“All very good points,” Letho said.

“And now we have you, Letho. You’re our ace in the hole, son. Those Tarsi will go to hell and back for you—you know that, right?” Zedock looked his son straight in the eyes. “And the men… well, it don’t hurt for them to have someone to fight for. And Saul…” Zedock paused, took a breath, and dabbed at his forehead with a handkerchief. He took on a conspiratorial tone, as if Saul might be listening to them through some device of espionage. “I thought that leader would be Saul, but he’s just not… He’s a good boy, Letho, don’t get me wrong. I love him to death. But he’s just not good with the men under him. Kinda rough on them. Not a real people person, my Saul.”

“There’s no guarantee that I would be any different,” Letho said. “Have you ever seen me in front of people I don’t know? It’s brutal.”

“As a matter of fact, I have, Letho. About twenty minutes ago. I saw you talking to a whole group of angry Haven citizens who were about ready to tear your damn head off for bringing a Mendraga into their midst. And you had ’em eating out of the palm of your hand with just a few words. You have a natural way with people, son. I don’t understand why you can’t see it.”

Letho could tell the old man was struggling to choose the right words. A familial trait, apparently.

“Yeah, so I can get people to like me—though the reason why is beyond me. But other than that, what can I do? I’m just one guy. Even with my abilities, I can’t take an army on all by myself. Look at me!” Letho said, wiggling his ruined appendage for emphasis.

Sada, as if responding to an unspoken cue, took the piglet from Letho and smiled at him. “You will lead us home, Letho. It has been foretold,” she said.

Letho smiled and attempted to hide the maelstrom of self-doubt that raged inside him. Sada clutched the pig to her bosom and turned to leave, heading back toward a snorting and rooting drift of pigs who fed from a large squat trough.

“See what I mean, Letho? I promise you, if you fight alongside them, every single Tarsi will be worth ten when the proverbial shit hits the fan. It don’t matter if you buy into their bedtime stories. All that matters is that they believe in you, Letho. And there’s thousands more Tarsi in Hastrom City, just waiting.”

“I just don’t know, Zedock. It just seems impossible. There’s no way we can win.”

“That’s the very thinking that got us to where we are. When Abraxas brought the Fulcrum stations back, he didn’t have an army. But everyone just lay down and let him take everything. Everyone except us, Letho. We fought back, we escaped, and now we have this place. I can’t believe all of that happened just by accident. We’re meant to do something, by circumstance or divine intervention!” Zedock stamped his foot to punctuate his speech, and Letho choked back a laugh at the rather comical gesture.

“Yeah, I don’t put too much stock in divine interventions these days.”

“Well, do you like to kick Mendraga ass?”

Letho laughed. “Yes, sir, I reckon I do.”

“Do you want to see that scumbag Alastor Wyrre and his boss one more time, and serve ’em up a little helping of retribution?”

“Yeah, I could go for that.”

“Well, I guess that’ll have to be enough,” Zedock said, and his eyes once again got lost in the middling distance.

****

They went back upstairs, and Zedock took the lead as they wound through the labyrinth of nondescript corridors. Letho was thankful for Zedock’s presence, for he had lost all sense of direction and would probably have dehydrated or starved before finding his way out. Soon they reached an area of storage rooms, including the room that had been repurposed as a brig.

“We don’t need to use this place too often. ‘Cept when people get a little too much hooch in ’em and get to fightin’ and carousin’,” Zedock said, opening the door for Letho.

There she sat, and Letho’s heart leapt at the sight of her. She was hunched over on a cot, her back to him. Her body convulsed in a repulsive fashion that caused Letho’s hairs to stand on end, and the sucking sounds he heard didn’t do his stomach any favors. When she turned to face them, her feeding appendages were blessedly retracted, but a small droplet of blood ran down her chin. In her hands was a small white cup, its inside coated with blood.

“How’s that sow blood taste? Probably not as good as human, but that’s the best you’re gonna get while you’re here, I’m afraid.”

Thresha, grinning, traced her index finger around the inside of the cup, placed it between her pursed lips, and sucked the last traces of sow blood down.

“You have no idea,” she said in a husky voice. “But thank you. I was starving. So what brings you fine gentlemen to my humble abode?” She gestured to the barred cell around her. The grace of that gesture was out of step with her surroundings. Her posture was regal even though her clothes were worn and covered in muck, her face stained with blood.

“The young squire here has requested an audience, Your Highness.”

“And to what do I owe this great honor, Letho Ferron?”

“I, uh, just wanted to come and see how you were doing,” Letho said, hoping that Zedock didn’t see the flush rising to his cheeks. The old man eyed him warily, his smile turning into an unpleasant pucker, as though he had a piece of food stuck behind his dentures. Under normal circumstances a father would welcome his son’s doting on such a beautiful creature. These were, however, anything but normal circumstances, as the woman in question was currently being held prisoner and just happened to be a member of a species that held Letho and Zedock’s race in the bonds of slavery.

“You going to be okay?” Zedock asked.

“Yeah, I can handle this,” Letho replied.

“I’ll wait out in the hall, then. Just do me a favor and don’t hand over your pistol there, hotshot.” Zedock glared at Letho as he left them alone.

“He’s a funny one,” Thresha said. She placed the cup aside, out of sight, and stood with a feline grace that set Letho’s hairs on end yet again. He knew that the way he was looking at her was wrong, that the way the alabaster pale of her skin set his pulse racing was wrong. Yet he couldn’t stop himself. He longed to touch the milk-white of her flesh and know its smoothness. He longed for her to run her hand across his brow, like he had seen her do for Deacon. Then his thoughts turned to Sila, and the twin images blurred and intertwined: two women who had become Mendraga, their essence deformed by a blood curse that had made its way across whole galaxies. Was it destined to poison everything Letho cared for?

“What are you thinking about, Letho?” Thresha said, her eyes narrowing, her expression hardening.

“I was thinking about a girl I used to know. She was one of the ones who… who died on Alastor’s ship.” Letho expected one of Sila’s perfunctory tongue lashings.

Thresha. Not Sila.

“I lost someone I loved too, you know. In fact, I lost him twice. First to Alastor’s curse, and then…” She trailed off, eyes distant. “Well, let’s just say I had a reason to kill Jim, beyond saving you.”

Letho’s heart skipped a beat.

She was trying to save me after all.

“Who was he? The guy you loved?” Letho asked, stepping closer to the wrought iron bars between them. As he looked at the Mendraga, he realized that the bars weren’t the only things that separated them. How old had Thresha been when Alastor took her? What Fulcrum station had she come from? She could be centuries older than him, he thought. He knew so little of her.

“His name was Mavus Wheatley. And I loved him.”

They were married.

“No, we never actually got married. We wanted to, but Alastor—”

“Did you just read my mind?” Letho interrupted.

“You mean you didn’t say that out loud?”