Never had he spoken of this to anyone, not to his parents and especially not to Tobias. It was a beautiful secret that haunted him in a wonderful way when he closed his eyes, made each sunrise that much more beautiful and the promise of the next night that much sweeter.
But everything was changed. Tobias was dead, and Sylvie was leaning against him, her thin frame sharing a warmth that was so much more than just his blood. It was the fire from within him, and he was grateful that he could give this to her.
The men who’d seized them went about setting up their camp. All the while, the night stretched on and became colder. The other boys spoke very little to each other and not at all to him.
Risen, though unharmed, was woefully fatigued and could no longer feel his hands. He decided to wait until there was no more stirring around the fires, wait until the men slept. Then, if the guard was turned away, he would work his legs under himself and try to reach his boot, try to reach the knife hidden there.
He was uncertain what his next move would be. A big part of him wanted to just kill the guard, to kill everyone here! Or perhaps he would steal a horse and be off with Sylvie into the night. He already knew which horse was the strongest, knew which one would run the fastest and longest. But he might awaken the others with his efforts, and it could end very badly if they were discovered before they were altogether gone.
Another part of him thought it would be safer to cut their bonds and simply sneak away, off into the blackness of the moonless night, running with Sylvie, on foot, into the silent dark. He knew it would be nearly impossible for the guards to scatter in all directions to search for them once they were away.
But Sylvie was weak and lame. He could survive the cold, could scale a tree and wait the night out. With Sylvie, however, they would eventually be forced to stop and build a fire to warm themselves and protect them from wolves. And fire would risk them being seen.
All of these ideas flitted through his mind like pieces of an obscure puzzle. None of them were solidly falling into place…yet. Risen knew it was important to have a strategy, even if it was just a vague notion of what he must do to survive. None of his plans came to fruition tonight, however. There was no good moment to set them in motion, for a man approached them, untied their bonds and directed both of them to sit by the fire. By then, this soldier was the only wakeful man—the one left with the sole responsibility of guarding the six captives.
“Sit,” he commanded and pushed the two down close to the fire. Thoroughly frozen, they fell silently to the ground and were content just to allow the blaze to warm their hands and feet. Risen inched closer to Sylvie.
“Are you thirsty?” The man sat opposite them fumbling with a pack.
“Of course we are.” It was Sylvie who said this, and it surprised Risen that she was so willing to engage her captor so curtly. “But, why should you care? You are a murderer of children and women,” she said almost calmly.
“Careful you should bait me too much, child. There are none here who care about you.” The man appraised them from beneath his brows and gestured with one hand around the camp. He maintained a calm and quiet voice as he held a cup of water out to her, contradicting his statement. Looking Sylvie up and down, he added, “Yes, especially you. Were it not for your…” he shot Risen a skeptical glance, “…brother, you’d be dead in the forest long ago. Yes, you are alive but for this one,” he indicated the dark haired boy sitting next to her, “but to what fate remains to be seen.”
She stared at his outstretched hand but ultimately took the cup of water from him and drank it half empty before passing it to Risen, her eyes never leaving the soldier. The man, perhaps thirty years old, nodded and refilled the mug when it was handed back before passing it this time to Risen first.
After drinking thoroughly, he passed it again to Sylvie as he asked the stranger, “Why have you taken us? We are worth nothing and would only slow you on your journey.”
“You have worth, but we are not discussing this.” He waved the question away. “Suffice it to say your life is changed. If you fight, it will go poorly for you.”
The man glanced from from one captive to the other and back. It unnerved Risen, for he thought the man might read his mind, might know of his feelings for the fair girl sitting next to him.
“What is your name?” he asked the soldier mercenary.
“It is unimportant,” but then the man offered, “William.”
“You are not French.”
“No, I am not.
“Then what have you to do with this campaign? It’s unreasonable that you would—”
“Silence! Be silent now,” he hushed them. “I’ve no wish for debate with you. And if you awaken Yeorathe…or Odgar…you will have regret.”
It startled Risen that the man was so quickly agitated. For a brief second he considered telling William who he was, that he was the son of Ravan. Perhaps a ransom could be secretly arranged; perhaps the man alone would sneak them away, take them back and collect a reward. He rolled this thought about in his head and finally decided this would not do. If William rejected him and Yeorathe or Odgar discovered his secret, it could be very bad.
Instead, he said, “My father and mother have wealth. They would pay, pay to have me returned.”
The man motioned to Sylvie. “My…father and mother? Don’t you mean our? You and your sister’s? And unless your father is the Lord of the dynasty, I sincerely doubt what you say is true.” The soldier scoffed softly.
Sylvie asked, “If it is not for money—if we cannot be ransomed, then why have you taken us? Why will you not tell us what it is that you want?”
The man peered at the girl and replied, “Push this conversation further than I care to stomach it, and I will kill you myself.” He was calm in his demeanor, and this set Risen aback. But then William declared, “And what does it matter anyway? It doesn’t. It is of no consequence who you are. You are henceforth without a name.” His irritation seemed to rise even more. “Do you hear me? Your name is meaningless after today.” He waved his hand at the starless night as though the heavens would concur.
Sylvie was silent, but she studied the soldier with clear, somber eyes. William did not meet her gaze.
This Englishman confused Risen greatly. He was almost angry, exasperated, but then just as easily offered them food—bread and fish. Additionally, he allowed them the warmth of the fire as they ate their modest dinner. When he returned them to their spot by the tree, warmed and full enough, he tossed a saddle blanket across their legs to protect them against the cold night. Then, they watched as he tended the needs of the other boys as well.
Yes, this man was an unusual one, and Risen thought about William for some time, for even with the blanket, he would not sleep this night. Instead, he watched, studying all around him…just as he’d been taught.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
†
Nearly four days had passed since the battle at the Ravan Dynasty. Three more times Nicolette went to the small cottage. Three more times she performed the magic there, gauging the whereabouts of her husband and son as the search played out. Each time, a dead bird was restored to life.
First, Moulin found the starling, a small falcon, and a thrush. The fourth time Nicolette sent him on his quest, he had to ride quite far into the woods to find a dead bird. He, one last time, returned with one, a mottled and withered sparrow. As before, when Nicolette was finished with the ritual, the bird hopped up, choking on the white clay as it sprang to life, its plumage as fresh as if it had just fledged.
Moulin was forced to wonder of what capacity this trick might be played, if she could return the life to something—or someone—more substantial. He watched her gather up the items one last time. As she coiled her hand about the now living songbird, she released it into the grey afternoon. This time, however, as the sparrow flew away, she was inclined to follow it, stepping from the cottage as she peered into the distance to which the bird flew.
“Prepare
my horse,” she instructed Moulin urgently. “I must go.”
“But, my Lady, you cannot! It would leave the realm without leadership! I know you are worried, but it’s unwise to consider going after him.” He appealed further. “Our master is already giving chase.”
It was a weak argument, for Moulin knew well enough from the marks on the map that Risen was heading farther away from the direction in which Ravan was pursuing him. He’d lost the trail; of this there was no doubt. Even so, he persisted, “I promised our Lord I would keep you safe. I will not break that promise. I will not!”
Nicolette turned, cast her eyes on him fully. At first, Moulin thought she might rebuke him, might argue her cause against his—why she must chase after her son. Any mother would. This, however, was not the case. She simply stared at him, stared into his eyes and approached him very slowly. It was splendidly terrifying in a way. Nobody had more calculating resolve than she, Moulin believed—not even Ravan—and all of it was focused entirely on him.
He began to speak again, to say something—he knew not what—but the words did not come. Instead, he felt suddenly very odd, as though something pulled at him, invading in a very inviting way his mind and thoughts. With this feeling came the notion that to give chase for the boy would be the most reasonable thing they could possibly do. If she did not, they might all die! Furthermore, he must help her—help her in any way he could! Why had he not seen it before! It was all so clear now!
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 braid
ed 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.
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