* * *
Ravan awoke with a thick and cottony feeling in the back of his throat and a crushing headache. He squinted at the overhead glare as the morning light stabbed through the tiny window and suddenly noticed the door to the cell—standing ajar. The empty brandy bottle lay nearby. Jumping to his feet, he noticed for the first time the heavy robes that he wore. “D’ata...No!”
He had no time. The town square was too far away, but he ran. Up, up, up he ran—up the stairs of the tower, and along the way he snatched from a weapons rack a bow and single arrow.
In the distant square, an executioner grasped the helve, wrapping his thick, meaty fists around the stock. He stood by, ready to pull the massive lever and release the trap.
The arrow flew from the tallest keep of the very castle which had held Ravan captive. Nobody had stopped the holy man from his terrible flight up the stairs. It was an ungodly shot, farther than any man had ever made. From nearly five hundred paces away, the aim was deadly and sorrowfully true.
It was also the most awful and dearest target of the mercenary’s life.
“For you, my brother—thank you,” he whispered to himself, exhaled, and released the horrible dart. He knew the arrow would be true to its mark even before it struck, that he would spare his brother when no one else had.
The trap sprung and inevitability was upon them all as the young man fell. D’ata never felt the rope yank and bite cruelly into his throat. His body did not contort and fight; there was no gaze in agony as his last moments were robbed, suffocated from his sight. This was no suicide—there was no choice whatsoever. Ravan now burdened it all as his arrow pierced his brother’s heart just before the trap fell.
For D'ata—all was gone.
* * *
A day later, Ravan rode north with the body of his brother. He had paid good money for the horses, sold a very fine bow and arrows to afford them. He'd also bought a fine bolt of cloth to wrap D’ata in, Cezanne cloth, although he did not realize this.
Ravan found the Cezanne estate and buried his brother next to the grave of his beloved Julianne. It was just as D’ata described it, sitting next to him in the prison cell only two nights before. The mercenary never alerted anyone. He stole into the remote pasture on a clear and starry night and dug the grave alone. It was a deep and good grave. When he was done, he gathered stones and carefully laid them around it, so that it would be marked forever, long after the cross was gone.
* * *
The young priest was gone, and no one seemed to know how or where. He’d disappeared one dark night from the tiny parish where he lived, and no one ever saw him again. Many speculated that he'd died of a broken heart and truthfully, he had. His heart had stopped, at the loyal hand of his brother.
No one ever again went to see Julianne’s grave. It was too sad, so nobody ever noticed the fresh grave next to it—save one.
Yvette rejoiced that the handsome young priest had finally come home to her beloved Julianne. She cut fresh wild flowers from the meadow and strung them into delicate daisy chains to link the small wooden cross of the new grave to the massive, white gravestone of her sister’s.
It was a pretty little cross, handmade it appeared—rustic but strong. Strange, though...upon it hung a lovely silver chain with a small copper ring on it, small enough to belong to a boy just about her age.
PROLOGUE
†
D’ata
It was beautiful, warm and light. There was no fear, and most wonderfully, no regret. He turned slowly, arms out, absorbing the safe and tranquil space that he now occupied, not just of body, but of soul.
D'ata closed his eyes. He sighed in deep relief, sad nevermore, and marveled at the peace that this space gave him. He could not recall the last time his heart experienced joy like this. No—he'd never felt such happiness as this!
His hands crossed involuntarily over his heart. They brushed over the wound. The scar was painless and beautiful, and he recognized the love that the one he called brother held for him, to do such a thing for him. There was no remorse. He breathed in deeply the sweet air which he almost seemed to float on.
A hand slipped softly into his and a sudden and strong current passed through him. It was a beautiful collision, crashing against him like a summer storm. It was a feeling that he’d only felt when he was with her.
He turned—and there she was.
THE END
The Execution Page 37
