Risen (46 page)

Stepping away from his intent, Ravan
re-sheathed his sword. He stared at the Spaniard, a new respect
showing in his demeanor. “I will.”

Salvatore relaxed, his features
easily animated with his dark skin and broad smile. But his eyes
danced with an intelligent seriousness as he replied, “Good…for
these men are my brothers and every bit as dear as kin to
me.”

Saying nothing, the mercenary only
regarded the captain with a nod.

“We are alike, then, and one with
this quest?” Salvatore extended his hand.

This was a good moment, a bringing
together of the troops of men as one with a united mission. Ravan
took the hand of his employ, and they shook heartily.

Salvatore pulled him close and
whispered into his ear. “Very well. I will follow you into hell,
then. But…I still begrudge you whom you lay next to tonight. I
cannot lie.”

Ravan considered this strange
captain and finally acknowledged him. “I have been in your position
once. I would have killed the man to have her.”

The captain’s eyes flew open at
this. “But you did not?”

“I didn’t have the chance…she
did.”

CHAPTER
THIRTY-TWO

†

The dark-skinned boy came frequently
enough, sneaking extra water and food to the degree that Risen
would not suffer too greatly. It surprised him how, even with
Sylvie gone, the boy’s loyalty remained, and it gave him a degree
of hope. He believed the unusual child would find and minister to
Sylvie as well and thought William had something to do with
it.

Even with the extra care, Risen’s
spirit fell and his appetite waned. His weight slipped to the point
that his fingers rested within the creases of his ribs when he
hugged himself in his sleep. He became obsessed, searching for
Sylvie almost all of his waking hours, his eyes locked on the
entries to the holds. But he never once saw her moving amongst the
confines of the vessel.

“Please,” Risen asked the boy, “is
she all right? Have you seen her?” He indicated his own long locks
as though meaning Sylvie’s, hoping the boy would remember the day
Sylvie had given him her hair.

The boy babbled in a tongue that
Risen could make nothing of, indicating first the bow and then the
stern of the ship. He seemed satisfied with whatever information he
was passing on and moved beyond Risen with no more to be
said.

William, also mysteriously absent
until seven days later, according to the scratches on the massive
rib of the ship, appeared quite suddenly in front of Risen’s face
one night, startling him awake.

He shot upright and exclaimed too
loudly, “Where is she? Is she all right?”

William motioned for Risen to lower
his voice. “She lives. She is safe.”

This information alone was nearly
enough to drop the boy where he sat, and he struggled to keep his
tears from betraying his weakness. “She lives? Oh, is she well? Can
I see her?”

“She is up yesterday, only just
then strong enough.” William knelt by Risen. “I believed she would
not survive, but there is a strange tea aboard that appears to
fortify. This was all she took for several days. But the tea and a
yellow rice sustained her and, I believe, her memory of
you.”

“Me? She asks for me?”

“When the fever held her, she did.
Now she says next to nothing at all. The girl loves you. Of that I
have no doubt.”

“Where is she? I want to see her.
Please, can you bring me to her?”

William shook his head. “She serves
the officers now.”

This set Risen immediately back.
“They will harm her! I know they would!”

“No, they cannot. She is a slave
now—belongs to the Sultan—and she will be his to do with as he
pleases. But until then, they are quite enamored with your fair
Sylvie.”

“Can you bring her to me? Let me
see her?”

“I cannot. She is forbidden to
leave the galley or servant quarters. But I keep close watch on
her, Risen. I will not allow her to come to harm.”

Risen was elated that she lived but
yearned to see her, even if just a glimpse. “Please…to the deck
door. Bring her just to the door so that I might see her face, just
for a moment.”

William seemed uncertain but nodded
he would. “In the dark of the night, I will. But only long enough
so that you see that she lives.”

Risen nodded his gratitude and
swallowed his worry. Before he could say anything more, he felt
William press something into his hands. Looking down, he saw his
knife, the one that he lost in the scuffle at the livery. His eyes
widened with surprise. “But…”

“Hide this, wherever it was the
first time you hid it—your boot, I imagine. I know the crest of
this blade. I know without a doubt you are who you say you
are.”

This surprised Risen, and again he
acknowledged in a proud whisper from where he’d come. “I am Ravan’s
son, from the dynasty of the same name.”

William bobbed his head slowly.
“Yes, Risen. Your father is a dreadful foe, one Yeorathe and Tor
should never have taken on.”

“He’s met my father before, hasn’t
he? Before the strike.”

“Yes, when you were barely born.
And should Yeorathe have his way with you, he would kill you on the
mark. But you are valuable to him alive.”

“I don’t understand?” Risen was
confused.

“You are noble and carry yourself
like a warrior, young as you are. Your skills—they are already
obvious. The Sultan will believe you have a destiny, and Yeorathe
knows this will fetch a great price.” Then William indicated the
knife again. “It is yours; I’m assuming your father had something
to do with the fashioning of it. When the time comes, a warrior
needs his blade. But careful you do not create that moment in
haste. It must be just the right time.” He slapped Risen gently on
the knee. “You will know when it is at hand, and it will not be
aboard this ship. You would wind up skewered for sure and cast for
the creatures of the deep to feed upon if you begin
something.”

Risen hid the blade, indicating that
he understood. “My father has taught me patience is an essential
strategy when at war.” Then he asked, “So you still wish to help
us?”

William regarded the boy with a sad
sincerity. “Surely you understand that we are outnumbered and
undone. It will be a valiant effort, but we—and your lovely
Sylvie—will likely not escape from this with our lives. I cannot
lie to you.”

“My father rose above worse than
this. I will as well.” His eyes flashed with pride.

An expression of sincerity crossed
William’s face, and he spoke no more of their fate. “I will bring
Sylvie to the door, Risen, son of Ravan, so that you might look
upon the one you love.”

These words warmed Risen’s heart,
and he added swiftly, “Oh, please, and can you give her a message
for me?”

“I can.”

“Tell her-tell her…” Risen
struggled.

“I should tell her that you love
her?” William offered gently.

“Tell her that I’m not sorry we
ran.”

This appeared to surprise the
soldier somewhat. He agreed to pass on the message and disappeared
down the row of condemned men. Risen repositioned himself,
squatting for a while on his heels. It was too warm and stifling in
the hold. His joints ached from the long confinement, his buttocks
sore from sitting so long on the roughly hewn planks. He yearned to
be with his father in the woods, running through the cool expanse
of the forest, smelling the sweet earth and hearing something other
than the incessant slap of water next to his ear and the oar
drum.

His thoughts went briefly to his
family. He knew his father would be searching for him, knew that a
hunt would be underway, but he was at a loss how Ravan could
possibly track him across the expanse of water that seemed to go on
forever. For the first time in his life, he doubted his father
could succeed, but he didn’t blame him. It would take a man of
godly might to orchestrate his salvation, he believed.

It made his heart feel good to think
of his father and his mother. They were wonderful parents and tried
to give him the means to survive. He would not have made it this
far had he not spent those long days learning from this
extraordinary man who called him son, that and the late evening
hours when his mother debated mind and body, purpose and conviction
with him. Young as he was, he’d learned to trust his own mind, to
believe in the power of it over circumstance.

A sad smile tugged at his mouth, and
Risen looked up just in time to see William at the aft door. For a
second he believed him to be alone. Then, from around the hip of
the soldier, appeared Sylvie. There she was, so fair as to be
nearly transparent. Risen breathed an audible sigh at the sight of
her and lifted a hand to wave softly.

She was an angel, a beautiful
messenger standing alone on a battlefield. Risen thought her frail
as a flake of snow and was suddenly so outraged, again, at those
who’d taken them. But he swallowed his hatred and tried to force an
expression of kindness and hope, for he knew Sylvie would want
that.

A fleeting glimpse of relief passed
over her features, but she did not smile, only returned the wave,
lifting her arm and hand as a leaf on a breeze, first to her lips
and then toward him. She was only there for a second and was then
gone again, and Risen blinked, unsure that he’d even seen her at
all.

It would be seven more days before
they would make the port in Antalya.

* * *

Yeorathe was complacent. He was
nearly home, but as a Seljuk Turk by faith, he must pay a long
overdue tax. True, he had in his keep the unrighteous pillages of
his campaigns, mostly gold, and five slaves to be sold—all
children. The auction would pay well for the males, but the Sultan
would pay most handsomely for Ravan’s son.

Because of the taxes he owed,
Yeorathe had been forbidden to return to the Ottoman Empire, to set
foot on his homeland without making good on his debt. He was
indignant about it, one of those dispositions that believed that
his right to own land should be without fees. Most of all, he
coveted the gold he’d pillaged and was largely unwilling to part
with any of it, even if it was for debt he owed. It had been nearly
a year since the barbarian had set foot on Antalya’s
shores

Standing on the deck of the slave
ship, he peered into the distance. This was his least favorite part
of the campaigns—transporting the “goods,” but his pilgrimage was
nearly at an end. He would return to his homeland now, enjoy a
season of warmth and gluttony, and return to the godforsaken west
only after he’d had his fill and then some.

Greed was familiar to him, an old
friend, and it settled warm in his gut as he considered his
options. Yes, he was nearly positive that almost, if not all, of
his debt could be made right through the sale of one particular
slave boy—the dark-haired one that sat a horse so well. Then he
would keep his gold and be out from beneath the cursed tax, free to
stay or go as he pleased. When his appetite for pillaging returned,
and it always did, perhaps he would return to Europe, perhaps
Hungary. It was always better to plunder a foreign land than your
own, he thought.

His chest puffed out with pride. He
intended to deliver his enemy’s son to the Sultan personally. The
Ottoman militia would make him a martyr, and Risen would die for
the Sultan’s cause. And when he did, Yeorathe would make certain
that word was sent to the Ravan Dynasty…that the wretched father
would know.

Yeorathe thought of Sylvie. He
should kill her now, dump her body as so much swill. But then he
thought that maybe there was some worth to her after all. She was
uncommon enough to perhaps be of temporary value, but only time
would tell.

Yes, it will be good to be
home.

An unpleasant smirk contorted the
wicked face of the single eyed man as the faint, white frosting of
white cliffs danced on the watery horizon. Antalya was in
sight.

CHAPTER
THIRTY-THREE

†

“I do not wish to sell the boy on
the general market,” Yeorathe argued. “Why would I sell him there?
Why are you even here, on this boat, as it is?”

“My job. I handle the
prisoners—remember? And the others, to bring their shares back.
They do not trust you.”

“Hmmph.” Yeorathe eyed William
closely. “But Ravan’s bastard is worth more sold to the Devsirme.
We will take him beyond Antalya to Isparta to sell him and the
girl.” He paused, studying the response of his first in command.
The Englishman had been distant as of late, more so than usual. And
there was a vigilance to him about the female slave.

The female—she appeared to be a
weakness for William, and Yeorathe was at a loss why. True, if the
Englishman had not pulled her from the hold, she would have
perished, but what of it? She would be sold as a sex slave, most
likely, or as a servant, perhaps. True, her appearance was
uncommon, although Yeorathe strongly preferred the darker
complexion of the women in his native land.