Risen (8 page)

Tor lived. Years from now…Ravan
would regret this.

CHAPTER FIVE

†

The baptism was set for the next
morning, and yet, Nicolette had no name for her infant son. Since
she first shared her concern of it with Moulin, she’d spoken of it
rarely, and only to arrange the few details of the ceremony. She
was particular about the day and time, canceling it twice because
something was, “…just not as it should be.”

Now the time was close at hand. She
laid the babe back into the bassinet and spoke softly to Moulin. “I
have no name for this child.”

It troubled Moulin that she should
struggle with such a thing so personal as naming her own son, for
it was not like Nicolette to be so uncertain of anything. She’d
commanded, in less than a season, superb reign of the dynasty as
though it’d been nothing. Yet, she could not choose a name for the
bastard child.

It was a bastard. All knew this, but
none spoke of it. It had been the mercenary, the dreaded one who’d
taken her and absconded with her into the night, who’d fathered the
child. That’d been a dreadful and treacherous time for all the
township as they feared the unreasonable wrath of the despot ruler
who remained—Adorno. Few details were known of the flight other
than Adorno had given chase with a sizable militia and returned
with his bride to be, telling all who would listen that the
mercenary fiend was dead and cold in the ground.

To the surprise of all, Nicolette
had agreed to marry Adorno. The ceremony officially united them,
but not before her belly had barely swollen with child. All
wondered as to the true father of the baby, but Moulin knew. It was
not Adorno’s.

For all his philanderings, for all
his rapes, Adorno had never produced a child. It was common belief
that he could not, and after bartering for Ravan’s life, the black
haired beauty had forbidden Adorno to touch her until their wedding
night. This Moulin knew, for she’d demanded this and been sheltered
at the opposite side of the castle until that fateful day when he
took her as his bride. And yet, there was no disputing that she was
with child.

Then she professed her vows. That
had been a wondrous and terrible day. The whole township rejoiced
as the ethereal bride, dressed in a gown of darkest blue, wed the
tyrant ruler. It must be a strange woman to capture the heart of
one so evil, and every soul in the realm prayed she might temper
his rage, abate his cruelty. However, there was no time to discover
if this would be so. The belief that she might quell the tide of
brutality had no chance to be tested, for Adorno was murdered that
very eve in his wedding chambers.

Moulin staggered visibly as he
recalled that astonishing night. He was at post outside the
newlywed chambers when Nicolette appeared at her bridal doors,
covered in the blood of her husband. Adorno, Moulin discovered, was
still naked on his wedding bed. The blade—Nicolette’s dagger—had
been driven into his back. It was a horrid sight but had wondrously
rid the domain of a dreadful oppression.

So quickly the awful event was
buried and forgotten. All secretly rejoiced in the death of Adorno,
although no one did so openly to the lovely noblewoman who took
command of the domain. Care was taken that she should not be
insulted or defamed, especially in her delicate condition, for not
only did they have a new ruler, the realm would have an
heir.

But Moulin knew. He knew Nicolette
had impaled her new husband on their wedding night, even as Adorno
had consummated his marriage to her. The corpse had lain on the
bed, his erection still evident, blood spewn from his mouth, the
blade at his side. Moulin had covered the hideous sight at once,
unable to look upon it.

It’d been a perfect, calculated
murder, and she appeared unhinged by it not at all. Such nerve it
must have taken to pierce him through the back as he’d taken her,
to penetrate him as he penetrated her! But Nicolette could do this.
Of course she could; Moulin was certain of it.

Struggling with the details that he
alone had known, he helped seal the body in its murderous tomb—had
the greatest hand in closing the evil ruler away forever. The room
and all its windows were paved from the inside with rock. Even the
door had been unhinged and filled with mortar and stone. In time,
perhaps, all would cease to know, wonder, or remember what lay
behind it.

Never had Nicolette spoken of the
murder after that night, and never had she confessed openly to the
deed. Instead, she manipulated it supremely, placing herself in a
position of piteous regard and power. All mourned the dark beauty’s
loss. All eventually rejoiced in her reign. It’d been a murder sent
from God. All hail their new leader, for she was an answered prayer
if ever there was one.

These were Moulin’s thoughts when
Nicolette cleared her throat, gently drawing her closest aid back
to the present. “Moulin…”

It shook him to hear her speak his
name. It always did. He stammered as he drew himself back from the
events of that fateful night. “It shouldn’t be so difficult. There
are many good names fit for the son of one so…so…faultless as
yourself.” He was embarrassed. He’d immediately said more than he
intended and turned his face from her so that she could not see the
flush draw across his cheeks.

“You believe I rule the domain
well? Or you are saying—”

Moulin glanced her way but felt his
eyes betrayed his longing for her. He hastily interrupted before
she could put to words a notion of his feelings for her. That would
be more than he could bear.

“You are a blessing to this
dynasty, my Lady. None could be so kind—so strong, and yet…” He let
his words fall silent.

Moulin allowed his heart to dispute
for certain the circumstances of Nicolette’s feelings for the
father of this child. Unable to accept the more likely possibility,
he struggled with whether the mercenary had raped her or she’d gone
willingly into his arms. She’d named the Dynasty for him, after
all, but returned without him and never again spoke of him, even
when the child was born. Some murmured the specifics of the affair,
but these were vague and without detail. Other than Nicolette, only
one knew for sure, and he was rotting in a closed off tomb in the
other end of this very castle.

It was no secret that Ravan had
taken down a sizable force on a cliff side before Adorno ultimately
captured his bride from the mercenary’s clutches. The soldiers were
amazed, spoke of how Nicolette had ridden away from the whole
affair as though utterly untouched by the drama that had unfolded
before her. Adorno had agreed to her barter, and the mercenary was
then sent to his final fate. After that, Nicolette had evidently
troubled herself with it no more.

She paused from stroking the soft
hair of her son long enough to glance sideways at her personal
castellan. “You flatter me?”

Moulin caught himself, worked his
hands nervously behind his back. “My Lady, it is no secret that you
are a gift to your people. They love you. All…” he struggled,
“…love you.” Nicolette held him with her gaze much longer than he
could tolerate, and he averted his eyes, studying his feet
instead.

She appeared not to acknowledge what
he nearly said and murmured instead, in a voice as silken smooth as
a midnight lake, “But as for the name…”

She pulled the tiny blanket over the
baby and rested a hand upon the child, “This one feels lost to me.
I cannot say why, but perhaps I struggle because of it.” She
abruptly lifted her gaze to Moulin and said with finality, “If I do
not name the child by tonight, I should wish that you would do so
for the sake of the people of this domain.”

“My Lady…” Moulin was stunned by
the offer. To ask such a personal thing of him—could it mean? Did
she have feelings enough for him that she would want such a
privilege to be his alone, that he should name the sole heir to the
Ravan dynasty? He was moved beyond words and swallowed the
thickness that threatened to leap from the back of his throat.
Hoarsely, he continued, “I would be honored, my Lady. A fine name I
would choose if you so wish it of me.”

He did not want to appear weak in
front of her, although he was hugely intimidated by such a task as
this. It occurred to him that he’d never even held this child.
Perhaps she meant that her son should have a father of sorts.
Perhaps…

She studied him, her dark eyes
fathomless to him. He invariably struggled as he tried to read her,
failed, and was embarrassed without knowing why. As always, he
looked away first.

As though she either did not notice
or wasn’t concerned, she focused again on the child. It seemed she
was just about to say something more when there was a commotion
coming from outside, from through the gatehouse and into the main
courtyard below. Her fourth story balcony doors were closed, but
they could hear the clambering excitement from beyond as the wind
carried the noise up to them. Nicolette walked urgently to the
doors to see what the disturbance was about. Moulin could see her
eyes fly wide as though she’d seen something
astonishing.

“My Lady! No, you mustn’t!” he
reached for her arm. “It could put you in harm’s way!”

But it was too late. She’d already
flung the doors open and was out on the balcony, hands clutching
the railing as she stared at the scene unfolding in the
yard.

This was the last futile attempt by
Moulin to capture the love of the strange beauty, for there in the
courtyard below was the dark mercenary, risen from death’s
grasp.

“No!” Moulin hissed to himself as
he looked over her shoulder, spied the true father of the unnamed,
bastard child. Nicolette appeared not to have heard him at all.
Instead she was intently absorbed with what she saw.

On a horse sat a mercenary with a
young woman seated behind. The steed was nervous, spun in circles,
surrounded by guards who kept the unexpected visitors at bay,
spears pointed. Ravan was arguing, had pulled his sword, and a
guard seemed prepared to strike at him when their Lady called for
them to immediately halt. Her voice rang clearly across the cool
evening air. All were silenced as they gazed up at Nicolette, at
their fair leader far above them on the castle balcony.

Next, the only sound was the deep
voice of a man come home. It carried up on the chill breeze as
Ravan’s eyes found those of his lover. “Nicolette!”

She whirled in an instant and flew
from the balcony. Then, Nicolette was gone from her chambers before
she even had the chance to hear Moulin’s heart crash to the
floor.

Later…

Ravan approached the edge of the
cradle almost cautiously. She’d surprised him thoroughly, told him
she had a gift for him. Now, here was a child. Glancing over his
shoulder, he allowed his eyes to take in all of Nicolette, all of
the beauty that stood placidly behind him, allowing him the privacy
of his first moments with his newborn son.

It scarcely surprised Ravan that
Nicolette had dethroned the wicked Adorno. She did not go into any
great detail of the event, had shrugged it off as though it were
nothing, saying simply, “He is gone, never to return. We need speak
of him no more.” But the mercenary knew in his heart that she must
have done it superbly. Admittedly, he imagined the torturous fate
the little man had likely suffered, and it gave him some
gratification.

But this…a child. He was visibly
overcome. First, to once again have Nicolette—the woman he loved—by
his side. Then to see the child born unknown to him as he’d
languished in a prison cell.

He asked again of the peculiar
beauty behind him, not doubting that he was the father but in
genuine amazement, “He is my son?”

“He is.”

“My son,” he murmured to himself
alone and reached for the sleeping babe. It was an awkward moment,
but Nicolette made no move to assist him.

Ravan turned the baby upright and
laid his son’s face to his shoulder, rubbed his cheek against the
downy fluff of infant hair. He was more overcome with joy at this
moment than he’d been in his entire life, and he believed his heart
could burst; he could scarcely breathe. He tried to remember if
he’d ever held a baby, someone this small, and a far gone memory of
an orphanage, cradling an infant thrust into his arms in a moment’s
need of comfort, filtered back to him. He smiled. It was a good
memory, a powerful one, and this was a glorious moment as
well.

The baby objected to his short
beard, mewling in a way that broke his father’s heart so perfectly.
Holding his son up so that he could see full well the face of his
offspring, he was stricken, deeply affected by a likeness of this
child to someone he’d only recently known.

“He…” he struggled, swallowing his
disbelief, “…he looks like my brother.”

This brought a curious rise to a
thin eyebrow of his beloved Nicolette. “The brother who spared you,
who died for you?”

“Yes, the same.” Ravan had
neglected to mention D’ata was his twin. “We are twins,” he said it
as though his brother might at any moment walk through the door.
Gazing up from beneath a tortured brow with eyes full both of
happiness and sorrow, he said, “Nicolette, my son…he looks like
D’ata.”