"I'm sorry, Tarrano."
As though mirrored from her own expression, a wistful look had come to him. Her words drove it away.
"Sorry? There is nothing to be sorry about. Their attack will come to nothing ... yet—" He stopped short, and then as though deciding to say what he had begun, he added:
"Yet, Lady Elza, I am no fool to discard possibilities. I may be defeated." He laughed harshly. "To what depths has Tarrano fallen that he can voice such a possibility!"
He leaned toward her and into his tone came a greater earnestness than she ever heard in it before.
"Lady Elza, if they should be successful, they would not capture me—for I would die fighting. You understand that, don't you?"
She met his eyes; the gleam in them held her. Forgetful of herself, she had allowed the fur to drop from her: she sat bolt upright, the dim red light tinting the scarf that lay like gossamer around her white shoulders. His hand came out and touched her arm, slipped up to her shoulder and rested there, but she did not feel it.
"I will die fighting," he repeated. "You understand that?"
"Yes," she breathed.
"And you would be sorry?"