Risen (9 page)

Nicloette’s eyes flashed in
surprise, then she let go a rare, fleeting smile. “Your son, my
love, looks like you.”

Ravan was astounded to hear her say
such a thing. He cradled the now awakened child, fumbling so that
he could see directly the face of his son. The baby did not cry but
struggled to focus on the shadowed face of his father, and the
mercenary’s eyes filled with tears.

“He is my brother returned,” he
exclaimed, and hugged the child gently, dearly, to his chest. “He
is risen. It is a good sign, Nicolette. He has overcome!” Then, the
beaten man, worn and road-weary, too thin and exhausted, asked,
“What is his name?”

“He has none. Your son has no name.
His baptism is tomorrow morning.”

This surprised Ravan somewhat, but
then it did not. She’d not named the infant, had felt no need to.
That was Nicolette in her entirety. What she shared with the child
had no need of definition—no need of a name. She would no more name
her baby than a wild creature of the forest would name its
offspring. It was simply a matter of no reasonable consideration to
her.

He cradled the baby, so tiny in his
arms, and rocked him awkwardly, gently, gazing into the bright eyes
of the heir to the Ravan Dynasty. “Risen,” he murmured to the
child. “Your…name should be Risen, for with your birth my brother
has overcome death.”

Nicolette paused, seemed to consider
this for a bit, then nodded. “Yes, your brother is risen, and your
son shall overcome. It is a good name. Risen it is,
then.”

The infant was drifting off to sleep
now, and the mercenary placed his son into the cradle. He turned to
Nicolette, overwhelmed with his grand turn of fortune. She held him
with her eyes, invited him back into her life simply by the
expression on her face. Then, another sort of passion overcame him,
and the two, once separated by bad fortune, were reunited in an
unparalleled way. Their love denied fate, for it was as Nicolette
believed, only what they devised of it. Their destiny was their
own.

Ravan advanced on his lover,
shedding in only a few steps the remains of a long and arduous
journey. With his clothes fell a lifetime of struggle and strife.
Naked, he lifted Nicolette, laying her tenderly upon the bed. He
plucked at her lacings, not at all certain how to undress
her.

“Help me,” he murmured urgently,
and her hands went to his, showing him where and how to release the
catches of her gowns. His impatience nearly had the best of him
when he at last flung the remnants of the gowns from the bed to the
floor.

Ten months of imprisonment, the loss
of his brother, and his harrowing trip back were released from him
now. Outside, a storm gained sudden momentum. Torrents of rain
swept across the window pane as he lifted himself over her, easing
himself into the body of the woman he loved before rolling over her
as the wind does the sea.

She embraced him tightly, ran her
hands down the back of her lover as though feeling thoroughly the
too thin frame of the man who was the true father of her son. They
consummated their reunion against the backdrop of the thunderstorm
beyond, lightning illuminating their bodies in flashes, Ravan’s
tawny skin and black hair devouring the white beauty beneath
him.

An hour after his arrival at the
Ravan Dynasty…the mercenary fathered his daughter.

* * *

That was a wonderful time. Ravan,
home at last, slept for days on end. When he awoke, began to stir
about the castle grounds, he was quickly known and well received.
The couturier in short order made new clothes for him, fine leather
trousers and tunics, new boots and gloves. He was magnificently
armored, overseeing the makings of the plates to his own
specifications.

Having access to the forge, Ravan
made a sword and knife, both worthy of the man who would carry
them, arrow tips as fine as he’d ever fashioned, and a coat of arms
for his shield. The blacksmith was in awe, and the mercenary showed
him the secrets of his craft, inviting him to outfit all the
soldiers of the realm as finely.

He spent long hours with Nicolette
and Risen, lying in bed with his son tucked between them, watching
the season change as though it were insane, dancing past their
bedroom window. Never had he known such luxury. Never had his heart
been at such peace. It was as though he fell from a nightmare into
a dream—this new life that had opened itself up to him. And all
because of the blessed sacrifice of his brother. Ravan was
overjoyed with this gift and took not a single moment of it for
granted. For long stretches, when he was alone, he spoke to D’ata,
told him of his great fortune, thanked him for the gift. It was the
first time he felt truly attached to the divinity of the
universe.

It took some time for the domain to
familiarize itself with the man who stood beside their beautiful
Nicolette, but as months went by and her belly grew once more with
child, the realm and all within rejoiced in the birth of a
daughter. Niveus, so named for she was white as the late spring
snow storm that blanketed the world outside at her birth, had not
an ounce of hair and eyes pink as a cherry blossom. Eventually, her
hair would grow in, also white as a December moon.

As years passed, all grew to know
the heart of the mercenary become ruler and rejoiced in his
compassion. Gone were his bruises, replaced with muscle and sinew
as he reveled in his newfound freedom and the authority of the
dynasty that bore his name. Likewise, the throne and church were
pleased with the stability of the realm.

Eventually marrying for the sake of
posterity, he and Nicolette ruled the land together. The mare—the
one Ravan bought when he was freed of the prison—was bred to the
black Destrier stallion, and a lineage of horses finer than any in
the region was born.

Moira, the maiden with the single
hand, became caregiver to their children, delighting in the unusual
family that seemed so prepared to take her in as one of their own.
Moulin swallowed his heart, hid his feelings for Nicolette, and
committed himself to them supremely.

The Ravan Dynasty flourished, years
passed, and the children grew.

CHAPTER SIX

†

ElevenYears later

The boy sat on the snowy ledge of a
small, earthy overhang. It overlooked the hidden forest pool
directly below him. A very cold day, the edges of the water were a
delicate sheet of thin, frozen shards of ice, reaching their
fingers as though they might cross, might reach the other side and
claim the expanse for themselves. Beneath the ice could only be
seen the murky, deep water of the winter pool.

The tight, forested shore, except
for below the embankment the boy sat upon, was fairly shallow and
pebble lined. Away in the narrow valley, the creek cascaded in
several small waterfalls before bouncing farther down the wooded
hillside. There was not a single sound in the woods today, save the
voice of the icy stream. The boy could hear, very clearly, his own
heartbeat in his ears.

As he sat, contemplating his
dangling feet in the limited light of the evening’s winter day, it
somehow seemed familiar, as though he’d been here before. He
hadn’t, of course, but he believed very firmly that he had dreamed
it, down to the very last detail.

The pool itself was nearly five
meters across, not too large but deep enough, the boy thought, that
he could likely not stand up in the middle. He was long-legged and
awkward, his knees and feet still too big for him, and his thin
frame was not yet filled in. His shoulders, however, were wide and
his torso long, a sign of the man he would one day
become.

He took another deep breath, tried
to slow the heartbeat that drummed in his ears. His throat felt
thicker than he thought it ordinarily should. Peering at the water,
he studied it closely, as though he must be supremely familiar with
it, and murmured to himself again, “Hold breath, count, control,
breathe out, face above water, shallows, crawl, strip, fire,
survive.”

It was an odd string of mumblings,
and just when a bystander might wonder at the sanity of the boy, he
leapt from the snow covered ledge. Down, down he fell, dropping
nearly three meters before landing in a deeper part of the pool.
Into the water he crashed, and under he went with a cascade of
snow, frozen pebbles, and dirt. The smooth sheet of ice was no
more, instantly destroyed. Jagged, frozen blades of what remained
of it danced on the surface of the water as the boy remained
submerged.

When he thrashed to the surface, his
eyes were as large as they’d ever been. He was stricken, unable to
breath, and his fists beat the surface of the water as though he
would sink straightaway. For the greatest span of time it appeared
he would not breathe.

Finally, he gasped and cried out
hoarsely, “Aaahhgghh!” his cry echoing down the frozen forest
valley and off the timbered hillsides. His breathing caught again,
and his eyes widened even more, his face turning purple with his
effort to draw a breath. But he could not. His lungs refused to
obey, for the water had been too cold.

Swimming frantically, he struggled
to the edge of the pool but remained in the water, not attempting
to crawl out. Instead, he remained squatting only a few feet from
the shore. When a gasping, agonizing breath squeaked out past his
vocal cords, he cautiously drew yet another painful, pinched breath
in. Again, he exhaled only with great effort. It grated from him in
an agonizing way, but he drew in another and another, repeating the
process several times before he was finally breathing
again.

His eyes watered as he counted with
a husky voice, “…four, five, six—sweet mother, this hurts—seven,
eight…”

When the count approached fifty, the
boy crawled from the water, on hands and knees, and scrambled
awkwardly to solid ground. Straightaway, he struggled to stand and
strip from his clothes. Now, entirely naked, he dropped to the
snowy forest floor and counted aloud again as he executed ten
push-ups. Then, clawing at the snow at the base of a nearby tree,
he exposed and snatched up a few twigs and small
branches.

Trembling and unsteady, the boy
staggered to his supply sack and pulled from it tinder chips, a
handful of dried grass, a small square of char cloth, and his flint
and steel. He quickly picked a spot, patting and smoothing the snow
flat before forcing his fingers to mold the elements into a small
bowl. Then he tucked the char cloth within the bowl and knelt
directly on the frozen forest floor. Steam rose from his body, but
very soon his skin would be too cold to evaporate the water, and
ice would form.

“Short, fast…” the boy’s teeth
chattered as he blinked hard, trying to maintain focus on his
task.

He clutched the steel in his left
hand, gripped the flint in his right…and struck. Nothing. He struck
it two more times before a spark flew wide, disappearing into the
snow.

“Steeper,” his teeth rattled as he
urgently coached himself, and he desperately struck the steel
again. The flint flew from his fingers into a small berm of snow,
and he dropped his head, panic threatening. “I…can’t! I can’t do
this!”

He thought he might cry but didn’t.
Slowing his breathing, he tried to focus, scanning furtively to
where the tool had disappeared. Plunging his hands into the snow
berm, he searched for the flint. Water dripped from his dark hair
and froze in tiny icicles as he scuffed at the snow, his fingers
finally wrapping around the prize. His fingertips were pallid when
he held the flint up, and steam no longer rose from his freezing
body.

He knelt again at the edge of the
tinder bowl, eyes closed, barely whispering from between blueing
lips to himself, “I am Risen. I will overcome. I can do this.” His
breathing slowed further, and his hands steadied. He struck the
flint once more.

Into the tinder bowl went the spark
of steel. It glowed from its perch on the char cloth. Risen’s eyes
flew wide, and he leaned near enough to enclose the spark with the
puff grass. Breathing softly onto it, his hands trembled terribly
as he cupped them around the all of it. Willing his hands to
steady, he blew another soft breath across the gently glowing fleck
of burning steel.

Smoke curled in a delicate wisp and
was swept away in the cold air so fast Risen hardly believed he’d
seen it. Another soft breath. In seconds a small flame lapped at
the dried grass and tinder—a tiny blaze of life as the spark took
hold.

“YES!” the boy cried aloud, and
cried again, “Yes!”

He swiftly stacked, criss-cross and
in a small peak, the twigs and small branches, being very careful
to allow enough air to support the tiny fire. When he was sure it
would stay lit, he scavenged briefly for a few larger branches to
feed it further. Now, thoroughly numb, he danced in place next to
the growing flame as it roared to life. Grasping handfuls of snow,
he scrubbed hard his numb arms, belly, thighs, shedding the fine
sheet of frozen ice from them as he willed circulation back into
his skin.

The numbness was swiftly replaced
with pain—a good sign, he knew—and he continued to dance, one foot
to the other, next to the fire. When he was steady enough, he went
for a nearby log. Brushing the snow from it, he dragged it with
some effort close to the fire. Then he went for his clothes and
boots. Sitting on the log, he pulled his feet for the first time up
and off the ground. With his feet finally out of the snow, he
perched naked on the log and went to work. His toes were still a
faint blue, and he rubbed one foot and then the next between the
palms of his hands, forcing the circulation back into
them.