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He was reassured by Hovan's smile as he returned the dagger to his sponsor, then resumed his shirt and belt. He turned apprehensively to Valkan. How would this Traiti react? If he was one of those who opposed the adoption . . . He almost flinched when a clawed hand touched his shoulder, and the other clasped his right wrist.
There was no doubt in Tarlac's mind that if he made it through the Ordeal to end the war, it would be Hovan's doing as much as his own. Hovan's teaching, his quiet support, and most of all his caring, were what would bring the Ranger through his Ordeal if it were humanly possible. He'd have to see that Hovan got the credit he deserved.
The admission of fear and love he'd made to Yarra and Hovan wasn't something he could have done in the Empire, and it left him feeling cleansed and strangely at ease. He rather suspected it was because he'd finally managed to take Hovan's advice "Yourself be, not another's image" at last.
When we to Homeworld retreat, we no other place to go will have. All will fighters be, except the very youngest. It happened so, in the clan wars nearly four thousand years ago." Hovan's calm words meant the Empire was in the process of exterminating an entire intelligent race, a crime more monstrous than any recorded in the history of all three Imperial races combined.
Things were getting blurry and disconnected, and never improved. He did remember singing, probably off-key, and later hanging onto Hovan's arm for support. Hovan felt a tug on his sleeve and looked down to see a silly grin on Steve's upturned face.
The first one Hovan introduced was Sandre, mother of the twins and the only open-shirted female Tarlac had seen. She had Honor scars identical to Hovan's, which surprised Tarlac for a moment since he knew she couldn't have taken the Ordeal. He decided and later learned he was correct that they must be because she'd borne the twins.
Despite Hovan's attempts to explain, Tarlac didn't quite understand how some of what the Traiti had accomplished could be done on such a seemingly casual basis, and he could only suppose they would find the human bureaucracy equally puzzling. The two civilizations were most similar, ironically enough, in the structure of their military forces.
"My parents, of course, and family get-togethers every couple of years. We weren't really close; the family was too big for that. Uncle Martin and Aunt Gisele alone had ten kids." Tarlac shook his head, grinning. "What a mob!" "Kids?" It seemed Hovan's vocabulary had a blank spot; Tarlac tried again. "Children. Younglings." "Ten . . . younglings?"
Tarlac tried to sit up, refusing Hovan's assistance, noticing only then that he'd been undressed and was on a sleeping mat laid atop a platform instead of on the floor. He made it upright, but the effort brought on a wave of dizzy sickness, and standing up didn't work. His knees buckled, forcing Hovan to catch him and sit him back on the bed. "You should in bed remain," Hovan told him, concerned.
It operated cafeteria-style; Tarlac, unfamiliar with any of the food, copied Hovan's choices, and ended up with more than he could possibly eat. The portions, from salad to stew and a beverage that looked like milk, were sized to fuel a body mass more than three times his. Still, the food was good, if unfamiliar, and he surprised himself by finishing almost half.
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