Risen helped the weakened love of his heart into the soldier’s arms. Wrapping a blanket about her, the man slung her gently against one shoulder as though he carried an infant.
“You’ve done the right thing.” He nodded at the boy. “From the first, you’ve done the right thing.” And with that, he disappeared down the rows of enslaved men.
Risen felt, for the first time in his life, as though he was truly alone. He choked back tears for he wanted only to be with Sylvie, and did not know if he would ever see her again. His dreams for the two of them had been beautiful, vaporous and perfect, of a time when they might ride his father’s fine horses over the splendid countryside together, when their love might be known by all.
These dreams had been wrapped in the warmth of a few never ending summers and the magic of a young boy’s heart, a boy in love. They’d been the dreams of youth and denied heartache or uncertainty, but uncertainty was all that Risen believed he had left. He had no choice but to release Sylvie to a man he’d not so long ago hated—before she had convinced him not to.
He meant to save her, to help her survive all of this, from the very beginning. He was responsible for her plight and lamented that he must trust another—one he did not know, one of their original captors. Questioning himself, he wondered what might have happened if he’d not left the castle when the raid happened, not gone to her homestead in the early morning light.
No! He refused to consider what he knew the outcome of that would have been. Sylvie was alive today, and bad as their situation was, he was not prepared to entertain the alternative. Even so, seeing her disappear with William, her limp arm dangling, was more than Risen could endure. He curled up, head buried in his crossed arms, and fell apart for the first time since they’d been taken. Despair threatened, and in this dark hour he discovered his mind chose again to sweep to a time with his father, another time, camped together in their beloved woods…
* * *
“Tell me about when you were ten, like I am now.” Risen poked at the fire, enjoying the pattern of sparks against the velvet, black beyond.
He recognized that fire, with its enduring light, only darkened the perception of everything else around it. Ravan had explained it as light distortion, how sometimes one must step into the darkness to really see. He was speaking literally about the firelight, but Risen sensed there had been something metaphoric about what his father was trying to say.
It’d been a good day. Risen had successfully tracked his own way back from a blindfolded trek into the deep forest, back to their encampment. And, he’d taken not one but two rabbits on the way.
Pride had shown openly on his father’s face. The rabbits crackled as they roasted over the open flame. Hunger that knew impending satisfaction made the boy particularly happy and animated, and so he threw questions out with careless abandon. What he asked obviously surprised his father, for he received the raised eyebrow in response.
“What was it like when I was your age?” his father repeated the question. Ravan repositioned one rabbit less over the flame without yet answering. Just when Risen thought he would not have his answer, his father shared, “I lived at an orphanage. It was where I first learned the things I am teaching you now.”
“About hunting? Tracking and surviving?”
Ravan kicked back nearer to his son and, as he so often appeared to do, gave the question generous thought. “Hunting, tracking…building fire—to do these things can save your life. I believe I was learning something more, however.”
“You mean about life?”
“Yes, about life.”
Shifting onto his elbow so that he might face his son entirely, Ravan added, “To survive is something the human heart is compelled to do. But, to survive for another is something else entirely.”
Together, they watched the sparks coil, shoot into the darkness, and disappear overhead.
“I was compelled to help,” Ravan said.
“Who, Father? Who were you so worried for?”
“The others…the orphans.” He paused. “They were vulnerable. Life had given them disadvantage. By learning those things—hunting, surviving—I was helping them more than myself.” He was very serious now. “But I was also helping myself more than them because of it.”
“Did they live?”
“Mmm…most of them.”
“But not all of them.” Risen was persistent, naturally curious of the fragile fates of the unwanted children.
“No. Not all of them, and to lose one—to be powerless of their wellbeing—is the greatest cruelty of all. It was the first and one of the few times that I felt truly helpless, when someone else I loved was at risk. It will be then that you will suffer moments that the endurance of your character will be tested more than ever.”
“Me? But I have a wonderful life! There is nothing I fear.”
“Yes, Risen, but all men, if they live long enough, with have their courage tested in some fashion or another.”
“What if I’m not strong enough? What if I fail?”
Ravan smiled. “Not all tests are of might. Some strike you in places you cannot protect. When this happens, the strength I speak of comes from here, from within.” Reaching to tap his son on the chest, he explained further, “And it is already there. A man may be only ten years old, but he can possess the strength of spirit beyond that of kings.”
Risen frowned, not nearly as certain as his father that such a thing was possible. “And how will I know if I can endure? When the time comes, I mean?”
His father’s eyes seemed to go somewhere else now, somewhere back into the experiences of his own life. He said simply, “You will know. It will hurt, but you will know.”
* * *
Risen’s sobs quieted, and his breathing slowed. A soft determination replaced fear, and he allowed the slow pitch of the ship to lure him into a diaphanous sleep. He dreamed of the foal, the one that his father had given to him, how many days ago? It had been a joyous day, his first horse, his to do with as he pleased, and it was a beauty.
In his dream, he was giving it to Sylvie, giving her the coal black foal. The colt was grown. Risen was seventeen, Sylvie eighteen. Her face was beautiful and beaming as he led the stunning creature into the paddock. It pranced in place, glistening in its newly shed coat. Then, it spied her.
As though the horse knew it was meant for Sylvie and she for it, the stallion stretched its elegant neck so that it was stunning in its approach. Reaching for her, its nose quivering with anticipation, the young stallion touched Sylvie’s outstretched hand with the velvet tip of its muzzle, breathing hot air into her palm.
Sylvie was overcome with joy, the gift her love had given her, and she turned, kissed Risen deeply, completely. “Yes, my love. Yes, I will be your bride.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
†
The ship was nearly ready to set sail, and the night was cool and bright beyond the pier. The moon was hanging low, dancing off the water in silvery bands. Clouds were scarce; a few forlorn puffs lingered in the distance. Ravan was glad to have the rains behind him for now. It’d been a long, sodden trip to the coast, a journey of desperation—the worst ever, he thought—even worse than the caged one when he was taken as a fourteen year old boy from the Inn.
Glancing up, he spied the silhouette of his beautiful Nicolette, framed by the moon, standing motionless as a bedded fawn. The soft, midnight breeze lifted her hair just so, the only indication that she was not a statue—a beacon of the night come to take watch for those who might brave the depths beyond.
Ravan was overcome. His fear, dread, anger, all of it threatened to explode from his chest. His son was gone, and he swallowed his anguish, allowing himself this moment of weakness, to have Nicolette be the stronger of the two of them. As was his way, he walked nearly noiselessly down the long pier. It was part of who he was, something he’d learned a long time ago as a child of the woods. Even so, as he approached Nicolette, she reached one hand—reached for him—
not even looking back. She simply knew that he was there.
Taking her hand in his, he spun her about and wrapped his arms around her, holding her as near as physically possible, as though he could draw her into himself and pull from her strength. He held her like a lifeline, like sanctuary, like an answered prayer.
“Nicolette…”
“I am here, my love.”
Nicolette returned the embrace and, in doing so, she took from him a great deal of the pain that burdened him tonight. She readily absorbed it, and he felt as though a weight had been lifted, one he had carried for a very long time.
No more words; he kissed her, the simple embrace locking the pair against the backdrop of the midnight moon. It was not a kiss of passion or even of need. It was a kiss of two who were one, of a love that precluded the pain of a lost child. It was the sweetest and most wretched embrace a couple could ever make.
* * *
From the bow of the ship, Salvatore leaned against the foremast. He pulled another draught of ale and studied the couple on the pier, his eyes sharp as an ocean hawk’s.
Samuel approached his elbow and nodded at the pair below. “I can’t get a feel for those two.”
“They are unusual to say the least.” Salvatore slapped the flask against the chest of his first mate and gestured toward his passengers with a sweep of his hand. “But, I like them—very much.” He could scarcely take his eyes from Ravan and Nicolette. “I can’t say I am not jealous of him, with his fitting name and beautiful bride.” Drawing his hand down his short beard, he added, “And there is something special about her…isn’t there?” Shrugging, he drew his stare from them. “I’m not accustomed to passing over one I set my eyes on. Yes, she is beauty of another sort.”
His mate nodded his agreement.
Salvatore gazed down the sleek body of his ship, the Red Raven. “But this lady stirs in me something a mortal never can.” A wide smile broke, his teeth flashing in the darkness, and his eyes sparkled as though in anticipation of a great adventure. “I have a feeling, Samuel. I believe this will be an exceptional sail, my friend—one for the heart. Who knows what might happen, eh?”
Salvatore watched as, on the dock, Velecent approached Ravan, followed by his troop of men—seven of them. These soldiers had been with the mercenary since he’d left Sylvie’s farm, had endured the entire chase with him, and would follow him to hell if it was their master’s wish. These were the kind of men who attached themselves to Ravan for a lifetime…or until their life was done.
Salvatore regarded the band of men and murmured to himself, “Yes, who knows what might happen?”
* * *
Ravan, his men, Nicolette, and Moira boarded the ship under a perfectly clear sky. There was something about it that called to Ravan, compelled him to believe what he heard was true, that she was an exceptional craft. He did not know that her captain had orchestrated the building of the Red Raven from her very birth.
She was Salvatore’s dream. He’d built several smaller vessels—dinghies really—as a child, for his father was a great shipbuilder, boasting some of the fleetest boats ever made. Young Salvatore had bobbed his small, self-made vessels in an out of the surf on Spain’s southern shores. Like his father, the ocean was in his blood, salt water coursing through his veins. His father had joked that it was what leant longevity to their clan.
Before he was ten years old, Salvatore had committed his heart and soul to the sea and fell in particular love with the waters of the Mediterranean, strongly preferring her tides to that of the North Atlantic with its fierce gales and unpredictable temper.
As years went by, he inevitably invested everything he had to build his next ship. Each was better than the last, and the Red Raven was his most splendid so far. He was so proud of her, and would go on and on to Samuel about the benefits of a long shoal draft keel, stronger, lighter woods that tolerated the salt of the sea better, and greater sail size.
Consequently, the Red Raven was unequaled in her class and built off the profits of not always scrupulous activity. But Salvatore could not help himself. His was a life in bed with the sea, and she was a demanding mistress. Always, he dreamed of his next ship. And he nearly had the resources to build it, almost. He believed his new passengers would provide just those resources.
Ravan approached the captain. Leaning one arm lazily on the wheel, the Spaniard appeared a fixture of the helm.
Salvatore grinned. “Hail, friend. I have to make one more trip ashore. Would you and perhaps a few of your clan care to join me?”
“Why?” Ravan wondered.
“A last bit of business. I owe the harbor mooring fees. Nothing really. Only I cannot leave until they are paid.”
Ravan eyed him suspiciously. “You still owe fees?”
“Ah, I see the look in your eye. You’re wondering why, if she is so fast,” Salvatore indicated the ship, “I do not make haste, for none could possibly catch me, right?”
“I am wondering why your debt is not already paid,” Ravan wondered flatly. It was a mystery to him how the Spaniard could have such a magnificent ship and yet not be square on his debts.
A bemused expression swept across the captain’s face. “Ah, oh, that.” He stepped from the helm and approached the gangway. “Not one of my strengths, really. And with you and your hasty demands, I’ve simply not had the time.”
Salvatore’s expression was one of bemusement. “And I’m landlocked because of it. But now, with your pressing mission and the funds to back it, we are,” he smiled broadly, “as golden as your coin.” The captain waved a hand to his mate, and Samuel trotted barefoot to his Salvatore’s side.
“Ah, Samuel! We’re going to pay our dues, and this one,” Salvatore indicated the mercenary, “is going to accompany us.”
This brought an appreciative expression to Samuel as well. He replied, “Good,” and nodded at his captain. “He doesn’t always make the best first or last impression, but he’s generally good in the middle.”
Salvatore seemed disingenuously offended.
“I will wait here for your return,” Ravan said.
With that, the captain turned his head to one side. “Your choice, but I cannot guarantee my return. Provided you will be satisfied if we leave tomorrow, however. That will suit you well enough, won’t it?”
This ruse sat poorly with Ravan. He was ill at ease regarding the mission ashore, but he appeared to have no other choice but to accompany the captain and be done with the task. And the sooner the better, he thought.
“Let’s be done with it,” Ravan growled.
* * *
Moments later, Ravan bent and kissed Nicolette on the lips. She was lying on the bed in their small quarters. “I will be back soon, my love. We sail tonight.” He glanced back at her as he left, “Rest if you can. Our journey is not nearly over.”
“We will find him,” was all she said.
It lifted his heart to hear these words, for he believed it was not blind determination that forced these words from her lips. If Nicolette did not believe this—know this from the core of her being—she would simply not have said it. He kissed her again, this time struggling to pull himself away from her.
Stepping onto the main deck, Ravan was met by Velecent. “I’m going with you.”
Ravan didn’t say it, but what he thought was that this was good. Until the captain was vetted, his character was still in serious question. The two men walked down the gangway and met Salvatore and Samuel on the dock.
“Only two of you?” The captain peered beyond the two warriors as though he expected to see a horde following.
“The two of us should be enough,” Ravan’s mood was blackening by the minute.
“Mmm. We’ll see about that,” Salvatore muttered beneath his breath the group of four made their way ashore.
The dock master’s shack was shut down and dark. They had no choice but to go mainland to find him or whoever was in charge of taking the fees for the Red Raven’s past moorages.<
br />
“This way,” Salvatore gestured dramatically. “I know where he can be found.”
Winding through the town, farther inland and up a small incline, they came upon an establishment marked with a single carved nail on the placard over the door.
“The Rusty Nail,” Salvatore said warmly. “It is the establishment for those who prefer to be locked by the land.” When he was met with looks of confusion by both Ravan and Velecent, the captain explained in more detail. “This is where men of business convene—men who come to Toulon for gain but have no desire to step beyond.” He indicated the sea, shining brightly above the rooftops that lay below and behind them. “And please, allow me to negotiate our debt.” He smiled wryly. “But I do appreciate you standing by.” Salvatore glanced at the sword that Ravan was now determined to wear, no matter what door they stepped across.
Into the tavern they went. It was dark, more so even than the moonlit night outside. Few candles lit the tables, and a fire waned on the hearth in the corner of the tight room. This, however, seemed not to deter the patrons, for there was a significant crowd gathered. Scattered amongst them were a few sailors, but Salvatore had been correct. Most of these men made their living elsewhere of the sea.
Ravan blinked, allowing his eyes to adjust to the darkness within. Not nearly as raucous a crowd as the tavern where he’d met Salvatore, he was much better able to size it up. The largest group of men, seven of them, gathered in the near center of the room. With fish already devoured and evidently well beyond their first round of ale, they were a jovial lot, toasting and celebrating their obvious good fortunes. The mercenary took in the details of their group without even consciously thinking about it.
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