Deliverance

Deliverance

By Véronique Launier
 

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2013 Véronique Launier

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. 

Book Design by Veronique Launier 

Cover art: Nakissa Photo © Ewa Krupinska 
http://www.ewakrupinska.com

Model: Maryam Amiri

Makeup: Rashin Maleki

Tehran skyline © Babak Farrokhi flickr.com/photos/farrokhi/ 

Persepolis griffin © Nick Taylor flickr.com/photos/indigoprime/ 

Archway © Asif Akbar sxc.hu/profile/asifthebes 

Font XXII ARABIANONENIGHTSTAND @ Lecter Johnson  
http://doubletwostudios.tumblr.com/

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

ISBN: 9781301096527

[email protected]

http://www.veroniquelaunier.com

FOREWORD

I dedicated this novel to a boy I never knew. A story I heard from a friend about a boy who killed himself because he believed he would never be able to follow his musical dreams in a country who seems intent on crushing them. He was a boy who quit too soon, who didn’t get the chance to see his friends reach some form of success in following the same dreams. It was in his honor that I named Siavash, one of the members of Farâsoo.

The research of this novel was for me, a life changing experience. I’m not sure how I can even put into words how much this novel took over every aspect of my life for the past few years. The extensive research (memoirs read, documentaries watched, friends made, meals eaten, etc.) was such a life enriching experience. When I started researching Iran for another book I was writing, I was wary. I never expected to fall in love with the culture, the people, the language and the food.

Still, after over two years of research, this book may not be the most absolute representation of Iran. It is not meant to be. It is a work of fantasy fiction set mostly in a certain neighborhood of the capital city of Tehran. In trying to discern the Iranian identity, I have talked to so many different people. People of different social classes, with different belief systems, different values, different goals and aspirations. And in the process, I realized that the human experience is at its core the same whether you are Iranian or Canadian. What had started off as a quest to identify the differences between our cultures became more about bridging gaps and understanding that we are all not so different.

I found it intimidating to write a story set in a country that can often be so misunderstood by the media. Because, like in any other country, the government and the people of Iran are not synchronous. The people themselves do not all fit a mold. Though I believe my characters, along with their wants, needs, interactions, and opinions, could very well exist as part of a specific group and social class; it is not to say that all Iranians are like them. Just as the Iranians portrayed in the media as extremists only fit a small portion of the population.

Iran has a predominantly young (about 70% of the population is under 35), urban (also about 70%) population that is predominantly vying for change. But though some Iranians are, like Nakissa and her friends and family, very Westernized, many are looking for balance of government and religion and for freedom and change on their own terms (Not the terms dictated by the Western world).

Though I hope you, like me, will find yourself curious about Iran and the Iranian people, and will want to read further into it, the main goal of this story is to entertain you while immersing you in a world rarely seen in Young Adult literature. If I accomplish at least this task, then I have accomplished my goals.

For Siavash, who gave up too soon.
Here, his dreams can still come true.

She kept her head up as they marched her up to the roof; she breathed deeply and gathered her essence within her. After over two thousand years of control, this wasn't the time to lose her grip. But never had she found herself in such a situation before. She manipulated the small ball of power. So little power.

Her eyes moved to the guard who intended to lead her to her death. She reached towards him. Perhaps she could trick him into helping her somehow. Before she could place her hand on his shoulder, a sharp pain in the shin dropped her to her knees. She raised her eyes towards her attacker, a new man she hadn't noticed until then. How was she caught unaware like this? She cast a probing strand of essence his way but came across a stone barrier. Stone. She tried to adjust her eyes, ignoring the other guard who was yelling at her to get up.

Once she could finally focus, everything else faded around her. At that moment she and Ramtin were the only two people in the world. Her heart raced but she wasn't surprised to see him there; he never surprised her. Ramtin, the cursed musician who had been her rival since the days they had played at King Khosrau II's royal court together, leaned towards her.

He lowered himself to come face to face with her.

"Looks like I win after all," he hissed through clenched teeth.

Nagissa didn't waste her breath. Instead she reached for his face. Whether she reached for a final touch or if she actually believed she could do something to defend herself, not even she knew. But if only she could reach past that stone barrier... He was too strong. His masquerade as one of the revolutionaries had given him access to the essence of countless prisoners with powers. He stood upright, and grabbed her arm to pull her up with him. He whispered something in her ear; his breath warm against her shivering body, but she couldn't hear.

And it didn't matter anymore...

Then, something else caught her attention. Something important enough to pull her away from his magnetism.

Below her, on the ground of the school compound that acted as headquarters for the Revolution, a young girl, maybe fourteen or fifteen, was being led to one of the tents erected next to the main building. What Nagissa considered doing was a risk, the biggest risk she had ever taken, but in her state, she couldn't think of another option. The girl didn't appear to be slated for execution, her essence was too bright. She wasn't a witch, but it was brighter than the average person's. She was a survivor. If she was to put all her hope into one thing, she really couldn't find anything better in the dimness of her surroundings.

She manipulated her essence, making sure she gathered every last strand of it, everything that made her who she was. She hesitated briefly, wondering how it had come to that. How she could have woken from centuries of watching just in time for her demise. In time to see yet another dark era for her home, for the country that she loved. She whispered a silent prayer, though she wasn't sure to whom she uttered it, and quickly and powerfully, lest she was stopped or changed her mind, lest she thought on the consequences of her actions, she released it all into the young prisoner.

When she was brought to face the firing squad, her eyes were dead. Her shoulders slouched; she waited for the bullet to finish what had been started. She didn't remember much, only that there was no reason to live. Nothing to fight for. She just wished for death to find her. And it did.

Something is wrong. It's not just the fact that my parents have gone silent while watching television in the living room; it's something I feel in my gut. I put the bowl in the dishwasher, gently, as if it is the most precious thing I own, and I make my way out of the kitchen into the living room where my parents are glued to the TV.

The images there don't make any sense. Videos of North America's biggest cities flash on the screen one by one. New York, Washington, Los Angeles, Toronto, Montreal. All in varying states of chaos.

"What's happening?"

My mother shifts her attention from the TV and I can see a tear in her eye.

"We don't know. Earthquakes and other disasters are spreading throughout the American continent. They say America is paying for its sins."

If this is indeed a time of reckoning, I have no doubt our country won't fare better. America doesn't hold a monopoly on sins.

The nudge of apprehension in my stomach expands. I'm nauseous. There is something wrong with the very air in this room. I eye the chandelier situated directly above Maman and Bijan's armchairs. Is it trembling? No, everything is still. It's just my nerves. But something is happening; I can feel it coiled in the air around me.

"We have to take cover." In the silent room, my shouting takes on a surreal quality. Bijan turns towards me and pushes his glasses back up on his nose.