"Try billions," Medart said. "We were never able to determine accurate casualty figures, but the best estimate for both sides, military and civilian, is between eight and ten billion, mostly Traiti. And we came entirely too damn close to genocide before Steve was able to end the war."
"But he did," Chavvorth said calmly, "and we took our proper place in your Empire as we did here." His expression became taut. "Have you encountered the Sandemans?"
"Yes, sixteen years before the Traiti War. A century and a quarter ago." Medart frowned, scanned the Bridge crew. That was what he'd thought strange earlier—there were none of the small, dark-skinned blonds who were such a significant part of Alpha Prime's military. That, the phrasing of Chavvorth's question, and a major threat to this Empire came together in a conclusion as frightening as it was suddenly obvious. Medart allowed himself a quiet, intense, and uncharacteristic oath. "Holy Creator and all the gods! You just met them!"
"Yes," Ariel said, her fatigue seeming to vanish in eagerness. "You were able to defeat them?"
"We could've, but it wasn't necessary," Medart said. "I was able to use persuasion instead—along with five battle fleets to show them the alternative to peace. They'd managed to take over almost half of Sector Five by then, but they accepted annexation as a Subsector, and they've been loyal citizens ever since."
"You missed a Sandeman war," Ariel said thoughtfully, "and we missed a Traiti war. Steve Tarlac avoided or ended the Traiti war in both, and my spell summons the one who avoided the Sandeman war in his. I think that for the first time in three years, I can dare to hope."
Captain Chavvorth turned to her. "I also, Ranger. But with respect, I suggest you go rest. While you are doing that, I can begin teaching Ranger Medart to use his mage-power."
"He is a magician, then!" Ariel exclaimed in relief. "My spell said he should be, but when he denied it— How powerful?"
"The strongest I have ever felt, sir." The Traiti smiled at Medart, gestured as he murmured something, and was holding a candle. "You have had no instruction, but your raw power should be adequate to light this if you concentrate."
The equivalent, Medart thought, of someone with PK Talent exciting the molecules of the wick to ignition temperature. He'd never shown any trace of that aspect—his only Talents, besides the basic mind-screen and telepathy, were healing and darlas—but this was supposed to be magic, not psionics; he had no reason not to try. He focused his attention on the candle, following an impulse to point at it as he willed it to light.