Risen (3 page)

And all of this was before the
barbarian, Ravan, had come and swept her away, before her return,
and before the fateful wedding murder. After, as the days and
months went by, she came to rely on Moulin as her closest
confidant. And now, with Adorno and the mercenary gone, he allowed
his imagination to run free. Consequently, the very presence of her
stirred his soul and awakened in him feelings he barely kept at
bay.

He fantasized that he could, would,
eventually have the nerve to approach her, and ask of her what he
longed to…for her hand in marriage. But there was never a moment
that allowed him closer to this dream than the shadowy hopes of
obscure make-believe.

And so, he was dutiful and attended
her needs impeccably, only murmuring to himself, when he was
perfectly alone and on the fringe of sleep, the words he longed to
say out loud to her.

“My lady, what is it you desire?
Are you not able to sleep?” He pushed the massive door open,
entering to her call.

“Moulin, I was wondering…”
Nicolette motioned him to approach before walking to her dressing
table. Pouring a draught of brandy, she raised it to the candles,
inspected the rich amber by the light of the fire, then offered it
to her most trusted guard. “Because it is late,” she murmured as
she held the drink out for Moulin.

He shook his head, “No, my lady, not
while I am at hand. It would not be wise.”

She nodded, “Mmm…” and sipped the
brandy herself before taking a seat and motioning for him to sit
opposite her. He hesitated but finally crossed the floor and
situated himself on a lovely brocade bench, glancing at the
sleeping baby as he walked by.

He couldn’t help but notice the
child as he passed. It was stunning, so beautiful with its warm
complexion, hair, and eyes. Furthermore, it had the nose and the
forehead of its father—of that there was no doubt. The dead
mercenary had sired this child.

Ravan remained a mystery to Moulin.
He’d never known for certain the fate of the one who kidnapped his
mistress nearly ten months ago. The black wraith had dragged her
from the castle that cruel night and escaped with her upon the
destrier stallion. They flew on the wind; it’d been a horrible and
prolonged chase to bring Nicolette back, Moulin heard, and she
returned on that same stallion—without him. Then no one ever again
spoke of it. It was as though nothing at all had
happened.

After her homecoming, she refused to
speak of her ordeal to anyone, never elaborated on the terrible
flight, and her betrothal to Adorno was consummated. Before the
ceremony, however, her belly swelled ever so slightly with the
bastard child. Moulin had always believed the mercenary had raped
her—that the child was begat in a cruel way; how could it be
otherwise? Certainly she could not have loved him? No, he refused
to consider this, that she may have loved the dark one.

Truthfully, he believed he would
never know. After the shocking murder of Adorno, Nicolette had
renamed the dynasty—after him. This was now the Ravan dynasty, and
she’d become its perfect ruler. The fiefs were flourishing and the
coffers filling. There was not one element of the new rule that was
not better off for the unusual woman sitting barefooted before
him.

But perhaps she’d named it thus on
account of the heritage of the child, because it would have been
bad luck to do otherwise. Ill begotten as it was, the mercenary was
the father. That was it, he convinced himself. That was why she
named the realm for him, and then Moulin convinced himself to think
of it no more.

To be away from her was unbearable.
But…to be with her, even now, with her oddly ethereal behavior, set
Moulin’s nerves on edge in an exquisite way. It was the most divine
toxin ever, and he would drink of it any chance he
could.

Nicolette tipped her head to one
side, studying the man seated opposite her. This made him
immediately uneasy, for he believed she might see into his mind,
could see his heart and the secrets he tried so hard to hide.
Moulin shifted his weight, never quite comfortable in proximity to
her and certainly not when he was within the chamber in which she
slept.

“What is it that troubles you, my
Lady?” His eyes narrowed as he suspected something bothered her
tonight. It was his belief that she was never quite right since the
birth of this child, that something gnawed at her. None other than
he likely noticed, but then again, none knew her like he did. He
was certain of this.

Waving a hand as though she might
wave away any significance of it, she cut straight to business.
“Should I baptize the child?”

Moulin’s eyes shot open in surprise.
All children were baptized, or so he thought. It hadn’t really
occurred to him until that moment that the baby was not. But then,
of course he would certainly have been present had it happened. No,
he could not remember a baptism of Nicolette’s son.

“Madame? The child is not…It has
no…?” was all he could offer in return.

“Of course, he is not.” Nicolette’s
reply was immediate. “It is of no importance to me, but I’ve
wondered if perhaps it bodes one way or another for my son.” Her
eyes narrowed as she studied first him then the babe. “Humanity,
the ordainment of your fate,” she said generically and as though
she was not of them, “I’m not certain, for the necessity of the
fate of man is elusive to me.”

Moulin thought this was perhaps one
of the oddest things he ever heard her say and was just about to
comment on it when she continued, running her finger slowly around
the edge of the brandy chalice. Drawing her knees up under her
chin, she tugged as her gown to cover her pale legs. “This is why I
seek your counsel tonight. I wish for fortune to be with this
human.” She indicated her son with a nod.

When he just stared, dumbstruck, she
asked him, “Have I not made myself clear?”

“Yes, oh yes,” Moulin answered
hastily, “Of course. I understand completely, and you are correct.”
Moulin leaned toward her as he lowered his voice, as though no one
else knew of this, as though it were a great secret only they
shared. “The child should be christened immediately.” He said this
not because she pressed him about it, but because he believed the
matter to be significant—very significant. It was significant
because, at four weeks of age, the child—heir to the entire Ravan
Dynasty—had no name.

CHAPTER THREE

†

Of the two horses, the bay mare was
stronger. She was, by equine standards, a fine horse—a Barb
Arabian, but larger than most. That awful day—the execution day
when he’d bartered for his brother’s corpse—he’d seen the mare put
up a fuss in the thinning crowd.

Before he could transport his
brother’s body, he needed a horse. Before a horse, he needed coin.
So first, Ravan went to the church and robbed it only of as much as
he thought he would need to complete his tasks.

“I do this for one of your best,”
he gestured to the ornate Christ figure suspended upon a timber
over the pulpit. “He now belongs to you.”

When he went to the livery, he was
extremely lucky. There was the mare, and its owner was evidently
going through a rough patch with her. The shabby priest caught him
at just the right moment, and the man had been more than willing to
part with the disobedient steed. Even so, much of Ravan’s coin had
gone to the purchase of the horse.

Now, four days later and after
burying his brother, Ravan left the lesser of the two horses—the
grey gelding—in a pasture not very far from the Cezanne estate. He
would not see how, the next morning, the farmer would awaken to
find a good horse in his field and wonder on the mystery of God for
a long while. The man would not, however, report the lost animal to
anyone.

Now relieved of the slower steed,
Ravan continued his trek north and west. Guessing it would take him
just under two weeks to reach his destination, he was driven, and
the Arab mare sensed his urgency, running relentlessly beneath him.
They were exceedingly well matched, for both master and steed were
willing to run until they could run no more.

His resources were dwindling, for
he’d spent most of the stolen gold on the two horses, a knife, a
hand axe, shovel, and the burial cloth for his brother. Stopping to
hunt was not an option, for trapping would have taken too much of
his precious time, and his bow was no longer functional anyway
after making the cross for his brother’s grave. Foraging was also
fairly out of the question, for autumn had breathed its meager
silence across the land. But none of this really mattered. To the
mercenary, all he had to do was make it alive to Adorno’s dynasty.
Then, he would affect what destiny he might or die
trying.

Consequently, when Ravan entered a
small village three evenings later, his belly was painfully empty,
and the mare had chosen, for the first time since they left the
grave, to slow to a walk of her own accord. Respite must be sought.
His primary concern was lodging, food, and care for his mount.
Second, he would restring the bow and sleep. Then, he would be on
his way again…to kill Adorno.

Entering the small town, he was
prepared to pay the last of his coin for a good meal and shelter
for himself and his horse. He had just enough gold left to manage
that. But one night was all he would need. Then, he would ride
until his task was done.

Even so, he was surprised to find a
small inn, central to the village. Ravan no longer wore the armor
of a mercenary, no longer carried a sword at his side. And the
knife he created so long ago—pig-killer—had served its purpose
divinely but was taken from him when he’d been
imprisoned.

No matter; the new knife sheathed at
his belt was fine enough…for now. He’d purchased it before leaving
Saint-Jean-de-Luz, even before buying the horses. Standing in front
of the bladesmith, he tossed the elegant weapon from hand to hand
before balancing it midway on one finger, inspecting it very
closely. After peering down the spine and testing the edge with his
thumb, Ravan paid sincerely for the knife, surprised to find such a
decent blade in the small, coastal village.

The bladesmith had studied him
carefully in return as though recognizing the strange purchaser of
the weapon was a man worthy of his craft, oddly dressed though he
was in a priest’s garments.

“What is your name?” Ravan had
quietly asked the man, curious of the one who could fashion such a
weapon as this, for they were rare, indeed.

“Boltof—and yours?”

The question, innocent though it
was, carried with it the weight of a boot on his chest. Such a
question this was…who was he, now that D’ata had freed him of his
past, set his life on a path unknown? Ravan thought for a long time
before murmuring, “I’m not certain,” then he was gone.

Now, the weight of the blade against
his hip was comforting as Ravan pushed the tavern door open and
stepped inside. He paused, scanning the timbered warmth of the
room. There was a handful of patrons within, and a blazing fire
crackled on the large, open hearth. For a fleeting second, he was
reminded of the Fat Wife—of when he’d lived and worked at an inn so
long ago.

This paralyzed him, and he glanced
further about, startled by the similarity of it all. He half
expected her to step from the kitchen door and greet him, drying
her hands on her skirts as she’d always done.

Slowly, time seemed to crawl to a
standstill and with it sound faded away as well. He was momentarily
suspended in the vortex of his memories, and all within stopped
what they were doing to simply stare at the peculiar intruder.
Ravan remained where he was, not moving at all, almost struggling
to convince himself that this was not that inn.

Closing his eyes, he rubbed at them
with the heel of one hand to push the images away, to collect
himself. Sanity held, and on some level he realized it would not do
for him to be so distracted after having spent nearly a year
imprisoned. No, he must maintain control, try to appear civilized,
try to fit in as best he could. He repeated this thought to himself
several times over.

“Can I help you?”

Ravan didn’t hear the
question.

“Sir, can I help you? Would you
like wine…or dinner? Do you need lodging for tonight?” a soft voice
pulled at him.

Dropping his hand from his eyes, he
only stared at the young woman who’d appeared from seemingly
nowhere. When he at long last paired the voice with the woman, he
could not take his eyes from her—he was so suddenly affected by her
appearance.

The hand she gently reached toward
him was not a hand at all, for it was gone. There was only a stump
at the end of her thin arm. Her face, which might be ordinarily
charming, lacked an eye. Where the beautiful, blue orb should be
was only a sunken pit, blackened and stretched tight—a leathery
cavern of hideous proportion. Neither did the young woman’s hair
grow well on that side of her head, and she wore scars upon her
scalp for whatever the cruel insult had been. She was smallish,
feeble as a poorly kept child, and standing a mere arm’s length
from the mercenary.

For all her appearance, it was she
who gasped involuntarily and backed a step away from him, the stump
going up to her mouth in surprise. Ravan hadn’t considered that his
own dreadful appearance was a vision all its own. He’d been a
prisoner for so long and only free just four days ago from that
awful cell. Since then, his entire business had been preoccupied
with the burying of his brother and riding like a man possessed.
Not a moment had been taken to consider his own appearances, how
others might see him.