Andie gasped.
The Oman smiled benevolently.
“I have been hoping to be the means of this reunion for quite some time. I can see it by the expression on your face, Madam Bruche, but let us be completely clear. Is this truly your daughter Tiran?”
“Yes,” choked Andie, tears swimming in her eyes.
“Indeed I had hoped so,” observed the Oman with satisfaction. “Let me ask you another question. It is absolutely imperative that you answer me correctly.” He paused for a moment. Andie closed her eyes against the dull throbbing pain behind her eyes.
“Laeren Bruche was in fact the father of this girl?” he questioned directly.
“Yes,” Andie answered, her heart hammering fiercely in her chest. She had no idea why. She knew without doubt that the Oman could be trusted. Couldn’t he?
“She is the only child you ever had with Laeren Bruche, correct?” he further clarified.
“Yes,” Andie answered faintly.
A slow smile stretched across the Oman’s face. “You have been most helpful, my dear. Almost you have done enough to earn forgiveness. Only one more thing will be required of you, I think.” He waved his hand, and the guards pushed an unresisting Tiran further into the room while the Oman left the room without another word. The guards turned abruptly and followed him out, leaving Andie and Tiran alone in the locked room.
Andie turned to her daughter, still unable to believe that Tiran was here. She hungrily drank in everything about her. She had grown a little taller during the last year, Andie was sure. She was dressed nicely with a dark green cloak of good quality hung about her neck. Obviously she hadn’t starved wherever she had been staying. Tiran was standing back, studying her a little bit warily. Was it possible that her daughter was actually afraid of her?
“Tiran?” she broke the silence, her voice wavering a bit. The awkwardness immediately dissolved and Tiran ran into her arms, hugging her tightly.
“Oh Mom, I’m so happy to see you! I never thought I’d see you again—I thought you were dead—and then when I knew you were alive but had been captured by the Brotherhood I was so terrified,” Tiran babbled, her voice hysterical.
Andie winced for a moment. “I don’t think there’s anything to be afraid of.” But part of her was still frightened, regardless of the voice in her head telling her everything was fine. Tiran broke away from her and looked down into her mother’s face. Somehow it was so strange to have her daughter tower over her like this. It was just yesterday her daughter was a small child.
“Mom,” Tiran said firmly, “there are plenty of reasons to be afraid. If you really think about it you’ll know what I’m talking about.” Andie knew what her daughter said was true, but she just couldn’t think of the reason why the Brotherhood would treat them harshly unless they truly deserved it.
“No, I’m sure they’ll let you go, Tiran. You never did anything wrong, and the Oman couldn’t be unjust.” Tiran shook her head. “They will let you go,” Andie insisted.
“Mom, listen to yourself,” Tiran refuted patiently. “Othar Eshude swore a blood feud, remember? He will never let me go, no matter what. If we are really lucky, he might let you go though,” Tiran added hopefully.
Suddenly the truth of their situation pierced through Andie’s mental fog.
“No, he won’t let me go either,” Andie croaked. “He can’t fulfill the blood feud any other way.” A burst of hatred for this man who was going to kill her daughter surged through her body, only to be followed by pain so intense that the room swam dizzily and she collapsed onto the bed. Gasping for breath, she pressed her hands to her temples. Tiran dropped to her side and watched her with worried eyes.
“The Oman did something to you, Mom. He put an implant of some kind at the base of your neck. It makes you hurt every time you try to go against him.” Andie heard the words with silent astonishment, but even as Tiran spoke more pain was radiating from her head down the length of her spine. The pain itself seemed to confirm Tiran’s explanation.
“Oh dear heaven, what did he do to me?” she whispered, fighting the pain. Would she ever be normal again? Even now part of her mind screamed that she was betraying the Oman, that she was bringing condemnation down on her head.
“You have to fight it, Mom. Don’t let him control your mind,” Tiran urged. “He’s trying to turn you against everyone. Do you really want to be an enemy to all your friends—even an enemy to Dad?”
“No,” struggled Andie, her breath labored. “No, I don’t want to destroy your father like that.”
“I have a friend that can deactivate the implant,” Tiran explained. “If you can just hang on until we can be rescued, things will be fine,” she tried to reassure. Andie listened to her with a sliver of hope. Now if only someone could get them out of here.
“Where have you been, Tiran?” she asked in an effort to distract herself from the pain. “How did the Brotherhood capture you?”
Tiran bit her lip. Andie sensed her daughter’s discomfort in talking about Markus. Part of her wanted to say “I told you so,” but she managed to keep quiet. Her daughter had been set up from the start; there was no reason to make her feel worse than she already did.
“Well, I left the Inaugural Ball with Markus,” Tiran finally admitted. “We were going to elope. We got all the way to Kruundin City before I found out that you had been shot.” Tiran fell silent again. Andie wondered if Tiran had ever learned who Markus really was. Did Erron tell her the truth at some point?
“He abandoned me in the shuttleport. He saw the news like I did and ran off to save his own skin,” Tiran muttered bitterly. Andie put her hand on her daughter’s. It’s never easy to find out you’ve been betrayed, she thought sadly. Still, it was a better ending than it could have been. But how had Tiran survived all that time in Kruundin City by herself?
She started to ask, but Tiran was frowning thoughtfully. “I don’t think I should tell you any more right now, Mom,” she decided. Andie was taken aback.
“You see, you do still have that implant, and you can’t be sure you’ll always be able to fight it. What if I tell you about my new friends and the Oman wants that information from you? It’s better that you don’t know.” Andie knew she had a point because the minute Tiran suggested this, she had the violent urge to run and pound on the door so she could tell the guards that Tiran was concealing information about traitors to the Brotherhood. She fought against the incoming wave of pain and tried to smile at her daughter.
“You’re right,” Andie conceded, her smile twisting into a grimace. They stood silently for a moment and then Tiran yawned hugely.
“S-s-s-sorry,” she yawned again. “I’m so tired. I was up almost all night.”
Andie gestured toward the bed. “Lie down and get some rest, sweetheart. You might need it. Who knows what’s ahead of us. I’ll keep an eye on you.”
Tiran gratefully draped herself across the bed and Andie slid onto the floor next to the bed. She tried to clear her thoughts and just focus on the fact that Tiran was alive. It didn’t cause her any pain, and she had no strange urges to jump and call for the guards. The afternoon passed slowly away into the evening and eventually she slept, her head pillowed upright against the side of the mattress.
33. Mazor Theater
Tiran woke to her mother gently shaking her shoulder. “Tiran, honey,” she was calling softly. She groaned and tried to roll over. She didn’t want to get up yet.
“Tiran,” said her mother again, more firmly this time. Suddenly, Tiran remembered where she was and her eyes flew open.
“What is it?” she asked fearfully, then struggled hastily to her feet. Two guards towered behind her mother. They were dressed in black robes but not hooded. One was a thin young man with straggly hair and a hawk-like nose, probably Tiran’s age. The other was probably in his early thirties, with classically sculptured features
and a broad forehead. He was handsome enough to be a model, but he was scowling blackly at her. Tiran shrank back toward the bed.
“Put your hands out,” the surly guard ordered. Her mother immediately complied and he snapped a pair of heavy manacles on her wrists. Tiran eyed them apprehensively. If she was wearing those things, how would they ever manage to escape? Wasn’t there some way she could get around wearing them?
“Go ahead, Tiran,” encouraged her mother calmly. Tiran shot a glance at her mother. Did her mother have some kind of a plan, or was this more of her implant-encouraged passivity? Finally, she shrugged and held out her hands. Nothing better had occurred to her and she probably wouldn’t get anything but another knock on the head if she resisted.
“Could you tell us where we are going?” her mother asked the guards politely.
The younger guard shifted uncomfortably but the other one just grunted, “The Oman needs you now.”
Her mother seemed satisfied with that, and once again Tiran wanted to remind her mother to fight back.
“Needs us for what?” she challenged, gazing boldly at the younger guard. He blushed and looked away.
“You’ll find out soon enough,” the other guard muttered. “Now shut up, won’t you?”
Grudgingly, Tiran held her tongue. Normally she would have found it easy to keep silent, but today something impelled her to speak up. Maybe it was her mother’s uncharacteristic inaction. Tiran wanted nothing more than to demand angrily that these guards defend their actions. Not that it would do any good. They were implanted just like her mother. For a moment, Tiran considered that as they trudged through the dim hallways after the guards. Were these men acting against their own better judgment? If they didn’t have those implants would they stand up against the Oman, or would they be joining in anyway? Maybe they had families who were worried sick about them. It was an unsettling thought.
Finally, after plodding around corner after corner they reached a plain dark door. Tiran could hear the muffled voices of a huge crowd of people. It could be thousands it was so loud. Where was this place? Where were all those voices coming from? She turned to her mother.
Her mother was standing utterly still, her head cocked and her eyes thoughtful. Obviously she could hear it too. What was going on? Was the Oman going to have them make some kind of public appearance? Maybe he wanted to show them off, gloat a little. Tiran groaned in disgust. Still, she thought more hopefully, that could be a good thing. Maybe it would let somebody know where they were so they could be rescued.
All of a sudden she could hear footsteps echoing down the hallway. Whipping around, she saw another group of people coming toward them. In the dim light she couldn’t make out much, but she was sure that the front two were guards wearing those billowing robes.
They walked closer and Tiran could hear a sharp intake of breath from someone in the middle. They were now close enough that she could tell it was another two prisoners. Then her eyes widened in dismay at the sight of Burke and his sister Shelle.
“‘Lo, Tiran,” greeted Burke morosely, as they drew near the door and stopped. The two new guards moved behind Burke and Shelle so the group was surrounded as they waited at the door. Burke looked awful, not at all like his normal jovial self. His bottom lip was split and puffy, and his left eye was blacked and swollen shut. He had long scratches down the side of his face. Shelle also looked like she had been in a terrible fight. Her face was bruised and it looked like a clump of her hair had been ripped right out of her head.
“What happened to you?” Tiran breathed.
“We got ambushed during our trip to the Den, and . . .” Burke started to explain, but then one of the guards snapped tersely, “Shut your trap.” The guard glared around at all of them ordering, “I don’t want to hear a word out of any of you.” Burke’s mouth closed and he looked at the ground.
“Oh, go shove your nose up a chimney,” retorted Shelle, obviously not cowed. “What more are you going to do to us, eh? You think we’re going to plot some kind of rebellion now?” She snorted. “Have to keep us quiet or we might wake up those dead lumps you call your brains.” The guard muttered back under his breath but didn’t do anything else.
“That’s what I thought,” Shelle finished with a sneer.
Tiran laughed before she could help herself. Her mother turned to her and shook her head warningly.
“You must be Andrea Morten,” Shelle observed, turning to her mother. Her mother nodded with a tentative smile.
“The famous Sirra Bruche in the flesh,” Shelle commented. “Did you know I hated you for years?” she continued conversationally. Tiran flashed a nervous look at her mother, whose brow had furrowed. “Course I didn’t have much good reason,” explained Shelle. “Only that my smuggling business was pretty much killed when the Union came in. Wasn’t really your fault though. Amazing what propaganda will do to a person,” Shelle remarked without rancor. “Take these slugs,” she continued, pointing over her shoulder at the guards. “Probably hate us all, thinking they’re doing everyone a favor by ridding the world of us. Not a shred of decency or honor left in their souls. A pathetic lot, really.”
Tiran suppressed a hysterical giggle again. Her scowling guard was studiously ignoring everything Shelle said, but the color was rising in the cheeks in the two back guards. The younger one was staring determinedly at the floor. Shelle was definitely a difficult person to subdue.
“Where are we?” Tiran asked the group. Her guards remained silent but Shelle chuckled without humor.
“This is the Mazor Theater. They used to hold plays for the Nobles here before the Revolution. The Oman uses it when he has something special planned for his followers,” she explained drily. From the other side of the door Tiran could hear a loud voice and then thunderous applause. It sounded like some kind of rally was going on. She edged closer to the door, trying to make out the words.
However, scuffling footsteps announced another prisoner, and Tiran swiveled to see a single person being led by two more guards. For a moment her heart jumped into her throat. It wasn’t Zaq was it? She looked worriedly at Burke and Shelle. If they had been captured during their raid of the Brotherhood’s hideout, where was Zaq? He hadn’t been . . . but no, she couldn’t even think it. Then with relief she realized the new prisoner was a woman.
Her relief suddenly dissolved into horror.
It was Sister Marna from the Women of the Tender Heart.
“Oh, surely not,” Sister Marna whispered softly as she locked eyes with Tiran. Tiran’s heart throbbed painfully. Had she led the Brotherhood straight to Sister Marna? Was it her fault that all these people were standing here in this bleak, drafty hallway?
She started to ask Sister Marna what had happened, when a knock sounded at the door. The guards turned around and roughly forced the prisoners into a line. Then the first guard opened the door and led them through.
A sudden roaring swept into Tiran’s ears and a bright light blinded her. She stumbled after her mother, nearly tripping as she made her way up a wooden staircase. The roaring finally coalesced into the cheering of hundreds of people. Tiran’s eyes adjusted, and she anxiously surveyed the scene before her. They were being led onto a huge wooden stage. Staring out from the stage she could see a room filled with rows and rows of people, all wearing dark robes and yelling, clapping, hissing, or jeering. She could see some of the front row and the faces looked deranged. They leered at Tiran, mouths opened as they shouted, their eyes feverish and red. It was as if she had been forced on display in a room full of demons.
Huge pillars had been erected at the back of the stage with flames spouting from the tops. The smoke burned her nose and made her eyes water. Squinting, she saw a raised pedestal in the center of the stage with five wooden contraptions of some kind placed before it. On the pedestal she recognized the Oman. Othar Eshude was standing with his arms raised in a V and his eyes closed a
nd his chin lifted high. A spotlight kept him brightly illuminated.
The guards led each of the prisoners to a place behind one of the wooden contraptions, and Tiran saw that they vaguely reminded her of the stocks that used to be used to punish runaway slaves by immobilizing them for hours on their knees. Only there were no holes for her hands. She knew that couldn’t be a good sign. Was this it then? Was it a public execution?
Behind her the Oman spoke, his harsh voice echoing through the room.
“Tonight we witness the bounty of the most wonderful Veshti! He has provided us with not only one, but five of the most heinous blasphemers to walk the planet of Corizen.”
Tiran listened in disbelief. I am a heinous blasphemer? Look in the mirror, she thought rebelliously. Unfortunately the crowd didn’t seem to agree. They were cheering madly at this inflammatory beginning. She glanced sideways at her mother who was standing in front of the center stockade. Did her mother agree with it too? The light reflected off a tear dripping slowly down her mother’s cheek, and her eyes were squeezed shut in obvious pain.
“Now we will give them a final chance to confess in the hopes that Veshti may find it in his heart to forgive them. Then we will send them to the bar of justice that awaits them after this life,” thundered Othar.
“Sven Burke, traitor to the Brotherhood, do you wish to confess to your sins?” demanded Othar. Burke was positioned to the far left. Tiran craned her neck to get a glimpse of him. He was slouching in front of the stockade, his head drooping. His guard stood just behind him hefting some kind of heavy glinting weapon in his left hand. Tiran swallowed nervously. Risking a quick glance behind her, she caught sight of the youngest guard positioned a foot behind her. He too held something that looked like it might be a large sword.
Corizen Rising Page 30
