Chapter Thirty-Seven: Mujir's Resistance

-x-x-x-x-x-

When Sanar opened her eyes, she was ten again. Before Horaire, before the transfer, before even the soldiers. Ten, and Devnos was her annoying, protective, wonderful big brother. Clayra was the lovely, delicate—not fragile—little girl. Mama was only Mama, not the defeated, resigned traitor who told Sanar to bow and scrape and take everything a niftyax deserved.

And Daddy. Wonderful, warm, perfect Daddy. Her hero. Not dead.

"C'mere, Princess," he called.

She saw they were standing on the outskirts of Brin, watching the sun set. Her feet were bare; the skin of her arms and knees were visible. Mama would pitch a fit. Sanar didn't care. She ran forward, reaching for her father's hand. "I miss you," she told him, burying her face in his side.

He chuckled and ruffled her hair. "Silly girl. I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere."

"Yes, you are." She sniffled and looked up at him. Wide eyes, but she could use them to see the Strings of Fate.

As she watched, his expression became stormy. "You should be," he snapped, pushing her away from him. "He killed me, Sanar."

No, she thought. No, he couldn't know about—

"Kyp Durron killed me, and you fell in love with him."

She stumbled back as if physically struck. "No," she whispered. Wide eyes, still just ten, but she could see when she would be older. "I didn't. They tricked me. I didn't know."

"As if the dreams weren't bad enough," he continued, his eyes cold. "No, you had to fall for the man, too."

"That isn't true."

But then he changed, angry to desperate in barely a second. "It has to be," he told her. "Sanar, don't you see it has to be? For Prophecy. For yourself, too, but for Prophecy."

She looked up at him, no longer ten—just Sanar. "You aren't Daddy."

He straightened, shaking his head sadly. "You just don't understand, do you? You don't want to."

The darkness swallowed both Sanar's father and her cry.

Gone. Dark. Alone.

When she opened her eyes, he was there. Her heart stuttered—he was, always had been, so perfect. Knowing the truth, she could only see the lie. But it would be easy—so easy, and so, so wonderful—to believe him again. She turned from him. "Please go away."

"Sanar—"

"Go."

"No," he refused, voice tight. "This is getting ridiculous, Sanar."

"Good. You can go find another girl. You just have to snap your fingers and play with her, right?"

"Wrong. It doesn't work that way. If you won't cooperate, the prophecy will fail."

She scowled at him. "Don't tell me that you didn't manage to think of a backup plan. You had over seven centuries."

"There is only one plan."

"Well, it sucks." Even as she said it, her blood ran cold. The idea of the prophecy failing was… "The Resistance can do it. They'll beat Rafintair."

"Not for many, many years. And not permanently."

"Rafintair is just one man!"

"You must fight fire with fire. Rafintair with Kavishka. The Resistance will not manage in time. Hundreds of thousands—millions, even—will die."

"You're a lie, so everything you say is probably a lie, too." She knew it wasn't. Every time she had seen him, he had given her honesty in absence of his truth.

"It makes no sense for you to be this stubborn," he groused, clearly frustrated. "You love me. You forgave Kyp. And you want this—you always have."

"Not this.

"Exactly this!" he exclaimed, getting in her face. "You set your heart on me years ago, and now that love is returned."

She slumped, rubbing her temples. "It was over two decades ago!"

"It's not as if I just showed up now," he said, affronted. "I've been with you for years. Since Horaire."

Her breath caught, and she stared at him with dazed eyes. She thought of Horaire.

Horaire, and the first time he took an interest—when she was fourteen. Fifteen, nearly sixteen, when he first translated his intentions into action.

"Since…Horaire," she repeated stupidly. Her hands trembled. She couldn't feel anything.

He cupped her face with his hands. His smile was crooked, but not Kyp's broken smile, not his wicked grin. "I was a few years behind you," he admitted quietly. "I was supposed to wait even longer than that. I only made it three years after you and Kyp Durron were chosen. But I couldn't let you go through Horaire alone."

She gasped something like "oh goddess," but not even she could recognize it.

So this was the truth. If this version of Kyp Durron—or the Kavishka, or whoever he was—was perfect (and she knew he had been made to seem so), then he must be honest. Even if they had twisted him to suit a lie, they wouldn't want him to screw this one up. Not this.

Three years. Three years that she knew now were spent with—

"You understand now," he said, interrupting her thoughts. He smiled gently—almost proudly—at her. "I'm so glad," he whispered, coming closer and closer to her. Then closer still—and then he was kissing her, the way he had thousands of times before.

She melted for a moment before realizing what was happening.

("Please," he whispered. Begged. "Please."
Two steps brought her to him, and she crouched next to him. "Hush," she replied. Very gently, she pushed some of his hair out of his eyes. "Always," she vowed.
For a second, she saw him; for an eternity, she found the one for whom she would wait a lifetime.
There would never be another—none true.
But she would not recall his face in the morning, and she would never remember his name. Not even when she, herself, spoke it in the most loving—the most desperate—of prayers.)

She pushed him far enough away to break the kiss and discourage his trying again. She said something, and then blinked. He stared at her, wide-eyed.

She said it again: "Kyp."

And then she woke up.

-x-x-x-x-x-

"Sanar." Kyp shook her shoulder, and gave her a Force nudge. "It's time to wake—"

She startled—"Kyp"—and sat up abruptly. She blinked several times, then stared at him. Her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes bright with—tears, perhaps?

"Are you alright?" he asked, frowning.

She kept staring.

"Sanar?" He squeezed her arm.

She jumped and swallowed. "What?" she barked, dragging her blanket up to her chin. "What d'you want?"

He eyed her sceptically. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," she snarled. "A picture of health. And sanity." He couldn't hear it for once, but he assumed she had meant to add: Unlike you. "So why are you in my tent?"

"Uh, breakfast," he explained, giving her a strange look. "You're sure you're alright?"

"Why do you keep asking that?" She huffed, gave him an odd look of her own, then barrelled on without waiting for his reply. "Do you mind?" she demanded. An eyebrow rose imperiously. "I'd prefer to get changed before seeing anyone in the morning."

"You do that," he grumbled, raking his eyes over her sleep-mussed form one last time. "Maybe change into someone less nightmarish at the same time," he suggested over his shoulder as he left.

She was a few seconds late tossing her pillow at him. Only a few seconds. But something was definitely off about Sanar Klis this morning.

-x-x-x-x-x-

"If we push it, we will be in Quatroc by tomorrow afternoon." Dejah drummed her fingers against her knee as she spoke. "This will leave us just under a week to prepare for our attack."

"Do they have any idea we're coming?" Braun asked. "Or should we be ready to put aside a few days to deal with Geneva?"

Dejah hesitated. "Leave Geneva to me," she finally said. "I'll be going ahead early to make sure she…reacts reasonably well."

"You mean without killing Durron?" Gantik suggested dryly.

"Or you," she retorted.

When Sanar sat across from Kyp, he smirked at her. He expected some response from her, but while Sanar was looking at him (staring, really), she did not react to Dejah's remark.

"I sent Teigra ahead of us," Dejah continued, ignoring Gantik's glare. "When I saw her in Afaloque. Hopefully, our arrival will not be a complete shock."

She continued to speak about technical details, but Kyp stopped listening. Something was wrong with Sanar. No, he corrected himself, not wrong—Sanar had no difficulty raging and reacting when something was truly wrong. But she was…off. Very, very off. Leaning closer to her, he squeezed her knee. "Sanar," he whispered.

She startled (again) and blinked (again). "Yeah?" she whispered back.

He moved to sit next to her. She looked slightly uncomfortable with proximity. He figured she could move if it bothered her; she always had before.

She didn't move. Her expression was still very odd.

"What is this?" he asked.

"What do you mean?" Her eyes were too steady on him.

"You're acting very strangely."

She flushed deep red. "It's nothing," she mumbled, averting her eyes.

"Did you sleep alright?" he asked uncertainly. She had refused his help with a healing trance the night before.

"I don't really feel like talking to you now," she said. And she moved to take his former seat.

She didn't look at him again until after breakfast. Then she forgot that her behaviour was visibly uncharacteristic, and she continued it.

Something was very off with Sanar today.

-x-x-x-x-x-

Dejah wasn't particularly fond of the Geneva's antechamber. It was buried deep in the heart of the Resistance's underground headquarters, but claustrophobia wasn't the problem. It was the other women—always several of them, some working together on one of Geneva's tasks, many of them waiting for their leader's attention. And always they stared at her, wondering. This afternoon (and always), Dejah sighed and did her best to look trustworthy. Or at least worthy. These women had seen her several times before this; they knew that Dejah was one of them. Unfortunately, it took more than that to gain a personal audience with Geneva. Dejah wanted to leave an uprising as the last possible option for dealing with Geneva. They would all be busy enough over the next several days without trying to replace or go around Geneva. Besides, Dejah doubted that even Prophecy would hold up against the formidable Geneva Tal.

"Has she said how much longer?" she asked one of the aides.

The answer, such as it was, was prompt. "If you have somewhere else to be…"

Dejah focused on not frowning. "I must speak with her," she repeated. It felt like the thousandth time since she had ridden ahead of the group into Quatroc. "It is crucial that she hear me out."

The aide sighed; she had heard this same plea many, many times. Half of those events had been followed up by decidedly less than crucial information. "Well, today you are not the only one. Until Geneva is finished debriefing her current appointment, you will have to wait."

It was on the tip of Dejah's tongue to demand an audience as a messenger from Niha. The elderly priestess had more power over Geneva than anyone else. But Dejah needed the Resistance leader in a good mood, which wouldn't happen if she forced herself upon the single most headstrong woman on the planet.

Instead, she only repeated herself: "It is very important."

Nearly two hours later, Dejah returned from a quick water break to find Geneva waiting impatiently in the antechamber. "Well, Dejah?" she said. "They tell me you've been demanding an audience. For hours."

"Four of them," Dejah agreed flatly. "Yes, ma'am. I have some very important information for you."

"Did the lady Niha get sick of you? Pack your bags and send you back to me?"

Dejah's lips tightened. "She sent me to assure you of her support for this information."

Geneva raised an eyebrow at "support," but nodded to her office door. "Very well, then. I have a few minutes."

"Thank you."

-x-x-x-x-x-

When she finished explaining the prophecy-pertinent details, Dejah sat back in her chair with no small trepidation. She had done her best to set a good base for the Kavishka. She could only react from here on out.

Geneva Tal was a tall woman, and she used every inch of her height to lord over Dejah now. She had striking—but hardly attractive, truth be told—features. At the moment, they were all set in their most impassive look. "The Kavishka," she said after several moments. "From Niha's prophecy."

Dejah nodded shortly. "Yes, ma'am. She was quite certain."

"Niha is an old crone who still holds out for a male saviour and a silent goddess," Geneva retorted coldly. "Does he claim to be the Kavishka?"

Dejah deliberately ignored the jibes about Niha and Mujir. "Yes. Sanar Klis also supports him."

Geneva raised an eyebrow. "A Klis?"

"Yes, ma'am." She remembered something Niha had told her, and made a clarification. "Jarran Klis' favoured daughter."

"I suppose you mean to differentiate this Sanar from her mother and brother."

An image of Clayra Whilem flashed before Dejah's eyes. "From all but her father," Dejah replied evenly.

"If she and her father were so alike, then why does she not have my position? Or at the very least, a part in the Resistance?" Geneva saw spies everywhere.

"She was exiled from Na'Lein'yhpaon ten years ago," Dejah explained. "Before you took over."

Geneva raised her eyebrow pointedly.

"She killed the High Priest Horaire. She was only barely saved by a foreigner's intervention."

"This Kavishka?" the MR leader asked sceptically.

"No. Someone not part of the group. A Lord Onicks, or something similar." Dejah hesitated and then said, "Sanar has no reason to like the Kavishka. He was the one who killed Jarran Klis when he had been exiled."

"One of the emperor's men," Geneva hissed.

"No," Dejah denied. "An outsider."

Geneva's face closed. "Which is nearly as bad."

Dejah said nothing, only waited.

"This isn't the first I've heard of him," Geneva finally, grudgingly admitted. She stood, and walked to the other side of her office. She knocked twice on a wall. "Gaffil Jir apparently died at his hands, just the other day."

"That's—" strange, Dejah had intended to say, because the Kavishka had claimed it would take longer than a few days. At that moment, however, a familiar woman stepped through a hidden door. Dejah's mouth clicked shut. "Isra," she greeted after a moment, unnerved. "How are you?"

Isra crossed her arms across her chest, and leaned against a wall. "Dejah." She didn't answer the polite inquiry.

Dejah mustered up something that vaguely resembled a smile. She had thought Isra was two steps away from assassination, and certainly on the verge of being replaced. Seeing her now in Geneva's office, however, clearly refuted that rumour.

"Before his death, Gaffil transferred Isra to General Alon's staff." Geneva gave the spy a look that was both disgruntled and vaguely pleased. "She will be very useful by the end of the week."

"Oh?" Dejah said, taking in this new development.

"When we attack the Holy City," Geneva finished.

"On 777?" Dejah asked, her eyes wide.

"Rafintair plans to attack us on the anniversary," Isra said. "Instead, we are going to take advantage of the soldiers' spread."

"Well, now you have the Kavishka."

To Dejah's surprise, Isra's face softened. "Yes, we do," the spy agreed. At seeing Dejah's surprise, Isra clarified. "I saw Gaffil before he died. I believe."

I believe. Dejah flinched as if struck. That Isra could say it, and Dejah could only hope it…

When Dejah raised her eyes, Geneva was studying her. "You can bring him here. If he isn't a spy, we will even let him fight. But don't let him think for a second that he can take over."

"He has never shown any such intention."

"He is a man," Geneva said flatly. "And this is Na'Lein'yhpaon. Prophecy cannot change either of those."

"Yes, ma'am." Dejah wondered what Isra, with Gaffil and the rumours, thought of that. The spy's expression was too perfectly blank to tell. Dejah couldn't blame the other woman if she was keeping her head down around Geneva lately.

Dejah continued before Geneva could chide her inattention. "I will bring them here tonight."

"Bring them late," Geneva ordered. "Just ahead of the curfew guards. If they are discovered, you will get no help from us."

From us. So there was the line in the sand between Dejah and the real Resistance. Dejah swallowed her irritation and bowed. "Yes, ma'am. I understand. Just before curfew."

Geneva flicked her wrist. "You can both see yourselves out. Tell the next emergency to come in after you."

Dejah and Isra both bowed and left the room, Isra taking the rear. They parted ways several corridors later. Isra's hand brushed Dejah's arm before she went deeper into the Resistance tunnels. It could have been an accident, but Dejah thought the spy had squeezed her arm in support. In belief.

-x-x-x-x-x-

That evening, Krista had to don the traditional female wear, which made her about as happy as Dejah had been after her meeting with Geneva. The majority of the group tried to give Krista wide berth as soon as she picked up the robes and scarves. "So, I really don't like these things," Krista remarked to one of the brave few. She scowled at her head scarf. "They give me hat hair. And get in the way."

Miko snickered, and gestured her closer. "Come here." Even as she took four steps, the scarf loosened and fell in her eyes. "You have it on wrong, see?" Painstakingly following his memory of Clayra's instructions, Miko straightened out the head covering. His knuckles brushed Krista's cheek as he fiddled with the material. "How is that? Does it need to be tighter?"

Braun, who was several feet away, looked over. He swallowed past the memories, and said, "A little tighter." He averted his eyes when the friends looked at him. "And make sure none of her hair is visible. The colour may as well proclaim her a foreigner."

Krista's hands went up to her head, as if to protect the golden locks. "I don't want to dye it."

Miko smirked and batted away her hands. "It's very pretty," he teased her as he re-wrapped her hair. "But don't think I won't personally bleach or darken it if it gets you in trouble." He ran the tips of his fingers over her hairline, tugging the scarf so that it completely hid every hair.

"You just wanna see me without my scarf," she retorted, grinning.

Unnoticed, Braun fondly shook his head at their blatant flirting. He stifled his warning about Krista in Quatroc. "I'll leave you to it," he muttered, wandering off.

He glanced back once to see Krista coming closer to Miko, gently touching his chest. Probably to double check about his wounds (all but healed, but no one just got over such injuries, Force magic or no)—but he didn't doubt that she enjoyed the excuse for contact. Braun remembered that stage. Stars, he thought as he drew his sword to sharpen it. Stars, he remembered it all too well.

He sighed and hunkered down on a boulder. He would never forget—perhaps he was Na'Lein after all.

-x-x-x-x-x-

The watch gave them a strange look—it was late for a group to be returning to Quatroc. Braun nodded sternly at them, and gave every impression of arriving early for the 777th anniversary. The women kept their heads down; the Sildar behaved itself. The watchman nodded them through, and reminded them of the approaching curfew.

Dejah stayed close to Braun, and subtly directed him through the city. Tonight was not the night to be recognized as foreigners. Dejah had stressed it repeatedly. They stayed ahead of any official eyes, but managed to do so by being early. Dejah led them in a loop of several blocks' radius before stopping in front of a simple looking one-storey building.

Casting a final look around, Dejah loosened her scarf so that her face was visible, and knocked on the door. A peek slot slid open thirty seconds later, and a pair of dark eyes scanned the group suspiciously. "It's very late," a male voice pointed out.

Dejah stepped close to the door. "I'm here to see Mother," she whispered back, also in the common tongue. "She begged me to bring my friends, and now I have."

There was a pause, then the slot closed, and the door opened. The group hurried in as quickly as possible. The guard replaced several locks as soon as Clayra had slipped through. "Long time since I let you in," the man remarked.

"I'm surprised you even remembered me," Dejah acknowledged with a faint smile.

"Not many have the gall to claim Geneva begged for their presence." Geneva's husband gave Dejah a twist of his lips. It was Dachien's version of a smile. "Who are they?"

Dejah switched to Basic. "The Kavishka," she pointed to Kyp, "and his retinue. Sanar Klis, Clayra and Gantik Whilem, Krista Harif, Miko Reglia, and Braun Yd." She nodded at Dachien. "And everyone, this is Dachien Tal. Geneva Tal's husband."

Dachien managed a nod of acknowledgement, but quickly returned his focus to Dejah. "She's waiting for you."

"Waiting?" Dejah huffed. Great. "Is she hiding or—?"

"I will lead you there. It is a new office." Geneva changed locales frequently, much to everyone's disgruntlement. It had, however, saved her life before—more than one rival or double agent had planted a bomb only to be disappointed. Theoretically, Geneva always had a permanent office; she just wasn't there very often.

"We would appreciate it." Dejah wanted to pat the poor man's arm, but didn't. "Geneva does not like to be kept waiting."

"No, she does not."

Led by Dachien, the group descended into the heart of the Resistance.