Risen (17 page)

Sylvie was thirteen, a willowy child
with strikingly unusual eyes the color of mint after a good rain.
She might be thought of as frail, but what she lacked in strength
and stamina, she more than made up for in instinct and brilliance.
This child was naturally insightful, and although not schooled,
picked up ideas so quickly that Risen had once exclaimed, “You’re
the smartest person I’ve ever known!” That had even prompted an
appreciative glance from the strange, black haired beauty that was
the boy’s mother.

Sylvie had many questions, thoughts,
and ideas that she shared only with Tobias and Risen. The idea of
eternity, of there being nothing before the beginning. Where did
the sky go? Did it just end? Mother and Father would have been
upset with her for some of her ideas, for some of her thoughts
blasphemed. But Tobias and Risen never told on her, only invited
her to share.

It wasn’t intentional. She never
meant to insult the Divine creator. It was only that there seemed
to be so much more to the universe than they could know. She
sometimes dreamed of moving to Paris, of reading from great
writer’s works—Roger Bacon’s and William of Ockham’s, or perhaps
even a pilgrimage to Spain or Byzantium!

Of course, these were only dreams.
It would never be allowed, for she was a girl and could yet
scarcely read. Besides, it would be terribly unsafe. Perhaps, if
there was no other way, she could become a nun and work from behind
the cloistered walls of a church, sit and think of wonderful things
no one else had. Let them think her unreasonable, but they just
didn’t see what went on inside her head.

But what of Risen? She could never
venture too far from him. He was like a brother to her, a
kindhearted, handsome, exceptionally close…almost brother…of sorts.
Sylvie’s beautiful forehead scrunched up as she tried to categorize
exactly who Risen was to her.

What Sylvie didn’t know was that he
was totally, madly, off the cliff in love with her. Yes, she’d felt
something too, something curious stirring deep within her soul, but
it was not yet as obvious to her. For now, in her mind, their days
were spent with wonder and adventure—truly inseparable creatures of
grand fortune. And, in her early adolescent innocence, she’d not
noticed the way Risen sometimes looked at her lately.

It didn’t matter; life was
wonderful, and modern, and with all the promise of a new moon’s
tide. And they were floating in it, surfing the most wondrously
free years of their lives in blissful unawareness. Indeed, if life
were always as vital as it seemed through the eyes of Sylvie this
morning, there would be no need for growing up; one could live
forever.

“Wake up, somethings happening!”
Sylvie stabbed Tobias in the ribs again. He didn’t have time to
respond because, just then, their mother burst into their tiny
bedroom, the rickety door slamming against the wall. Never had
Sylvie seen her this compelling, never.

“Get up, get dressed.” Mother
yanked the blanket off of them both and tossed boots at them each
in turn. “Quick now. We haven’t much time.” Her urgency was
contagious, even more so than when the storm had knocked down the
west fence and the herd had gotten out, threatening to disappear in
the woods.

“What? What’s wrong?” Sylvie pulled
on her shift kirtle as fast as she could. She made it a habit to
sleep in her stockings when it was cold, and reached to grab the
brace—the one Ravan’s blacksmiths had made special for her—that
rested propped against the bed stand. Wrapping it fast about her
right leg, she laced it snug in seconds, having done it so many
times before. Then she reached for her shoes, tossing Tobias stray
one to him as he pulled on his trousers.

“Mother,” she called to her in the
other room, “Tell us what’s wrong! We can’t help if we don’t know
what’s happening.”

“We must get to the castle,” she
called back to her. “There’s a…conflict. We need to go there fast
as possible. Hurry now. There’s not much time.”

Tobias began to bemoan the fact that
he was up so early. Evidently he did not understand the gravity of
the word conflict. “Be silent!” Sylvie spat at him. “We’re in
trouble!” She could see her mother’s profile through the doorway as
she donned her cloak. Sylvie could tell by the distressed look on
her face and the way she avoided eye contact that something very
serious was afoot. Something much worse than lost sheep.

They’d known for many years that an
overthrow was always a possibility; it was generally considered a
risk of life. Landholdings, fiefs, and even kingdoms suffered the
risk of flux at any time, especially with the English so intent on
war. When takeovers happened, only the strongest survived. Change
always seemed inevitable, but as time had passed, few enemies had
chosen to take on the new leader of this dynasty, for the Ravan
Dynasty would be a hard won target for even the worst of
them.

Perhaps they’d become complacent.
The realm was, most thought, secure with its force of nearly five
hundred and strategic position where the river bent about a cliff.
It would not be enough for invaders to take the town. They would
have to take siege of the castle, and that would be a nearly
impossible task indeed.

“Hurry up!” she pressed Tobias
again. “We have to go, now!”

Her younger brother smashed his cap
down onto his mop of brown hair and shot his sister a look. “You
don’t have to wait for me. You know I can run faster than you any
day.” And with that he bolted from the room, leaving Sylvie
behind.

She ignored the jibe and bit her
lip, calling to her mother in the other room as she snatched up her
cloak. “Mother, where’s Father?”

“Getting the animals loose. Hurry
now.”

It was lambing season, and the sheep
were corralled. If there really was a conflict, the animals would
be safer in the pastures. Mother ushered the children toward the
front door. In the distance Sylvie could hear yelling, and there
was another plume of smoke from a nearer edge of the
village.

“Why is the village burn—” Tobias
began.

“This way! Come this way!” their
father yelled. He was just coming through the pasture gate and
motioned from the edge of the field, waving them toward the meadow
and the creek. It wound its way down and through an outcropping of
forestation that ran up next to the edge of the town, farther west
from them. “There!” he pointed. “That’s where we need to go, to the
woods!”

Running as fast as they could, the
three caught up with him in no time, Tobias dragging Sylvie along
as she struggled, limp-running as best she could. “Quit lagging!
Why are you always so slow” he shot at her, then wondered, “Why
this way, Father?”

“Because with the cover of forest
we may not be seen. We can reach the edge of the town farther west,
make it to the castle,” Sylvie answered for him, breathless not so
much from the run but from the tension she felt. It was a terrible
feeling, to be in peril. She hadn’t had time to pull her hair back,
and it escaped, a wild, blonde and tangled mess over her shoulders
and long down her back. She was beautiful—a lame angel struggling
to keep up with the rest of them.

“Sylvie is right. We need to avoid
the village, try to reach the castle from around the northwest
side. It’ll be safer,” Father said between gasping
breaths.

“I don’t understand. What’s hap—”
Tobias began.

Before he could finish, there was a
stir and a commotion from down in the edge of the trees. Father
froze and Sylvie ran nearly smack into him. Half a dozen soldiers
stepped cautiously from the fringe of the woods, lances drawn,
edging toward the meadow. Neither their surcoats nor their shields
sported the Ravan Dynasty coat of arms.

Sylvie knew instantly. These men
were not of this realm. The dead grass was quite tall where she
stood, and it was obvious the soldiers hadn’t spied the small
family yet. But it wouldn’t be long before they did. Father halted
and ducked, bending over before spinning about.

“Back! Back to the house! Hurry!”
He remained hunched over and shooed his family away, back in the
direction they’d come.

“But Father,” she whispered as they
ran. “They could come from the woods behind our home as well.
Should we not try to reach the village straightaway?”

He ignored her, shoved her and her
brother back toward the farm. Together the small family moved as
hurriedly as they could, back to the meager protection of their
home. Mother and Tobias ran on ahead. Father held onto Sylvie’s
hand as he bent over.

There was only the small clearing to
cross, then they would drop down into the cloister of buildings
that was their little homestead. In the distance, a third plume of
smoke was snaking up from another edge of the town, an indication
that whatever was afoot had met with the villagers there as
well.

By the time the small family was
running across the small meadow that would crest in front of their
home, the soldiers had spied them and were chasing, beginning to
catch up with them. Mother and Tobias were still sprinting ahead.
Father had a death grip on Sylvie’s hand and was now fairly
dragging her along. Finally, he simply swooped his daughter up into
his arms and raced, clutching her fast to his chest as he
ran.

Sylvie, her arms clasped around her
father’s neck, could see over his back, could see the man in the
distance stop and raise his bow. She watched as the soldier
released the arrow but she never saw it fly. It was as if in a
dream, and she blinked, then felt her father gasp, stumble and
pitch forward.

Thrown clear, she felt her father’s
grasp yank from around her, and she hit the ground very hard,
rolling over twice before coming to rest sprawled on her back. The
breath knocked from her, she was unable to cry out, and only just
lay there, dazed by the fall. The sky was the palest blue overhead,
and she gulped, struggling to find her breath.

Turning her head, she gazed in shock
at her father’s face not very far from hers. His eyes were wide,
emploring. He was whispering something, and she reached a hand for
him, tried to touch him.

Father lay prone, arms outstretched
upon the meadow’s crest just before they reached the gate. With his
neck craned severely to one side, his cheek was crushed cruelly
into the frozen earth. His eyes were open and his lips continued to
move, but no sound was coming out. Only a bubbling pink froth
emerged from the corner of his mouth.

It was to Sylvie like a drawn out
nightmare as he blinked so slowly, sputtering. From the middle of
his back protruded the arrow. It appeared so small, so thin. Could
that have hurt her father so mortally?

She was beginning to get her breath
back even more and started to cry out but heard a voice calling her
name from the nearby watershed—the one close to the gate that
housed the irrigation cistern.

“Sylvie! Quick! Come
quick!”

“Risen?”

She looked about, confused by the
chaotic string of events. Father had fallen, terribly wounded, and
why was Risen in the watershed?

The men would see her soon, were
close enough that even though she was small, her form would come
into view beyond the crest of the hill.” If she laid unmoving, the
soldiers would likely pierce her through with a lance, ensuring her
death. It was simply the way of war. She could not know this…but
Risen would.

“Hurry! There’s no time!” Risen
called as he dashed from the watershed and snatched her by the
hand, pulling her up and dragging her the short distance back to
the small outbuilding. They crashed through the narrow opening and
splashed into the shallow cistern, Risen thrusting her fully inside
before kicking the ramshackle door closed behind them.

Falling against the small shed wall,
Sylvie turned and saw Risen silently motion for her to sit down.
The tiny building was short, too short for even the children to
stand up inside. Perching upon the narrow edge of the trough, for
the walls of the watershed were too close in for them to lift their
legs from the icy water of the cistern, they sat in stunned
silence. It was so very cold, and Sylvie cried out
softly.

Through the dim slits of the small
outbuilding, in the growing light of day, they could see her fallen
father, face down on the barren meadow knoll, the arrow sticking up
from between his shoulder blades. He lay so motionless Sylvie
couldn’t even tell if he was breathing. “I have to go to him; I
have to—” she whispered desperately, tears stinging her
eyes.

Risen thrust his hand over her
mouth. His fingers were cold against her lips as he shook his head,
no, eyes imploring she remain silent. He slowly e slid his hand
from her mouth, all the while peering out the slits of the
watershed shack, his head ducked down as though those outside could
see in, could find and drag them from where they hid.

Sylvie began to let go another sob,
one of fear and pain, but before it could escape her lips, Risen
had his hand over her mouth again, holding up the first finger of
his other hand in front of his own lips. He shook his head
urgently, his dark hair flying about his face.

No, he wordlessly begged her to be
silent. He made a slashing motion with his finger across his neck,
and his expression seemed almost angry. He then pointed to where
the water ran from the shed, out from beneath the planks that
housed it. It was murky from the silt that their movements had
stirred up. He rested a hand on her knee, indicating that neither
should they move. Please, he mouthed the word without saying it
outright.