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.
Consequently, there was never a wilder, more wretched creature than the one standing in the middle of the small inn on this evening. All within had stopped whatever they were doing and simply stared at the odd exchange between these two. The miserable stranger and the butchered young woman were a strikingly bizarre pair to be sure. It was dinner and a show.
“Pardon? Oh, yes,” he replied.
Ravan was unaccustomed to being approached as a civilian. In truth, he never had! There was really not a time that he could remember not being a mercenary…or a child of bad fate. Now, he was a free man and seen by others as just that—a free man! His brother had given this to him—a gift of the greatest proportions! Even so, it was a difficult role to become accustomed to, and he swallowed thickly, tasting richly the unfamiliarity of it.
“I’m sorry. For a second I thought…” He shook his head, began fresh. With conviction he said, “Yes, I wish to take a room for the night, with dinner…and care and lodging for my horse as well—the bay mare, just outside.” He examined the girl more closely, and she looked away from him, cowering from beneath his awful scrutiny. Ravan was oddly reminded of the orphanage just then. “Thank you,” he said apologetically. “I hope I did not startle you. I’ve been traveling for…” he shook his head, “…for a very long time.” Truthfully, remarkably, he appeared worse for wear than she, but he could not know this.
“Certainly,” she said in a small voice, “please come with me, and I will see that your horse is tended as well.” Motioning for him to follow, the maiden took up a candle, crossed the room, and climbed a dim flight of planked stairs to the second floor.
Ravan followed, stepping onto the landing before peering beyond her down a narrow hall. It was dark with only her candle to light the way. She walked slowly, holding her stump so that an ill breeze would not douse the flame.
There were rooms on either side, and she led him to the very end, to the last one on the left. Opening the door, she stepped aside and lifted the candle enough for him to see in. There were two beds. In one, under the dim light of the candle, lay two naked men, already passed out from their evening’s frivolity. A fecal breeze crept across the threshold, and Ravan turned away.
“I must have a room to myself. I’m sorry…”
“There is only one single room, sir. It will cost you.”
“I will pay.” Ravan reached for his coin purse, but she shook her head at him.
“Pay downstairs when you come to dinner. I assume you wish to bathe?” She stared at his silence and offered considerable patience to the unusual stranger who claimed to have currency and a horse. When he only nodded, she explained, “I will draw water and be back soon. Warm or cold?”
“Excuse me?” he began, then realized she was giving him an option of the two. He hesitated only a moment before replying, “Warm, please, and do you have soap?”
“Yes, for laundry. It comes with a charge.” Then she indicated the room directly across the way. Stepping around him, she unlocked the heavy door with the same key and pushed it open, revealing a small, comfortable room. Using the candle she held, she lit two more candles, both on a small dressing table, then looked at him for approval.
“This will be fine. And I need silk, several arms lengths.”
She eyed him suspiciously. “We have nothing like that here.”
“Linen, then? As strong as you have—can you bring me some linen…please?”
She paused, rubbed her chin with the first two fingers of her only hand. “I have dress linen. I suppose that might work. I can bring a spool of that.” As though reasoning this would be satisfactory, she waved her hand. “Use as much as you wish.” Apparently finished, she ducked wordlessly around him and hurried back down the hall leaving Ravan to himself and the solitary privacy of his room.
He closed the door and leaned his head against it. A room—his room—paid for with stolen coin, though it was. It was the first instance since he’d leapt from the miserable cell that he had a sincere moment of quiet solitude, with nothing but the wretched clothes on his back and the even more tortured thoughts in his head.
He remained like this, simply breathing—nothing else—for a lost amount of time. Tears threatened, and he was surprised at the circumstances that found him most weak. It was not crawling into a grave with his brother or wielding a bow on a battlefield. It was the memory of loss, the exposure of his heart to profound love. These were the things that tugged at and tortured his soul now.
He was absolutely lost in his thoughts when the soft rap came at the door, surprising him as thoroughly as though an axe had struck him between the eyes. He pulled the door open and stepped away. The maiden had returned with the water, soap, and a single hand towel draped across her handless arm. She flipped the towel onto the bed and set the basin and soap on the only other piece of furniture in the room—a simple, roughhewn dresser.
“Dinner is downstairs, if you wish. I will see to the mare and fetch the linen on my way.” She didn’t wait for Ravan to acknowledge this, only turned and closed the door behind her.
The mercenary sat down on the edge of the bed—the first time he’d sat on a bed since he’d worked at Adorno’s estate. How long ago had that been? Ten, eleven months? This was all that was needed for the memory of Nicolette to crash down on his senses. Before this moment, he was driven by his need to bury his brother and flee north. Now, he was again offered the cruelty of a quiet moment in a space that he would not be disturbed in.
Laying back upon the bed, he closed his eyes, but this only made it worse. There was no sorting out the how and why of things now. She was married to the monster, Adorno. This belief gave him a grave, sour feeling within his gut, and he sat up again. Stop this foolishness! Never mind! Married or not, it would not stop him from his final quest! He would not have peace until he stood at the castle gate. Then he wou
ld find Nicolette and Adorno, he would take her again, just as he’d done before…and he would kill him. And if he could not, it would be his final stand.
To draw these thoughts so clearly to mind was akin to surgically severing a limb. The wound was so neatly opened, everything within so cleanly exposed. There was no predicted outcome, only the need to go. And this need pressed upon him with a murderous urgency. Nothing could rest until the capitation was complete. Only then would the madness cease.
He pushed Adorno from his mind—pushed aside the images of the tyrant wed to the woman he loved—and let only thoughts of Nicolette to wash across his skin. She knew him, knew him like no other. She knew the things he’d done and chose not to judge him but loved him in spite of his black history. This was better, much better. This was good, and he allowed his memory to find that long past night in the starlit meadow, the first time they ever lay together, the first time they ever…
His mind was in a very good place when the soft rap came again at the door. He leapt to his feet and after a serious moment’s hesitation…and rearranging himself, answered the door. The maiden had returned with a large spool of linen fiber. She seemed mildly surprised that he’d ignored his bath altogether. “The linen,” she said. “I assumed you might be ready to eat by now.” She glanced at the basin. “I can bring fresh water if you like.”
When Ravan didn’t comment on this, only shook his head, she gave him a perplexed look and left him once more alone. He was still affected by his warm memory of Nicolette, and did not even bother to bar the door.
There was no mirror in the room, nothing that could indicate to Ravan just how awful he really looked. Stepping to the simple, wooden dresser, he drew the corner of the hand towel through the still warm basin of water. This was something he’d not felt in a very long time. He held his hands up, stared at them, so blackened with filth that he scarcely recognized them. Turning them over, he studied them as though they were strangers.
Submerging both hands in the basin, he savored the simple joy of warm water on his skin, rejoiced in the feel of it, genuine as a lover’s caress. It was enough to break him into action, and he set himself to a long needed task.
Peeling from his jacket and tunic, he reached for the soap and began to bathe. He scoured and scrubbed for a good, long while. His body was bruised from the beatings at the prison, and at times it was difficult to tell the bruises from the dirt. When the water was a dark, murky grey, Ravan was nowhere close to being clean.
Abandoning the bath, he focused instead on his hair. The tangled mane hung black and filthy down his back. He tried to straighten it, tried to pry a few sections of it apart, but combing his fingers through it proved utterly futile. His hair was so matted and flea infested that he gave up, wondering briefly what to do next. All at once, he drew his knife. Grasping the thick locks with one hand, he swept the blade, chopping his hair off clean at his shoulders.
Nearly a foot of hideously tangled mat fell to his feet along with the many creatures within. He kicked the snarled mess aside. Next, he did the same to his beard, grasping it as close to his chin as he could, curling his fingers through the thickened mass of it. He drew the knife carefully, cutting the hair off as near as was possible to his face. Along with the beard fell more of the awful vermin.
All the while, he ruminated on his dark days within the prison cell, the incessant persecution of the fleas and lice. His mind wandered freely over the past year’s imprisonment. This, of course, ultimately led his thoughts to his brother.
He stopped his task, blade still in his hand, and leaned heavily against the dresser that held the dirty wash basin. His breath caught in his chest and the foreign stab of pain—the one that so recently had begun to pierce his heart—surfaced again with next to no notice. Closing his eyes, he conjured up the lovely, sad face of the priest who’d sat with him that wondrous and wretched night. “D’ata…” The broken murmur escaped his lips.
The soft rap at the door went unanswered. Repeated and more insistent this time, it finally drew him from his melancholy reminiscence, and he spun about to discover the maiden standing in the open doorway with a fresh basin of hot water. She was frozen in place, eyes wide, mouth open in a silent “Oh.”
The man before her was half naked, only in his sagging trousers and boots. He could not see what she saw—the broad shoulders, the clear and deadly eyes, the roadmap of scars upon the lean and hungry frame. This one had seen battle, and much of it—of this there was little doubt.
“Oh, I’m so sorry, I—I brought more water. I thought that…” She looked away.
Lifting the soiled basin from the dresser, Ravan approached her and traded the water, carefully taking the fresh one before making sure she had a grasp of the soiled one. It was only then that she likely realized how tall he was, the size of him, even lean as he was.
With a soft smile, he said, “It’s good that you did. And I will likely need a third before I am done with this.” He indicated with one hand his general remaining filth. Then, handing her a coin, he asked if she might find him a fresh tunic somewhere.
Nodding dumbly, she backed from the room, leaving him to a freshened bath. This time, he stripped entirely naked and hung his jacket and trousers from the window, outside in the cold, secured firmly by the sash so that they might hang in the frigid night breeze. This was clever of him for the last of the fleas would leave the pants in short order, bolting in the close to freezing weather to search elsewhere for warmer fare. When he later pulled them from the window, they would not be clean, but they would be free of infestation.
Next, he use the lye ash soap and lathered his head, body, and lastly his groin so thoroughly that he was at last free of the wretched vermin that had persecuted him for so long. His skin tingled with the raw cleanliness of it, and he was beginning to feel half civilized.
The maiden returned a third time, and Ravan snatched the throw from the foot of the bed, wrapping it crudely around his waist and holding it with one hand before responding to the now familiar knock on the door. Outfitted only in his makeshift skirt, he answered her call.
She was only momentarily surprised and looked him up and down before saying simply, “I’ve untacked, rubbed down, and fed your horse.” Extending her mutilated arm, she held a fresh tunic out to him and peered at him quizzically with her one eye. “She is a fine one, as good as I’ve seen,” she pressed him further. He again said nothing, but this time she appeared not willing to let whatever was on her mind rest. “It is an exceptional horse for one so…”
With that he glanced sharply at her, and she held her tongue, perhaps fearing she might offend him. Ravan thanked her, taking first the tunic and then the fresh water, holding the blanket at his waist as he did. “Yes, she is worthy of the small fortune I paid for her, and thank you for the tunic.”
The girl appeared to consider this, the likelihood of one as wretched as this man having a steed such as the mare, but she said no more about it. Hesitating, he could feel her appraise him further. “Thank you for the water,” he said. “I will be a bit longer.”
“I’ll leave you then. If you do not eat, you will need to pay before you sleep.” She seemed to indicate this would be the last of her visits to the room and turned, pulling the door closed behind her.
Ravan used the last basin of steaming water to finish his bath, rinsing thoroughly, finally washing the remnants of a year’s imprisonment from himself. Rubbing his skin nearly raw with the fresh towel she’d brought, he reveled in the decency of cleanliness for the first time in so very long.
It was only then that he caught his dim reflection in the small window of the room. He could barely make out the almost too lean outline of his body, the grim set to the jaw. This was a man who’d known hunger—of that there was no question. The bruises were already beginning to fade. But the eyes, they were too dark, too deep to see clearly. He shrugged, brushing it off as a poor reflection. Ravan was what he was, the mercenary who’d cheated the executioner’s n
oose and stepped back from death’s door. And now…he was a free man.
Leaving the soiled tunic with the pile of hair, he donned the fresh shift and snatched his trousers from the sash. He pulled them on and slipped back into his boots before securing at his waist the belt, sheath, and knife. Then he ran his fingers through his damp hair, sweeping it back and behind his ears. If he could have seen his eyes, he would have seen that they were bright and clear, with all the promise of a good destiny dancing in them.
Feeling revived a great deal, he unraveled the spool of linen, pulling a good length of it around the footboard post. Meticulously, he twisted and at the same time twined the two long threads, coiling them around each other before, in the end, creating loops for either end. He lacked the wax to finish the string properly, so he spit upon it until he had the fibers just so. Finally, and because he’d done it so many times before, Ravan created a good bowstring that would serve him well enough.
Reaching for the bow that was leaning dysfunctional in the corner, he looped the string on one end of it—the one by his foot. Stepping through the ‘V’ he created, he bent the bow around the back of his leg, pulling hard, arcing the weapon so that he could hook the other loop end of the string to it. The bow was bent as it should be, the string taut and strong.
Holding it at arm’s length, it warmed him somewhere deep within to have a functional bow again. Next, he must find a suitable sword, but for now this would suffice. Pulling on the bow, he tested the tensile strength of it before he was ultimately satisfied.
“Good,” he murmured aloud to himself.
Returning the bow to the corner with the scabbard of arrows, he coiled the remainder of the linen carefully back onto the spool. Then he decided he was very nearly starved and that it was time to head downstairs for a meal. At first it worried him, to leave his bow and arrows in the room, for he was not given a key. Apparently the only one with a key was the girl, and all rooms could be barred from within when the patrons retired. But then he realized there was no obvious exit other than the front of the inn, and so any who might try to steal from him would have to pass him in the main room. It seemed reasonably secure, and he did not wish to appear armed. So the bow remained behind, and he left with only his blade strapped at his side.
Risen Page 3
