These thoughts didn’t create sorrow for the war hardened mercenary. Instead he was eternally grateful for every new day. His brother had given him this gift, and he was happy that good fortune had been with his son and daughter from the day they were born. That could change at any moment; no one knew this better than Ravan did.
No, he was happier than he’d ever been. And with each passing day, he witnessed in his son the beloved characteristics he’d seen in his brother—the kind heart and compassionate approach to all things. And yet the boy also had a fierce determination all his own, perhaps the inarguable fire of his mother blended with his father’s undying courage. Whatever the cause, it was eternally endearing. Ravan thought it was as close to perfection as anything he’d ever seen.
As most parents do, he saw all the potential in the universe in the eyes of his son, the greatest reason why he believed life should go on. Risen and Niveus were the kind of joy he’d never imagined possible. So why had Nicolette been so brooding as of late? True, she was ordinarily prone to deep contemplation, something he loved about her, but recently, she almost seemed…worried.
He frowned. Nicolette had been disquieted as though at odds with herself, and this was not at all like her. Nothing was more unusual than that, for she was, more than any other, capable of great control. There should be no reason for her to be so unnerved, for everything was better than it had ever been!
When Ravan questioned her about it, she simply replied she had no source for it…yet. This alone was uncommon enough to set Ravan on edge, but today he would have none of it, for today was special. He brushed it off, almost amused at himself that he would even endeavor to comprehend the depth of his bride’s ruminations.
Nicolette was so mystifying that to know her, to truly know of her heart to her very core, one had to be part of her. And there was only one whom she allowed to get near to such a place, and that was he. Ravan and Nicolette were perfect together, like ice against skin on a hot day. Even so, perhaps there was a part of Nicolette no one would ever comprehend. He sighed. Certainly that must be true of anyone, especially himself.
These thoughts were brushed instantly away as Risen rushed up to his father’s side. Ravan pulled him close, saying quietly to the boy, “He is a fine horse, my son. Look, he has his sire’s big hip and strong back but his mother’s wary eye.”
The torch flooded the stall with a wonderful, soft light, and the mare stood toward the back of the stall, in the corner as though to protect her baby from the stares of those creatures who gathered at her door. All that could be seen of the foal from behind her were four spindly legs, wobbling beyond the belly of the dam.
The mare tossed her head at Risen and pinned her ears, having on numerous occasion tossed the boy to the ground—lessons well deserved for the most part. She breathed heavy, her flanks lathered with her recent efforts, just moments ago having risen from the birthing of the foal. Turning her head away from the humans, she nickered softly to her baby.
Ravan clucked gently to the mare. She snorted an objection at him, shook her head again, but finally obeyed, stepping away from the corner of the stall and circling out from in front of the just born foal. The warm glow of the firelight bathed the colt in an early welcome. It was magic if ever there was, Ravan thought, and he was happy to share it with his son.
The foal’s head sprang up, its neck arcing beautifully. Already challenging the legs beneath itself, it wobbled and gave a few springy bounces. Hopping awkwardly to the front of its mother before noticing the strange visitors at the gate, it scurried to her flank, almost landing itself back on the ground as it did.
Risen laughed. “He stops his front end, but the back keeps going!”
Black as a dreamless night, the colt glistened, still damp from its step into the world. Its face was stunning—delicate and chiseled like the Arabian mare’s. The colt wore an expression of curious intelligence and, unlike most newborn foals, did not seek cover from the strangers. Instead, it bobbed its wispy chin at the odd visitors, inviting their speculation as it stamped a forefoot. This boldness it got from the sire, of that there was no doubt.
“Oh, he’s beautiful!” Risen pulled himself up by the fingertips to peer over the edge of the tall stall planks.
Chuckling softly, Ravan added, “His bone is good and strong. He will be a fine horse for you, as nice as we’ve had so far. It is an exceptional colt.” Turning his gaze back to his son, he asked, “Does your mother know?”
“No, I don’t think…” the boy started to say but stopped himself. “Yes, she probably does.”
This drew a knowing laugh from his father. “Yes, I suppose so. But your sister does not yet, I would wager.”
“I don’t know.” The boy scuffed the dirt with the toe of his boot. “I’ll tell her when I go back in.”
“It would be good for her, Risen.” Ravan leaned down, closer to his son’s face. “Draw her into the miracle of it, bring her outside for a spell. She would like that, I think.”
“I will,” he promised, “but first, can I touch him?”
The mercenary was taken by the life in his son’s eyes. Lifting the catch, Ravan went into the stall and together they approached the foal. The mare tossed her head, shifted herself between the humans and her baby. She was apprehensive, but this was an old routine for the mare, and so she begrudgingly allowed the humans to touch her foal for the first time.
“Oh, he’s so soft!” Risen ran his thin hands across the withers of the colt, the fuzzy fluff of damp mane threading through his fingertips.
This brought a smile from his father, and Ravan was reminded of a long time ago, a long way away, when he’d first dreamt of having a fine horse. It gave him immense joy in his heart that he could do such a thing for his son, give him such an amazing horse. And it was a splendid horse—he could see it already, knew it would be the new stallion in their stables when the Destrier aged.
Leaving the baby to its first feeding, they left the stall and lingered at the door. Then, they gazed one last time at the colt—father and son together—for a long, warm while.
Ravan broke the spell. “Let’s go tell your mother…and Niveus.” He squeezed his son gently on the back of the neck, and Risen grabbed his father’s hand with both his own, attempting a maneuver that would take the offender down were he a grown man.
Laughing heartily, Ravan hoisted the boy easily over his shoulder and stalked with his young captive from the foaling barn. The two threaded their way through the misty fingerling rays of morning light, back through the evaporating fog, back through the opening door of the coming day. They were nearly to the flagstone courtyard when the portcullis rose and a rider on a nearly exhausted horse came bolting through the front gate.
* * *
In her room, Niveus had awakened and knelt, still in her night shift, in the middle of her bed. Hair, white as snow, hung down the middle of her back almost to the bare feet tucked under her. Her eyelashes were so fair as to be almost clear, and they framed her large eyes like so many fine frosty slivers.
A servant was building the fire anew, coaxing it to life, but he went unnoticed by the child—Ravan’s daughter. She stretched one arm in front of her, palm flat, fingers pressed loosely together. Staring not at her hand but at the space of air in which it passed back and forth, her skin appeared translucent in the early morning light.
Moira, standing in the doorway, tapped on the jamb a second time but remained unnoticed by the child. The nanny entered, eased the door closed behind her, and gazed at the girl, kneeling in her bed. The hand servant was finished by then, and the fire blazed warmly, pushing the cold to places it had no choice but to go. He glanced at the child first, then to Moira. She indicated the door, and he silently excused himself, closing it behind.
“Niveus,” Moira said softly.
The nanny wore a patch over her lost eye, a beautiful patch, silk and finely stitched. It was attached to a scarf that wrapped around her head, hiding the wounded and scarred s
ide of her skull. The scarf was lovely—ornate and from the East—its patterns exquisitely exotic. It was knotted just over Moira’s right shoulder, and the tails of it hung down like silk ribbons. Nicolette had done this for her, had this fashioned for Niveus’ nanny, and it was one of several that Moira possessed.
The pale child did not answer, only continued to pass her hand back and forth loosely, in a gentle wavelike fashion as she stared ahead at seeming nothingness.
“Niveus, it is morning. Time to dress.” When the girl still did not answer, Moira went to the bed and sat down on the edge of it, facing her. “Niveus,” she repeated softly and reached to gently take the child’s hand in her one, stopping the peculiar behavior.
Ravan’s daughter instantly focused on Moira, her clear, pink eyes enormous, her lips opaque. “I knew you were there. You didn’t need to stop me.”
“Then why didn’t you answer me?” Moira held onto Niveus’ hand firmly when the child attempted to resume her task. “It is ill-mannered, Niveus, to ignore another.” She said it with love, not in annoyance. “You cannot just go away like that.” She tapped Niveus playfully between the eyes with the tip of her finger. “It’s not proper.”
“It would have wrecked it.”
“What? Niveus, what would it have wrecked?” Moira was eternally patient with this most extraordinary child.
“The space.”
Moira sighed, but indulged Risen’s sister. “What space, Niveus? Tell me about the space. What are you doing when you wave your hand about in the air like that?”
This seemed to surprise the child, this description of her unusual behavior, and Niveus rolled her eyes as though aware that she was being humored. Then, with the patience of a master, she explained, “It’s a passage—a door.
“Are you opening the door?”
Niveus blinked solemnly in quiet amazement at the question. “No, of course not. I can’t do that. But…” she said patiently, “…I’m pushing time around it. It’s inevitable that it will someday open and—”
Moira smiled and interrupted her, “Niveus.”
The child dropped both hands softly into her lap. “It will open. Someday it will. Until then, I push the time, just until I can one day push it through.”
“Can we get you dressed and down to breakfast?” Moira gently diverted Niveus. “Your mother is already up, and the foal is born.” She took one of the child’s hands.
“I know,” Niveus replied, not in a condescending way. “The colt was born just before sunrise.”
Moira’s eye narrowed, and she studied the girl, still holding tight to her hand. Niveus lifted her free one and went to pass it again through the empty air, but Moira grasped it straightaway, pinning it with its companion.
“No,” she said almost sharply.
Niveus shot her stare to Moira, her eyes flashing almost copper in color. “Why?”
“Because, it’s not normal.”
“So?”
“You have to be normal.”
“Why? You told me I was who I am and nobody else.”
“Niveus, this will belong to you one day, to you and your brother.” Moira waved her stump in a broad circle in the room. “The people of this realm need you to be sound,” she corrected herself, “to appear sound…for them.”
“You say that as though I’m not…as though you think I’m mad,” the girl countered, not unkindly, just matter-of-factly.
Moira loved this child, loved her dearly. She pulled her closer, kissed her on her forehead. “I do not, Niveus. You are not mad; I know this, but you can learn to behave as though you are not. It would be best.”
“For you?”
“No, not for me.”
“For Mother and Father?” Niveus wondered.
“Yes, for them and for the dynasty, but mostly for you.”
Niveus tipped her head to one side. “I suppose.” Then, as though sharing a revelation, “Something terrible could happen to Risen.”
This shocked Moira profoundly. “Niveus! Don’t say such a thing! Why would you say that?”
“Today, I mean.” The child shrugged. “I tried to push it away, really I did.” Niveus glanced at the empty air. “I don’t know if I helped. I hope so.”
Moira was without words, stunned by what the child shared. She pulled her close and hugged her tightly, rocking her gently for a span before helping her to dress and greet the day.
Niveus chose not to see the colt, told Moira that she already had.
CHAPTER EIGHT
†
The Norseman stood at the black wood’s edge, the dense expanse of forest just east of the village and the Ravan Dynasty. There to the west he studied the domain ruled by him—the dark lord, demon of shadows, killer of sons. His eyes narrowed oddly, the scar tissue preventing him from closing the right one fully. It was eternally dry as a result and bothered him most of the time, just another insult the demon had cast at him. The fire at the inn had left his face a riddled map of scars. But these were nothing compared to the scars upon his heart.
It took Tor nearly twelve years to find him—twelve years, endless sleepless nights, a mother’s suicide, and the shift of all compassion from the fragmented recesses of a struggling, broken heart…to find him. And now, here he was—killer, taker of life, destroyer of a family name. Here was Ravan, content within the shelter of his vast domain. Comfortable with his riches, complacent in his power. But not after today.
Tor’s confidence swelled as he recognized the scope of the army that eased into place behind him. It’d taken much time and resource to draw enough coin and allegiance to amass an infantry the size needed to threaten a realm such as this. There were few that would risk war against Ravan’s dynasty. Tor’s task had been tedious—the espionage, the surveillance, the details that might make the battle victorious for him.
And what was the definition of victorious? What drink could quench the unquenchable thirst that tortured him so? Death, death to one man, one named Ravan—death to the man who stripped him of his son. Vengeance for Modred, fallen twelve years before.
For the first few years after Modred died, Tor struggled with the notion of revenge. Logically, the mercenary had every right to defend himself and perhaps even the pathetic, one-eyed girl—the one he’d called sister. He thought his general, Yeorathe, had been wrong to engage the dark mercenary at the Inn, and they discovered the great mortality of this error much too late.
But reasonable thought had slowly dimmed as the months and years passed, replaced by grief, anger, and a burning need for revenge. This was all that was left of his terrible loss—the deaths of Modred and then his fair Madlen. There was nothing else now.
Tor savored this moment. He was old now, over five decades, and weary of life. And she was dead. His bride—his beloved Madlen—was gone, tearing her own life from her chest the very eve she learned of her son’s demise. It ripped Tor’s soul apart to lose Modred and then, a mere month later, to lose his beloved wife as well.
That had been a dreadful time. He spent nearly a month laying in the bed they’d previously shared, willing himself to die. Then he’d spent another there, willing instead himself to live so that he could hunt the one who had done this wretched thing to him.
A burning coursed through his veins and narrowed his vision as he waited for the thinning blanket of night to lift. Today would be glorious. His pain would be extinguished, must be extinguished! And there were only two paths that could provide relief. One was as good as the other, he believed.
Today, he would take the demon down—would take Ravan’s life—or would be taken of his own. Either way, it would be perfect in that it would be at long last done. He would be united with Madlen or would send Ravan to hell. There was no hope, no expectation of good, no breath of compassion coursing through the blackened channels of Tor’s mind now. It all came down to this.
The stars were a bright blanket against the black velvet that was the few, last hours of darkness. His second in command, a m
an nearly as wide as he was tall and solid as a bull, approached him from behind and peered into the night, studying one last time the expanse of field that was all that separated the village from their waiting army. Odgar’s beard was a ruddy red, thick and cut square across the bottom. He ran clawed fingers through it now.
“Are they in place?” was all Tor asked of his commander.
He’d ransomed a lifetime of profit, several generations of resource, and more than a few friendships to establish the infantry that was at this very moment assembling in the blanket of forest beyond the Ravan dynasty. He’d called on every favor, coerced, bribed, manipulated—all for this one day. All of Tor’s awful ambition was poured into this one moment. It was an immense sacrifice, but it didn’t matter. All would be set right at the break of dawn. Revenge would finally be his.
“They will be in place within the hour, my Lord. It’s been a long night. I worry that fatigue could be a factor. We’ve driven them hard.” Odgar rested his hand upon the hilt of his sword, his eyes shining even in the darkness.
“It isn’t an issue. We have the element of surprise, and…” he shrugged, “…we outnumber his forces by nearly half.”
Gathering ranks in the woods behind him, their numbers swelled to nearly seven hundred. And although the population of Ravan’s Dynasty had grown to almost five thousand, of these only about three thousand inhabited the immediate township, and of these, only four hundred or so were suited defenders—soldiers who could and would readily fight at Ravan’s side at any given moment.
Ravan’s army was a substantial enough force and would ordinarily be perfectly sufficient to ensure safety of the township and discourage an attempt at an overthrow, ordinarily…except perhaps when confronted with the insane, revenge campaign intended by Tor today. Truthfully, the Norseman cared not if his own army fell, if every last one of them died. It didn’t matter at all, not as long as Ravan was taken down with them. His army was paid in advance. Let death serve them if it chose.
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