This is a sequel to my Bane origins saga, Risen From Darkness (found here: http://www.nolanfans.com/forums/viewtop ... 16&t=11993 )

When we last left Bane and Talia, they were with Henri Ducard at the mountain headquarters of the League of Shadows where Bane is recovering from injuries suffered during Talia's escape from the pit.


One

Within seconds of the mask closing over his mouth and nose, Bane panicked. He could not breathe, and the world closed in upon him, as if he were back in the pit prison and the shaft were collapsing over him.

“Get it off!” he cried, scrabbling with his fingers to find the fasteners where the mask wrapped around the back of his head.

“Wait,” Choden, his medical attendant, insisted, attempting to block Bane’s efforts. “Breathe. Breathe and relax.”

“I can’t breathe! Take it off!”

“You’re hurting him!” Talia’s shrill voice added to the confusion in the room. The ten-year-old tried to pull away from her father, who stood watching, but Henri Ducard’s large hands upon her shoulders held her in place. “Choden, stop! Take it off!”

At last Bane dislodged the mask, which Choden had not been able to completely secure due to his patient’s struggles. Bane batted it from his face, and as it fell beside him on his bed, he jumped to his feet, shoved away from Choden, and stood with his back to the near wall, facing his tormentor, gasping through the wreckage of his mutilated face. Even though he was dosed with morphine, sharp pain still found its way through the drug’s defense. Talia broke free from her father—or perhaps Ducard released her—and she ran to Bane, throwing her arms around his waist and staring defiantly, protectively over her shoulder at Choden. The Tibetan attendant sighed and shook his head.

“Bane,” Ducard said in his usual placid tone, stepping forward to pick up the mask. “A claustrophobic reaction is expected, but you must face your fear and conquer it quickly or this—” he held up the mask, “—cannot help you. And without this, you have no hope of a fully functioning existence. You’ve refused surgery; this is your only option now.”

As he listened to Ducard, Bane forcibly slowed his breathing, closed his eyes momentarily, nodded in resignation. Yet his heart still hammered against his chest; no doubt Talia could hear it from where she pressed against him. He briefly, appreciatively returned her embrace, gaining strength from her touch, one hand stroking her new growth of hair—dark and soft, like her mother’s hair had been. He hated for her to see him with his bandages off and his injuries thus laid bare—his nose in ruin, having nearly been severed from his face, deep lacerations that were still healing, some that refused to knit, his torn lips giving him a permanent, gruesome grimace that revealed several missing teeth; all the result of a horrendous beating suffered at the hands of fellow inmates when he had fought to keep them away from Talia on the day of her escape.

“I’m sorry, Choden,” Bane said, embarrassed now by his display of weakness and fear.

His ever-tolerant attendant bowed with understanding. “You needed to prepare yourself better,” Choden said. “I warned you. You were too eager for this to work, too sure of your own abilities. Humility is a valuable virtue, my friend, one you would do well to learn. Now come…sit back down.”

“You don’t have to, habibi,” Talia said defensively. “Why don’t you wait to try it on tomorrow?” She gave Choden a chilly, challenging glance.

Bane had noticed a change in Talia ever since word had arrived that the prototype mask was finished and would soon be delivered to their refuge high in the Himilayas. He had expected her to be excited and anxious, as he had been, but instead she had grown quiet and thoughtful. Now, looking into her large blue eyes, he realized that she was afraid, afraid that the mask would enable him to regain some semblance of his old self and then that would lead to him leaving her to find his own way in the world, a world that was virtually unknown to the two of them after spending all of their young lives unjustly incarcerated in an underground prison until two months ago.

“Talia,” Ducard said. “It is Bane’s decision to make.”

“It’s all right, habibati,” Bane assured, gently taking her by the shoulders and urging her back from him. “I should try again. Choden and your father are right.”

She frowned with worry and held his hand, all the while bravely refusing to look away from the ruination of his face. He knew that seeing him without his bandages caused Talia as much emotional pain as they caused him physical pain because she blamed herself for what had happened to him, no matter how many times he insisted she abandon her guilt. So the sooner he allowed the mask to hide these marks from her, the better.

She continued to hold his hand as he returned to the bed where she then sat close beside him, all the while keeping her attention upon him. Ever since Talia’s father had rescued him from the pit prison following his daughter’s escape, the paradigm of their relationship had shifted—Bane was no longer Talia’s protector; instead, Talia guarded him with the ferocious tenacity of a lioness, whether it was from Choden’s medical ministrations or from her father’s persistent encouragement for Bane’s return to physical activity. Sometimes her behavior amused Bane; other times it mortified him. After nurturing her since the day of her birth—and as sole caregiver after her mother’s murder when Talia’s was five—Bane found nothing as frustrating as knowing that he was now incapable of continuing his role, a role that had given him true purpose in life.

Talia’s insistence on being with Bane whenever he was subjected to challenges, such as the fitting of this mask, was not always favored by Ducard. Though Ducard was sympathetic to Bane’s physical trials, he was also a man of great personal fortitude, as were all of the men under his command, and though Talia was merely a child, Ducard expected a certain amount of strength from his daughter as well. Sometimes Bane wondered if Ducard wished his offspring were a boy, not out of any disdain for the so-called weaker sex but because of the type of life he led, a life that was still primarily a mystery to Bane but one that was most assuredly different from the lives led by so many the world over. Everything about Ducard and the men who lived here at this converted monastery and those who came and went was shrouded in secrecy. Occasionally Bane gathered enough nerve to ask veiled questions of his guardian, but usually the cryptic responses he received subtly warned him not to delve too deeply. Yet Bane also sensed that a part of Ducard wanted to open at least part of his world to Bane, perhaps the way he would share his life if he had a son of his own. It was in those moments that Bane wanted nothing more than to earn Ducard’s esteem…and perhaps eventually his love.

Choden was saying, “This time you must keep your eyes closed, Bane, until I tell you to open them, yes?”

Bane nodded then shut his eyes. Talia squeezed his hand to bolster him and remind him that, although he could not see her, she would remain there for him.

“Breathe deeply,” Choden droned. “In through your nose…out through your mouth, using your diaphragm always. Yes…that’s it. Feel the air lift and expand your chest. Then release and feel the energy flow down into your arms, your fingers, your legs, and your feet, relaxing every muscle as it goes. Imagine yourself outside in the open, the sky blue and wide, the mountains strong and bright. You have no fear.”

As Choden coached him, he carefully placed the mask once again, gently at first, then tighter, closer as he adjusted the straps that ran alongside Bane’s cheekbones and jaw, then fastened them at the back of Bane’s head, which was shaved to ensure the mask’s snug fit.

“Now,” Choden continued, “keeping your eyes closed, feel the mask. Feel it conform to your face, feel it become a part of you, feel it assist your breathing. Breathe…continue to breathe deeply.” He tapped the small chamber at the back of the apparatus, and a small hiss sounded, followed by an influx of vapor, very fine, soothing like a light breeze, moist at first, then the moisture faded. The inhalant filled Bane’s senses, momentarily overpowering him, and fear returned, trying to convince him that what he was inhaling would harm, not help, him.

But just before panic could take over and force his eyes open, Bane heard Ducard’s smooth, throaty voice, close, as if he stood just over Choden’s shoulder: “Don’t fight it, Bane. Draw it deep within you. Relax and allow it, welcome it.”

Talia still held onto him. With one finger, she gently stroked the back of his hand, ever so lightly, like a feather. This, along with Ducard’s strong presence, succeeded in pushing back Bane’s terror. The compound expelled by the mask seemed to stabilize, no longer overwhelming him. His quickened pulse began to slow, the sound of his respiration no longer wheezing through the mask’s ports.

“Good,” Ducard murmured with satisfaction. “You must make yourself stronger than your fear. You must control it, and once you are able to do that, it can become your ally.”

The concept Ducard presented was not foreign to Bane, not after surviving twenty-five years in prison. Though he had been the youngest male prisoner, he had been feared by many for both his physical strength and his superior intellect…and he had used those assets to his advantage, for his own sake as well as for the sake of Talia and her mother, Melisande.

Choden quietly said, “Open your eyes now. Slowly. Look only at me.”

Still cautious, Bane obeyed, first simply cracking his eyelids open as slits. Choden stared back at him, strength in his dark gaze, a strength he tried to bestow upon Bane. Talia’s grip tightened upon his hand, and he knew she was holding her breath. He opened his eyes further, saw that Ducard was indeed standing at Choden’s right shoulder. Ducard’s gray gaze held none of the uncertainty that Bane felt, and from this Bane drew inspiration.

The pale, hard plastic molding of the upper part of the mask easily invaded Bane’s field of vision, but he forced himself not to focus upon it. Instead he continued to hold Ducard’s stare. Ducard was not a man prone to effusive facial expressions, but now he allowed a pleased smile.

“How do you feel?” Ducard asked.

Since the attack, Bane had received morphine through injections and IVs. Today, before Choden had attempted to fit Bane’s mask, the IV had been disconnected. Bane credited that as being part of the cause for his panic, not simply because stopping the drug would allow the agony to return but because, after weeks of being a slave to the opiate, he knew stopping it would bring its own torture. Yet he had reminded himself that the purpose of removing the IV was to test the mask’s ability to administer its own concentrated painkiller and that he would not be deprived of his usual dosage for more than the few minutes Choden expected the fitting to take.

Now, following Ducard’s question, Bane focused upon his pain, realized it was not as severe as a moment ago.

“Try to breathe normally now,” Choden said.

Bane allowed himself to look at Talia. To his great relief, she showed no sign of revulsion at his strange new visage. Instead she appeared keenly interested, chewing on her bottom lip as she often did when anxious.

“Is the medicine working?” she asked hopefully.

Bane nodded, though in truth the pain—while lessened—certainly was not completely eradicated. But at that moment he was happy to lie in order to erase her worry.

“Try to speak,” Ducard encouraged.

Feeling foolish, Bane said, “What should I say?” His speech was already distorted by the damage to his mouth, and the mask muffled the sound so that his words were even more indistinct now, disappointing him.

“Hmm,” Choden pondered with a glance up at Ducard.

“Do not be discouraged,” Ducard told Bane. “The doctor expects this to be trial and error, as I’ve told you before. You will wear it for a couple of weeks, then I will let him know what needs to be improved. Be patient, my boy.”

“I’m sure you’ll get used to it,” Talia said, though poorly disguising her concerns.

Bane nodded, hoping he was convincing. “How much of a supply does it hold?” he asked Ducard and Choden.

“Unfortunately only a couple of hours,” Ducard replied. “The doctor is trying to improve the drug’s performance. Again, trial and error. I’m sorry I cannot offer you more than that.”

“I understand. And I appreciate everything you have done for me.”

Ducard stepped closer and briefly touched his shoulder with that same indulgent smile. “I know you do. Now I must be on my way. As I explained to Talia this morning, I will be gone for a week to attend to an urgent matter. And,” he added with a glint of pleasure in his eye, “by the time I return I believe I will have news of your grandfather. By then, if the mask is serviceable and you are able to tolerate it, you will be able to travel with me to meet him.”

The prospect of finally being able to mete out justice for what Thomas Dorrance had done to his mother and thus to Bane himself allowed him to momentarily forget the discomfort of the mask.

“I will be ready,” Bane promised.

Awesome Kickstarter for BTS good job

TehBatGetsBraked wrote:Awesome Kickstarter for BTS good job

Thanks, kid. *she says in her best Abrams voice*

Baniac wrote:

TehBatGetsBraked wrote:Awesome Kickstarter for BTS good job

Thanks, kid. *she says in her best Abrams voice*

Abrams is coming back confirmed

TehBatGetsBraked wrote:

Baniac wrote:

TehBatGetsBraked wrote:Awesome Kickstarter for BTS good job

Thanks, kid. *she says in her best Abrams voice*

Abrams is coming back confirmed

I confirm nothing.

Baniac wrote:

TehBatGetsBraked wrote:

Baniac wrote:
Thanks, kid. *she says in her best Abrams voice*

Abrams is coming back confirmed

I confirm nothing.

He's in a bar with Hans...right?

Also: I actually did to a sketch of that lol. might finish it one day

TehBatGetsBraked wrote:
He's in a bar with Hans...right?

Also: I actually did to a sketch of that lol. might finish it one day

Finish it and post it or you'll never see Abrams again.

holy balls that ending

welcome back. i'm going to pretend your vacation was on a pirate mission.

Sandy wrote:holy balls that ending

welcome back. i'm going to pretend your vacation was on a pirate mission.

That works!

Two

Bane stood on one of the catwalks above the dojo, watching with keen interest as two men engaged each other below. The smaller fighter—a Mongol named Temujin—was a friend of Bane’s who had been liberated from prison with him. Each man was stripped to the waist, wearing only loose-fitting pants that gathered near the ankles. Their only weapon was a short rod of stout wood, which they wielded with blinding speed, their lithe bodies in constant motion, shining with sweat. Sometimes they used both hands to strike with their weapon, other times only one. Rarely did they connect, however, for each man was highly skilled in defending himself.

Other men stood along the catwalks at various levels above, silently watching, most wearing the impassive expression that was so common here. It was an expression not altogether unfamiliar to Bane; after all, in prison any show of emotion could be dissected for weakness, and thus many had chosen to go about their lives with little more than the occasional scowl. Not so with Bane or Talia, however, for they had each other for distraction, whether playing games of checkers or backgammon, reading aloud to one another, or any of the myriad other ways in which they had entertained themselves. Somehow they had always found ways to laugh, whether at each other or sometimes with one of their few trusted comrades, such as Temujin.

With admiration, Bane watched the Mongol fend off a sharp attack by his opponent. For a moment it appeared that Temujin might be defeated as the other man drove him back toward the edge of the mat with a flurry of blows. The Mongol somehow managed to parry each attempt, the whole thing appearing more as a choreographed dance than a battle. Bane harkened back to the bare-fisted fights in prison, some arranged bouts, others spontaneous acts of violence—brutal, straightforward clashes; nothing like this display of balance, grace, and fluidity. The crack of the rods striking together had a steady rhythm, almost musical to Bane, exciting.

Just as Temujin’s opponent made what he no doubt thought would be a winning thrust for Temujin’s belly, the Mongol melted away and in one smooth move somehow found space enough between his adversary’s legs to slide through on his knees, coming instantly to his feet behind his foe. With a single move that Bane could barely follow for its speed, Temujin forsook his weapon and instead took the man’s feet out from under him with a combination of one braced leg and a forceful sideways blow with one arm.

Bane found himself the only one applauding Temujin’s victory. The others simply nodded or murmured their approval to one another while the combatants brought their hands together in front of their chests and exchanged bows. Realizing his lapse, Bane sheepishly crossed his arms. Temujin looked up at him and allowed a small grin. Then he climbed the nearest stairs to join Bane just as Talia came hurrying down from her room.

“I missed it, didn’t I?” she called. “Oh, I missed it. It’s all Sangye’s fault,” she continued as she came along the walkway toward them.

“Blaming your tutor again for your own lack of concentration, are you?” Temujin teased.

“Am not,” she insisted. “He kept going on and on about the Dalai Lama, as if he hasn’t already taught me everything about him.” She rolled her eyes, then smiled up at Bane. “Have you been wearing your mask all morning?”

“Yes.”

“It seems,” Temujin said, “that you are becoming more accustom to it, yes?”

Bane nodded, hiding the misgivings and struggles he was still having while wearing the apparatus.

“Wait until Papa hears,” Talia chirped. “He’s due back today, isn’t he, Jin?”

“Yes, little one,” the Mongol assured. “Perhaps this afternoon.”

Bane’s attention was on the dojo below them, his thoughts still upon the bout. “I want to learn how to fight like that,” he said to Temujin.

“In time…once you are feeling more like your old self,” the Mongol assured.

Bane secretly feared that would never happen. “Will you teach me?”

Temujin laughed. “No, my young friend. I could, but that would be a disservice to you, for there are others far more skilled than I who will teach you. That is, if Ducard allows you to stay. Have you discussed this with him?”

“No, not yet.”

“What about your plans to be reunited with your father?”

Now Talia studied Bane, eager and anxious to hear his response.

“First I have to find him,” Bane said.

Temujin grinned knowingly. “Ducard will find him, have no fear of that.”

Bane hesitated, his frown pulling at the tightly fitted mask. “You know Ducard so much better than I do, Jin. Do you think he would let me stay here?”

Temujin considered him with a low grunt. “I never pretend to know what Henri Ducard is thinking, nor would I ever be foolish enough to assume.”

“Of course he will let you stay, habibi,” Talia said, momentarily taking his hand and swinging it to and fro. Her tone, however, could not hide her doubts from someone who knew her as intimately as did Bane, but he chose not to comment upon what he sensed, at least to her, for such uncertainty would hurt her feelings. She did, after all, idolize her father, and in that Bane could not blame her. He could only hope that his own father possessed such shining parts.

Temujin briefly patted Bane’s shoulder and, with a glance at Talia, winked. “Well, my young bull, if Ducard were to deny you, rest assured that he would rue the day.”


###


Alone in the quiet dojo, Bane battered the heavy punching bag with a withering flurry of bare-fisted blows, ignoring the discomfort it caused his right wrist. He had fractured the joint many years ago when he had made his second attempt to climb out of the pit prison, a treacherous effort up the face of a five-hundred-foot vertical stone shaft. Since then the wrist often pained him. Today he had tightly wrapped it in support bandages while he worked out.

Although Bane was not strong enough yet to train with any of the other men, since acquiring the prototype mask he spent as much time as he could tolerate here on his own, sparring with the bag or lifting weights. Such equipment, however, was minimal here, for these men learned combat not through brute strength but through a variety of martial arts that used balance, quickness, and flexibility, coupled with the ability to use their wits as a weapon. He spent hours watching the men train, fascinated by all he saw, eager to master such skills. But could he do so when he was so much taller than these mysterious warriors?

“Look at Ducard,” Temujin had said when Bane had once voiced his concerns to him. “He is bigger than you in every way, but I promise you, he can defeat every man here. True enough, in most men, a slighter build would be preferred for this art form, but Ducard is the exception to the rule.” Temujin grinned. “An exceptional man indeed.” And Temujin, of course, spoke with authority, for he had lived with Ducard and his men two years ago, before leaving their organization to pursue his wife’s murderers.

Bane danced around the bag on bare feet, his guard up. His breath rasped through the mask. The apparatus did not perform well while he was exerting himself. Obviously the doctor who had designed it had expected the wearer to be satisfied with merely being able to receive the mask’s medicinal qualities while hiding the heinous deformities.

Considering his damaged body, Bane’s blows came harder, swinging the bag, causing it to tremble. Flashbacks struck him then, as they had ever since he had been attacked, most often during sleep, but regularly at other times as well, especially when he sparred with the bag…flashes of the prisoners who had attacked him… There had been so many, all around, suffocating him, pressing against him so tightly that there was no room for punches, only tearing, ripping, pounding, clawing hands, hands that restrained Bane’s arms, leaving him vulnerable. But by then he had not struggled against them; he had fought long and hard enough up until then—Talia had escaped beyond their reach, climbing the shaft, her small form safely above him, looking back long enough to read the farewell that fell from his lips before the inmates overpowered him, crushed him beneath their sheer weight of numbers. He remembered nothing after that except agony.

Talia blamed herself because it was from her own mouth that the prison population had learned of her true gender, so carefully hidden for ten years from all but her mother, Bane, and the prison doctor. But it had been a mere slip of the tongue in a moment of anger, one—Bane assured her—that he or her mother might have been guilty of allowing. Yet no matter how many times Bane tried to convince Talia of her innocence, she insisted that much stronger about her guilt and the price he had paid for her lapse. She had done so again a week ago, on the first night of her father’s absence, when Bane had awoken with an outcry from one of the nightmares and she had rushed to his bedside to comfort him. Since then, she had snuck into his room every night after the monastery fell into nighttime silence. In prison, they had shared a cell after Melisande’s murder, and since being freed neither had found it easy to sleep without the other’s presence. And though Ducard understood the psychology behind their physical bond, he insisted to his daughter that continuing to share a grown man’s bed was not acceptable behavior for a child, especially a female child. Of course, his words had met with spirited resistance, but Ducard’s rare flash of anger quickly cowed his daughter. She had sulked for a day, but no more, cautioned against such behavior by Bane. He could not, however, find the resolve to deny her access when she snuggled into his arms these past nights, affording him a few hours of rare, restful slumber.

As Bane finished his final burst of punches to the bag, he could feel the pain in his face and jaw rising up. The mask’s tiny canister would soon be empty. He needed to return to his room and either remove the mask and inject himself with morphine or at least replenish the canister with its crystalized opiate. Bane frowned. Over the past week, he had worked doggedly to wear and accept the mask, no matter how uncomfortable or unnerving, especially at first. He needed to be ready to leave once his grandfather had been located.

“There you are.” Choden’s voice turned Bane. “I should have known I would find you here, taking out your frustrations on that poor, defenseless bag.”

Bane reached for a nearby towel to mop the sweat from his face. If he had been able to, he would have grinned at Choden’s remark. Such drollness from the stoic fellow had been rare up until the past couple of weeks, but now he would occasionally take Bane by surprise with some witticism or a bit of dry humor, though usually when Ducard was absent.

“I have something for you,” Choden continued. From behind his back, he produced what appeared to be some sort of broad belt, made of thick, stiff material with formidable straps and buckles. He held it up, smiling, as Bane drew near.

Bane draped the towel over his shoulder. “What is it?”

“It is a support belt for your back. I made it myself.” Pride brightened his smile.

Bane took the item, examining it. It was made of Kevlar, a fascinatingly strong material that Ducard had first introduced to him. Straps threaded through fabric channels, connecting from back to front with various buckets and fasteners that could be adjusted for the correct fit. The rear portion was rigid, reinforced by thick leather with the right side a bit wider to offer a larger field of support to his weaker side. Some sort of metal plate within, secured with large rivets, provided the rigidity necessary to limit his movement.

“You have lost weight and muscle over these weeks,” Choden said. “As you build yourself back up, the brace can be adjusted to accommodate the changes.”

“Thank you.”

“Try it on,” the Tibetan urged. “Let us see how it fits you. Yes…just like that so it sits low. Now…” Like a fussing hen, Choden gently pushed away Bane’s hands and adjusted the straps, tightening them until it was impossible to slip a finger in between the brace and Bane’s bare flesh. Then he stepped back to study his work, circling Bane with a thoughtful finger upon his chin. “Yes…not bad, not bad. Now, slowly bend…see if it restricts you where it needs to. Good…now slowly try to rotate left then right.”

Carefully Bane tried various movements. Though the restriction was regrettable, he immediately noticed a comfort to his back; his muscles felt as if they could rest, the dull ache in his lumbar region easing. The leather used on the inside of the brace, against his skin, was softer than the outside and padded enough to temper the foreign, constricting nature of the brace.

“It helps,” he said.

Choden’s smile broadened. “Good…good. You should wear it as much as possible during the day, especially when exercising or lifting, but do not rely on it. You still need to strengthen yourself. The brace is to help you, not something to depend solely upon. Now that you have your mask and this, I think you will progress quickly, as the young usually do.”

“Thank you, Choden.”

Unexpected emotion rang in his voice, and it appeared to fluster Choden who waved a hand dismissively and stammered a few self-deprecating words. Unwittingly Bane thought of Doctor Assad back in the pit prison, the one inmate spared from Henri Ducard’s purge. Assad had been Bane’s particular friend for many years in prison and had taught Bane everything he could about practicing medicine and pharmaceuticals. But Bane had been unable to forgive Assad for one tragic mistake—Assad had forgotten to lock Melisande’s cell door one day, an accident that led to Melisande’s brutal rape and murder by the prisoners…and to Assad’s continued life sentence in the pit. Only their former friendship and Assad’s beneficent treatment of Talia saved the physician from suffering the same fate as the rest of the prison population. Perhaps, even now, Assad was dead, either from his drug addiction or from the effluvia from the multitude of corpses left behind by Ducard’s men. Of course their jailers would have eventually discovered the holocaust and removed the bodies and no doubt repopulated the prison with the region’s ever-abundant criminal element. Talia had protested Bane’s exclusion of Assad from those whose lives had been preserved—Temujin and three others who had helped them in various ways—but she could convince neither Bane nor her father to reconsider.

Since coming to Ducard’s mountain base, Choden had been Bane’s medical attendant, seeing to all his physical needs—changing dressings and bandages, administering and monitoring his medicines as well as his nutrition, which until the past two weeks had been strictly intravenous. And while neither man tried to probe into the other’s personal life, a certain bond had formed between them because of Choden’s solicitude and Bane’s determination to recover, a bond of respect and gratitude.

“Well,” the unexpected voice of Henri Ducard startled both men, “what have we here?”

Bane turned to find Ducard emerging from the shadows created by the walkway above him. He was dressed still in warm clothes, as if having just come in from outside, his fur-lined coat opened, his hands lightly gripping the lapels. His smile was small but amused, his ears glowing red from the cold outside.

Choden stepped back from Bane, gestured. “Bane approves of my work.”

“As well he should,” Ducard said, casually circling Bane to study the brace as he removed his coat.

“How was your journey?” Bane asked, trying to temper his eagerness to hear if Ducard had located Thomas Dorrance.

“Productive, my boy. Very productive.” Ducard handed his coat to Choden, who bowed and left them alone. “Did my daughter behave herself in my absence? No sneaking out to the glacier, I trust?”

Bane smiled at the thought of Talia’s many mischievous adventures, several of which she tried to coerce him into joining. “Not that I’m aware, sir.”

“Good.” Ducard gestured to a nearby bench where they settled, and the lightheartedness drifted away. His eyes took on a steely quality. “Your grandfather was located in Cyprus. He has been living there for the past five years.”

“Can we get to him?”

“My men in that region have already extracted him. He is being taken to Jaipur. That is not far from the pit prison.”

“Extracted him? You mean he did not come willingly?”

“He did not.”

“Your men gave him my letter?”

“Of course.”

Bane tried to hide his disappointment, knowing such an emotion was counterintuitive, considering what he had planned for his grandfather. Yet somewhere deep inside he had hoped that his blood relative might have come to regret what he had done and perhaps would offer to assist his grandchild as a way to make amends. No, Bane reminded himself, nothing Thomas Dorrance could do could ever make amends for what he had perpetrated; he was just as guilty of killing Bane’s mother as the pneumonia that had claimed her life in prison.

Ducard’s large hand rested on Bane’s shoulder, drawing Bane’s gaze back to him. “He denies your paternity, of course. He thinks you are merely someone hoping to blackmail Edmund Dorrance or ruin his career.”

“His career?”

“Yes, your father is a diplomat for Great Britain, just as your grandfather was.”

This news settled slowly into Bane as he recalled bits and pieces of what his mother had told him over twelve years ago…another lifetime...two lifetimes really—his thirteen years as her child, then twelve years on his own before this new life above ground.

“It doesn’t make sense,” Bane said. “My mother said Father didn’t want to work for the government. It was one of the things, besides their relationship, that infuriated my grandfather. He wanted his son to follow in his footsteps, to become involved in politics.”

“Well, it does not appear your father advanced beyond the diplomatic service. Perhaps in rejecting politics he had a way to defy his father. Difficult to say, of course. Perhaps one day you can discover the truth from your father yourself.” He hesitated. “How did your parents meet, Bane?”

“My mother’s father was a diplomat, too, so he knew Thomas Dorrance; that’s how my parents first met—when they attended school while living at the embassy in Tel Aviv. But it wasn’t until they were in their twenties that they saw one another again and fell in love. That was when they were stationed in Riyadh. When her father was murdered, whoever was behind it also gained access to his money, so my mother was left with very little, and she had no family to turn to. Thomas Dorrance took her on as a secretary. He didn’t know about her being in love with his son; they kept their relationship from him because my father knew he wouldn’t approve; my grandfather considered my mother beneath his station, like she wasn’t worthy of his son. By then he had arranged for his son to marry the daughter of some sheikh. Mother said it was all about money and politics.”

“As is the way of the world,” Ducard nodded sagely with barely veiled contempt.

“My father refused to be manipulated, so he told his father about being in love with my mother. Of course, that infuriated my grandfather. That’s why my mother always suspected that he was behind her kidnapping. She believed it was either his doing or that of the sheikh’s or perhaps both of them. That’s how she ended up in the pit. The men who left her there told her no one would ever look for her because everyone would think she had been killed in a fiery car crash, her body burned beyond recognition. Such a thing would be staged to make the story believable.”

Ducard frowned. “I’m sorry, Bane. But at least now justice will be served, and how fitting that it should be by your own hand.”

Trying to hide his uneasiness about venturing back into the world of light, Bane asked, “Will you be with me?”

“I can be, yes.”

Bane nodded, glad that the mask at least partially hid his expression of relief. “So you know where my father is, too, then?”

“He is at the consulate in Riyadh.”

Bane swallowed. “Did he…did he marry?”

“Yes, he married the woman your father had chosen for him.”

His father’s inability to resist his own father’s will disappointed Bane. Yet, Bane chided himself, what else could he have done, thinking that the love of his life was dead? Perhaps grief had robbed him of all hope for love—the way Bane had felt after Melisande’s death—and in despair he had succumbed to his father’s will. Maybe he had even learned to love that Saudi woman…had children with her…Bane’s half-siblings…

“Are they…are they still married?”

“Yes.”

Another hesitation, and he appreciated the fact that Ducard allowed him to ask, that he did not simply blurt all of the information but instead waited to see if Bane wanted the whole truth.

“Did they have any children?”

“Yes. A son and a daughter. They are grown now, just a little younger than you.”

“Where do they live?”

“The son is in Dubai. The daughter lives in London.”

Bane nodded, staring vacantly at the punching bag.

“Do you still wish to meet your father?” Ducard quietly asked.

“Yes…I must. I promised my mother that I would find him and tell him the truth.”

“And you still wish to see your grandfather first? It would be best if you do. His disappearance, of course, has raised some alarm. Authorities will be looking for him. While I am confident in the security of his location, there is still a remote chance—”

“I will see him first,” Bane said in a dull voice, still unable to meet Ducard’s gaze. “I won’t take any chances that he could slip away.”

“Very well. If you are confident enough in your mask’s ability to allow you to function away from here, then we shall leave in the morning.”

Bane nodded. His fingers twitched in their habitual, anticipatory way. “Yes,” he said, “I am ready.”