Stolen Innocence

Chapter 3

Talia listened to the dying wind against the windows of her bedroom and thought of Temujin and Bane, wondered where they were, how far they had gone in their journey. Then she returned her attention to the letter to her grandmother and wrote down her thoughts on the matter as she sat in bed, propped up by several pillows, a textbook across her thighs acting as a desk. Her mother's blanket covered her legs; this and a fire blazing in the hearth kept the evening's chill at bay.

She wrote to Maysam regularly, her letters carried off the mountain by various League members leaving on missions, including her father, to reach their final destination in Rajasthan, India, through a variety of channels that ensured the letters' origin was untraceable. This was not the only secret aspect of her correspondence. Though Maysam knew the letter-writer to be her own grandchild, the writer's familial connection was unknown to anyone else who might read the letter. And, of course, there was always someone else who read it before Maysam, not the least of which was Talia's grandfather, Siddig El Fadil.

Siddig knew nothing of his granddaughter's existence, having been unaware of Melisande's pregnancy when he had condemned her to the pit prison following her marriage to Henri Ducard. When Talia had located her grandmother, Maysam wisely kept her husband from learning the truth and continued to do so in order to ensure Talia's safety from the vengeful warlord, who would not be pleased to learn that Ducard's seed lived and might one day bring shame upon his family. So whenever Talia wrote to her grandmother, she did so as a poor orphan girl, a grateful beneficiary, whom Maysam had once saved from a life of slavery and poverty. Through their clever code words Talia could tell her about life with her father without incriminating him. In her letters Bane was a brother called Haris, an Arabic name meaning protector, which Maysam had bestowed upon him when she had met him years ago.

Talia paused in her writing to reach for a framed photograph that sat on her nightstand, next to Temujin's ivory elephant. Smiling, she held the picture before her, admiring her grandmother's dark beauty, so like Melisande in many features. The sight of her, the memory of Maysam's strength of character, eased some of Talia's sadness.

Her thoughts drifted back to the last time she had seen her grandparent. It was the day before her father came to claim her. Since contacting her kin after her escape, Talia had been secreted in a village not far from the palace compound where Melisande had grown up. Her grandmother had visited her three times during the two weeks Talia had been there, doing so at great risk to herself, her journeys concealed from her husband. When she came for the final time, fear had gripped Talia, the fear of again losing a maternal guardian. She knew little of her father, only what her mother and grandmother had told her, and she could tell that Maysam did not like her son-in-law. Of course Talia never asked why, nor did Maysam expound, but Talia figured it was simply because Henri Ducard's insertion into her life and her daughter's life had ultimately led to Melisande's suffering and murder and thus the suffering of Maysam's only grandchild. So when Maysam held her for the last time and kissed her goodbye, Talia had wept, though she had tried not to do so, for she knew her grandmother did not want to leave her, that she would have taken her into her own home if there had been any safe way to manage it.

"You mustn't be afraid, habibati," Maysam said, wiping away Talia's tears with her hijab. "Your father will be here tomorrow. He's very excited to meet you. He will love you, I promise. How could he not?"

"What if I don't like him?"

"You will. Your mother loved him very much, so you will, too."

"What if I don't? Could I come back here? I could stay with this family again, and you could come visit me."

Maysam kissed Talia's forehead. "I wish you could, my child, but it's not safe for you or for the people here who are safeguarding you. And it's not right to be away from your family. As your father, Henri has the right of guardianship over you. But we will see each other again, I promise you. And we will write to one another all the time, won't we?"

"Yes, Jiddah," she murmured sadly, her fingers absently playing with the hijab as they used to do with Bane's shemagh. "If Papa doesn't go back to the prison to look for Bane, will you?"

"Your father will do anything you want him to, believe me, and that includes rescuing Bane."

"What if he's dead?" The tears tried to rally.

"You mustn't think that. We both know he is strong."

"But there were so many men. It was horrible. I didn't want to leave him like that."

"There was nothing else you could have done, Talia. And he would not have wanted you to try. He wanted you to be free. That's why he sacrificed himself. You must honor him for that. And when you see him again you will tell him this: whatever he needs, whatever he wants, he can always come to me, no matter what. I will never deny him."

They had held each other a final time, long and tight, both crying by then, crying for each other, crying for Melisande, for Bane.

For the rest of the day, Talia had remained alone, lying on her mat in the room she shared with the children of the family who billeted her, children who were discreetly kept away while she mourned the departure of her grandmother and nursed her hopes and fears of her father's arrival.

The following morning, she ate little. The hours slipped by as she waited in her room, wondering if her father truly would come for her.

The sunlight through the window, the voices of children playing in the street eventually stirred her, and she wandered outside to sit with her back to the earthen wall of the tiny house. There she watched the children of her host family and those of the neighborhood kick around a ball. They knew better than to invite her to play, for she had wanted nothing to do with them since her arrival. To Talia, they were noisy and uncouth, and truth be told they frightened her. They were what she was supposed to be, but she knew not how to be like them, and was not convinced that she wanted to. She wanted only Bane for companionship. She could not stop seeing him that final time when the attacking inmates had ripped the shemagh from his face, revealing his final goodbye upon his full, sweet lips. That was the face she truly saw before her then, not the laughing, shrieking, scuffling village children.

Shortly before noon a vehicle appeared down the street, a street where few cars passed during the day; most of the traffic were people on foot or bicycles. Anxiety and anticipation pulled Talia to her feet, and the children playing in the street snatched up their ball and dispersed to either side to allow the SUV to pass. The white, battered SUV came to a halt in front of the house. Two men inside—one behind the wheel, the other sitting on the passenger side. The children returned to their game.

Talia's fingers pressed against the wall behind her as she peered through the windshield of the SUV. The men were looking at her, but she could not see details through the dirty windshield and the dust swirling around her that the vehicle had stirred up. Fear stilled her breath, and her instincts from the pit told her to run, told her that all men but Bane were inherently bad and wanted nothing more than to harm her as her mother had been harmed.

As if sensing her nearness to flight, the passenger hastened out of the SUV. He did not, however, rush toward her. Instead he moved forward only as far as the front bumper of the vehicle, his eyes locked with hers, his long arms hanging loose at his sides. He was one of the biggest men she had ever seen, someone who would have dwarfed her mother, as he now dwarfed her. Was this her father? She tried to remember her mother's description from years ago and her grandmother's from when she had last seen him ten years ago.

When Talia retreated a step, he lifted one hand to stay her escape and spoke her name, his face softening with hope as he did so. His blue-gray eyes seemed to spark with recognition, and she realized he was seeing his wife in her.

Talia tried to say, "Papa?" but her suddenly-dry throat strangled her.

"Talia." Warily he took a couple of steps toward her as his hand went to his chest. "I'm Henri Ducard. I'm your father. Don't be afraid."

"I'm not afraid," she said without hesitation. Her response was a lie, an instinctive one, the one Bane had taught her long ago in the pit to say to any inmate who tried to intimidate her. But back then Bane had been at her side. Now her protector was lost, a void she could feel like a frigid breeze. Never before had Talia experienced vulnerability such as this.

Her declaration brought a small smile to her father's lips. "Of course you aren't. No doubt you are as brave as your mother."

The invocation of Melisande chipped away at Talia's distrust. A part of her wanted to run to him, as she had always imagined she would when this day arrived. But without Bane here, she was overpowered by colliding emotions, colliding worlds.

Her father crouched down, making himself smaller to her, all the while smiling invitingly, hand outstretched. "I came as quickly as I could when I heard the news from your grandmother. Why don't you fetch your things, and we will be on our way?"

"I don't have any things."

"Very well. I have a room at a hotel not far from here. There are clothes for you there. And anything else you may desire. You need rest before our journey home."

"Home?"

"Yes, your new home with me. It will be a long journey, so you must be strong enough to undertake it."

"But we have to help Bane first."

"Bane? Ah, yes; your friend in prison."

She nodded, took two steps toward him before halting. "We have to rescue him."

"But your grandmother said she fears him dead."

"He's not dead!" She wondered if Maysam had truly speculated such a thing to him, for she certainly had never breathed a word of doubt to her. "He's not. I know it. We must help him."

Her father's thin lips pressed together, and Talia could see that he did not believe her.

Another step closer. "Please…Papa."

His outstretched hand returned to his thigh, and his expression softened with emotion. "Of course, child. I had planned on you directing me to the prison, so the men who harmed your mother can pay for their crimes. I will find your friend and help him in any way I can."

For the first time since escaping the pit, Talia felt a weight lifted from her, and as she looked into her father's welcoming eyes, she no longer felt alone. She went to him then, not headlong but with resolute steps until at last she was in his arms. His embrace was strong like Bane's, his scent much different, overpowering in its newness. But the longer he held her, the tighter she gripped him, afraid that if she let go, he would disappear like a dying dream and Bane would be gone forever.

"Talia," her father's voice drew her back to the present, to her bedroom. He knocked, as he did every night around this time, come to kiss her good night. "Are you awake?"

Frowning, Talia set her grandmother's picture beside her on the bed. She did not answer her father right away. All day she had avoided him, still angry with him for sending Bane on another mission so soon after the last one and worried that he had heard about her poor performance on her exam.

"Talia?"

She sighed. "I'm awake, Papa."

"May I come in?"

Though accepting the inevitable, she hesitated before saying, "Yes."

Her father entered, dressed in his usual dark clothing, lacking only his boots, now wearing instead soft-soled shoes. As he came toward her, his smile was tentative, his eyes searching like the first time they had met, and she knew that he sensed something was wrong. As usual he sat on the edge of her mattress closest to the fire. He picked up the picture of Maysam and set it back on the nightstand.

"You are writing to her?"

"Yes." Talia refused to meet his gaze. "Must you read it?"

"No," he said, his voice soft, the voice he used only with her. "You are mature enough now for me to trust that you will not accidentally reveal too much in your correspondence." He rested his hand on her leg, on the blanket he had given to his wife. "You are no longer a child. You are a young woman whose privacy I will respect."

His words filled her with pride, but still she did not lift her attention from her letter. "Thank you, Papa."

A silence slipped between them, disturbed only by the crackling fire.

"When I went to the dojo today to watch you train, Lao said Sangye told him you would not be there."

Talia swallowed, wished she had a glass of water. "Did you talk to Sangye?"

"No. I decided to wait and talk to you. I thought it best if you were the one to tell me why your physical training was neglected." His index finger tipped her chin up; she knew he hated it when she avoided looking at him. "So…tell me."

She sighed again, knew it was useless. "I did poorly on my exam, so Sangye told me I had to study all day so I can take the test again tomorrow."

"And why did you do poorly? That is very unlike you."

"I just…couldn't concentrate."

"What hindered you?"

Talia figured he knew and that he was just testing her as Sangye had. Their tactics irritated her, but she knew being evasive would get her nowhere with her persistent parent. "I keep thinking about Bane."

"Why?"

"Why? Because I miss him. I thought we would have more time together before you sent him back out into the field."

Now it was her father's turn to sigh. He shook his head.

"There's no need to lecture me, Papa," she grumbled. "Sangye already did. I will study harder."

Her father gently took her textbook, letter, and pen and put them on the nightstand. She steeled herself for what was to come because she knew her entreaty would not stop him from trying to impart some wisdom upon her.

"Do you know why I sent Bane away so soon after his last assignment?"

Shaking her head, Talia crossed her arms to discourage him from taking her hand in an effort to placate her.

"Because of you," he said.

"Me?"

His hand grew heavier upon the blanket. "As I said a minute ago, you are no longer a child. It is time you leave your childhood behind. Bane is a part of that world. You must let him become who he was meant to become. And it is time you separate yourself from him so you may also grow and fulfill your destiny."

"Whatever my destiny is, Papa, Bane will be a part of it."

"Bane is a foot soldier, Talia. You are heir to the Demon. Bane is no more your equal than he is mine. You are meant for greater things. You must recognize and embrace that. As a soldier, Bane will understand."

"You're being unfair to him, Papa. Bane is more than a soldier. He always will be. He's my friend, my protector."

For an instant her father's hand gripped her leg almost painfully. A muscle in his jaw twitched, and his eyes darkened to a stormy blue like hers. "You no longer have a need for Bane's protection. And he no longer has time to fulfill such a role; I will see to that. Your protection comes from me, and once I am gone it will come from the League."

"You're jealous, Papa," she wielded the words like a weapon, voicing what she had suspected for a long time, having waited for just such a moment to use it.

"And you are mistaken, Talia," he said calmly. "The difference between my view of Bane and yours is that I do not allow my passions to rule me, not in this, not in anything else. It is a lesson you must learn in time, and this is the beginning of that lesson. When Bane returns, I will discuss this with him as well, so he understands what I expect of him."

"What do you mean? You can't keep us apart."

"I will not isolate you, no. But there will be a gradual separation. There must be."

"No."

"I have accompanied Bane on two missions, as you know. He has a natural aptitude for such work. He has gained confidence and knowledge from just those two assignments. If you truly care about him, you will let him explore his new-found purpose and freedom. You cannot keep him hooded and caged like your falcon; you must allow him to fly, as he wishes to."

"He doesn't want to leave me."

"Of course not, but he has been fully initiated into the League and knows his obligations, both professionally and personally; he knows he owes me a debt for rescuing him. Don't dishonor him by taking away his ability to repay that debt. Bane wants to prove himself. Can't you see that, Talia? He did not complain about being sent back into the field."

"Of course not. He would never say such things to you; he respects you too much."

"Has he said it to you?"

"No. He's not someone who complains, ever. He's the bravest man I know." She stared challengingly at him, hoping the remark hurt but unable to tell.

"As I said, I will not isolate you from him; that is, unless your studies continue to suffer." He raised an emphasizing eyebrow at her. "However, I expect you not to complain or carry on when he leaves the next time, not to him or anyone else. You do realize, of course, that I could assign him to any other region of the world; he would not return here between missions."

She paled at the thought but somehow managed to keep calm. "You wouldn't do that to me, Papa. Tell me you wouldn't be so cruel to us."

"You see it as cruelty. I see it as a potential necessity. That is where your immaturity shows itself. Every decision I make is for the good of the League. As much as I know separating you from Bane would hurt you and thus would hurt me personally, I am prepared to do what's necessary to ensure the success of every one of our operatives." His expression hardened even more. "You are Bane's friend, yes; but you are my daughter first."

"You don't understand us, Papa," she sulked. "You can't understand. You weren't there in the pit with me and Bane and Mama. He was more than a friend to me, more than a friend to Mama."

"Talia." This time he could not completely conceal his anger—his eyes shone darkly, his nostrils flared, his jaw tightened. "I understand more than you believe. You have used this weapon against me in the past; this will be the last time. Do you understand? I failed your mother, I failed you. It was not done on purpose. I will take that failure to my grave. You don't need to remind me how another man stepped into my place and protected my family."

Though finally cowed, Talia would not apologize, for she was not sorry that she had wounded him. Her only concession to his authority was to lower her gaze and uncross her arms. Her fingers played restlessly with the blanket's fringe.

Her father stood and spoke tersely. "I will leave you to your letter now. And tomorrow I expect to hear of better results from Sangye."

He remained there until she murmured, "Yes, Papa," then he strode from the room without another word…and without a good night kiss.