Risen (51 page)

With a single manacle about their
right ankles, they were at least offered the respite of straw and
the ability to lay down. It was early evening and swelteringly
warm. Sylvie curled up in the straw like a fawn and closed her
eyes, her cheek resting on folded hands. She looked as though she
was praying as she slept.

Many of the other captives,
miserable though they were, could scarcely take their eyes from
her. Truly, she was painfully beautiful, and looked as out of place
as a kitten on a battlefield.

William kept guard but was
eventually relieved of his watch. However, he had ample opportunity
to share a plan with Risen. He told them he would, that evening,
scour the harbor for a ship leaving that very night…to anywhere. He
meant to use all of his resources to get the children and himself
aboard a vessel, to negotiate passage back to Europe, back to their
home.

This, however, was not to be the
case. There were only two ships leaving port—a cargo vessel bound
for the orient, the other carrying soldiers and provision to the
escalating front in Constantinople. That would have simply been a
trip from bad to worse, in William’s estimation. Consequently, they
left the next morning, early, for Isparta. Salvatore’s ship would
come into port six hours later.

There were eight in Yeorathe’s band
now—six adults, counting William, and the two children. Yeorathe’s
village was normally a week’s ride from the sea. It would be a
perilous journey through several high mountain passes, but the Turk
was familiar with it, having taken the trek before. Even so, it was
no easy journey.

Isparta would be the final
destination for Yeorathe’s dealings with his last two slaves. Risen
and Sylvie would at long last be sold. He meant to keep them alive
only long enough to sell.

The Muslim Turks who traveled with
Yeorathe were not of his band. They were, however, warriors
returning to Isparta as well and were willing to take comfort in
numbers by banding with him. By consigning themselves to the trek,
they effectively fortified their own crusade north. The trail they
traveled could be very unsafe for a solitary man. These men were
simply opportunists, having also come to Antalya to
trade.

The horses they rode were smaller,
scragglier beasts than the warhorses of Western Europe, but they
were exceedingly surefooted and agile as they clambered up the
rocky trail single file. Risen and Sylvie sat together on one of
the beasts, he with his arms around her. It was a treacherous and
wonderful time, for he held her—held her as he longed to do so many
times in his dreams, and yet it was not as it should have been, for
they were so far away and still not free.

He whispered soft things into her
ear, told her that he loved her, told her of William’s intent, that
they should be rescued from their entrapment soon, and that he
would help them when the moment came. He told her about the blade,
the one he’d lost in the skirmish on the loft, and how brave he
would be—his intent to use it soon to help orchestrate their
escape. He was more optimistic than he’d been in days, and he
rejoiced when she leaned her head back on his shoulder.

Sylvie listened to Risen but said
very little. He could not see her face, but she traced his arm
sweetly with her forefinger, ran her hand over his. Her fingers
were so pale and thin against the strong, warmth of his—thinner
than he believed they were before. Finally, she was quiet, and a
lock of her hair lifted in the soft breeze, blowing silken against
his cheek.

It was then that he murmured
beautiful things to her, reminded her of how lovely the little
white flowers that covered the meadow by her house would be just
about now. There would be many splendid things to see when they got
home, and he promised that their days would be spent in wondrous
adventure together. He thought that they could reach out to Niveus
together, pull his sister back from that place which threatened to
take her away. Sylvie had always believed they should.

Risen noticed just then the chopped
spot where Sylvie had given a lock of hair to the boy on the boat,
and he briefly wondered what the boy did with it now. It’d been a
gesture of benevolence on her part, but it angered him that she
should be defiled in any way, and his frustration drew him to
silence. He struggled to be a better man, to go instead where his
mind was a moment before, to go where Sylvie would have him go.
Compassion…mercy…love.

The sun was hot; it seemed closer to
the earth here in this strange land. Dust swirled around their
mounts and was thick on his tongue, drawing from him any
inclination to speak further. Ahead, he could see a mountain range
rise up in front of them, snow white peaks etched against a
brilliant blue sky, announcing their beauty and treachery to all
who might dare scale them.

Risen thought the men traveled in
much less of a hurry than when they were fleeing France. The horses
picked their way lazily through the scrub brush and short trees.
Yeorathe appeared satisfied to allow this.

All the while, the boy tried to make
mental notes as they rode, tried to familiarize himself with this
strange land, memorize the landmarks and the path they took. One
could get lost very easily in these mountains, he thought to
himself. It was hostility of a very different sort.

As the day wore on, he felt a pinch
between his shoulder blades, felt the weight of his weariness full
upon him. But Sylvie’s fatigue was even greater, for she slumped
heavily against him. As her head leaned back on his shoulder, he
saw full well that she was asleep, saw how red her nose and cheeks
were from the sun.

They were given very little water
today; Yeorathe had ordered it so, to weaken them, and there’d been
no good instance when William could sneak his flask to them. Risen
hugged her more tightly, struggled to negotiate his sleeping beauty
and the rangy horse they rode, fearful that she or both of them
might fall from it.

Pressing his face against her, he
smelled the dusty fragrance of the girl he loved, rubbed his cheek
against her hair. As miserable as they were, he thought he would
cry tears of joy, just to have her close to him again, for he’d
believed she would die on the ship.

The day turned even hotter even
though it was still spring, and Ravan could feel the sweat run down
his chest and abdomen, a furnace between them from the heat of
their bodies. The trail widened, and William rode up next to him,
reaching to take Sylvie.

“I’ve got her,” Risen began, but
the Englishman shook his head.

“It will be steeper ahead. Let me
have her; I can carry her better.” William’s expression was one of
kindness as he glanced furtively from Yeorathe to the others,
careful not to allow them to see too much of his compassion for the
slave children.

The angel’s eyes flitted open as the
Englishman swept her from Risen’s grasp and laid her across his
lap, shielding her face from the sun with his shoulder. Her arms
reached around his neck, and she buried her face into his chest.
The softest, fleetest smile threatened to cross William’s
lips.

Risen could scarcely take his eyes
from them and, for the briefest instant, he remembered a day gone
by—Herluin—that summer’s day when Sylvie had crawled into her
father’s lap and wrapped her arms around his neck in exactly the
same fashion.

The Englishman pulled his flask and
dripped water between Sylvie’s lips. Still, onward they rode. It
was very late afternoon when the canyons gave way to a few scraggly
thickets of trees, and they wound about in them for a span before
coming to a massive ledge beyond. This would be a tricky part of
their journey to negotiate, for although the trail was wide enough,
it was solid rock with a sheer drop to one side and a flat wall of
stone to the other.

Yeorathe decided that a small meadow
tucked in a thin stand of trees, just before they took to the
ledge, would be a good place to take respite for a short while
before moving on. He was in fine spirits, perhaps because he was
approaching his home after being gone for such a long time, and…he
was drinking.

The more he drank, the louder and
ruder he became. Also, his judgment, which was ordinarily not the
greatest anyway, was becoming less grounded. This could work for
the captives or against them.

They dismounted, and William cast a
glance to Risen. Perhaps he meant it would soon be the right time.
Perhaps this would be the opportunity they were looking for if
Yeorathe continued to drink, and it looked as though he
might.

“Let’s camp,” William offered
almost cheerily to Yeorathe. “We are in no hurry and have scarcely
enjoyed respite from the sail. My head still swims as though at
sea, and I crave a campfire.” He gestured to the massive ledge
beyond. “And that is simply a stretch I’ve no desire to tackle half
in the bottle.” Laughing heartily, he raised his own flask as
though he was also well on his way.

The other men echoed his sentiment
loudly, and it was hardly a task to persuade Yeorathe that to
venture farther was simply out of the question.

William hissed at Risen beneath his
breath as he secured them beneath a tree, “Be quiet, for he will
become more agitated as he drinks. I don’t want to draw you into a
fight we are not prepared to win. Mind me,” he cautioned. Motioning
over his shoulder toward Yeorathe with a flip of his chin, he
handed Risen his water flask, then fairly ignored them for some
time.

Before long a fire blazed even
though the early evening was very warm. From the panniers was
pulled goat meat and more ale, and the revelries escalated. A short
distance away, Risen sat in the dried grass, Sylvie’s head in his
lap as she rested. She seemed so tired these last few days, as
though she needed to sleep most of the time. He took a stray lock
of her hair and lifted it behind her ear so that he could better
see the profile of her face.

Her eyelashes fluttered and her eyes
opened. She moaned softly as she turned onto her back and looked
into Risen’s eyes. He noticed for the first time the hollow of her
cheeks, the paleness of her lips.

“Are you hungry?” he asked. “I have
some nuts. I saved them from when we were on the boat. And you
should drink some water.”

She smiled, and her eyes sparkled.
That, he decided, hadn’t changed at all. The brightness of her eyes
was something that would never change, no matter what.

“Let’s share,” she said sweetly
and, with modest effort, pushed herself up to sitting. The leg
brace was long gone, having been forgotten on the ship.

They nibbled the nuts together, and
Risen watched and waited as the festivities amongst the men
continued to grow as the evening wore on. His eyes became heavy
and, somehow, he dozed, his arms around her.

CHAPTER
THIRTY-SEVEN

†

When Risen awoke, it was a beautiful
evening. The sky was a pale blue, and the moon, full and yellow,
peeked from between the stand of trees like earth’s lazy lover. He
thought it was much larger than he’d ever before seen it, almost as
though it had rolled onto the edge of the distant woods and was
coming for them. It occurred to him that it’d been nearly two
months since he last saw the moon.

Kicking more upright, he struggled
to get his wits about himself. Tonight, he thought, would be the
perfect night for them to orchestrate their escape, for Yeorathe,
he was certain, would be drunk. So, when someone else other than
the Englishman came for him, he was confused.

At first, Risen refused to
go—refused to leave Sylvie alone on the edge of the encampment.
“Send the Englishman.” He held his ground. “Send
William.”

The man, a wiry, mid-aged fellow
with more gum than teeth, laughed heartily. “We’re just having some
fun with you. You’ll be back to your little bitch before you know
it.”

This set Risen entirely on edge, and
he was just about to refuse a second time when the man chuckled as
though sharing a great secret, “We know your weakness. Oh yes, we
know. We’ve watched you today. The girl—she’s your Achilles’
heel.”

The man grabbed at his own crotch
and yanked, his gaping maw as awful as anything Risen had ever
seen. To make matters more sobering, the man drew in a flash one of
those peculiar swords and leveled it at Sylvie’s face. He stabbed
at her, alarmingly close as he exclaimed to them both, much more
soberly than Risen believed he really was, “Resist me, and I’ll
stick her good! Take those pretty eyes out of her head. I’ll do
it!”

Risen feared the man would injure
her with his carelessness. “Stop! Please—I will give you no
trouble. Just…please, lower the blade.”

This was not, however, what he
thought. William or no William, he intended to flay this man to his
very heart, if the opportunity arose. His blade had remained in his
boot long enough, and he decided that he and Sylvie were too long
gone from the lovely French countryside. It was time to make a
move—to go home or die trying.

But though his intentions were
strong, he would not yet have his knife, for he remained bound as
the man dragged him closer to the fire to join the group who were
gathered around it in varying stages of relaxation. They laughed
heartily, calling him the Janissary pup. He’d never heard these
words before and wasn’t at all sure what was meant by it. He looked
for William, but he was nowhere to be seen.