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troublemaker?
He ventured boldly, "Kings come and go, Cheya, but the Great Mother is the overseer of us all. She is what gave your ancestors power long ago, and it is She who took it away. It is as Her servants that we must fight."
Troublemaker, Taj decided.
"The warlords are fragmented," Cheya remarked. "They war amongst themselves."
"They can thrive only in chaos," Jal agreed.
Cheya's pain-filled eyes burned with passion. "Without chaos, they will be powerless. By restoring stability to each world we liberate, we can weaken the holds of the others."
Aleq shot to his feet. Full of youthful bluster, he raised his glass of ale. "We'll yank the bastards up by the roots one by one!"
Laughter and spontaneous applause broke out.
By now, Taj's temper had risen to a boil. "The warlords and their soldiers outnumber us by hundreds of thousands. Maybe millions! They'll see what we're doing, they'll unite and try to exterminate us like they did in the past!"
"They failed," Romjha reminded her.
Elder Patra spoke up, her quavering voice reflecting her eighty-something years. "Are we willing to take the risk that they'll fail a second time?"
Romjha spread his hands on the table and stared broodingly around the room. "We will win where we failed before because we will fight back as one. Not one community, or one world, but all peace-minded people near and far. And when we are done, when there is peace, the responsibility of safeguarding our future must not be placed back in the hands of a single family."
The ensuing silence roared in Taj's ears.
Romjha met Cheya's forceful gaze unflinchingly. "If we are to stand a chance at securing peace for all time, the power must be distributed in such a way that it cannot be exploited or neglected."
"Your Vash Nadah." The Vedla heir let his head fall back on the pillow. "An army of zealots. I don't know if I like it."
"Not fanatics," Romjha insisted. "Virtuous, faithful, accountable men. Society has been destroyed. If we do not shore up the foundation as we fight, it will crumble again. All will be lost."
"We'd fight a war to end war," Jal murmured.
"Yes. To win peace." Romjha's gaze smoldered with something close to obsession. "Peace for all time."
The murmurs in the audience grew louder. Taj squeezed her eyes shut. Not only had Romjha shifted the emphasis from war to peace, he'd presented himself along with Cheya and Jal as one of the leaders of the coming revolution.
Cheya held out his hand. Romjha left the table and crouched by the fallen prince. They clasped their arms at the wrist in the ancient traditional warrior's handshake, their faces aglow with dreams of victory. Jal got up and joined them. Then Aleq placed his hands over theirs. Aleq? He'd never aspired to anything grandiose before, let alone galactic peace.
"It is what the prophecy says," Jal declared. "Eight warriors will join together, men who burn with the desire to fight. And those men will win."
What prophecy? And what did he mean by eight warriors? Taj saw four men. Four fools. The rest must be off-planet. All of them eager to follow each other to their deaths.
"Men," she huffed. Standing, she pushed her chair away from the table. "The more passion you take to war, the more body bags you make. And who will deal with the aftermath, eh?" Her chest squeezed tight. "The women," she whispered, meeting Romjha's eyes. "The very ones you claim to want to protect. The ones you should be focusing on instead of fighting."
A muscle jumped in his jaw. She'd struck him where he was most vulnerable—reminding him of the loss of his wife and child, and that he hadn't been able to save them. The shame of letting fly that remark stung.
But anger boiled inside her, making an apology impossible.
Taj pressed her fists to her stomach, as if that could somehow keep her from letting go of the last shreds of her composure. Her people hadn't given her the job of munitions officer to see her fall apart over a man with a death
He ventured boldly, "Kings come and go, Cheya, but the Great Mother is the overseer of us all. She is what gave your ancestors power long ago, and it is She who took it away. It is as Her servants that we must fight."
Troublemaker, Taj decided.
"The warlords are fragmented," Cheya remarked. "They war amongst themselves."
"They can thrive only in chaos," Jal agreed.
Cheya's pain-filled eyes burned with passion. "Without chaos, they will be powerless. By restoring stability to each world we liberate, we can weaken the holds of the others."
Aleq shot to his feet. Full of youthful bluster, he raised his glass of ale. "We'll yank the bastards up by the roots one by one!"
Laughter and spontaneous applause broke out.
By now, Taj's temper had risen to a boil. "The warlords and their soldiers outnumber us by hundreds of thousands. Maybe millions! They'll see what we're doing, they'll unite and try to exterminate us like they did in the past!"
"They failed," Romjha reminded her.
Elder Patra spoke up, her quavering voice reflecting her eighty-something years. "Are we willing to take the risk that they'll fail a second time?"
Romjha spread his hands on the table and stared broodingly around the room. "We will win where we failed before because we will fight back as one. Not one community, or one world, but all peace-minded people near and far. And when we are done, when there is peace, the responsibility of safeguarding our future must not be placed back in the hands of a single family."
The ensuing silence roared in Taj's ears.
Romjha met Cheya's forceful gaze unflinchingly. "If we are to stand a chance at securing peace for all time, the power must be distributed in such a way that it cannot be exploited or neglected."
"Your Vash Nadah." The Vedla heir let his head fall back on the pillow. "An army of zealots. I don't know if I like it."
"Not fanatics," Romjha insisted. "Virtuous, faithful, accountable men. Society has been destroyed. If we do not shore up the foundation as we fight, it will crumble again. All will be lost."
"We'd fight a war to end war," Jal murmured.
"Yes. To win peace." Romjha's gaze smoldered with something close to obsession. "Peace for all time."
The murmurs in the audience grew louder. Taj squeezed her eyes shut. Not only had Romjha shifted the emphasis from war to peace, he'd presented himself along with Cheya and Jal as one of the leaders of the coming revolution.
Cheya held out his hand. Romjha left the table and crouched by the fallen prince. They clasped their arms at the wrist in the ancient traditional warrior's handshake, their faces aglow with dreams of victory. Jal got up and joined them. Then Aleq placed his hands over theirs. Aleq? He'd never aspired to anything grandiose before, let alone galactic peace.
"It is what the prophecy says," Jal declared. "Eight warriors will join together, men who burn with the desire to fight. And those men will win."
What prophecy? And what did he mean by eight warriors? Taj saw four men. Four fools. The rest must be off-planet. All of them eager to follow each other to their deaths.
"Men," she huffed. Standing, she pushed her chair away from the table. "The more passion you take to war, the more body bags you make. And who will deal with the aftermath, eh?" Her chest squeezed tight. "The women," she whispered, meeting Romjha's eyes. "The very ones you claim to want to protect. The ones you should be focusing on instead of fighting."
A muscle jumped in his jaw. She'd struck him where he was most vulnerable—reminding him of the loss of his wife and child, and that he hadn't been able to save them. The shame of letting fly that remark stung.
But anger boiled inside her, making an apology impossible.
Taj pressed her fists to her stomach, as if that could somehow keep her from letting go of the last shreds of her composure. Her people hadn't given her the job of munitions officer to see her fall apart over a man with a death
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