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to live. She was nothing but food to them
    .
    He seized her arm and brought it up to examine the manacle around her wrist. The alloy cuff was of off-world making and had slots where chains could be attached. The other ensleg female had been wearing two manacles identical to this one, with broken lengths of chain hanging from them.
    This is not the same one. It cannot be . "Who are you?"
    She did not answer him, or rouse at the shake he gave her.
    There were legends about the vral, faceless spirit beings made flesh that could not be killed. The gods sent such things to prove a man worthy. Navn had never believed in such tales. Everything died.
    He stared down at the unconscious female. She was flesh. She possessed a face. But if he tried to kill her now, and she would not die…
    Navn released her and gestured for two of the women hovering at the edge of the group of hunters to come forward. "Carry her to the visitors' tent," he told them. "Have Hurgot examine her." After a momentary hesitation he added, "If she can be saved, she may live."
    No one looked directly at him—one did not make eye contact with the rasakt—but his instructions sent a wave of shock through those present. An ensleg could come to Akkabarr only from a crashed ship. The subzero conditions on the planet usually killed any survivors. The Iisleg did not rescue ensleg; alive they had no value to the tribe.
    Navn was never happier in his rank. As rasakt, he was not required to explain himself. He did not have to inform his tribe that the woman wore the mark of an ensleg healer. Nor did he have to share the decision as to whether to send tithe to Skjonn, the skim city of Kangal Orjakis, whose taste for ensleg females was notorious.
    "Rasakt, shall we send the gjenvin to look for her… for a ship?" one of the hunters was brave enough to ask.
    "No." Things would only grow worse when they did not find one. The rasakt turned his back on the unconscious female. "Take her."
    Chapter Two
    Encrypted File 092002573
    Her quarters are far from my own, but I have not planted any recording drones to watch her. Close proximity and remote surveillance have never been necessary—I have been aware of her from the first, and the connection between us grows stronger each day. She is unaware of it, or deliberately ignores it.
    I cannot. She is always with me now.
    Duncan Reever stared at the words he had recorded during his last year serving as linguist for the multi-species colony on Kevarzangia Two. The year he had met a Terran surgeon, Cherijo Gray Veil, who had saved his life, and had given him many reasons to live again.
    But she was no longer with him. Cherijo was gone, taken from him two years ago—
    Go.
    Find her. Hurry.
    Those four words had sustained him through the long, frantic months of searching for his missing wife.
    They had begun as a silent prayer and grown into a merciless directive. Presently they formed the taut, four-ply thread of will that enabled control in a situation where he had very little left.
    Go. Find her. Hurry.
    These days, those four words were all that kept Reever from going mad.
    Logic provided the only structure and reason that he would accept in his current state. He had to go. If Cherijo had been capable of returning to him, she would have done so by now. He had to find her. Something had prevented her escape, something she could not overcome on her own. When he found her, he would free her. He had to do so quickly. He could not stop, could not rest, not for a moment. Thanks to his wife's unique genetic qualities, she was the most hunted, coveted fugitive in the galaxy. If Reever did not find her, someone else would.
    Logic provided direction on the path, according to the Jorenians, but no comfort. They referred to it as "the indifferent whip across the soul's shoulders."
    The whip made no difference. Reever had made a vow all those years ago, a promise to protect Cherijo and watch over her. To stay with her for as long as he lived. As