Corizen Rising

by Heidi J. Leavitt

  “Maybe I would have chosen a side if I’d grown up in the same situation as you did. Who knows?” she said thoughtfully, trying to be fair.

  Both were silent for a moment. Tiran wondered what Zaq was thinking. It was strange, but she was really starting to care what he thought about her. It bothered her that he might look down on her because she wasn’t a true Denicorizen.

  Zaq was the first to break the silence. “So you don’t remember life before the Revolution at all?” he asked, his tone lighter. “I would think that growing up in the Resistance would have been so exciting.”

  Tiran laughed. “Exciting? I was a very young child, Zaq. I was only six at the end of the Revolution. They kept me as far away from anything important as they could.” She paused thoughtfully. “Well, except once, in Roma,” she admitted with a grimace. The memories flooded back, jumbled images that turned her palms clammy with fear. She had been so confused and so scared.

  “What happened in Roma?” Zaq asked curiously.

  “I came with my mother and my grandmother—my father’s mother. They were part of some mission; I never really knew the details. My mother put me to bed one night, and when I got up the next morning, she was gone. I missed her and I was worried, but my grandmother was still there and she reassured me that my mother was fine. That was the day after I first met my dad—my stepfather, I mean. He had come to visit my mother the day before, and he was at our flat that morning when I woke up. I still remember how he argued with my grandmother.” She paused for a moment, picking at her sleeve.

  “Your . . . dad, he knew Miranda Bruche? Miranda Bruche was your grandmother wasn’t she?” asked Zaq with unfeigned interest.

  “Yes, Miranda Bruche was my grandmother,” Tiran confirmed, her brow furrowed thoughtfully. Even though Zaq had been young during the Revolution he obviously knew about her grandmother. More proof of just how important the Bruche family had been during the Revolution. “But no, I don’t think they knew each other before that. My dad had known my mother when they were children on Zenith. He was the Resistance’s contact with the Armada, and when my mother disappeared he wanted to call out Armada ships to go pick her up. That’s what he argued with my grandmother about. Oh, were they both angry!” Tiran chuckled a bit. “I hid in my room and covered my head with a pillow.”

  “I bet,” Zaq agreed. “I would have too. I understand your grandmother was a formidable woman.” He flashed a grin at Tiran.

  “I guess so,” Tiran raised her palms. “All the stories of the Revolution say so anyway. But to me she was just my sweet grandma and I had never seen that side of her before.”

  “Obviously your dad lost that fight.”

  “Obviously. Or my mother never would have been a hero of the Revolution,” Tiran replied wryly.

  “So she really did suffer through the siege just like the rest of us in Kruundin City then. It’s not just an embellished version of the truth.”

  “No. She really did live through it all. I hardly recognized her when she finally came back to me.” Zaq was thoughtfully silent again. Tiran trudged along, wondering what he was thinking about. Did it make her slightly more Denicorizen to have a mother who had lived through some of the same things Zaq had?

  “Have you ever wondered what your life might have been like if the Revolution had never happened?”

  Tiran laughed shortly. “Sure—I probably never would have been born. If there had been no Resistance, my grandmother would never have rescued my mother from being a slave. My parents never would have met.”

  “What if they had met anyway?” he persisted. Tiran rolled her eyes.

  “Well, let’s see . . . I guess the Resistance could have failed or abandoned their cause. So my parents would have been permanent outcasts, if they had managed to survive it. Sounds like a fun life to me,” she said sarcastically.

  “It might not have been bad at all,” countered Zaq earnestly. “Just imagine if the Resistance had never formed. You would have been happily living in Roma without a care in the world, especially since you were Gallant caste.”

  “Okay, I give in,” Tiran laughed. “If by some miracle my mother had happened to escape from Jaory Kruunde and make it to Roma, she could have randomly met my father and married him. Then Jaory would have conveniently forgotten about her, Othar Eshude would never have declared a blood feud on my father, and they could have peacefully lived as outcasts in the middle of Roma.” She giggled again. The thought was absurd. Suddenly she realized that Zaq had stopped abruptly. His face was frozen in shock.

  “Zaq, what is it?” she asked worriedly. Was something wrong? She looked around them in fear, but the stretch of road she could see was completely deserted. “Zaq?” she repeated, her brow furrowed with concern.

  “Who declared a blood feud against your father?” he whispered, his voice harsh with pain.

  “Some man named Othar Eshude. It happened before I was born. That’s why I had to hide who my real father was growing up.” Zaq grabbed both sides of his head with his hands and squeezed his eyes shut. He was grimacing like he was in agony. Tiran didn’t know what to do—did Zaq need a doctor? Where could she get help? They were all alone in the middle of nowhere. Finally, Zaq’s ragged breathing quieted and he lowered his hands. “I’m all right,” he reassured her shakily. “But maybe we should stop and rest for a minute.” Tiran took his arm and led him to a large boulder not far off the road. He sank against it gratefully.

  “Are you sick?” Tiran questioned in fear.

  “In a way.” He managed a weak smile. “It will pass.” They sat in silence as they rested for a few moments. Finally, Zaq looked over at Tiran and spoke. “You startled me. You see, I know who Othar Eshude is,” he stated quietly. “He is the Oman of the Brotherhood.” Tiran gasped. Now certain things finally made sense, like her mother’s absolute insistence that she never leave the base under any circumstances and her own name showing up on the Brotherhood’s hit list. Her parents must have known about the Oman and chose not to tell her. Indignation flared for a moment before she dismissed it. It wouldn’t have changed anything if she had known, except to worry her unnecessarily.

  “Tiran, I must tell you something,” Zaq faltered. “But I’m afraid of what you’ll think of me.” Tiran looked at him curiously. What deep, dark secret was Zaq hiding?

  “I’ll try my best not to judge you, how about that?” Tiran promised.

  “OK.” He took a deep breath. He seemed to be hesitating for a moment, and then he took the plunge. “I’m a member of the Brotherhood,” he confessed.

  “What?” Tiran cried, jumping to her feet. She looked around hastily. Were scores of assassins going to come pelting from the trees lining the meadow? When no mysterious figures ran out, she tried to force herself to calm down.

  “You said you wouldn’t judge me,” Zaq reminded beseechingly.

  “Oh, but . . . well, you definitely took me by surprise,” Tiran defended. “You just told me you’re a member of the group that is trying to kill me. I thought we were running away from the Brotherhood, not that I was running with it!” Tiran kicked at some rocks scattered by the big boulder. They skittered away leaving small trails of dust. She was finally feeling comfortable with Zaq and he had to go and throw this at her! Wasn’t there anyone she could trust?

  “It wasn’t easy growing up an orphan in Kruundin City,” Zaq explained hastily. “I was drawn in while I was still young. They gave me someone to blame and a family of sorts. Of course I believed everything they told me.”

  Tiran listened skeptically. “So what made you change your mind?”

  “Things started to change when the new Oman was named,” Zaq whispered. “There were harsh assignments, and I saw innocent people hurt. For awhile I was impassive, you know. It all seemed right to me, Veshti’s will just like I was told. But every week I would go and bring donations to the soup kitchen. Those women of the
Order were serving people every day and part of me recognized that as truly serving Veshti. Not the violent way that my so-called family was acting.” He rubbed his head. Tiran tried not to be judgmental. It must have been hard growing up like he did. Still, part of her was bothered by the fact that he had ever condoned terrorist violence.

  “I started to notice that every time I thought like this I would get headaches. Part of me would just scream that I was being a disobedient traitor, that Veshti was going strike me down for my blasphemy. I couldn’t fight against it. It was like I had no choice in the matter.” Zaq grimaced. Tiran sat back down in the boulder. She still didn’t understand, but she could see that the recital was causing Zaq physical pain. It worried her. Obviously this was harder than she had any idea.

  “I didn’t have any will, Tiran,” he whispered harshly. “It took me a while to put together all of the pieces. It was something the Oman had done to me. I really wasn’t this heartless person that felt that assassinating people was a duty higher than any other. I was only being made to think that way.”

  “I don’t understand,” frowned Tiran. “Like brainwashing?”

  “No.” He gritted his teeth and grabbed his head harder. It looked like he was trying to hold his head in one piece. She put a hand on his arm trying to comfort him. He smiled grimly. “It is a transmitter, implanted at the base of my neck. It was part of a ceremony, a rite of passage. I only figured it out because I work in the warehouse where the transmitters are stored. It makes me think differently, like when the Oman speaks it is truly the will of Veshti. It causes me physical pain whenever I think of something in opposition to the Oman.”

  Tiran gasped as she realized why he was hurting so much. “So helping me at all causes you pain.”

  Zaq rose slowly to his feet. “I’m learning to combat it. You make it easier actually. You are a living, breathing reminder that everything that voice in my head tells me is false. It makes me able to fight better.”

  Tiran bit her lip. “Isn’t there anything I can do to help?”

  He shook his head. “Let’s just start walking again. The sooner we get to Munsk, the better.”

  “You think your friend can help you with this,” Tiran guessed, as they made their way back to the dirt road.

  Zaq gazed out over the meadow. “I hope so. He is the only person I have ever known to leave the Brotherhood without being hunted down.”

  “If he wasn’t caught, how do you know where to find him?” Tiran questioned doubtfully. Zaq held up a finger. Tiran stared at him, her eyebrows raised.

  “He told me in the gravest secrecy,” Zaq finally explained with a groan. “I try really hard not to think of it at all. He warned me of that. When I do think of it, it takes an immense amount of concentration to fight the urge to run to my patria and blurt it out.”

  “Do you think he’s still there?” Tiran asked hesitantly.

  “I hope so. I know he’s never been caught, anyway.” Zaq lapsed into a thoughtful silence, and Tiran didn’t break it. This had given her a whole new look at the Brotherhood. Could you ever defeat a group of terrorists who couldn’t even think of defying the Oman without doubling over in pain? Who had voices in their heads telling them that everything the Oman asked was the commandment of God?

  The miles passed slowly. They stopped once to lunch on the bread and fruit that Zaq had purchased before leaving Rastallin. During the rest of their trek they stuck to light subjects, talking mostly of books they had read and students they had known at their respective universities. It seemed they were pretty safe topics, and Zaq made it all the way to the outskirts of Munsk without any more attacks of pain. Finally, just as dusk was falling over the now wooded fields, they walked into the town. The summer evening was pleasantly cool this high up in the mountains, and people were chatting on their porches while children played in the streets. At one of the first houses they came to, Zaq called a greeting from the street to the older couple sitting on a bench on their porch.

  “Hello there, stranger,” called back the older gentleman. “What brings you to Munsk?” Zaq and Tiran walked up the path to stand on the clearing just before the porch.

  “I’m looking for an old friend of mine. He lives in number four on Amber Lane.”

  “Oh, sure! You’d be looking for Bedu then?” the old man said pleasantly with a loving glance at his wife. The old woman was watching the face of her husband with such plain contentment that it warmed Tiran right to her feet. She had never seen a couple so palpably happy with each other. It was a comfortable happiness, one that had obviously developed over many years.

  “Yes, Irun Bedu. Could you tell me which direction I should take?” Zaq requested courteously. The old man gave them simple directions to the Bedu house. It didn’t sound hard to find. Zaq thanked the couple and they turned to leave, Tiran glancing back over her shoulder at the happy couple. The man held his wife’s hand and stroked it gently as they talked softly to each other. With a pang, Tiran wondered if she would ever feel that close to anyone.

  The walk to Irun Bedu’s house was short. Here another couple was sitting on the front porch. In this case, they didn’t get quite as warm of a welcome. It shocked Tiran. As soon as they came up the path to the house, the man on the porch stood and stared at them with narrowed eyes. Then, at a frantic gesture from him the woman quickly disappeared into the house. Before Zaq could even speak, the man had passed them into the street, looking quickly both ways.

  “I thought this was your friend?” Tiran whispered to Zaq. Zaq didn’t answer; instead, he watched the man without expression. Once the man had checked the street he returned quickly to Zaq and Tiran, motioning them to follow him into the house. Zaq offered Tiran his arm, and she let him lead her into the house. She couldn’t help but feel worried. Somehow, the man’s behavior made her think they had not left the danger behind them in Kruundin City. Was the Brotherhood active even here?

  Inside the house, the man directed them to a couple of chairs while he drew the drapes across the window.

  “Are you clean?” he asked urgently, turning to Zaq.

  “Yes, as far as I know,” Zaq answered solemnly. Tiran watched them in puzzlement. Then, breaking into a smile, the man strode forth and hugged Zaq tightly. “Zaq, I was afraid I would never see you again. You did it; you made the break,” he exclaimed, his voice thick with emotion.

  Zaq turned to her. “This is my good friend Irun Bedu. We grew up together on the streets of Kruundin City,” he introduced. His smile was a bit strained. Tiran wondered how much effort this was costing him.

  “This is one of the happiest days of my life,” Irun shared fervently. “My brother is almost free.” Zaq smiled broader. Then he gestured to Tiran. “Irun, this is Tiran Morten.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” Irun returned politely without a flicker of recognition. Tiran sighed in relief. Apparently they were finally out of the way enough that her name alone wouldn’t give her away. Then Zaq had to go and ruin it. “She’s the daughter of Sirra and Laeren Bruche,” he elaborated calmly.

  The color immediately drained from Irun’s face and he swore loudly. Tiran jumped. Even Zaq was surprised at the intensity of Irun’s response.

  “What’s your check-in?” Irun demanded of Zaq anxiously.

  “Three days. But . . .”

  “And how long since you last spoke to your patria?” Irun interrupted abruptly.

  “It’s been nearly two,” admitted Zaq. “But no one knows where I went, Irun. I was as careful as I could be.” Irun was shaking his head, his eyes closed.

  “We’ll have to find you a transport. I don’t know how, or if it can be done . . . only one day. It will certainly be close.”

  “What are you talking about?” Zaq asked warily. “A transport?”

  “Charri!” Irun called urgently. The woman from the porch rushed into the room, a bag slung over her shoulder. Irun gla
nced at her. “I don’t think we need to leave, my dear,” he said a trifle calmer. “But we need to find a transport for Zaq right away. Can you do it?” Charri blinked and nodded once in response. Then she vanished from the room. Irun turned back to Zaq. “Your implant, Zaq. It allows them to track you. As soon as you don’t check in they will hunt you down.”

  Zaq shrugged. “I thought it might be something like that.” He grimaced again in pain. “But I thought you must be able to deactivate it somehow. After all, they haven’t tracked you!”

  “I don’t know how, Zaq. Mine was deactivated by an acquaintance, one of the old ones.” Tiran could hear the emphasis in his voice. She wondered who the “old ones” were. Her anxiety level was quickly rising. One thing was becoming increasingly clear. There would be no safety for them in Munsk. She felt an odd sense of loss. This town had seemed so pleasant; somewhere she could actually feel a little at home. Yet she wouldn’t get to stay.

  When her attention returned to the conversation between Zaq and Irun, they were discussing some man in the unknown town of Davuune.

  “You’ll have to get there quickly,” Irun explained hastily. “I’m not sure how much time Burke will need to deactivate your transmitter. It didn’t take very long with me, but I don’t know if he’ll have the tools right at hand or even if he’s still there. I’ll comm him if I can and let him know you’re coming.”

  Zaq hugged his friend tightly. “Thank you, Irun,” he said fervently. Irun flashed a glance at Tiran. “I hope you know what you are doing, my brother,” he murmured. Tiran felt heat flood her face. If only she wasn’t bringing everyone around her into danger. The Women of the Tender Heart, Zaq, and now Irun and Charrie could all face the wrath of the Oman if he found out. She wished she could apologize to Irun or thank him, but the words simply wouldn’t come.

  Numbly, she bent forward and rested her forehead on the arm of the chair. If only the nightmare would end.