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By Ann Maxwell

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Then Kaffi’s man touched her sleeve lightly and his deep blue eyes stared past the standing animals where Tokor had gone. Lhar tightened inside; what had Birol seen that was important enough to interrupt the conversation of two mirans? Lhar’s eyes made a rapid search but could see only Syza and the drifsen working the herd animals. The drifs were skittish at the smell of the three strange taman. The herd seethed and spat occasional frightened drifs, but each breaking drif immediately met either Syza or leaping, fanged drifsen.

Not Zomal the Wise. Never. You and the Contact team and a planet—an entire planet seething with life—all would die with him. “He blew the contact deliberately. He knew that Bjmsk was at a crucial stage, that his revelations would detonate a shockwave of panic and destruction across the planet. “But somehow you stopped him. Cleanly, quietly, tracelessly. I don’t know how you even knew he had to be stopped. You’re strong, Syza, incredibly strong. You did what had to be done. Then you ran. ” Lhar stopped suddenly, aware that Syza was no longer whispering denials.

A flintknife appeared in his hand, curved and deadly. Three quick slashes and all harness fell away from the golden taman. Lhar ducked and rolled to the ground, landing on his feet, running. Freed from harness and rider, the taman nearly doubled its speed, goaded by instinct to protect its herd. Syza’s taman went down. She rolled free, but the salt-crazy taman was close. Too close! Lhar’s mental command electrified the drifsen. They abandoned the drifs and raced to Syza, two golden blurs of teeth and savagery.

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