“But I do.”
He sighed. “Stay here, Niveus. Moira will be right back.”
There were two torches lit in the library, staked on either side of the room. Risen considered taking one of them, but then decided not to. If the last torch, for whatever reason, went out, he worried Niveus would be alone in the dark.
He approached the library door, looked back over his shoulder, and saw Niveus staring right at him, focused clear as could be on her brother. She said nothing, only stared.
“I love you too,” he said.
“There is only so much you can do.”
He held here gaze, said nothing in return. Then Niveus was left alone.
Easing from the library, Risen snaked his way back down the catacombs, feeling his way along the black tunnels as he went. He knew them, knew them perfectly, for he and Tobias has spent many hours playing in them. What was more exquisitely perfect for boys to play in than a blackened maze of tunnels?
Today, however, there was no stolen torchlight to show the way, and he could see absolutely nothing. Once, when their torch had gone out before they meant it to, Tobias had described it as “black as Lucifer’s ass.”
Risen could feel his heartbeat quicken as he inched his way along, could feel cold on the back of his neck. Was Lucifer with him now, he wondered, then shook the notion from his head. “God is with me,” he murmured and counted, one, two, three aisles, turn right, one, two more. It went on like this for a bit. However, instead of making his way up to the ground floor of the castle, Risen changed his course, sidetracking to another room some distance from the library.
Inside the room was nearly nothing. It was bare except for one enormous large tapestry on the opposite wall. He knew the tapestry was there, even in the pitch blackness. As he felt his way around the margin of the room, drew his hands over the icy cold of the stones, he was relieved to feel the edge of the tapestry in his hands. Slipping behind it, he heaved the massive timber aside with a grunt and opened the hidden door.
* * *
He was no longer in a catacomb. No, this was narrow tunnel of a different sort, trussed with massive timbers, but earthen besides. It was much more narrow, and at intervals, he came to a door. Each time, he heaved the heavy wooden bar aside and let it fall where it would. Each time, he closed the door behind himself and continued on, feeling of the tunnel wall as he went.
Not expecting his nerves to trick him so, he was surprised how quickly anxiety crept up on him, perching between his shoulder blades, tapping him on the back of his head. Listen to me, pay attention, be afraid, it tried to say to him, but he silenced it.
“You don’t scare me! I might be alone, but…” he began to say then stopped himself. He wasn’t alone! No, he had his first in command with him, just as Father said he always should! As he inched his way along, it was only natural that his memory returned to the time when he and his father built the knife together. That had been a wondrous couple of days.
* * *
There was no man alive whom Risen idolized more than his father. He observed Ravan help Nicolette maintain security in their realm and had watched in naive awe as he trained his warriors himself, instilling not just strong battle skills but keen devotion to their leader. When his father said they should build the knife together, Risen was only eight years old.
It fascinated the boy, the meticulous process as they heated, hammered, and seated the steel. The fire burned fierce for a long time in the oven, and Ravan taught his son how to bellow the coals to a brilliant golden white, coaxing the temperature even higher.
The steel glowed like a brilliant bolt of lightning when they pulled it from the flames. Risen had never seen anything so raw, so fundamentally perfect as the white steel drawn from the fire. Then, it took hours longer to bring from the rough metal the fearlessness of the double edged weapon. Back into the flames it went, then to the forge. When Risen’s arm weakened, tired with the hammering, they heated the steel again, and Ravan simply waited until the boy could again pick up the steel mallet, not invading upon the process anything more than guidance.
Several times the boy wanted to cease, fatigued of the process, satisfied that the blade was hammered “well enough,” but Ravan gently insisted that it could be better. It taught Risen something more than the art of it all; it taught him a respect of the weapon, of the potential of it.
They lastly seated the steel in an antler tine, something that struck the boy as odd, for he’d never seen such a thing before. His father spoke of another blade he once made, when he was a boy not much older than him.
“Pig-Killer,” he called it.
“Did you kill a wild pig with it?” Risen asked in wondrous sincerity.
Ravan paused, as the boy noticed he sometimes did when his memories took him far away. His son knew the look, knew that for his father some things were beyond speaking of. The boy lifted a small hand, passed his fingers over the scar—the one that marked the wound that should’ve taken his father’s left eye but somehow didn’t. The scar extended from Ravan’s forehead, across his brow and deep onto his left cheek. His father had told him he was fourteen years old when this one had claimed his face for its own.
There were many scars on Ravan’s body. Risen had seen most of them and wondered how his father had survived the wounds and remained as strong as he was.
“Did it do this to you—the wild pig?” the child asked, his voice soft with compassion as he touched the scar again. “Such a wicked pig it must’ve been to smite you in such a way. I’m glad that it is dead.”
Ravan took his son’s hand into his own and smiled at the innocence he enjoyed. “Risen, evil can befall good men. You must always be ready for this. A friend is always good to have if such a thing happens, and this,” he motioned to the blade in progress, “will be your friend when you feel you have no other.”
He then gently guided the boy’s attentions back to their task, and together they fashioned the weapon over the span of three days.
“I made this?” Risen was incredulous when they were done. “What shall I call it?” He held the finished weapon up, marveled at the glint of light on the perfect edge as he tested the balance of it in his hand. “It seems so big,” he admitted as he awkwardly flipped the blade over, promptly dropped it, and scurried in his embarrassment to pick it up, gently brushing the dirt from it with his finger.
Indicating he should try again, Ravan watched with some amusement as the boy attempted to flip the blade again, failing just as before. “It will earn a name. Until then, it is simply your first in command. And as your first in command, you should have it with you always. You must know this friend, know it as well as you would a brother.” Ravan paused, collected himself and added, “Your hand will grow into it with time.”
His father snatched the blade up from the dirt after Risen’s third attempt, held it flat in his palm, then with a series of moves, flipped the blade magically back and forth over the front and back of his hand. It seemed to come alive with an animation all of its own until he grasped it from mid-air and lunged, plunging it into an imaginary foe with an impressive yell that Risen believed was not quite human. The boy startled, stepped backwards, wide-eyed with awe. Truthfully, most men would’ve done the same.
“I want to be able to do that someday,” the boy whispered in reverence.
“You will,” his father chuckled. “Until that time, a lesson.” Then Ravan spent patient hours schooling the boy in the proper art of wielding a small hand weapon. “A blade is a beautiful thing,” Ravan coached him. “It is small enough, light enough, that it is much more personal than a sword. It is the tool of your art—becomes part of your arm. See…”
He swept the blade with deadly precision. It almost disappeared and just as magically reappeared as though enchanted. All at once, he stopped, the blade tip so near his son’s face he could have touched his nose with it.
Ravan eyed his son closely as though to see if he comprehended what he was trying to impart.
“Your knife becomes an intrinsic part of your intent, an extension of your heart, your soul. What you do with it is infinitely more intimate than what you accomplish with any other weapon.”
As an eight year old boy might do, Risen focused on the display. “Father, show me how to do what you did with it, just a moment ago!” He stabbed at the air, poorly mimicking his father’s demonstration.
“Risen,” Ravan gently stopped his son’s efforts and made him face him, kneeling so they were nearly eye to eye with each other. “If you kill something with this blade…” he slipped the blade into his son’s hand, “…if you kill another living thing with this—it will be one of the most personal deeds you will ever do. You must know this, for the good or the bad of it. It can lay to rest a lifetime of persecution or…torment you for an eternity.”
These were compelling words for one so young. The boy held the blade across both open palms. He gazed at it, studied it, saw his own reflection in it, wondered if it saw into him as well.
* * *
As he made his way slowly through the tunnel, the weapon lay hidden in the boy’s right boot where Ravan had insisted he keep it always. His calf holster was just below the knee, and the blade rode comfortably there. It likely would remain undiscovered by an enemy should he eventually need it.
“With the blade in your boot, at your age, you will reach it easily in a fight, more easily than if your arms are locked in battle and the blade is at your side. You can lift your boot to your hand at any time.” Ravan grabbed his son, pinned his arms to his sides, and wrestled him to the ground. “Get it!” his father laughed, “get it and exact your retaliation!”
The boy struggled, finally bending his knee so that the blade met his hand. Sweeping it from the holster, he yelled, “Hyah! You are undone, Father!”
Ravan released his son, laughing. “Good. You see?”
This made perfect sense to Risen, and he’d practiced just what his father taught him, rolling on the ground in mock battle and bringing his foot up to his pinned right hand. Risen believed his father was right on nearly all things, and the young warrior flourished under his tutelage.
Encouraged by the steadfast presence of his first in command, Risen opened the final door and stepped from the hidden mouth of what appeared to be a small cave tucked into a secluded hillside some ways from the castle. Pulling his way through the dense bank of fir shrubs, he cursed them as their needles tormented and scratched at him, hindering his advance.
“Why were these here?” He was frustrated at the delay. Then he answered his own question. Not only did the miserable shrubs obscure the mouth of the tunnel, no one would be inclined to see what lay behind them. His next thought was something to the effect of just how brilliant he believed his father was.
CHAPTER TWELVE
†
Sylvie’s Home: The Night Before
Sylvie sat next to her father, curled up by the hearth and enjoying the last of the dying fire. It was late, and Tobias—worn out as the scrappy, twelve year old boy could be—had already gone to bed. Her mother was mending Tobias’ trousers. It seemed like his were eternally torn, and she was humming softly to herself as she did, a habit of hers that her daughter particularly loved.
Sylvie thought it peculiar how if she asked Mother to hum for her, she was self conscious about it and refused. Now, she hummed a beautiful, lilting ballad, and Sylvie listened intently, cherishing every note. Winter was breaking as the first hints of spring were beckoning, and with her family warm and fed and the soft bleating of infant lambs outside, it was a perfect evening.
She leaned heavier against her father as he wrapped an arm around her, pulling her closer to him. “What did you do today?” he kissed her on top of her head.
“I fed the sheep, mucked the pens with Tobias and helped mother. We washed—”
“No, after your chores, what did you do when the work was done?”
She tipped her head back, eyes flashing with excitement. “I drew the letters in the dirt.”
“The letters?”
“Yes, the ones that Risen and Lady Nicolette have taught me. The letters. It works, Father—it works!” She contained her hushed excitement so that she wouldn’t disturb Mother or awaken Tobias.
“Works? What do you mean?” He smoothed her hair with a calloused hand and listened patiently to her reply as though trying to comprehend the magic of which she spoke.
“When they go together, the letters speak…like a voice in your head. It is magnificent!”
He chuckled. “And what do these voices tell you.”
She gazed at the burning embers, sighing deeply. Sylvie was immensely happy. It was a perfect evening, a perfect life. “They say whatever you wish them to say, Father. There is no limit to it, and it is beautiful the way it happens.” Her mother stopped humming as Sylvie added, “The words, they can be anything you want them to be, take you to magnificent places, places even a king could not go.”
Her mother laughed softly at this as her father just continued to smooth his daughter’s hair. It was enough magic of its own to make a young girl sleepy and was the last thing she remembered of this night.
* * *
Sylvie was still sleeping, lying on her side, her hands folded as though in prayer beneath her cheek, when she heard the stomping of horse’s feet just outside the small hovel of their home. It was scarcely light outside, and there was just enough commotion to rouse her. In drowsy confusion, she just lay there, wondering if it was time for chores or if she might dream a little while longer. As youth will do, she slipped easily back into slumber, her brother nestled against her back.
* * *
She and her family—her parents and younger brother, Tobias—lived on and worked their small farm. It’d once been a fief back when her father was a young man and her grandfather was still living. That had been a terrible time, a time ruled by a tyrant named Adorno. One day, the cruel prince had taken one of her grandfather’s hands from him in retribution for taxes unpaid.
That was Sylvie’s earliest memory. She’d clung to her mother’s skirts, not even two years old, her infant brother in Mother’s arms, crying as Mother pushed his face into her shoulder. Mother had probably meant to turn Sylvie’s face away as well, to keep her from spying the dreadful cruelty, but it’d been too late. Sylvie had peeked, seen the hand fly, and the wicked ruler had forbidden anyone go to Grandfather’s aid.
Father fought, tried to stop them, but he was held firm by the soldiers; they’d all been forced to stand and watch. The old man was too feeble, was unable to stop the life blood that ran from his body. It was a terrible injury, and he died from it, unable to overcome the shock of the wound and the loss of blood. This was a memory that haunted the edges of Sylvie’s subconscious for a long time, and it was her first notion of man’s capacity for cruelty to another.
With Grandfather dead, Father inherited responsibility for the fief. Before leaving the dreadful scene, Adorno spun his magnificent steed about and warned him. If he did not have the taxes by the end of harvest, Father would likewise lose something dear to him, perhaps more than a hand. The evil little man sneered and cast his gaze upon Mother.
There was nothing that could be done, and Father was prepared to take his family and leave, risking vagrancy on the road to certain harm to his family. But then something extraordinary happened. That very month, the awful ruler married, a beautiful, mysterious woman it was rumored. Just as swiftly, Adorno died, on the very same day—his wedding day! It was as though a miracle had happened!
The feudal estates began to shift almost immediately when the strange, dark-haired bride took over the realm for herself. It was frightening and wonderful at the same time. All across the land had been skeptical at first. There had been so much pain, so much debauchery. It was hard to forget these things, to believe it could be anything different. But Nicolette was nothing like Adorno. Debts were forgiven as she transferred the feudal grants of land into hereditary holdings. The town’s era
of struggle swiftly passed, and peace and leniency were doled out with generosity and compassion.
Now, Sylvie’s grandfather was long dead, and her father owned the land. True, it was a meager farm, and just enough to modestly sustain them. But it was theirs! Yes, it carried with it the necessity of hard work and early morning chores, but the ground was fertile and belonged only to them, and the small flock of sheep was fast growing.
Sylvie never truly remembered the awful day gone by, but her soul did. Grandfather’s grave was behind the house, a small walk from the garden, and she would lay flowers upon it when spring came, on his birthday. Once, years later, Lady Nicolette and Lord Ravan brought a very handsome headstone, properly engraved with Grandfather’s name. It also had engraved on it a lamb, and was a gift, they said—something her grandfather deserved.
This was the first time Sylvie had ever seen the noble couple up close. They were mystical—all of them—almost legendary. Likewise, it was the first time she ever laid eyes on…their son.
Then, in no time at all, she and Tobias developed a friendship with Risen, son of Lord Ravan and Lady Nicolette, heir to the Ravan dynasty. This became magic of another sort!
* * *
Sleeping was a luxury for the young girl, and her eyes flitted open again at the urgent sounds coming from outside their cottage. Sylvie lazily closed her eyes, wishing for a few more moments of luxury, but was faintly aware of her parents desperate voices as they spoke with the strange visitor she first thought was only a dream. This was enough to draw her much more awake. Flipping over in bed, she reached to move the shutter aside enough to see outside and peered into the barely lit morning fog.
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