Corizen Rising

by Heidi J. Leavitt

  So she stood at the top of the steps of Jerrapo’s stately townhouse and watched the street. The neighborhood was very upscale, but she could see that the civil unrest had affected this area too. Most of the homes had security grilles on the doors and windows, and here and there she spotted the glimmer of a shield protecting an entire house. No pedestrians strolled down the tree-lined avenue. The neighborhood seemed utterly deserted, except for an occasional local transport that passed slowly down the street.

  Even with the empty streets, Tiran felt dreadfully exposed. She hugged her arms to her chest, shivering in the late spring air. It was so near summer in Roma that she had never expected to need a cloak, but a quick glance at the darkening sky showed that an afternoon storm was moving in. She desperately hoped that Jerrapo would let her in. Otherwise she was going to get soaked to the skin while she figured out what to do next. The wind whipped her hair into her eyes and she brushed it back from her face. What was taking the doorman so long? Surely a man who worked for Jerrapo would never turn her into the Brotherhood, but remembering her mother’s recent “confession,” she realized that she might not be very welcome after all.

  Finally, the doorman reappeared. He deactivated the shield and allowed Tiran inside just as the first rain drops spattered on the pavement.

  “Madam Coraelle will see you in a moment,” he intoned politely. Then he stationed himself to the side of the front entry room. With a jolt, Tiran realized that this was no mere doorman. He must be a bodyguard.

  Hurried steps sounded from the hallway, and Jerrapo strode hastily into the room. “Veshti alive!” Jerrapo exclaimed in a ringing voice. “It is you. I was certain you were dead!” She nodded once at her bodyguard, who slipped quietly from the room. Then she moved to take Tiran by the arm and guided her out of the entry room and into her front sitting room.

  “Tiran Miranda Morten, where have you been?” she demanded. “Everybody has been searching everywhere for you!” She pushed Tiran down into a chair and stood with her hands on her hips.

  Tiran wilted under Jerrapo’s fierce gaze. She was horribly ashamed, but haltingly she told of her disastrous elopement and stay with the Women of the Tender Heart. Then she described her flight with Zaq, first to Munsk and then to Burke’s house in Davuune. She explained about Burke’s and Zaq’s involvement with the Brotherhood and the implants that had been deactivated. Carefully she avoided any reference to Erron being at Burke’s house. Part of her was afraid that Jerrapo would refuse to work with a Kruunde. Not that she could really blame Jerrapo for that. If she had any choice, she wouldn’t trust Erron either.

  Jerrapo sank into a chair opposite Tiran, her hand covering her open mouth as Tiran’s story progressed. When Tiran finished relating her tale, both women sat silently for a moment. Jerrapo’s eyes were distant. Tiran squirmed uncomfortably. Jerrapo had always intimidated her and part of her was afraid Jerrapo was going to banish her back to the street.

  “My dear girl,” Jerrapo comforted, moving to embrace Tiran briefly. “You have been through so much. I am so relieved that you made it through all of that safely. I can see you have your mother’s strength.” She stopped abruptly and dropped back into her chair with a grimace. “Your mother . . .” she repeated, more to herself than to Tiran. “What is going on with your parents?” she wondered, her voice harder. She rose and began pacing the room. Tiran watched in trepidation.

  “I do not understand it,” Jerrapo said through gritted teeth. “First, we are all told your mother is dead. I even went to the memorial service! Then they arrest your stepfather for treason. Next, your mother turns up alive and perfectly well, only she is in the hands of Othar Eshude, and she goes on a worldwide live feed spouting the most ridiculous nonsense I have ever heard!” She threw her hands up in frustration.

  “It’s not her fault,” Tiran protested. “Burke thinks the Oman has stuck one of his implants in her. They’re really hard to fight against.”

  Jerrapo’s face drained of color.

  “You are saying the implants compel his followers to be loyal, no matter their personal beliefs,” Jerrapo confirmed flatly. Tiran nodded.

  “People have been joining the Brotherhood in droves lately. That means there are thousands of people docilely obedient to a madman. No matter what atrocity he asks of them.” Jerrapo was visibly horrified.

  “It is possible to fight it,” reminded Tiran. “Zaq and Burke both did, and Burke has a tool that can deactivate the implant.”

  “Can it deactivate everyone’s implant at once?” Jerrapo asked skeptically.

  “No,” Tiran admitted, shifting uncomfortably in her seat. “Burke would have to do it one at a time. But if he had enough time and the supplies, I bet he could make more of them.”

  Jerrapo eyed her with growing interest. “I might be able to help him with that,” she conceded. “But we would need to know who has the implants or what use would this tool be?”

  “Burke is attempting to get that information as we speak,” Tiran explained. “He said to give him two days. I have the contact info for you if they manage to get a download.” She watched Jerrapo’s face closely. “He may also be able to provide the location of the Oman as well.”

  Jerrapo’s face froze in astonishment. “Impossible,” she finally whispered. “The CPF has been trying to find him for years.”

  “I don’t know how,” Tiran admitted, “but Burke thinks they could do it. All he asks for is an official pardon for him and his associates.”

  “Those would be easily come by, if Othar Eshude could actually be taken into custody,” Jerrapo agreed without hesitation.

  “There’s something else Burke wanted you to know,” Tiran continued. Actually, the information had originally come from Erron, but she omitted that small detail. “There is a traitor inside the Palace Guard. He’s not used very often, and he doesn’t have the implant of the Brotherhood. But he is a loyal follower of the Oman. That’s how Oanni got at my mother, and how Morek-Li Damato was killed.”

  Jerrapo’s face turned positively ashen with this news.

  “Captain Jirac,” she whispered. She pressed her hands together and closed her eyes.

  “Who?” Tiran asked, puzzled.

  “He is the head of security for the palace grounds. A few months ago, he gave me transcripts of some Union Security Council meetings. He said that he had gotten them from a friend in the Armada who needed to stay anonymous. That’s when I went before Congress and demanded that they expel the Armada.” Her voice cracked, and she dropped her head into her hands.

  “I played right into Othar Eshude’s hands.”

  Tiran couldn’t think of anything to say. Then Jerrapo raised her head, her eyes brightening with understanding. “Your father’s arrest cannot be a coincidence. I suspect someone is planting false documents all over the place. This conspiracy does go beyond Othar Eshude and into the Union. The question is who?”

  Hope began to dawn in Tiran’s mind. Maybe there would be a way to get her father out of this. If they could just find whoever the real Union traitor was her father could prove he was innocent.

  “Jerrapo, do you think we will be able to clear my father’s name?” she asked excitedly.

  “If I have anything to say about it, we will,” Jerrapo declared, her eyes narrowed with anger. “But first we must do something about your mother. She is eroding what trust people have left in the Republic.”

  “Can’t we rescue her somehow, Jerrapo?” pleaded Tiran. There had to be some way to get her mother back.

  Jerrapo’s face fell, and for the first time ever, Tiran saw the shine of unshed tears in her eyes.

  “I do not know, Tiran. If there is anything, anything at all that I can do, I will do it. Maybe your mother is being held prisoner wherever Othar Eshude is. If your friends really can provide us with his location, we might be able to get to her before it is too late, but the odds are
slim.”

  Tiran heard her words with growing fear. These past few days she had clung desperately to the hope that surely someone would be able to rescue her mother. She couldn’t bear to lose her again.

  Jerrapo continued reluctantly, her voice growing husky. “Othar has no reason to leave your mother alive now. He has already wrung that preposterous public confession out of her.” Tiran’s fear swelled into despair.

  “Is there no hope then?” she managed, stifling a sob. Jerrapo stiffened and sat up straight.

  “My dear, there is always hope. Darkness cannot last forever,” she affirmed, her composure returned. “I have been confronted with hopeless situations before, and sometimes everything is resolved better than you could have hoped. Sometimes,” she murmured as an afterthought.

  “What can we do though?” Tiran worried.

  “It is time that all true Denicorizens stood openly against the Oman. I will speak to the other former Resistance leaders. We need to come out of obscurity and rouse the people against him. Let him try to kill me,” Jerrapo declared fiercely. “I do not care anymore.”

  ♦

  During the next few hours, Tiran ate the dinner prepared by Jerrapo’s cook and changed into the warmer clothes provided by Jerrapo’s respectful maidservant. Then she waited in the guestroom until Jerrapo reappeared to tell her that she had contacted all of the living members of the Resistance’s original high leadership.

  “I have arranged a meeting tonight with those who could get to Roma on short notice,” she explained. “I will have to leave a bit earlier because I want Bret Ka there too, and that will take some finesse.” Tiran glanced up in surprise. Bret Ka was such a good friend of her parents and had plenty of influence as a Congress Representative. That’s why she had intended to go to him for help if she couldn’t find Jerrapo.

  “Why would it be difficult to convince Master Ka to come? I would think he would be eager to help you.”

  “Undoubtedly,” agreed Jerrapo. “Yet at the moment, Congress is currently holding Bret in detention. They have not formally charged him with anything, but it is well known that he is an ally of your father.”

  “Oh,” Tiran replied, shuddering in relief that she had been able to find Jerrapo. She never would have been able to get to see Bret if he was locked up. She wondered how Jerrapo planned to get Bret to her meeting then decided not to ask. Sometimes it was just better not to know.

  “Listen, my dear Tiran, I want you to stay hidden here. It is not safe for you to leave this house for any reason,” warned Jerrapo. “My servants I trust without reservation, but the Brotherhood has been posting your picture everywhere. It is only a matter of time before someone recognizes you if you are out in public.”

  “Don’t worry, Jerrapo. I won’t go anywhere at all.” Tiran promised easily.

  Jerrapo left not long after that, and at first Tiran had not even the slightest intention of breaking her promise. However, she rapidly discovered the guestroom terminal and started searching for more feeds by the Brotherhood, anything that might tell her that her mother was still alive. So she found the latest transmission from the Oman quite quickly, posted scarcely an hour before.

  It was a personal communication aimed straight at her.

  The hologram sparkled to life, and his face sprung from the screen. He looked just the same as before, only now his eyes were glinting with some kind of emotion she couldn’t read.

  “This message is a personal appeal to the girl known as Tiran Morten. I am speaking now just to you,” he began, and indeed, with his holographic gaze directed exactly where she sat, it seemed as if he really were speaking directly to her.

  “My dear,” he continued in a kind tone, “the time has come for you to stop running. Your mother is overcome by remorse for the crimes she has committed, and Veshti will forgive her and spare her life, but only if you submit yourself to His judgment as well. You must come before me to receive absolution.”

  Tiran watched the recording in shock, barely comprehending the words.

  “I know you are now in Roma. Submit to Veshti’s will and come to Waterside Park. My child, only you may save your mother’s life.” The camera view panned to a pallet where Tiran could clearly see her mother. She was sleeping or unconscious, but still alive. Tiran could see her chest rise and fall with each breath. Then the Oman’s face popped back up and the message repeated. Reaching over to the terminal, Tiran switched off the recording. Then, she leaned forward onto her elbows, considering the words of the Oman.

  Tiran knew about the blood feud. She knew that the Oman wanted revenge against her father Laeren. Her mother had never explained all the details, but long ago, she had asked one of her Denicorizen friends about blood feuds. Her friend had told her that a blood feud meant that three generations had to be killed.

  She had always thought that meant that her grandparents, her parents, and herself. But what if the three generation rule could be fulfilled without her mother? Her grandmother had been killed in the Revolution. Her father had also been killed during the Revolution, when she was too young to even remember. That was two generations. Wouldn’t she be the third generation and it would finally be finished? Maybe the Oman truly believed that her mother’s “confession” meant she should be pardoned. She wasn’t such a fool to believe that he would just let her mother go after that. But maybe it would buy her mother enough time that Jerrapo could work something out to rescue her.

  Her head pounded as she thought it all through. It was a very slim hope, but in the end her decision was firm. Quickly she pulled on her borrowed cloak and snuck down the stairs. Jerrapo’s bodyguard had gone with her and the other servants were nowhere in sight, probably in their own rooms. It was easier than she had expected to get out. A code list for the shield was posted near the service entrance and it listed the code for a ten second exit window. She punched in the numbers and hurried out the door, turning to watch as the shield shimmered back to life behind her.

  The afternoon storm had cleared away, and though it was late in the day it was still light outside. Tiran pulled her creased map of Roma from her bag and searched for Waterside Park. Waterside Park was a large common park near the center of the city. It had large trees and plenty of open space, as well as a good-sized pond and a long stream running through it. Multiple trails wound all over the grounds. The park had only four entrances, a relic of the days when only upper-castes had been allowed to enjoy it. Tiran had been there once or twice when she was much younger, but she wasn’t positive how to reach it from Jerrapo’s house. It took a minute or two of deciphering the map, holding it so close to her face that her nose practically pressed against it. Finally she decided that she had the route figured out and started on her way.

  The walk took nearly an hour. She had stopped twice to consult the map again, but in the end she found herself facing the south park entrance. The sun was sinking into the horizon, but it was still probably an hour from full dark so the wrought iron gates were wide open. A woman’s high laughter floated out toward her. Even during these scary times, people were still taking advantage of a summer evening to enjoy the park. She wondered if they knew that the Oman had ordered her to surrender in this park. Probably not. Anyone with any sense of self-preservation would stay miles away from a place that they knew the Brotherhood would be watching. For a minute her resolve faltered and she started to back away from the park. She nearly turned and ran back for Jerrapo’s house. Yet the possibility that her mother’s life depended on this propelled her back toward the entrance. Taking a deep breath, she stepped inside the elegant black iron bars that fenced the entire perimeter of the park. There’s no going back now, she told herself firmly. They’re probably already watching me. If I go back to Jerrapo’s now, I’ll lead the Brotherhood straight to her front door.

  Suddenly it occurred to her to wonder if anyone else would be watching the park for her. What if the CPF had seen
the message also? They might consider it a great chance to try and catch the Oman. The thought gave her courage a boost and kept her moving forward. She continued up the gravel path, warily watching the trees that stood in clumps along the east side of the trail.

  After fifteen minutes of walking she reached the pond. There were a few black swans swimming indolently through the murky water. The shadows had lengthened and left the clearing with only scattered patches of sunlight that warmed her briefly every few feet. The wind had picked up again, and she could see that the rain that had fallen earlier in the afternoon had been only a prelude to the real storm. Wrapping her cloak tightly around her, she slowly turned in a circle. The pond was set in the center of a large clearing, but not another person was in sight.

  For the first time she wondered what she would do if nobody showed up.

  The thought died as suddenly as it had appeared and her heart hammered painfully. A trio of men in somber clothes had swiftly appeared from the trees to the west. Every instinct screamed that she should run, but bravely she held her ground, watching the men come toward her. When they were five feet away from her, the man in the center stopped, while the other two moved to flank her.

  She glanced quickly around at the men. They were all average looking young men in their twenties. Obviously the Oman had not come to pick her up in person, though she had not really expected that he would.

  “Tiran Morten?” asked the man in front. He had a pleasant, well-educated voice. Tiran nodded, wondering if maybe these men weren’t the CPF after all. Then she felt a sharp jab in her arm and tried to look at the man to the side. Her vision blurred, and swaying, she fell into darkness.

  29. Raiding the Den

  At the Twisted Candle Inn, the food was plentiful and the service was exceptional, but Zaq was not able to enjoy it. He had never stayed at an inn before; of course, he had never had the money for something as frivolous as traveling for pleasure. Occasionally he had taken short trips on assignments from his Brotherhood patria, but on those occasions he had always stayed in the home of a fellow Brother. Never as a guest in a place where one’s former caste meant nothing so long as the bill was paid. At any other time he would have relished the new experience.