Risen (29 page)

Once she spied Risen and Rowan
peering into a small home during one of these instances. Later, she
confronted the boys. “There is no spectacle in what you saw, no
display to be seen.”

“But they died.” Rowan had been
fascinated but almost fearful.

“It is a deeply personal journey,
more intimate even than a birth, and a journey we will all take.”
Nicolette chastised them. “But do not invade the privacy of such
moments for curiosity’s sake. It is insulting, and would make you
cruel.”

Rowan was a very kindhearted boy,
with his doe eyes and soft, unruly mop of hair. He told Risen that
he was drawn to what he’d seen that day because of the pain. He
told him that he wished he could just take it away, that if he
could be someone significant one day, he would want to be like
Nicolette—someone who could lessen the pain.

After that, both of them had thought
long and hard on the nature of death. He and Risen visited the
cemetery, saw that there were as many small graves as there were
adults. It was evidently just as Father had warned, that death
could come at any time, especially if you were young.

Now, tethered to the trees, Risen
could see Rowan’s face clearly, except that he could not. His
friend was injured, and the blood from a wound on his forehead had
dripped down his face, significantly obscuring the boy’s features.
He moved about least of all of them. But when he did lift his eyes,
he saw Risen.

There was immediate recognition in
Rowan’s eyes, but it was even more than this. He looked at Risen
with such clarity, with such compassion, and what he wordlessly
said was that he would keep their secret. Their captors would not
know from him who the dark haired one was. Then Rowan smiled
weakly. Perhaps he was remembering a time gone by, when they shared
what boys will in the perfect hour of youth. That hour, however,
was passed.

The others bound next to Rowan
seemed taken with their own plights, and Risen never once saw them
look his way. “Lean against me,” he whispered to Sylvie and twisted
his wrists, searching for her hands behind him. When she did not
answer him or move, he was instantly fearful. “Sylvie!” he said
again, more harshly.

“I am here,” her thin voice
replied.

“Sylvie, hold on. My father will
come for us. I promise you this; he will find us.”

“What does this matter, Risen. My
father and mother, and Tobias…”

She did not finish her thought, and
he could feel her slump away from him, could hear her soft
sobs.

“You cannot think of that now. You
mustn’t. We need to stay strong, be brave. If we do not, we will
not survive.” He tried to maintain a calm urgency for her sake, to
give her words of hope, but he could not be at all sure that she
was affected by them. He was met again with silence.
“Sylvie…Sylvie, are you listening?”

No answer, but he could feel her
allow him to take her icy finger tips into his own. He held onto
her like this, and with time she leaned against him. This was very
bittersweet to Risen. For months, perhaps even years, he’d hoped,
wished, dreamed that he might feel her body next to his. In the
muted shadows of his adolescent mind, he’d touched her face,
wrapped his arms around her, held her hand, kissed her
lips.

Never had he spoken of this to
anyone, not to his parents and especially not to Tobias. It was a
beautiful secret that haunted him in a wonderful way when he closed
his eyes, made each sunrise that much more beautiful and the
promise of the next night that much sweeter.

But everything was changed. Tobias
was dead, and Sylvie was leaning against him, her thin frame
sharing a warmth that was so much more than just his blood. It was
the fire from within him, and he was grateful that he could give
this to her.

The men who’d seized them went about
setting up their camp. All the while, the night stretched on and
became colder. The other boys spoke very little to each other and
not at all to him.

Risen, though unharmed, was woefully
fatigued and could no longer feel his hands. He decided to wait
until there was no more stirring around the fires, wait until the
men slept. Then, if the guard was turned away, he would work his
legs under himself and try to reach his boot, try to reach the
knife hidden there.

He was uncertain what his next move
would be. A big part of him wanted to just kill the guard, to kill
everyone here! Or perhaps he would steal a horse and be off with
Sylvie into the night. He already knew which horse was the
strongest, knew which one would run the fastest and longest. But he
might awaken the others with his efforts, and it could end very
badly if they were discovered before they were altogether
gone.

Another part of him thought it would
be safer to cut their bonds and simply sneak away, off into the
blackness of the moonless night, running with Sylvie, on foot, into
the silent dark. He knew it would be nearly impossible for the
guards to scatter in all directions to search for them once they
were away.

But Sylvie was weak and lame. He
could survive the cold, could scale a tree and wait the night out.
With Sylvie, however, they would eventually be forced to stop and
build a fire to warm themselves and protect them from wolves. And
fire would risk them being seen.

All of these ideas flitted through
his mind like pieces of an obscure puzzle. None of them were
solidly falling into place…yet. Risen knew it was important to have
a strategy, even if it was just a vague notion of what he must do
to survive. None of his plans came to fruition tonight, however.
There was no good moment to set them in motion, for a man
approached them, untied their bonds and directed both of them to
sit by the fire. By then, this soldier was the only wakeful man—the
one left with the sole responsibility of guarding the six
captives.

“Sit,” he commanded and pushed the
two down close to the fire. Thoroughly frozen, they fell silently
to the ground and were content just to allow the blaze to warm
their hands and feet. Risen inched closer to Sylvie.

“Are you thirsty?” The man sat
opposite them fumbling with a pack.

“Of course we are.” It was Sylvie
who said this, and it surprised Risen that she was so willing to
engage her captor so curtly. “But, why should you care? You are a
murderer of children and women,” she said almost calmly.

“Careful you should bait me too
much, child. There are none here who care about you.” The man
appraised them from beneath his brows and gestured with one hand
around the camp. He maintained a calm and quiet voice as he held a
cup of water out to her, contradicting his statement. Looking
Sylvie up and down, he added, “Yes, especially you. Were it not for
your…” he shot Risen a skeptical glance, “…brother, you’d be dead
in the forest long ago. Yes, you are alive but for this one,” he
indicated the dark haired boy sitting next to her, “but to what
fate remains to be seen.”

She stared at his outstretched hand
but ultimately took the cup of water from him and drank it half
empty before passing it to Risen, her eyes never leaving the
soldier. The man, perhaps thirty years old, nodded and refilled the
mug when it was handed back before passing it this time to Risen
first.

After drinking thoroughly, he passed
it again to Sylvie as he asked the stranger, “Why have you taken
us? We are worth nothing and would only slow you on your
journey.”

“You have worth, but we are not
discussing this.” He waved the question away. “Suffice it to say
your life is changed. If you fight, it will go poorly for
you.”

The man glanced from from one
captive to the other and back. It unnerved Risen, for he thought
the man might read his mind, might know of his feelings for the
fair girl sitting next to him.

“What is your name?” he asked the
soldier mercenary.

“It is unimportant,” but then the
man offered, “William.”

“You are not French.”

“No, I am not.

“Then what have you to do with this
campaign? It’s unreasonable that you would—”

“Silence! Be silent now,” he hushed
them. “I’ve no wish for debate with you. And if you awaken
Yeorathe…or Odgar…you will have regret.”

It startled Risen that the man was
so quickly agitated. For a brief second he considered telling
William who he was, that he was the son of Ravan. Perhaps a ransom
could be secretly arranged; perhaps the man alone would sneak them
away, take them back and collect a reward. He rolled this thought
about in his head and finally decided this would not do. If William
rejected him and Yeorathe or Odgar discovered his secret, it could
be very bad.

Instead, he said, “My father and
mother have wealth. They would pay, pay to have me
returned.”

The man motioned to Sylvie.
“My…father and mother? Don’t you mean our? You and your sister’s?
And unless your father is the Lord of the dynasty, I sincerely
doubt what you say is true.” The soldier scoffed softly.

Sylvie asked, “If it is not for
money—if we cannot be ransomed, then why have you taken us? Why
will you not tell us what it is that you want?”

The man peered at the girl and
replied, “Push this conversation further than I care to stomach it,
and I will kill you myself.” He was calm in his demeanor, and this
set Risen aback. But then William declared, “And what does it
matter anyway? It doesn’t. It is of no consequence who you are. You
are henceforth without a name.” His irritation seemed to rise even
more. “Do you hear me? Your name is meaningless after today.” He
waved his hand at the starless night as though the heavens would
concur.

Sylvie was silent, but she studied
the soldier with clear, somber eyes. William did not meet her
gaze.

This Englishman confused Risen
greatly. He was almost angry, exasperated, but then just as easily
offered them food—bread and fish. Additionally, he allowed them the
warmth of the fire as they ate their modest dinner. When he
returned them to their spot by the tree, warmed and full enough, he
tossed a saddle blanket across their legs to protect them against
the cold night. Then, they watched as he tended the needs of the
other boys as well.

Yes, this man was an unusual one,
and Risen thought about William for some time, for even with the
blanket, he would not sleep this night. Instead, he watched,
studying all around him…just as he’d been taught.

CHAPTER
TWENTY-ONE

†

Nearly four days had passed since
the battle at the Ravan Dynasty. Three more times Nicolette went to
the small cottage. Three more times she performed the magic there,
gauging the whereabouts of her husband and son as the search played
out. Each time, a dead bird was restored to life.

First, Moulin found the starling, a
small falcon, and a thrush. The fourth time Nicolette sent him on
his quest, he had to ride quite far into the woods to find a dead
bird. He, one last time, returned with one, a mottled and withered
sparrow. As before, when Nicolette was finished with the ritual,
the bird hopped up, choking on the white clay as it sprang to life,
its plumage as fresh as if it had just fledged.

Moulin was forced to wonder of what
capacity this trick might be played, if she could return the life
to something—or someone—more substantial. He watched her gather up
the items one last time. As she coiled her hand about the now
living songbird, she released it into the grey afternoon. This
time, however, as the sparrow flew away, she was inclined to follow
it, stepping from the cottage as she peered into the distance to
which the bird flew.

“Prepare my horse,” she instructed
Moulin urgently. “I must go.”

“But, my Lady, you cannot! It would
leave the realm without leadership! I know you are worried, but
it’s unwise to consider going after him.” He appealed further. “Our
master is already giving chase.”

It was a weak argument, for Moulin
knew well enough from the marks on the map that Risen was heading
farther away from the direction in which Ravan was pursuing him.
He’d lost the trail; of this there was no doubt. Even so, he
persisted, “I promised our Lord I would keep you safe. I will not
break that promise. I will not!”

Nicolette turned, cast her eyes on
him fully. At first, Moulin thought she might rebuke him, might
argue her cause against his—why she must chase after her son. Any
mother would. This, however, was not the case. She simply stared at
him, stared into his eyes and approached him very slowly. It was
splendidly terrifying in a way. Nobody had more calculating resolve
than she, Moulin believed—not even Ravan—and all of it was focused
entirely on him.

He began to speak again, to say
something—he knew not what—but the words did not come. Instead, he
felt suddenly very odd, as though something pulled at him, invading
in a very inviting way his mind and thoughts. With this feeling
came the notion that to give chase for the boy would be the most
reasonable thing they could possibly do. If she did not, they might
all die! Furthermore, he must help her—help her in any way he
could! Why had he not seen it before! It was all so clear
now!