The soft feel of his daughter's hand on his cheek startled him. He had been lost there, for a moment, without his usual soldier's alertness for motion.

For all their feminine slimness, the fingers were strong. And tough. They moved through the short gray-and-brown bristles as easily as a sharp scythe through wheat. As easily as the fingers of a pig farmer's daughter did whatever work was necessary. Without flinching, without complaint.

"Stop it." Her voice surprised him as much as the touch. The curt command was warm, almost humorous. "It wasn't that bad, Father. Really. A few horrible days, at the beginning. Then — honestly — even worse was the year's tedium that followed in the hareem. I was bored almost to the point of insanity."

Again, that demigoddess shrug. "Father, if I had been a son of yours, I would have been expected to serve in the legions. And would have done so, of course, and gladly. Eagerly, in fact. The chances are quite good that, at some point or other, I would have been wounded in a battle. Possibly killed."

A strong slim finger poked at the cloth covering his midriff, right above a scar. Then again on his lower thigh, where ridged flesh peeked beneath the tunic. And again, tracing the old wound which trailed down his left arm.

"So tell me, Father. When you received these wounds, were you in pain? Was your mind dazed with shock, for a time? Did you whimper — or rather, grind your teeth to keep from whimpering? Did you curse your fate? Did some part of your soul shriek outrage and protest at the universe?"

By then, Demansk was laughing. Softly, but aloud. "Oh, gods — yes! It was all so unfair. I was quite indignant."

Helga's laughter matched his own. And, for the thousandth time in his life, Demansk felt himself almost drowning in adoration of his daughter. Adoration — and pride. This too, gods, was my doing. Damn me if you will.