compound. "Everybody in this area seems to buy an entire wagon load," Daemon observed, scarcely aware that he'd made the observation aloud. "These shops sell to the kiosk vendors," Singai whispered in explanation as she peered around the corner of the fence and then jerked back. "The kiosk vendors in turn sell to the individual." Wholesalers, in other words. Daemon concluded as he carefully looked to see what had made Singai pull back. The rear gate to the shopkeeper's compound was opening. Now what? he wondered as he too pulled back. He didn't have long to wait for an answer. Within a minute, a wagon pulled out of the shopkeeper's compound and headed down the alley away from them. It carried a crate that looked very much like the one they'd followed from the docks. Fishing in the inner pocket of his cloak, he withdrew the binoculars and put them to his eyes. It was the same crate. Now what did that mean? Had the weapons been off-loaded here? No, he mentally argued with himself against such a maneuver. It was far more likely that the wholesale shop was just a stopping point to give the shipment the illusion of legality. Whoever was driving the wagon now was undoubtedly a Dalig representative taking the shipment to its actual destination. Which meant that he and Singai were on their way to saints knew where. He looked over his shoulder to note that Singai too had taken note of the wagon's departure. "Is that our crate?" she whispered. He nodded and carefully mounted the dyre in preparation for following the wagon as soon as it had turned the comer. The wagon left the city by the south gate and headed out across the coastal plain with its lush, shoulder-high grasses. They had to be careful not to fall too far behind lest they lose it completely, yet they could not get so close that the Dalig warrior would sense their presence. There was actually more danger of him sensing Singai or Ven-Gura than there was of him noticing Quinn, for the Iyi'Sefir and the Feca'Gece were highly attuned to each other. If Ven-Gura's shielding slipped for a second, the Dalig's companion would become aware of him . . . and, through him, Singai. The entire journey was an exercise in tension and frustration. It was one of those murky coastal days that felt heavy with rain, and midday had passed before the slow moving wagon finally seemed to reach its destination. After hiding their dyre in a copse of brush at the base of a hill, they concealed themselves on a boulder-strewn rise overlooking the mist-shrouded rugged coastline.

Below them stood a bleak and forbidding stone fortress, ancient and presumed to be abandoned. Its crumbling facade seemed to shift like a living thing as mist alternately revealed and concealed portions of the huge edifice. It was a place that Singai was familiar with, for it had been used as one of the main Dalig strongholds prior to their last battle. The Sotah had cleaned it out then, but it seemed that the Dalig had reclaimed it. "How are we going to get in there?" Quinn murmured almost rhetorically as he studied the area. Singai shook her head. "We aren't, but I have an idea." She scrambled back a bit from the crest of the hill to make certain she was out of sight of anyone who might chance to scan the area. After a moment, Quinn followed her. "What kind of idea?" "There is a Sotah discipline called resa. It's a technique that allows the spirit to leave the body and enter into places where the body can't go. I can explore the fortress, find where they have hidden the weapons." Quinn frowned, considering her words. "Is it dangerous?" "I would need you to protect my body while I am gone. Should my body die, I would forever be trapped between planes of existence, unable to move on. As long as my body lives, and I don't try to roam too far afield, the danger is minimal." Quinn stared at her. "You seem to accept this . .. this out-of-body stuff pretty easily." His tone was almost accusatory. She nodded. "I have used it many times. Why does that bother you?" For a moment, it looked as though he might say something, then with a slight huff, he shook his head. "It's nothing. Forget it." He brushed some dried grass from his trousers. "Where would you like to go to perform this resa?" Singai looked around, noted the M orar sitting in a tree overlooking the tethered dyre, and lifted her chin in directional indication. "That small piece of forest where we concealed the dyre should provide us with enough of a screen. Resa requires a certain degree of proximity. If we travel too far afield looking for a secure place, I won't be able to accomplish what I need to do." A few moments later, Singai settled down on the ground in as comfortable a position as she could find while Quinn watched with a dubious expression in his dark eyes. She sought the necessary level of relaxation, but found it elusive. Finally, she opened her eyes. "Don't watch me, please, Quinn. It makes me nervous." With a nod, he turned away and squatted on his haunches a short distance away. Singai tried again, gradually deepening her breathing until she found the state akin to the relaxation of sleep. Then, slowly, she projected. Pausing for a moment, she looked down on her body and on Quinn. Some nameless fear shook her as she gazed down on the man whom she had foolishly grown to care for far too much. A premonition? Something else? But there was nothing she could do about it now, so she headed off in the direction of the fortress. Two years ago, she had performed this same exercise in searching this same fortress. Only then she hadn't been searching for shipments of Earth weapons. Then she'd still been blissfully ignorant of the rebuilding of the Dalig guild. Not bothering to seek out an entrance, she penetrated the thick stone wall of the fortress, moving inside. The dismal quality of the place hadn't changed. It was still dank, its walls coated with greenish moss due to the moistness of the sea air. She could hear the roar of the surf striking the coastal wall in the distance. And . . . voices. M oving to the right, she traced the sound. A contingent of young Dalig warriors lounged indolently around a table, the partially eaten remains of a meal before them. In the next chamber, a guardsman rested his chin in the palm of his hand, obviously wishing he could join his compatriots. But it wasn't people she was seeking, so she moved on. Where would the weapons be stored? Where would they be most secure? She began working her way into the bowels of the ancient building. *** Singai had not been silent very long when Quinn began to hear furtive rustling noises deflected into his mind by Griv. Closing his eyes, he sought a visual connection that would enable him to see what his tiny dragonlike companion saw. Although colors were often muted and shapes elongated when seen through a M orar's eyes, the creature's acute vision picked up nuances and details that a human eye might have missed. He didn't know whether to bless or curse that facility right now, for what he saw was rather alarming, considering Singai's insensate state. A large number of Dalig warriors were creeping down the boulder-strewn hill and into the bush toward them. Quinn didn't bother wasting time wondering about how they had discovered them— undoubtedly, as Vartan had suggested, they had been expected. Rather, he focused on finding the most defensible position. Turning slowly, he surveyed the area. With the dyre secured not far from her feet, Singai lay in the shadow of a huge rock outcropping, probably twenty feet high, so as long as he positioned himself in front of her, they should both be relatively safe from an attack from the rear. And they were in a clearing, which meant that no one could approach without being seen. The biggest problem he faced was the sheer weight of num bers. As long as Singai was . . . gone, incapacitated, whatever... he didn't have the option of retreat. He was all that stood between Singai and what appeared to be almost a dozen Dalig warriors intent on her demise. And for all he knew, there could be many more Dalig in reserve. Not good odds even with the Barak. Keeping a wary eye on the surrounding woods, he removed his cloak and draped it over Singai and then threw over her some leaves and twigs, which he scraped from the floor of the small forest. He hoped it would keep her position from being too obvious. They come, Griv warned. Daemon removed the Barak from the loop at his waist and sent a hasty prayer to whatever saints listened to such pleas on this world that Singai would not be gone long. Then he waited. Not for long though. Five Dalig warriors materialized out of the murky shadows among the spindly trees. Four carried the strangely glowing chalk-white blades that Daemon had seen before, but one carried a blaster. A weapon that could end the battle for him and Singai in one shot. As the warriors stepped forward, forming a solid line, Daemon reacted instinctively. Uncoiling the Barak, he send the laser whip flying in a huge arc toward the warrior carrying the blaster. It felled him before he could do more than raise the blaster to firing height, then continued on, cutting through each of his four companions and downing a small sapling. He had been lucky, for the Dalig, unfamiliar with the capabilities of his weapon, had advanced in a closely knit pack, transforming themselves into one target. But he couldn't count on his luck holding.

He glanced at Singai's still form to see if she showed any signs of stirring. Nothing. "Come on, Cynyr," he murmured. The next wave of Dalig consisted of seven warriors spaced widely apart, coming in at him in a half circle from right, left, and center. And again, there were Earth weapons in evidence. Two of the fighters held lasers. Zyk! Keeping his eyes trained pretty much straight ahead, Quinn used his peripheral vision to track the movement on the sides. And as the man on his right lifted his laser to fire, he sent the Barak arching toward him. A hoarse shout told him the weapon had found its mark, and a hasty glance confirmed that the warrior would present no more problems. One down, six to go. A cold calmness descended over him as he focused his entire attention on survival. Even so, he wasn't fast enough to avoid the second laser blast. It came in from the left even as the Barak was slicing through the air toward the Dalig who held it. Fortunately, the man's aim was poor, and the laser discharge merely grazed his calf. Still it was painful and he winced before bringing the pain under his iron control. Hurt? Griv asked quickly on the heels of the injury. Quinn sensed an anxiety he'd never before felt in the M orar. It's not bad, was all he had time to communicate before turning to face the remaining five Dalig warriors, who advanced with swords drawn and confidence in their stance. They knew he could not possibly take out all of them before they were upon him. He sent the laser whip flying toward another of the flanking warriors cleaving him in two. And then another. And then they were too close. With three to go, he adjusted the setting on the Barak and fired a single ray of cutting laser light at the central opponent. And then the remaining two, blades upraised, attacked. Remembering the effect the laser had had on the Dalig blade in Cylon, he

shortened the Barak beam to blade length with a slight brush of his thumb and raised it to parry the first sword. It worked as it had before, splitting the weapon into two portions. The Dalig warrior screamed in rage. Dropping his mutilated weapon, he leapt at Daemon with his bare hands. Ignoring the high-pitched keening that issued from the weapon, and trying to stay beyond the reach of the flailing strands of glittering light that seemed to writhe around their feet, Quinn instinctively used the Barak to block the warrior's crazed attack. An instant later, the warrior crumbled to the ground and lay still beside his dying symbiotic companion. But it wasn't soon enough. Even as Quinn turned to meet the attack of the remaining Dalig, he felt white-hot pain bite into his left shoulder, and he looked down to see the point of a Dalig weapon, red with his blood, being pulled from the wound. His left arm hung useless at his side. Saints, it hurt! But his thoughts turned to Singai, lying helpless behind him. He couldn't afford to crumble now, to let a bit of pain undo him. He couldn't afford to die and leave her helpless. In instinctive retaliation, he lifted the Barak and slashed at the source of his pain, striking both weapon and wielder. Then, drawing a deep breath, he stared at the body-strewn clearing with a sense of disbelief. The entire episode was beginning to take on a dreamlike, almost surreal atmosphere. Was loss of blood the cause? he wondered. The terrified bleating of the tethered dyre reached him, but there was nothing he could do for them now. In the next instant. Daemon heard a squawk of rage from the M orar. He'd never heard the creature angry before. And then he heard the words that struck a note of doom into his heart. More come. Saints! How many were there? And how badly did they want Singai dead? Him dead? He closed his eyes for a moment, using his connection with Griv to view the advancing Dalig. It looked to be a force of twelve. Overwhelming odds. He looked over his shoulder at Singai's supine form. Against his better judgment, he'd come to care about her a great deal. The idea of failing her stirred an ancient and bitter anger deep in his gut. She was his responsibility and he would not fail her. The Dalig would not win! He wouldn't let them! M oving as quickly as he was able with his useless left arm and throbbing calf toward the nearest abandoned laser, he supplemented his weapon collection before turning back to watch the slope. "Where are you, Singai?" he murmured. *** Singai moved into a large chamber on the lower level, very near the dungeon. Here a man wearing the robes of a Dalig commander —deep indigo inscribed with runes in golden thread—stood speaking to a lesser officer. "Do we have enough weapons for the assault, Tenac?" Weapons? The word anchored her in place. "Almost, Imnen. We are expecting only three or four more shipments." "And how is the training progressing?" The officer, Tenac, hesitated. "Some of the men show a real aptitude for them, but others—" The Dalig commander's eyes hardened, and Singai was infinitely glad that she did not have to answer to such a man. "What about the others?" "A few of them seem almost afraid of the weapons, Imnen." "Tell them they have two choices," the Dalig commander growled. "They can either be behind the weapons or in front of them. I think that should take care of any problem you have." Tenac nodded. "Yes, Imnen." "Show me what we have."

Yes! Yes! If Singai had been in bodily form, she would have held her breath in anticipation. With another nod, Tenac moved to a stone wall at the end of the chamber and pushed on one of the bricks there. Immediately, the wall turned sideways, permitting admittance. Excited by her proximity to her goal, Singai floated after the Dalig men. They entered a chamber easily thirty feet long and fifteen feet wide. It was an armory, full of floor-to-ceiling shelving with only three feet to spare as an aisle between each shelving unit. And most of the shelves were full, laden with enough Earth weapons to start a war. Which, undoubtedly, was their intent. Terror lanced its way into her heart. She needed to inform the priests of this as soon as possible. These weapons had to be destroyed before the Dalig could achieve their goal. Abruptly, the Dalig commander stiffened and looked over his shoulder as though sensing something. "Is anybody else in here, Tenac?" The officer met his commander's gaze. "No, Imnen." The commander turned slowly, his gaze sweeping every inch of the hidden chamber, and Singai knew he had sensed her presence. Having seen all that she really needed to, she decided it might be prudent if she made her way back to her body before the Dalig commander blocked her perceptions. *** As the twelve Dalig warriors materialized out of the mist and trees, Griv left his perch to fly in circles overhead. His enraged screeches made more than one Dalig cast a wary glance skyward. But ultimately, they ignored him as they advanced. Daemon didn't bother waiting for them to make the first move this time. Lifting the laser he fired. A Dalig fighter fell. He fired again. And then, just as he was about to fire again, the screeching overhead stopped, and even he lifted his eyes skyward. Griv, his wings folded back tightly against his body, was in a dive. And he was heading straight for a laser-armed Dalig attacker. The man barely had time to scream before the M orar's tongue, transformed by some process no one understood into a stabbing weapon, penetrated his neck and administered a lethal dose of M orar venom. Daemon knew it would take only seconds for the venom to reach the brain, and when it did, everything would shut down. A lucky few, like himself, found their systems only slowed to an almost catatonic state when stung; and they gradually recovered. But somehow. Daemon didn't think the Dalig, would be one of the lucky ones. Not unless his symbiotic companion knew how to combat M orar venom. And since his companion's control was undoubtedly centered in the brain as well, it would be a battle for supremacy between the venom and the symbiosis. Unable to take the time to be certain of the Dalig's demise. Daemon nevertheless counted him out of the battle and concentrated on the remaining warriors. He lost track of how many fighters he shot. How many times he heard the M orar's screeching cries of warning go suddenly, ominously silent. Certainly more times than could account for the twelve fighters he'd thought he was facing in this round. And always there seemed to be more Dalig. What the hell was going on? And why was it that none of the Dalig warriors' attempts to strike him seemed to be aimed for fatal organs? Suddenly a very human bellow of rage emitted from his right. "All right, you quarcat dung! It's time to even the odds." And before Quinn could dispatch his current opponent and turn to see who it was, a tall, dark figure leapt into the fray to parry a Dalig weapon aimed for Daemon's back. He received an impression of long dark hair laced prominently with white at the temples. Vartan! They fought back to back with Vartan yelling obscenities and threats at every turn, and slowly the battle began to turn as the Dalig onslaught slowed. Daemon found the breath to ask a question. "Why haven't they tried to kill me?" "The Fena'Gece must want to enslave you," Vartan returned breathlessly. "The who?" "The Fena'Gece. They are the Dalig companions. They want to make you Dalig." "And Singai?" Glancing in her direction, he noticed a stirring beneath the cloak and leaves where Singai's body lay, and he knew she had finally returned to herself. Thank the saints! He'd begun to wonder if something had happened to her. "Her, they would kill," Vartan returned. "The Fena'Gece can't enslave someone already in symbiosis." An instant later, Singai leapt to her feet with her weapon drawn, as though fully aware of what to expect. Perhaps she'd been able to see the carnage on her return. And between the three of them, they dispatched the last of the Dalig. In the next instant, she rushed to his side. "Oh, Magar, you're hurt!" Numbly, he looked down at his arm and saw the blood dripping from his fingertips onto the leafy carpet of the clearing. "It doesn't hurt anymore." But something did hurt in a strange way, a curious aching emptiness in his mind. Abruptly his gaze swept the carnage in the clearing. "Where is Griv?" he demanded hoarsely. Singai scanned the area. "I don't know, Quinn. I don't see him." With limping haste, Daemon began to search. The emptiness in his mind felt terrible, a huge aching void where once there had been something indefinably more. M uch more. Griv, he called. Where are you? There was no response. Finally, on the far side of the clearing, he found him. The sword's hilt was still clasped in the grasp of the warrior who had died when every system in his body had been paralyzed by the potent M orar venom. And the M orar, still impaled on the Dalig weapon that had inflicted its mortal wound, leaked its lifeblood onto the Thadonian soil far from its hive. The sight drove Daemon to his knees. Griv had given his own life to save Daemon. The tiny dragonlike creature had become so much a part of him in the time that they'd been linked that he found he couldn't contemplate life without him. "Oh, Griv," he moaned as he reached out to stroke the creature's narrow snout. He felt a faint stirring in his mind. "Griv! Are you alive?" The M orar opened its golden eyes and focused on him with difficulty, I go ... home? Daemon hesitated, for he doubted very much that Griv would ever go home. But he couldn't tell him that. Speaking around the

huge rock lodged in his throat, he said quietly, "Yes, Griv. You go home." There was a pause, and then the light of terrible internal knowledge lit the M orar's eyes. I die, Quinn. Yes? Daemon closed his eyes for a moment. Yes. I'm sorry, Griv. In that instant, he sensed the M orar's acceptance. Good-bye. A pause. I go home . . . now. And then he closed his eyes. Daemon's fingers curled into fists in the dead leaves at his side, and he bowed his head. He couldn't leave Griv here. He wouldn't! He had to take him home, had to find a nice place to bury him. Rising with determination in his heart, he strode toward the wild-eyed but still tethered dyre to retrieve his cloak from where Singai had lain. A shroud for his friend. But the stupid creatures turned skittish at his approach, pulling at the tethers until he was afraid they would snap. Singai caught his arm. Her presence at his side surprised him; his senses were so numb he hadn't even felt her approach. "You're bleeding, Quinn. They won't let you near them until your wound is bound. Tell me what it is you want, and I'll get it." Frustration and dislike for the stupid dyre sawed at him, but he stopped. "M y cloak," he said. "I need my cloak to wrap him in." With a nod, Singai retrieved it. Daemon was surprised by the depths of his grief. He hadn't realized that he'd come to care so much for the eccentric little M orar. They'd only been linked a little more than a year and he was just coming to accept Griv, to value him as part of his life. Now that part of him was gone. The shock left him cold. As Quinn was wrapping Griv's body, Vartan came and knelt at his side. "I'm sorry about your creature, Quinn. But we must cleanse the fresh blood from your wound and bind it so that you can ride. There will be more Dalig." Daemon blinked. He didn't want to think about anything right now, but he knew he had to. If he allowed himself to be caught, or Singai to be killed, then Griv's sacrifice would have been in vain. Slowly, he turned to Vartan 'and nodded. He didn't know how long he sat complacent as Vartan and Singai worked on him. He felt nothing. Thought nothing. Finally, Singai's voice penetrated the fog of apathy blanketing his mind. "There, Quinn. The dyre should tolerate you now." He looked down to see that the bloody sleeve had been cut away from his shirt, and the slash in his shoulder was bound tightly with strips of cloth, which looked to have come from Singai's yellow burnous. Vartan looked down at him. "You must move quickly and get to Kazer as soon as possible. The danger for you both increases with every passing moment. It is still four days to Teman, and it will take two of those to cross the Anthor Desert." "Will you join us?" Singai asked. Vartan shook his head. "I'd like to, but it isn't feasible. I have other duties to accomplish before I return to Kazer. And it would not be wise for me to be seen with you." "Don't you think that, after today, the Dalig will know of your interest in my welfare?" He cast a glance around the clearing. "Do you see anyone who will spread the tale?" Singai's gaze followed his to the unmoving Dalig bodies littering the clearing. "No, I guess not. Still, you took a chance, didn't you?" Vartan nodded. "Yes, but now I must go." "Wait!" Daemon managed to rise and face the man. "At least tell us what interest you have in all this. Who are you?" Vartan hesitated, obviously torn by indecision. "M y loyalty is to the Empress Nance," he said finally. "When I am in residence, I am the captain of her personal guard. But you might more aptly call me her private information broker. It's my duty to keep the empress informed about all things pertaining to Kazer and her rulership—whether others try to conceal those details or not." Daemon' nodded. "I understand." Vartan was a Kazerian spy. Vartan extended his right hand and the two men gripped forearms. "Farewell," he said. "You had best take some of these Earth weapons with you when you go; you may need them." Daemon dipped his chin in acknowledgment, then Vartan turned to Singai and once again offered his hand. It was a display of respect for a woman that few men on this primitive world would have made. *** The setting sun was little more than a streak of brilliant color on the horizon, the sky overhead already velvet indigo, and still Quinn showed no sign of stopping for the night. They were riding through more verdant territory now, having ridden inland from the coastal plains. And as Singai sighted a small forest to their right, she decided it was time to say something to Daemon. If her memory served her correctly, there was a fresh spring running through the center of that grove, and they needed to take on as much water as they could before heading out into the desert tomorrow. Urging her dyre forward to ride abreast of Daemon, she cast a regretful glance at the small bundle secured behind him. The body of the dead M orar rocked to and fro with the gait of the dyre. She had no idea why the dyre had allowed itself to be tethered to something dead—she'd assumed such a thing would have been impossible. Perhaps it was the fact that the M orar's blood was no longer fresh; or perhaps it was because the creature was wrapped in Daemon's cloak and somehow Daemon's scent masked the scents that the dyre would normally have objected to. "Daemon." She reverted to using his private heart name now that Vartan was no longer with them. He seemed so cold and distant again, like the stranger she'd met on that first night. He surfaced from a long distance off. "Yeah?" "It's time we camped for the night. I think there is a stream in that bush over there." Wordlessly, he turned his dyre and headed in the direction she'd indicated. Singai drew her mount to a halt for a moment, watching Daemon go, wondering when he would come back to himself. She tried to imagine how she might react were Ven-Gura suddenly taken from her, but even the thought was too painful. She would be patient with Daemon. They had eaten a light meal of dried biscuits and dehydrated fruit, and Singai was in the process of making preparations to contact the priests of Sotah to pass on what she'd learned, when Daemon showed the first sign of surfacing from his grief. Without preamble, or any hint that he was about to speak, he asked, "What did you learn today?" She turned to look at him. She didn't have to ask what he meant. "The fortress is a virtual armory of Earth weapons. Whether it's their only one or not, I don't know. I doubt it. But it is certainly a major repository." He nodded. "That's what I thought." He fell silent again, and Singai returned to her preparations. A half hour later, having imparted what information she held to her superiors, and having received no further instructions, she centered her attention on Daemon. He looked pale; his face was drawn with pain. M oving to his side, she placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. "I should tend your wound before we retire."

Abruptly, he turned away from her touch. "Leave it!" His tone was angry, cutting. Hurt by his attitude despite her understanding of his grief, Singai almost turned his anger back on him, but she held her tongue and moved away. You are troubled, Singai? He won't let me help him, Ven-Gura. There was a pause as her companion considered his reply. Perhaps he doesn't feel he deserves your help. Singai found a comfortable spot to sit and leaned up against a sturdy young sapling. What do you mean? Singai, he survived while his friend did not. Remember your training and tell me what terrible emotion he is feeling right now other than his grief. She closed her eyes in understanding. Guilt. There was no reply from her companion, and she knew she'd reached the conclusion he wanted her to. Then, laying out her sleeping roll, she settled down to watch the firelight nicker over Daemon's stony features. How was she going to tell him in the morning that he needed to leave the M orar's body behind?

Chapter Eleven "What do you mean I can't take him?" Quinn demanded. His eyes glittered with anger and something Singai desperately hoped was not fever. He still had not allowed her to tend his wound. "I promised him I'd take him home." "You're not thinking clearly," Singai argued, her tone as reasonable as she could make it under the circumstances. She had to be blunt. "The corpse is already beginning to decompose. By tomorrow, the smell will begin to draw all the carrion eaters in the desert and we could well fall prey to one of them." He swung away from her, his back rigid with anger, and stood breathing deeply, his hands clenched into fists, as he fought some internal battle. Finally, he spoke. "Fine. I'll bury him here." The words sounded as though they'd been forced through clenched teeth. Singai said nothing. A short time later. Daemon rose from his grim task with his jaw tightly clenched, and he strode immediately to the stream. Falling to his knees, he washed the soil from his hands and the large knife he'd used to dig. Then, as though on impulse, he submerged his head in the water. Singai watched, waiting for him to surface. Seconds stretched into a minute, neared two. She began to fear for his life. Was he trying to commit suicide by drowning? And then he jerked upright, tossing his water-soaked hair back in the process. He just sat there like that for a moment, then calmly rose, tucked his knife back into his boot, and began to fill his canteens with water. Keeping a watchful eye on him, Singai moved to tie her own canteens to the saddle on her mount, which stood ready and waiting. A moment later, Quinn secured the water to the dyre and ordered it to kneel. After tying his sleeping roll in place—though Singai was unsure if he'd even used it—Quinn scrambled aboard the beast. Singai observed him closely. It was the first time he'd followed Thadonian custom and ordered one of the dyre to kneel. Usually, he simply leapt astride the animals. His action left little doubt in her mind that his wound was affecting him. How bad was it? And how could she get him to let her tend it? It was a little after noon when the terrain through which they rode began to change. Slowly, the tall, lush grasses became more stunted and sparse. The soil began to take on the sandy aspect of more arid land. And the sun overhead seemed to grow hotter with each Step the dyre took. Singai called a brief halt to don a desert headdress, which consisted of a large square of white cloth secured over the head by means of a band tied about the forehead. She then insisted on Daemon donning one as well, saying that the last thing she needed was for him to get sunstroke on top of everything else. Quinn shrugged mentally. It would probably keep his brains from roasting in his skull, he reasoned, although he wasn't sure he deserved such largesse. But slowly, as they rode, he began to take more heed of the world around them, and a part of his mind began to think objectively. When he thought about it, he didn't understand why Griv's death had affected him so strongly. He hadn't felt anything really strongly in so long that he'd actually begun to believe he could escape such strong painful emotion for the rest of his life. But Griv's death had taught him differently. There was a part of him that still felt, and that part of him felt deeply. That feeling part of him had come to love the M orar almost as someone might care for a beloved pet. Perhaps the intense feeling of connection was partially the result of the mind link, for he couldn't discount the strength of that bond. But even had the link never been forged, and some other circumstance had served to bring him together with the M orar, he strongly suspected that he would have missed Griv's presence in his life. And that meant he had to acknowledge the fact that the dark numbness, that protective shield in the core of his being that he'd come to rely on, was beginning to fade. The idea was more frightening than death. He'd prepared himself to die many times over. He had never prepared himself to begin to care again. And yet he had. Even before Griv's death, he had conceded that he had begun to concern himself with Singai more than he should. She should have been only a contract to him. A woman to whom he'd been sexually attracted. He had felt certain that once his carnal needs had been met, he would stop finding her so ... captivating. But he hadn't. And now she was more than a contract. M ore even than a sexually attractive female. How much more than that, he wasn't sure. However, regardless of any feelings he might have for her, he would leave her when the time came. He knew that, and he would face it. And then, perhaps if he was lucky, somewhere in the blackness of space between Thadonia and Fortuna, he would find that soulless, uncaring blackness within himself again—and be at peace. "In about three or four hours we should reach a small oasis off to the left a bit," Singai remarked. "I think we should camp there tonight." "Sure," he murmured.

"And then I will see to your wound, Daemon." Quinn stiffened. He didn't want her soft hands on him, dammit. He no longer trusted his emotions to stay in the cage where he'd secured them so long ago. And if he wasn't careful, Singai was definitely a person he could grow to ... love? He winced mentally at the word that had popped into his mind. He found much to admire in her. But love? He didn't want to love anybody again. It would be best to end the relationship that they had begun now, before . . . "I mean it, Daemon. Your wound needs to be cared for before it becomes infected. Your M orar is dead because he was helping to protect your life. Don't you think you should value his gift enough to preserve it?" Daemon's lips tightened. She was right, damn her. Why did she have to be so logical? "All right." His tone was surly. He knew it, and he didn't care. M aybe if she got angry enough with him, she'd be willing to end the ill-advised relationship they had begun. * * * Night had fallen, but all three moons had risen to bathe the desert landscape in their celestial luminescence. The Silver M oon hung low on the horizon, a large glowing disk. The small golden Wandering M oon traced its wobbly path across the night sky, its feeble radiance negated by that of its larger sisters. The Crimson M oon was the most prominent tonight. It hung overhead like a giant red eye staring down at their small oasis, its light lending a bronze cast to Daemon's tanned skin tones as Singai removed the bandage on his wound. He was so unemotional, so distant that it was almost like caring for a stranger. And yet her body recognized him. She was embarrassed by the way her hands trembled as she worked to cleanse his wound with warm water. Taking a deep breath, she clenched her fingers to steady them and then reached for the disinfectant powder she'd had him supply from his medical kit. "Tell me if it hurts," she murmured, feigning a distance she didn't feel as she began to sprinkle the powder into the gaping wound. A muscle in his jaw leapt, but he made no response. "I don't like the looks of this Daemon. It's very red and inflamed. I'm afraid it may already be infected." He shrugged as though the possibility held little importance for him. "The disinfectant will help." She studied his set features, the rigid line of his jaw, the tenseness around his mouth. "I'll put a clean bandage on and check it again in the morning." He nodded and said nothing. Securing the bandage in place, she asked, "How do you feel?" "Fine." Her task completed, she leaned back on her heels, her hands in her lap, and wondered what to do next. They had ridden fast and hard in an attempt to stay ahead of any pursuers, but as much as she needed sleep, she needed Daemon. She wanted nothing more than to lean her head against his chest and listen to the beat of his heart. To feel his arms close around her in welcome. And to draw comfort from his presence while they faced their uncertain future together. But for some reason she didn't understand, he had closed her out. And her instincts told her that his reasons went beyond his grief. Turning away from her, he rose and moved out of the firelight without even a word of appreciation for her ministrations. Not that she expected any; she'd cared for his injury out of compassion, friendship, and, yes, probably love. She had never experienced love, either in the giving of it or the receiving, but she felt about Daemon as she'd felt about no other. And she wasn't willing to accept the role he seemed to have relegated her to. As callous as it was of her to think of it, she couldn't help realizing that now, with his M orar gone, there was nothing to take Daemon away from Thadonia. No reason he couldn't stay. If he could stay, then perhaps it was possible for them to have a future. She glared at his rigid back across the clearing. How dare he deny them a chance! Although Singai always worked at controlling her temper, it was escaping its tether. She sprang to her feet. "Magar, Daemon, talk to me," she demanded as she stalked after him. "What have I done to make you so angry?" He turned slowly to face her and looked down at her with a hard and distant expression. "You've done nothing. I just want to be left alone. Is that so much to ask?" "I care about you!" Singai was too angry to be embarrassed by the sentiment she betrayed in that single statement. He was probably too self-absorbed at the moment to interpret it anyway. "Where is the harm in that?" Grabbing his good arm, she turned him to face her. "I thought we were friends. Daemon." He stared down at her a moment. "I have no need for friends in my life, Singai. I'm sorry if I gave you that impression. You should find yourself a good man. Someone who can share your life. Someone who may give you children someday." Singai's spine stiffened. "Don't you presume to tell me what I should do." "As you wish." Turning his back on her, he walked away. Zyk! The man was more infuriating than a Ra-fatian merchant. Studying him, Singai examined the situation and attempted to determine what his motivations might be, but the task seemed hopeless. Taking up a position against a tree on the opposite side of the camp, she sat down to think. In a way, this was a battle. A battle to get him to let her into his life. A battle to get him to accept her as a friend and a lover. And Singai rarely lost battles, for when she did, she was not a good loser. Ven-Gura? Yes? Will you help me to figure something out, my friend? If I can, Singai, you know that I will help. She glanced in Daemon's direction. He was bedding down the dyre for the night. I don't understand why Quinn is angry with me. Are you certain he is angry with you? I have noticed that the males of your species outwardly tend to show any intense negative emotion as anger. Perhaps he is merely angry or upset or afraid about something that has nothing to do with you. Singai pondered that for a moment. Ven-Gura was right. She'd worked with enough men to know that they often displayed fear, anxiety, or even just plain boredom as anger. And often that anger was directed at whoever was nearest. When had Daemon's anger begun?

During or after the combat with the Dalig certainly. At first, it wasn't obvious because it had been outweighed by his grief. So, assuming that his grief over the M orar's death had not instigated his anger, what had happened during that conflict to anger or alarm him? He had been injured, but Daemon was not the type of man to take flight because of an injury. As a Guardian, he was a trained warrior. He had come close to the losing the battle, and—from what she'd seen and heard—had it not been for Vartan's intervention and her own timely return, he might have. Had fear for what might have happened caused his anger? Not fear of his own death, but of hers? It was hard to know. He had told her so little about himself. She contemplated him across the clearing. He was such a magnetic man. Even from here, she felt the powerful draw of his masculinity. But he obviously didn't feel the same way about her, for he was pushing her away, withdrawing into himself. Men always want what they can't have. The words echoed in her mind. A phrase from another time, when Traesha had thought to coach her on catching a man. Singai observed him. He knew she found him attractive and would not deny him, and that was the problem. But if he thought she was no longer interested . . . there'd no longer be a reason for him to force this distance between them. To be truthful, Quinn wasn't physically in any condition to make love for a few days anyway. And although Singai would have liked the physical closeness of being held by him, in the interest of strengthening their relationship for whatever time they had left, she could pretend otherwise. At the same time though, if she was to stand any chance of winning this war of wills, she needed to understand Daemon much better. And to do that, she had to come to know him. They were already friends, in many ways. They respected each other as companions. But could she get him to let her into his life ... as a friend? She thought about that for a moment, then rose to move across the clearing to where he stood looking out at the desert. "Daemon, I'd like to speak with you for a moment." "What about?" His tone suggested boredom, a complete lack of interest. She cleared her throat before speaking. "Well. . . I think this sexual thing between us is destroying what would otherwise be a wonderful friendship." She held up a hand to forestall him as he looked over his shoulder and opened his mouth to speak. "I know. I know. You don't need any friends. Nevertheless, we have been friends these past weeks, and I'd hate to lose you as a friend because we don't know how to deal with the sexual side of things." As he slowly turned to face her, she could tell she had his attention. "Go on." Singai avoided his gaze for a moment. "Well, I think we should concentrate on our friendship and forget about the other. As I said when we first began traveling together, I've had lots of practice in regarding my male traveling companions as brothers. I think it might be wise to revert to that attitude, don't you?" He studied her for a moment as though seeking an ulterior motive, and she kept her expression carefully bland. "You may be right." She sighed and smiled. "Oh, that's such a relief. Now can we sit and share a conversation as friends do?" After regarding her in silence for another minute, he slowly nodded although he still looked faintly suspicious. "I suppose so." Singai led him to a comfortable spot in the sandy soil, where he could sit with his back against the huge water-laden trunk of a werpalm tree and she could sit beside him in the natural cradle formed by a looped root. They talked for a couple of moments about mundane things: their route on the morrow, the dangers of the desert, the heat. And then Singai broached a subject she had wanted to discuss for some time. "Tell me about yourself, Daemon. I want to know who Daemon Quinn is. You know almost everything about me, yet I know nothing of you." "I wouldn't know where to start," he hedged. "Start at the beginning." "The beginning of my life? Why would you want to hear all that? I've led an unexceptional life." "Unexceptional or not, it's what makes you the person you are." She paused. "What is your earliest memory?" He was silent for a long time, and she thought perhaps he would be unable to bring himself to confide in her. Yet she knew, instinctively, that that was the first step in getting him to accept her as part of his life for however long it was possible. Somehow, she had to get him to stop isolating himself from everyone. She had to get him to let her in. "I remember playing with building blocks on the kitchen floor while my mother did laundry. The house was full of the smell of soap." "Was she pretty?" "M y mother? I suppose she was. She was tall and dark complected, like I am. She was thin, though, because she wasn't well. I didn't know how to help her and she died shortly before I turned five. I really don't remember that much about her other than that she was kind and. . . she had gentle hands." He fell silent and Singai found herself reaching across the chasm that separated them, intending to place a soothing hand on his forearm. She stopped herself just in time. "She sounds wonderful, Daemon. You're lucky to have known her. I wish I had had the chance to know my mother, even for so short a time." "Yes," Daemon said, his voice little more than a low rumble in his chest. "What about your father? Were you close?" She sensed him tense and hoped she had not asked something that would make him close in upon himself again. She waited. "No, we weren't close." His voice was toneless, the words devoid of emotion. "Him, I was not lucky to have known." "I'm sorry," she murmured. Then, almost as though he made a conscious effort to relax one muscle at a time, the tension slowly left his body, and he shrugged. "It was a long time ago. He was a drunk who conducted his business in bars—not because it was tradition to have a couple of drinks to seal a deal as in Vaileu territory, but because it was more home to him than anywhere else. I rarely saw him. And when I did, I usually wished I hadn't. He was a violent man for whom the concepts of morality and legality came in a thousand shades of gray. I was never the son he wanted me to be." "Who raised you after your mother passed away?" "A neighbor who had loved my mother from afar. He told me later that he wished he'd stepped in and gotten my mother the medical care she needed. Since he had not, he felt it his duty to raise her son. His name was Romyn. It was because of him that I became a Guardian. He taught me a lot." Singai nodded. "He sounds like a kind man. Did you and Romyn grow close?"

Daemon shook his head. "Not particularly. I respected him. And I believe he cared for me in his own way, but he wasn't a demonstrative man. Still, I could have done much worse than to have landed in his care." Singai studied him, searching for unspoken nuances. "How did your father feel about him raising you?" Daemon shrugged. "M y father didn't care. He didn't want to be 'saddled with a brat' anyway. Those were his words. It was only when I turned fourteen that he began to take an interest in me. Said he wanted to make a man out of me. Prepare me to take over his business." Singai frowned. "If he spent almost all of his time in the taverns, what kind of business did he run?" For a long time. Daemon didn't respond. She had just about given up and was searching her mind for a new tack, when he said, "M y father called himself a secondhand merchant, but he was in the business of procurement. Whatever you needed, he'd find it for you. And he had no compunction about stooping to a little larceny whenever it suited him." They talked for an hour or more, Singai drawing Daemon out, encouraging him to talk whenever he seemed about to close up again. He told her about some of his adolescent hopes and dreams. About his entry into the corp of Planetary Guardians. About his decision to become a career Guardian. And now it was time to ask the question she dreaded most. "And did you ever fall in love?" she asked quietly. She held her breath, needing but not wanting to know if Daemon was in love with another woman. He had told her he wasn't married, but now that she'd thought about it, she realized that that didn't necessarily mean he was free. His eyes met hers for a brief telling moment, and her stomach clenched. "Yes," he replied in a barely audible voice. And then, with his eyes fixed on some distant point across the clearing, he fell silent for long moments. Finally, Singai could stand the suspense no longer. "What's her name?" she asked, quietly, calmly, in the tone of an interested friend. He started slightly, looking back at her as though he'd forgotten her presence. "Her name was Corinda," he murmured. "She was my wife." Was? "What happened?" He shrugged. "She and our unborn child died a violent death at the hands of a ruthless killer because I wasn't there to protect her." "Did you catch him?" she asked, although she was certain she knew the answer. He might have been from another world, but Daemon was a warrior. He would not let such a wrong go unpunished. He nodded, confirming her belief. "Eventually." The single word said everything. They fell silent for a moment, and then Singai asked him to tell her a bit about Fortuna. And finally, as the words they'd shared percolated in her mind, she began to believe she understood Daemon and what motivated him. Perhaps better than he did. The reason he held himself away from others was because the lonely child inside him still felt unworthy of love or caring. At some point in his life, he'd developed an overblown sense of responsibility. Or perhaps he'd been born with it. Because he held himself responsible for the safety and well-being of everyone in his life. Daemon still blamed himself for his mother's death, for not knowing how to help her. And for his wife's death, for not being there to protect her. Rather than the cold, unfeeling man he tried so hard to be, he was a man who cared deeply about those in his life. Yet he must have learned to shield his emotions so well in the interest of self-preservation that he had succeeded in convincing most people, including himself, that he was impervious to the passions and worries that plagued lesser mortals. As Daemon fell silent, Singai leaned her head back against the tree trunk and listened to a spine-chilling howl in the distance. "I hope the quarcat doesn't decide to come here looking for water," she murmured. "Are they big?" She nodded. "The desert quarcats are not the largest, but, yes, they are big. Easily the size of a man. But the dyre will warn us if they sense one approaching." Daemon shivered. Instinctively, she reached across the distance separating them to check his temperature. He jerked slightly away from her touch, but she ignored him. Frowning, she realized that his skin had grown more warm in the time they'd been sitting, yet the desert night was relatively temperate. "Are you cold?" she asked, striving to keep the worry out of her voice. "Just a bit chilled. It's nothing to worry about." "Perhaps we'd better get some rest. We have a long ride ahead of us tomorrow to reach Teman." *** Singai, wake! Singai opened her eyes to the blackness of predawn. What is it, Ven-Gura? There are Dalig approaching. Singai rose on her elbow. How close? Not close. They are not yet shielding because they believe they are safe from detection. Singai sighed. Then we have time to leave before they get here. She sat up only to find herself staring directly at the luminous green eyes of a quarcat. It sat on the periphery of the camp just watching them. Why hadn't the dyre sensed it? The creatures lay behind her, to all appearances sound asleep. And since the quarcat had been unusually canny in staying downwind, they hadn't smelled it. Slowly, hoping not to startle the creature into attack, she removed Ven-Gura from the baldric and rose. The quarcat growled deep in its throat, a sound of warning, not aggression, and it didn't move. Ven-Gura. Yes, Singai? Can you sense anything from the quarcat? What does it want? There was a pause as she faced the creature in total silence. Its tawny coat faded into the background desert sands, making its broad head, which was easily as wide as her torso, appear almost disembodied. It eyed her with unblinking eyes. It is not hungry, Singai. Merely thirsty. "And we're keeping you from your watering hole, aren't we?" she murmured to the creature.

There was another warning growl. The dyre behind her suddenly leapt to their feet with bleating cries of fright. Cautiously, Singai glanced at Daemon. He still appeared sound asleep. The observation worried her. He was normally a very light sleeper. Deciding that the standoff with the quarcat could not remain as it was, she cautiously moved sideways to kneel at Daemon's side. "Daemon"— she shook him slightly—"wake up." She had to repeat the gesture twice more before he even stirred, and her worry intensified proportionally. But it was too dark to see much of anything. "Are you all right?" He tried to rise, only to fall back with a curse and lie there taking huge panting breaths. "What is it?" she asked forcing herself to speak quietly despite the alarm coursing through her. "M y arm." In the next instant, the Barak flared. The startled quarcat roared and retreated a few steps, but Singai's attention remained on Daemon. His eyes were glazed with the unnatural sheen of illness. And his arm was quite obviously swollen almost twice its normal size. Ignoring the hovering quarcat for the moment, she helped Daemon into a sitting position and removed his shirt, as painlessly as possible, so that she could remove the bandage and check his wound. What she saw made her gasp. The wound was suppurating badly and the red inflamed flesh around the site of the injury had expanded. But worse than that, there were horrible red streaks radiating out from the wound in all directions. The largest and most prominent ran from the afflicted area down into Daemon's arm, but there were other lines fanning out across his chest. The poisons were spreading. Already his arm was swollen and discolored. What would happen when those poisons reached a vital organ? But she knew the answer to that. Without immediate medical aid to drain the poisons from his body, Daemon would die. And he would die because he had stood between her and a small army of Dalig intent on her destruction. He would die because he'd protected her. Twice in the course of their short relationship, Daemon had imperiled his life for her only to risk paying for his act of selflessness with his own life through illness. It wasn't fair. "It's bad, isn't it?" he asked. He must have seen the dread on her face before she'd managed to school her expression. She met his gaze. "It's not good. It's festering." He nodded. "Don't worry about it. I can travel." Singai's temper flared. "Until you no longer have the strength to stay on the dyre?" The man was completely obtuse when it came to his own welfare. "You act as though you don't care if you live or die." "I've prepared myself for death many times, Singai. I don't fear it." "No," she agreed. "You don't fear death. You fear life." His gaze fixed on her face with as much indignation as he could muster under the circumstances. "I'm not afraid of anything." "Liar," she taunted softly. "It takes more courage to face life head-on, Daemon, than it does to die. You court death because you feel you deserve it. But facing death is something we all do eventually, even cowards. Living well, that's something we have to work hard to learn. And only a few lucky ones ever have the courage to live with the zest for life that they should. I'm still trying to learn. But you—I think you have stopped trying." He stared at her, the light of anger in his feverish eyes. After a pause, he said in a hard, unemotional voice, "You'll have to press the infection from the wound to drain it. Then reopen the puncture. A fresh flow of blood should keep the infection from spreading and help to drain the wound. Can you do that?" Singai nodded. She was a warrior, with a warrior's will. Of course she could do it. She just wasn't certain that he was right. It looked too bad for the cure to be so simple. But then she had no medical training. And with Dalig warriors drawing ever nearer, and a thirsty quarcat waiting anxiously for them to leave, they had to do something quickly and move on. Sitting back on her heels for a moment, she checked the whereabouts of the quarcat. It was a few feet farther away, simply lying on a dune. Waiting. Thank the stars, the creature hadn't been hungry. Rising cautiously, Singai made her way to her pack and the dagger she kept there. There wouldn't be time to make a fresh fire and boil water, so she'd simply have to settle for using the clean stream water in her canteen. She'd refill it from the pond before they left. "You'd better sterilize the knife. There's a bottle of Tanos in my pack. That should work." She'd never heard of liquor being used in quite that way. "You want me to pour Tanos over the knife?" The liquor was so expensive that she'd only had the fortune of tasting it a couple of times in her life. He nodded. "The alcohol in it will work as a disinfectant." If he thought it would work, that was enough for her. With a nod of capitulation, and a wary glance at the quarcat, she hurried to do as he asked before returning to his side. M inutes later, after she'd tended the wound as well as she was able, having drained it of purulent matter, cleansed it, reopened the injury enough to prompt fresh blood flow, and rebandaged it, she sat back to observe Quinn. The sun was rising now, and the light of the Barak was becoming less necessary as multihued tentacles of light snaked across the indigo sky. He was looking slightly improved. Now was the time to tell him that they had to get moving. Before she could formulate the words, he asked, "Why did you wake me? You didn't know about this worsening"—he gestured to his shoulder— "until after you'd awakened me. Was it the quarcat?" His eyes traveled briefly in the direction of the big cat, who still hovered in the background. Beginning to get impatient now that the sun was rising, it paced back and forth needing to replenish the pouch of fluid beneath its neck. Singai shook her head. "No. Ven-Gura woke me to tell me that he can sense Dalig approaching. They were still quite a distance off and hadn't discerned our presence yet, so they weren't shielding." She'd barely finished talking before he forced himself to his feet and stood swaying alarmingly. "Saints alive! We should have been moving right away, woman. What is the matter with you? How far away are they now?" Singai bristled at his tone, but kept silent. Ven-Gura? I am aware, Singai. How far away are the Dalig? I am unsure. They are shielding.

Singai nodded. That meant that the Dalig were close enough to sense Ven-Gura. Zyk! She made a quick estimate of the distance and turned to Quinn. "They are, perhaps, an hour behind us. No more." "And it could be less?" he asked as he piled his sleeping roll awkwardly onto his dyre with one arm. "Yes."

Chapter Twelve The one bright spot in the day was that they made it out of the desert before Daemon collapsed. Singai didn't know what she would have done had he fallen out of the saddle beneath the merciless desert sun. As it was, she was forced to set up camp virtually where he fell because she didn't have the strength to drag him very far. He was simply too big and too heavy. There was no water nearby and they still didn't know how near their Dalig pursuers were. Ven-Gura had received one fleeting contact in the early afternoon when one of the Dalig had lowered his shields long enough to search for them, but nothing since. At that time, they hadn't gained on them, but things could have changed. Singai had hoped to continue riding. They would have reached Teman shortly before midnight had that been an option. But it wasn't. And she was terrified by the implications of what Daemon's collapse might mean. Obviously, the medical aid she'd rendered that morning before leaving the oasis had not been sufficient. Now she assembled her medical supplies and carried them to where she'd lain Daemon beneath the meager shade of a young tree to shelter him as much as possible from the last rays of the afternoon sun. His breathing was swift and shallow, his complexion leeched of all color, and his cheeks sunken. Drawing a deep steadying breath, she opened his shirt and gasped, involuntarily lifting a hand to cover her nose and mouth. The smell of putrefaction was choking. And she didn't like the appearance of the red streaks radiating outward from beneath the bandage. They were longer and more vivid in color. Daemon had been wrong; the poisons had not been drained. Steeling herself for what she might see, she extended a trembling hand to remove the soiled bandage and fell back with a cry of dismay. Greenish-white purulent matter oozed from the wound in larger quantities than it had that morning. "Daemon," she murmured, calling to him even though she knew he couldn't answer. Even to her untrained eye, it was obvious that he was in dire straits. Daemon was dying. Singai shut her eyes, seeking a core of strength to help her deal with the inevitable. Daemon would die, and she'd go back to her own life. Death happened all the time, and when it did, friends and family went on. That was the way of things. The way it was meant to be. But when she pictured the life she'd had just a few short weeks ago, it seemed empty. Lonely. Oh, she'd intended to return to it anyway—when Daemon left. But then she would at least have had the hope of seeing him again. She would have known that he was somewhere out there. She would have been able to contact him had she really felt the need. How could she return to her old existence without even the hope of seeing him again? And Daemon didn't deserve to die. He who'd had so little life. The thought tore her apart. She wanted to help him learn to live, to be happy. And death would rob them both of that. Tears stung her eyes as she looked down on his handsome face. She'd just found him, was just beginning to explore the feelings she held for him. She couldn't give him up without a fight. Resolve began to solidify in her mind. She wouldn't! "Ven-Gura, help me to help him. What can I do?" He is dying, Singai. There is nothing that can be done. "No!" The word was a mere whisper as her face contorted with pain and denial. There had to be a way. Willing away the dark cloud of foreboding pressing down upon her, choking her, piercing her heart, she refused to surrender. "I'll use the power of Sotah. I can give him my strength as I did before." No! Singai, you mustn't. He is at the threshold of death. To balance the strength between you now would only prolong his life, not save it. And you would jeopardize your own life. Closing her eyes to shut out the sight of her lover as he labored against a superior enemy, she clung to the memory of the man she'd grown to love. Daemon materializing out of shadow, like an avenging dark angel, to save her from the Dalig attack in Cylon. Daemon rushing to attack a sea monster over a hundred times his size, without thought for his own safety, to rescue her and others. Daemon standing between herself and a horde of Dalig, guarding her against impossible odds. This was a man who cared about people, no matter what he might think or what face he might present to the universe. And she had grown to love him, as ill-advised as that might be. She wouldn't lose him now. She couldn't! But what could she do? An anguished cry of despair escaped her lips. M oving to his head, she cradled it in her lap and stroked his soft hair as she silently raged against the injustice of it all. Tears pooled in her eyes. What could she do? She could cleanse the wound again, but the poisons had spread too far for it to do much good. Yet there had to be something. She touched the weightless broadsword in the baldric on her back. Ven-Gura, couldn't you heal him? I can only heal those to whom I am b onded, Singai. Singai squeezed her eyes tightly closed. "I can't lose him, Ven-Gura," she murmured aloud. "Not when I've just found him. Don't you understand?" Her voice was a low wail of anguish. "I love him. Ven-Gura, please help us. Bond with him if you have to, but help me save him. I can't let him die." You have no idea what you're asking. What risk you ask of us b oth. "I don't care." If he dies, Ven-Gura, then a large part of my life will end too. I will be a shell of the person I am meant to be. Singai, to follow a course of action this revolutionary, we would need to contact the priests for authorization, for guidelines. "And is there time to do that?" she asked, as she stared down at Daemon's face. There was a moment's hesitation. No.

"I thought not." Ven-Gura, I'm asking you to do this for me. And for Quinn. He is a good man. The only reason he's ill is because he took a sword to save my life. And in doing so, saved yours as well. We owe him a great debt, Ven-Gura. Now is our chance to repay it. Singai sensed her companion's agitation. But we have no idea what consequences such a course might have for our symbiosis, Singai, he argued. It might weaken our link, or even destroy it altogether. And what if I cannot reestablish our bond? And suppose that Quinn does not have the mental strength to endure symbiosis? This is something that only a few people on the planet can survive. "He was already mentally linked with his M orar. I think that must show strength. And the Dalig were trying to capture him rather than kill him. Surely someone among them must have thought he'd make a better ally than an enemy." If there is such a thing as a telepathic snort, the sensation she received at that moment was it. They care not if they injure their symbiotic vessels. And their process of coercion gives the recipient little choice. "I know that, Ven-Gura. Still, it must mean something." Perhaps. But even if Quinn is strong enough to endure the joining, in the end, he could b ecome my companion rather than you. It is even possib le that, b y expanding my b ond with you to include another, I could kill one or b oth of us. The risks are innumerab le. Singai thought about her companion's words. But the thought of dying held no fear for her. Life without Daemon in it did. "It doesn't matter, Ven-Gura. None of it matters if Daemon has to die. I'm asking you to heal him." It may not even work. Such a thing has never b een attempted b efore. "I'm asking you to try." Silence. She could sense Ven-Gura's turmoil. You will need to cleanse the wound carefully. Remove as much of the poison as you can. "I will," she murmured. So you'll try? A moment of hesitation. I'll try. Singai hastened to make all the preparations Ven-Gura had asked of her, ensuring that Daemon was in a comfortable position, treating his wound again as well as she was able, and baring his arms and torso for Ven-Gura's contact. Then, she placed the sword on Daemon's body, ensuring that the pommel was in contact with both of his hands. Unexpectedly, at that moment, one of the dyre made a loud complaining noise. She couldn't afford the luxury of unsaddling them when she had no idea when the Dalig might put in an appearance, but the dyre seldom minded their saddles. Looking over at them, she discovered that she'd secured them to a tree just a little too distant from a lush patch of new grass. Stretching their long necks out in an attempt to reach it had only resulted in frustration. Since she couldn't afford to have them making excessive noise right now, she rose and hastily adjusted their position so they could graze. Returning to Daemon's side, she noted that nothing much seemed to be happening yet. Ven-Gura? This is very difficult, Singai. Perhaps if you intone the b onding ritual, it will help. "Of course," she agreed, although it would feel strange to intone the ritual chant without Ven-Gura in her hand. Rising, she closed her eyes and extended her arms as though she held the sword. Slumbering. In the sunrise we are born. Consciousness. In the light of the Silver Moon we are blessed. Awaken. Convergence begins in the light of mom. Together. We are one, we are light, we begin the quest. We are Sotah. Reaching the conclusion, she opened her eyes and looked down at Ven-Gura. It had begun! Rainbow-hued bands of light spiraled down the blade in a loving caress until they reached the pommel. Here the colors began to divide, separating into glittering strands of incandescent light. As the strands wept down onto the hands of her unconscious lover, dizziness unexpectedly assailed her. Staggering slightly, Singai made her way to the nearest tree and used it to brace herself as she slowly sank to a sitting position on the ground. Her head began to throb, a dreadful ache centered in her temples and behind her eyes. But she couldn't disturb Ven-Gura. She watched as the essence that was her symbiotic companion began to weave sinuously up Daemon's arms. She watched as it caressed the smooth taut flesh of Daemon's strong biceps. She watched as it wove around and over the sight of the terrible wound that threatened to take Daemon's life. Still, Daemon showed no sign that he was aware of the contact. That was not good. She knew from experience the kind of euphoric misery to be experienced from the bonding. Willing away the intense agony pounding relentlessly in her head, Singai waited. She wouldn't complain. This is what she'd wanted. And it would work. It had to. Then the filaments of atomized light began to disappear, assimilated slowly by the flesh of Daemon's body. At that moment, the muscles in his neck and jaw bulged slightly as he tensed against the searing torment of the rapturous fusion. And Singai sighed in relief. He was still alive enough to feel. As the last of Ven-Gura's energy disappeared into his body, she knew that the psychic bond had been established. Ven-Gura would be able to heal him. Smiling slightly, she closed her eyes and surrendered to the terrible blackness hovering at the edge of her vision. *** Daemon struggled to open his eyes, to heed the insistent nagging voice in his mind. Quinn, wake!

"What?" His voice was little more than a croak. You must wake, my friend. The Dalig approach. We must get to safety. "Ven-Gura?" Daemon frowned. How did he know the broadsword's name? Had Singai ever told him? He couldn't remember, and the effort at thought prompted a throbbing ache to begin in his forehead. He closed his eyes. Rest. He needed rest. But why was Ven-Gura talking to him? His eyes flew open despite the agony and he lifted his head a bit. The effort cost him, but he clearly saw the broadsword lying upon his body. "What's happened? Where is Singai?" There is no time for explanation now, Quinn. You must rise. The Dalig are very near. Mere moments away. "Where are we?" Daemon asked as he struggled into a sitting position. Across the clearing, Singai leaned against the trunk of a tree, eyes closed and body slumped. "What's the matter with Singai?" She seems to be in a coma, but my link with her is weak at the moment, and I cannot be certain. "Coma! Why? What has happened?" Not now, Quinn! There is no time. Hurry and I will explain as we ride. Daemon rose, despite the throbbing pain in his head that made it difficult to think, and staggered across the small clearing to Singai. Falling to his knees at her side, he made a hasty examination. She didn't appear to have suffered any external injury, but her pulse was weak and thready. Hurry! "She can't ride, Ven-Gura." Then carry her. Carry her? How? His shoulder . . . He looked down at his naked torso, and his hand moved slowly to site of his injury. His shoulder was healed! Only a faint red line remained to betray the fact that he'd ever suffered an injury. And it no longer hurt in the slightest. But how was this possible? Later! Cradling Singai in his arms. Daemon goaded the dyre onward, leaving a false trail clearly visible in one direction before doubling back and using the camouflage of a more rocky surface to travel in another. Two hours out of Teman, having evaded the Dalig again for a time, Daemon looked down at the woman in his arms, with Ven-Gura's explanation replaying in his mind. She was so beautiful, so giving. What had he done to deserve the sacrifice she'd made? Nothing. The thought that she might have died, might still perish, because she'd offered him life, choked him. Why had she valued his life above her own? There was no comparison. A hurt that was almost a physical ache centered somewhere in the region of his heart. And in that moment, he learned a new and terrifying truth: He loved this woman. For a moment, he experienced an intense waking dream. A vision of himself and Singai with a pair of children at their feet. A family. And as unrealistic as it was, the dream was . . . enticing. The lunar light of Thadonia's Crimson M oon shone down upon them as they rode, granting a pink flush to Singai's too pale complexion, and bestowing a fiery life to the red highlights now peeking through her hastily applied hair dye. "Cynyr," he murmured. "You can't leave me now." He closed his eyes against the pain that assailed him. "Without you, I won't know what to do with your gift. "Ven-Gura?" Since Singai was incapable of wearing the baldric at the moment, Quinn now wore the Broadsword, and he directed the call over his shoulder. It was going to take him a while to get used to this new connection. I am aware, Quinn. "Can you sense anything? Is she improving at all?" My link with her seems to be intensifying again slightly, but I still sense no improvement. The strain of expanding the link to include you was acute. "Then why did you allow her to do it?" She insisted. "But why?" That is something I do not fully understand myself. It has something to do with human emotions. You will have to ask Singai when she awakens. Daemon held his breath for a fraction of a second, almost afraid to hope. "Is she going to awaken?" I can give no guarantees, but I believe so, yes. It may take some time, however. That time seemed like an eternity, and Daemon was beginning to despair. "Come on, Cynyr," he murmured for the hundredth time. "The lights of Teman will soon be in view. We are almost there." He was talking in the simple hope that the sound of his voice might keep her with him, keep her focused on life. He looked at the moonlit landscape and marveled at the beauty of this still primitive world. They were riding atop a hill covered in lush blue-green grass although it appeared almost black beneath the glow of the red moonlight. In the distance, to their left, tall trees formed a small forest. And then he felt her stir slightly in his arms. "Singai!" Had she really moved, or had he imagined it? She frowned slightly, without opening her eyes, and her lips mouthed his name. Daemon's spirits soared. She was coming back! "That's it, Cynyr. Now open your eyes. Talk to me." "M y head hurts." Her voice was little more than a faint whimper. "Good!" "Good?" Her eyes came open at that. He smiled slightly and brushed her soft cheek with his fingers. "Yes. It means you're alive." She nodded, satisfied with his answer, and allowed her eyes to drift closed again. Daemon, content now that Ven-Gura's prediction had proved accurate, was happy just to watch her rest in his arms. Then her eyes nickered again. "The Dalig?" "Ven-Gura, can you sense the Dalig? Are they nearer?" No. We have outpaced them. Perhaps they ran into troub le. "What kind of trouble?"

I took the lib erty of making mental contact with a quarcat that had the temerity to stalk us for time. I thought the b est way to discourage it was to plant a suggestion that there was easier prey on our trail. But I have no idea if the suggestion worked. "Good thinking." Although the entity in the sword made no verbal response, Quinn sensed a fraction of a second of satisfaction at his praise. Such a small gift to give to the being who'd saved his life at no small risk to its own. Even though Ven-Gura had pointed out very clearly that the desire and the sacrifice had been primarily Singai's, Daemon sensed that he could have refused her request. But he had not. Saints only knew why! What about the Dalig? Singai's query came directly into his mind, just as contact with Ven-Gura did, and yet her psychic voice was just as distinctive as her speaking voice. He recognized it instantly. Quinn stared down at her in stunned surprise. "The Dalig are some distance away, Ven-Gura assures me. How did you do that?" She frowned. "I was trying to speak to Ven-Gura. I presume I did not succeed?" "Ven-Gura, did you hear her?" Yes. But not as strongly as I should have. Still the link is gradually regaining some of its strength, so it may only be a matter of time. By the way, Quinn, are you aware of the fact that you too can communicate telepathically with me? In your communication with me, I sense a resonance that suggests you are speaking vocally. Quinn stared ahead of the dyre in stunned surprise. "You mean I have the same kind of link with you that I had with Griv?" We have a telepathic link, yes. And will my connection to you fade as Singai's regains its strength? he asked, deciding to try out the telepathic connection. There was a moment's hesitation. I am uncertain. To my knowledge, a three-way connection has never before been forged. He glanced down at the woman in his arms. "Singai, are you hearing any of this?" "Faintly. It's a bit like a far-off echo." Daemon frowned. He wasn't certain he liked the idea of Singai being privy to his thoughts. Ven-Gura, if this three-way link stays active, will you and Singai know everything that is in my mind? For a moment, Quinn thought he sensed a psychic laugh. No, my friend. I have never known all that is in Singai's mind, nor she what is in mine. We receive only the communications directed to each other. This process may be a bit confused at the moment, but eventually I believe that even if the three-way link has been forged indefinitely, we will ultimately be able to direct our thoughts to the being for whom they're intended. Also, I will be able to break the link with either or both of you periodically as I might when entering dormancy. Although, unless the priests know how to undo this connection, you will never be completely free of me. Daemon tensed. What are you saying? Are you trying to tell me that I can't go home? Singai opened her eyes and looked up at him. "What? What is it?" When Daemon only looked at her, she directed her question to her companion. "Ven-Gura, what is it?" Relax, Quinn. You can go home whenever you want, for as long as you want. My link with Singai has not been broken, and I will not go into a state of unconsciousness as long as I have at least one symbiotic companion. All I am saying is that there may be times when you would sense things from me—even across the vastness of space. Telepathy, especially among the Iyi'Sefir, knows no limitations. Daemon calmed. "It's nothing, Singai. Ven-Gura merely needed to explain something to me." She nodded, studying his face with a worried frown. And then her expression cleared and she said, "I think it's time I rode my own mount. I don't want to enter Teman like this." He drew the dyre to a halt. In that instant, she seemed to withdraw from him in some way, and yet he couldn't put his finger on what made him reach that conclusion. "Are you sure you're strong enough?" She nodded. "I have a headache, but I can ride." He handed her down, and she stood looking up at him with an enigmatic expression on her face. "M ay I have my sword?" Daemon found the question strangely painful, as though he was beginning to develop possessive feelings for the entity housed in the gleaming gold weapon. But that was foolish. The sword and the companion had been Singai's long before they had come into contact with him, and the primary link would still be hers. She was Sotah, not he. "Yes," he replied. "Of course." Removing the baldric, he handed it to her and then dismounted to aid her in getting seated atop her mount. No matter what she said, it was obvious that she remained weak. Once settled, she looked down at him, her expression noticeably cooler than it had been only moments earlier, and nodded her thanks with the regal poise of a princess royal. "Did I do something to upset you?" he found himself asking. She shook her head. "No, of course not. I simply remembered our agreement to be friends and nothing more. After all, you are leaving Thadonia soon." Quinn studied her. She must have heard at least part of Ven-Gura's explanation concerning the link not tying him to Thadonia. That had been precisely the point in time when she'd begun to cool toward him. But if she truly wanted to be friends and nothing more, if his leaving didn't matter to her, then why was she angry? And why was his heart suddenly pounding in exultation when he himself had acknowledged that there was no future for them together? Pondering the imponderable. Daemon returned to his own mount and kicked it into motion. He was acutely conscious of Singai as she fell in at his side. If they hadn't been so concerned about the Dalig pursuit, he would have called a halt to camp for the night to give himself time to think. And perhaps to pin Singai down on what she truly felt, because—for some reason he couldn't explain —it mattered. *** The council chamber was brightly lit, with lumo-gel globes sitting on four-foot stands all around the periphery of the room. The pale blue walls were supposed to be calming, the carved statues throughout the room designed to appeal to the aesthetic senses. But none of it worked. Not tonight. Darkness pressed against the huge windows of the council chamber, creating a feeling of isolation that echoed the mood within her. As Empress of Kazer, she often felt alone. She should have been used to it, she supposed. After all, it had been seventeen years since Aleirdon, her husband and Emperor of Kazer, had been assassinated. But she was not a loner by nature. Narice strode to the windows for the thousandth time and looked out into that night. Had it not been for the lights of Teman

below, it would have been easy to imagine that this one small chamber hung isolated and alone in a cosmic abyss. Twining her fingers into the thick midnight-blue draperies at her side, she stared toward the north gate. Where were they? "Your worry will help nothing, Narice. You know that." Vartan's deep rumbling voice reached her from across the huge chamber. M ore than her captain of the guard, more than her personal information broker, he was her friend—and had been for many years. In fact, had circumstances been different, had she not been in the position she was, she fancied they would have been much more than friends. Fortune played strange games. She looked over her shoulder at him. "Then where are they, my friend? Based on what you told me of their departure time, they should have been here hours ago." He shrugged. "M any things can happen to delay travel on a journey. It doesn't necessarily mean that any harm has befallen them." Narice turned back to the window without comment. She desperately hoped he was right. Time was running out. "I wish you'd tell me why this particular woman is so important to you. I have made suppositions naturally, based on her uncanny resemblance to Eritha, but I fail to understand why you are so secretive about this." Narice turned from the window and moved slowly across the room to lean on the enormous varnished blackwood table and consider her friend. Vartan was a handsome man, even with the white streaks of hair fanning out from his temples that betrayed his Feheran heritage to any who cared to look beyond the surface. Who could have guessed that a union between a tall, fair Feheran man and a petite, dark Vaileuan female could have turned out so well? How was it possible that he had been able to overcome the Feheran empathy—a trait that prevented the Fehera from ever committing an act of violence—while still holding on to much of the mental ability that blessed that race. "What suppositions have you made, Vartan?" He met her gaze squarely. "I believe you may be planning on passing her off as Eritha—if she is agreeable." Narice read his eyes. He had guessed the truth, or at least part of it. She should have known he would, for he was one of the most intelligent men she'd ever met. Yet even now, he wouldn't voice it but would wait for her to share it in her own time. Now was not that time. "Eritha is very ill. The physicians do not expect her to live out the year, Vartan. As my only heir, her death will leave Kazer in an untenable situation." Her heart clutched as she thought about her daughter leaving her, but she had learned to conceal her emotion. Since she was the empress, concern for her empire always came before personal concern. "I must consider all and any options to safeguard Kazer, for we both know that the Dalig threat is real." He nodded, accepting both her words and her unspoken refusal to confide in him as yet. "I have done my best to make my services important to the Dalig commander, and I have learned much in that capacity, but they will not trust me fully until I am one of them. That I will not do." "No one expects you to," Narice assured him. "There are some lengths to which even I will not go for my empire. We are lucky to have you. Had it not been for your knowledge, we might never have known that the Dalig and Fena'Gece cannot coerce a Feheran into the bonding. I'm certain that that awareness will prove indispensable in the times we are now facing." She paced back toward the huge window at the end of the room and looked once more toward the city gate even though she knew that, should Quinn and Singai even now be entering there, she would be unable to see them. Speaking over her shoulder, she said, "I wish you'd been able to travel with them, Vartan, to provide protection." "I risked much in just contacting them occasionally. To have traveled with them would have been foolhardy. Had the Dalig learned of my association with them, they would have learned of my connection to you, and all we've worked for, to be in a position to know their plans, would have been lost." Narice nodded. "You're right, of course. It's just so difficult." "They'll be here, Narice. Those two work well together. From what I saw, neither would be afraid" to give up his life for the other." Narice's spine stiffened. "What are you saying, Vartan?" She turned to face him, to read his expression. "Do they care for each other?" He frowned, perceiving her concern, but not understanding it. "I think so, yes." "How much?" He shrugged. "I have no idea. Why?" She considered him a moment, but could not share the cause of her concern without telling him everything. She sighed and said, "It's probably nothing." How could she tell him that she didn't want Singai to suffer as she had suffered? To love one man but be wed to another. For Narice had met Quinn, had seen the coldness in his eyes, and she was reasonably certain that he was a man already wed ... to the past. "Come, Narice." He rose and walked across the room to place his arm around her and begin to lead her from the chamber. "It's time you got some rest. You know you'll be informed the minute they arrive. For all you know, they're already in Teman and have simply decided not to bother you until morning." He was right. Sighing, she capitulated, although she knew she wouldn't sleep. Perhaps she'd go and sit with Eritha.

Chapter Thirteen It was near dawn by the time they entered Teman's north gate. The city was dark and quiet, even the nights revelers having finally sought their beds. Singai looked down at her grimy apparel and fingered the coarseness of the dye on her hair. She desperately required a bath and a change of clothing. Glancing over at Quinn, she determined that he was in a similar condition. "We need to find an inn for a couple of hours. It would be impolite to present ourselves at the palace looking like this." Quinn ran a glance over his own garb and nodded. "Agreed." He paused and looked toward the sword on her back. "Ask Ven-Gura if he senses any Dalig presence." You do not need to b e in contact with me for me to hear you, my friend. So you may ask such questions yourself. And in reply: I do sense Dalig near, b ut they are passive. They are not those who seek us. Quinn frowned, clearly not understanding how Ven-Gura could differentiate, and for that matter, neither did Singai, but he nodded. "Then I suppose it should be safe enough to stop for a short time."

Three hours later, tired from a sleepless night, they left the inn just as the newly risen morning sun began to bathe the world in its gilded light. Teman was only about half the size of ReiDalgo; still, its cobbled streets were alive with merchants and people heading to their places of employment. Feherans were numerous among the pedestrians, for they were prized as employees, and few businesses operated without at least one Feheran on staff. Within moments, they left the commercial district and moved through a residential area. Virtually all of the houses were constructed of the pinkish stone so prevalent on Thadonia, and those that could afford it had ornamented the facades of their homes in geometric designs created from an expensive black stone that Quinn had remarked looked much like polished slate, or perhaps a vein-less marble. As they drew nearer the palace, progressing into more affluent areas of the city, stone walls enclosed many of the properties. Soon the border of the palace grounds came into view, marked by massive stone walls topped with menacing black spikes. Set in the center of the wall was a huge wooden gate watched over by a gatekeeper in a small stone tower or gatehouse. As they drew to a halt before the gate, Quinn reached over and pulled the massive rope that would call the gatekeeper and announce their presence. The sound of the bell pealing slowly faded, and a small wooden square opened in the portal to frame a grizzled face. "Guardian Quinn and companion to see Empress Narice," Quinn announced. The gatekeeper eyed them suspiciously for a moment, and then amid a lot of grumbling and rumbling, he proceeded to open the gate for them to move through. A cobbled lane, easily wide enough to accommodate two carriages, wound off over two small hills and through a shallow valley, leading to the palace. As they rode their dyre along the tree-lined avenue, Singai examined the grounds. An enormous and meticulously maintained parklike expanse, it seemed to have much in common with the palace grounds in the Rafat empire. Asymmetrical clumps of colorful shrubbery, flowering trees and plants, and statuesque old shade trees trumpeted an inviting ambience that seemed unique to palatial grounds. The space between each eye-catching display of landscape artistry was carpeted with the sumptuous luxury of manicured blue-green grass. It was enough to make Singai want to kick off her boots and find a comfortable spot in the shade of a tree to catch up on her sleep. She contented herself by sniffing deeply of the flower-perfumed air and watching the small songbirds flit from bush to bush as they serenaded all who would listen with their musical calls. As they topped a small rise, Singai shifted her attention to the object of their visit. The palace, constructed almost entirely of the blue-black slate stone, dominated the scene. White plaster designs provided accent and decorative relief, while six white plastered columns supported a massive portico beneath which a pair of intricately carved blackwood doors granted entry. Two young men wearing the green-and-white livery of the Kazerian Empire flanked the portal. They moved forward to greet Singai and Quinn as they drew their dyre to a halt. "Would you like me to stable your dyre for you, Imnen?" one of them asked. He flicked a glance at Singai in her Sotah uniform. "Imnana?" Singai nodded, and Quinn replied absently, "Yes, please." His eyes were already on the door, and his mind obviously on the meeting to come. The other liveried youth preceded them up the steps and opened the doors for them to enter the palace's vast reception foyer. It was an intimidating place even for Singai. The foyer was so long it could almost have been termed a corridor. The monotony of the plain white plaster walls was alleviated by the periodic display of a mosaic depiction, each featuring a major event from Kazer's history: a revolutionary war, the rise of a beloved statesman, the fall of an emperor. Overhead, an enormous chandelier, constructed of millions of pieces of glittering glass, contained small glowing cylinders of rare blue-gold lumo gel rather than the more common greenish-hued gel. And the floor, constructed of black marble stone, had been polished to a mir-rorlike surface, which reflected the green, gold, and white uniforms of the dozens of motionless soldiers lining the walls. When Singai and Quinn reached the reception master at the end of the foyer, they halted. "Your names please?" the man murmured. He wore robes of a deep forest-green hue that accented the green color of his piercing eyes. "Guardian Quinn," Daemon responded in a low voice, and Singai understood his reason. To have spoken in a normal voice in so vast a chamber would have seemed somehow wrong. The man looked toward her and raised a questioning brow. "Sotah Singai," she said softly. "And you're here to see?" He raised that questioning brow again. "The Empress Narice," Quinn responded. The reception master frowned at him. "The empress is very busy. Is she expecting you?" Before Quinn could respond, a young man emerged from an alcove to their right. "Imnen Andac," he called softly. And then, upon receiving the reception master's attention, he bent to whisper something in the man's ear. When he'd finished speaking, he bowed slightly from the waist and then backed away three steps to wait, The reception master, Andac, looked up at them with a disgruntled expression. "Well, it seems you are expected. Please follow Rocham. He will take you to the empress's receiving room." As they followed Rocham through a maze of corridors, Singai looked at Quinn. She'd had the distinct impression that Andac would have loved nothing better than to deny them entry, and she wanted to know if Quinn had sensed it too, yet she couldn't speak to him about it with Rocham near enough to overhear. To her surprise, she received a reply from Quinn she hadn't been expecting. Yes, I noticed, but I got the impression that Andac is simply rather impressed with himself, not malicious in any way. For a moment, Singai was stunned by the mental communication. Ven-Gura, how is this possible? Are you acting as a conduit for communication between Quinn and me? I think so, Singai, but it's not intentional. It's as though, when you transmitted the thought toward him, I automatically became a conduit. Whether this will develop into a reliable method of communication or whether it will fade with time, I do not know. Rocham, who strode just ahead of them, leading the way, turned suddenly and began to mount a wide staircase carpeted with lush green carpet. The outer edge of each rise revealed that the staircase too was constructed of the polished black stone, and upon every second rise to their right, a potted flowering plant provided a welcoming touch. The handrails were gold in color and more ornamental than functional since they were at least five feet to either side from the center of the wide staircase, where most people would ascend.

The upper corridor was more casual than the lower. Although also carpeted in the rich green carpet, it was slightly narrower. Numerous statues and busts on pedestals—some of which looked to be the empress's ancestors—bestowed a more informal atmosphere. A third of the way down this hallway, Rocham halted at a door and knocked discreetly. In response to a faint acknowledgment from within, Rocham opened the portal to murmur something to the person within. He must have received the approval he required, for a second later, he opened the door wide. "Please enter and be seated," he said. "The empress is waiting for you." The chamber was dim. Initially, Daemon had difficulty locating the empress. She wasn't sitting on one of the huge stuffed cushions surrounding the table. Then he saw her in the shadows by the curtained windows speaking with a tall young woman. Narice turned toward them. "I beg your forgiveness," she said, her voice as soft and melodious as he remembered. "I forgot to open the drapes." Then, suiting action to words, the curtains parted and a deluge of early morning light flooded the chamber. "Please be seated. I just have a couple of things to conclude with my assistant and I'll join you." The two women murmured together for a couple of moments. A moment later, Daemon heard the empress thank her assistant—whom she called Sirvena—and Sirvena left the room. With a professional smile of welcome. Empress Nance turned toward them. For a moment, silhouetted against the brilliant light, the empress was nothing more than a slim, dark shadow. Then, as she moved forward a couple of steps and his eyes adjusted to the light, he perceived her more clearly. The Empress Narice wore a pale yellow gown that accentuated her tall, slim figure, flawless ivory complexion, and dark auburn hair. Were it not for the light of maturity in her eyes, she could easily have passed for a woman half her age. With the ease of a woman always conscious of the public eye, she moved across the room to join them at the table, kneeling before her cushion and then moving back gracefully with her knees to one side. In all that time, her eyes never left Singai. And Singai's eyes, Daemon noted, were similarly glued to the empress. As he watched the two of them together for the first time, the vague suspicions in his mind began to solidify. He didn't know how it was possible, but somehow it was. And he was virtually certain he already possessed a good portion of the solution to the mystery that taking this case had offered him. "Empress Narice," he spoke drawing her eyes to him, "may I present the object of your search, Sotah Singai." He looked at Singai, saw the dawning suspicion in her eyes. "Singai, my client, the Empress Narice." The empress nodded and smiled at Singai. "It is wonderful to meet you. I understand that the two of you have become friends, so I'm assuming that you would prefer that Quinn remain present for our meeting?" Singai's eyes widened in surprise as she briefly considered a possibility that she had not known existed. Then she nodded. "Yes. I think so." A slight tightening of the empress's lips was the only outward sign that she mightn't be entirely happy about that. "Would either of you care for refreshment?" she asked, gesturing to the trays and flasks adorning the table. Singai nodded and offered a cautious smile. "Yes, please. We didn't take the time to stop for much of a morning meal." As the empress passed the small plates and flasks so that they might serve themselves, she said, "I can imagine you are wondering why I went to such lengths as to hire a Guardian to search for you. You are probably even now beginning to make assumptions, so I'll get to the point. "As you can see, you resemble me considerably. In fact, you resemble my daughter Eritha even more closely, or rather you would if she was well. I will explain the reason for that later if you'll bear with me?" Singai's gaze flicked briefly to Daemon as though seeking to gauge his reaction. Then she nodded and murmured guardedly, "All right." In that moment. Daemon was certain that he was right in his suspicion. He felt something within him begin to withdraw. Despite the fact that he wanted her more than ever, Singai had been right to distance their relationship. There would be no future with Singai for a man. Not an ordinary man at any rate. Slowly, as he sat there. Daemon began to shore up the walls around his emotions again, to move back into that safe dark place where nothing touched him. It was time. The empress spoke to Singai. "Almost a year ago now, a rumor came to our attention that the Dalig had set their sights on Kazer when they included gaining themselves an empire as part of their strategy. What their long-range plans are, we can only guess, probably another attempt at world domination. We can, however, understand fully why they chose my empire to be the seat of their power. Not only is it flanked by desert on the north, sea to the west, and mountains to the south and east, making it more easily held, but it is also bordered by four other nations, which makes it an ideal point from which to begin their expansion once they've solidified their power base." Agitated, the empress rose and paced a few steps before turning back to face them. "The problem with this kind of Dalig invasion is that it begins from within. There are Dalig everywhere and we can do nothing. Even were I to try to incarcerate all who came to the attention of my guards, many of my men would lose their lives in such battles, and in the end the Dalig—those who did nothing overt to be noticed—would still be here." She advanced on the table. "Kazer must be held against them at all costs," she said in an impassioned voice. Her small white hands clenched into fists. "Do you understand?" Singai nodded. "Of course, and I agree. However, I fail to grasp what any of this has to do with me ... or my appearance." Narice sighed. "As long as my own power base remains strong, the Dalig commander will think twice about moving against my empire. But—" She hesitated, looking down and to the side as though for one brief moment she fought the hold of some powerful emotion. A second later, she cleared her throat and continued. "But my power base is crumbling, Singai. M y only heir, my daughter Eritha, is wasting away, dying of some disease that the physicians cannot even identify, much less treat. Her loss will be seen as a weakness, an opportunity by those who seek my empire." Singai shook her head. "But your daughter wouldn't have assumed your throne for many years yet. I don't understand." Empress Narice sadly shook her head. "I am ill, Singai. The physicians tell me that my liver will not last much longer. Even now the bad days outnumber the good, but I have kept my illness secret in order to prevent news of this from reaching the Dalig. Soon there will be no clear heir to the throne alive to hold it, and my empire will descend into an anarchy which the Dalig cannot fail to take advantage of." Singai glanced at Daemon, then lowered her eyes to the table, where she fingered her plate thoughtfully. "I understand your concern. Empress. And you know that, as Sotah, I will do whatever I can to help. But... I still don't understand exactly what it is

you want of me." "I want you to be my daughter." Narice's words fell harshly onto the ears, like rocks onto a marble floor. As Singai's startled expression revealed the depths of her shock, Narice softened her tone. "I want you to pretend to be Eritha so that no one knows that she is incapable of taking her throne." Singai stared at her as though she'd lost her mind. And perhaps she had, Narice reflected. But the more she'd thought about it, Vartan's suppositions had offered her the solution to her own dilemma. Or at least a solution that she hoped Singai would be more likely to accept. How would the child have looked at her had she told her the whole truth? "You want me to take your throne and rule an empire?" Narice nodded. "Yes. At least until such time as the archivists can locate a legitimate heir who wants and is capable of holding this throne." "What makes you think I'm capable?" "You are Sotah, which means you are honest, reliable, capable of protecting yourself, not easily intimidated. And you have sworn to defeat the Dalig. That is enough for me." Singai shook her head slowly, stunned disbelief reflected in her eyes. "I... I don't know what to say. I have to think about this." "Of course you do. I'll ring for Rocham to show you to your room." She looked at Quinn. "I have placed you in neighboring chambers; I hope that will be satisfactory." Daemon nodded. "Of course. Empress." Narice smiled, faintly relieved. "However, I think Singai should go on ahead. I would like to finalize my business with you, if you don't mind?" The empress studied Quinn thoughtfully for a moment. "As you wish, Guardian Quinn." Rising, she rang the bell, and then they spoke of mundane matters until Rocham arrived. After Singai had left the room, Narice seated herself and directed her gaze at Quinn. "You want your payment," she stated. "You did promise me the resolution to the mystery," Quinn reminded her. "And if the only reason you'd sought Singai out was because she resembled your daughter, then your acquaintance with her would have been more recent. There is only one way you could have known that the infant Singai would grow up to resemble your daughter." He paused, trying to gauge the empress's reaction, but her expression revealed nothing. "And that is if Singai is also related to you. A twin to Eritha perhaps? Am I right?" The empress rose and walked across the room to the ceiling-high windows. She stood there for a moment, her back ramrod straight, as she looked down on only she knew what. Finally, she spoke, "You are correct. Guardian Quinn. Singai is my daughter." Daemon nodded. "She will figure that out you know, once the initial shock wears off. Even as difficult as it will be for her to believe it. I told her how you initiated the search with a blood sample drawn from her as an infant." Narice turned to face him, then slowly, she closed her eyes and shook her head. "I should have followed my initial instincts to tell her the truth, but"—she wiped her palms against the cloth other gown—"I had thought the lie would be easier for her to accept." Daemon shrugged. "Perhaps it would have been if you had planned it from the beginning. I'm certain you could have concocted a believable explanation for your awareness of her existence and her likeness to Eritha. But it's too late to do that now." Narice nodded. "You're right. I will have to attempt to rectify the situation in the morning. In the meantime, I will have my accountant provide you with your payment." "There is a part of my payment that only you can provide, Empress." She frowned. "When I hired you, I agreed to answer all of your questions concerning why I was seeking the child. You seem to have all of those answers now. What possible questions can you still have?" She sat on the cushion across from him again, "How did you lose Singai in the first place? Why was she traveling with a farming couple as their child?" "Ah." Narice nodded. "If you were Thadonian, it is unlikely you would have to ask that. You see, when twins are heir to an empire's throne, one child must always be cast off so there can be no contention for the rulership, no internal confrontation over the empire. Except in cases of deformity, it is almost always the secondbom child. In the days long ago, these children were often simply placed on a hillside and left to the elements. Few survived. Those who did were found by kindly peasant women, who took them in. Today, I know of no empire that would be so cruel. And yet tradition cannot easily be circumvented." She smiled sadly. "So we find the best possible situation we can for our children, and we resign ourselves to the knowledge that they can never know their heritage." Although he schooled his expression carefully, Daemon was appalled by the barbarism of such a custom. Yet atrocities of all kinds were still committed on Earth, most beneath a veneer of civilization, so he had no right to judge the practices of the Thadonian people. "But why the blood?" he asked. "How could you possibly know you would one day need a sample of her blood." Narice shook her head. "I didn't, of course." She poured herself a small glass of wine and offered him some before responding. "All royal children are given amulets, which mark them as direct descendants of a specific bloodline. These amulets contain a minuscule vial that holds the blood extracted from each child at birth. As far as I know, no one knows when the custom of drawing the blood originated. In all likelihood, it was a symbolic endeavor to demonstrate the purity of the bloodline." Daemon frowned thoughtfully as he slowly pieced together all the pieces of the puzzle. "So since Singai could never be allowed to know her heritage, you maintained possession of her amulet?" Narice nodded. "Yes." "But aren't you breaking with Thadonian tradition now by trying to bring her back into the royal family? Theoretically, she's supposed to be dead, is she not?" The empress looked uncomfortable. "That's true. But a situation like this has never before been encountered. I believe that I am doing the right thing in protecting my people from a Dalig incursion." She sighed. "And now Guardian Quinn, I think I have answered all of your questions. I ask you to please keep what I have told you confidential, even from Singai. I would like to be the one to tell her the truth." Daemon nodded slightly. "Of course. Empress." He paused and swallowed the wine that remained in his glass. "If you don't mind, I would like to see my horses now. It is still early in the day, and unlike Singai, I find it difficult to rest before midday." "I understand, Quinn, and I have no objections. I believe that your horses have caused quite a sensation among my grooms and stablehands. You may find yourself deluged with offers for them." She rose as she spoke and Daemon rose with her. "Do you

require an escort to the stables, or can you find them again yourself?" "I'll be fine. Thank you." *** Even on another world, there was no smell quite as inviting as the smell of fresh hay. The stable was a long, low white building easily large enough to accommodate fifty animals. Upon entering it. Daemon closed his eyes and breathed deeply of the scents. Something in his soul immediately felt at peace; it was like coming home. Singai would be waiting for him in her chamber, he knew, wanting to speak with him about what had happened with the empress. But he couldn't help her with this. To do so would be to risk breaking the empress's confidence, and he couldn't do that. Besides, whatever decision Singai made now had to be hers alone. Suddenly a pair of whinnies issued from somewhere within the cool shadowed recesses of the barn, calling to him. It was Czar, quickly followed by Duchess. He'd recognize the stallion's demanding horsey cry and Duchess's more gentle summons anywhere. He quickened his steps until he saw them, their heads reaching over the doors of their stalls as they searched the wide corridor for him. They always knew when he was near. "Hello, Czar, Duchess." He greeted each horse with a hug and a good scratch around the jaw that had the demigelded stallion snorting in ecstasy. "Imnen Quinn!" came a raucous greeting from the rear of the barn that startled Quinn almost as much as it did Duchess, who jerked back and looked toward the call. It was the head groom, a tall burly gentleman by the name of Remar. "I didn't know you had returned. It is good to see you. The beasts have been missing you." "How did things go?" Quinn asked as the man drew near enough so that he wouldn't have to shout. "Oh, fine. Fine," Remar assured him. "The animals are very likable. Smart too. I don't suppose you'd like to sell them? I have people interested all over the continent." "All over the continent? How could so many people know about my horses already?" Daemon asked. Remar looked a bit sheepish. "Well, I... I, ah, have a Feheran stableboy who is fascinated by the beasts. He's convinced they have a psychic sense, the ability to know things." Quinn glanced at his horses. Somehow; he'd never quite pictured them as psychic. "Really? What does he say they can do?" "Well, according to him, he hasn't learned to tap into it yet. One of the things we all saw them do was predict the weather. We had a big storm hit a few weeks ago, and the beasts knew it was coming long before we did. We couldn't figure out what was making them so skittish; it was still a beautiful day when they began to sense it coming." Quinn nodded. "That's not uncommon for horses. But it's not normally considered a psychic sense." "Really!" Remar looked at the animals with new eyes. "All the beasts can do that? It's not just these two?" Quinn nodded. "M ost can, as far as I know. I've never really made a study of it." Remar looked back at him. "You never did answer my question. Would you be willing to sell them? You could be rich." Quinn looked over his shoulder at Czar and Duchess. "Oh, no," he said. "These animals are not for sale. Not at any price." Remar pursed his lips in disappointment. "Well"—he thought for a second—"perhaps you'd be interested in raising them here. You'd have a ready market." Quinn shook his head. "No, I don't think that would be possible." The groom frowned. "You have a family back home then?" Quinn went still. "No," he said a second later. "A business?" Remar ventured, refusing to let the subject die. Quinn shook his head. "No, I am a Guardian. Nothing more." Remar frowned. "Then I don't understand. You could be a Guardian here and still raise these wonderful horses for sale. We need creatures like them. Why can't you stay? I bet the empress would even grant you the land you needed free of charge simply for stocking her stables." Quinn echoed Remar's frown. Why couldn't he stay? He had no answer for that, he realized. Griv had been his reason for returning to Fortuna; the tiny M orar had needed periodic interaction with its own kind. But Griv was gone, and so was Daemon's reason for returning to Fortuna. In actuality, there was nothing for him there any longer. "I'll think about it," was all he said in reply to Remar's enthusiastic planning. "That's all I ask, Imnen," Remar said with a smile. "Well, I have duties to attend to, so I'll leave you to get reacquainted with your horses. Perhaps we can meet for the evening meal?" Daemon nodded, watched the man walk away, and wondered if he could stay. His traitorous mind once again pictured himself and Singai raising a family. And this time the picture was just as unrealistic as the first, but for a different reason. Singai would do her duty against the Dalig and in so doing would place herself beyond his reach. It was the way it had to be, the way it was meant to be, but he didn't like it. *** Having bathed and washed the dye from her hair, Singai frantically paced the opulent chamber to which she'd been escorted. She'd about given up on Quinn. Twice, she'd knocked on the door to his chamber in the hope that he was there. Twice, she'd been disappointed. She'd grown used to drawing on his perceptiveness, to hearing his interpretation of a situation. But since it didn't look as if he was going to put in an appearance any time soon, perhaps she'd do best to sit down and try to think this through calmly. But how could she be calm when duty was about to rob her of freedom. How could she accept the empress's proposal, knowing that the strictures of this life would kill her? That they would forever take precedence over the good she could do as a Sotah? Yet how could she not accept, knowing the consequences of Kazer falling into anarchy? Neither was a choice she could make with a clear conscience, and that terrified her. There had to be another way. Something else that could be done. "Ven-Gura." She looked toward the sword, where it lay to one side of the huge central bed. Yes, Singai. "Have you been following the events today?"

Yes. I listened to the empress's words through you. "And do you have any thoughts about this? Some idea that would enable me to help the empress without giving up my vocation, my freedom?" There was a pause. I have been thinking, but thus far have arrived at no conclusions on which to base suggestions. Singai sighed despondently. If only the empress's daughter were not dying. If only the empress was not terminally ill. If only ... "I need to see the empress's daughter," she said in sudden decision. Why? Singai frowned. "I don't know. I can't explain it, but I do." I would advise against it at this time, my friend. You are tired and overwrought. This is the first time in days that you have not had to worry about Dalig pursuit. I think you should rest fora time before you begin to tackle this problem. "I couldn't sleep anyway, Ven-Gura," Singai argued. Then I will help you. In the past, her companion had psychically nudged her into sleep occasionally, but it was a process Singai did not want to become reliant on. Still, he was right. She would deal better with her problems if she was rested. "All right," she said. "I'll sleep for a couple of hours." She just wished Daemon was here to talk to. "Where is Quinn? Can you sense him?" Silence. And then, Quinn is in the stables with his horses. Of course! She'd forgotten that he would be anxious to see the animals. Still, she wished he could have postponed his reunion until later. Singai plopped herself down on the bed and sought a comfortable position before closing her eyes. Her last thought as Ven-Gura nudged her into the realm of sleep was to wonder how the empress had known she looked like her daughter. *** By late afternoon, Singai had her answer. She was Empress Narice's daughter, the abandoned twin. And Eritha was her sister. Singai was stunned. Although she, like all Thadonians, knew the custom existed among royalty, she had never considered it as pertaining to herself in any way. Narice had apologized for misleading her initially, saying that she'd thought an accidental resemblance might be easier for Singai to accept. Rather, what had happened was that Singai had received another shock before she'd even accustomed herself to the first. It was too much. She didn't know what to think or feel. She supposed she should feel angry with the empress for misleading her, and hurt for being abandoned, but she felt nothing. Numbness had invaded every fiber of her being. "I would like to discuss all of this with Quinn," she murmured, scarcely aware that she spoke aloud. The empress cleared her throat. "Just how... how close are you to the Guardian?" she asked. Singai frowned. "Very close. Why?" Narice made a noise in her throat again. "You do realize that you should not allow your relationship to—" "To what?" Singai asked warily. "To deepen," Narice said. "As empress, you will be required to marry within the royal bloodlines." Singai stared at her in shock. It was just another example of how they would steal her freedom from her. Even going so far as to tell her whom she could love. Well, she would have none of it. She had already decided that Daemon was the man for her, and she was certain that soon he would see that for himself. She would not allow others to dictate the course of her love. But now, she must fight the battle on two fronts: against Daemon and his belief that they had no future together because he had to leave this world, and against the empress, who, Singai sensed, would seek to interfere in any relationship that did develop. Had she done so already? Singai wondered. Was that why Daemon seemed to be avoiding her? But what did she do now? Somehow the key to solving all of this lay with her sister. She knew it, without knowing how she knew it. "I want to see her," she found herself saying. "Who?" Empress Nance asked. Singai lifted her eyes to the empress's, saw the resemblance to her own, and felt the awareness that she was looking at her mother fully for the first time. "M y sister," she murmured. "I want to see Eritha." "Oh, child, I don't think that's a good idea." Singai stared at her. Narice was asking her to give up her life out of loyalty to an empire that had never been hers, out of duty to a morality that she had never learned from this woman, and she didn't want her to see her own sister. "Why?" she asked. A touch of the resentment she felt escaped in her tone, but it was too late to recall it. The empress hesitated, avoiding her gaze. "It may upset her to see you looking so ... healthy and beautiful when she can barely get out of her bed." Singai received a sudden insight. "You haven't told her, have you? She has no idea that I'm here? No idea that she has a twin?" The empress hesitated. Finally, she admitted, "What you say is true." "By the moons! I can't believe it." Agitation forced Singai to her feet and she began to pace the room while the empress silently looked on, giving no reason for her actions, making no attempt at justification. Finally, Singai came to a decision and turned to face Nance. "I am not agreeing to do anything until I see my sister and investigate the entire situation to my own satisfaction. I am Sotah. I have been trained to look beneath the surface, and that is what I intend to do. If you would prefer that I not do that, then I will take my leave. The choice is yours." The empress stared at Singai as though she could not quite believe her ears. Singai supposed that, as empress, she wasn't used to people speaking their minds quite so freely. But with all that was at stake for her personally, she couldn't afford to worry about the niceties of protocol. "Very well," Nance said a moment later. "I will arrange the meeting for tomorrow morning. And now I have duties to attend to, so I must take my leave of you for a time. If I do not see you again this evening, I will see you tomorrow morning." Singai nodded. "Certainly. Can you direct me to the stables? I would very much like to see these horses that Quinn is so proud of." "I will have someone guide you." Neither of them heard the soft scrape of a sandled foot on the stone floor just beyond the door. Nor the faint brush of flowing robes against the plastered wall as the person beyond the closed portal whirled hastily, intent on leaving before he was discovered, the better to impart his news as swiftly as possible.

Chapter Fourteen Daemon was so busy brushing his animals and talking to them that he didn't hear Singai approach. She watched him for a moment, noting that the technique he used was much different from that used by Thadonians for maintaining the long-haired coats of their dyre. Daemon's method seemed to involve as much stroking and petting as it did brushing, and he murmured to the animals almost constantly. Her eyes moved to Daemon. He'd removed his shirt and hung it over the comer post of the stall. She watched him for a moment, content to admire the play of muscle in his arms and chest. It was cooler in the barn than outside; even so, a sheen of perspiration gleamed on his smooth flesh. He seemed to be putting considerable effort into grooming his horses. Finally, Singai decided it was time to make him aware of her presence. "Hello, Quinn." He started at the sound of her voice and whirled to face her. For an unguarded second, something wild and hungry shadowed his eyes as he looked at her. Her heart thudded in automatic response and she wanted nothing more than to feel his arms close around her, to hear his voice whispering in her ear, to taste his lips. But in the next instant, the expression was gone, caged once more behind Daemon's iron control. Singai spared a second to mourn its loss before speaking. "I wanted to see your horses." She studied the creatures curiously. "They are quite beautiful." Daemon nodded and his gaze followed hers. "Beautiful," he agreed. "And more loyal than most people." Daemon's smooth baritone washed over her like a caress. Why didn't he want her more than ever as Traesha had said he would? Her plan wasn't working, and she was beginning to be afraid that he would leave her after all. Singai swallowed. Aloud she said, "M ay I touch them." "Sure. Come here." Taking her hand in his, he directed her hand toward the larger horse's neck. "Stroke him like this," he said as he ran her hand down the sleek, smooth-haired surface. Singai was more conscious of the heat of Daemon's hand on hers than she was of the warm horseflesh beneath her sensitive palm. M ore aware of the scent of him than of the smell of hay and horse. "His name is Czar," Daemon said as he removed his hand from hers and stepped back. "Hello, Czar," she murmured before Daemon drew her attention again. Even as she automatically continued stroking the horse's neck as she'd been shown, Singai found her gaze roaming over Daemon's masculine chest. By the moons! How could a man be so handsome? "And that one?" she asked, indicating the other horse with a lift of her chin. Daemon smiled, his expression more open and unguarded than she had ever seen it. "That is Duchess. She's one of the best mares ever produced on Fortuna." Singai moved across the stall to examine the other horse. "She has gentle eyes," she remarked. "Horses are gentle creatures, for the most part. Although I've seen them turn vicious if they're mistreated." They fell silent, and the silence stretched, becoming strained. Finally, Daemon sighed, reached for his shirt, and began to shrug it on. "Why are you really here, Singai?" She didn't know how to be anything but honest. "I need to talk to you." "What about?" The question was cool, distant, and she longed for the closeness they'd shared all too briefly. "What do you think of the empress?" He was silent for a while as he considered her query. Finally, he said, "I think she is a woman who has learned to execute a very difficult position at the expense of all else in her life, including personal feeling." Like you, Singai wanted to say. For it was plain he admired the woman she'd just learned was her mother. It was funny. She'd always thought she'd be elated to discover she had parents somewhere. She'd even fantasized about it, coming up with scenarios to explain their separation from her. But she wasn't elated, and she'd never once imagined this situation. "How long have you known she was my mother?" He shrugged. "I've suspected for some time, but I only learned for certain this morning when I spoke with her." "And do you think I should do as she asks?" She awaited his answer with bated breath. His gaze locked on hers and she thought for one glorious second that he might say something to give her some indication of his true feelings, but when he opened his mouth, his response was carefully neutral. "I'm sorry, Singai, but that's a decision only you can make." She nodded, knowing it was the truth but wishing he cared enough to try to sway her. Did he think she would be blinded by affluence and the opportunity for power? "The throne is not something I want, you know, Daemon?" He almost smiled at that. "I know, Singai. I never believed it to be otherwise. You are not the type of person to be moved by such things. If you were, I—" She looked at him curiously. "You what?" He shook his head. "Nothing. It's not important." How was she going to bridge this chasm between them? She was at a loss. "Will I see you for the evening meal?" "No. I'm sorry but I've made plans to meet with the head groom. He wants to discuss a business proposition with me." Singai struggled to conceal her disappointment in not seeing him, then took the time to consider his words. A business proposition? On Thadonia? Did that mean that Quinn was considering staying here? But she couldn't ask. Not yet. Not when there was so much reserve between them. "I understand," was all she said. "Well, I'll see you tomorrow then. Empress Narice is going to allow me to meet my sister. Perhaps after that—" He nodded. "Sure." And Singai left the stable feeling just as despondent as when she'd entered. It was as though she'd lost Quinn already. *

*

*

Singai, wake! She stirred groggily at the command. It was the middle of the night. She'd had difficulty falling asleep after having had a nap earlier in the day. Thoughts had spun in insistent circles in her mind refusing to let her rest. Now she didn't even have the energy for speech. What is it, Ven-Gura? she asked sleepily. I sense an intruder.

Singai's eyes flew open. Dalig? No, Ven-Gura assured her. Singai inched her hand across the bed until she felt the comforting presence of her companion. Since there were no clothing hooks in the room— the chamber possessed a large walk-in closet—she had kept Ven-Gura near. Now she was glad she had. But the heavy draperies blocked out every hint of moonlight that might have graced the night; the room was pitch-black. Where is he? I believe he gained access through the balcony window. Singai looked in that direction, but could see nothing. If she was to have any hope of defending herself, she needed to activate the lumo gel in the bedside luminary. Slowly, she inched across the huge bed toward it, hoping that the rustle of the bedclothes would not alert the intruder. A second later, a beam of red light pierced the darkness to singe the pillow? where her head had rested a scant second earlier. Instinct propelled her off of the bed and onto the floor before she was even aware of her action. A laser! Magar! Someone was trying to kill her with an Earth weapon! She couldn't fight against such a superior force. Her only chance lay in escape. And from the angle of the beam, the intruder now stood between her and the door to her chamber. She looked toward the balcony, toward the intruder's apparent means of access. Was there some way to climb down? How had he gained entrance? Another blast blazed an angry red trail across the darkened chamber, scorching the edge of the bed very near her head. There was no time left for deliberation; she would have to try the balcony. Gauging the distance, she rose into a squatting position and then burst into a run. She had almost reached the door when agony seared her left thigh and she stumbled. In the next room, Quinri came awake with a hoarse shout as pain lanced through his left thigh. In an instant, he knew everything that had happened and was happening in Singai's chamber. Not bothering to question the knowledge, or its source, he grabbed his Barak and ran. Throwing the door to Singai's room open, he leapt to one side just in time to avoid the laser blast that blazed its way through the open door. Adrenaline surged through him. Reacting purely on instinct, he thumbed the setting on the Barak and sent a searing beam of his own back along the same path. There was a hoarse shout as it found a target. He barely made out the form of a man in the faint light that penetrated the chamber from the dimly illuminated hallway. The figure appeared to be clutching one side of his chest, but from his posture, Daemon doubted that the wound was fatal. "Don't move!" he warned as he moved slowly into the room and activated the lumo gel. To his surprise, the man facing him was quite old. In fact, Daemon judged him just short of being elderly. But the light of the fanatic shone in his eyes. "With these weapons anyone can be a warrior," the old man said in a paper-thin voice. And then, before Daemon could even guess at his intent, the intruder turned the laser and fired it directly at his own heart. Daemon rushed forward as he crumpled to the floor, but it was too late. The man died—without revealing anything that might have told them why he'd attempted to kill Singai. Daemon looked across the room, his eyes automatically seeking and finding Singai where she sat on the floor in front of the window. She was clutching her thigh with both hands. Ven-Gura lay beside her. "Are you all right?" "Yes," she assured him. "I will be fine." And then her eyes crinkled and her shoulders began to shake. "Are you laughing?" he asked in confusion. She nodded helplessly and laughed until tears streamed down her cheeks. Daemon stared at her, wondering if perhaps the stress had been too much for her. "What exactly are you laughing at?" She lifted a bloodstained finger to point at him. "You," she choked out. "You're naked!" Daemon looked down and flushed. Sure as hell, he was as naked as the day he was born! He'd forgotten to so much as pull on his pants. Feeling a combination of anger, defensiveness, and embarrassment, he looked back at Singai. "If I'd stopped to dress, I might not have been on time." She made an effort to sober. "You're right, of course. I'm sorry. You just looked so ... funny." And once again, she dissolved into laughter. Ven-Gura, are you blocking her pain while you heal her? Of course. Well, stop it! She deserves to feel a little of it. You don't mean that? Daemon sighed as he considered her. No, I suppose not. He found his own lips twitching as he pictured the scene from her point of view. "I'll be back in a minute," he said to Singai. "Considering your reaction, I don't think it would be wise of me to summon the guards until I have my pants on." By the time he returned to Singai's chamber, she'd calmed and donned a robe over her sleeping tunic. "Hello," she said with a smile, as he entered the room. She was just releasing the bellrope in the corner. "I've summoned the guards. They should be here in a moment." "Good." M oving to the corpse that still lay where it had fallen, he examined the man more closely. The fellow's pockets were empty, and he could see nothing in the man's appearance to give any clue as to his affiliations or his reasons for attempting to assassinate Singai. The only possession he carried, other than his clothing, was the laser. Daemon removed it and placed it in his waistband. The last thing he needed was a palace guard taking control of the thing; he'd probably kill someone just examining it. The laser would join the small stack of confiscated Earth weapons he now carried in his luggage. At that moment, two of the palace guards arrived. While Singai explained the situation. Daemon watched the guards' faces closely. But their surprise seemed genuine. "Do you know who he is?" Daemon asked them as they came forward to remove the body. The elder of the two responded with a nod. "Narick. He is an apothecary who delivers medicines fairly regularly. He's only been employed for the last year or so though, but he seemed normal enough." "Do you have any idea where he would have obtained an Earth weapon?" "No, Imnen."

Daemon nodded. It was no less than he'd expected. "Very well, you may remove him. But please inform Vartan that I would like to speak with him tomorrow concerning the incident." "Vartan?" the guard echoed. "He is your captain of the guard, is he not?" "Yes, Imnen, but... he is not in residence at the moment." He frowned slightly. "I believe he may be expected back on the morrow however. Rest assured, Imnen, I will inform him as soon as he returns." "Good enough." The two guards hoisted the old man's body and left the room. Daemon looked at the gory mess still on the floor'and lifted his gaze to Singai. "I think you'd better gather whatever you need for the remainder of the night and come with me. I don't intend on letting you out of my sight anyway, and you certainly can't sleep in here." Singai stared at him, and her heart began to beat a little more quickly as she examined his words. His duty to the empress and the contract he had with her was done; he'd delivered her, and he'd been paid. Yet he'd said he wouldn't let her out of his sight. Surely that had to mean that he cared, at least a little. "All right," she murmured. She was perfectly willing to let him take charge. She found she enjoyed being protected. At least she did when it was Daemon doing the protecting. Daemon closed his chamber door behind them and watched Singai move across the room to the alcove, where she set Ven-Gura and her other belongings on the smaller circular woman's bed. Of all the things that he'd learned about the Thadonian way of life, the existence of the separate bed for their women was the custom he found most incomprehensible. When he'd asked one man about it, he'd been told that it was a custom that stemmed from ancient times—when women were much smaller than men—and it was designed for their protection. The men had apparently feared they would roll over in the night and crush their wives. Daemon had resigned himself to accepting the fact that it was one facet of Thadonian life that he would never understand. He watched Singai now, admiring her smooth, fluid grace and wondered what the hell he was doing. As hard as it was for him to accept, he realized that he loved her. The love was different from the love he'd held for Corinda, more volatile and passionate perhaps, but it was love. He wanted her more now than he ever had. And he loved everything about her from her flaming-red hair to her occasionally turbulent temperament. He enjoyed simply watching her. It was hard enough to admit he loved her when it was very possible they had no future together. So why had he allowed her to increase that torment by distancing herself from him now? Oh, it had been easy to agree to be just friends when she had first proposed the ridiculous notion. At the time, he'd believed he could keep himself from growing to care for her. But the notion had been erroneous, and he was through tormenting himself. The fabric of her robe molded to the contours of her behind as she bent over the small bed, arranging things to her satisfaction. And his heart gave a heavy thud. She rose and turned toward him, smoothing her hands down over her hips selfconsciously as she met his eyes. And his pulse accelerated. As she moved slowly to the center of the room, waiting for him to say something, the fabric of her robe gaped a bit in front, offering him a tantalizing glimpse of the curve of her soft white breast. And his blood pressure rose a notch. Damn! He wanted her. "Singai," he said. "Yes?" Her husky, honeyed voice washed over him. He walked slowly toward her, meeting her in the center of the room. "I don't think I want to be your friend anymore." Reaching out, he smoothed a tendril of fiery hair out of her face. "You don't?" she asked in a voice that had grown suddenly thicker. Her lush coral lips drew his gaze and he wanted nothing more than to taste them, to drink their honeyed sweetness and lose himself in her. He shook his head. "No." "What do you want?" A pulse leapt frantically in her white throat, and he gloried in the realization that, no matter what her conscious mind might believe, her body responded to his nearness as a passionate woman. He stroked his fingers over the pulse point, marveling at the contrast between his tanned fingers and her soft white skin. "I want to be your lover," he murmured. Her beautiful sea-blue eyes widened. "Do you—" But he never gave her the chance to finish. Sweeping her into his arms, he covered her lips with his. Saints! She felt good. Tasted good. Smelled good. Singai's heart catapulted into her throat, and she closed her eyes in ecstasy. Her mouth opened automatically beneath the familiar pressure of his, and her tongue crept forward to do erotic battle. She gloried in the warmth of him beneath her fingers, reveled in the texture of hard muscle and sinew. Her temperature rose as his hands roamed the length of her back, caressing, massaging. When he reached her buttocks, he lifted her, pressing her against the hard length of his erection and Singai's knees turned to water as her pulse leapt into a chaotic double-time rhythm. Oh, yes! This was what she'd wanted. Needed. Daemon holding her in his arms. M aking love to her. She wanted him in her life forever. And somehow, in some way, she was determined to overcome all the obstacles that sought to separate them. And then Daemon's hand was on her breast, shoving aside the fabric of her robe and tunic to caress bare flesh, and her mind ceased to function. His lips left hers to blaze a trail of fire down her throat. Sensation shot through her as his fingers found the peak of her breast and tugged gently on the eager crest. Her toes curled. M olten heat flooded her abdomen. And a moan of surrender escaped her. He voiced an answering sound, more primal. Triumphant. And when she opened her eyes to stare blearily up at him, the scorching heat blazing in his chocolate-eyed gaze was enough to devour her. The banked flames of passion she sensed within him fanned to life the coals of her own long-denied need, and she could do nothing but cling to him as he lifted her in his strong arms and carried her to the bed. The sun was beginning to rise as Singai lay spent in Daemon's arms, and once again thoughts of the world began to intrude. Singai had never liked uncertainty; she didn't like it now. "Daemon?" He made a questioning sound deep in his throat. "Are you staying on Thadonia?" She sensed tension begin to creep into him, and there was a long pause before he replied. "Perhaps. I haven't decided yet." His tone was guarded, wary.

Singai closed her eyes against the sudden sting of tears. His answer hurt, but she couldn't let it bother her. When they'd begun this relationship, they'd promised honesty. No lies or false promises. That was what he'd given her. "Do you love me, Daemon?" Her breath caught in her throat as she awaited his answer. It was so important to her. Perhaps too important to her, but she couldn't help it. After a brief pause, when she sensed his tension increase, he pulled away from her, swung his legs to the floor, and rose to a sitting position with his back to her. "I can't answer that, Cynyr." "Can't or won't?" she demanded angrily. He looked over his shoulder at her, his expression closed and hard. "Very well then," he said, "I won't. I will not say anything to sway you one way or the other in the decision you must make, Singai. You must pretend I never came into your life. M ake the decision you would have made six months ago. Do you understand me?" Singai stared at him, trying to hide the hurt she knew must be shining from her eyes. "What you mean is that you don't care enough to try to sway me, isn't it?" He rose and began to pull his trousers on with angry, jerky movements. "Zyk! Singai, why must you do this now?" "Because I need to know." Her voice rose on the words. Wrapping the sheet around herself, she got up and stalked toward him. "I care about you," she shouted. "I care a lot. And I need to know that you care too." He turned to look at her, and Singai recoiled from the pity in his eyes. Pity! It was the last thing she expected to see. The last thing she wanted. "Singai, I've already lost one woman I loved to violent death. How can I make a commitment to you? Magar! You're a warrior. Simply protecting you has become a full-time job that is hazardous to my health. And frankly, I'm not sure that I'm the one for the job. In fact, I'm not sure that I'll ever be ready to commit to another woman. Perhaps ... if you weren't a warrior ... if you didn't invite violence at every turn . . . you would be that woman. But—" He broke off with a shrug and turned away. "You . . . you piece of quarcat dung! How dare you imply that I am anything like your deceased wife. I am trained to protect myself. I don't need you to protect me from anything that Thadonia produces." She took a deep breath. "Sure, you've been protecting me lately, but you've been protecting me against weapons produced by your technology, not mine. "If you have the courage, picture me in the same situation as the one that killed your young wife, and tell me who would have emerged victorious." Singai dressed hurriedly and began gathering her things. When she was finished, Quinn still stood rigid and silent before the window. "You're right about one thing, Quinn," she said, pausing in her approach to the door. "There is no future for us. Not until you can see me for who I am and not some reproduction of your dead wife." Opening the door, she left, slamming the portal very satisfyingly behind her. As the sound reverberated through the room, Daemon closed his eyes and allowed his shoulders to slump. What he'd just done had been one of the hardest things of his life. But he'd had to ensure that Singai wouldn't be tethered by any misguided allegiance to him. The problem was, he'd probably just destroyed any chance they might have had to work things out should she decide not to accept the empress's proposal. *

*

*

It was late the next morning by the time Empress Nance led Singai down a private corridor to her other daughter's chambers. Although there were few places that a Sotah warrior could not take his or her companion, out of deference to the nature of a sickroom, Singai had left Ven-Gura secreted beneath the mattress in her chamber. Empress Narice had seemed genuinely concerned about the attempt on Singai's life, but she still was not happy about Singai's insistence on seeing Er-itha. In fact, she had once again strongly tried to dissuade her from the course. "I can't tell her why you are here without telling her she is dying," Narice had said."And I won't do that." But Singai would not be swayed. She needed to meet her sister. Still, as Narice opened the wide double doors to her daughter's chambers, Singai found herself hanging back, uncharacteristically nervous concerning the coming meeting. The main bedchamber was large and bright; sunlight flooded through the enormous bank of windows that occupied the outer wall. Not a single window was curtained, and the large bed lay in the direct path of a huge swath of sunlight. The atmosphere was hushed. A number of people moved about on silent feet. Two were quite obviously maidservants. One sat in a chair near the bed holding a book in her lap while the other folded clothing articles and placed them in drawers. Both stared at her with open mouths and widened eyes. The two remaining people in the room, judging by their clothing and manner, were probably a physician and his assistant. They concealed their surprise at her appearance marginally more decorously. Ignoring all of them, the empress walked directly toward the bed. "Good morning, Eritha. I have brought the visitor we spoke of." For the first time, Singai allowed her eyes to go to the person on the bed. Even having known that the woman she was to see was her twin, she felt a sense of shock ricochet through her system. It was like looking at an emaciated shadow of herself. Eritha had the same shade of red hair, although it was shorter and dulled by months of illness. She had the same bone structure, the same pale com plexion—even the same eyes. And those eyes were even now clinging to Singai's. "Hello, M other," Eritha murmured without taking her eyes from her twin sister. And then she smiled slightly. "Singai, isn't it?" she asked. Singai nodded. "Yes." Her voice was barely audible. "Come closer. You may have Canara's seat." She placed a frail white hand briefly on the young maid's knee as she looked up at her. "Excuse us for a while, won't you, Canara?" "Of course, Imnana," the maid murmured as she rose. She placed the book on a nearby shelf and then turned to add, "I'll return later." Eritha nodded, but once again her eyes were on Singai. "Please sit," she invited again. With a glance at the empress and her subtly disapproving expression, Singai gingerly took the proffered chair and then smiled at Eritha. "Thank you," she managed to murmur. She was still overcome by the shock of seeing for herself the irrefutable proof that she did, indeed, have a twin. Until that instant, she realized, some skeptical part of her had still harbored the belief that it was all a mistake. Eritha looked at the empress. "M other, could you please leave us alone for a while? All of you?" She raised her voice slightly to ensure that the others in the room heard her request. Yet nobody moved. The empress stood frowning down at Eri-tha, and the others in the room looked at the empress. "Please, mother?" Eritha asked again. "I'll be fine."

Finally, rather abruptly, the empress nodded. "Very well." Turning slightly, she nodded to the others in the room. "Doctor, I'd appreciate it if either you or your assistant would wait immediately outside the room in the event you are needed." "Of course, Chazak Imnana," he replied, using the traditional address for an empress, as he bowed his head deferentially. As the others left the room, the empress looked down at-Eritha again. "I want you to excuse yourself if you begin to tire in the slightest. Singai will understand." She lifted her eyes to Singai. "Won't you?" "Of course," she said, but she felt her assurance was more for the empress than for Eritha. Her sister! It felt so strange to suddenly have a family. The door closed behind the empress, and the two women looked at each other. Finally, it was Singai who broke the silence. "Your mother didn't want me to see you." Eritha grimaced. "She's afraid you will tell me that I'm dying. It's strange how, when you are ill, people also treat you as though you are of diminished mental capacity. But"—she shrugged—"it eases her mind to believe that I believe I will recover, so I tolerate the fantasy." Singai stared at her sister. She hadn't expected such candidness, yet she found it refreshing. "I'm sorry," was all she managed to say. Eritha shrugged again slightly. "For what? You had nothing to do with my illness, did you?" For all her infirmity, her gaze was sharp, and now it was fixed on Singai with deceptive casualness. "You suspect you are being murdered?" "Oh, yes. Almost everybody does, I think. This didn't come on suddenly as most illnesses tend to. It was a gradual progression. At first, it was nothing more than an upset stomach a couple of times a week. Now I can barely eat, and what I do eat rarely stays down." Singai almost said she was sorry again, but she caught herself in time. "Nobody can determine what it is that's causing your illness?" Eritha shook her head very slightly and frowned thoughtfully. "No. They even tried some of those new Earth medications in the hope that my illness was caused by some type of virus that the drugs might combat. But it didn't work." "What about poisons?" "Well, that's the natural assumption after you've tried everything else, isn't it?" Eritha's tone, surprisingly, wasn't bitter, rather it was matter-of-fact. "But they've tested for those too. Every one they know of anyway and"—she shrugged slightly— "nothing. So now they're back to believing it's some new strain of illness." Singai considered her sister for a moment and received a revelation. If a cure could be found for her sister's illness, then she would no longer be facing this horrible dilemma, for Eritha could take the throne she was destined to hold when her mother—their mother —passed away. That thought brought her to another question. "When did—" She'd been about to say Empress Narice, but somehow that seemed too formal in this situation. Yet was she ready to call the empress mother? "When did your mother begin to get ill?" Eritha looked at her in faint astonishment. "She told you about that?" Singai nodded. "I'm surprised. I only learned of her illness myself a couple of months ago when I wanted to see her and she was too ill to leave her bed." "So you don't know when she initially began to feel ill?" Eritha nodded. "Oh, yes. She told me that she started to feel unwell just a few months after I did. But her malady was diagnosed immediately as a liver ailment because her skin tones yellowed." "But what caused the liver ailment?" Singai pressed. Eritha frowned. "I don't know. I suppose they thought it just happened. Like other illnesses do, you know?" "M mmm," Singai mused thoughtfully. "But what if it didn't?" "You think my mother is being poisoned too?" Singai shrugged. "When you think about it, if your mother and her physicians suspect you are being poisoned, then I'm sure they suspect the same thing is happening to her. After all, what good would it do anyone to remove you, while leaving your mother in place to hold her throne?" She grimaced. "And I've probably just revealed a secret worry that they were trying to spare you." "You're right! I hadn't considered that, although I should have. It simply makes sense." They fell silent for a couple of moments, and Eritha studied her with disconcerting intensity. "What is it?" Singai finally asked. "Tell me about your life. I've often tried to imagine another life but"—she shrugged—"somehow it never seems very real. Tell me what the life of a Sotah warrior is like. Let me—" Eritha's eyes slid away. "Let you what?" Singai asked softly, sensing that her sister's mood had grown more melancholy. She looked at her. "Let me escape this bed for a short time to experience life through your eyes. And not just the good times either. I want to come to know you the way I would have known you had we been bom to a shopkeeper or a farmer." Even had she had the inclination, Singai could not have refused that request. And so she told her sister an abbreviated version of her experiences, both the good and the bad. She shared things with her that she would never have considered sharing with anyone— except perhaps Daemon—and yet, somehow, it seemed right. M ore than an hour later, she began to tell Eritha of her first meeting with Guardian Quinn, and she drew to a stumbling halt. How could she tell Eritha that Empress Nance had hired the Guardian to find her? Unless her not-so-naive sister had already guessed? "Eritha, do you know why I am here?" Eritha looked down to pick a nonexistent piece of lint from the bedspread. "Oh, yes. I think so." "Tell me." "The thing that matters most to my mother is her empire. For her to break with protocol and bring you home, there can be only one reason: the preservation. of her empire. I think she's brought you home to take the throne when she and I are"— there was a slight hesitation—"gone," she concluded. "I don't know quite how she plans to do it, because the people won't accept a twin unless —" Her eyes lifted to Singai's in sudden comprehension. "She plans to have you take my place, doesn't she?" Singai nodded miserably. "Yes. But it's not something I want to do, Eritha. Please believe that. I haven't been raised to it as you

have. The protocol, the strictures, they will suffocate me. There's nothing I want more than for you to get well so that I can return to my life." Eritha's fragile white hand reached across the distance separating them and covered hers. "I know you don't want it, Singai. And I don't say that because you are Sotah and such ambition isn't suited to you. I say it because you are my sister, and in the last hour, I have come to know you. Already, I feel that I've known you for a lifetime. But both of us have been raised with the awareness that duty requires sacrifice. And like me, you will make it when the time comes." Singai stared at her miserably. Would she? she wondered. She thought of Daemon and immediately shunted the thought aside. He was no longer a consideration in her decision. But could she give up her life for an empire? Then again, could she live with herself if she stood by and let the Dalig enslave an empire of people who had lives and loves of their own? Eritha was probably right. She would make the sacrifice if she had to. But she still refused to give up the hope that she wouldn't have to. "Now," Eritha said, patting Singai's hand, "finish your story." But Singai was no longer in the mood for talk. "Eritha—" She paused, uncertain as to how to voice her idea. "I don't want you to get false hope, but. . . would you mind terribly if I did a little investigating on my own as to what is happening to you and to your mother?" Eritha considered her silently for a moment. "Of course not, though I doubt that you'll get very far. Still you are welcome to talk to the Sotah in residence and whomever else you feel might help." "Thank you." Singai felt rejuvenated. She had a purpose, a way out of her dilemma: to discover who was poisoning her sister and mother and put a halt to it. She talked a few more moments with Eritha, but left shortly thereafter with a promise to visit regularly.

Chapter Fifteen Singai frowned slightly at Sotah Kinlyn, who sat across the table from her. He and Sotah brothers Tagel and M axen were once again going over the details of their investigation to date. "So," Singai summarized, "based on the fact that somebody always tastes the food and drink beforehand, and none of the tasters have become ill, we have to assume that, whatever the poison is, it's not being ingested." Kinlyn nodded. "That's correct. And from what we can tell it's not being absorbed through the skin either. We've had all the bedding changed and tested a number of times. We tested clothing for residue, everything we could think of, and"—he shrugged expressively—"nothing." "So what about gases then?" Singai asked. Kinlyn shook his head, but it was M axen who answered. "The princess Eritha is rarely, if ever, alone. If a gas was making her ill, the people around her would suffer ill effects as well. Yet they have not." Singai sighed in frustration. She had been investigating for a week already, going over the same ground that others had covered again and again, and she was no closer to a solution now than when she'd begun. Soon the empress would want an answer from her, and she still didn't know what she'd say. "There has to be something," she insisted. "Something so simple that we've all missed it." She looked at the sword hilt visible over Kinlyn's shoulder. "Have your companions been able to help at all?" "Very little," he responded. "They believe that they can sense a trace of a substance that should not be in the human body, but without being bonded to the person in question, it's difficult for them to make an accurate assessment." Singai nodded. It was no less than she'd expected. Even the Iyi'Sefir had limitations. At that moment, there was a knock at the door, and Rocham, who seemed to serve more as a messenger and escort than anything else, opened the portal and poked his head into the room. "Sotah Singai! I've finally found you." "What is it? Is something wrong?" He shook his head. "Oh, no. Nothing like that. But the empress would like to see you in her chambers if you have a moment." "Of course." It was the first time since her arrival that she'd been invited to the empress's private chambers. Was the invitation significant? she wondered. Was the empress ill? She rose, bade farewell to her Sotah brothers, and followed Rocham from the room. The empress's suite was in the same wing as Eritha's, but one floor above. Her chambers were also much larger, Singai discovered as Rocham showed her in. Though why anyone, particularly a widowed woman alone, would need such spacious accommodation was beyond her understanding. The empress's private suite was larger than some family dwellings. A pair of white double doors stood open to the right, revealing the location of the actual bedchamber. The corner of a huge bed draped in white lacy spreads showed through the open door. Immediately ahead of her was a sitting area, complete with plush cushions, a low table on which sat a couple of expensive-looking decanters, and a huge pot of fresh flowers. To the left of this, a writing desk sat on a small dais that faced outward so the empress could look out at her parklike domain as she wrote. In one comer stood a vanity with a mirror. It was here that the empress sat now, with her ever present assistant, Sirvena, hovering over her. She was removing white cream from a small crystalline pot, dabbing it on her still flawless complexion and massaging it in. M aybe she should ask for the recipe, Singai mused silently. If it could help the empress maintain her appearance for as many years as it had, the cream was probably worth a fortune. Since Singai had not yet been addressed, and Rocham had simply deposited her and left, she allowed her gaze to roam farther. On the far left of the main room, she noted another pair of double doors. This pair was closed. A bathroom? she wondered. "Singai," the empress suddenly called, "thank you for coming." She had risen and was moving toward the sitting area of her chambers. "Won't you join me?" With a nod, Singai accepted her invitation, albeit a bit warily, and chose a cushion across from her. Was Narice going to pressure her for an answer? She noted that the empress was garbed more casually than she'd ever seen her, in a simple dressing gown. Her normally beautiful complexion had a slight yellowish cast, and there were shadows beneath her eyes. She looked unwell. "Wine?" the empress offered as she lifted one of the expensive decanters. "Yes, thank you." As the bluish-red wine filled her glass, Narice studied her intently. Singai wasn't certain she liked the scrutiny. "So, my child, tell me what you've accomplished in the last week. I have hardly seen you."

Singai's glance took in Sirvena hovering in the background. "Nothing much," she said. The one thing she'd discovered during the past week was that Narice trusted too much. She often seemed to forget that her servants and assistants had ears. She spoke in front of many of them as though she trusted them implicitly—which to Singai's way of thinking was foolhardy. But Singai would not speak in front of Sirvena or any other person she didn't know—except her Sotah brothers, whom she knew she could trust. Narice froze in midpour as she was filling her own glass and followed Singai's gaze. "Sirvena, would you leave us alone please," she said a moment later. "Of course, Imnana," came Sirvena's soft reply. As the door closed behind the empress's assistant, Narice looked at Singai almost accusingly. "She's been with me for almost ten years, you know. I trust her without question." "Pardon me for saying so. Empress Narice, but in your situation you cannot afford to trust anyone without question." The empress set down her glass with a slight thunk and frowned disapprovingly at Singai. "Will you stop being so formal with me? If you can't bring yourself to call me mother, at least address me as Narice." Singai dipped her head in acknowledgment. "Very well, Narice." "So you don't think I should trust anyone?" Singai shook her head. "Dreams and motivations change over time, for all of us. Someone you trusted ten or fifteen years ago may now look on you as an enemy because he has changed." She frowned suddenly remembering Vartan and his mysteriousness. "How long have you known your captain of the guard?" "Vartan?" Narice's eyebrows arched in surprise. "I've known him longer than you've been alive, my child. And I trust him more than I trust even the Sotah." Singai nodded. She'd expected as much, but she'd had to ask. For, of all her suspects—which basically amounted to everyone in the palace with the exception of her Sotah brothers and Quinn— Vartan was the one who was in a position to take control most quickly. His motivation? For all she knew, it could be simple ambition. There was a moment of silence. "So then"—Narice broke the hush—"have you found anything out of the ordinary?" Singai met her gaze and shook her head. "Unfortunately, no. Not yet." "And how long do you intend to continue looking before you make your decision? I am growing more ill by the day, Singai. I need to ensure the safety of my empire." Singai sighed. Why could life never be simple? Despite herself, her thoughts darted to Quinn. She had rarely seen him in the last week, and she hadn't even been able to bring herself to ask about him when the question of his whereabouts loomed large in her mind. She was furious with him, but she realized that a part of her still hadn't given up on him. She loved him, and she missed him. It was as simple as that. And because of that, she still hoped, irrational as that hope might be. She hoped that he would see how foolish he was being. Hoped that he would leam to see her for who she was, rather than some composite he'd created in his mind that combined her with his deceased wife. Hoped that he would stay on Thadonia and take a chance on their love. "I need an answer, Singai," Nance reiterated. Singai started slightly and returned to the present. "I'll give you my answer within the week. You have my word." Narice nodded. "Very well, I guess I shall have to accept that." She sipped her wine and replaced her glass on the table. "Will you join us at the evening meal tonight?" "Us?" Singai raised a questioning brow. "Vartan, Quinn, and myself," Narice explained. Singai hesitated, but she knew she wouldn't refuse. She wanted to see Quinn too badly, even if it was just to show him she was still angry with him. "I think I'd like that," she murmured. "Thank you." *** Singai was late. In the short time since she'd met her twin, Eritha had come to know Singai almost too well. Somehow, she'd sensed that Quinn was important to Singai, and when she'd let it slip she would be dining with him tonight, Eritha had insisted on clothing her in one of her favorite gowns. Now, looking more feminine than she ever had in her life, Singai felt uncertain and foolish. She was dressing up for a man who wanted nothing more from her than a brief affair. He'd made that clear. So why had she allowed herself to be pressured into wearing this exotic gown? It made her look like . . . like . . . Oh, she didn't know what she looked like but whatever it was, it wasn't her. Still, for a brief moment, as she'd directed her maidservant in clothing Singai, Eritha had come alive. And not even to preserve her dignity would Singai have robbed her sister of those shining moments of excitement. The worst part of the afternoon had been Eritha's embarrassingly candid questions. "Is he a good kisser?" she'd asked. "Does your heart pound when he holds you?" Her face red with embarrassment, Singai had only stared at Eritha in astonishment. "Oh, come on, Singai," Eritha had wheedled. "Tell me something. The closest I've come to being kissed by a real man is in my dreams." And so, in a hushed voice, Singai had found herself sharing a few private moments and sensations with this newly found sister, whom she seemed to be able to deny nothing. Now, arriving at the dining hall, she discovered that the door was open, awaiting her no doubt. Halting just short of being visible to those within the room, she smoothed her fingers down selfconsciously over the silky yellow-and-green fabric of Eritha's figure-hugging gown. The gown was high necked, sleeveless, and cut very low in the back. Taking a deep breath to gather her courage, Singai stepped forward and entered the dining hall. Narice, Vartan, and Quinn were already seated, as she'd suspected they would be. She avoided meeting their gazes, afraid of what she might see there. "I'm sorry I'm late," she apologized as she approached the table, heading toward the only vacant cushion. "I was visiting Eritha and we lost track of time." There was a moment of silence that forced Singai to look up. Unable to find the courage to look toward Quinn just yet, she chose to meet Nance's gaze. The empress looked as though she'd seen a ghost. Finally, she seemed to get a grip on herself. "No harm done," the empress said in a breathy voice. "We haven't begun. Please be seated." She gestured to a seat opposite her, which would place Singai on Quinn's left and Vartan's right.

Singai carefully took her seat. She found the process of seating herself on the cushion a little more cumbersome in the tight gown than she had when wearing her typical trousers and tunic. When she'd finally managed to settle herself, Narice spoke again. "You look very much like Eritha in that gown. It gave me quite a start." "I'm sorry. I didn't stop to consider how you might feel when I agreed to wear the gown. If you would prefer, I could change." Narice waved a dismissing hand. "No, no. I'm quite all right now. Let's begin shall we." She waved an imperious hand at the waiting servants, and they began to serve. Once she was certain that everyone was involved in serving themselves, Singai risked a glance in Quinn's direction. She immediately wished she hadn't. The man was more handsome than ever and he was looking right at her. In fact, there was a very appreciative glint in his eye as his gaze swept over her in the yellow-and-green dress. Their eyes locked. Singai couldn't have looked away had her life depended on it. She felt a pulse begin to pound in her throat. How could he have this kind of power over her? Magar, she was furious with him. Drawing on every bit of willpower she possessed, Singai blinked to break the magnetic command of his gaze and then, coolly, turned her attention back to her own place setting and focused her eyes on her dish. She could not let him know she still cared. She wouldn't. If there was ever to be anything between them now, the next move was his. After the servants departed, much of the conversation over the meal consisted of rehashing the investigation concerning Eritha's and Narice's inexplicable illnesses. As Narice reiterated the symptoms, Quinn remarked, "If we were on Earth, I'd say that it sounds a lot like lead poisoning with the single exception that you seem to have lost none of your mental faculties. But it could very well be a newly developed poison of some type. New ones are developed every year." Singai put down her fork. For the first time, she spoke directly to Quinn. "Do you mean that people actually set out to develop new poisons?" She couldn't believe her ears. "Why?" He shrugged. "Often the new poisons are merely a by-product of some other chemical development. But, yes, sometimes a chemist will set out to invent a new poison. Usually for a very high fee at the behest of someone seeking it for a specific reason." She frowned. "With the Earth connections they appear to have, the Dalig would have been able to contract such a chemist quite easily." "Probably. Yes," Quinn agreed. "And the antidotes to these poisons," Vartan interrupted their exchange. "How are these found?" Quinn turned to look at him. "The best way, of course, is to obtain it from the inventing chemist. No sane chemist will produce a poison for which he does not possess an antidote." "And if that chemist cannot be found?" Quinn shrugged. "Then, as I understand the process, another chemist must be found who can break the poison down into its individual chemical elements and develop the antidote. I believe that it's a very time-consuming process." Vartan frowned. "I see. That is not encouraging." "Singai, what are you thinking?" It was the empress's voice calling her back from the depths of speculation. She looked up. "I'm thinking that, for the Dalig to undertake such long-term poisoning that it looks like a natural illness, they would have to have a chemist nearby. Someone who could constantly replenish the supply as it was used." Quinn frowned. "Possibly. But they could also be smuggling it in with the weapons shipments." Singai shook her head. "I don't think so. Why risk discovery time and again when smuggling the stuff onto the palace grounds?" She took a bite of her meal and chewed thoughtfully without really tasting it. "If I were a Dalig commander, I'd want the chemist either to live at the palace or be somebody who came and went often. Somebody of whom few questions would be asked." Quinn disagreed. "I think you're assuming too much, Singai. You're assuming that the poison— if there is one—requires almost daily administration. What if they've developed a one time dose of something that simply works very slowly?" Her anger with him made her sensitive to his criticism. She considered him for a moment, trying to rein in her temper, but it didn't work. "Fine," she snapped. "Have it your way. Forget I said anything." She regretted her outburst almost immediately as a surprised silence descended over the table. Thankfully, the meal was almost over, because the tension grew thick enough to cut. A couple of times Vartan or Narice made halfhearted attempts to steer them back into conversation, but it wasn't until the empress mentioned the possibility of bequeathing land to Quinn for a horse ranch that they managed to lure Quinn back.

"Who told you of my thoughts on staying. Empress?" he asked. "The decision hasn't been made yet." "M y head groom mentioned that you were considering it and that, if you stayed, you would need land on which to raise these horses of yours. I just wanted to assure you that I'm certain something can be arranged if you do decide to stay." "Thank you. Empress Narice. I'll keep it in mind." Singai listened and refused to be drawn. Her eyes roamed the large dining room, skimmed over the drapes at the end of the room. Wait! Was that movement? Yes. There it was again. Someone was there, eavesdropping. Singai set aside her meal, wiped her lips on her napkin, and sipped at her wine as she considered just how to handle the situation. Before she could decide, however, Sirvena slipped from behind the drape and made her way to a small servant door at the rear of the room, only steps away from the heavy draperies. Had they all remained immersed in conversation, her quiet exit would never have been noticed. As it was, instinct prompted Singai to draw attention to it. "Sirvena—" she called. "I didn't know you were here." Everyone's gaze quickly moved to pin the empress's assistant where she stood. Sirvena froze, but recovered quickly. "I'm sorry, Empress. I didn't mean to interrupt you, but your meal has gone late and it is time for your medicine." Narice grimaced. "I'll be up in a few moments. In the meantime, can you send someone in with another decanter of Tanos?" As Sirvena left the room, the empress fastened her questioning gaze on Singai. But since Singai didn't understand the precise nature of the question, she couldn't offer an answer. A moment later, Sirvena returned with the requested decanter. Quinn and Vartan each refreshed their glasses. Then Quinn looked at Singai, lifted his glass to her, and drank deeply. Singai watched his throat move in the bronzed column of his neck, and she was suddenly reminded of how it felt to press her face against its warmth. Zyk! She couldn't take this. Tearing her eyes away from him, she met Narice's too knowing gaze. "If you'll excuse me, Narice," she said. "I feel the need for

some fresh air. I think I'll go and admire your gardens." Narice nodded. "Of course. Enjoy them. I'll be retiring soon myself." *** The Silver M oon was the brightest moon overhead tonight, Singai discovered, and it lent the foliage in the gardens an almost crystalline appearance. She strolled aimlessly for a time, absorbing the peacefulness as she listened to the hum of insects and watched the primitive, chaotic dance of the ember-beetles as they moved through the air in great spirals like the sparks from a flame. After a time, she began to search for a place she might sit without risking the destruction of Eri-tha's gown. Finally she found a stone bench beneath the sheltering limbs of a huge old traelarch tree and took a seat. She didn't know how long she sat there, thinking of the decision that faced her. Thinking of Daemon and Eritha and Narice. How had she come to care for them in so short a time? How was it possible that her life, so uneventful on a personal basis, could suddenly be plagued by so much upheaval? Then, out of the darkness, she heard a noise. Subtle. Nothing alarming really. But it was alien to the gardens. Her trained senses perceived it and classified it. She was no longer alone in the seclusion of the night. Rising, she moved more deeply into the shadow of the tree to watch and wait. To her right and some distance away, she thought she perceived the movement of a man-size shadow. Then, abruptly, there was a sound immediately to her left. She spun, and confronted . . . Quinn. For an instant, surprise immobilized her. "What are you doing here?" she asked in a hoarse whisper. "When I came out, I saw a man stalking you," he murmured. And then she remembered that Quinn thought it was his responsibility to save her from all the danger in the world. "Don't you dare rescue me again, Quinn," she whispered fiercely. "I don't want your help and I don't need it." "Singai, he's armed with a knife." "Fine. I'll take care of it." "Don't be foolish, Singai. You're unarmed. You don't have to prove anything to me. I know that you are fierce and independent and nothing like Corinda." "I'm glad you finally realized that, Quinn, but I still don't want your help. I want this guy alive if I can get him. Now get out of here and leave me alone, will you?" At that, she stepped out from behind the tree and began walking the garden paths as though she had not a care in the world. It took only a couple of minutes before she heard the soft crunch of footsteps in the grass behind her. An instant later, she sensed her stalker closing. When he leapt from behind, she was ready for him. Grabbing the hand in which he held the knife, she used his momentum to throw him over her head. Vaguely, almost unconsciously, she heard a tearing sound as one of the seams in her too snug dress gave under the strain, but her attention was focused on her attacker. He landed on his back with enough force to knock the wind out of him. Using pressure points to numb his fingers, she shook the knife from his grasp and swiftly retrieved it to hold it to his throat. As she peered down at him, she realized that he seemed hardly more than a boy. "Who are you?" she demanded. "Why did you attack me?" He stared mutinously at her as the moonlight glittered in his hate-filled eyes, and then he began to squirm in her hold. She wrenched on the arm she held, sending the message of a fresh burst of pain to his brain, and he stilled, but not before he lifted his free hand and rubbed it over his mouth. Singai thought nothing of the gesture until a seizure racked his body and he went limp. "M ore poison! Zyk!" she swore as she released her grasp on him. Suddenly she was aware of Quinn standing beside her. "That's the second one who killed himself rather than be taken for questioning. Is that typical of Dalig recruits?" he asked. Singai shook her head. "No. It's new. It's all new: the Earth weapons, the poisons, and the suicide." Quinn knelt to test the body at her feet for life. "Well," he said, "there's nothing more you can do here tonight. Let's go on in. I'll let the guard know about him"—he tipped his head toward the body— "and you can get some rest." Too discouraged by the turn of events to think clearly, Singai allowed him to escort her in. "Do you want me to walk you to your room?" Quinn asked. She hesitated for a moment, trying to decide just where it was she was going, and then shook her head. "No, I promised Eritha I'd return her dress." "All right," he said. Without looking at him, Singai turned to go. "Singai," he said, forestalling her. "Yes?" She met his gaze and wished she hadn't. The fire of passion lit his eyes, and her emotions were too raw to deal with him tonight. "You look beautiful." She stared at him, uncertain as to just how to take his compliment. Didn't he realize that this wasn't who she was? Then, as though he'd read her mind, he gave her a lopsided smile and added, "But somehow I prefer you in your warrior garb." She acknowledged the compliment with a nod and a murmured, "Thanks," and once again turned to leave. Daemon stared after her. Saints, he missed her! M ore than he would ever have believed possible. He missed her warmth and her scent. He missed having her in his arms. But perhaps most of all, he missed her conversation and her friendship. He was aware now that Singai was trying to solve the riddle concerning Narice's and Eritha's illnesses before she made her decision. Narice had let the fact slip earlier in the week. But even if she hadn't revealed Singai's plan, it would have been obvious to him after the conversation at the dinner table tonight. Solving the mystery would, of course, absolve Singai of having to make the decision at all. He dismissed as indigestion the flash of hope that flared beneath his breastbone. Refusing to even dream of a future with Singai until that future entered the realm of possibility, he turned his thoughts back to the investigation. What irked him was that, because Singai was angry with him and hadn't confided in him, they were working separately toward the same goal. Ever intrigued by a mystery, he'd been compelled to investigate the strange onset of illnesses as well—despite the fact that he was deficient of his usual exorbitant fee. He and Singai were probably covering the same ground. Still, having purposely driven her away so that she'd be free to make whatever decision she must make, he couldn't blame her. Clenching his teeth in frustration. Daemon turned and made his way to his chambers. Perhaps tomorrow he'd find a means of broaching the possibility of working together to Singai. It would certainly be more efficient.

*** When Singai entered Eritha's room, her sister was sitting up in bed with a small wooden bed table, to which a mirror had been attached, propped in front of her. Before her were an array of crystalline containers containing what appeared to be cosmetic lotions and cremes. The chamber was redolent with the scents of their perfumes. Eritha met her gaze and grimaced. "I don't know why I keep up with these rituals," she said. "It's not as though beautiful skin will do me much good when—" She broke off suddenly, but the words when I'm dead hung between them, unspoken but understood. "Rituals can be comforting," Singai murmured. "Yes," Eritha nodded. Then, after dismissing her nurse, she looked back at Singai, her gaze excited and animated in her gaunt face. "So how did it go? Did he notice you?" Not wanting to crush her sister's enthusiasm, Singai forced a smile. "He said I was beautiful." Eritha smiled. "I knew it. He could not fail to notice you in that dress." "Your dress!" Singai remembered the tearing sound she'd heard earlier and began searching for the damage. She found the rent in the waist. "Oh, Eritha, I've ruined it. I'm sorry." Eritha gave her a disgusted look. "You haven't ruined it, silly. It's just a small tear. Besides, I have plenty of dresses. Don't get so upset about it." Picking up a small crystalline pot of cream, she began dabbing it onto her face and massaging it in. "So tell me how you've been doing?" "You mean with the investigation?" Eritha nodded. Singai frowned. "I have a couple of ideas, but nothing substantial. It's so frustrating." "Why don't you forget about that for a while and go seduce that wonderful man?" "Eritha!" Singai stared at her sister in disbelief. "I'm serious! If you can't make any progress in one area, switch situations. You might as well do something that will make you feel good." "For someone who supposedly has no experience with men, you certainly speak candidly." Eritha shrugged dismissingly. "I read a lot. It's all I can do." "Perhaps I should borrow some of those books." They might teach her how to understand the male psyche when it came to love. She and Eritha spoke a few minutes longer, and then she noticed that her sister was beginning to tire. Bidding her good night, Singai embraced her and promised to visit again the next day. *** Singai spent a restless night alternately dozing and waking for no obvious reason other than her own worry. And every time she woke, she lay there with thoughts swirling in her mind like random eddies in a river. Something was bothering her, but what was it? Finally as the grayness of a new day's predawn lightened the darkness in her room, she gave up on sleep and rose. Slipping on a robe, she decided that she'd step out on the balcony for some air and watch the sunrise. But when she moved to unlatch the door, she saw a shadow on the neighboring balcony that forestalled her. Quinn was already up. Standing on his balcony in trousers and nothing more, he stared toward the lightening horizon. Drawing back, Singai watched him. Magar, he was a magnetic male. Someone had certainly bequeathed him more than his share of sex appeal. As the first faint fiery fingers of the Thadonian dawn began to reach across the sky, Quinn threw up his arms as though in primitive homage, as though he had fallen back on some ancient instinct to worship the sun. Then, as he took a deep breath and yawned, Singai realized he was simply stretching. Still, the first image she'd held of him somehow seemed to suit him. There was something almost primitive about Quinn. Something basic and elemental. Tearing her eyes away from his magnificent form, she turned to watch the sunrise. She could observe it as well from here as on the balcony, she reasoned. And from here, she would not have to make her presence known to Quinn. She didn't know what to say to him. The dawn was one of the most glorious she'd ever seen. The flaming fingers of the rising sun's aura writhed across the sky like blazing serpents, staining the firmament in their wake with bands of fushia, crimson, and gold. For a moment, Singai held her breath in awe, then, as the giant orb of the sun began to pull itself onto the horizon, the phenomena began to fade. She watched it dissipate, and then, compelled by a desire she couldn't combat, she let her eyes slip once more to Quinn's balcony. He was gone. Ignoring the flash of disappointment that came on the heels of that discovery, she turned toward the washroom. It was time to bathe and face the day. A few moments later, still wrapped in a fluffy robe from the bath, Singai stood before the vanity and began her own beauty routine. It was simple really. Just a bit of lotion to protect her fair skin from the sun. But as she dabbed the lotion onto her face and began to massage it in, she froze. Looking down at the lotion on her fingertips, she rubbed it thoughtfully between thumb and fingers. That was it! That was what had been bothering her! Hastily throwing on her clothes, she raced from the room.

Chapter Sixteen "Kinlyn, Tagel, are you here?" Singai called as she banged on the door to the Sotah warrior's quarters. A minute later, the door opened, and Tagel blinked out at her. He was alert, but it was quite obvious by his state of dishabille that she'd roused him from sleep. "What is it, Sotah Singai?" "One question," Singai burst out unable to contain herself. "Were the cosmetics ever tested?" "Cosmetics?" he stared at her blankly. "Yes. The creams, lotions, and powders that the empress and Eritha use."

He frowned thoughtfully and stepped back. "M aybe you'd better come in." Singai caged her impatience behind gritted teeth and stepped into their quarters. "Kinlyn," Tagel called, "can you come out here a moment?" A moment later, the curtain that separated their sleeping quarters from their living quarters moved and Kinlyn joined them. He was fully dressed. "What is it?" Tagel repeated Singai's question and Kinlyn frowned thoughtfully. "Cosmetics," he mused. Then he met Singai's impatient gaze. "On a personal basis, I can't swear to it. I never saw it done, nor did I oversee it. But according to the palace guard investigators we were coordinating with, they were." She nodded and turned toward the door. "That's all I needed to know. I'll see you later." "Wait! Singai, what are you going to do?" She turned back. "If the tests weren't overseen by Sotah, then I don't trust the results anyway. So I'm going to get them tested, of course." "How will you do that?" Tagel demanded. "There are no scientists in the palace." "We can direct you to the fellow in Teman who has been doing most of the testing, if you like?" Kinlyn offered. Singai shook her head. "I think I'd rather develop my own contacts." She thought of Quinn and the testing equipment he'd used to identify her. Could it also break substances down to their individual components? "I think I know someone who may be able to help." The two Sotah nodded. "M ay Fortune be with you," Tagel said. Now she needed samples of the cosmetics that both Narice and Eritha used. If only it wasn't so early. But she didn't want to waste precious time because of the hour. Singai decided to approach Narice since Eritha had been awake late and she seemed weaker than her mother. A short time later, Singai knocked on the door to the empress's personal suite. She was beginning to despair of an answer when Sirvena answered her knock. "What is it?" she demanded in a disapproving whisper. "Surely you do not mean to bother the empress so early?" "I'm afraid I do," Singai argued quietly. "It is important. M ay I see her please?" "You should return later." And then faintly from within the room came the empress's voice. "Who is it, Sirvena?" "Wait here," the empress's assistant ordered as she closed the door in Singai's face and, presumably, went to speak with Narice. A moment later, the door reopened. "She will see you," the woman said petulantly. "But I hope you will not make a habit out of disturbing us at such an appalling hour." "Only when the situation demands it," Singai assured her unrepentantly. The empress's bedchamber was dark and smelled like a sickroom. At first, Singai had difficulty perceiving her form on the bed. "Sirvena, you may activate one of the luminaries," Narice directed. Her voice sounded much weaker than it had the previous day. As the faint illumination lit the room, Singai was appalled by the change in the empress. Her naturally pale complexion looked pallid and faintly yellow. Her cheeks looked gaunt. And her eyes glittered feverishly. Nevertheless, she managed a faint smile for Singai. "It looks like today is going to be one of my bad days," she remarked weakly, negating the importance of her relapse. "What can I do for you child?" "I need to speak with you in confidence, Narice." The empress's eyes moved to her assistant who hovered in the background. "Leave us, Sirvena. And shut the door please." "But, Chazak Imnana, you are not well—" "I know exactly how I feel," the empress cut in. "Now please do as I ask." "As you wish Chazak Imnana." Singai watched as Sirvena left the room. For an instant, she could have sworn the woman gave her an almost malevolent look as she closed the door. Had she imagined it? It had only been a fraction of a second. Singai dismissed it. Undoubtedly, the expression on Sirvena's face had been nothing more than disgruntlement at having been awakened so early and simple indignation at being displaced from the room when she was so used to being involved in almost everything that affected Narice. "Well, Singai, what is it?" the empress asked in a tone that bordered on impatience. She was in the worst mood that Singai had ever seen her in, but feeling unwell tended to do that to people. "I've just learned that your cosmetics, the lotions and creams that you and Eritha use, were never tested for traces of poison under the guidance of the Sotah." Narice stared at her uncomprehendingly. "And you believe that's important?" "Very," Singai assured her. She frowned and considered her bedspread. "I allowed them to tear apart my bedding and my clothing looking for traces of something they never found. But I confess that I find it difficult to understand the nature of poisons. How can something that simply touches the skin and is not ingested prove harmful?" "The way it was explained to me, the skin is like a sponge. The tiny pores absorb whatever the skin comes into contact with." Narice looked up at her thoughtfully. "That does give one pause, doesn't it? Still, I hardly think it necessary to examine my cosmetics again. I have been using the same ones for many years." Singai frowned. "Who makes them for you?" "A couple of the apothecaries in Teman. Oh, and Sirvena makes the skin cream for me right here." Singai stared at her mother, wondering how she could be so blind in such a situation. How could she still be so trusting? "Narice, the man who tried to kill me in my room a few nights ago was an apothecary," she reminded her. "Was he involved in producing any of your cosmetics?" Narice shook her head. "No. He was hired by one of the physicians to concoct herbal medications." Singai sighed. "Thank the moons for that. Still, I'd like to get samples of all of your lotions and creams and have them tested, all right?" The empress closed her eyes in obvious fatigue. "Fine. Fine. I doubt that you'll find anything, but you may take what you need. If you'll call Sirvena back in now, I'll ask her to help you." Singai did as she was bidden, and a moment later, the empress's assistant reentered the room. "Sirvena, Singai will be taking all of my lotions, creams, perfumes, and cosmetics for a short while. I will not be needing them today anyway, so see that she gets them.

You can put them all into my small black traveling case for her." The woman's lips tightened slightly, but she nodded. "As you wish, Chazak Imnana." Wordlessly, Singai followed Sirvena into the main room. The woman crossed the floor and opened the door across from the empress's bedroom. She emerged a moment later carrying a small black case and moved directly to Narice's dressing table without so much as a glance in Singai's direction. She immediately began placing items into the case: perfumes, a few small pots of skin-tone tinted lotion, some powdered kohl, and a colored oil whose purpose Singai could not guess. But Sirvena hesitated over the cream in the crystal container, her hand hovering indecisively. "Is something the matter?" Singai asked. Sirvena pulled her hand back and faced Singai. "Of course not. Why would there be anything the matter?" Singai shrugged. "You seem doubtful." "The recipe for this moisturizing cream has been in my family for years. It has always been used only by us and the royals whom we serve. I would hate for the secret to get out." "You have my word that I have no interest in the recipe. No one will learn it. But I do need a sample of the cream." She looked pointedly at the container still sitting on the table. "Very well." With a petulant frown, Sirvena placed the last container into the case and secured it before passing it to Singai. Voicing her thanks—which Sirvena ignored— Singai left the apartment. She'd have to hurry if she was to catch Quinn before he left his rooms. She had no idea where he spent his time and she refused to stoop to asking Ven-Gura. She assumed he probably spent considerable time in the stables, but whatever he did, once he had left his rooms for the day, she rarely saw him. Despite her haste, when Singai arrived at Quinn's door, she found herself strangely reluctant to knock. For the first time, she stopped to consider the possibility that he could refuse her request. After all, they were barely on speaking terms. She would have to find just the right way of broaching the subject. But the longer she stood there staring at the door, the more the right words eluded her. This was silly. For all she knew, he had already left his room for the day. She would simply knock and say whatever words came to mind when he answered— if he answered. She lifted her hand to knock and ... the door opened. For an instant she and Quinn simply stared at each other in surprise. Quinn recovered first. "Singai, I didn't know you were here." "I was just about to knock," she explained as she lowered her hand. "Do you have a minute?" He glanced at the black case in her arms. "Is this business?" he asked. When Singai nodded, something flared in his eyes that she wanted to think was disappointment, but it was masked so quickly that she couldn't be certain. "Sure," he said, "I guess I have a minute. Come in." Daemon watched her as she stepped into his room. It wasn't just the black case that had given him the clue that this wasn't a social call. Singai was dressed in her Sotah uniform today, and the hilt of her broadsword was visible over her shoulder. What gave him a clue as to the importance of her visit was the fact that she hadn't bothered to take the time to braid her hair into the customary elaborate style, and her tresses fell in fiery waves down her back. She'd never looked sexier, but he forced his mind to focus on her purpose. "What can I do for you?" "Did the equipment you sent separately arrive yet?" she asked, wasting no time on preamble. "You mean the DNA testing equipment?" At her nod of confirmation, he gestured to the still packaged crate sitting in a corner of his room. "It arrived a couple of days ago. Why?" "Will it test other things besides blood?" Daemon frowned, wondering what she was getting at. "I believe the manual states that it tests any number of substances, but the programming has to be changed." He studied her intently for a moment but her expression revealed nothing. "Just what are we talking about here?" M oving across the room, she set the small black case down on the table and turned to face him. "I've just learned that none of Nance's or Eritha's cosmetics were tested for poisons. I have samples of the ones Narice uses regularly in this case. But I don't want to use the same scientists they've been using to test them. For all we know, they could be Dalig employees." She swallowed, and her gaze slid away from his. "I need your help." "I see." He couldn't have refused her even if he'd wanted to. And frankly, he hadn't thought about testing cosmetics either. Singai was right; they could very well be the source of the poison—if there was one. But was the SolCom Lab capable of testing for poisons? And even if it was, would it have enough of a solar charge left to perform those tests? He hadn't bothered recharging it when it had arrived because he hadn't considered the possibility that he might need it again. Frowning, he retrieved it from the comer and began uncrating it. "Will it work, do you think?" Singai asked again. "I don't know. I'll have to read the manual, but right now I'm going to set it in the sunlight on the table so that it can start recharging." "Oh," she frowned slightly at him. "How long will that take?" He shrugged. "Depending on how low the power is, it could take anywhere from a few minutes to much of the day." He thought he might have heard her curse sharply under her breath, but he wasn't certain. It took him a good quarter hour to set it up and check the power level—it was at half power, so it hadn't been depleted too badly—and all the while, he sensed Singai hovering impatiently in the background. Finally, she asked, "Is there anything I can do?" Daemon thought for a moment and then shook his head. "Not until we know if it will work for what we want it to do or not." As soon as the Lab was set up in the sunlight, he retrieved the manual and sat on one of the cushions surrounding the low table. Singai continued to pace the room, stopping only to peer over his shoulder occasionally as he scrolled through the operational directions on the small computerized tablet. Finally, as Singai hovered once more, he looked up. Contrary to his impression, she wasn't looking over his shoulder at the tablet, but at him. And there was an expression in her eyes that made him realize that, no matter what she might say, no matter what she might want to be true, she was still as attracted to him as he was to her. On the heels of that realization came the understanding that the only things keeping them apart were the decision Singai had yet

to make and his own reluctance to attempt to sway her. For, somewhere deep inside, he knew that he could sway Singai away from her duty. And that if he did, she would someday begin to hate him for it. He would rather live without her than live with her hatred. "I thought you remembered everything you read?" she asked suddenly, almost accusingly. "I do. But I've never read the parts of this manual that didn't pertain to what I needed to know," he countered. "Oh." With a sharp nod, she resumed her pacing. "Would you like to sit down, Singai?" She shook her head. "No, thank you. I'm too anxious." With a nod, Daemon returned to his perusal of the manual, but his thoughts stayed with Singai. After she had made the decision that faced her— or been spared making it if they happened to get lucky in finding a cause for her mother and sister's illnesses—then he would tell her his feelings. Until then. Wait! What was that? He scrolled back and read. The SolCom Lab was capable of running over one hundred preprogrammed tests and analyses, as he'd suspected. What was involved in accessing them was simply the entry of a coded access number that would activate the desired program. It didn't sound too difficult, provided he could locate the access number for the test they needed. He must unconsciously have made a noise of satisfaction because Singai was suddenly at his side. "Did you find something?" "M aybe. The equipment definitely does perform other analyses. Whether it will do the one we need, I don't know yet." With a sigh of frustration, Singai resumed pacing. A moment later. Daemon found what he'd been looking for. "This looks like it may work for us." The Lab would do an elemental breakdown of a product, listing its composition and the toxicity of any of its components. The manual didn't say whether the lab would actually identify any toxic component it found, but perhaps they wouldn't need it to. "How will it work?" Singai asked, as she finally lowered herself to a neighboring cushion. He explained it to her as well as possible. Her next question was, "What can I do to help?" He rose to retrieve a number of the test-tubelike receptacles that the lab used for its samples. "We'll need to put a small amount of each product to be tested in one of these. If you want to take care of that, I'll see if I can't get the alternate program set up to run." Singai nodded, and for a few moments, they worked side by side in companionable silence. Companionable that is except for the ever increasing sexual tension and sideways glances during which they each tried to avoid eye contact by hastily looking back to what they were supposed to be doing. And because of that, it probably took double the length of time it should have taken for Daemon to find the right routine and load the necessary program. Still, he found he could not regret the wasted time. Finally, the program was ready to run. "Do you have a sample ready?" Her eyes on the equipment, Singai handed him one of the vials she'd been preparing. "Does it have enough power—" But as his hand closed over hers to take the vial, she halted in midsentence. He knew what she felt. He felt it too. That spark of awareness that traveled through his body to settle in the region of his loins. Concealing his own reaction to contact with her, he watched her intently, searching for every nuance of expression. "What were you saying?" he asked. "Saying?" She cleared her throat, slowly pulled her hand out of his grasp, and sent her gaze in a hasty search around the room as though the topic of her incomplete sentence would jump out from concealment. "Oh, yes. I was asking if the equipment has enough power now to do the testing?" He'd forgotten to check that, but he'd be damned if he'd admit it. He turned his attention back to the Lab and snapped into place the vial that Singai had handed him. "It'll have enough power to test two or three samples. That'll get us started anyway. After that, if need be, we can let the charge build up again." "I see." He examined the faintly yellowish liquid in the vial. "What's this sample? Perfume?" Singai nodded. "Yes. There are three perfumes." "All right." He set the parameters for the analysis and waited for the Lab's computerized response. Processing time approximately twenty minutes. Please wait. Daemon leaned back and looked at Singai. "Well, there's not much more for us to do for the next few minutes but wait." She nodded, rose, and rocked on the balls of her feet as though she was thinking of running. Daemon searched for a topic of conversation. A safe topic of conversation. "I've decided to stay here, you know." She turned to face him. "Here?" "On Thadonia," he clarified. "I'm going to raise horses. The empress has given me the use of a large tract of land a short distance from here in exchange for a couple of foals." She nodded. "That's nice. But. .. are you . .. will you still be a Guardian?" Daemon studied her. For some reason, the answer seemed to be important to her although she was feigning nonchalance, and he tried unsuccessfully to decipher her reason. "I will always be a Guardian, Singai. It's part of who I am, wherever I may be. And if you mean, will I continue to take assignments off world, the answer is, perhaps, on occasion." She nodded, apparently satisfied with the answer. Choosing a cushion opposite him, she sat down and they talked—about his plans for his horse ranch and the potential for the breed on Thadonia—until the Lab beeped to signal them of a completed analysis. He studied it. "Well, according to this," he remarked a moment later, "I wouldn't want to drink this stuff, but there doesn't appear to be anything harmful in wearing it on the skin as it's meant to be." He looked at Singai. "What's next? Another perfume or something else?" "How much power is left?" He examined the reading. "Enough for about an hour. That means one long analysis or two short ones. The problem is that you never know how much time it's going to take until you set it up." Singai studied the array of receptacles before her and then, with a frown, picked up one containing a thick white cream. As she passed it to him, he saw something going on behind her eyes. "Why this one?" he asked. She shrugged. "No substantial reason really. Just a feeling. It's a cream that Sirvena and her family have been making for the royal families for years apparently. But after I saw the way she was eavesdropping in the dining hall last night"—she shrugged— "something about the woman bothers me."

Daemon nodded. "Good enough." He removed the previous sample, snapped this one into place, and reestablished the parameters of the analysis. The tube became opaque as it filled with microbiotic sensors. Processing time approximately forty minutes. Please wait. Singai blanched inwardly when he told her how long the analysis would take. Sitting here with him like this was pure torture. It was so awkward. On the other hand, it was nice to once again be talking, sharing in Daemon's dreams and visions, working together toward a common goal. If she'd known how difficult this time would be, would she have tried to find someone else to help her with the analysis? Not even if the world would end tomorrow, she conceded to herself. So for forty more minutes they sat and talked. They talked of things they would do or like to do. They talked of the Dalig and what the threat meant to Thadonia's future, especially if the warrior guild had found substantial backing from one of Earth's crime organizations. They talked of Narice and Er-itha and what her sister had come to mean to her in so short a time. And then another of those awkward little silences fell. "Singai." She raised her eyes to his—she loved the dark chocolate color of them—and waited for him to continue. "Will you tell me now why you hate the sea even though you seem to have some sort of an affinity for it?" Was she ready to share that painful piece of her past? And she realized that she was. Somehow along the way, in learning to love and take risks, she had also learned to forgive herself. Quinn would never blame her for not attempting to save her companions, for he rarely judged others as harshly as he judged himself. So she began to speak, telling him of the fascination the sea had held for her since she was a young child and had listened to the seabirds' cries as they wheeled above the thrashing waves she could see from the orphanage window. The sea had soothed her with its power. She respected it, never tired of watching it and listening to it. But she had learned to fear its monsters as she feared little else in life on that fateful day so many years ago. When she finished the tale, there was no judgment in Daemon's eyes, just as she had known there wouldn't be. Nor was there pity. Rather, there was sorrow for the young people who'd died and for those who'd lived with the burden of wondering why their lives had been spared. He said only two words, "I understand." And somehow, she knew that he did. At that moment, the equipment issued a loud beep. "What is it?" she asked. "It says it's completed its analysis." He adjusted his position to scrutinize the display more closely. "Let's see what we have here." Singai moved around the table to look over Quinn's shoulder, despite the fact that she couldn't decipher a word of the gibberish highlighted on the screen. She could tell, however, that the list of components seemed to be extensive. She waited as patiently as possible as Quinn read the information highlighted on the screen. Finally she could stand it no more. "Anything?" Quinn frowned. "I don't know. M aybe. Give me a second." He read a bit more, scrolled back up through some of the information, then down again. Singai clenched her fists. "What?" she asked. "What is it?" "M ost of the ingredients and elements in this concoction seem pretty ordinary, certainly nothing life threatening, until"—he frowned again and scrolled down a bit—"here," he said, gesturing at the screen. "I've never heard of this stuff. According to the readings, it can be toxic but only at elevated temperatures." "How elevated?" His frown deepened. "Let's see," he murmured, scrolling through the information until he found the section he wanted. "Well, well! It looks like the activating temperature is only a degree below human body temperature. Once activated by body temperature, it's absorbed through the skin." Singai was beginning to feel a bubble of excitement settling beneath her breastbone. "Anything else?" "Not much. Apparently its symptoms mimic lead poisoning in many aspects." He looked up at her. "I think I remarked on that similarity last night, didn't I?" Singai nodded. "Daemon, we've found it, haven't we? We've really found it?" Somehow, after trying so hard with nothing but failure for her efforts, she needed confirmation. He flashed her a fleeting grin. "It certainly looks that way. What I don't understand is how they missed it. I mean, when you think of it, this should have been found in the first round of testing." Singai shrugged. "You would think so. It was probably deliberately concealed by Sirvena. She has a lot of influence in her position. And the lack of a moisturizing cream was undoubtedly simply overlooked by the investigators. After all, they were male, and most never have the occasion to even think of cosmetics." "Probably," Quinn acknowledged. He looked up at her. "So what do you want to do now?" Since she always thought better when she was moving, Singai began to pace. "Well, I can't very well confront Sirvena without proof that it was she who put the toxin into the cream. We don't even have a motive." "Agreed," Quinn said. "And I can't take it upon myself to search her quarters without permission from Narice. So I guess my first move will be to advise Narice of our findings and see if perhaps she has any suggestions as to how to proceed. We not only need to find the source of the toxin itself, but we need to find the antidote." She halted and turned to face Quinn. "Have I missed anything?" He shook his head. "Sounds like a reasonable course of action to me." Her eyes lit on his face. After all his help, it would seem strange now to continue without him. "Will you accompany me? You can explain the reliability of these tests better than I." *** It was just past midmoming when Singai, with Daemon at her side, knocked on the empress's door for the second time. This time Rocham answered. "How may I help you?" he inquired. Before Singai had an opportunity to respond, Narice's reed-thin voice drifted to them from within. "Who is it, Rocham?" Excusing himself momentarily, he responded to her query and then reappeared. "The empress will see you. Please come in."

To Singai's surprise, Narice was up and appeared to be in the midst of a late breakfast. Singai couldn't help but stare, for the improvement was nothing short of miraculous. Narice apparently interpreted her astonishment. "Ah," she said, "you've not yet witnessed one of my amazing recoveries. Unfortunately, it doesn't signify a breakthrough." Singai took the cushion that Narice wordlessly offered. "You've done this before?" she asked. "How? The way you appeared this morning, I felt certain you'd be bedridden for the day if not longer." Narice shrugged and observed Quinn as he chose a seat at the end of the table. "It's simply a technique that a very learned old physician taught me. By flushing my system with enough pure spring water to drown a dyre, I can enable my body to recover from these bouts of illness more easily." She shrugged. "It doesn't always work this well. And unfortunately, it has never worked with Eritha. But—" She broke off and gestured to the array of fruits, cheeses, and flat breads that adorned the table. "Will you join me? It's light, but there's plenty." Since she'd once again skipped breakfast due to her sudden intuition into testing the cosmetics, Singai accepted her invitation. Quinn politely declined, although he accepted a cup of redleaf tea. Once settled, Singai waited for Narice to bring up the subject of her visit, as was customary. The empress, however, seemed determined to regard the call as a casual one. She chatted about the weather, about Quinn's horses, and about the remodeling of one of the wings of the palace, until Singai was ready to scream with impatience. Finally, as she finished her morning repast and delicately dabbed her mouth with her napkin, Narice looked to Singai. "So then, due to the nature of your early morning visit, can I assume that this second visit heralds some new information." "We've found it, Narice!" Now that she finally had the opportunity to speak, Singai could no longer restrain her excitement. They were close! So close! Narice, however, did not understand. "Found what, child?" "The poison! It's in the moisturizing cream." Narice's mouth dropped. She appeared about to say something, then thought better of it. Now she looked toward Quinn as though seeking confirmation of Singai's disclosure. He nodded. "The portable lab I brought in order to establish Singai's identity is also capable of analyzing other substances. We found a toxin in the cream. It's probably what they call a designer poison." Narice looked stunned. "What do you mean?" "Among the crime syndicates on Earth, poison has grown to be big business. New toxins are created to meet certain specifications all the time." The empress shook her head. "But this isn't possible. M y cosmetics were tested and nothing was found. Besides, that cream is created especially for me by Sirvena—" She broke off, and her expression became stricken as she became aware of the meaning behind what they were saying. "Sirvena is like a daughter to me. Surely, she wouldn't do anything like this?" She looked first to Singai and then to Quinn for assurances that neither could give her. "But why?" she cried. "Sirvena has no motive." "We need your permission to search her rooms, Narice," Singai said. "Perhaps, if we're lucky, we'll find both motive and evidence." The empress merely stared at her. "Narice—" When her mother's gaze focused on her, she said, "M ay we search her rooms?" Slowly, Narice nodded. "Yes. Yes, of course." A pause. "I'll call her and try to keep her with me for an hour or so. Will that be long enough?" Singai considered. "I think it should be." She and Quinn rose to leave. "Where exactly are Sirvena's quarters?" Narice still appeared distracted. "They are"—she waved her hand vaguely to the left—"they are around the corner in the next wing. It's the room at the end." She bearly got the words out before she rose and ambled away from them. "Will you be all right? Singai trailed after the woman whom she still could not think of as mother. "You don't want to let Sirvena suspect we know anything yet." "We don't know anything," Narice said, with some of the usual snap in her voice. "And I'll be fine."

Chapter Seventeen Sirvena's quarters were spacious and more luxurious than Singai had expected. There was a large sitting area, a small artfully screened kitchen area, a bedroom off to the right, and a large bathroom. Singai looked at Quinn. "Where should we look first," she asked in a hushed voice. He considered. "The kitchen is probably too open to be a place where she would do more than prepare the cream. People usually conceal anything they don't want others to see in more private places." "The bedroom?" He nodded and moved silently toward it. Singai's first impression of the dimly illuminated room was that Sirvena was obsessively tidy. There was not an object out of place. The bed was perfectly made; there were no clothes out of place; there was no loose jewelry on the dressing table. Nothing. Only one thing caught her attention. There was a strange object sitting perfectly centered on the dressing table. Singai walked forward to examine it while Quinn moved to the right and opened the closet. The object that had caught Singai's attention was a picture of three people, but it was unlike any picture Singai had ever seen. It was small, barely the size of her two hands laid together side by side, and the work was so fine you could not even see the brush strokes. It was framed in a small silver frame ringed with jewellike red stones. But who were the people in the picture? The only one she recognized in the dim light was Sirvena. She picked it up with the intention of carrying it to the window to get a better look at it, but the instant she touched it, the people in the picture moved. Startled, she dropped it with a tiny shriek.

"What's the matter?" Daemon asked anxiously from across the room. She pointed at the fallen object. "What is that?" Daemon came forward, retrieved the picture from the carpeted floor, and examined it. "It's just a photograph." "Foe-toe-graph," she repeated, her tongue stumbling over the alien word. He nodded. "I can't explain it right now, but with a device called a camera, it takes only minutes to capture a picture like this forever." "Why do the people move?" "There are actually a number of pictures all programmed into the same frame. If you want to change the picture, you simply press one of the buttons in the frame, and an alternate pose is revealed." He demonstrated. "But why would Sirvena have a picture that is the result of Earth technology? And who are those people with her?" Daemon frowned. "Good question." He carried the picture nearer the window. "There's only one other person in the picture with her now." "There were two." "All right. Let's find the original picture." He depressed a couple of buttons. "Ah! Is this it?" He showed it to Singai, and she nodded, taking the opportunity to examine it more closely. "Both of these men look familiar to me, but I can't quite understand why." Daemon scrutinized the photograph. "The old man is the same fellow who broke into your room the other night." "The one who killed himself?" Daemon looked at her sharply. "Did someone else break into your room?" Singai frowned at him. "No, of course not. I was just surprised. That's all." Daemon continued to study her a moment longer and she had the distinct impression that his question had been motivated by more than protectiveness. Jealousy? She shrugged off the impression, certain that she had to be mistaken, and said, "What about the other one? Do you remember him?" Daemon scrutinized the face in the picture for a long moment before finally shaking his head. "No. I don't recall ever seeing him." Singai shook her head in disappointment. "I do," she said. "I just can't remember where. But it'll come to me." She looked across the room to the open closet door. "Did you find anything in there?" "I haven't finished yet." And so saying, he handed the picture to her and returned to his task. Singai replaced the picture in its original position before turning her attention to searching the contents of the dressing table drawers. Every few seconds, her eyes drifted back to the picture and the face of a man she knew she should be able to identify. She had just about finished her search of the drawers when a side glance at the picture triggered a memory. The memory was from slightly above, as though she'd been taller than he—and yet he was quite obviously a tall man. It was shadowy, as though the place she'd seen him had been indoors. And it came with the recollection of a scent: the dankness of moist stale air. Singai froze in midgesture. She had seen him while conducting resa at the Dalig fortress in ReiDalgo! The man with Sirvena was the Dalig commander! With an exclamation, she dropped the items in her hand, picked up the picture, and raced back to the better light provided by the window. But there was no mistake. "What is it?" Daemon asked as he emerged from the closet carrying a huge leather case. He listened to Singai's explanation and, after a second of consideration, remarked, "Well, I guess we know now where she's getting the poisons and other Earth technology. Now all we need is a motive. Why would she let herself be used as a Dalig tool?" Singai had no answer for that; she couldn't even comprehend a motive strong enough to do such a thing. She looked toward the leather case that Daemon had just opened. "What's that?" He frowned. "I believe it looks like a primitive version of a portable laboratory. There are vials, powders, and herbs here along with all manner of strange-looking tools and what might be an antiquated version of a microscope." "The poison?" "Well, we won't know for certain until we analyze this stuff, but the odds are that it's in here." Singai nodded. "Then let's take it and get out of here, all right?" She touched the hilt of her broadsword as she often did when she was nervous. "I have a strange feeling." Quinn looked up briefly as though trying to figure out what the strange feeling could possibly be about, then nodded. "Sure," was all he said as he refastened the case and hefted it off of the bed, where he'd laid it to examine its contents. Singai automatically smoothed a wrinkle that it had left in the spread before leaving the room. She was halfway across the sitting room on her way to the apartment's outer door before she realized that it was standing open. She halted in midstep and turned to Daemon. He was just closing the bedroom door. "Daemon, did you—" But she never had a chance to finish her query. A hand clamped over her mouth. It was a small feminine hand with a grip of iron, but it would not have cowed Singai. It was the object her assailant held in her other hand that made Singai freeze. "One wrong move and you're dead," she hissed in Singai's ear. It was Sirvena. And what she held before Singai's eyes was a hypodermic syringe containing an ugly reddish liquid. Apparently satisfied that she'd made her point, Sirvena rested her hand on Singai's shoulder, and Singai received the distinct impression that the needle's point was only a fraction of an inch from her throat. Her eyes flew to Quinn, who froze in midstep as his gaze lighted on them. She didn't know what he could do to help in a situation like this, but she was glad he was here, nonetheless. "Hello, Guardian Quinn," Sirvena said in a falsely welcoming tone. "I would advise you not to take another step unless you want your little friend to die a horrible death." Daemon studied the woman in silence for a moment. She had a blond elegance about her that on Earth might have been considered of Slavic origin. She also had the same light of madness or fanaticism in her eyes that the man in Singai's room had had. In fact, Quinn began to perceive a resemblance between them. "The apothecary who killed himself was your father, wasn't he?" he ventured. "How very astute of you, Guardian. M ost people said we did not look that much alike." Daemon looked at the hypodermic so close to Singai's delicate white throat and his heart almost stopped. "What's in the syringe, Sirvena?"

She glanced at the needle and shrugged as though they were having a conversation about the weather. "It's a nasty but rather ingenious little poison that works on the body's muscles. Let me see ... if I remember correctly, it begins working on the larger muscles first: the legs, arms, throat, and so on. Paralysis is almost immediate. But it takes almost an hour to reach the heart and the lungs, so there's plenty of time to administer the antidote." She grinned. "If you know what it is, of course, and where to find it." "Interesting poison," Daemon mused. "Do you mind if I set this down?" He gestured to the case he carried. "Not at all, Guardian." As Singai listened to the two of them speaking so civilly that they might have been sharing tea, a sense of unreality began to grip her. This wasn't happening. She was Sotah. The woman had no warrior training. Do not do anything foolish b ecause of injured pride, Ven-Gura warned. All intelligent b eings are fallib le and make occasional mistakes. Trust in Quinn. All right, Ven-Gura. I'll be patient for a while. Biting back the impulse to do something, Singai focused on the conversation taking place. "So was it your father who created these poisons?" Sirvena snorted. "You disappoint me, Guardian. I thought you'd realize that my father had neither the expertise nor the ingredients to create these. He was simply an avid tutor, studying them, studying the antidotes, and maintaining the inventory." Daemon pounced on the last portion of her statement. "M aintaining the inventory for whom?" She raised a brow. "Why the Dalig, of course," she said evenly. "He used to be one you know." Daemon stared at her in incomprehension. "A Dalig warrior?" he asked incredulously. Sirvena nodded. "Yes, years ago. But his companion died and he never found another suitable— or so he said. Still, he never severed his ties with the guild." "Why do you help them, Sirvena?" He took a step forward, which the woman didn't seem to notice. "What's in it for you?" Sirvena smiled coldly. "Revenge," she said simply. Daemon took another step forward. "For what?" he asked. Sirvena's eyes narrowed. "Enough talk. It's time for your little Sotah friend and me to be on our way. Try to stop me and she dies a slow and very frightening death." She backed up three steps, dragging Singai with her. Singai cleared her throat and spoke. "You'll never get out of the palace, Sirvena. There are guards everywhere." "Do you think I'm a fool? No one will risk hurting the empress's only remaining healthy child. You are a perfect shield. Besides, your Guardian lover will ensure that we are not accosted." She looked at Quinn. "Won't you, Guardian?" Daemon nodded. "If that's what you want?" She barked a humorless laugh. "So agreeable," she taunted. "Of course, it's what I want." She nodded toward the door. "Let's go. Guardian." They moved out into the corridor, moving slowly as Sirvena warily maintained a grip on Singai every step of the way. And Singai was growing more furious and more humiliated with every step. "Tell me something, Sirvena?" she murmured. Her captor considered her. "Sure. Why not?" "What did your Dalig lover promise you in return for your help in ridding Kazer of its rightful rulers?" "You're not very astute are you, Singai? You remind me a lot of your mother. So blinded by loyalty that she refused to see what was right in front of her face because she didn't want to see it. She never really believed she was being poisoned, you know. I had her convinced that she was dying of some obscure disease and that her physicians were incompetent idiots." Singai noted the fact that Sirvena did not deny her relationship to the Dalig. It was the only connectior between the two that made any sense. "You didn't answer my question," Singai reminded her. "The throne, you fool. I will be the new Empress of Kazer." Singai's eyes met Daemon's as he turned to look at them. Now they knew Sirvena's motive. It was an inducement as old as time: ambition. "Why use such a slow-acting poison?" Daemon asked. Sirvena shrugged. "That was his idea. He said the people would accept new rulership more easily if they had time to get used to the fact that their royal family was dying." "Is there an antidote?" Singai asked. Sirvena looked sharply at her. "Of course, there's an antidote, but if I were you, I'd stop worrying about that and concentrate on my own problems." They turned a corner and began to descend the wide staircase that led to the lower levels. It was at that moment that they encountered a pair of servants carrying laundry to the upper rooms. "Don't try to interfere," Daemon cautioned them as they stared wide-eyed and openmouthed at the empress's assistant. "Just go about your business." Sirvena halted and watched them warily as they scurried by. When she was certain she was safe from attack from the rear, she resumed. "Where are we going?" Daemon asked. "To the stables. I intend to escape this place with my life." "What about Singai?" Sirvena shrugged. "If she behaves herself, I'll release her on the streets of Teman. If not—" She shrugged and left the threat unspoken. Daemon was growing more worried by the second. Sirvena obviously had no compunction about killing and he couldn't allow her to take Singai with her. At the same time, he didn't know how to stop her without risking Singai's life. Ven-Gura? I am here, Quinn. If the worst happens, and Singai is injected with the poison, will you b e ab le to save her? There was a long pause. It is unlikely, my friend. I may b e ab le to extend her life a short time in the hope that an antidote can b e found and administered, b ut I cannot promise more. Daemon frowned inwardly in disappointment. I understand. Somehow he had to learn the location of the antidote. Since it was Sirvena's father who had cared for such things, the antidote could probably be found in his lab—or secreted near it. But where in Teman had the old man's lab been? Could he get Sirvena to tell him?

He looked over his shoulder at her. "Did your father work from home, Sirvena? Or did he work in association with the apothecaries in Teman?" "Those fools on Ritgar Square. Hardly. M y father worked with no one." She laid the needle a little more firmly against Singai's throat as she sidled up to a corner and peered around it. "So he worked from home then. I thought as much." Sirvena looked at him angrily, neither confirming nor denying his assumption. "M ove out, Guardian." Daemon wished desperately for Griv's presence. The M orar had always instinctively known when someone was lying or hiding something. Wait a minute! Ven-Gura, can you tell when someone is lying? Almost invariably, came the response. Daemon heaved a sigh of relief. And has the woman Sirvena been speaking the truth? For the most part, yes. She is proud of their plans and accomplishments. We need to know where her father's laboratory was in order to find the antidote. Do you have any idea as to how we might learn that? There was a long pause. It is unpleasant, but I do have the facility passively to possess any sentient creature. Huh? Daemon thought in bafflement. He didn't realize that his lack of comprehension had transmitted itself to Ven-Gura until the broadsword began to explain. I have often projected my consciousness into the minds of animals or b irds in order to use their senses. Senses that I do not have, like sight or hearing. I can do the same with human b eings. Unless they are sensitive to psychic phenomenon they will not detect my presence. However, I find projecting myself into a human mind with which I'm not b onded extremely ... painful b ecause we Iyi'Sefir are empathic. So you feel unpleasant human emotions? Daemon guessed. That's correct. He considered their options. They didn't have many. Can you influence her actions in any way? No. Any possession is passive. I can only observe. So how will we b e ab le to learn the location of the lab oratory then? Ven-Gura gave a psychic sigh of impatience. If you mention it while I am in passive possession, she'll think of it and I will know all that she knows about it. Now that was progress! Let's do it, Daemon said. Before something happens. Too many things can go wrong here to jeopardize Singai's safety. Although Ven-Gura transmitted no words, Daemon sensed the being's acceptance. A moment later, they passed a group of palace guards in the rear hall. Once again, Daemon repeated his caution. "Don't interfere," he said. "Everything will be fine." They didn't look as if they believed him, but they passed without comment. As soon as the hall was quiet again. Daemon turned his attention back to the antidotes and their location. He looked at Sirvena and wondered if Ven-Gura was now in place. Aloud, he asked, "Did you ever work in your father's laboratory?" "Sometimes," she answered tersely. Singai's gaze met Daemon's and he tried to communicate an unspoken message of encouragement. Saints! He couldn't bear losing her now. Singai nodded almost imperceptibly. "Is that where you learned to make the cream?" she asked. "Hardly! The moisturizing cream is a recipe that's been passed down on my mother's side for generations. M y father had nothing to do with it other than to provide its most recent ingredient." "I see," Singai murmured. Her gaze connected with Daemon's and he read the love in her gaze. Dammit! Why had they wasted so much time on fighting and disagreements? It seemed so silly now. The realization that the slightest movement of a woman's hand could deliver death to the woman he loved was very sobering. All his other concerns and considerations seemed minor by comparison. His reasons for refusing to tell Singai how he felt about her seemed foolish now. He'd despise himself forever if she were to die thinking he didn't care. He couldn't let it happen. He wouldn't! They were nearing the palace's main rear door now. A short walk across the yard and they would reach the stables and the dyre that Sirvena would use to escape. Somehow, between here and there, he had to find a way to stop her. But how? Ven-Gura? No answer. Was he still within Sirvena's mind? Ven-Gura? he called again. / am here, Quinn. Her father's lab oratory is in the center b uilding on Quorum Square. However, he had assistants who may b e confiscating his work as their own. A pause. At least that is a concern that Sirvena has. She is afraid that she will no longer have access to the poisons and their antidotes. Good work, Ven-Gura. It was better than nothing. "Open the door, Guardian." Until he'd received the order. Daemon had hardly been aware of the fact that they were about to leave the palace. He opened the door. The grounds beyond looked quiet. Too quiet. What was going on? He stepped out into the open. Sirvena pushed Singai forward and followed. They were halfway across the lush carpet of grass that lay before the stables when a loud voice boomed a single word, "Halt!" They froze in their tracks and turned as one. Vartan and a number of his palace guards faced them. Icy fingers of fear worked their way up Quinn's spine. Not for himself, but for Singai. For it would be she who would pay the price for any false move. "Interfere with me. Vartan, and the woman dies," Sirvena shouted. Vartan shrugged. "So, she dies. She is Sotah. She knows where her duty lies. I cannot allow you to escape." Quinn saw the panic enter Sirvena's eyes, saw the mad desperation that he knew would be unpredictable. She looked all around them, seeking an avenue of escape and finding none. In the instant that her lips compressed, he knew she'd made her decision. He

leapt toward her, hoping to be able to stop her even as she jammed the needle into Singai's neck and depressed the plunger. "No!" he shouted his denial. And then, as Singai crumbled to the ground in the grip of the instant paralysis, his legs lost their strength and he fell to his knees at her side. Chaos ensued all around them, but he was barely conscious of it. Lifting her in his arms, he struggled to his feet and began racing toward the palace with one thought uppermost in his mind. He had an hour, only an hour, to save her life. In that time, he had to find both the laboratory and the correct antidote. "Quinn, stop!" a deep male voice bellowed again and again. He ignored it until abruptly his arm was caught in an iron grip. He whirled to face the man who dared to delay him at a time like this and faced Vartan. He wanted to kill the man for endangering Singai's life. "Magar, man, I have the antidotes." He held up a case. "Do you know what Sirvena gave her?" Daemon forced himself to shake off the numbness and shock that would have wasted precious time and shook his head in answer to Vartan's question. "It was reddish. And she said it caused paralysis." Vartan nodded and knelt to open the case. "Let's see what we have." He cast a worried look at Singai's motionless form. "The old man grouped the poisons and the antidotes together, so as long as we can identify the right poison, we should be all right." He ran his finger over the bottles that had been secured into the case with crimson bands. "What about this one? Does this look like it?" "Hold it up to the light," Daemon directed. Cradling Singai in his lap, he squatted next to Vartan. As Vartan held the vial up, he compared the color to what had been in the needle and nodded. "That looks like it." "So this should be the antidote then." Vartan replaced the reddish poison and removed a vial of amber liquid that had been packaged alongside it. Daemon hesitated. What if there was more treachery involved? "What if it's not the antidote?" he asked. Vartan met his gaze. "If it's not, there's not much we can do about it. This was everything he had left at his lab." Daemon swallowed his panic and nodded. "Let me," he said. Laying Singai gently on the grass, he took the vial from Vartan and prepared the syringe. Then, muttering a brief prayer to all the Fortunan saints and any Thadonian deities who might be listening, he rolled up the sleeve of Singai's tunic and administered the drug. Let it be the right one, he prayed again. Brushing Singai's hair back from her face, he watched for any sign of improvement, any lessening of rigidity in her body. "We caught Sirvena, Quinn," Vartan said. He seemed to be trying to distract him. "What will happen to her?" he asked automatically. He didn't really care as long as Singai was alive. There was a long pause. Finally Quinn glanced at Vartan. The man cleared his throat. "Well, you might think it sounds rather primitive, but she'll be beheaded. It's the traditional punishment for attempted assassination of a royal personage." Daemon nodded. He didn't think it sounded primitive. He didn't think anything, at the moment. "Singai," he murmured, "can you hear me?" No response. Her eyes were open and staring. Knowing they would be burning and dry because of her inability to blink, he reached with his fingertips to close them. He heard Vartan clear his throat. "Well, I have some things to take care of. I'll check back with you in a couple of minutes." Daemon nodded and called Singai's name again. And again. He looked over his shoulders to ensure they were alone; then he began to tell her all the things that had been in his mind during the last harrowing hour. "I'm sorry I wouldn't tell you how I felt when you needed to hear it. I was afraid that you'd let any feelings you had for me sway you from what you knew your duty to be and then spend the rest of your life regretting it. I couldn't stand it if I looked into your eyes to see regret, Singai. I love you too much." Had her eyelids fluttered? A second later, he saw a single tear drip from the corner of her eye and run down the side of her face toward her ear. He caught it on the pad of his thumb. "Don't cry, Singai. Please. I didn't mean to hurt you." In the next instant, he was certain that her lips parted almost imperceptibly. "You're coming back to me, aren't you? I want you in my life for the rest of my life, Singai. Do you hear me? I can't stand the thought of living without you." This time he was certain her eyelids fluttered and her lips moved again. "How is she?" Vartan asked from behind, and Daemon wondered how long he'd been standing there. "Improving I think, but it's hard to tell yet." *** A hectic week had passed. Singai, Daemon, Eritha, Narice, and Vartan all sat around the table together sharing the evening meal. It was almost ... homey, and Singai knew that, despite her reluctance to be part of their kind of life, she would miss her mother and sister when she left. The only question that remained in her mind was, would she be leaving with Daemon or alone? She remembered his words to her when she'd been in the grip of the poison, and she knew that he'd meant them. But he'd yet to speak of just how he wanted her in his life. As a friend? As a wife? As a Kvina, or mistress? She blanched, mentally rejecting the last option. She knew she could not be happy as his mistress. But where did that leave them? "One small detail you have yet neglected to explain is how you came to have all the poisons and antidotes in your possession," Daemon said to Vartan. And since it was a question that Singai had considered herself, it drew her from her pensive thoughts. "When I began investigating the attempted assassination of Singai in her room, and the suicide of the old man, I naturally sought out the laboratory where he'd done his apothecary work. It was more difficult to find than I'd expected though; the old man tended to be secretive." Vartan shrugged. "Anyway, when I did find it, I also discovered from certain documents and a painting that Sirvena was his daughter. I didn't like that coincidence, so I decided to search the premises more thoroughly than I might otherwise have done. It took a while but we eventually discovered a concealed closet. In it was the case of samples along with an alarmingly large inventory of poisons and their antidotes." He looked to Narice. "M y men and I destroyed the poisons—with the exception of the samples in the case—but we felt it might be wise to keep the antidotes." The empress nodded. "Good. If I never hear the word poison again, it will be too soon." She sighed. "I have little doubt, however, that the Dalig will try again to gain themselves an empire. I just pray that the next time they will not set their sights on mine"—she reached across the table to cover Eritha's hand—"or my daughter's." "Which one?" Vartan asked, looking pointedly at the amulet Singai now wore, identifying her as a blood descendant of the royal family.

Narice appeared uncomfortable. "I have acknowledged my daughter completely, Vartan, but she has informed me that she has no desire for the rulership of an empire. So the succession will remain uncontested." "I've been thinking though," Eritha piped in, "that, if I ever want a holiday away from the stresses and cares of the empire, I may just call on my sister to stand in for me occasionally. I mean, who will ever know?" "Eritha!" Narice was clearly shocked. Singai just grinned. Her sister was outrageous, and she loved her. "Perhaps," she said with a wink. "We'll have to see what enticement you can offer." Eritha sobered. "I know I've said this, Singai, but thank you again for being so determined to find the cause of my illness." She looked at her mother. "Of our illnesses. It's so nice to actually be able to eat again and to walk. We can never thank you enough." "Eritha's right, child." M arice smiled warmly at her. Singai squirmed uncomfortably beneath their praise. "I don't deserve such appreciation. M y motivations were largely selfish too, you know. I didn't want the throne." "Well, regardless, Singai," Narice said, "I am very glad that I defied tradition and hired Quinn to find you." Conversation turned to mundane matters, and the meal ended shortly thereafter. Daemon leaned over to whisper in her ear. "Would you like to walk in the gardens again?" Singai nodded her agreement and they excused themselves. The Thadonian night was warm. Soaring ember-beetles glowed like the sparks from an untended flame. Daemon put his arm around her waist and pulled her close. "Look at that moon!" Singai followed his gaze up. The Crimson M oon hung overhead, larger than she'd ever seen it, bathing the landscape in its copper glow. "It's beautiful." He halted and turned toward her. "Not as beautiful as you are." He threaded his fingers into her unbraided hair and looked deeply into her eyes. "Did you hear the things I said to you that day?" She didn't have to ask what day. Nodding, she stared up at him. "Singai, I have something important I want to ask you." "Yes?" she prompted. "Do you care for me enough to marry me?" Singai's heart leapt into her throat. "Yes," she choked out past that huge lump. He smiled at her, and she thought he was the most handsome man she'd ever seen. "And will you?" She was drowning in the chocolate depths of his eyes. "Will I what?" "M arry me." Her breath froze in her throat. He was asking her, and yet now that he was, she was afraid. Afraid that she would not be what he wanted. "Are you certain you want to marry a woman who is a warrior? M y life will occasionally be in danger, Daemon. I can't promise you otherwise." "I've learned something in the last while, Cynyr. Life doesn't come with guarantees. You grab what you can get and hold on to it for as long as you can." He leaned forward to plant a gentle kiss on her lips. "I want you. Will you marry me?" Singai stared up at this man, whom she loved more than anyone in the world, and hardly dared breathe for fear the dream would fade. But it didn't. "Yes," she whispered. Daemon opened his arms and Singai stepped into his embrace. Like two halves of the same soul, they moved together to declare their love with only the Crimson M oon as witness. It was all they needed.