Renegade

by Justine Davis

  “I long ago made an exception for those who are hurt in an effort to aid,” he said.

  “You. But not the Coalition.”

  “I have been too many places, seen too much, to remain completely rigid in my thinking,” he finally said.

  “And have you found anything of worth in the way of life in those many places?”

  “I have found things of interest,” he said. Then, before he really thought about it, he added, “Here in particular.”

  “And what does quiet, peaceful Ziem have to interest Major Caze Paledan, the most awarded officer in the Coalition?”

  The way she said it irritated him, and it was in his voice when he said, “I do not control the handing out of those bits of metal and ribbon.”

  “I should think you would be proud.”

  “I am good at what I do. That knowledge is all I require.”

  “Then you are indeed unique.”

  “Not a goal to be strived for.”

  “Perhaps in the Coalition,” she said. “In other places, it is highly prized.”

  “Ziem?”

  “Only one example of many.” Her expression changed, darkened. “At least, that was once the case.”

  “Until the Coalition arrived,” he guessed.

  “Yes,” she agreed bluntly, heedless that she was prodding an officer of that Coalition. Or perhaps not; she seemed fearless enough to know the risk and do it anyway.

  Or perhaps she just knew there wasn’t a thing he could do just now.

  But would he, even if he could? After what she had done for him, bringing him back from the verge of death, or a life even worse than death?

  Coalition teaching on the matter was simple; if the one who aided you was of further use, they were allowed to live. If they were of no harm, it was left to the judgment of the recipient of the aid. But if they were a danger, or had the potential to be, the response was made quite clear; they must be removed, permanently.

  And this woman was part of the most contentious, stubborn, trouble­some—and innovative—rebellion he’d ever encountered in his career. She held a position of obvious reverence here, bound by those blood ties the Coalition scoffed at, and some other, strange, uncanny connection to this mist-shrouded world.

  “But you avoided my question. What is there on my misty Ziem that interests you?”

  He considered his answer carefully. He had the oddest feeling she would know if he lied. It seemed a small enough talent, when laid against her others.

  “That very mist,” he said. “The way your people have adapted to it. The society that developed here, on such weak precepts as blood ties and personal independence, that was yet able to mount such a rebellion.”

  “That,” she said coolly, “is Coalition blindness.”

  “Perhaps,” he admitted, something he would never have done before he’d seen the accomplishments of that society. He held her gaze. “Then perhaps simply that such a remote, quiet place produced a warrior such as your son.”

  She was silent for a moment before she said quietly, “If you think to flat­ter me by complimenting my son, do not bother. I could be no prouder of him than I already am.”

  “Rightfully,” he said. “I may believe such ties are . . . unnecessary, but—”

  “They are,” she said, almost imperiously, and for a moment he saw the Iolana Davorin who had been the partner of the man who had stirred this peaceful, remote place to battle, “the very glue that holds Ziem together. We are of this world, and this world is of us. Neither would be the same without the other.”

  Her words rang in the room—whatever sort of place it really was—as if she’d been giving a speech. As perhaps she had, when she had stood beside her mate. Yet another connection he did not believe in. And yet he could understand it. Any man who had such a woman at his side, would be—

  “Tell me,” she asked, “do you never long for a personal connection, to another living soul rather than the machine of the Coalition? Do you never wish to feel such pride in someone that is part of you?”

  “I . . . do not require it.”

  “That is not what I asked, Caze,” she said, her voice softer now, so soft that when she spoke his name a shiver went through him.

  “It is the only answer I can give . . . Lana.” Because I am afraid I am learning to want more.

  It was an instant before she spoke, and he wondered if it was his use of that name. “Now,” she said, and he wasn’t certain if she was referring to his answer or what she intended now, since she had gotten to her feet and crossed the short—very short—distance between them. “I need to assess your con­dition, which requires that I touch you.”

  He instantly quashed unwanted images that came to mind on those last three words. “You are the healer,” he said stiffly. “You hardly need permis­sion.”

  “Perhaps in your world, but not in mine. When someone is too weak to protect themselves, we do it for them. Once they have regained that strength and sense of self, it is theirs to give permission. No one else has the right.”

  “The Coalition—”

  “—takes that right. Steals it. It is not given to them, except by those who wish no responsibility for themselves.” Her voice changed suddenly, and she tilted her head as she looked at him. “And I cannot believe you yourself are one of those who abdicates personal choice. You accept the Coalition’s control only because it is all you have ever known.”

  “You speak treason so easily,” he said, an edge coming into his voice.

  “The only treason I speak of is committed by those who welcome the Coalition to a free world and stand by while it is enslaved.” Again that intent look. “And I think, in your heart of hearts, you know it is true. They have taken so much from you—”

  “They have given me everything.”

  She gave him a scornful look that stung. “They have given you almost nothing, Major.”

  Impossibly—that word again—he found himself stung that she had reverted to using his rank.

  “They have given you nothing. What you have you have earned. Whether it is of true worth, only you can decide. And they have taken more from you than you realize, more than you even know. But time enough for that. Now I need to make that assessment.”

  He had little patience for such vagary and gave a sharp nod. She stepped forward that last short distance. Reached out, and he found himself bracing for her impending touch. She put one hand on his shoulder, the other on his back, over the scar, which he had discovered had been intact, undisturbed by the removal of the very projectile that had caused it. He felt something odd, some kind of energy flowing through him, as if there were a connection between her hands. Why it seemed strange, after everything else she’d done, he didn’t know.

  After what seemed like a breathless age, she straightened. “You are doing very well,” she said, while he denied inwardly that the removal of her hands had sent a sensation of loss through him. “Perhaps you would like to try and walk a few steps?” The thought of actually being mobile sent a jolt of antic­ipation through him. “I see it appeals.” The teasing tone was back, and he realized with another jolt that he had missed it.

  “Yes. Yes, it does.”

  “I do not think it wise for you to try this without support on both sides. I will get Grim.”

  “Your tall guardian,” he said. “He is very . . . dedicated to you.”

  “Grim would die for me, if need be. And so I am more careful than perhaps I would be without him.”

  “Would you die for him?” He did not even know why he had asked. Surely the mist of this place truly had scrambled his brain. Or perhaps—

  “Without hesitation,” she answered, cutting off his speculation. “He is my oldest friend.”

  “But . . . only a friend?”

 
She gave him a rather strange smile. “He is a closer friend than I imagine the Coalition allows its own.”

  “Friendship can bring weakness.”

  “And yet I am told young Brakely would likely die for you.”

  “I hope not.”

  “Why not? You are, after all, much more important than he.”

  “He has had enough undeserved grief in his life.”

  Her eyes widened. And when she laughed this time, it was a delighted, exultant sound. “Oh, you are much closer than I dared hope! I will get Grim, and we will get you on your feet.”

  He stared after her as she stepped to the doorway to summon Grim. If he were himself, this would be a moment for escape. Normally it would be nothing at all to overpower a woman her size. But he was not himself, and she was not an ordinary woman.

  And those were the only reasons he did not, he told himself. It had nothing to do with that wretched curiosity he’d never quite been able to smother despite the intensive Coalition efforts to force him to it. That curiosity that had done nothing but grow since he’d first set foot on this quiet, remote planet.

  And it absolutely had nothing to do with any intense need to know completely who—and what—this woman of the portrait was.

  Chapter 30

  “HE IS—”

  “Doing better?”

  Iolana finished the last spoonful of Mahko’s tasty brollet stew as she looked at the twins and nodded. “Much. We will be working on getting his strength back now.”

  The two exchanged a glance, then seemed to mutually decide something.

  Lux began it. “We want to—”

  “Ask you something,” Nyx finished.

  Her heart nearly stopped. They had never done this, approached her of their own accord. She set her spoon down in the bowl and gave them her full attention.

  “Ask,” she said. “Anything.”

  “It is about—”

  “The major.”

  “We like him but—”

  “He is Coalition and—”

  “We hate them—”

  “And Drake said—”

  “He does too—”

  “But he could not—”

  “Explain why—”

  “But he said—”

  “Maybe you could.”

  She didn’t know whether to thank Drake for sending them to her, or scold him for sending them to her with a question she couldn’t answer. She drew in a breath.

  “I will try,” she said. “But I need you to imagine something first.”

  “We are—”

  “Good at that.”

  She laughed; she couldn’t help herself. “Indeed you are.” The twins waited silently, and she gathered her thoughts to go on. For a moment she consid­ered these two she had birthed, their fearlessness, their wildness, and the con­nection they shared.

  “I want you to imagine if your lives had been different. If you were caged, prevented from being who you are.”

  “Drake never—”

  “Did that—”

  “Even if sometimes—”

  “He wanted to.”

  “I know,” she said softly. “And that is ever to his credit. But imagine if you had been taken away from him and given over to someone else, who did not know or care, or even automatons, who felt nothing for you. And their job was not just to cage you but to crush that wildness in you that leads you on such adventures. To make you behave exactly as everyone else did, to march in step, never to explore on your own, or learn anything they did not wish you to know.”

  “We would not like—”

  “To live like that.”

  They were frowning now. And finally Lux began it.

  “But what has this—”

  “To do with the major?”

  “That is the world he grew up in. Alone, tended by machines or people who might as well be. No family, no ties, caged, and every bit of spirit or mind that did not conform with their rules crushed.”

  “He grew up—”

  “Like that?”

  She nodded. They were finally horrified, but it was at the right thing. “That is what the Coalition is. And what they did to him.”

  “But he is—”

  “Not crushed.”

  “Yes. Just . . . hindered in some ways. Which shows you just how strong he is, to grow up like that yet be the man he is.”

  The twins exchanged a look.

  “He has never had—”

  “Adventures like—”

  “Ours?”

  She smiled at their tone, a combination of amazement and sadness. “Adventures for the sake of adventure? No, I doubt he has.”

  “We would—”

  “Like to—”

  “Teach him.”

  She bit back a sudden welling of unexpected emotion. “I think,” she said, reaching out to put a hand on one shoulder of them both, “he would be amazed. And delighted.”

  “We will—”

  “Go plan.”

  They scampered off, leaving her blinking away tears. “You can come out now,” she said to the shadows behind her.

  Drake stepped through the doorway of his quarters. “You knew I was there.”

  “Yes.” She turned to look at him then. “And it made no difference to my answer.”

  He nodded as he walked over to her.

  She drew in a deep breath. “I know I have said as much before, but . . . thank you. Those two are . . . everything they could possibly be. And that is because of you.”

  “I merely tried to keep them unscathed.”

  “You did much more than that. And I could not be prouder of you. Or,” she added sadly, “more ashamed of myself. For no one took care of you.”

  “I was an adult.”

  “You were still my child.”

  He sat down in a chair opposite her at the map table. “I think,” he said, “we need to put this behind us, for all time.”

  “I can never forget or forgive myself.”

  “Kye has taught me much. I have only to imagine how I would feel if I lost her, and I have an understanding I never had before, of why you did what you did. And so . . . I can forgive. As can Eirlys, for a similar reason.”

  She wished she dared hug him, but knew he was not yet ready. Then, after a moment, she asked, “So it is only those two sprites I need worry about?”

  “If there is one thing I am certain of about them, it is that they will do what they will do, and in their own time.” She sighed, but nodded. “And now,” Drake said, “I have a question of my own.”

  She braced herself, ready to answer whatever he might ask. After this, she could deny him no truth he sought.

  “When you were speaking to them of the major, I had the feeling there was more to it than you focused on for them.”

  She sucked in a breath; she had not expected that to be his question.

  “Yes,” she said. “There is more.”

  “What?”

  And just that quickly he asked for the one answer she could not give him. “I promise you Drake, I will share it. But I cannot yet.”

  “Is it of . . . tactical significance?”

  “No. It is personal. Although I think it will change him immensely.”

  He tilted his head slightly as he looked at her, and her heart skipped a beat. Just so had his father done, when pondering deeply. And she realized with a little shock that that thought no longer brought the sharp, bloodying pain it once had. It was still there, and she knew it always would be, but it was . . . muted somehow.

  “Then that brings me to another question, that perhaps only you can accurately answer.”

  “Which is?”

 
“Brander thinks that we might be able to . . . turn him.” She said nothing for a moment. Then her son said softly, “I see this is not a surprising thought to you.”

  “It is not.”

  “So you’ve thought it possible as well?”

  “I’ve thought about it,” she corrected. “And while I will agree it may be possible that he would turn on the Coalition, he will never be coerced or persuaded to it. He is a man who would have to make that decision himself. It would have to rise from within him.”

  “But you think it could happen?”

  “I think it would take a great deal to turn him from the life he has, the only life he’s ever known. And words alone could not do it.”

  “Meaning?”

  “He would have to be shown. And then he would make his own decision. He is a man who takes life as he finds it and acts according to his own code. Which is, as I’m sure you’ve noticed, not the typical Coalition code.”

  Drake’s mouth quirked upward. “I’ve noticed. It is one reason I’ve thought it might be possible. They may think they’ve crushed and remolded him, because he has thus far succeeded so extraordinarily at their aims, but even under the Coalition yoke he has done it his own way.”

  “Exactly that. It is not by chance that he speaks of the Coalition as ‘they,’ and not ‘we.’ And there is what I sensed on the hillside that day.”

  “But I am afraid it would take more time than we have,” Drake said. “We cannot hold him here by force very long.”

  “Using force on him would slow the process.”

  “You said you sensed it might not be a new thought to him.”

  “Yes.”

  “So it may actually already be underway.” She nodded slowly, hesitat­ingly, and he said, “Your instincts have yet to fail us. What is your feeling?”

  “I think our people have made him curious about another way to live. I think their determination not to bow to their conquerors has sparked that curiosity of his.” She held his gaze with her own, and put every ounce of pride she felt in him into her voice. “Most of all, I think your example, you yourself and the way you lead, has spoken to him. Something within him, something perhaps not totally destroyed by the Coalition.”