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bride who was, even now, shooting her way back Xaphan space ahead of an angry mob.
    Pardock put her arms around him. He tried to pull away.
    "Dav!" she cried. "Dav, look at me!"
    "What have you done to me? Do you hate me so?" he sobbed.
    Pardock, in a panic, put her hands on his face. "Dav … you don't know … you don't know what I saw … you don't know what she is—what she would do to you!"
    Dav reared his head back. "Marilith!" he cried.
    Pardock, weeping, held her brother to her. "I'm sorry, Dav. I did it for you! I threw down the baton for you! You can hate me if you want. You can hate me as much as you need to. As long as I know your soul is safe, that's all I care about."
    And Davage stood, composed himself, and walked away from his sister. He looked around at the walls of stone and felt them closing in on him.
    He ran.
    Unable to stay in the castle any longer, seeing little bits of Marilith, Princess of Xandarr, everywhere, he left. Wearing common clothes, he went to the city of Minz and joined the Stellar Fleet … to go to the stars, to get away from the woman he loved but couldn't have, to get away from the sister who had prevented his marriage—for his sake, she had said.
    The common clothing was a quaint touch, the Lords at the Fleet office thought, but everybody knew the Lord of Blanchefort—the Unable Groom, the man who couldn't be married to that randy, halfnaked Xaphan iconoclast. His public shame made him a celebrity of sorts. His family connections undeniable, he was accepted as is without the usual Letter of Recommendation and was oathed at once. He became a junior helmsman aboard the Faith, a rickety old Webber -class starship. Nobody expected much out of him—a spoiled Blue Lord who was going to probably quit on his own or get drummed out in shame. It happened all the time.
    But what a helmsman he was. Before long, he was flying the Faith , that old tub, like she was a Main Fleet vessel ready for war. Those regal hands of his—hands that could properly hold a fork after years of drill, hands that could flatten a roughneck in the bars, hands that could write out a letter in flowing, exquisite script—could turn a mean wheel, could fly a wicked starship. He was magical; he could make a ship dance. It was said he could fly a starship through a thunderstorm and not get the ship wet. He quickly became a master helmsman, a man of great renown, and Fleet captains fought over his services. He recalled the first time he helmed a starship into battle with a new Xaphan enemy, an angry rising star in the evil Xaphan ranks—Princess Marilith of Xandarr, his once love and future antagonist.
    He had just been promoted to full lieutenant, ten years to the day after joining the Fleet, when he took some time ashore and went to see his sister Pardock at Castle Vincent on Nether Day—a warm, solemn holiday, a holiday for families, for togetherness. Pardock, usually regal and proper, upon seeing Davage in his blue Fleet uniform and hat, put her children down and ran to him. She ran down the tree-lined lane as fast as her confining House Vincent gown allowed her, and Davage ran to her as well. They embraced when they met, ten years of pain and hurt erased in one moment.
    He had forgiven her. Perhaps she had been right. Perhaps Marilith was a monster after all and Pardock's courage had saved his soul, though the pain he'd endured at her loss was unimaginable. As he sat down to eat the Nether Day feast with his sister and her family, his heart entered a long period of dormancy, of numbness. Marilith, his Zen-La, was gone, now an enemy at arms though he loved her still. In the years ahead he had his occasional romantic encounter, the momentary distraction for his broken heart, but they never lasted or provided any real comfort. He looked to his to his duty, and eventually to his command to provide relief, for seventy years—ever the Elder, his face not aging, his body remaining strong and fit, but his heart laboring