He stretched out his arms, caught her warm and soft against him, bent his mouth—
"Charming," sneered a cold voice. "Of the kovokodans, this I would have expected, but you two are from a higher race—"
He stood in the center of the room, tall and lean; his height and spareness emphasized by the black cloak he pulled about him as though against the cold. His thin lips sneered. The narrow brows above black eyes were upraised to form two living insults.
Nuala whimpered. She thrust a hand to her mouth. "Rudra!"
The dark man moved forward. Now Travis could see a circlet of tiny stars, revolving and shimmering, coruscating light, that swung like a fallen halo about his head. As the man went, so went the ever-turning stars.
"You know me? But you must, to be so familiar with my sciences. I do not know ... you. Or do I?"
The black eyes touched Travis, slid away. Travis growled low in his throat at the blank dismissal of those eyes. He was less than a slug, not given as much courtesy as a canal-minnow. Nuala was shrinking back against his chest as the eyes drove into her.
Rudra whispered, "But—you! You are familiar. Something from out of the past ... the dead past ... centuries ... eons ... ages ago. A woman—a queen—Nuatha of the Yellow Hair. Queen of the Nekkalad!"
"I am Nuala. Her daughter."