Risen (18 page)

She swallowed her cry, closed her
eyes tightly, and leaned forward, resting her head onto his
shoulder. She tried hard to do as he wished, to neither speak nor
move her legs about in the water. Being so still only made it hurt
that much more, but she said nothing. Then, she began to
tremble.

Risen wrapped both arms around her,
pulled her close to him, and in this fashion he held her…for the
first time ever.

They sat, frozen as two stone
statues, both of them curled up on the wet, earthen sod of the
spring’s trough edges, their feet and legs increasingly numb from
the cold of the water. They could barely see out from between the
narrow planks and watched intently, but nothing happened for what
seemed like an eternity to Sylvie.

Just when she thought they might be
safe, just when she was about to say something, there were voices,
and she watched intently as the strangers neared, spied the men
approach the body of her fallen father.

Risen swallowed heavily and pulled
Sylvie closer as though he might protect her from witnessing the
scene unfolding only twenty paces from them. Try as he might, he
could not. She refused to not see, could not tear her eyes from the
fateful events that played outside the watershed. It might be
horrible, but it didn’t matter; she simply must know what was
happening, must share her father’s final moments, and so she peeked
just from the corner of her eye.

The men, four of them, stood about
the dead man, gesturing toward the house and then to the village.
They were almost indifferent until one soldier cruelly kicked the
body. This time it was Sylvie who thrust her hand over her
mouth.

Nothing…then the man grasped and
struggled to pull the arrow from her father’s back. The body lifted
with the soldier’s effort, then fell heavily back with a dull thud.
Planting his foot firmly on the back of the fallen man’s neck, the
soldier was able to wrench the bloodied arrow loose. The soldier
pointed almost casually toward the house with it, and the rest of
them nodded.

Risen squeezed her tighter. He could
see how, even though terrified, she burned with rage. Tears
streamed from her eyes, but she remained silent, didn’t whimper
even one sound, only watched the horror that played out before
her.

He touched her, took her chin
gently, and turned her face so that her stare was pulled from
outside, so that her eyes met his. He pointed at his own eyes,
implored her to look only at him. She focused on him, saw that his
eyes smoldered with anger and remorse, saw his jaw clench tightly
as he bit onto a dreadful silence all his own. But she could not
know his greatest emotion was his concern for her. She held his
gaze, looked only into the beautiful, mournful eyes.

Her father had been kind to Risen—a
good man. It was true he’d let Sylvie and Tobias go to play at the
castle. But Ravan’s son had just as thoroughly enjoyed the time
about the small homestead. Her father had laughed and played with
them, and Risen had grown very fond of the farmer with the warm
heart and the quick humor. Tobias had inherited these traits from
his gentle father as well.

Fury seized Sylvie’s heart. It was
so wrong for them to kill him! And why? What would they gain from
it? Fury turned then to terror. What of Mother and…Tobias? She
believed in that moment she could endure this no longer, that
insanity would snatch at her if she did not cry out. And she would
have cried out except for Risen. The sad, warm eyes of her dearest
friend.

She could hear the dull murmurings
of the soldiers as they moved away from her father, and before
long, she could hear them no more. Even so, the two children stayed
in the watershed, not moving, not speaking, not daring to go forth.
Together, they swallowed their fear and rage. Together they grieved
the awfulness of what they knew and feared the inhumanity of what
they did not.

After an eternity, Sylvie could hear
something from a short distance away. It was a low hiss, and it
slowly grew, turning from a whining mewl into a crackling roar.
There was no shouting; there was no crying. There was no chance for
such a thing now. Only the terrible roar. She clamped her hands
over her ears.

Sylvie’s home…was on
fire.

CHAPTER
THIRTEEN

†

“What do you mean he is gone!”
Nicolette stormed back and forth on the stone floor of the great
room that lay just off the castle entryway. It was the first time
that Moulin had ever seen her truly rage, and in her fury she
seemed so much larger than she really was.

He reached both hands out in appeal,
unable to fathom her in such a state. He’d never, no matter the
awful trials she’d experienced in years past, seen her behave in
such a way as this, and it rocked his notion of stability to the
very core.

“My Lady, he must have found the
tunnels. And I have no explanation as to how. He’s never indicated
he knew of them.”

“Were they hidden?” she
interrogated him harshly regarding the tunnels.

“Yes, behind the
tapestries.”

Moulin was nearly as devastated as
she that the boy was simply nowhere to be found. Risen had
disappeared, vanished from the castle. Even now, guards were
combing the grounds and beyond the tunnels, but Moulin feared it
would prove worthless. His instinct was that the boy was truly
gone. Obviously, it was Nicolette’s as well.

Moira was summoned. “And what have
you to say for yourself?” she snapped at Moira, “That they were
left in your keep, and now Risen is missing?” Nicolette appeared as
though she might strike the girl—Niveus’ nanny—but instead spun
away, hands over her eyes.

Moira cried, holding the stump of
her arm across her mouth. Moulin knew that she truly loved the boy,
must be dreadfully worried for his disappearance as well. “I’m so
sorry,” Moira cried. “He said he was hungry…and thirsty. Asked me
to go for some food for him and Niveus. I think…I think he meant
for me to be gone.”

Guards stood at hand with Risen’s
sister. All the while, Niveus sat unmoving as a corpse on a settee
bench. Her legs were crossed at the ankles, her hands folded neatly
in her lap. She gazed at an overhead window, watching the dust
particles play in the hazy beam of mid-morning light. Nicolette
went to her and knelt gently in front of her daughter.
“Niveus…”

The child continued to peer at the
beam of light.

“Niveus, where did your brother
go?” Nicolette rested her hands on the thin knees of her second
born.

“I don’t know.” Her peculiar eyes
blinked slowly as she dropped her gaze to her mother’s
face.

“Niveus, help me. You must know
where he’s gone. I know you saw something, have knowledge of
something.” She took Niveus by both shoulders and shook her
daughter gently. “Help me, my daughter. Help Risen.”

“He is in love,” the girl
offered.

Nicolette stared intently at her
daughter. Then, with a sigh, she abandoned the questioning as
though it would gain her nothing. Spinning from the two of them,
she flew to the castle’s open front doors. Peering the direction
from which the battle raged, she spied the plumes of black smoke
that shot up beyond the castle walls and murmured as though only to
herself, “It is the sign. This is what I have feared. It is the
loss despite the win.”

“Pardon?” Moulin approached her
from behind, stricken by the sudden unpredictable events of the
last few moments.

She spun on him, ignoring his
question. “Bring my council to me! And fetch Ravan right away; I
need him, now!”

“But my Lady, he leads the battle?
He can’t—”

“Get him…or the realm will fall.”
She turned in a swirl of dark robes and was gone from the
room.

* * *

Moira was stricken. How had this
happened? How had Risen orchestrated such an escape? And why would
he do such a thing? Niveus was in her room, a pair of guards on
either side of the door. Moira entered, closed the door, and sat
down on the bed next to her.

The child curled up and closed her
eyes as though she would sleep. This child slept frequently, much
more often than most. Additionally, she was awake at odd intervals
during the night. They even had to lock the balcony doors, for she
might be found at any freezing hour, leaning over the railing,
reaching for something that was not there.

Moira drew the blanket over Niveus’
shoulders and was startled when the child repeated softly, eyes
still closed, “She should have known. He is in love.”

“Niveus…”

Nothing.

“Niveus, look at me.”

The rose blushed eyes flashed open
and peered sideways at Moira. The nanny asked, “Why do you say
that?”

“Because he is.”

“With who?”

Niveus shrugged. “I don’t know. I
can’t know that.”

“Then why do you say such a thing?”
Moira patiently wondered.

Very deliberately, the child pushed
up, crossed her slender legs, and rested her elbows on her knees.
She seemed as delicate as the shell of an egg and motioned in an
odd way with one hand, her fingers flitting as though she played an
invisible instrument. “Risen loves you.”

“I know that.”

“He loves Mother and Father too. He
even loves me.”

“Of course. Is that what you mean?
Is that what you meant to tell your mother?”

The child appeared annoyed, almost
tired. “He loves us. He would never have left us if it wasn’t for
another whom he is in love with.” She locked gazes with Moira.
“There is a difference.”

“How do you know this?” Moira took
Niveus’ hand urgently in her own. “Tell me how you know
this?”

“It is…” she swept a hand in the
space around Moira’s face, “…something I see about those who are in
love.” She dropped her hand and focused intently on her nanny.
“Father has it. Mother has it. Moulin has it. YOU have
it…”

Moira blushed somewhat, but the
child ignored it and continued, “But Risen’s burns very
brightly.”

“Why, Niveus? Why does it burn so
bright?”

“Because his is the youngest, the
fiercest in how primal it is, and because the other does not know
of it…yet.”

Moira stared, dumbstruck.

Niveus explained further, “It is
brightest when it is a secret. Moulin’s is very close to the same,
as is yours.”

The words disturbed the handless
maiden a great deal. It was true, she loved—a secret no one would
ever know—her Lord. And Moulin, Moira long suspected, was in love
with Lady Nicolette. But Risen?

She allowed Niveus to curl back into
her ball, pulled the blanket over her, and left the child to her
rest. Passing the guard on her way out, she shot, “Don’t leave her,
not even for a second.”

* * *

Ravan crashed through the council
chamber doors, followed by his first in command, and strode
directly to Nicolette. Tossing his bloodied sword with a clatter
onto the table, he took his bride by the shoulders with both hands.
“What, Nicolette? What is it? What has happened?” He knew it must
be fearfully important for her to call him back from
battle.

“The guards are searching the
grounds as we speak. There is still no sign of him.” She did not
share the name of whom she spoke.

“Risen? How, where?” His eyes shot
wide in alarm.

“He was in the library. Moira was
with him—left him to get food—and when she came back, he was simply
gone.”

There was something about her eyes,
something Ravan had never seen before, not even on that long ago
day on the cliff when she had to leave him, casting him to his
fate. Her eyes held something entirely new about them. They carried
an expression of dread, and it terrified him to his very
core.

“The tunnels? Did he know about the
tunnels?”

“If he did, he’s never mentioned it
to anyone.” Nicolette clasped her hands together. “Ravan, he is not
on the castle grounds. I can feel it. He is not here.”

Staring, he searched her eyes,
trying to read what she meant by this. He knew that what she said
was true; his son was nowhere close by, not within the safety of
the castle walls.

“Why? Why would he leave? It makes
no sense. This battle is far from won!” He dropped her shoulders
and pressed a thumb to his forehead, concentrating hard as he paced
back and forth in front of them.

“Perhaps someone found the entrance
in? Perhaps they came into the library and took him from us?” It
was Moulin who shared this thought.

The mercenary shook his head. “Not
possible; the catacombs are too complex, and the doors are barred
from within. They would have had to break through them all.” He
pulled his sword from the table and stabbed it into its sheath with
a satisfying ring. “No, there is no way the enemy could have found
their way in, and we would have known—would have heard them.
Besides, the army is held. The battle is almost turned.” With that
he spun on Moulin. “Were the tunnel doors found open?”