Risen (13 page)

There were shelves too, most of them
lined with books from exotic countries. Ravan had collected them as
gifts for Nicolette. It was one of the few physical objects she
seemed to enjoy, and Ravan missed no opportunity to indulge her. He
was surprised to discover, when he first returned to the dynasty,
that she spoke seven languages, all learned in her
childhood.

Risen had played down in the library
before, had even brought Sylvie down once. She was amazed by it,
said she had never seen anything like it. But ultimately she’d been
intimidated by the depth of it, so far underground as it was. Drawn
first to the books, she eventually asked if they might leave and go
back to the sunny day above, “…for the flowers are blooming,” she
said, but Risen had seen the look in her eyes, seen that she was
fearful.

It was labeled the library because
all the books, maps, treaties and other such documents were to be
found here. The cold, dry air of the room lent itself well to the
preservation of vellum and parchment. Ravan also kept in this
chamber the most important breeding records of the horses, begun
with the Destrier stallion and the Barb mare when he first came
home to discover his realm. The bloodlines were meticulously penned
in his own hand and as good an account as any in the
country.

Only Ravan and Nicolette’s closest
confidants had ever been allowed to know the whereabouts of this
room. Consequently, the library was nearly perfectly hidden, and it
was because it was so hidden that it could serve as a safe room for
Ravan’s family in the attempt of an overthrow or coup. With today
appearing to be just such a day, the library, sunk within the
deepest keep of the castle and with its maze of consecutive locking
doors, was supremely fortified and exactly where Ravan could rest
assured his family would be.

“This is stupid,” Risen protested.
“I’m twelve years old, nearly thirteen! I’m old enough to go into
battle with my father.” When he was ignored by literally everyone
present, he persisted. “How am I supposed to learn real fighting?”
Still no one answered his question. He really didn’t expect them
to. Truthfully, it was not battle which called for him, and he
wondered if they sensed that, if it showed on his face.

Moulin smiled at him. It was true
that the boy was born of the man who’d claimed Nicolette’s heart.
But the Swiss pikeman could never bring himself to dislike this
boy…or Ravan for that matter. More accurately, he’d grown quite
fond of the child. Who could not? With his engaging wit, endless
abundance of happy energy, and compassion for all things living,
Risen was likable beyond normal reason. And so Moulin had swallowed
his crushed heart and built himself a family with all of them,
especially this one.

Everyone loved Risen, and with
Nicolette and Ravan of more distant dispositions—and Niveus even
more so—the townspeople had likewise grown very attached to the
young heir to the Ravan dynasty. And what a dynasty it had become!
Already with wealth beyond believable means when the dark beauty
had taken it, the couple together had ruled it with a savvy that
only served to strengthen the security of it and cement the loyalty
of all within. Moulin deeply respected this.

“I think it would be foolish if you
died because you’re not strong enough to lift a blade.” Moira
rolled her one eye at him. Sitting Niveus down on a fur covered
stone bench, she pulled a pelt across the girl’s legs before
casting her attention back on Risen. As each sought a comfortable
spot, Moira gestured to the boy. “Come here,” she goaded him
further. “Let’s see if you’re the man you claim you are. Let us see
if you can best me yet.” She lifted her only hand and extended the
challenge, offering to arm-wrestle him at the large, stone table
that was the centerpiece of the room.

“Not fair! You know your one arm is
nearly stronger than both mine together. Besides, I’m right
handed.” He shrugged, but could not resist sitting opposite her to
offer up his left arm and hand. The two clasped and the challenge
was on. Then, for the first time ever, Risen beat Moira…barely. His
chin jutted out in willful victory as he leapt to his feet. “See!
I’m ready for battle!”

Risen was perfectly serious, and
this provoked laughter from Moira and Moulin both. “What? Why do
you laugh? I am a warrior!”

“Come, warrior. Help me with a
fire,” Moulin motioned for assistance.

Niveus remained off to the side,
saying nothing. She was running her finger idly up and down the
joint of a stone in the wall. Moira rose, went to her, and wrapped
an arm around her shoulders while Moulin and Risen tended to a fire
on the hearth.

“What do you see, Niveus?” Moira
wondered.

Niveus continued to run her finger
up and down the seam between the stones. Risen glanced over his
shoulder at her, and just when he believed she would not answer,
Niveus said simply, “It is a vapor. Different from that which we
breathe above. Not so much of it, really, but we wouldn’t want more
of it. It is not a good vapor…not healthy.”

Moira turned her away from the wall.
“Niveus, do not talk such nonsense.” When the girl only stared at
her, she suggested, “Let us play a game instead.”

Risen’s sister turned obediently
from the wall and stared at him. He thought he saw in her eyes a
supreme intelligence, a look of they may all think I am unsound,
but you know that I am not. Then she looked away.

“I love you, brother,” she said
abruptly.

Everyone froze, gazing at her. She
stood up, eyes searching the vacant ceiling overhead, blinking so
slowly as she studied it. All were startled by what she disclosed,
for Niveus never let her feelings show. She’d said, on a few
occasions, that she loved her father or her mother—mostly when
prompted—but nearly never had she said such a thing to
Risen.

“I love you as well,” he replied
almost immediately and went to his sister, taking her by both hands
and leading her to the table. “Come, Niveus. We’ll play a game with
Moira now.” This was very much like Risen, to sincerely care about
the well-being of his sister, to help her in any way that he
could.

“You are stronger than you
realize,” Niveus told him flatly. “Don’t think you are not, even
when you think all is lost.”

This baffled Risen quite a bit, this
and the way his sister peered at him as though she could see to his
very heart, see what occupied him there.

“I know, sister,” He made light of
what he believed she was trying to say. “I just beat Moira at arm
wrestling for the first time; I’m ready to take on the
world.”

* * *

Nicolette left her two children in
Moulin and Moira’s care, going instead to the second story council
room where her advisors were fast assembling.

“What is happening?” she demanded
flatly as she swept into the room.

Her head advisor, Sarto, was a
small, deliberate man with scarcely any hair at all—not even
eyebrows. He was also her closest political advisor and, most said,
her wisest councilman.

He calmly bobbed his head in her
direction. “My Lady, the news we have so far is that considerable
forces are assembled, east and north of the village, hidden within
the Cheverny forest. Our scouts have estimated the army to be as
large as five hundred.”

“Have they sent an
emissary?”

“No, my Lady, not yet. And I
believe they will not. Their mission is unclear, but it would
appear to be entirely offensive in nature.”

“Do they have an obvious
target?”

“I’m convinced it is the castle, my
Lady. That is all we know so far,” he spread his hands gently, his
robes wafting on the dead air like the wings of some great, balding
bird.

“Have they attacked the village
yet?” she wondered.

“No, but from their vantage—the
direction they are assembling—that would seem to be their secondary
target, only because they must run through it. It is completely
reasonable to assume what they want is something from behind these
walls, perhaps your gold reserves, and are willing to plunder the
village as a secondary means.”

Another advisor, trusted within her
council, spoke up. “I disagree. Would they bring on themselves the
wrath of Lord Ravan’s army? I don’t think that is reasonable! There
is little plunder in the village, not such that would offset their
losses with what our Lord shall return upon them
tenfold!”

Another council member, a woman,
appealed directly to Nicolette. “I must disagree with Sarto.” She
pushed herself to standing. “Yes, an enemy must know that all our
reserves in gold are stored within the castle. But certainly they
know that to storm it would be a task only taken with great losses
if at all. They would need an army stronger than the scouts
indicate they have.” The woman shrugged. “I just don’t think an
attack is reasonable. It must be a simple show of force…for now.”
She appealed to the others, “I feel we are missing a piece to this
mystery.”

“Do they raise a flag?” Nicolette
asked.

“None,” Sarto said. “We know not
from where they come.”

“English?”

“No, my Lady,” the female advisor
replied. She’d been appointed by Ravan specifically to know the
current state of English-French affairs. It was Ravan’s opinion
they could not know too well where and what the English were
recently wanting, considering how long the war had already
lingered.

“Bring the people in, as many as
you can. If we have an attack—when we can hold them off no
longer—bar the gates, but not until we have no other choice,”
Nicolette commanded. “Have we sounded the alarm yet?”

“No, my Lady. Lord Ravan has
forbidden it. He’s sent scouts to silently alert the villagers
instead.”

“I agree,” Sarto motioned to
several couriers to prepare the castle for an influx of villagers.
“We have no time to lose. Let us do what we can before time has run
out.”

Then, to the evident surprise of all
gathered, Nicolette swept from the room without even excusing
herself.

“My Lady?” Sarto called, but she
ignored him entirely.

Down to the ground floor she ran and
burst from a servant’s door out the west wing of the castle. Nearby
was an orchard, a particularly favorite place that she sometimes
ventured when she chose to walk out on the grounds of the castle,
and it was there that she now ran. Dark robes flying, and without a
cloak in the early hour, she appeared to fly as she dashed into the
orchard, her breath frosty plumes in the frigid morning
air.

She was nearly a dozen columns of
trees into the tiny forest before she slowed to a walk and turned
down a particular row. Chin dropped to her chest and eyes nearly
closed, she walked past one, two, three, four trees before finding
just the right one.

Dropping to her knees at the trunk
of an old, gnarled walnut, Nicolette was very focused on the task
at hand. The tree appeared familiar to her, and she ran her hands
slowly along the twisted bark, first up and then down, as though
familiarizing herself with an old lover. This she did for some time
as the breeze died away and a quiet settled about her. Even the
early morning birds ceased their song as though they wished not to
disturb the peculiar visitor on her strange exchange with one of
their trees.

All was silent. Gradually, as though
in slow motion, she stopped and ran her index finger slowly down a
particular crease in the trunk, all the way to between the gnarled
roots that sank into the ground at her knees. Dropping her head,
she peered closely at the earth beneath her hand. Resting like
this, she simply remained there, unmoving and with her hand upon
the spot of ground for nearly a minute. The frosty, dead grass
thawed somewhat beneath her palm and yet she did not
move.

Suddenly, as though coming back to
life, she began digging with her bare fingers, clawing, finally
pulling a handful of frozen dirt up along with some dried leaves
and stones. She then passed the palm of her hand back and forth
over the ground around her skirts before finding the old husks of
several of last year’s walnut shells with the spent nut fruit still
inside. She snatched up three of the old walnuts and shook them.
They rattled, shriveled within their shells. Satisfied, she mixed
them up with the soil, dried leaves, and pebbles.

She did not turn to see Moulin creep
up carefully behind her. He’d evidently followed her into the small
woods and paused as though he could see that she was keenly
occupied with something. He must have been satisfied that there was
no impending risk when he left Moira with the children. Perhaps his
intention had been to let Nicolette know that they were safe and
settled in.

But he’d not found her in the
council chamber, and having discovered her missing, Moulin likely
suspected where she’d vanished to. There were several spots that
were significant to her, and he knew all of them. He might have
sensed she would be at one of these now. Whatever his reason for
following, he now stood behind her in the orchard.

He asked, obviously concerned, “My
Lady, what is it? Why are you here when…”

She said nothing, only flung her
head back and gazed overhead at the pattern of naked branches
against the early morning sky. Her gaze darted from one snow white
wisp of cloud to another as they hung above the bare limbed trees.
Flitting, her eyes rolled back before she closed them tightly.
Placing her palm again on the trunk of the tree, her head snapped
forward. She leaned, resting her forehead against her hand, against
the tree, her eyes remaining closed.