She flushed a little at the thought. Not given to false modesty, Dylara knew she was very beautiful. But beauty, it seemed, could be more curse than blessing. It was that beauty which had led Tharn to take her by force from her own people; that beauty which had brought Jotan to her feet and caused him to take her with him on his return to Ammad. And now it appeared this handsome young cave warrior had been drawn into a lifetime of slavery by a single glimpse of her!
Yet she was woman enough to feel a little glow of pride at this tribute to her loveliness. He was young and very attractive—in many ways like Tharn, although his physical development was far short of the latter's.
The thought of Tharn brought an image of his mighty steel-thewed body and god-like face before her mind's eye. Where was he this night? Were his bones dotting the sandy surface of Sephar's arena while Nada, his mother, mourned? Or had he won through against hopeless odds and escaped to return to the caves of his people. She did not know, of course; perhaps she would never know....
Trakor rolled over to face her.
For a long moment the man and the woman stared deep into each other's eyes. Then the youth's lips parted in a slow smile, his strong regular teeth gleaming in the distant light of the fires.
"I am Trakor," he whispered. "You are Dylara!"
Open astonishment showed on her face. "How could you know that?"
She had spoken in her natural voice and alarm flickered in Trakor's eyes as they shifted to look about the silent camp. "Shhh!" he hissed. "Keep your voice down, else they hear and separate us."
Obeying, she said, "But how do you know my name?"
"Tharn told me."