you_

life waiting for him rather than be your second-stringer."
"I don't understand you," he complained.
"My unreasonableness. If you understood that, you would have anticipated my unreasonable decision to decoy Marvis away from Arbora when I left. If I hadn't tried that, I wouldn't have gotten wise to you."
"Well," he said confidently, "jealousy on your part was hardly expected. And, of course, feeling that way, you'll surely return."
"Meaning I love you?" she sneered. "Hah! If I did, do you think I'd fret over competition from Marvis? I'd just blow a hole through her! I was trying to prevent a competition I didn't care about enough to win! Love you? Hell, Holm, I don't even like you!"
With that she warped for home. She had meant what she said, but, golly, how she was going to need a male when she reached Marvis' age!
* * *
Hours later, and far from Arbora, a voice piped in her left ear: "Nice going, Gweanvin Oster."
"Huh? Who's that?"
No response.
Who could it have been? It had sounded like the voice of a boy, perhaps twelve years old. But what would a kid be doing way out here, and how could he have known of her?
She guessed the answers, of course, long before she knew them for sure nearly a decade later. By then the boyish voice had deepened and matured.
Gweanvin never returned to Arbora. Her children did.

Questor

Morgan's position in the fighting formation of the Lontastan raid brigade was well back, but on what would be the Earthward flank. Certainly he was not out of harm's way, but neither was he particularly in it. It was important that, when the Primgranese defenders studied the records of the coming skirmish, Morgan should not look h