Risen (16 page)

Sylvie thought it peculiar how if
she asked Mother to hum for her, she was self conscious about it
and refused. Now, she hummed a beautiful, lilting ballad, and
Sylvie listened intently, cherishing every note. Winter was
breaking as the first hints of spring were beckoning, and with her
family warm and fed and the soft bleating of infant lambs outside,
it was a perfect evening.

She leaned heavier against her
father as he wrapped an arm around her, pulling her closer to him.
“What did you do today?” he kissed her on top of her
head.

“I fed the sheep, mucked the pens
with Tobias and helped mother. We washed—”

“No, after your chores, what did
you do when the work was done?”

She tipped her head back, eyes
flashing with excitement. “I drew the letters in the
dirt.”

“The letters?”

“Yes, the ones that Risen and Lady
Nicolette have taught me. The letters. It works, Father—it works!”
She contained her hushed excitement so that she wouldn’t disturb
Mother or awaken Tobias.

“Works? What do you mean?” He
smoothed her hair with a calloused hand and listened patiently to
her reply as though trying to comprehend the magic of which she
spoke.

“When they go together, the letters
speak…like a voice in your head. It is magnificent!”

He chuckled. “And what do these
voices tell you.”

She gazed at the burning embers,
sighing deeply. Sylvie was immensely happy. It was a perfect
evening, a perfect life. “They say whatever you wish them to say,
Father. There is no limit to it, and it is beautiful the way it
happens.” Her mother stopped humming as Sylvie added, “The words,
they can be anything you want them to be, take you to magnificent
places, places even a king could not go.”

Her mother laughed softly at this as
her father just continued to smooth his daughter’s hair. It was
enough magic of its own to make a young girl sleepy and was the
last thing she remembered of this night.

* * *

Sylvie was still sleeping, lying on
her side, her hands folded as though in prayer beneath her cheek,
when she heard the stomping of horse’s feet just outside the small
hovel of their home. It was scarcely light outside, and there was
just enough commotion to rouse her. In drowsy confusion, she just
lay there, wondering if it was time for chores or if she might
dream a little while longer. As youth will do, she slipped easily
back into slumber, her brother nestled against her back.

* * *

She and her family—her parents and
younger brother, Tobias—lived on and worked their small farm. It’d
once been a fief back when her father was a young man and her
grandfather was still living. That had been a terrible time, a time
ruled by a tyrant named Adorno. One day, the cruel prince had taken
one of her grandfather’s hands from him in retribution for taxes
unpaid.

That was Sylvie’s earliest memory.
She’d clung to her mother’s skirts, not even two years old, her
infant brother in Mother’s arms, crying as Mother pushed his face
into her shoulder. Mother had probably meant to turn Sylvie’s face
away as well, to keep her from spying the dreadful cruelty, but
it’d been too late. Sylvie had peeked, seen the hand fly, and the
wicked ruler had forbidden anyone go to Grandfather’s
aid.

Father fought, tried to stop them,
but he was held firm by the soldiers; they’d all been forced to
stand and watch. The old man was too feeble, was unable to stop the
life blood that ran from his body. It was a terrible injury, and he
died from it, unable to overcome the shock of the wound and the
loss of blood. This was a memory that haunted the edges of Sylvie’s
subconscious for a long time, and it was her first notion of man’s
capacity for cruelty to another.

With Grandfather dead, Father
inherited responsibility for the fief. Before leaving the dreadful
scene, Adorno spun his magnificent steed about and warned him. If
he did not have the taxes by the end of harvest, Father would
likewise lose something dear to him, perhaps more than a hand. The
evil little man sneered and cast his gaze upon Mother.

There was nothing that could be
done, and Father was prepared to take his family and leave, risking
vagrancy on the road to certain harm to his family. But then
something extraordinary happened. That very month, the awful ruler
married, a beautiful, mysterious woman it was rumored. Just as
swiftly, Adorno died, on the very same day—his wedding day! It was
as though a miracle had happened!

The feudal estates began to shift
almost immediately when the strange, dark-haired bride took over
the realm for herself. It was frightening and wonderful at the same
time. All across the land had been skeptical at first. There had
been so much pain, so much debauchery. It was hard to forget these
things, to believe it could be anything different. But Nicolette
was nothing like Adorno. Debts were forgiven as she transferred the
feudal grants of land into hereditary holdings. The town’s era of
struggle swiftly passed, and peace and leniency were doled out with
generosity and compassion.

Now, Sylvie’s grandfather was long
dead, and her father owned the land. True, it was a meager farm,
and just enough to modestly sustain them. But it was theirs! Yes,
it carried with it the necessity of hard work and early morning
chores, but the ground was fertile and belonged only to them, and
the small flock of sheep was fast growing.

Sylvie never truly remembered the
awful day gone by, but her soul did. Grandfather’s grave was behind
the house, a small walk from the garden, and she would lay flowers
upon it when spring came, on his birthday. Once, years later, Lady
Nicolette and Lord Ravan brought a very handsome headstone,
properly engraved with Grandfather’s name. It also had engraved on
it a lamb, and was a gift, they said—something her grandfather
deserved.

This was the first time Sylvie had
ever seen the noble couple up close. They were mystical—all of
them—almost legendary. Likewise, it was the first time she ever
laid eyes on…their son.

Then, in no time at all, she and
Tobias developed a friendship with Risen, son of Lord Ravan and
Lady Nicolette, heir to the Ravan dynasty. This became magic of
another sort!

* * *

Sleeping was a luxury for the young
girl, and her eyes flitted open again at the urgent sounds coming
from outside their cottage. Sylvie lazily closed her eyes, wishing
for a few more moments of luxury, but was faintly aware of her
parents desperate voices as they spoke with the strange visitor she
first thought was only a dream. This was enough to draw her much
more awake. Flipping over in bed, she reached to move the shutter
aside enough to see outside and peered into the barely lit morning
fog.

They almost never received visitors
to the farm, and this one was very unusual. She knew this man, at
least of him, for he carried on his chest and the saddle blanket of
his horse the coat of arms of the Ravan Dynasty. He was one of
their Lord’s men. But what could he be so urgently concerned about
this early, and with Father?

It nearly made her blush to think of
him. Ravan, leader of the dynasty, was so forbidding and strong,
his face so brooding and imperfect, scarred with a history he
seldom spoke of. Tobias had tormented Risen on several occasions,
determined to draw the stories from him. But there were few stories
that he could tell, at least that is what Risen told them, for Lord
Ravan was very private even to his own son.

He was so fascinating, and Sylvie
heard the rumors of how he’d absconded with Lady Nicolette. When
everyone thought he was dead, he magically reappeared with Moira,
both of them on the red mare. It was a fairytale story, and she
believed it was the most beautiful tale she ever heard.

And the Lord’s wife—Lady Nicolette.
She was so gossamer, as though she would break from a mere breeze,
and so very mysterious. Some even said she was a witch, but Sylvie
snorted the thought away. People could be so busy with other’s
affairs—so judgmental. Even so, Sylvie had to admit the woman had
given her pause on more than one occasion.

Most perplexing of all was Niveus,
Risen’s younger sister. They’d all three tried to lure her into
their circle of friendship, had attempted to stifle the strange
child’s behaviors, but she’d been resolute in her solitude and even
more so in her conduct. She would have very little to do with them,
very little to do with anyone, really.

This bothered Sylvie; she worried
that the child might be mad, touched by something they could not
understand. If this was so, what would her fate be? Would the Lord
and Lady just keep her safe within the keep of the castle forever?
What would happen to her when they were someday gone? These were
questions Sylvie asked no one, only herself.

Sometimes, as they played, there
Niveus would be, leaning her white head against a door jamb,
peering at them with those incredible eyes. “Come, Niveus. Come
play with us,” Sylvie had once called, but the child just
disappeared, almost as though into thin air.

“It’s all right,” Risen mumbled.
“She prefers to be alone.”

“It’s because she’s insane,” Tobias
remarked.

“Don’t say that!” Risen was deeply
offended by the question. “You just don’t know her, that’s all. She
has a destiny you can’t under…” He’d not finished the
thought.

“What? Like you know?” Tobias had
teased him. “One of your dreams?”

That had not been exactly kind, and
Sylvie stepped in, drawing Risen’s attentions away from her
obnoxious younger brother.

“I would like to get to know
Niveus.” She shrugged. “She simply won’t allow it…yet.” Sylvie
gestured to the empty doorway that Niveus had moments ago lingered
in.

Risen sighed, “I know. I’m sorry.
It’s just that, some would think she is mad, but I know she isn’t.
I know her. Only, she won’t let me…” he struggled for the right
words, “…won’t let me in.”

It made Sylvie wish to know Niveus
even more, after Risen said that, just because he wished it. But it
was not to be. The child simply had no sensible use for them. And,
strangely, Nicolette seemed not concerned for it at all.

The horse snorted, bringing Sylvie’s
musings back to the present. She pushed up onto her elbows and
continued to peek, blinking away the sleep from her eyes, staying
hidden behind the mostly closed window shutter. The rider was
dressed in battle leathers and armor, not a messenger but one of
Ravan’s soldiers. He never dismounted, only swept his hands at the
woods to the northeast and then indicated, with two fingers,
southwest toward the castle, up on the hillside beyond the
village.

“To the castle…” she barely heard
him say, then could not understand the rest of his urgent comment.
She saw her mother’s hand fly to her mouth in alarm. Father swung
his arms at the house, then gestured toward the sheep pens, and
away he ran.

Without notice, the man spun the
battle horse and galloped away. Sylvie squinted. Even with the
foggy haze, there in the distance on the far edge of the village
she could see a white plume of smoke already snaking upward,
defiling the barely morning sky.

Dropping the window cloth, she
flipped onto her back and grabbed her sleeping brother by the
shoulder to shake him awake. “Tobias!” she called his name in an
urgent whisper. “Wake up! Hurry, something’s happening!”

Tobias was Risen’s very best friend.
They’d known each other since the age of three when they first met
in the market, and were naturally drawn to each other—kindred
spirits of a mischievous sort, her father had laughed.

Growing up together, Tobias had
benefitted from long hours with the Lord’s son, gaining
instruction, protection and, on lean occasion, food for their
family when Father had once been too injured to work the
field.

That’d been a long winter when he
fell from the roof. They might have starved but, without calling
for help, a soldier had arrived with sufficient reserves to get
them through to spring. They’d survived well enough and replanted
when the snows broke. Father was eternally grateful, wished to
repay Lord Ravan with part of his flock, but the master would have
none of it.

Lately, though, Sylvie had to admit,
she and Risen had been spending as much time together as the boys
did. He was the first to insist she be allowed into their circle,
and the three of them had become nearly inseparable for some time.
They had wonderful adventures spearheaded largely by Risen’s
unusual imagination, her streaming intellect, and Tobias fearless
recklessness.

On several occasions they’d spun an
adventure nearly out of control but managed to survive. It was so
exhilarating, to be alive right now! Sylvie briefly thought this
last year had been a perfect year, the best one ever, and the
castle grounds were the perfect backdrop to play out their
adventures. Risen preferred the woods, but Father worried about
that, scolding him. “Don’t worry!” The boy had assured him, “I’m
much more fearless than anything we would meet in the
woods!”

“He’s cut of his father’s cloth,”
Father had told her on more than a few occasions, shaking his head
but with a smile on his face.