"No. I have done all that tradition allows." "Then his fate--and ours--is in the hands of the Lords." Tarlac gave up his pretense of reading and looked at them. "Then let's just hope they know what they're doing. I didn't mean to eavesdrop, but it was a little hard to avoid." "Understood," Yarra said. "Ruesten, I did not mean that I lack confidence in you--but I am concerned." Tarlac shrugged. "And I'm as scared--okay, as terrified--as I can be without throwing a screaming fit. It doesn't matter. I'm not about to quit now." He hesitated, then yielded to impulse. Rising and going to her, he put his arms around her and rested his head on her shoulder. "Ka'ruchaya, I won't be the one to dishonor Ch'kara. I can't! I . . . I love you all, too much to do that." Yarra's arms enfolded him, feeling him as vulnerable as any newborn. "We know, ruesten," she said. "We know. You have brought honor to the clan, and you will bring more. Rest now, Steve." After composing the message he hoped Hovan would never have to read, Tarlac found that the rest of the day went . . . smoothly. That was the only word he could think of. The admission of fear and love he'd made to Yarra and Hovan wasn't something he could have done in the Empire, and it left him feeling cleansed and strangely at ease. He rather suspected it was because he'd finally managed to take Hovan's advice--"Yourself be, not another's image"--at last. With no responsibilities until the next morning, on what was very possibly his last day of life, Tarlac found himself at a loss. He hadn't had nothing to do for fifteen years. He wandered around the clanhome, helping with assorted domestic chores. He played with the younglings in the nursery, he helped load dishes into the cleaning units, he emptied dust traps--and when he wasn't occupied, he welcomed simply being with the n'ruhar who wanted to ask him about the Empire and his experiences in the wilderness. Chapter VIII There was unspoken but very real tension in the clan the next morning, and to Tarlac, time seemed to creep and fly simultaneously. He was chilly, wearing only the traditional scarlet trousers and quilted house boots--and weaponless; this was the only time a fighter had to go unarmed--but he wasn't sure his chill was entirely due to the temperature. First-meal didn't help, either. Instead of the eggs and dornya meat he'd planned on, he couldn't face more than a mug of chovas. He was rediscovering, as he had several times during his career, that fear wasn't an appetite stimulant.