Risen

by Sharon Cramer

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  †

  “Power or passion…” his mother counseled him, her voice soft and heavy at the same time.

  Risen loved the way his mother’s voice lilted on the air, could listen to it all day, he thought.

  “Which is a greater danger in your enemy?”

  “Power. You must look to your enemy to see if this is what he seeks,” Risen began.

  “Why would he wish to overcome you, then, if he is already powerful?”

  “Because profit fuels power. My enemy would seek to profit from me—to increase his own power?”

  “Yes, that is one of two possibilities,” Nicolette explained.

  This seemed reasonable, but the passion part of the equation escaped Risen entirely.

  His confused expression prompted his mother to explain further. “Do not underestimate the strength of passion, my son. Power is sought only so that passion may be fulfilled.” Risen was uncomfortable as she went on. “Lust, sex, possessiveness, hatred…love—these things can fuel a man to the most terrible and most wonderful of all acts. These are the most dangerous.”

  Risen blushed with this. He was ten years old, and for some reason the word “sex” jumped out at him. His mother could not have known, but an image of Sylvie jumped into his mind. Nicolette nearly smiled but said nothing more about it.

  * * *

  Risen was pulled from the shallow dregs of his dream by the sounds of soldiers stirring. He trembled. It’d been a long, miserable night. At first, he’d tried to formulate a plan, had studied his enemy. Then, as fatigue would not be denied, his eyes closed at intervals but never with the welcome oblivion of prolonged sleep. But the dream was in a small way encouraging, and he blinked himself more awake.

  He recalled how last evening by the fire, the soldier, William, had given them something to eat, but Sylvie scarcely nibbled at even her own meager share, her expression vacant and far away. The soldier was an enigma, offering them some small gesture of comfort but unwilling to disclose even the slightest details of their capture. All he was inclined to divulge was the notion that their lives had changed forever. That, Risen thought, was already cruelly obvious.

  Even so, he considered the possibility that perhaps William was more civil than the others. The boy knew that loyalty was hard earned but much stronger than coin. This he’d been taught in one of his many lessons with his father. Perhaps the Englishman would be their key to survival…or maybe even an eventual way home. But how to gain his trust, his compassion?

  These thoughts were poorly put together as he was too weary to concentrate. Blinking the fatigue from his eyes as best he could, Risen took stock of the situation. When they were taken, the three men that looped back for them later caught up with the rest of their group. Altogether, the band consisted of ten horses, eight men, and six captives, including him and Sylvie.

  One of the horses was wounded, a festering cut on the forelimb that would not afford it many more days on the trail. If the men did not replace the steed, and at the rate they were traveling, someone must logically be left behind.

  It was hard to say who that would be and a frightening thought to consider. Of the six stolen children, altogether ranging from ages of about twelve to fifteen, Sylvie was the only female. Furthermore, Risen believed the only reason she was alive was because of him.

  The day before, the other four captive boys had been bound two together and forced to ride double on two of the horses. They made Risen and Sylvie ride separated, each one with soldier. He hated this, hated the thought of the arms of one so unkind and ruthless holding Sylvie captive on a horse, but that would be far better than what seemed logical…that they would leave her behind. She would be the one they chose when the horse failed. The weakest would be cut loose.

  Risen struggled to get his feet beneath himself, to will some strength to his legs. It was a cold, damp morning, and yet Sylvie slept, leaning heavily against their bindings. He cautiously, from beneath his brow so they wouldn’t notice, studied the men as they began to move slowly about the camp.

  All of them seemed unconcerned that they might have been followed, pursued after their human theft, for they lingered about the fire, content to ease into the misery of the dreary day ahead. It was true—no farmer’s child would likely have the familial resources to venture after a band of men such as these, and none of them appeared to believe that their captives were anything other than peasant children.

  Critically, Risen believed none of the men knew he was Ravan’s son…yet. If they had, they would have run until their horses had fallen…and then run some more. This he told himself just to ease the misery of his lot. He knew, in reality, that these men were mercenaries. They would fight his father to the death if it came to that. It was the way of war.

  Sneering at this last thought, he struggled to conceal his anger. This proved most difficult, for Risen had developed for the first time in his life the unfamiliar, perilous emotion named hatred. It was strange to him, that visceral pull to his gut, the thickness in his throat, and tunneling of his vision. If he could draw his blade without recourse across the throat of any of them, he knew without a doubt that he would.

  But he knew he must temper his emotions. It would not do to have any of these men target him or Sylvie because of his reckless anger. A predictable lot they were—obvious seekers of ill-gotten gain. They all had about them the swagger of an unprincipled life. It was common enough. One needn’t look very far, even amongst ordinary people of a town, to see it in a man. It stood out like a poorly fit coat, and several of this clan wore it wretchedly.

  The only exception, Risen thought again, might be William. He studied him, watched the man as he meticulously rolled his bed and tacked out his horse. The man was precise, and frequently, precision was met with self-respect. This is what Father told him, that sloth was the mark of a man without pride. Yes, William appeared to have more self-respect than the others.

  On the other end of the spectrum were two others. One of them was a different beast altogether. Yeorathe was a one-eyed barbarian who, evidently, vied for position as troop leader with another named Odgar. Other than when the brute had struck him, Risen had noticed Yeorathe very little that first day as his concern had been to stay on the horse and keep up with Sylvie’s condition. Today, however, Yeorathe soon became the undivided center of his attention. This man possessed a heart of stone as evidenced by what happened next.

  As the breaking light of day illuminated even the darkness of the forest, Risen saw that Rowan appeared dead or nearly dead. Evidently the long ride the day before and the gravity of his injury along with the cold of the night had been too much for him, and he was nearly un-rousable this morning.

  Risen’s heart broke as he watched Yeorathe sever the almost dead boy’s bonds and, grasping him by the heel of his boot, drag his friend to the fire.

  Rowan stirred, but barely, as even the fire was scarcely enough to rouse him from his impending death. Even so, the act was barbarously cruel—the Englishman even seemed thoroughly disgusted with the act. Risen believed William was about to intervene, but saw him turn his head away instead.

  Yeorathe only laughed as he pulled Rowan across the coals. “We wouldn’t want him finding his way back and sending a search party, now would we?”

  Risen looked away, unable to observe the imperfection of something that had only minutes before been his dear friend. The smell of the burning hair was the most cruel, and he struggled, unable to force from his mind what the final moments for Tobias and Sylvie’s mother must have been like.

  It was a horrid thing to do, and he decided at that instant that Yeorathe was entirely the cruelest man he’d ever known, a monster. And, he decided at that moment that, of all of them, he hated him the most, that should the opportunity present itself to either run or kill this man, he would risk his own life to destroy him.

  * * *

  “The business of war,” Ravan murmured in that deep, throaty voice
that appealed to his son very much, “is profit. The business of cruelty at war, however, is an opportunity taken advantage of only by monsters.”

  His father did not look up but, as he often did, continued to busy his hands with a task, wrapping the arrow fletchings, only occasionally glancing idly into the fire or at his son as he spoke. They were camped together, just the two of them, in the middle of winter, deep in the lovely forest to the west of the Ravan Dynasty.

  Risen pulled his jacket closer around his shoulders and edged his boots nearer to the flames. “I’m afraid of monsters,” he admitted.

  This prompted a smile from Ravan. “Monsters can be terrible, but they all have one thing in common. They are all, when you dig deep enough, cowards—every last one of them.”

  “What can be done?” his son wondered. “Even if they are cowards, monsters are the strongest.”

  Ravan was quite serious then. “All cowards have a weakness, Risen. Of this you can be certain. There is only one thing that can be done. You must find the weakness—use it against them. Only then can they be destroyed.”

  Risen picked up a stick and began to idly poke at the fire to rouse sparks from it. He gazed sleepily at them as they swirled up against the velvet blanket of the night sky. Then, as if reporting on the weather, he murmured, “The man who was here before you—his name was Adorno—I’ve heard people call him a monster.”

  This gained Ravan’s attention not a small amount, and he glanced up from beneath his eyebrows. “Yes.” He drew the word out. “It is true.”

  “He’s gone now. Someone killed him on his wedding day. He was married to Mother before you came home.”

  Ravan stopped his task and crossed his arms over one knee, giving his son his full attention. “Yes, that is true.”

  “How dreadful it must have been, that Mother had to marry him, and then for her to lose her husband on their wedding day. But, if he was a monster, I’m glad it happened—glad he’s gone. Besides, then you wouldn’t be with her, and I wouldn’t be born.” He shrugged. “I think that is why she is the way she is. So…well…anyway, because she had to marry a monster and all. Don’t you?” He looked up from poking the fire when his father was quiet for too long. “Father? Is everything all right?”

  Ravan looked his son square in the eye. “Risen, if Adorno had not died on that day, I would have killed him myself.” The statement was harsh and honest.

  The boy appreciated it more than his father would likely know and he replied, “He was a monster, Father. It may have been an arranged wedding, but I would never have picked a monster for Mother.”

  “Your mother is…different, not because of Adorno. You mother has been who she is long before the arrangement, perhaps since before she was even born.” He glanced away, to the black backdrop of darkness beyond the fire. “It is one of the many things I love about her.”

  They sat silently for some time before Risen asked, “But, Father?”

  “Yes?”

  “What was his weakness…Adorno’s?”

  Ravan took the stick from his son’s hand and began to do just the same thing, swirling the coals so the sparks danced before their eyes. The faintest smile pulled at his lips.

  “He loved your mother.”

  * * *

  Positioning himself so that if Sylvie awakened she would not see, Risen peeked from over his shoulder. As he observed Yeorathe kick the corpse of the dead boy farther into the fire; there appeared nothing that was weak about this monster. Father is right. War is either about profit or hatred. This monster doesn’t know me…yet. So he cannot hate me. For now, it must be profitable for him to keep me alive. Risen decided at that moment that he would keep his lineage hidden from these men. And he surmised something else. If it was profit these men expected from the capture of children, it could be gained in only one way—slavery.

  This was a sickening thought. Slavery for him could mean many things. He could be forced to work—labor of some sort, a mine perhaps. He could be made to fight—a medieval gladiator he imagined. Possibly he would be apprenticed, made a sailor, maybe placed in a legion’s ranks. Risen’s mind then refused to go where next it sensibly might, for he knew there were only two paths that slavery of a girl could follow. She would be either a domestic laborer, or…

  He swallowed thickly and found her hand with his own. “Sylvie, wake up, move your legs. We must get ready to leave, mustn’t show weakness.”

  Risen suspected the trek the men were undertaking was nothing that would be slowed for the benefit of the few children they captured. For their tender age, if they could not endure, if they died during the journey, it would only serve these men to weed out the weak and unprofitable. On some level, Risen was becoming increasingly aware of this, and he worried greatly for the girl he loved.

  Suddenly, Risen’s chest was intensely uncomfortable, his breath hard to catch, and he briefly wondered if he was simply fatigued from the past day and night. This made no sense, though, for his father had insisted that he always be in the best condition at all times. Realistically, he could likely go on like this, as their captive, for some time before succumbing to true exhaustion.

  Analyzing it further, he decided this was not what afflicted him now. It was Sylvie. It was she who caused his heart to fret. She was so fragile, so frail, so…perfect. And these men could not see this, would not see this.

  For them to see Sylvie as he did, they would have had to spend the lifetime with her that he had—magic, endless days lost in the mysterious brilliance that youthful camaraderie and adolescent love allowed. No, they would never see the way she smiled when something amused her, the way her eyes narrowed when she laughed, and how beautiful it was when she hummed a tune when they were walking together. All they would ever perceive was weakness and a lack of usefulness, and they would crush her as easily as they would a rare, wounded bird.

  If such a thing really existed, Risen decided that it was men like these who went to Hell. He resolved at that moment that he would not allow Sylvie to become their casualty along the way. No matter what, he would save her.

  “Sylvie,” he was harsher this time. “Get up. Move your legs and stand.” He began to force himself to his feet, to drag her up with him, and she whimpered.

  “Stop, Risen. I don’t want to go on. I want to stay here. I…I…”

  “No! Sylvie, no. Your mother, your father…Tobias, they wouldn’t want you to do this, to have it end like this.” He pulled at her again, finally forcing her, limping, to her feet and hissed under his breath. “They’d want you to survive, to live.”

  “Live for what, Risen?” It wasn’t cruel the way she said it, only sincere. “What is there now?”

  Lowering his voice, for he did not want the others to hear the intimacy of his words, he whispered to her, “Your life, Sylvie. Friends, a warm house, children…love.”

  “No one can love me now, Risen. No one.”

  He bit his lip. It broke his heart that she might believe this, and he almost shared with her how he truly felt, almost blurted the words he long meant to say, but instead he said, “Then revenge. We must avenge them. They deserve at least that.”

  With this she came just a bit more to life. “How?”

  He helped Sylvie, steadied her as she pulled her feet up beneath herself.

  “Find their weakness. That’s what you do to a monster. You find its weakness. I don’t know how, but we will, I promise. We will avenge them, Sylvie. I swear it.”

  William came to them just then, unbound them, and passed them each a morsel of bread almost sneakily, Risen thought. Then, as he pretended to disassemble their bindings even more and roll the rope up, he gave them enough time to each drink liberally of his water flask. So, it was possible after all, Risen thought. The Englishman might be capable of greater compassion.

  Dropping his head, he edged closer to the soldier as he returned the flask and murmured beneath his breath. “Thank you.” When William appeared to have not heard, Risen added, “Per
haps if you were to help us—”

  “Silence!” William hissed. “If I wish to hear your bleating, I’ll ask for it.” Yanking the two by the wrists, one in either hand, he dragged them to their prospective mounts, tossed Risen up first, then took Sylvie onto his.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  †

  The forest seemed different to Moira; there was something quite out of the ordinary about it. Perhaps it was the way the fog swirled in and out of the trees; perhaps it was how silent the birds became as they approached them. And perhaps…it was the woman she followed.

  Moira peered ahead, watched Nicolette and the mare as they picked their way along in no obvious hurry. Risen’s mother appeared so thin from behind, the heavy woolen riding cape and hood obscuring her so that it almost looked as though she was simply a young girl out for a misty day’s ride. All the while, the sparrow—the last bird Nicolette had resurrected—flew along with her, sometimes leading, sometimes following.

  This made Moira think of Niveus. She hugged the child goodbye this late afternoon, even though Niveus never hugged her back. “Goodbye, sweet girl. I’ll be home soon as I can.”

  “It will be a while,” the child responded, staring over her nanny’s shoulder as though she saw something or someone there. Moira was even compelled to glance back over her shoulder but, as always, there was no one.