Risen (11 page)

When Ravan questioned her about it,
she simply replied she had no source for it…yet. This alone was
uncommon enough to set Ravan on edge, but today he would have none
of it, for today was special. He brushed it off, almost amused at
himself that he would even endeavor to comprehend the depth of his
bride’s ruminations.

Nicolette was so mystifying that to
know her, to truly know of her heart to her very core, one had to
be part of her. And there was only one whom she allowed to get near
to such a place, and that was he. Ravan and Nicolette were perfect
together, like ice against skin on a hot day. Even so, perhaps
there was a part of Nicolette no one would ever comprehend. He
sighed. Certainly that must be true of anyone, especially
himself.

These thoughts were brushed
instantly away as Risen rushed up to his father’s side. Ravan
pulled him close, saying quietly to the boy, “He is a fine horse,
my son. Look, he has his sire’s big hip and strong back but his
mother’s wary eye.”

The torch flooded the stall with a
wonderful, soft light, and the mare stood toward the back of the
stall, in the corner as though to protect her baby from the stares
of those creatures who gathered at her door. All that could be seen
of the foal from behind her were four spindly legs, wobbling beyond
the belly of the dam.

The mare tossed her head at Risen
and pinned her ears, having on numerous occasion tossed the boy to
the ground—lessons well deserved for the most part. She breathed
heavy, her flanks lathered with her recent efforts, just moments
ago having risen from the birthing of the foal. Turning her head
away from the humans, she nickered softly to her baby.

Ravan clucked gently to the mare.
She snorted an objection at him, shook her head again, but finally
obeyed, stepping away from the corner of the stall and circling out
from in front of the just born foal. The warm glow of the firelight
bathed the colt in an early welcome. It was magic if ever there
was, Ravan thought, and he was happy to share it with his
son.

The foal’s head sprang up, its neck
arcing beautifully. Already challenging the legs beneath itself, it
wobbled and gave a few springy bounces. Hopping awkwardly to the
front of its mother before noticing the strange visitors at the
gate, it scurried to her flank, almost landing itself back on the
ground as it did.

Risen laughed. “He stops his front
end, but the back keeps going!”

Black as a dreamless night, the colt
glistened, still damp from its step into the world. Its face was
stunning—delicate and chiseled like the Arabian mare’s. The colt
wore an expression of curious intelligence and, unlike most newborn
foals, did not seek cover from the strangers. Instead, it bobbed
its wispy chin at the odd visitors, inviting their speculation as
it stamped a forefoot. This boldness it got from the sire, of that
there was no doubt.

“Oh, he’s beautiful!” Risen pulled
himself up by the fingertips to peer over the edge of the tall
stall planks.

Chuckling softly, Ravan added, “His
bone is good and strong. He will be a fine horse for you, as nice
as we’ve had so far. It is an exceptional colt.” Turning his gaze
back to his son, he asked, “Does your mother know?”

“No, I don’t think…” the boy
started to say but stopped himself. “Yes, she probably
does.”

This drew a knowing laugh from his
father. “Yes, I suppose so. But your sister does not yet, I would
wager.”

“I don’t know.” The boy scuffed the
dirt with the toe of his boot. “I’ll tell her when I go back
in.”

“It would be good for her, Risen.”
Ravan leaned down, closer to his son’s face. “Draw her into the
miracle of it, bring her outside for a spell. She would like that,
I think.”

“I will,” he promised, “but first,
can I touch him?”

The mercenary was taken by the life
in his son’s eyes. Lifting the catch, Ravan went into the stall and
together they approached the foal. The mare tossed her head,
shifted herself between the humans and her baby. She was
apprehensive, but this was an old routine for the mare, and so she
begrudgingly allowed the humans to touch her foal for the first
time.

“Oh, he’s so soft!” Risen ran his
thin hands across the withers of the colt, the fuzzy fluff of damp
mane threading through his fingertips.

This brought a smile from his
father, and Ravan was reminded of a long time ago, a long way away,
when he’d first dreamt of having a fine horse. It gave him immense
joy in his heart that he could do such a thing for his son, give
him such an amazing horse. And it was a splendid horse—he could see
it already, knew it would be the new stallion in their stables when
the Destrier aged.

Leaving the baby to its first
feeding, they left the stall and lingered at the door. Then, they
gazed one last time at the colt—father and son together—for a long,
warm while.

Ravan broke the spell. “Let’s go
tell your mother…and Niveus.” He squeezed his son gently on the
back of the neck, and Risen grabbed his father’s hand with both his
own, attempting a maneuver that would take the offender down were
he a grown man.

Laughing heartily, Ravan hoisted the
boy easily over his shoulder and stalked with his young captive
from the foaling barn. The two threaded their way through the misty
fingerling rays of morning light, back through the evaporating fog,
back through the opening door of the coming day. They were nearly
to the flagstone courtyard when the portcullis rose and a rider on
a nearly exhausted horse came bolting through the front
gate.

* * *

In her room, Niveus had awakened and
knelt, still in her night shift, in the middle of her bed. Hair,
white as snow, hung down the middle of her back almost to the bare
feet tucked under her. Her eyelashes were so fair as to be almost
clear, and they framed her large eyes like so many fine frosty
slivers.

A servant was building the fire
anew, coaxing it to life, but he went unnoticed by the
child—Ravan’s daughter. She stretched one arm in front of her, palm
flat, fingers pressed loosely together. Staring not at her hand but
at the space of air in which it passed back and forth, her skin
appeared translucent in the early morning light.

Moira, standing in the doorway,
tapped on the jamb a second time but remained unnoticed by the
child. The nanny entered, eased the door closed behind her, and
gazed at the girl, kneeling in her bed. The hand servant was
finished by then, and the fire blazed warmly, pushing the cold to
places it had no choice but to go. He glanced at the child first,
then to Moira. She indicated the door, and he silently excused
himself, closing it behind.

“Niveus,” Moira said
softly.

The nanny wore a patch over her lost
eye, a beautiful patch, silk and finely stitched. It was attached
to a scarf that wrapped around her head, hiding the wounded and
scarred side of her skull. The scarf was lovely—ornate and from the
East—its patterns exquisitely exotic. It was knotted just over
Moira’s right shoulder, and the tails of it hung down like silk
ribbons. Nicolette had done this for her, had this fashioned for
Niveus’ nanny, and it was one of several that Moira
possessed.

The pale child did not answer, only
continued to pass her hand back and forth loosely, in a gentle
wavelike fashion as she stared ahead at seeming
nothingness.

“Niveus, it is morning. Time to
dress.” When the girl still did not answer, Moira went to the bed
and sat down on the edge of it, facing her. “Niveus,” she repeated
softly and reached to gently take the child’s hand in her one,
stopping the peculiar behavior.

Ravan’s daughter instantly focused
on Moira, her clear, pink eyes enormous, her lips opaque. “I knew
you were there. You didn’t need to stop me.”

“Then why didn’t you answer me?”
Moira held onto Niveus’ hand firmly when the child attempted to
resume her task. “It is ill-mannered, Niveus, to ignore another.”
She said it with love, not in annoyance. “You cannot just go away
like that.” She tapped Niveus playfully between the eyes with the
tip of her finger. “It’s not proper.”

“It would have wrecked
it.”

“What? Niveus, what would it have
wrecked?” Moira was eternally patient with this most extraordinary
child.

“The space.”

Moira sighed, but indulged Risen’s
sister. “What space, Niveus? Tell me about the space. What are you
doing when you wave your hand about in the air like
that?”

This seemed to surprise the child,
this description of her unusual behavior, and Niveus rolled her
eyes as though aware that she was being humored. Then, with the
patience of a master, she explained, “It’s a passage—a
door.

“Are you opening the
door?”

Niveus blinked solemnly in quiet
amazement at the question. “No, of course not. I can’t do that.
But…” she said patiently, “…I’m pushing time around it. It’s
inevitable that it will someday open and—”

Moira smiled and interrupted her,
“Niveus.”

The child dropped both hands softly
into her lap. “It will open. Someday it will. Until then, I push
the time, just until I can one day push it through.”

“Can we get you dressed and down to
breakfast?” Moira gently diverted Niveus. “Your mother is already
up, and the foal is born.” She took one of the child’s
hands.

“I know,” Niveus replied, not in a
condescending way. “The colt was born just before
sunrise.”

Moira’s eye narrowed, and she
studied the girl, still holding tight to her hand. Niveus lifted
her free one and went to pass it again through the empty air, but
Moira grasped it straightaway, pinning it with its
companion.

“No,” she said almost
sharply.

Niveus shot her stare to Moira, her
eyes flashing almost copper in color. “Why?”

“Because, it’s not
normal.”

“So?”

“You have to be normal.”

“Why? You told me I was who I am
and nobody else.”

“Niveus, this will belong to you
one day, to you and your brother.” Moira waved her stump in a broad
circle in the room. “The people of this realm need you to be
sound,” she corrected herself, “to appear sound…for
them.”

“You say that as though I’m not…as
though you think I’m mad,” the girl countered, not unkindly, just
matter-of-factly.

Moira loved this child, loved her
dearly. She pulled her closer, kissed her on her forehead. “I do
not, Niveus. You are not mad; I know this, but you can learn to
behave as though you are not. It would be best.”

“For you?”

“No, not for me.”

“For Mother and Father?” Niveus
wondered.

“Yes, for them and for the dynasty,
but mostly for you.”

Niveus tipped her head to one side.
“I suppose.” Then, as though sharing a revelation, “Something
terrible could happen to Risen.”

This shocked Moira profoundly.
“Niveus! Don’t say such a thing! Why would you say
that?”

“Today, I mean.” The child
shrugged. “I tried to push it away, really I did.” Niveus glanced
at the empty air. “I don’t know if I helped. I hope so.”

Moira was without words, stunned by
what the child shared. She pulled her close and hugged her tightly,
rocking her gently for a span before helping her to dress and greet
the day.

Niveus chose not to see the colt,
told Moira that she already had.

CHAPTER EIGHT

†

The Norseman stood at the black
wood’s edge, the dense expanse of forest just east of the village
and the Ravan Dynasty. There to the west he studied the domain
ruled by him—the dark lord, demon of shadows, killer of sons. His
eyes narrowed oddly, the scar tissue preventing him from closing
the right one fully. It was eternally dry as a result and bothered
him most of the time, just another insult the demon had cast at
him. The fire at the inn had left his face a riddled map of scars.
But these were nothing compared to the scars upon his
heart.

It took Tor nearly twelve years to
find him—twelve years, endless sleepless nights, a mother’s
suicide, and the shift of all compassion from the fragmented
recesses of a struggling, broken heart…to find him. And now, here
he was—killer, taker of life, destroyer of a family name. Here was
Ravan, content within the shelter of his vast domain. Comfortable
with his riches, complacent in his power. But not after
today.

Tor’s confidence swelled as he
recognized the scope of the army that eased into place behind him.
It’d taken much time and resource to draw enough coin and
allegiance to amass an infantry the size needed to threaten a realm
such as this. There were few that would risk war against Ravan’s
dynasty. Tor’s task had been tedious—the espionage, the
surveillance, the details that might make the battle victorious for
him.

And what was the definition of
victorious? What drink could quench the unquenchable thirst that
tortured him so? Death, death to one man, one named Ravan—death to
the man who stripped him of his son. Vengeance for Modred, fallen
twelve years before.