Hovan was impressed himself. He had expected Steve to lose, if only after giving a creditable account of himself. That he had managed a win at all was barely believable; that it had happened so decisively would make this match well-remembered. And Hovan was less worried about Steve's chances in the Ordeal. Steve must truly be guided by the Lords.
Tarlac returned Valkan's wrist-clasp and replied in one of the Language phrases he'd learned. "You do me honor," he said, and Valkan had: adoptions were unusual, perhaps five to eight in a year for an average-sized clan like the fifteen-thousand-member one he now belonged to.
"But tell them all," Tarlac went on to Hovan in English, "I don't think I'd care to try it again. It's a stunt that worked once. I'm sure it'd never work a second time, and I'm not crazy enough to try it when they know what to expect."
That, when Hovan translated, drew a roar of approval. These were fighters, stark realists all, who could understand and appreciate an honest evaluation of chances. Tarlac's statement, after he'd just finished a knife match unscathed and victorious, was taken as just such an evaluation.
Those who'd bet on him had very good reason to be appreciative; they'd gotten excellent odds, and some would gain clan status for their daring in backing such an underdog. The losers were even more impressed by the human's victory. Even those spectators who still thought most humans incapable of honor were making an exception for Steve Tarlac. In a sense, after all, he couldn't really be called human any more. He'd been adopted by Clan Ch'kara and had proven himself in the matches, which was evidence enough that he was Traiti in spirit, if not in body.
Once he understood it, Tarlac appreciated the sentiment, but he didn't share it. That evening, when he and Hovan were temporarily alone in the sleep-room, he admitted as much. "Hovan, I'm doing the best I can, but I'm not a Traiti. I'm human, and after that fight, I don't know if my best is going to be good enough."
Hovan studied his human ruhar for several minutes without saying anything. He had mingled blood with this man, and though the exchange had been more symbolic that substantial, he felt oddly close to him, closer than to any but the n'ka'ruhar he had shared young with. Steve's sudden self-doubt disturbed him, given what he'd learned about the man. And an attitude of expected defeat was nothing to take into a trial as strenuous and demanding as the Ordeal. But what could he say to help? There was no denying the danger Steve faced, and trying to minimize it would be doing the man a disservice.
There was little he could say, and less he could do, to raise the man's spirits. He would be lending Steve the same kind of emotional support he had received from his own Ordeal sponsor, whenever and wherever tradition allowed it. For now, that was terribly limited, yet he would do what he could. He moved to sit close to the human, not touching him in this out-clan place, and spoke softly. "Ruhar"—the intonation meant "brother/friend"—"there no dishonor in fear, or in failure of the Ordeal, is. And I certain am that you will not fail. You Ch'kara have, whatever in this happens."
Tarlac felt his tension ease momentarily at that assurance, borrowing comfort from Hovan's nearness. It wasn't fear for himself, as much as fear for the Empire and Traiti alike, that held him. Only stubbornnness kept him from succumbing to the awful vision of a dead Homeworld, of Imperial genocide. It made him want to retreat to childhood, to find solace in his sponsor's strength as he had once found it in his father's.
He couldn't. He couldn't share what he knew, that if he died in failure the Traiti race would not long survive him.