It was a bastard. All knew this, but none spoke of it. It had been the mercenary, the dreaded one who’d taken her and absconded with her into the night, who’d fathered the child. That’d been a dreadful and treacherous time for all the township as they feared the unreasonable wrath of the despot ruler who remained—Adorno. Few details were known of the flight other than Adorno had given chase with a sizable militia and returned with his bride to be, telling all who would listen that the mercenary fiend was dead and cold in the ground.
To the surprise of all, Nicolette had agreed to marry Adorno. The ceremony officially united them, but not before her belly had barely swollen with child. All wondered as to the true father of the baby, but Moulin knew. It was not Adorno’s.
For all his philanderings, for all his rapes, Adorno had never produced a child. It was common belief that he could not, and after bartering for Ravan’s life, the black haired beauty had forbidden Adorno to touch her until their wedding night. This Moulin knew, for she’d demanded this and been sheltered at the opposite side of the castle until that fateful day when he took her as his bride. And yet, there was no disputing that she was with child.
Then she professed her vows. That had been a wondrous and terrible day. The whole township rejoiced as the ethereal bride, dressed in a gown of darkest blue, wed the tyrant ruler. It must be a strange woman to capture the heart of one so evil, and every soul in the realm prayed she might temper his rage, abate his cruelty. However, there was no time to discover if this would be so. The belief that she might quell the tide of brutality had no chance to be tested, for Adorno was murdered that very eve in his wedding chambers.
Moulin staggered visibly as he recalled that astonishing night. He was at post outside the newlywed chambers when Nicolette appeared at her bridal doors, covered in the blood of her husband. Adorno, Moulin discovered, was still naked on his wedding bed. The blade—Nicolette’s dagger—had been driven into his back. It was a horrid sight but had wondrously rid the domain of a dreadful oppression.
So quickly the awful event was buried and forgotten. All secretly rejoiced in the death of Adorno, although no one did so openly to the lovely noblewoman who took command of the domain. Care was taken that she should not be insulted or defamed, especially in her delicate condition, for not only did they have a new ruler, the realm would have an heir.
But Moulin knew. He knew Nicolette had impaled her new husband on their wedding night, even as Adorno had consummated his marriage to her. The corpse had lain on the bed, his erection still evident, blood spewn from his mouth, the blade at his side. Moulin had covered the hideous sight at once, unable to look upon it.
It’d been a perfect, calculated murder, and she appeared unhinged by it not at all. Such nerve it must have taken to pierce him through the back as he’d taken her, to penetrate him as he penetrated her! But Nicolette could do this. Of course she could; Moulin was certain of it.
Struggling with the details that he alone had known, he helped seal the body in its murderous tomb—had the greatest hand in closing the evil ruler away forever. The room and all its windows were paved from the inside with rock. Even the door had been unhinged and filled with mortar and stone. In time, perhaps, all would cease to know, wonder, or remember what lay behind it.
Never had Nicolette spoken of the murder after that night, and never had she confessed openly to the deed. Instead, she manipulated it supremely, placing herself in a position of piteous regard and power. All mourned the dark beauty’s loss. All eventually rejoiced in her reign. It’d been a murder sent from God. All hail their new leader, for she was an answered prayer if ever there was one.
These were Moulin’s thoughts when Nicolette cleared her throat, gently drawing her closest aid back to the present. “Moulin…”
It shook him to hear her speak his name. It always did. He stammered as he drew himself back from the events of that fateful night. “It shouldn’t be so difficult. There are many good names fit for the son of one so…so…faultless as yourself.” He was embarrassed. He’d immediately said more than he intended and turned his face from her so that she could not see the flush draw across his cheeks.
“You believe I rule the domain well? Or you are saying—”
Moulin glanced her way but felt his eyes betrayed his longing for her. He hastily interrupted before she could put to words a notion of his feelings for her. That would be more than he could bear.
“You are a blessing to this dynasty, my Lady. None could be so kind—so strong, and yet…” He let his words fall silent.
Moulin allowed his heart to dispute for certain the circumstances of Nicolette’s feelings for the father of this child. Unable to accept the more likely possibility, he struggled with whether the mercenary had raped her or she’d gone willingly into his arms. She’d named the Dynasty for him, after all, but returned without him and never again spoke of him, even when the child was born. Some murmured the specifics of the affair, but these were vague and without detail. Other than Nicolette, only one knew for sure, and he was rotting in a closed off tomb in the other end of this very castle.
It was no secret that Ravan had taken down a sizable force on a cliff side before Adorno ultimately captured his bride from the mercenary’s clutches. The soldiers were amazed, spoke of how Nicolette had ridden away from the whole affair as though utterly untouched by the drama that had unfolded before her. Adorno had agreed to her barter, and the mercenary was then sent to his final fate. After that, Nicolette had evidently troubled herself with it no more.
She paused from stroking the soft hair of her son long enough to glance sideways at her personal castellan. “You flatter me?”
Moulin caught himself, worked his hands nervously behind his back. “My Lady, it is no secret that you are a gift to your people. They love you. All…” he struggled, “…love you.” Nicolette held him with her gaze much longer than he could tolerate, and he averted his eyes, studying his feet instead.
She appeared not to acknowledge what he nearly said and murmured instead, in a voice as silken smooth as a midnight lake, “But as for the name…”
She pulled the tiny blanket over the baby and rested a hand upon the child, “This one feels lost to me. I cannot say why, but perhaps I struggle because of it.” She abruptly lifted her gaze to Moulin and said with finality, “If I do not name the child by tonight, I should wish that you would do so for the sake of the people of this domain.”
“My Lady…” Moulin was stunned by the offer. To ask such a personal thing of him—could it mean? Did she have feelings enough for him that she would want such a privilege to be his alone, that he should name the sole heir to the Ravan dynasty? He was moved beyond words and swallowed the thickness that threatened to leap from the back of his throat. Hoarsely, he continued, “I would be honored, my Lady. A fine name I would choose if you so wish it of me.”
He did not want to appear weak in front of her, although he was hugely intimidated by such a task as this. It occurred to him that he’d never even held this child. Perhaps she meant that her son should have a father of sorts. Perhaps…
She studied him, her dark eyes fathomless to him. He invariably struggled as he tried to read her, failed, and was embarrassed without knowing why. As always, he looked away first.
As though she either did not notice or wasn’t concerned, she focused again on the child. It seemed she was just about to say something more when there was a commotion coming from outside, from through the gatehouse and into the main courtyard below. Her fourth story balcony doors were closed, but they could hear the clambering excitement from beyond as the wind carried the noise up to them. Nicolette walked urgently to the doors to see what the disturbance was about. Moulin could see her eyes fly wide as though she’d seen something astonishing.
“My Lady! No, you mustn’t!” he reached for her arm. “It could put you in harm’s way!”
But it was too late. She’d already flung the doors open and was out on the balcony, hands clutching the railing as sh
e stared at the scene unfolding in the yard.
This was the last futile attempt by Moulin to capture the love of the strange beauty, for there in the courtyard below was the dark mercenary, risen from death’s grasp.
“No!” Moulin hissed to himself as he looked over her shoulder, spied the true father of the unnamed, bastard child. Nicolette appeared not to have heard him at all. Instead she was intently absorbed with what she saw.
On a horse sat a mercenary with a young woman seated behind. The steed was nervous, spun in circles, surrounded by guards who kept the unexpected visitors at bay, spears pointed. Ravan was arguing, had pulled his sword, and a guard seemed prepared to strike at him when their Lady called for them to immediately halt. Her voice rang clearly across the cool evening air. All were silenced as they gazed up at Nicolette, at their fair leader far above them on the castle balcony.
Next, the only sound was the deep voice of a man come home. It carried up on the chill breeze as Ravan’s eyes found those of his lover. “Nicolette!”
She whirled in an instant and flew from the balcony. Then, Nicolette was gone from her chambers before she even had the chance to hear Moulin’s heart crash to the floor.
Later…
Ravan approached the edge of the cradle almost cautiously. She’d surprised him thoroughly, told him she had a gift for him. Now, here was a child. Glancing over his shoulder, he allowed his eyes to take in all of Nicolette, all of the beauty that stood placidly behind him, allowing him the privacy of his first moments with his newborn son.
It scarcely surprised Ravan that Nicolette had dethroned the wicked Adorno. She did not go into any great detail of the event, had shrugged it off as though it were nothing, saying simply, “He is gone, never to return. We need speak of him no more.” But the mercenary knew in his heart that she must have done it superbly. Admittedly, he imagined the torturous fate the little man had likely suffered, and it gave him some gratification.
But this…a child. He was visibly overcome. First, to once again have Nicolette—the woman he loved—by his side. Then to see the child born unknown to him as he’d languished in a prison cell.
He asked again of the peculiar beauty behind him, not doubting that he was the father but in genuine amazement, “He is my son?”
“He is.”
“My son,” he murmured to himself alone and reached for the sleeping babe. It was an awkward moment, but Nicolette made no move to assist him.
Ravan turned the baby upright and laid his son’s face to his shoulder, rubbed his cheek against the downy fluff of infant hair. He was more overcome with joy at this moment than he’d been in his entire life, and he believed his heart could burst; he could scarcely breathe. He tried to remember if he’d ever held a baby, someone this small, and a far gone memory of an orphanage, cradling an infant thrust into his arms in a moment’s need of comfort, filtered back to him. He smiled. It was a good memory, a powerful one, and this was a glorious moment as well.
The baby objected to his short beard, mewling in a way that broke his father’s heart so perfectly. Holding his son up so that he could see full well the face of his offspring, he was stricken, deeply affected by a likeness of this child to someone he’d only recently known.
“He…” he struggled, swallowing his disbelief, “…he looks like my brother.”
This brought a curious rise to a thin eyebrow of his beloved Nicolette. “The brother who spared you, who died for you?”
“Yes, the same.” Ravan had neglected to mention D’ata was his twin. “We are twins,” he said it as though his brother might at any moment walk through the door. Gazing up from beneath a tortured brow with eyes full both of happiness and sorrow, he said, “Nicolette, my son…he looks like D’ata.”
Nicloette’s eyes flashed in surprise, then she let go a rare, fleeting smile. “Your son, my love, looks like you.”
Ravan was astounded to hear her say such a thing. He cradled the now awakened child, fumbling so that he could see directly the face of his son. The baby did not cry but struggled to focus on the shadowed face of his father, and the mercenary’s eyes filled with tears.
“He is my brother returned,” he exclaimed, and hugged the child gently, dearly, to his chest. “He is risen. It is a good sign, Nicolette. He has overcome!” Then, the beaten man, worn and road-weary, too thin and exhausted, asked, “What is his name?”
“He has none. Your son has no name. His baptism is tomorrow morning.”
This surprised Ravan somewhat, but then it did not. She’d not named the infant, had felt no need to. That was Nicolette in her entirety. What she shared with the child had no need of definition—no need of a name. She would no more name her baby than a wild creature of the forest would name its offspring. It was simply a matter of no reasonable consideration to her.
He cradled the baby, so tiny in his arms, and rocked him awkwardly, gently, gazing into the bright eyes of the heir to the Ravan Dynasty. “Risen,” he murmured to the child. “Your…name should be Risen, for with your birth my brother has overcome death.”
Nicolette paused, seemed to consider this for a bit, then nodded. “Yes, your brother is risen, and your son shall overcome. It is a good name. Risen it is, then.”
The infant was drifting off to sleep now, and the mercenary placed his son into the cradle. He turned to Nicolette, overwhelmed with his grand turn of fortune. She held him with her eyes, invited him back into her life simply by the expression on her face. Then, another sort of passion overcame him, and the two, once separated by bad fortune, were reunited in an unparalleled way. Their love denied fate, for it was as Nicolette believed, only what they devised of it. Their destiny was their own.
Ravan advanced on his lover, shedding in only a few steps the remains of a long and arduous journey. With his clothes fell a lifetime of struggle and strife. Naked, he lifted Nicolette, laying her tenderly upon the bed. He plucked at her lacings, not at all certain how to undress her.
“Help me,” he murmured urgently, and her hands went to his, showing him where and how to release the catches of her gowns. His impatience nearly had the best of him when he at last flung the remnants of the gowns from the bed to the floor.
Ten months of imprisonment, the loss of his brother, and his harrowing trip back were released from him now. Outside, a storm gained sudden momentum. Torrents of rain swept across the window pane as he lifted himself over her, easing himself into the body of the woman he loved before rolling over her as the wind does the sea.
She embraced him tightly, ran her hands down the back of her lover as though feeling thoroughly the too thin frame of the man who was the true father of her son. They consummated their reunion against the backdrop of the thunderstorm beyond, lightning illuminating their bodies in flashes, Ravan’s tawny skin and black hair devouring the white beauty beneath him.
An hour after his arrival at the Ravan Dynasty…the mercenary fathered his daughter.
* * *
That was a wonderful time. Ravan, home at last, slept for days on end. When he awoke, began to stir about the castle grounds, he was quickly known and well received. The couturier in short order made new clothes for him, fine leather trousers and tunics, new boots and gloves. He was magnificently armored, overseeing the makings of the plates to his own specifications.
Having access to the forge, Ravan made a sword and knife, both worthy of the man who would carry them, arrow tips as fine as he’d ever fashioned, and a coat of arms for his shield. The blacksmith was in awe, and the mercenary showed him the secrets of his craft, inviting him to outfit all the soldiers of the realm as finely.
He spent long hours with Nicolette and Risen, lying in bed with his son tucked between them, watching the season change as though it were insane, dancing past their bedroom window. Never had he known such luxury. Never had his heart been at such peace. It was as though he fell from a nightmare into a dream—this new life that had opened itself up to him. And all because of the blessed sacrifice of his brot
her. Ravan was overjoyed with this gift and took not a single moment of it for granted. For long stretches, when he was alone, he spoke to D’ata, told him of his great fortune, thanked him for the gift. It was the first time he felt truly attached to the divinity of the universe.
It took some time for the domain to familiarize itself with the man who stood beside their beautiful Nicolette, but as months went by and her belly grew once more with child, the realm and all within rejoiced in the birth of a daughter. Niveus, so named for she was white as the late spring snow storm that blanketed the world outside at her birth, had not an ounce of hair and eyes pink as a cherry blossom. Eventually, her hair would grow in, also white as a December moon.
As years passed, all grew to know the heart of the mercenary become ruler and rejoiced in his compassion. Gone were his bruises, replaced with muscle and sinew as he reveled in his newfound freedom and the authority of the dynasty that bore his name. Likewise, the throne and church were pleased with the stability of the realm.
Eventually marrying for the sake of posterity, he and Nicolette ruled the land together. The mare—the one Ravan bought when he was freed of the prison—was bred to the black Destrier stallion, and a lineage of horses finer than any in the region was born.
Moira, the maiden with the single hand, became caregiver to their children, delighting in the unusual family that seemed so prepared to take her in as one of their own. Moulin swallowed his heart, hid his feelings for Nicolette, and committed himself to them supremely.
The Ravan Dynasty flourished, years passed, and the children grew.
CHAPTER SIX
†
ElevenYears later
The boy sat on the snowy ledge of a small, earthy overhang. It overlooked the hidden forest pool directly below him. A very cold day, the edges of the water were a delicate sheet of thin, frozen shards of ice, reaching their fingers as though they might cross, might reach the other side and claim the expanse for themselves. Beneath the ice could only be seen the murky, deep water of the winter pool.
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