Seven

They drove back to Jaipur where their jet awaited to fly them to Riyadh. The journey to the airport had been a silent one, Bane lost in tangled thoughts of his return to the pit and all the memories—good and bad—that it had reawakened. Ducard conversed briefly with Temujin, but even the often loquacious Mongol had little to say. The overall mood continued after they were safely in the air and a meal was provided.

Ever since Bane had recovered enough from his injuries to eat solid foods—prepared especially for his debility, of course, and preceded by an injection of morphine—he ate alone. This practice arose not simply because he did not want to spoil the appetite of others who might find his unmasked deformities unsettling but because of his aversion to putting any weakness on display, no matter how benevolent the company. Old prison habits die hard, and his return to the pit had increased his sensitivity to survival tactics. So while the others ate together, quietly talking, Bane turned his chair with its tray toward the nearest window and stared out over the placid clouds beneath their blue dome of sky.

Once he was through with the uncomfortable process, he replaced the mask, eager to directly partake of the opiate again. Without it, the demons of the pit had seemed stronger within his memories. With the drug flowing through his senses once more, the echo of his grandfather's dying scream did not prod his conscience.

After the meal, Bane drifted off into restless sleep, only to awaken a short time later, feeling stiff and sore from the day's work. He found Ducard—seated across the aisle from him—studying him. Seeing Bane awake, Ducard gave him a tight, self-conscious smile before returning his attention to a copy of the Wall Street Journal. Behind them, Temujin and the other men dozed in their reclined seats.

Bane said nothing for a time, aware again of the uncomfortable silence between them since leaving the prison. He told himself that he was imagining things, yet the longer he sat there, with neither of them saying anything, the more agitated Bane grew until at last he could remain silent no longer.

When he spoke, it was as softly as possible for the sake of privacy, yet with enough volume to be heard over the sounds of the jet.

"You think I was wrong to kill him, don't you?"

Ducard was unable to completely hide his surprise at this question. Resting the paper against his thighs, he considered Bane for a long moment. Whenever he did this, Bane squirmed inside, not out of embarrassment or unease, but because he worried that Ducard found something lacking in what he saw.

"Your grandfather was a corrupt, immoral man," Ducard said at last in that unique voice of his, one that could be as soft as Bane's mother's one moment then ferocious and intimidating the next. "Ridding society of such a man is never wrong."

Bane expected Ducard's words to make him feel better but instead they only troubled him, knowing that others saw his grandfather as a monster, just as he did, and that the same blood flowed through his own veins. What would he become in time?

"But you think I should have killed him before bringing him back to the surface."

Ducard thoughtfully folded the Journal and set it aside. "Vengeance so personal must be meted out in whatever fashion the aggrieved party feels is appropriate, Bane. No doubt when I came to the prison after Talia's escape, you thought me cruel to kill all who lived there, both those who had butchered my wife and those who had no hand in it."

"I didn't care," Bane truthfully replied, shivering involuntarily at the memory of his physical state when Ducard had first appeared at his side in the pit.

When Ducard did not respond right away, Bane forced himself to look at him again, not stare like a weak child at the seat in front of his own.

A frown turned down the corners of Ducard's thin-lipped mouth. "You work very hard at not caring, Bane. That is what you want others to believe—that you don't care. But I see something different in you, and not just because of my daughter. If you truly did not care, if you did not feel anything, then it would not have been so important to you to kill your grandfather the way you did—a very personal, calculated end. People who kill in such a way often feel the most, care the most. It's those emotions that fuel the drive for justice."

Ducard's insight alarmed Bane, though he buried this reaction as best as he could, turning momentarily away before impelling his gaze back to the big man to prove that he was not made vulnerable by his words.

"You did not kill him just out of anger for what he had done to your mother," Ducard continued, the gentle understanding in his tone chipping away at Bane's veneer. "Your anger is much broader than that." He glanced downward, gave a small sigh before meeting Bane's eyes once again. "You are a man of fortitude to have returned to the prison. I was there only a brief time, but it troubles me still to reflect upon it when I consider how my family suffered there." Ducard paused. "Perhaps now that you have recovered from your injuries, you can tell me more about my wife, about her life after we were separated."

The request certainly was not unexpected; Ducard had told him shortly after rescuing him that he would one day ask about Melisande's life in the pit. And though Bane felt privileged to be able to share such information with his rescuer, he also felt awkward because of his own love for Melisande. How often he had remained awake on his cot at night, imagining that he were sharing it with her. He had even convinced himself that as he matured and the years slipped past, fading her husband from her memory, Melisande would come to desire him in the same way. The hope had never seemed foolish or farfetched at all to him until he had met her husband. But he told himself even now that he would one day be a man as formidable and respectable as Henri Ducard, someone Melisande would have indeed coveted.

When Bane did not immediately respond to his inquiry, Ducard said, "If it bothers you to speak of that place, I understand—"

Quickly Bane shook his head. "No…it's fine." He collected himself. "It's the least I can do for you—to share what I remember of her—considering all that you've done…are doing for me…and Talia."

A mild smile softened Ducard's features, and he graciously bowed his head.

Yet Bane found it suddenly very difficult to conjure words to describe the life Melisande had shared with him. His conscious effort to remember details of their five years together nearly overwhelmed him, the force of his emotions taking him by surprise.

Ducard seemed to sense his struggle, hastened to encourage him by beginning with, "Talia told me that their cell was next to yours."

Bane nodded. "It was my mother's cell…where I lived, I mean. I was lucky to be able to keep it after she died; I was afraid that I might be forced to take another cell farther back in the prison, away from the shaft. The man who used to live in the cell next to me before Melisande arrived…" He faltered, unsure whether to tell Ducard about killing the Vulture, not because he was ashamed of his actions but because he did not want Ducard to inquire as to the circumstances surrounding the murder. "Well…that man…he died just before Melisande got there."

"Having seen the place, I imagine her fear was overwhelming…" Ducard shook his head, momentarily closed his eyes. "And to think it was all because of me."

"She never blamed you. And, yes, she was afraid, but she recovered quickly…in fact, remarkably so, especially considering the lifestyle she had led up until then, her family's wealth."

"Yes, indeed they are wealthy, but Melisande's life was not her own. She was as much a prisoner of her father in her own home as she was in the pit. And her spirit…" He smiled broadly now, his blunt teeth catching the sunlight through a nearby window. "Well, no doubt you learned of her lively temperament quickly enough. She was a brave woman to choose me over her father."

"Yes, she was very brave. I saw it the first day I met her. It made me admire her. Many of the men who came to the prison couldn't accept their fate; it destroyed them physically and emotionally. But Melisande…I could tell she wouldn't let that happen." Bane hesitated then forced himself to admit, "It was her memories of you, her hope to one day be reunited that got her through those first days. I was a friend to her, as she was to me. My mother hadn't been dead long when Melisande arrived, so you can understand how we appreciated each other's company, both of us having lost the person we cared about the most. Then when she discovered she was pregnant with Talia, it gave her even more reason to live."

"She was not aware of her pregnancy when she entered the pit?"

"No."

Ducard frowned. "Perhaps if she had known beforehand then she would not have been so selfless and taken my place. She would have rightfully put our child first."

"Yes, but would her father have allowed the baby to live? Maybe, in some tragic way, it was better that she was in the pit instead of you. This way Talia survived…and so did you."

"But at what price? If only I had known what Melisande had done for me."

"What happened to you after her father exiled you? Since you thought Melisande alive, did you try to contact her afterwards?"

Now Ducard's expression closed, an all too familiar effort that hid his feelings as completely as Bane's physical mask hid many of his emotions. Bane feared that he had somehow insulted the man.

"I was very familiar with her father's brutality; as you no doubt know, I had worked for him for several years after I had left the army. I feared for Melisande's safety if I tried to return; her father made his intentions very clear to me. And Melisande herself had made me promise that I would not attempt to forcibly reunite us; she said her father would kill me."

"Why didn't you kill him and take Melisande away with you?"

One corner of Ducard's mustache twitched with surprising amusement. "Prison taught you much about the ways of men, Bane, and though some of what you learned translates easily to the world above ground, you must know that you have much to learn yet. You have romantic notions, perhaps from those stories you read to Talia over the years. But I assure you that such notions will quickly be quashed by reality. And the reality of Melisande's father was that, even if he were dead, he would still find a way to punish both Melisande and me. And if I would not listen to his threats—lethal as they were—I listened to Melisande's wishes. Ah, but don't misjudge me when it comes to my depth of feeling for my wife; I always believed that in time, if we waited patiently, the tide would turn and carry us back to one another." He winked. "My romantic notion."

Bane could not help but smile beneath the mask, for he knew that he too—if he had been Ducard—would have had the same hopes when it came to Melisande. How could any man who knew her as he had not have such dreams?

"But if you both feared her father so much, why did you marry in the first place?"

Ducard shrugged one shoulder. "We were young and foolish; Melisande was even younger than I—ten years separated us. We thought in time we could reveal our secret and that her father would accept it by then. After all, I was a valuable asset to him and, equally important, we had a level of esteem for one another. But he viewed my marriage to Melisande as a betrayal. Truth be told, I had hesitated to marry her for all those reasons, but—as I said—Melisande was even more headstrong than I. Her fire…it was one of the things that attracted me to her, her boldness, her fearlessness. She chafed under her father's strict Islamic beliefs. She dreamed of running away to the West, of going to university." Wistfully, Ducard smiled. "She wanted to study law and become an activist for women's rights."

"Yes, she told me." Bane checked this immediate, almost defensive response. Making it plain to Ducard that he, too, knew all of Melisande's hopes and dreams was perhaps not the right path. He remembered the words of his closest friend in prison—a German, nicknamed Hans—who educated him about the jealousies of men when it came to possessing a woman (or believing that they could possess her). Hans had warned Bane against becoming too close with Melisande, explaining that the other prisoners could very well resent him for it. Of course Bane had been helpless against falling in love with the beautiful woman, and not surprisingly Hans had been correct in his assumptions about the other prisoners.

To smooth over his selfish reply, Bane added, "I see so much of Melisande in Talia."

Ducard nodded. "Yes. She is as remarkable as her mother, even at such a young age. Of course, growing up as she did, she is more adult than child, even at ten, as I'm sure you were at that same age." He hesitated, and distinct guilt darkened his expression. "Was the birth difficult? Were there any complications?"

"Doctor Assad referred to it as a normal delivery."

Ducard shook his head. "To go through such a thing alone…there especially."

"She wasn't alone," Bane assured. A statement that served the dual purpose of consoling Ducard as well as establishing his own importance in Melisande's life, a status that rivaled that of a husband. He could not help himself. These motivations made Bane realize for the first time that he bore a certain level of resentment toward Ducard for his life of ease compared to his wife's existence…compared to his own. Regardless of the reasons Ducard had just provided for his ignorance of Melisande's imprisonment, a part of Bane found it difficult to accept them.

"You assisted with the birth? I assumed the doctor—"

"The doctor delivered Talia, yes, but I helped; he taught me everything he knew about medicine. I'm the one who washed Talia and wrapped her in…" He thought of Melisande's blanket tucked away in his pack, still feared Ducard reclaiming it. "I swaddled her and gave her to Melisande. She was so happy. I've never seen anyone so completely happy. It was like she had always known Talia, like they were being reunited after a long time apart."

Ducard stared, unseeing, toward the forward bulkhead. "If only I could have seen them together… How fortunate you were, Bane. I know that must sound strange to you now but…you witnessed a miracle, one that I will never see."

"She spoke of you then. She wished you were there. She so wanted you to see your daughter."

One corner of Ducard's lips twitched. "And so I finally did…thanks to you." The words, though genuine, did not resonate with particular warmth but instead with something close to veiled bitterness. Bane understood this, however, for it was the same bitterness he felt for not being able to save Melisande from her rapists.

Self-conscious, Bane brushed aside Ducard's gratitude and told him all he could about his family, recounting Talia's first steps, her first words—Mama, followed closely by Ba-ba, a revelation that brought fresh pain to Ducard's rawboned face; he would know that baba in Arabic meant father. Bane told him of the inmate who had snatched the infant from his arms in the shaft one day and had threatened to extort Melisande's family for ransom, an attempt that was foiled by Bane with the help of two of his allies. This kidnapper had been the second man whom Bane had killed, a detail he did not share. He explained how they had carefully kept Talia's gender a secret, how Melisande had named her daughter Henri for that very purpose. Though Ducard had previously learned of his daughter's dual identity from Talia herself, he now smiled with fresh satisfaction in hearing how his wife had honored him.

Bane told of the two occasions before Talia's birth when he had succumbed to Melisande's desire to leave her cell under the cover of night and accompany him into the shaft so that she might see the sky again. Afraid that Ducard might think him reckless, Bane omitted the fact that an inmate had attacked them during their second venture. He described how Talia used to badger them both relentlessly to be allowed into the stepwell, a wish that had been vehemently denied by Melisande who found it difficult enough to allow Talia out of her safe reach to visit Bane's or the doctor's cell with Bane as an escort. After Talia had witnessed the attack upon her mother, her adventurous craving had been dampened, and she refused to leave Bane's cell for some time. Eventually, though, her liveliness and curiosity had bloomed once more, and she asked Bane to carry her into the shaft. From that day forward, she accompanied him there every day.

Ducard listened with keen interest, displaying both amusement and concern, but when Bane reached this portion of his narration, Ducard's expression took on a new level of gravity, and he quietly asked, "You must tell me how she died. I want to know everything."

Bane frowned, slightly uneasy not just over the prospect of subjecting Ducard to such pain but at subjecting himself to the horrific, guilt-inducing memories as well.

"Can you do this for me, Bane?"

He returned his attention to Ducard, tried to garner strength from the man's persuading nod. An involuntary clench of Bane's jaw brought fresh pain, reminding him again of his deformities, of the beating that had led to them.

"You don't need to spare me," Ducard continued. "I need to hear it. I need to share what she suffered for my sake." When Bane hesitated longer, Ducard glanced back at their sleeping comrades, then urged, "Please."

Bane would have given anything to remain silent, to never have to relive that day or feel the inconsolable sorrow, the unbearable failure on his part to protect Melisande. It was that guilt that enabled him to finally speak, to punish himself all over again.

"Long before that day, even before Talia was born," he began haltingly, "Melisande asked me to care for Talia if anything was to ever happen to her. Of course, I promised her that I would, that I would protect Talia until my last breath." He faltered. "I never expected that it would come to that."

Slowly, excruciatingly he told of how the doctor had entered Melisande's cell when Talia had complained of a stomach ache, of how the physician had been urgently called away to treat a gravely ill prisoner and in his haste forgot to lock Melisande's door behind him.

"I was in the shaft at the time. I heard her scream. By the time I got to her cell four men were already inside and more were coming from every direction. Talia attacked one of the four with a knife. He turned on her, but I knocked him down and carried her away." He bowed his head. "I'm sorry I couldn't help Melisande. I wanted to…"

Ducard's big hand reached across to rest upon Bane's shoulder. "You did the only thing you could do. You saved my daughter."

"Maybe I should have locked her in my cell then tried to help Melisande—"

"Then Talia would have watched you both die. She would have been alone." Ducard's hand squeezed once before letting go. "You did the right thing. You kept your promise."

"I never should have left them that day." His voice trembled; his fingers twitched. "I should have stayed in my cell until Assad left them."

"Bane. Listen to me. Look at me."

Blinking the tears from his eyes, Bane reluctantly turned, embarrassed by the unexpected rush of emotions in front of this man.

"You have nothing to be ashamed of. You did nothing wrong." Ducard frowned. "I'm sorry; I never should have asked you all this so soon after… Forgive me."

Bane nodded in misery and diverted his gaze. The ruination of his nose burned from the influx of moisture due to his tears. He tried to discreetly sniff and swallow; an awkward, painful effort.

"I know you loved Melisande."

Ducard's statement froze Bane, stifled his breath. He stared at the seat in front of him, tried to decipher the man's tone and true meaning. Ducard hesitated before continuing, as if to give Bane a chance to accept or deny what he had said, but Bane dared to do neither.

"If there was anything that any mortal man could have done for her that day, I know you would have done it. I have no doubt."

Bane sensed it then. Subtle, but it was there. Could he call it resentment? It had the feel of resentment, yet… Shame was in it as well. Perhaps shame was its foundation, to have someone—a stranger—risk his very life for a family that was not his own, a family that Ducard could have known if only he had asked the right questions, gone against his wife's wishes, taken matters into his own hands.

When their gazes met again, this time it was Ducard who frowned and turned away, though Bane saw him fight against the weakness. Yet in that brief moment Bane realized Ducard saw not his daughter's rescuer but instead the physical embodiment of his own tragic failure to save his wife from a hellish end.