Risen

by Sharon Cramer

  And it worked. He did forget…until now.

  * * *

  It’d been a long time since he’d thought of Eleanor. She did it to him…it was Sylvie who did this to him. The eyelashes fluttered and the angel’s eyes opened. The soldier was ripped back from his past and gazed down at the captive child. She didn’t move, only held the stare of the man who cradled her.

  A soft whisper escaped her lips. “Was it you?”

  Her question surprised him so completely that all he could do for a moment was look at her. “Me?” he was at last compelled to ask.

  “You. Was it you who felled my father…at the water-shack? Did you kill my family?”

  William swallowed and glanced away. He didn’t immediately answer but finally said, “It was not.” This is what he said, but what he thought was, It may as well have been.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  †

  The black-legged mare walked serenely into the sleeping village. Behind her, Moira swayed on the grey gelding, nearly coming out of her saddle at least three times before they reached the small livery-boarding house near the center of the tiny town. All told, there were perhaps five buildings and a half dozen more ramshackle tents that made up the little village.

  It was late and a tedious task to find someone to take their horses in. However, it was then fairly simple for them to get a modest room, a very modest room. Moira ached in places she never believed she could as she peeled her stockings and boots off and tucked them under the end of the straw-stuffed mattress.

  The mattress lay flat on the very center of a dirt floor. There were no windows, and the door wasn’t a door at all but only a simple curtain tacked between the door jambs. It didn’t matter. It was a place to rest, and it appeared they were the only “tenants” tonight anyway.

  The only piece of furniture in the entire room, not counting the mattress, was a massive armoire that was crammed into the space, taking up nearly a fourth of the room. It was old, beaten up, and very heavy.

  Moira gave Nicolette a glance. “Do you think we should try to pull that in front of the doorway, just in case someone should try to bother us?” When she was met with something akin to a wry expression, she added, “Oh, no. I don’t suppose that is necessary.”

  They had two candles, one on either side of the bed on the floor, and there were no pillows. Instead, they rolled their own clothes up as pillows. In only their undergarments and sharing a thin blanket, the two women lay down next to each other on the stuffed straw bed.

  After they blew the candles out, Moira could not see that Nicolette’s eyes were closed almost immediately. The maid only lay there, infuriatingly awake for some time, her head spinning with the effects of extreme exhaustion. She could not coax sleep to come for her.

  When she could take it no longer, she whispered into the darkness, “Nicolette, about what happened in the meadow.”

  There was a long moment when she heard nothing, and Moira had just about decided that her lady was asleep when Nicolette murmured, “I’m sorry, Moira, if I frightened you.”

  Moira sat up in the total darkness, crossed her legs and said, “No, not at all. It was not so much that you frightened me. Only…” She didn’t finish the thought.

  Silence.

  “I cannot say that I’m so surprised,” Moira tried again. “But even so, one just doesn’t see that sort of thing every day.”

  “Moira, there is very much that you don’t know about me, my…upbringing.”

  Moira could feel Nicolette turn over onto her side to face her, and she tried to bolster the conversation. It felt good to be talking.

  “I know that, but with the enchantments in the cottage, the birds and…all.” She took a deep breath before she blurted, “I think you should know. Sometimes people say…they say you are, you’re a…” she motioned with her only hand, first to her forehead and then to the black space above, which was a ridiculous gesture in the darkness.

  “A witch.” Nicolette finished the thought for her.

  Moira sighed. “Yes, yes, but I didn’t at first. I just thought you were peculiar.” She paused, forced herself to give Nicolette time to respond.

  Finally, Nicolette replied, “I’m not sure I would call myself a witch. That just seems so harsh. I think of myself more as someone very connected.”

  “An enchantress, then.” Moira struggled to put a more pleasant name to it. She could not see the soft smile that tugged at the corners of Nicolette’s mouth. When she said nothing in reply, Moira wondered, “Does Lord Ravan know?” It was a very forward question, and she right away thought she might have offended her.

  “Yes…and no. He knows I have an aptitude, but perhaps he doesn’t know exactly to what capacity. But then, neither do I.”

  “I—I don’t really understand,” Moira admitted.

  “He’s never seen me as threatened as I am now,” Nicolette said matter-of-factly.

  “Ahh, I see. It was because the men threatened us.” Moira simplified it a great deal.

  “It was because the men threatened to keep me from that which truly threatens me—the loss of my son,” Nicolette corrected.

  “But did you know it was happening? I wasn’t certain you knew what was happening.” Moira was intensely intrigued.

  “Somewhat, I suppose. But not entirely. I sensed that things were poorly controlled, but the energy that was channeled through me did so of its own accord.”

  They were silent for a bit longer before Moira wondered, “How connected can you get? If you are really threatened?”

  “Moira.” Nicolette sounded just a tiny bit impatient. “I’m afraid I cannot answer that.”

  “Of course, I’m sorry. Goodnight,” she apologized. Again, silence for a while.

  “Moira, I just want you to know, I’m thankful that you’re with me,” Nicolette offered, her voice soft like a child’s.

  That was a wonderful thing for the handless maiden to know. “You need me, then? Like a friend?”

  “Yes, I suppose I do,” Nicolette replied.

  Moira lay happily awake for only a short while before sleep claimed her. What she didn’t know about her friend was much more than what she did…

  Twenty-Four Years Before…

  Nicolette’s father was dead. This was very unfortunate, because she was not only alone, she was only five years old and alone. Father had been strategic in “helping” his daughter realize her great potential and…how to control it.

  “You mustn’t manipulate things in such a way,” he scolded her one day when the candle play resulted in a small fire in the castle.

  Nicolette wasn’t playing with the candles, not really. She was making the flame leap back and forth across the room from one candle to another.

  “I don’t understand. It’s just for fun, a game,” the young beauty replied.

  “Nicolette, if you do not temper your gifts, people will call you a ‘witch.’ You know what that means, don’t you?” He drilled this into her.

  “I’ll be feared. And if I’m feared, I will cease to be effective in a good way. Then, I may be destroyed.” She said it from memory, and Father nodded his approval.

  “Yes. So, no fires?”

  “No fires,” she promised.

  Hair as white as snow, skin nearly as white, she rested her thin fingers on the edge of the stone table and stared at her father. Reaching, she touched the fabric of the burial gown, drew a tiny finger across the cheek of the corpse.

  How could he do such a thing, leave her alone? How would she ever learn what she must, so that people would understand her, and she them? So that they would not wish to destroy her?

  It proved to be more than Nicolette could endure, and as the long row of mourners filed past, the child became more and more consumed. Her rage and grief grew because he dared to leave her, because he dared to be dead…without her.

  The pall bearers came, lifted the body and meant to take it away. She grasped the edge of the stone table tight as she could
. Then, Nicolette lost control. It slipped from her in the same fashion that her fingers slipped from the edge of the stone.

  No one knew for sure how the fire started, not even Nicolette. Up went the drapes, the furniture, even the stone table. Everything in the church, especially her father, became a terrific pyre until it was all gone. On that day, Nicolette’s hair turned black as a midnight crow.

  Almost thirteen years to the day, she was given to the tyrant, Adorno, to be his bride. Four months after that…she killed him.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  †

  “Block the blows, but only until you can take the offensive. If you do not, if you remain passive, you will die,” Ravan instructed his son, then motioned him to step in for another round.

  As he did, Ravan swung at his son. Risen parried the blow, feinted it, then stepped in closer, aimed a counter-strike at his father’s leg. Ravan blocked the strike.

  “Good, that is exactly what you must do.” He seemed genuinely pleased with his son’s efforts.

  “But I failed.” Risen wasn’t convinced. “You blocked me and would have my head in the next blow. I’ve lost again.”

  “True enough, but I am three times your size,” Ravan smiled. “It is only reasonable.”

  This garnered a laugh from the boy before he became again serious. “But what if my opponent is bigger than me, stronger than me? If there are as many enemies in the world as you seem to believe, I’m sure to be out matched in body and weight sooner or later.” Risen rolled his eyes.

  Casting a wry expression toward his son for the sarcasm, Ravan chose to ignore it. “Then you must bind his weapon and use body leverage. Counter hit his blade with your edge against his flat, then thrust.” Ravan demonstrated the technique slowly, spun Risen’s blade around and down, capturing it in the earth at their feet. “Now, you try it.”

  Risen waited for his father’s swing, mimicked his father’s method perfectly and, with reasonable finesse, twisted his father’s sword around and down into the dirt.

  “Good! That is very good!” Ravan laughed. “But do not forget to finish me off.” He reached his gloved hand and took Risen’s blade, directed it back around and up, simulating the cutting of his own throat.

  “It seems so brutal, to cut someone so,” Risen said.

  “It is, my son. There are few things that are more intimately awful than the edge of another’s blade. Use yours wisely and with reservation, but when you must, let it not be your opponent’s blade that strikes you first.”

  * * *

  The third night they camped, they were tucked alongside a river. It arced lazily around the forest edge, allowing a small clearing that swept out and around the bend. It was a good, wide swath for the men to rest and graze the horses, and this evening the clouds broke and sunshine poured through.

  Risen was hungry, hungrier than he thought he’d ever been, and thirsty for he’d not drunk since morning. William had been loosely assigned to them, to the care of the captives. Or perhaps he had assigned himself of his own free will, but the food he offered this morning was negligible enough; he’d offered none yet this evening. Risen began to believe the soldier was sharing his own reserves.

  Legs trembling, he eased himself down next to Sylvie. As she attempted to straighten her skirts, Risen noticed where the brace had worn through her stocking, where it was rubbing a wound into the side of her leg just below the knee.

  “Take it off,” he indicated the brace. Briefly, he considered simply doing it for her, but that would have been a very forward gesture even in the given situation. He must allow her as much dignity as she could keep, despite everything. “The wound needs air next to it. I can help if you wish.”

  She didn’t answer, but he watched her slender fingers as they undid the buckles, saw the furrowing of her beautiful forehead as she unhinged the brace, easing it from where it stuck to her leg. The inside hinge of it was bloody. Laying the apparatus aside, she jerked her skirt over the wound as though unconcerned with it. Risen made a note to try to persuade William to give them some water to cleanse it.

  Intimate conversation was out of the question this evening, for the captive youths were placed together for the first time—all five of them—bound along a single rope that was stretched between two trees. The rope was knotted around the waist of each of them, strung along, and tied up high on each end. It would be impossible for one to loosen their own binding without tightening the one next to them, but it at least allowed them freedom of their arms and legs.

  Sylvie was on one end, Risen next to her, and another—the oldest—was bound next to him. Anything Risen might say could be heard by this older boy, and he wasn’t sure if the other captives knew yet that he was Ravan’s son. They certainly acted as though they didn’t, and he was just as happy keeping his secret for now. He had been careful not to share his name, and told Sylvie to call him Rowan. He picked his dead friend’s name because it just seemed respectful, given the circumstances.

  Sitting in a row, all of the captives stretched their legs, some of them lying back on the grass to rest after the torturous day’s ride. When the camp was established and the routine of the soldier’s evening appeared to be under way, one of the boys—the eldest who sat next to Risen—spoke under his breath to William as the Englishman approached with water, passing the flask down the row of captives.

  “My name is Clovis. I have something to tell you, something to tell your leaders. It will interest you very much.”

  Risen shot him a surprised look, but the boy averted his stare.

  William’s eyes narrowed. “I doubt there is something you might share that would be of importance.”

  Clovis then eyed Risen closely. “There is something you would be glad to know, something you may eventually regret if you don’t.”

  Risen silently pleaded with the boy, his eyes begging him to keep the secret he was about to share, but Clovis seemed set on having his way and ignored him.

  “If you will allow me my freedom,” Clovis continued, “I will give you information that you could be sincerely rewarded for.”

  Passing the flask of water to Sylvie next, William offered the alternative. “And if they,” he indicated Yeorathe and Odgar, “simply wish to extract this information from you in whatever fashion they wish?”

  Evidently Clovis hadn’t considered this possibility. He sulked, turning into his own silence, and William generously let the matter rest. After he allowed each captive a long enough drink, he left them to themselves.

  “Why would you say such a thing,” Risen exclaimed under his breath, rebuking Clovis when the Englishman was beyond hearing. “Yeorathe is one of my father’s enemies. Odgar is no better! If you divulge who I am, they will kill me…and Sylvie as well!”

  “I care not what happens to you, or her.” Clovis gestured at Sylvie with his chin. “It is not my fault who you are; if your father hadn’t such enemies, none of us would be in this situation.” The contempt in his voice was ugly, and had Risen not been so angry, he might have pitied him.

  “You would be a traitor if you told! You do yourself no honor offering such a thing to them!”

  “There is no honor now. It is simply survival, and if I survive because of your fall, so be it,” the older boy scoffed. “And it was foolish to try to save her.” He narrowed his eyes at Sylvie. “She is dead weight, and you’ll likely die because of her.”

  Risen was nearly speechless but found his voice. “You are reckless with the things you say. Careful, or you may suffer for those careless words!”

  Clovis was perhaps fifteen years of age and bigger than Risen by at least two hands. He was also heavier as he was well into the adolescence of his years, whereas Risen was just beginning his.

  The boy crossed his stocky arms and sneered. “Don’t believe that you are more valuable than me anymore. You might have been special a few days ago, but today you are no one, a common prisoner, and a weak one at that.” The look of disdain on his face was enou
gh to indicate Clovis’ true feelings for the young heir to the Ravan Dynasty.

  It was all Risen needed to push his tolerance beyond what he was willing to endure. He lifted his arm, swung his elbow hard, and connected squarely with Clovis’ nose, knocking him awkwardly backward. Because they were tied next to each other, Risen went down with him.

  The older youth kicked clumsily at him, tried to push himself back to sitting, but Risen swung his leg around and launched a boot, connecting again with the traitor’s face, this time with even greater effect. Sylvie was inadvertently pulled into the perimeter of the scuffle, and skirts were flying with arms and legs all around.

  It was about then that one of the soldiers saw the scuffle and broke it apart. Odgar watched for a bit, appeared immediately amused by it, and was then curious.

  “What is it between the two of you that could be worse than your current situation?” he laughed, signaling for his guards to bring the two boys front and center as his men gathered around. “Is it the girl? Do you fight over who should have the girl first?”

  Sylvie remained fettered on the rope with the other captives.

  “Speak of it, and you betray my father,” Risen hissed at Clovis.

  “Your father can go to hell,” Clovis retorted. Then to Odgar he announced, “He is Ravan’s son!” The youth said it flat out, chin defiant as though he’d won some great victory.

  Risen struggled to reach the traitor, but the guards held him easily.

  This news brought a look of intense surprise to Yeorathe’s face, and the wicked man approached. He’d been preoccupied with his own dinner, but was instantly much more interested in what Odgar was overseeing. “Indeed?” Yeorathe peered closely at Risen as he addressed Odgar, “He looks like anything but the warrior’s son? Do we even know if Ravan has a son?”