Risen (30 page)

He was instantly compelled to say,
“Of course. I don’t know what came over me. Of course you must go.
There is no time to waste. I’ll see to it immediately.”

Before he could leave, it was
Moira’s turn to be confused. “What? I don’t understand.” She
focused on Nicolette. “Master Ravan has gone after Risen. We have
word of this, do we not? Why then would you—”

Before she could go any further,
Moulin interrupted her. “It is not your place, Moira, to question
the will of our mistress.” He slashed the air with one hand. “You
will attend to her needs, do you hear? You will ride with us, and
we will be off before the sun is down.”

Moira dropped her eyes to the floor,
nodded, and backed away, murmuring an apology.

“It is all right,” Nicolette
replied. “Risen is taken, and the men are heading south and east.
Ravan has lost the trail for he is headed north and east. I have no
choice. I must go after my son.”

Before long, there were whispers
spreading through the castle. All already knew that Ravan was gone,
searching for the young heir to their dynasty. And now Nicolette
was leaving them as well. The rumors were terrifying as they
contemplated their abandonment, and all of this so soon after the
attack?

The town was still reeling from the
effects of the battle. It would take time to repair all the damage
that had been done. Homes had been burned; there were lost ones to
be found, dead to be buried. The realm needed a leader today more
than ever.

Dressed in his battle leathers and
prepared to ride at his mistress’ side, Moulin waited patiently for
Nicolette in the courtyard. She stepped from the castle, her heavy
riding cape giving her the appearance of a dark
sorceress.

She approached him urgently, Moira
dressed and at her side. “Moulin, you will not be going with me,”
she announced.

“No!” He was aghast. “That is not
an option! You cannot ride without my protection! I will not allow
it. Lord Ravan would have my head and—”

Nicolette did something just then
that she’d never done. Before he could say anything else, she
touched him. With her hand, as gentle as a promise, she touched his
cheek. When his sputterings ceased, she said so softly that he
could scarcely hear her, “Moulin, our realm has need of a leader
while I am away. That leader is you. The council has already been
advised. I would trust no other as I trust you.”

“But, I…” He was stunned that she
touched him, had spoken so tenderly to him. “I—I
cannot…”

“You can, and you must. The people
know you; they trust you. You will be able to rule in my absence,
assure them that I will return. We are only just over the battle.
It is a very precarious time. Without you here, the Dynasty would
be vulnerable, could even be taken from us. That mustn’t happen,
Moulin. You must take care of the realm until I return.”

He was crushed with fear—fear that
he would never again see her, that she would disappear from his
life and never return. “Nicolette,” he used her familiar name now,
“please, please don’t leave. At least not without me.”

Nicolette smiled, something she so
very rarely did. “Oh, Moulin, you break your own heart so.” Her
hand fell from his cheek, and she took his hands in her own. “I
cannot promise you that I will return, but I can promise you this—I
will try beyond anything else to come back to this Dynasty. As you
know me, and as you trust me, your heart will be quieted by this,
for few have ever witnessed how strong I really am. You are one of
them.”

There was nothing he could say. He
watched mutely as the white mare, the one with the coal black legs,
was brought from the stables. It was Nicolette’s horse and, as
always, he was mesmerized by how the mare was immediately drawn to
her master, shoving her muzzle into the hand of the fair beauty
that would ride her off into the unknown. Moulin helped her onto
her mount, double checked the cinches and buckles before handing
her the reins.

Moira was to attend to her and was
mounted on a grey gelding. With her good hand she wrapped her reins
around the handless arm, securing them against her side so that
they would not slip.

“You need guards, my Lady. You must
have protection—Ravan’s men, they…” Moulin choked on his words,
unable to meet her gaze.

“What I must do will be unaffected
by any around me. Guards will not save me from my fate,” she
said.

It was true. As true as the passage
of a second, as true as the moon that hung so silvery blue above
the tree line just then, her words could not be argued. Moulin knew
that Nicolette would have her way, and the way of men could not
alter it in the least.

He swallowed and let go of the
reins—let the mare and the woman whom he loved ride away into the
dusk of the unknown.

* * *

The horses were tacked up and ready
to move before it was even light. As the first ashen threads of
daylight played with his eyes, Ravan picked up his weapons and
glanced up as Velecent approached him.

“The horses are ready. We ride
now?” Velecent appeared game for an early start.

“Assemble the men. I want to be
gone the moment I can see the trail.”

With this, Velecent studied his
feet, kicked the muddy ash on the edge of the fire pit with the toe
of one boot.

“What? What is it? Why do you
wait?” Ravan was frustrated but not because Velecent
delayed.

“I am your friend. You know I am.”
Velecent sighed heavily and faced Ravan straight on. Ravan only
waited. “What I mean to say is…you know the trail will be dead
today.”

There was a moment of quiet outrage.
“Silence!” His master choked then repeated himself more quietly.
“Be silent, please. You do not help me with your
doubts.”

Ravan refused to look Velecent in
the eye. Instead, he pulled from his pocket a lock of hair. It was
a braid, woven from his son. Risen’s hair had hung long down his
back at about eight years of age, and Nicolette cut several hands
length from it after braiding it. Then, she gave it to Ravan as a
gift—a token of luck she called it in one breath and then denied
luck in the next.

At the time, he thought it peculiar,
for it had reminded him of another time long ago when this same
gesture from another had been fraught with malevolence. He pushed
that memory away and focused on the day Nicolette cut his son’s
hair. He remembered it as though it was only yesterday. The sun
shone brightly, and they laughed as though there was not a care in
the world. Risen scarcely held still long enough for the keepsake
to be taken from him, then he dashed off again, running across the
castle grounds to make the kind of mischief that only an eight year
old boy could.

Now Ravan held the lock of hair up
to his lips, felt the braided rope of it against his skin and
closed his eyes. He would give anything, would return to the
horrible dungeon for eternity, if only his son could be home safe
again.

“Ravan…” Velecent cleared his
throat.

“I know…I know there will be little
we can do to track them today, after the rains last night.” His
voice carried with it the knowledge of this truth, the anguish of
futility. “But, I must try. There is nothing more I can do.” His
eyes implored his friend.

Velecent left his spot by the fire
and approached, laying his hand upon Ravan’s arm in a rare gesture.
“Might I suggest we parlay our situation a bit, take the offensive
somewhat?” He squeezed his master’s arm through his battle
leathers. “I believe it would suit you better today.” He allowed a
small smile that he perhaps did not entirely feel.

Ravan pocketed his misery, slipped
the lock of hair back where it would be safe. “What do you
mean?”

“Perhaps your heart is too close to
this task for you to see it clearly, but consider this—we know,
somewhat, which way Risen was taken. We knew, before the trail ran
cold, that they were traveling east, and that they were not
deviating from their course. It makes sense that when they hit the
Alps, they have two reasonable choices, to head north or to head
south. I propose that instead of tracking them, let us ride hard to
the east, to the nearest town, and put the word out. Perhaps we
will hear notice of their passing?” Velecent shrugged. “It is a
sound strategy, I believe, and if we do not hear word of Risen,
perhaps we can find out if these men have done this before, come
through there before. Seizing children is not something that would
be easily hidden.”

Rubbing the first two fingers of his
hand thoughtfully up and down the string of his bow, Ravan had to
admit this thought appealed to him, appealed to him very much.
Instead of bearing the frustration of a lost trail, they might gain
the jump on the band of men who’d taken his son. Yes! This was
something his heart and soul longed to do, to ride hard and give
chase in a furious way! And if they were successful, if they found
the wretched cowards, he would kill them the moment he saw
them.

CHAPTER
TWENTY-TWO

†

“Power or passion…” his mother
counseled him, her voice soft and heavy at the same
time.

Risen loved the way his mother’s
voice lilted on the air, could listen to it all day, he
thought.

“Which is a greater danger in your
enemy?”

“Power. You must look to your enemy
to see if this is what he seeks,” Risen began.

“Why would he wish to overcome you,
then, if he is already powerful?”

“Because profit fuels power. My
enemy would seek to profit from me—to increase his own
power?”

“Yes, that is one of two
possibilities,” Nicolette explained.

This seemed reasonable, but the
passion part of the equation escaped Risen entirely.

His confused expression prompted his
mother to explain further. “Do not underestimate the strength of
passion, my son. Power is sought only so that passion may be
fulfilled.” Risen was uncomfortable as she went on. “Lust, sex,
possessiveness, hatred…love—these things can fuel a man to the most
terrible and most wonderful of all acts. These are the most
dangerous.”

Risen blushed with this. He was ten
years old, and for some reason the word “sex” jumped out at him.
His mother could not have known, but an image of Sylvie jumped into
his mind. Nicolette nearly smiled but said nothing more about
it.

* * *

Risen was pulled from the shallow
dregs of his dream by the sounds of soldiers stirring. He trembled.
It’d been a long, miserable night. At first, he’d tried to
formulate a plan, had studied his enemy. Then, as fatigue would not
be denied, his eyes closed at intervals but never with the welcome
oblivion of prolonged sleep. But the dream was in a small way
encouraging, and he blinked himself more awake.

He recalled how last evening by the
fire, the soldier, William, had given them something to eat, but
Sylvie scarcely nibbled at even her own meager share, her
expression vacant and far away. The soldier was an enigma, offering
them some small gesture of comfort but unwilling to disclose even
the slightest details of their capture. All he was inclined to
divulge was the notion that their lives had changed forever. That,
Risen thought, was already cruelly obvious.

Even so, he considered the
possibility that perhaps William was more civil than the others.
The boy knew that loyalty was hard earned but much stronger than
coin. This he’d been taught in one of his many lessons with his
father. Perhaps the Englishman would be their key to survival…or
maybe even an eventual way home. But how to gain his trust, his
compassion?

These thoughts were poorly put
together as he was too weary to concentrate. Blinking the fatigue
from his eyes as best he could, Risen took stock of the situation.
When they were taken, the three men that looped back for them later
caught up with the rest of their group. Altogether, the band
consisted of ten horses, eight men, and six captives, including him
and Sylvie.

One of the horses was wounded, a
festering cut on the forelimb that would not afford it many more
days on the trail. If the men did not replace the steed, and at the
rate they were traveling, someone must logically be left
behind.

It was hard to say who that would be
and a frightening thought to consider. Of the six stolen children,
altogether ranging from ages of about twelve to fifteen, Sylvie was
the only female. Furthermore, Risen believed the only reason she
was alive was because of him.

The day before, the other four
captive boys had been bound two together and forced to ride double
on two of the horses. They made Risen and Sylvie ride separated,
each one with soldier. He hated this, hated the thought of the arms
of one so unkind and ruthless holding Sylvie captive on a horse,
but that would be far better than what seemed logical…that they
would leave her behind. She would be the one they chose when the
horse failed. The weakest would be cut loose.

Risen struggled to get his feet
beneath himself, to will some strength to his legs. It was a cold,
damp morning, and yet Sylvie slept, leaning heavily against their
bindings. He cautiously, from beneath his brow so they wouldn’t
notice, studied the men as they began to move slowly about the
camp.