Risen (35 page)

The mattress lay flat on the very
center of a dirt floor. There were no windows, and the door wasn’t
a door at all but only a simple curtain tacked between the door
jambs. It didn’t matter. It was a place to rest, and it appeared
they were the only “tenants” tonight anyway.

The only piece of furniture in the
entire room, not counting the mattress, was a massive armoire that
was crammed into the space, taking up nearly a fourth of the room.
It was old, beaten up, and very heavy.

Moira gave Nicolette a glance. “Do
you think we should try to pull that in front of the doorway, just
in case someone should try to bother us?” When she was met with
something akin to a wry expression, she added, “Oh, no. I don’t
suppose that is necessary.”

They had two candles, one on either
side of the bed on the floor, and there were no pillows. Instead,
they rolled their own clothes up as pillows. In only their
undergarments and sharing a thin blanket, the two women lay down
next to each other on the stuffed straw bed.

After they blew the candles out,
Moira could not see that Nicolette’s eyes were closed almost
immediately. The maid only lay there, infuriatingly awake for some
time, her head spinning with the effects of extreme exhaustion. She
could not coax sleep to come for her.

When she could take it no longer,
she whispered into the darkness, “Nicolette, about what happened in
the meadow.”

There was a long moment when she
heard nothing, and Moira had just about decided that her lady was
asleep when Nicolette murmured, “I’m sorry, Moira, if I frightened
you.”

Moira sat up in the total darkness,
crossed her legs and said, “No, not at all. It was not so much that
you frightened me. Only…” She didn’t finish the thought.

Silence.

“I cannot say that I’m so
surprised,” Moira tried again. “But even so, one just doesn’t see
that sort of thing every day.”

“Moira, there is very much that you
don’t know about me, my…upbringing.”

Moira could feel Nicolette turn over
onto her side to face her, and she tried to bolster the
conversation. It felt good to be talking.

“I know that, but with the
enchantments in the cottage, the birds and…all.” She took a deep
breath before she blurted, “I think you should know. Sometimes
people say…they say you are, you’re a…” she motioned with her only
hand, first to her forehead and then to the black space above,
which was a ridiculous gesture in the darkness.

“A witch.” Nicolette finished the
thought for her.

Moira sighed. “Yes, yes, but I
didn’t at first. I just thought you were peculiar.” She paused,
forced herself to give Nicolette time to respond.

Finally, Nicolette replied, “I’m not
sure I would call myself a witch. That just seems so harsh. I think
of myself more as someone very connected.”

“An enchantress, then.” Moira
struggled to put a more pleasant name to it. She could not see the
soft smile that tugged at the corners of Nicolette’s mouth. When
she said nothing in reply, Moira wondered, “Does Lord Ravan know?”
It was a very forward question, and she right away thought she
might have offended her.

“Yes…and no. He knows I have an
aptitude, but perhaps he doesn’t know exactly to what capacity. But
then, neither do I.”

“I—I don’t really understand,”
Moira admitted.

“He’s never seen me as threatened
as I am now,” Nicolette said matter-of-factly.

“Ahh, I see. It was because the men
threatened us.” Moira simplified it a great deal.

“It was because the men threatened
to keep me from that which truly threatens me—the loss of my son,”
Nicolette corrected.

“But did you know it was happening?
I wasn’t certain you knew what was happening.” Moira was intensely
intrigued.

“Somewhat, I suppose. But not
entirely. I sensed that things were poorly controlled, but the
energy that was channeled through me did so of its own
accord.”

They were silent for a bit longer
before Moira wondered, “How connected can you get? If you are
really threatened?”

“Moira.” Nicolette sounded just a
tiny bit impatient. “I’m afraid I cannot answer that.”

“Of course, I’m sorry. Goodnight,”
she apologized. Again, silence for a while.

“Moira, I just want you to know,
I’m thankful that you’re with me,” Nicolette offered, her voice
soft like a child’s.

That was a wonderful thing for the
handless maiden to know. “You need me, then? Like a
friend?”

“Yes, I suppose I do,” Nicolette
replied.

Moira lay happily awake for only a
short while before sleep claimed her. What she didn’t know about
her friend was much more than what she did…

Twenty-Four Years Before…

Nicolette’s father was dead. This
was very unfortunate, because she was not only alone, she was only
five years old and alone. Father had been strategic in “helping”
his daughter realize her great potential and…how to control
it.

“You mustn’t manipulate things in
such a way,” he scolded her one day when the candle play resulted
in a small fire in the castle.

Nicolette wasn’t playing with the
candles, not really. She was making the flame leap back and forth
across the room from one candle to another.

“I don’t understand. It’s just for
fun, a game,” the young beauty replied.

“Nicolette, if you do not temper
your gifts, people will call you a ‘witch.’ You know what that
means, don’t you?” He drilled this into her.

“I’ll be feared. And if I’m feared,
I will cease to be effective in a good way. Then, I may be
destroyed.” She said it from memory, and Father nodded his
approval.

“Yes. So, no fires?”

“No fires,” she
promised.

Hair as white as snow, skin nearly
as white, she rested her thin fingers on the edge of the stone
table and stared at her father. Reaching, she touched the fabric of
the burial gown, drew a tiny finger across the cheek of the
corpse.

How could he do such a thing, leave
her alone? How would she ever learn what she must, so that people
would understand her, and she them? So that they would not wish to
destroy her?

It proved to be more than Nicolette
could endure, and as the long row of mourners filed past, the child
became more and more consumed. Her rage and grief grew because he
dared to leave her, because he dared to be dead…without
her.

The pall bearers came, lifted the
body and meant to take it away. She grasped the edge of the stone
table tight as she could. Then, Nicolette lost control. It slipped
from her in the same fashion that her fingers slipped from the edge
of the stone.

No one knew for sure how the fire
started, not even Nicolette. Up went the drapes, the furniture,
even the stone table. Everything in the church, especially her
father, became a terrific pyre until it was all gone. On that day,
Nicolette’s hair turned black as a midnight crow.

Almost thirteen years to the day,
she was given to the tyrant, Adorno, to be his bride. Four months
after that…she killed him.

CHAPTER
TWENTY-SEVEN

†

“Block the blows, but only until
you can take the offensive. If you do not, if you remain passive,
you will die,” Ravan instructed his son, then motioned him to step
in for another round.

As he did, Ravan swung at his son.
Risen parried the blow, feinted it, then stepped in closer, aimed a
counter-strike at his father’s leg. Ravan blocked the
strike.

“Good, that is exactly what you
must do.” He seemed genuinely pleased with his son’s
efforts.

“But I failed.” Risen wasn’t
convinced. “You blocked me and would have my head in the next blow.
I’ve lost again.”

“True enough, but I am three times
your size,” Ravan smiled. “It is only reasonable.”

This garnered a laugh from the boy
before he became again serious. “But what if my opponent is bigger
than me, stronger than me? If there are as many enemies in the
world as you seem to believe, I’m sure to be out matched in body
and weight sooner or later.” Risen rolled his eyes.

Casting a wry expression toward his
son for the sarcasm, Ravan chose to ignore it. “Then you must bind
his weapon and use body leverage. Counter hit his blade with your
edge against his flat, then thrust.” Ravan demonstrated the
technique slowly, spun Risen’s blade around and down, capturing it
in the earth at their feet. “Now, you try it.”

Risen waited for his father’s swing,
mimicked his father’s method perfectly and, with reasonable
finesse, twisted his father’s sword around and down into the
dirt.

“Good! That is very good!” Ravan
laughed. “But do not forget to finish me off.” He reached his
gloved hand and took Risen’s blade, directed it back around and up,
simulating the cutting of his own throat.

“It seems so brutal, to cut someone
so,” Risen said.

“It is, my son. There are few
things that are more intimately awful than the edge of another’s
blade. Use yours wisely and with reservation, but when you must,
let it not be your opponent’s blade that strikes you
first.”

* * *

The third night they camped, they
were tucked alongside a river. It arced lazily around the forest
edge, allowing a small clearing that swept out and around the bend.
It was a good, wide swath for the men to rest and graze the horses,
and this evening the clouds broke and sunshine poured
through.

Risen was hungry, hungrier than he
thought he’d ever been, and thirsty for he’d not drunk since
morning. William had been loosely assigned to them, to the care of
the captives. Or perhaps he had assigned himself of his own free
will, but the food he offered this morning was negligible enough;
he’d offered none yet this evening. Risen began to believe the
soldier was sharing his own reserves.

Legs trembling, he eased himself
down next to Sylvie. As she attempted to straighten her skirts,
Risen noticed where the brace had worn through her stocking, where
it was rubbing a wound into the side of her leg just below the
knee.

“Take it off,” he indicated the
brace. Briefly, he considered simply doing it for her, but that
would have been a very forward gesture even in the given situation.
He must allow her as much dignity as she could keep, despite
everything. “The wound needs air next to it. I can help if you
wish.”

She didn’t answer, but he watched
her slender fingers as they undid the buckles, saw the furrowing of
her beautiful forehead as she unhinged the brace, easing it from
where it stuck to her leg. The inside hinge of it was bloody.
Laying the apparatus aside, she jerked her skirt over the wound as
though unconcerned with it. Risen made a note to try to persuade
William to give them some water to cleanse it.

Intimate conversation was out of the
question this evening, for the captive youths were placed together
for the first time—all five of them—bound along a single rope that
was stretched between two trees. The rope was knotted around the
waist of each of them, strung along, and tied up high on each end.
It would be impossible for one to loosen their own binding without
tightening the one next to them, but it at least allowed them
freedom of their arms and legs.

Sylvie was on one end, Risen next to
her, and another—the oldest—was bound next to him. Anything Risen
might say could be heard by this older boy, and he wasn’t sure if
the other captives knew yet that he was Ravan’s son. They certainly
acted as though they didn’t, and he was just as happy keeping his
secret for now. He had been careful not to share his name, and told
Sylvie to call him Rowan. He picked his dead friend’s name because
it just seemed respectful, given the circumstances.

Sitting in a row, all of the
captives stretched their legs, some of them lying back on the grass
to rest after the torturous day’s ride. When the camp was
established and the routine of the soldier’s evening appeared to be
under way, one of the boys—the eldest who sat next to Risen—spoke
under his breath to William as the Englishman approached with
water, passing the flask down the row of captives.

“My name is Clovis. I have
something to tell you, something to tell your leaders. It will
interest you very much.”

Risen shot him a surprised look, but
the boy averted his stare.

William’s eyes narrowed. “I doubt
there is something you might share that would be of
importance.”

Clovis then eyed Risen closely.
“There is something you would be glad to know, something you may
eventually regret if you don’t.”

Risen silently pleaded with the boy,
his eyes begging him to keep the secret he was about to share, but
Clovis seemed set on having his way and ignored him.

“If you will allow me my freedom,”
Clovis continued, “I will give you information that you could be
sincerely rewarded for.”

Passing the flask of water to Sylvie
next, William offered the alternative. “And if they,” he indicated
Yeorathe and Odgar, “simply wish to extract this information from
you in whatever fashion they wish?”