His thoughts must have shown on his face, or in his eyes. Narla clung to him—grey eyes tear-filled, lips aquiver. "No, Craig! No!"
He held her to him for a moment.
Hoarse shouts. Djevoda screaming. Rippling eddies, grey and obscene, amid the green-gold of the grasslands.
"Give them up, Baemae! Give them up or die!"
Craig said, "It doesn't matter, Narla. Not really. I've fought and I've lost, and a man has to play the cards fate deals him. But there's no reason for the others, the Baemae, to die with me. Not if there's even the slimmest chance for them to live if I surrender. As for you, your father wants you back, that's all. He'll never harm you."
She was still sobbing as he lifted her onto the saucer....
CHAPTER VIII
The Central Tower of Torneulan, the Tower of Zenaor. Hard-faced guards. Echoing passageways. The bleak metal and leather of Zenaor's private chambers.
And Zenaor.