Chapter Forty-One: Pucijir's Morning
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When Holy Emperor Rafintair Jir woke, the morning belonged to Pucijir. All was the way it should be on 777.
777: The holy anniversary, rare for all its power. The day Pucijir's Order would finally break Mujir's grasp on this planet. Crush the paltry resistance, and destroy their desperate grasp on hope.
Surveying his world from the balcony, Rafintair's lips curled in a smile. Pucijir's morning held nothing but promise; today, the faithful would gain their final victory.
The Holy Emperor left his room to pray.
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Kyp Durron hadn't slept well, even when he finally made it to his bed. Somehow, despite his conviction that the events of the previous night and morning had been real, a full day had passed without finding Sanar alone. What few times he had seen her, there had only been the briefest glimpses of her in a protective group.
He could still feel her kisses on his lips—and she had kissed him, unlike that one time years ago when he hadn't really been himself. She couldn't keep ignoring it; she had kissed him, she had started this, she had told him about their dreams and had smiled at him, and she had to face him now. She had to.
But she had been avoiding him ever since she had received that letter, and she could certainly continue her denial today. Even if someone locked them in a closet for an hour, today wasn't the day to figure out a relationship. Kyp could deal with Geneva and Rafintair and the Sildar, or he could deal with Sanar Klis. 777 had trapped him with the first set of struggles.
Warnings—Niha's, Devnos', Jaina's—surrounded his every thought. The truth of Sanar's role in Prophecy (tool or partner, neither really did her proper justice) could be the only problem. It could—but Kyp didn't dare take that chance.
Geneva was probably expecting him to meet with her or Cerile to fine tune the attack on Rafintair.
Kyp left to find Sanar.
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The morning of 777, Krista Harif rolled over on her side and realized she had everything to lose. Miko lay on his side of the bed, a perfect gentlemanlike distance from her—except between their left hands, which were loosely entwined. He was still asleep, red hair mussed and face soft from sleep.
Krista's throat clogged and she bit down on her lip. Everything to lose. She hadn't felt this kind of pre-fight dread in years, and she didn't like it now.
The need to run—run now and far away—swelled. She could wake Miko (she couldn't leave him now, he'd have to come); they could leave before seeing this suicidal mission through. These were horrible odds; Krista had known Kyp Durron too long through Jaina's affectionate, sarcastic eyes to see him as an infallible myth; this wasn't even their fight.
"Miko," she whispered. He stirred, but didn't wake yet. Krista watched him. This wasn't safe enough, not with Miko—
("Then we'll have to do that," Krista replied. "All of us. We're going to make it."
"Krista," Sanar said plainly, "I know at least one person will never leave this planet alive."
And she looked at Miko, and smiled mirthlessly.)
Krista shuddered. They had to leave, she couldn't lose another person, and not…not Miko.
She remembered the worst days of Braun's grief. She could never forget her first day of being an orphan.
But newer memories came to her, too—that kriffing, stifling veil, and the looks, and Veras and Sanar and Dejah and—
No running, then.
No more running. If one of them had to die today—
(I know at least one person will never leave this planet alive)
—it would just have to be her—no matter what Sanar had said. Or not said. Niha had made threatening noises in Krista's direction, too, after all, and Niha was a head priestess and oracle-like person. Krista had a head start.
"Mmph." Miko's eyes opened slowly, sleepily. "Errap sah'rrlee."
She grinned at him (never could help it), and rolled over until she was closer to him (couldn't help it anymore). "You are so not a morning person."
"Grrumphlps?" he mumbled, reaching out with one hand and finding her waist.
"We don't have to get up just yet," Krista told him. "They won't miss us for at least a few hours."
"Mmkay." He pulled her closer, and she smiled and wrapped an arm around him and he was so alive she could feel her heart constricting but she didn't run.
A few more hours. Krista didn't fall back asleep as she waited and watched.
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Braun Yd opened his eyes and loved (missed) his wife.
Rising from his bed, he prepared for the battle.
Love you, Veras. Love you, love you love you loveyouloveyouloveyoulove…
I'll make them pay.
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When Pucijir's morning began, Lerasina Verili was still asleep. She dreamed of Prophecy, and darkness, and things she would never remember upon waking.
Devnos Klis, still trapped in his familial devotion, waited on the shores of the River, and kept a close eye on both Sanar and Lera for if—when—Prophecy struck.
When Lera did wake, it was far earlier than she had planned, but she didn't try to return to her dreams. Today's the day, she thought to Devnos. Isn't it?
Yes.
She rose from her bed, scrubbed her tired face clean in the 'fresher, and stared blankly into the mirror. Finally, she threw the washcloth back onto the sink ledge. "Thank the Force."
Devnos gently brushed her mind. She gave the ghost (mirror) a brittle, commiserating smile. "I know." It had to be worth it, it had to work, it had to. "I know."
She prepared for the day.
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The new Head Executioner slept late and woke disoriented. Clayra remained asleep next to him.
Removing himself from their bedchamber, he stepped out onto a nearby balcony. He had grown up in this house, within sight of the Holy City, next door to one of the High Priest Horaire's estates. If the Resistance won, he had no doubt that this place would be destroyed, burned from history.
He thought of Sanar.
Hated her.
Loved her.
Hated her.
He just—
Gantik returned to his room and Sanar's little shadow sister.
Fine. So be it.
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Lera nearly walked into Nichyn when she stepped into one of the many hallways in Jolesp's house. The Na'Lein teenager caught her, glancing at the door curtain through which she had exited. "Getting an early start on the editing?" he asked curiously.
Then he remembered: "Oh."
She looked shaky and tired. "I can't just sit around thinking about it," she explained.
Funny, Nichyn thought. This was the first time he had looked at Lera and thought of her as fragile. He immediately shook it off, chiding himself for letting his fears change his eyes. Not fragile, no, but something was… For the first time, he saw something Na'Lein in Lera's eyes—but what?
"Well," he said, "we have a big day ourselves, or so I am told."
She looked faintly surprised, then shook her head. "The filming. Right."
"You called it the 'climax,' I believe?" He nodded down the hallway to where Jolesp and the others would be waiting.
She nodded and hooked an arm in his, leaning in a little more than usual. He liked her close, but somehow it reminded him of Élin. He had only met Niha's protégé a few times, but she had been recognizably different from most other Na'Lein women. She wasn't quiet for broken spirit or simmering resentment; she was quietest right before she channelled Mujir's exhausting power into one of the spirit dances.
That was it, he understood suddenly. That was what he had recognized. Lera was gathering all her strength in the calm before the storm.
"Lera," he said uncertainly.
She looked up at him with open, tired eyes. "Hm?"
He hesitated before realizing his own suspicions. "It is over—for you, that is. Isn't it?"
"I told you it was," she replied wearily. "Didn't I? As of a few nights ago, I'm useless."
Nichyn severely doubted Lera's ability (or desire) to lie to him, let alone lie convincingly. He believed her. Releasing his hand from hers, he slipped an arm around her shoulders. "Then we just have to get through today."
She wrapped an arm around his back. "Right."
And yet—and yet he could still see Élin, quiet and subdued and almost wilting before she unleashed herself in the goddess' violent dance.
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Metal clanked against metal as swords and daggers were prepared, and scavenged armour donned. More than one Resistance warrior wore a chest plate of silverware; more arms were protected only by leather-patched sleeves.
Mujir's army went to war this night.
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Dejah Salin had woken early, and prepared and dressed and rehearsed-every-lafit-plan-fifty-times early. She hadn't been able to sleep, and had risen from hours of ceiling-staring to instead be ready.
Should have kept staring at the ceiling, she thought as she watched the refugee fighters dig through the MR armoury. These women had nothing but this place; there were so many of them.
Earlier today, Sanar had briefly dragged Dejah out of the armoury—Dejah had been staring at the wall—for "last minute support tactics." It really was amazing, the fighter considered, that Sanar could be so devoted to making things better for Durron, and yet still avoid him so zealously. They had found their way back here, and now Sanar had to deal with the man. The tension between Sanar and the Kavishka was thicker than ever. Dejah was ready to give up on them, even if Sanar's eyes did follow the Kavishka more obviously than ever.
Right, well, there goes prophecy, Dejah thought. It wasn't the first time, but the clock was ticking down to the final seconds.
The last seconds, and Dejah realized that the Kavishka had finally caught Sanar's hand and was pulling her out of the busy room. Sanar didn't fight it; Dejah refused to try to interpret Sanar's expression for hope's sake. Standing on the precipice with everything to gain after so many years, Dejah found it almost physically painful to hope.
There was everything to gain—or perhaps only the end, the final gasp of their faith. This day, hope was more dangerous than any Holy Brother.
Dejah hadn't prayed yet today.
Mujir guide us and—
She bit her lip hard enough to bleed, and counted backwards from one hundred. Praying and hoping were so closely entwined, and equally risky…terrifying.
Mujir guide and protect us—
Everything to gain, Dejah thought—but what did that mean? If everything tried and known and wrong on this cursed world changed, what would be left? What waited on the other side?
Mujir guide and protect us, lead us through our trying hours so that we may be reborn.
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When everything fell silent, Sanar Klis remembered how she had fallen for this man. She remembered—all too well. And now really wasn't the time for her growth as a person.
He closed the door behind them, then turned to face her. His face was very still. He realized the truth—or at least about the moment—and Sanar felt a surge of guilt and relief. She should really make sure he understood more, but first…first the war.
She glanced around the room he had found. "What's this?" she asked. It was empty—abandoned, more like—but smelled faintly sour. An old work out room, perhaps?
Kyp visibly stopped himself from misunderstanding the question. "Here," he said.
She blinked at him before realizing he held out something for her to take. His lightsaber, to be more precise. She hadn't noticed the extra weapon; the Sildar was sheathed at his hip, while a second, unfamiliar 'sabre hung on the other side of his belt. "Uh, okay?" She misjudged the distance she had to reach; their fingers brushed as she took the lightsaber.
"I borrowed Miko's," he explained, unclipping the second 'sabre from where it hung. "You never really listened when I tried to teach you how to use one of these."
"Jaina didn't exactly let me leave without some help," Sanar started.
"Indulge me in a refresher's course. You'll be using this when Holy Brother's charge us."
"With swords," she pointed out.
"With considerably greater numbers and skill," he countered. "We have two lightsabers, and Prophecy. Otherwise, it's anybody's game."
"We'll win," Sanar insisted.
"I'd settle for you surviving," she thought she heard him mutter.
"Kyp—" She stopped, and reminded herself, Later. "Fine, so, glowy point in the bad guy. What else?"
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Dejah opened her eyes, and realized she was still in the Resistance's haphazard shrine to Mujir. She had stumbled here on her own, but still every breath came hard, and the desire to run built at the pit of her stomach.
This place of worship was nothing beautiful to Niha's abbey. Some leftover brown paint had been splattered on the walls to make it feel warmer, but the colour was fading now to the usual grey clay beneath it. Small icons and candles followed the walls, the former roughly hewn and the latter burned low. A goddess' holy place, showing every one of its abandoned and difficult, heartbreaking years.
Dejah closed her eyes. She and a few others had kept this room up; Dejah knew far more than that small number used it. The faithful, even disenchanted and despairing, still clung to Mujir. Children reached to the Mother.
Leaning forward, Dejah began to pray.
Mother guide and protect us. Lead us through the darkness, and catch us when we stumble…
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Inevitably, their sparring brought them close enough that every memory danced through Sanar's head. Close—his one hand on her shoulder, the other twisting her arm behind her, and her free elbow hooked around his neck. She shuddered to a stop. Kyp had considerably more experience in dealing with this; he watched her through wary eyes.
Oh, well, kriff later, she decided, and tugged him until the distance between them was gone. "Fannari," she whispered. Sorry. He relaxed fractionally against her. Marginally, but she could deal with that. She could talk quickly and sensibly and help him understand, even if this really wasn't the time, but it was important, and she had to make this right and—
But she was Sanar Klis, so she kissed him first. Kissed him with none of her learned finesse, just with need and love and sorry and opening herself wide open until he began to understand, and then he chased into her, and he was everywhere, filling all the holes in her tattered being and she could only throw all of herself into returning the favour.
Of course, there they were, the triumvirate—Prophecy, Daddy/guilt, and Void—but damnit, she was doing this right, now, so she just kissed him harder until the last wall crumbled and all she could think was Kyp and finally, love, and it was time to move the kriff on.
Love. She was in love, and damn it if she was messing this up again.
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Mother, show us the right way, the true way, the path and Your plan for us. If it be Your will, use us to return balance to this place. Give us strength to fill our purpose, and grace to do it as You would have us.
Gaffil would have sneered at her prayers; watching Alon return from his latest heresy, Isra wondered how her new boss might take them. If he survived today, perhaps she would get a chance to ask him. Right now, he carried his post-coital glow too well (and really, right before a full-scale attack? If Rafintair saw him…) to notice if she tried to perform a spirit dance. Even if she stomped on his feet in the meantime. Which she would, today—anything to slow him down properly. Today ripped off all the gloves and masks as far as she (and hopefully every other spy) was concerned. The Pirese masters just didn't know it yet.
"Lovely morning for the festivals, don't you think?" Alon gave her a jaunty, slightly smug (and pitying? Oh, fool, thy name is…) smile. She could read his mind today. He thought that tonight would see her lost and broken—no sisters, no refuge, certainly no faith.
Alon hadn't seen Gaffil. He had never known the Mother. He definitely didn't know that he would be the one destroyed by this time tomorrow. As much as she liked him, Isra had no intention or desire whatsoever to save him.
She kept her expression clueless, with just a hint of disgust. "The weather is very nice today," she agreed without agreeing.
"Yes, well, clean up in here, and then you can have the rest of the day for yourself."
Which meant either he was offering her a Pirese-free afternoon before her death, or he hoped that she would go to MR headquarters for her guaranteed slaughter. "Thank you, sir," she murmured, curtseying. It was their last day; she would think a little better of him before his death. Anyway, this fit in with her plans.
Until the moment Alon walked out of his quarters to finalize the plans for his attack, Isra remained the spy—walking the thin fence between her cause and her ability to best manipulate the greatest Pirese flaws. When the general left, however, Isra became everything that Gaffil had expected of her.
The morning belonged to Pucijir. The night belonged only to the Mother and Her children.
Isra and Gaffil would make sure of it.
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"We really have the worst timing imaginable, you know."
Sanar grinned into Kyp's neck. "That might be my fault." She missed a beat, considering. "No, it's definitely my fault. Anyway," she shrugged, "it works for me."
"Well, of course—we're only going to war with a fanatical empire in a few hours." He didn't look like he minded too much.
Settling her nerves before she could think it through, Sanar kissed him. "I love you."
He froze for a long moment, staring at her with amazed eyes. "You do?"
"Well, yeah."
He blinked at her. "But…really?"
She laughed, suddenly lighter than she could ever remember being. Now that the words were out in the open, she could hardly believe that she had waited so long. "Oh, no," she said. "Not really. I'm kidding. I'm practicing for when the other Kyp Durron gets off his lazy butt and—"
He laughed warmly, freely, buoyed by the same giddiness she felt. "You are just— Sorry, no takebacks. You're stuck with me now."
Her mood faltered for a moment—Devnos' note—but he was too busy running his lips over her skin to notice. And when she thought of telling him (because she was doing things right this time, before it was too late), her thoughts were quickly swallowed in his whispers of I love you, I love you, I love you.
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Krista and Miko were comparatively late in showing up to the weaponry room. Miko claimed that they had been sparring in preparation for the attack. "Yeah, there's a lot of that going on," Dejah muttered in response. Kyp and Sanar had yet to return—she expected that their distraction, however, was of far less romantic origins.
Shaking away her worries about Prophecy, Dejah jerked her thumb towards the back of the room. "One sword per person. You are on your own for armour, but there may be a few daggers left."
Miko tipped his head in thanks. "We won't take more than we need."
"Take anything you can use," the fighter said, glancing around the room. "You're among the stragglers, by now. Most women are arming themselves in their own homes."
"How much longer until we leave?" Krista asked, looking around. "A few hours, right?"
"Sooner," Dejah corrected. "Geneva wants us completely out of the area before the army attacks. We should begin leaving in just over an hour."
The "friends" had the grace to exchange an embarrassed (though slightly…goofy) look. This soon dissolved into a shared grin. "We'll only take a few minutes," Krista said. Her hand had been holding Miko's; she gave it a quick squeeze, then released him. "Last one ready is a sissy?"
Dejah wanted to watch them race off, playing and teasing and ignoring the weight of these moments, but she was distracted by a familiar face in the exodus. "Malek!" she called, turning away from the khalan couple. "Malek, wait!"
The widowed spy came to a slow halt just before the wide door. Glancing around, Malek's eyes caught something else before finding Dejah. Malek nodded her recognition, then let herself be carried out of the busy exit.
Curious now, Dejah followed the other woman out of the armoury. "Malek," she said once more, when out of the room. "What are you doing here?"
The spy slowed until Dejah finally caught up with her. "They won't miss me in the palace today," she explained with her faintly off accent. "Not until we've stormed their defences, anyway. Cerile had me leave my post to join the main assault."
"Of course, that makes sense."
Malek smiled thinly. "There will be enough wounds after this battle without adding single attack-suicides to the mix. Besides, I doubt anyone here wants to give me the chance to prove untrustworthy. Sisters under Mujir, eh?"
"And paranoia under Geneva," Dejah finished. They shared a grin, Malek's a little more sincere than before.
"I suppose she has a reason." Malek glanced around, her face becoming sterner. "Mujir be with you tonight, sister."
"And with you, sister," Dejah echoed.
The widow shook her head. "I'm afraid I shall be far closer to Vengeance."
Dejah studied Malek closely. "When the blood has finished spilling, though—"
"This planet has stolen too much from me; I am growing weary of the heartache. Perhaps the blood will never stop. Not for me."
Dejah bit on her lip hard, her mind swirling with blood and prayers.
Malek seemed to notice, because she relented. "I am one among many, dear girl, and I am certainly not you. This is life." She paused, considering Dejah. Momentarily, she looked softer, lovelier, like a sister, or mother, or— "Mujir be with you this and every other night, sister," Malek told the younger woman.
—or a beloved wife…
Dejah shook hands with the spy, then watched as she disappeared into the crowd.
It was an example of this planet's very poor timing that Dejah only realized who she had spoken with when the "widow" was gone. "Veras Yd," she murmured, stunned. "Who— Veras!" she called over the crowd. "Veras! Wait! Braun is—" But Veras was long gone, swallowed by the crowd of fighters heading to war. "Larifx." Mujir, Veras Yd—alive, through all her husband's grieving; in the same predicament as Braun, even, calling herself a regretful widow and spy— But how? How could both have been so completely fooled?
Dejah shook her head. No, never mind all that, they could sort it out later. Where had she last seen Braun? Somewhere down the hall, perhaps, in one of the empty training rooms. If she could just find him again in this crowd, before the battle began and no one could think of anything else….
Picking one hallway on a hunch, Dejah walked quickly. She scanned the surrounding faces for Braun. He was taller than most of the people here, which should help, but— Oh, there he was, near the back of the crowd. "Braun!" she shouted for his attention.
He saw her, and even slowed down before he passed her. "Later, Dejah."
Larifx. She grabbed his arm before the crowd pulled him completely away. "It's important. Veras is—"
"Not. Now," he all but snarled. He yanked his arm free, and headed to war.
Dejah thought of chasing after him, pinning him down and making him discover life-love-hope again, but there wasn't time. Instead, she only yelled, "Don't get yourself killed!" You or your wife. Larifx, the two of you really are a pair.
And then Dejah Salin gave herself over to the battle.
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As Mujir's Resistance went to war, they donned their veils for the last time.
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Jolesp Fig eyed the scene before him, and then nodded his satisfaction to Lera. "On my mark," he told his actors. "Ready, set…action."
Lera smiled thinly behind Jolesp. Showtime.
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The Resistance went through the anniversary crowds, gaining momentum with each moment.
And Prophecy began.