Chapter 9: Taran

I stare at him, trying to decide if this is a bluff. His story is more than plausible. It's similar to my origins, similar to many stories of refugees being taken from their families and kept within the city walls while the too old or too sick are turned away. Still, I shake my head, "I don't believe you. Your story is too convenient."

For the first time he shows real anger. Not in his facial expression, not in any real way. But I know he's angry. It's in the tightening of his body, the flare of his nostrils, the quick, obsidian flash of his eyes. He shutters it quickly, but his words are deadly as he says, "I do not lie, Wren. Ever. Learn this and remember. I won't repeat myself."

I shiver but hold my ground. "I want to see them. If what you say is true, then show me and I'll give you a name."

He leans forward in his seat, lifting his arms to rest them on the table. He almost copies Gillert's action by placing his hands over mine, but he doesn't tighten them painfully. Instead he lets me feel the tensile strength of his fingers, the encompassing grip of his large hands over mine.

"I don't compromise, little girl. Last chance, do you accept my proposal? A name for a life? Once the offer is off the table it won't come back."

Fuck. When he puts it that way, what choice do I have? "My name is Taran." I don't give up my last name.

He leans back, his expression thoughtful. I'm relieved. His touch is disturbing. It threatens without actually threatening. The authority running through his veins isn't in name only. He's been given, or taken, the position of our Sanctuary's Warlord for a reason.

"Taran. That is a powerful name," he muses, his voice caressing the syllables, sending a shiver of apprehension down my spine. "It encompasses Earth, thunder and heaven if I'm not mistaken."

I stare openly at him. He can't know this unless he has a basic understanding of either Hindi or Hinduism. Definitely not something I would've expected of a warlord or a man from this part of the world. If I'm not mistaken he's of Mexican descent with a slight Spanish accent. This intellectual side of him is far more frightening than the brash, angry heathen I always assumed him to be.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," I say coolly, staring back at him, trying to maintain eye contact.

He chuckles, but the sound isn't at all pleasant. "Don't play games with me, little Wren. You know exactly what I mean. Is your family of Indian descent? I can't tell what you look like under all that grime."

"You don't get anything else out of me, Warlord. You told me if I gave you a name that you would give me a life. Is the boy safe or are you going back on your word, demanding something else?" I shouldn't speak to him this way. I'm sure no one in their right mind would speak to him this way, not if they wanted to preserve their life. But I feel safe somehow. I don't believe he'll hurt me. Not yet anyway. He seems to want something from me.

"Be careful, Taran," his voice is calm, but there's an underlying steel to it. "You do not want to question my word."

"Then if the boy is safe I have nothing else to say." I eye him, considering for a moment. "Unless you wish to keep playing this game, a life for a question. Depending on the questions, it may be worth my time."

He shakes his head and then speaks, confirming my earlier thoughts. "People don't speak to me this way, girl. You need to watch your tongue."

"Maybe they should speak to you this way," I say sharply. "If more people tell you what a shit leader you are, then maybe you'll actually listen."

"You are stupid to bait me. If you had spoken to any of my men the way you do to me, then you'd be beaten bloody, broken and left to die," he snaps. He seems more annoyed that my mouthiness would place me in danger than he is at the way I'm speaking to him.

"Maybe I am stupid, Diogo." I use his given name for the first time. I may as well. He knows mine, so why shouldn't I speak his? The word has a visible effect on him though. A flash of surprise crosses his features, followed by a slight softening of his rugged features before he once more smooths his expression. "Maybe I do have a death wish. I've known for years that I would be caught one day. That if that day ever came I would be executed. But the one thing I swore I would do if I ever got the chance, was tell our intrepid Warlord exactly what I think of him."

"And what do you think of me?" His question isn't a dare. It holds real curiosity.

I stare at him, considering my words before replying. I should back down. Shouldn't speak my mind. I'm beginning to see that I might actually get out of this arrest alive.

But this may be my one and only chance to get him to listen. To truly listen. We've been rioting and yelling our opinions for years. Nothing has worked and his punishment has been to lay harsher sanctions on certain areas of the city, on certain citizens, and the implementation of a city-wide curfew, brutally enforced. I pause before I speak, and when I do, my words are thoughtful. "You're a brutal man, with cold and unforgiving values. You're a tyrannical leader that doesn't know how to listen to his people. You rule with a twisted authority and you've created an unnecessary hierarchy among the people. You don't deserve to lead."

He watches me as I speak, listens to the words. Absorbs them. When I finish, he says, "Anything else you wish to add?"

I hesitate, and then I say, "You're different from who I thought you'd be, Commander Diogo Fuentes. You aren't rash, despotic, or unnecessarily evil. At least I don't think so, from what I've seen on our short acquaintance. This confuses me even more though. If you're as well educated as I suspect, as thoughtful, then it makes no sense that you would cultivate such a terrible authoritarian style of leadership."

His dark eyes consider me. I've insulted him over and over, but I've also spoken the truth as I see it. He's been the leader since well before my arrival in the city twelve years ago. In all this time I've never seen him show a kind act. Never once seen him bend to the will of the people or the majority of public opinion. He simply crushes all opposition and continues to rule through fear. Yet, I don't sense that he's at all fazed by my words.

"And you, my Desert Wren." He uses the nickname I've been given, despite now knowing my actual name. I sense he does it for a reason. Uses the title of Desert Wren to make a statement. "You are exactly as I'd imagined."

"I don't understand," I say, frowning at him. How long have I been on his radar that he's formed an opinion of my character? And how can he do that without ever having met me? All he had to go on was my actions.

He stands and reaches across the table. I flinch back, but he only releases the cuffs. He motions for me to stand. I do, rubbing my wrists.

"I don't suppose you do understand," he says, waving me toward him. He bends to speak close to my ear as we leave the interrogation room. "But you will. In time."