Free The Terrorists of Irustan by Louise Marley Page A

casual face on their discussion.
    “We don’t know that, do we?” Kalen said in an ugly voice. “Because no one who knows will speak of it, and no one can find out without talking to their medicant—or their undertaker!”
    “By the Prophet!” Camilla moaned. “How could—how could Gadil, even Gadil, put any young girl into such a situation, let alone his own—”
    She broke off abruptly. Zahra looked around quickly and found Rabi, her face as pale as her mother’s, standing near them. Rabi looked at her mother’s tears, at Camilla holding Kalen’s hand, and at the white faces of the whole circle. She gasped, and said, “It’s about me, isn’t it? It’s about me!" She burst into hysterical tears.
    The anahs, the other girls, and all of the circle except Zahra were immediately sobbing together. Refreshments and games ignored, they hugged each other and cried. Zahra stood stiffly, watching the scene in horror, her arms wrapped tightly about herself. In a few moments she became aware that Ishi, also dry-eyed, was standing as close to her as humanly possible, her shoulder under Zahra’s elbow, her head pressed against her forearm. Zahra put her arm around her and pulled her close, stroking her cheeks with her other hand.
    Zahra looked from one to the other of her friends, their children. How easily the bright day had turned dark. Doma Day, circle day. They looked forward to it, planned for it. There was so little they had that was theirs alone. Useless, futile, familiar anger surged through Zahra’s body. She itched for action, something, anything. Her friend Kalen was drowning in pain, and not one of them, not one of their circle of five, had any power to save her.

seven
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    Brothers, bear your burdens with a willing heart; lighten the darkness of the mines with the hope of love and home awaiting you. This is your reward for dutiful service to the One.
    —Second Homily, The Book of the Second Prophet
    Z ahra had been fourteen when the first of her circle of friends was ceded. Nura’s husband was a minor official in Road Maintenance, and every Doma Day Nura and Zahra went to the homes of other such men, to visit with their wives and daughters. There were fifteen or sixteen families of their acquaintance, and the women and girls crowded into dayrooms much smaller than Kalen’s, happy to be together, delighted to be free for the day. They filled their hostesses’ modest homes to the brim with laughter and talk and the playful shrieking of children.
    Nura was usually tired on those occasions. Her clinic list was a long one, farmers and laborers in addition to middle-class families from the Medah. She would lean her head back against her chair and watch the parties, sometimes even dozing. Zahra frequently left the chattering group of her friends to go to Nura, to be sure she had anything she might want, or if she slept, to slip a cushion beneath her neck or her feet.
    Zahra and Kalen met when they were little girls, when Zahra was first apprenticed. They grew tall together, the two of them long-limbed and thin, towering awkwardly over their smaller companions. They would huddle together, bright red curls springing free of Kalen’s cap, heavy dark hair spilling out beneath Zahra’s drape. They spent countless Doma Days planning great adventures, vaguely hoping for the freedom to pursue them.
    Zahra was brash in her confidence about the future. Was she not ceded to Nura, who loved her? No one, she declared, would tell her what to do with her life except Nura!
    Kalen had no grounds on which to make such a claim, but she would exclaim fiercely, “1 will not marry! 1 will not!” and pound her fist on the tiled floor. At some level, they both knew the decision would not be hers, but with youthful optimism, they postponed understanding it.
    Their round-faced friend Idora looked forward to her marriage with enthusiasm. She spoke endlessly about who would sew her wedding veil, how she would behave at her