The Only One

me."
    "Worry? Pah! I've already prayed for your death to be painless and quick." Taj sauntered to her bed.
    Perched on the edge of the mattress, she threw her folded arms over her chest. It was the closest to petulance he'd ever seen her. "If it comes to pass, you can thank the Great Mother."
    "And you, too. Thanks."
    Her eyes were molten gold. Unrepentant. "How dare you make me pray for such a thing, Romjha B'kah!
    And for who else will I have to pray for a quick death? Who else heads off with you to war? Aleq? Petro?"
    "Petro will take my place here."
    "Oh, sure. Leave him to handle the consequences of what was done to the skyport."
    "I wouldn't leave this place unprotected and vulnerable." Hell! Did she think he would? It was clear she had little idea how deep was his desire to protect her. "Cheya will bring forces to run patrol in this area while I'm gone. They'll keep Sienna safe."
    She mumbled something that he couldn't make out, but he suspected it was negative.
    He cast his attention around her bedroom, searching for inspiration to reassure her, to lay claim to her heart, to prove to her he'd return. He had to know she was here, waiting for him and no other, until he did.
    Otherwise this would all be for nothing. Couldn't she see he was doing this for her as well as everyone else?
    He would return for her—not in the Ever After, but in this world, this life. She would be his reward, his future, his life—just as he'd always hoped.
    His attention shifted to her altar. He'd glimpsed Taj's quarters from the tunnel passageway from time to time but had never set foot in it. Her private domain's decor was minimal, the room unadorned, forthright and beautiful, like her. Candles burned low here, smelling of the oils she'd burned for prayers to the Great Mother.
    To grant him an easy death.
    Romjha sat heavily on the bed next to Taj. The men were waiting, but he would not go with them until he made things right with Taj.
    Her lips were fuller, rosy from their kissing. A small pink smudge indicated where his shaven beard had abraded her chin. Not a gentle embrace, that, he thought, his loins stirring.
    "Are you so sure I will die?"
    She squeezed her eyes shut, opened them. Her pupils blurred behind a film of tears. In the next instant the moisture was gone, blinked away. It hit him that he hadn't seen her cry since Joren's funeral. "I don't know," she said. She sounded depleted, physically, emotionally. He was nearly there himself. They'd barely slept in two days. They'd spent most of the night engaged in vigorous lovemaking. Now he had to leave her, his remaining relatives, and the only home he'd ever known.
    "I'm coming back, Taj. I will return for you." He knew it with a certainty he felt in his soul. "And when I do, I'll at last be able to give you the life that I cannot now. The life you deserve. A life of peace. Peace, Taj.
    We'll have a family, you and I—"
    She pressed her fingertips to his lips, her expression forlorn, as if she wanted so badly what he described that she couldn't bear to listen.
    He took her hand and pressed it to his chest, to his heart. "Our offspring will have a chance to grow old.
    We'll live topside—in the high plains, perhaps, where it will be cool enough to sit outside in the evenings.
    We'll listen to our children laugh and play while we watch the suns set."
    Her eyes shimmered in the dim light.
    "I will win that life for us, Taj." He gripped her hand. "I swear it."
    A strangled sob exploded from her, and she yanked away her hand. Outrage contorted her features so quickly that words eluded him.
    "Martyrdom is the choice of fools and fanatics," she hissed.
    "Not if an individual's sacrifice is made for the good of the many."
    "Pah! Don't delude yourself with inspirational proverbs, Romjha. There's nothing inspirational about dying.
    Ask Pasha. Ask my father. Ask your dead wife!"
    His stomach muscles tightened. "Inaction is cowardice. We've spoken about that before, you and I, many times. Evil triumphs only when good men do nothing."
    "Proverbs," she spat.
    "No. Your words inspired me. Long ago. Remember?"
    She watched him with dawning horror.
    " 'Destiny is not a matter of chance,' " he recited. " 'It's a matter of choice.' If not for your influence the night Pasha died, I might have squandered the chance I had to change our path. To change the future."
    She turned her head. "Don't make it more than it was. I just didn't want any more accidents. Preventable accidents. That was