Romjha's big hands tightened on the steering wheel. "I know."
His mouth was a bleak slash above a chin smudged by grime and beard stubble, but his voice was a husky rumble that made her ache to be held by him.
Romjha startled her by reaching across the seat. His thumb brushed over her cheek. Her body reacted instantly with a flurry of tingles. Then, as if he realized he'd done something he hadn't intended, he dropped his hand.
Yet his gaze remained on her, as if he meant to say something more. That he has feelings for you. That he wants you as you want him. Her heart turned over. No! She turned away quickly, thwarting any. such confession. As much as she wanted him, desired him, it was better to keep Romjha at arm's length. It would make everything easier . . . when he died.
"By the heavens, I'm tired of it," she muttered. Tired of worrying whether the people she knew would die. Tired of all of it.
As if reading her mind Romjha said, "We will live, Taj. The others will live. We'll all make it back."
In her lap, her hands balled into fists. His confidence washed over her like a rush of water in her hidden spring. Given a taste of that comfort, she wanted more. She wanted to hear him tell her not to worry, that she'd be safe, that everything would be all right.
"Today," she said in a half-whispered plea. "But what about tomorrow?"
The commander went rigid. She felt rather than saw it, sensed the air around him chilling, his gentleness evaporating. "I can't promise you tomorrow, Taj," he said. "No one can."
Heartache she pretended she didn't feel thickened her throat. She hunched her shoulders, scowling while Romjha fixed his stubborn stare on the horizon. Seeing what? Thinking what?
Dreams, she thought contemptuously. Romjha B'kah would rue the day he ever had them.
Chapter Seven.
Twelve hours passed. The women had decorated themselves and the Big Room as if it were a feast day, although Taj questioned what exactly they were celebrating. The door to their home had been torn wide open to the rest of the galaxy, where everyone else was still busily fighting away as if they hadn't learned a thing during these last long, dark years of war. It didn't sound to her like a reason to celebrate.
Yet she could understand the desire to make merry. Usually they had so little excuse; the arrival of outsiders for the first time in generations was a reason to celebrate, she acceded grudgingly.
In the short time since they'd arrived, the strangers and six others of their kind-the ones who'd shot down the warlord's fighters and come to rescue their friends- eight men in all, had entranced everyone. Everyone, it seemed, except Taj. She maintained her wariness.
In the Big Room, everyone was gathered for the main meal, eager to hear Jal's news from the worlds beyond. They brought their plates of food and their families to sit within earshot of the head table. Taj and Romjha sat there, part of the most diverse group imaginable: a bombmaker, the raider-"heroes," their commander, the community's elders and the high priestess, and seven foreign-born warriors and their sleeping prince.
Cheya Vedla had once again lapsed into drugged unconsciousness, prone on a many-times-mended mattress laid close by the table. A thick bandage covered his leg from knee to hip. He'd been sterilized and stitched, drugged and doted over-the latter evidenced by the dishes and bowls scattered around him, offerings of sustenance from the community, the best of their simple, forced-by-circumstances vegetarian fare.
He had been awake when Taj first arrived at the meal. His smile was wan, but she'd sensed the charisma behind it. "Ah, Taj Sai. The female fighter. The bomb-maker. I thank you for your efforts on my behalf out there in danger."
That danger you made worse, outsider, she'd wanted to say. "If your artery had been severed, you'd have been dead before I had a chance to touch you," she'd said instead.
She'd almost walked away then, unable to look at the man who held the power to bring her so much sorrow, should his visit here inspire Romjha to head off after vengeance. But when Romjha threw her one of those penetrating, perceptive looks that she was beginning to loathe, she'd softened her words. "Today you were lucky. I... am glad for it."
Despite Cheya's somewhat improved condition, Sienna's healers agreed that if better medical technology was available elsewhere, he should be brought to it as soon as possible. It was the best news Taj could hope for. Within hours, he and his guardians would be gone and out of her hair.
She returned her attention to the meal.
"Refugees pour into our homeland, seeking protection," Jal explained. "They tell us that warlords and self-appointed kings still rule their respective domains." Holding a stalk of fried karna in one hand like a wand, the man paused to tear off a strip of its tender flesh.
Jal might be an aide to a king's descendant, but his manners were crude, Taj thought. Food was precious to the Siennans. Over time, its preparation had become an art. Along with the women who had prepared the meal, Taj watched with vaguely appalled fascination as Jal and his kind consumed it.
"On those worlds, barbarism and cruelty take many forms," the foreign warrior continued, munching soberly. "Sexual slavery and reproductive control are widespread. And in some places ..."
As Jal described in sickening detail the outcome of massive antimatter weaponry detonations, Taj watched the emotions that played across Romjha's face. The raider commander had cleaned himself up, shaved, and exchanged his commando gear for typical, simple indoor attire in dark smoky gray. His hair was combed back from his face and gathered neatly at his neck in a snug band. Golden highlights in his hair glinted in the flickering light.
All of Taj's other senses had grown more acute since she'd damaged her hearing, smell most of all. She could pick out the scent of Romjha's warm skin from the others: clean male sweat mixed with a hint of something tartly sweet, reminding her of the small, hard red fruit her people produced in their cavern groweries, the extract of which she often used in her cleansers. One of the other women must have begun adding the ingredient to the community soaps.
Bachelors relied on the generosity of other men's wives for toiletries and food-and on widows and unattached women for more private needs. Secretly, Taj hoped that whoever had given him soap hadn't donated more. Romjha certainly fielded his share of female attention, but Taj had never actually seen him with anyone. Yet who knew what company he sought out deep in the night when no one wanted to be alone?
Her mood darkened, and she gathered her foul temper around her like a familiar, well-worn protective cloak. Seated between Aleq and Patra-a community elder-she ate quickly, refilled her bowl, kept her head low, and ate some more. She'd lost her appetite since returning from topside, had lost it for most of the day, but now had found it again. She was glad. The cooks had taken special care with tonight's preparation, and the karna was excellent.
Taj wondered what the outsiders thought of it. Karna was her people's staple food, a meat substitute made from a bland protein-rich bean that adopted any flavor added to it. Tonight the slices in her stew tasted of the aromatic, spiced broth.
Jal mopped up the last of his gravy with a piece of flatbread and pushed the soggy morsel into his mouth with three fingers. "Our battle to save our world was long and it cost us much. I believe it was the knowledge that we preserved the last of the monarchy that gave us the heart to rise up against the warlord when he invaded, and the stamina to persevere when we expelled the beast from our homeland."
Grumbles of admiration and hushed applause met Jal's statement. Romjha pushed away his empty bowl and rested his back against his chair, his fingers laced together over his stomach, one thumb stroking the other. They were the scarred, sinewy hands of a veteran fighter. But those same long, blunt-tipped fingers had loved a woman once-trailed over naked skin, sifted through long hair, caressed the most private places. . . .
Taj forced her gaze to her stew.
"I am a soldier from a small, out-of-the-way world," Romjha said at last. "I have seen nothing of the lands beyond Sienna. I have no technological skills, nor the polish of an extensive education. But I have read books. I have read many books. From them I have learned what the galaxy was like before."
Taj's heart skipped a beat. Romjha meant her father's books: Tomes on government, religion, science, and philosophy. They'd formed the basis for Romjha's ideas-she saw that now. She should have burned them while she had the chance!
"But now," Romjha told Jal and his men, "the galaxy is a dark and dangerous place. You say that disease, famine, and terror are rampant across the remains of the Empire. Worlds live in fear of weapons of mass destruction, created and perfected by those without conscience by those who embrace cruelty and worship soulless power. In some places slavery exists-even thrives. And sexual slavery, as well, you say." His expression darkened further. "Despicable. Civilization has surely reached an all-time low when such barbarism is tolerated. And toward women! From a woman's body comes life. Because of this, she must be protected, respected, worshipped .. . loved. I humbly believe that is what the Great Mother expects of us, has always expected of us. She is a female deity-overseeing the mortal world and that of the Ever After. From Her womb sprang the original civilization that spawned all humankind!"
Romjha's golden gaze swept over those seated at the table only to hesitate on Taj, sparking with something she couldn't define yet that made her heart flutter. For once she didn't narrow her eyes in challenge of his chivalrous views. His desire to protect her, to keep her safe, had taken on an entirely new significance.
She'd often seen it as a need to control, or perhaps a lack of confidence in her abilities. But it wasn't that at all.
Taj thought he had lost his faith, but in fact he'd merely redirected it. Looking out for her was how he expressed his spirituality. The realization left her heart pounding.
But it didn't mean she was going to give up demolitions for kneading flatbread by the cooking stones, either.
Jal listened to Romjha, his hands curved around his drinking glass. Like Cheya, he'd seen his share of carnage; it took only one look in his world-weary eyes to tell that he agreed that women weren't meant for the battlefield. But Taj suspected Jal's reasoning was different from Romjha's: more of a basic instinct to protect those who were weaker than Romjha's worshipful view.
Romjha finished. "You have driven out those who practice such cruelties, Jal. For that, I admire you. I admire your people. But the peace on your world is a temporary one. To believe otherwise is a fool's fantasy. There are countless warlords and rogue kings. For every one you defeat, another will take his place."
"It's why keeping a low profile makes sense," Taj murmured to Elder Patra, loud enough for Romjha to hear. "Hide by day. Raid by night."
Romjha flashed her an unreadable look as Jal spread his hands and asked, "What would you have us do, commander? Lie down and let them roll over us? No! We will fight. To do otherwise is to lose hope, and to lose hope is to die. That is Cheya's creed. I will follow it to the grave." Jal slammed one bruised, scabbed-over fist onto the table. "This I vow!"
Taj's glass of root ale-a rare treat-splashed onto the table's stone surface. She watched the droplets quiver, mirroring the sensation in her belly as the two warriors resumed their argument.
"To the grave you will indeed go if you wish to restore the monarchy," Romjha said.
"We wish to restore stability."
"By installing Cheya as king! King Vedla saw to his own selfish interests even as the galaxy crumbled around him. Do you seek to repeat what history has already proved does not work?"
Taj perked up. Tell him yes, outsider, she thought. Yes! Then Romjha will want nothing to do with the monarchy or you.
Jal exhaled. "No."
Taj's shoulders drooped.
"We want to make a better future, Romjha. Better than it was before."
"Better? Better will happen only with strong leadership, sacrifice, and a willingness to change. We must build on what came before, make it different. The monarchy and its parliament stopped functioning properly generations before it fell. That path mustn't be retrod."
Taj took a long swallow of ale for courage. "The monarchy may have been corrupt, but it was unifying," she called out. "People believed in it. Who'll rule in your galaxy, Romjha? Will the Vash keep the peace?"
She'd meant it as a taunt, goading him with the ancient name of the mythical guardians of the advanced civilization of Those Who Came Before. Dreaded they were said to have been, warriors who approached combat with the strength of their religious devotion. But Romjha reacted with genuine excitement, as if Taj had somehow inspired him.
He leaned forward, his hands spread flat on the great table. His eyes flashed. "Those who pray and bleed to secure the peace will be more inclined to strive to keep it. A ruling council-a Nadah." he said, using another word from the ancient language, "comprised of warrior-leaders whose strength stems from the physical as well as the spiritual. Pious, honorable soldiers. Yes. A Vash Nadah. Brilliant, Taj."
She choked on her ale. Blast it, she'd been trying to discourage him, not arm him with more ideas that would send him off to fight for the galaxy. Elder Patra patted her on the back until she stopped coughing, and Aleq stared at her, eyes wide, as if he'd never seen her before. Ten-to-one odds her face had appeared the same way when Romjha confessed he would have destroyed the skyport, too.
Taj hunched her shoulders, sinking lower in her chair. "For the record, Aleq, I tried to talk him out of this." It was insanity, too great of a risk-all of it, and she wanted no credit.
"We will have to seize as many comm systems as we can," Romjha explained. "Your world and others with technology can help us repair the rest or make more. We will contact people like us all over the galaxy. We will spread the word of freedom. We will encourage them to rise up and take arms against their aggressors."
Jal rubbed his chin. "I will see that Cheya listens to your ideas, Romjha. Though he may not care for all of them."
"No, I may not," rasped the prince.
Taj's hand spasmed. Her spoon splashed into her stew. No one noticed. All heads swung to Cheya.
By the heavens-how long had be been awake? How much had he heard? Enough to perceive Romjha and her people as a threat, she was certain. They may have gotten rid of the local warlord, but there was no guarantee that these strangers and the forces behind them wouldn't turn out to be worse.
Weakly Cheya propped himself up on one elbow, regarding Romjha with coolly discerning bronze-gray eyes. "But your concerns cannot be ignored. Neither, apparently, can you, Romjha B'kah."
The two men sized each other up with a wary, incisive scrutiny that Taj could almost feel. A prince and an idealistic backplanet warrior. Or was Romjha just seen as a troublemaker?
He ventured boldly, "Kings come and go, Cheya, but the Great Mother is the overseer of us all. She is what gave your ancestors power long ago, and it is She who took it away. It is as Her servants that we must fight."
Troublemaker, Taj decided.
"The warlords are fragmented," Cheya remarked. "They war amongst themselves."
"They can thrive only in chaos," Jal agreed.
Cheya's pain-filled eyes burned with passion. "Without chaos, they will be powerless. By restoring stability to each world we liberate, we can weaken the holds of the others."
Aleq shot to his feet. Full of youthful bluster, he raised his glass of ale. "We'll yank the bastards up by the roots one by one!"
Laughter and spontaneous applause broke out.
By now, Taj's temper had risen to a boil. "The warlords and their soldiers outnumber us by hundreds of thousands. Maybe millions! They'll see what we're doing, they'll unite and try to exterminate us like they did in the past!"
"They failed," Romjha reminded her.
Elder Patra spoke up, her quavering voice reflecting her eighty-something years. "Are we willing to take the risk that they'll fail a second time?"
Romjha spread his hands on the table and stared broodingly around the room. "We will win where we failed before because we will fight back as one. Not one community, or one world, but all peace-minded people near and far. And when we are done, when there is peace, the responsibility of safeguarding our future must not be placed back in the hands of a single family."
The ensuing silence roared in Taj's ears.
Romjha met Cheya's forceful gaze unflinchingly. "If we are to stand a chance at securing peace for all time, the power must be distributed in such a way that it cannot be exploited or neglected."
"Your Vash Nadah." The Vedla heir let his head fall back on the pillow. "An army of zealots. I don't know if I like it."
"Not fanatics," Romjha insisted. "Virtuous, faithful, accountable men. Society has been destroyed. If we do not shore up the foundation as we fight, it will crumble again. All will be lost."
"We'd fight a war to end war," Jal murmured.
"Yes. To win peace." Romjha's gaze smoldered with something close to obsession. "Peace for all time."
The murmurs in the audience grew louder. Taj squeezed her eyes shut. Not only had Romjha shifted the emphasis from war to peace, he'd presented himself along with Cheya and Jal as one of the leaders of the coming revolution.
Cheya held out his hand. Romjha left the table and crouched by the fallen prince. They clasped their arms at the wrist in the ancient traditional warrior's handshake, their faces aglow with dreams of victory. Jal got up and joined them. Then Aleq placed his hands over theirs. Aleq? He'd never aspired to anything grandiose before, let alone galactic peace.
"It is what the prophecy says," Jal declared. "Eight warriors will join together, men who burn with the desire to fight. And those men will win."
What prophecy? And what did he mean by eight warriors? Taj saw four men. Four fools. The rest must be off-planet. All of them eager to follow each other to their deaths.
"Men," she huffed. Standing, she pushed her chair away from the table. "The more passion you take to war, the more body bags you make. And who will deal with the aftermath, eh?" Her chest squeezed tight. "The women," she whispered, meeting Romjha's eyes. "The very ones you claim to want to protect. The ones you should be focusing on instead of fighting."
A muscle jumped in his jaw. She'd struck him where he was most vulnerable-reminding him of the loss of his wife and child, and that he hadn't been able to save them. The shame of letting fly that remark stung. But anger boiled inside her, making an apology impossible.
Taj pressed her fists to her stomach, as if that could somehow keep her from letting go of the last shreds of her composure. Her people hadn't given her the job of munitions officer to see her fall apart over a man with a death wish-even if his ideas would likely bring death and destruction to her homeland; even if he was the man she'd admired for more years than she could remember. She was a soldier; she'd take life's blows like one.
"Excuse me. I must go." Spine stiff, she offered all the people at the table a calm, respectful nod.
Romjha stood, his stare pure fire, searing through the wall she'd erected in self-defense. Desperately, she tried to keep her private thoughts from him. She turned and fled.
Only after she was out of the Big Room and sight did she double over, hugging her arms to her ribs as if she'd received a direct hit to the abdomen. "Blast you, Romjha B'kah!"
She staggered to her bedroom, near the lab in the silent, rearmost area of the caverns. Her insides felt shredded, as if someone was thrashing open her heart. She fell near her altar to pray, as she'd done every morning and every evening for as long as she could remember. Her knees settled snugly into the well-worn hollows of a floor cushion. With a shaking hand, she lit candles under a half-dozen shallow bowls holding fragrant oils. The scents were said to please the Great Mother.
To be on the safe side, Taj gathered extra bowls of oil and lit candles under each. She'd need the Great Mother to be in a receptive mood. Then, eyes closed, Taj bent her head and prayed.
"May Romjha's death be painless and quick."