Memories of his own childhood threatened, and it was with great reserve that he held them at bay. “Nicolette, I will find him. I will find our son.”
She remained stoic and calm as she dismissed all else who were present. Waiting until they were entirely alone, she spoke intimately to Ravan. “He is not here,” she said simply, almost serenely, and pulled one hand free of his to touch his battle smudged cheek.
This only confused Ravan, and he arose, taking a seat next to her, still holding her. With everyone else gone from the hall, it echoed his words as he spoke urgently to his love, “How do you know this? Nicolette, how do you know he is not here? We haven’t finished our search. Perhaps he was afraid; perhaps he is hiding or—”
“Our child is not here.” She held his gaze firmly, the finality of the statement dumbfounding.
“But…how?”
Ravan was very nearly to tears, undone by his inability to find his missing son. It’d been nearly thirteen years since he’d wept tears of grief, but nothing in his entire life had threatened him so much as the thought of losing a child.
She waved the question aside. “Our son is gone.” Then, matter-of-factly, “Now we must find him.” She said it as though they were only just realizing it and simply must effect a strategy.
“Gone? Is he…”
Ravan couldn’t finish his question and swallowed the fear that choked him, that stung his heart in a way he never thought possible. It was the most wonderful thing he could ever have imagined, to have children of his own, but also the most terrible, for it opened up a vulnerability he’d never imagined could exist.
“No, my love.” She allayed his fears at once. “Risen lives. He simply does not live here…on our grounds. He has chosen either to leave, or he has been taken. I cannot be sure which, but I believe it to be the latter.”
“I don’t understand! How?” He knelt in front of her. “Nicolette, no one breached the walls of this castle. He would’ve had to exit by the tunnels, would’ve had to make the choice to go away…”
“I don’t know how, or why—just that he is.” Nicolette folded her hands onto her lap. “But we must find him, quickly. I fear time is not on our side.”
Even as quiet and controlled as she was, he saw beyond the stoicism, behind the stone wall of all that was Nicolette. Ravan closed his eyes, drew a deep breath in, and forced his mind to slow down, driving from it the images that threatened, images of many years before, of when he was yet a child and of how badly things could be for his son.
“Help me to know. Help me to search where I must,” he begged.
Nicolette stood, took her husband’s face in her hands.
His eyes pleaded as he rose to his feet. “Can you? Can you help me find our son?”
“Sylvie,” came a weak voice from the hall entry.
“Sylvie?” Ravan repeated as he spun around to find Moira standing in the cloistered entryway. He asked dumbly, “Herluin’s daughter? I don’t—”
“He is in love with her,” she interrupted, mumbled as though sorry, as though she should have known and shared this long ago.
“Love? What do you speak of?” Ravan advanced on Moira, and she cowered as he towered over her. He took her by her shoulders, forced her about, and searched her face for the truth behind what she said. “Moira, he is only a boy. He can’t…”
Nicolette approached her husband from behind, rested a hand on his shoulder. “Ravan…”
He paused as images flashed before his eyes, images of his past. He tried to remember, tried to sense what his son might be feeling. Immediately, he was reminded of the Fat Wife, how much he’d loved her and how, as a mere boy, he’d been willing to lay his life down for her. Just as quickly he remembered the Old One—he’d loved him too, as sure as he would take another breath.
Ravan shook his head. He had no doubt he loved both of them, even as a boy. But in love, as in…what he felt for his Nicolette? Could it be? His passion for her was unequaled. He must have her, must be with her. There was simply no other way, and he’d known this almost from the moment he’d first laid eyes upon her. He would fight to his death to stand beside her as he did now. But Risen? Could this be what his son was feeling now? Could it be as Moira believed, that he was in love?
“How do you know this?” Ravan demanded of Moira, done with the mystery of it all.
“Niveus told me,” she shared as she tried to drop away from his hold and into the shadows.
“Niveus? What nonsense is…she could not know! She…” his comment faded as his mind raced. Ravan’s daughter was the greatest mystery of all, even greater to him than Nicolette. He insisted, “Tell me! Moira, tell me!” and squeezed her perhaps tighter than he should.
“She did not say, ‘Sylvie,’” Moira was very nearly undone and blurted desperately, “She only said he was in love. I pressed her on it, but she did not know who, only that he was.” Moira appealed to him, “It must be Sylvie, my Lord. There can be no other.”
Ravan released her and spun, his hand to his eyes as he processed what the maiden shared.
“Yes.” Nicolette closed her eyes as though focusing on the possibility. “Yes, it is so. He loves her,” she repeated. “As truly as you love me; of this I am certain.”
How could he not have known this? How could he not know this about his own son, that he was in love? He’d just seen him this morning, seen the bright fire in the eyes of his first born as he’d marveled at the miracle of the newborn colt. Was that spark only for the sake of the horse? Or was there something else that drove the life into his son on this of all days?
“Tobias,” he said urgently. “He’s gone to Tobias’ house to try to help them, to try to save Sylvie,” his voice was low, almost a whisper, and carried with it the awful realization of what this could mean.
Nicolette nodded in grave agreement, and Moira’s hand went up to her mouth. “But, that is on the northeast side of the realm. It would be…”
“…directly in the path of the retreat,” Ravan finished the awful thought.
Immediately, he called his best available knights together. Within minutes, Velecent and nine of his finest men stood before him. He whirled as he paced in front of them.
“Did we warn Herluin? The sheep farmer northeast of town—Tobias and Sylvie’s father?”
Velecent nodded, “There was a guard there this morning, late, just as opposition forces moved upon the east perimeter of the town. I cannot say what happened to them after that.”
To Nicolette he promised, “I will not return until I find him.” Then to Velecent, “Come with me,” and stormed from the room, his closest friend and most elite soldiers fast on his heels.
* * *
The tiny farm was destroyed, the house and small outbuildings burned nearly to the ground. Charred remains of what was left of the fire hissed and spat in the soft blanket of rain, and smoldering, blackened rubble lay in twisted piles of lost memories. Ravan lingered on the edge of what used to be Sylvie’s home. He thought to himself how fire was such an awful weapon, so quickly employed in a military campaign and with such a terrible cost.
He scanned the wreckage, his knights furiously digging through what they could. It was tedious, and a dreadful wait—the most awful of all as they searched for remains of casualties.
Velecent approached his friend from the side, riding up close enough that they sat abreast of each other. “It’s such a shame. And for what?”
Ravan said nothing, only squinted, searching the distant forest’s edge, his eyes scouring the tree line.
His friend paused a moment longer before sharing, “Herluin is dead.”
This gathered Ravan’s attention immediately. “How?”
He motioned to the distant meadow, the one with the small hillside and gate that led to the back pasture. There, if Ravan squinted he could see, not very far from a watershed, the figure of a corpse lying face down on the ground.
“He was struck in the back, a deathly blow,” his friend
explained almost regretfully.
“And his family?”
“Nothing yet,” Velecent shrugged. “He had two children, you say?”
“Yes, a boy and a girl…and his wife.”
Ravan swallowed thickly and drew his eyes back to the smoldering rubble. He had a boy and a girl…and a wife. Hours before, his life had not been so different from Herluin’s. This gave him a pang of regret. Adorno had been unkind to this family, and then he’d been unable to foresee this, to prevent such suffering.
Why had he been attacked? What had compelled this army to pit its force against the Ravan Dynasty? His reputation was wide and well known. A victory against him would be an ungodly task, even if the army outnumbered him as greatly as two to one. Why? His coffers were great, this was true, but no greater than other easier targets, and much of his amassed wealth was redistributed to the realm. Yes, it stood as a convincing example of why the town thrived as well as it had, but it should not have made them a significant target. Ravan had no good answers to these questions, and they tormented him.
At long last, his men confirmed that there were two bodies within the burnt remains of the building—one adult and one child—although they could not be certain who, for the remains were so obliterated. This caused Ravan to consider deeply what Nicolette had believed, that Risen was in love…with Sylvie.
“There is not another child?” Ravan interrogated the search party.
“No, my Lord. None that we’ve yet seen,” a soldier replied.
Could Risen have made it to the small farm? In some way, had he been able to save the girl he loved? Or was it just wishful thinking to believe that because they’d not found the body of Herluin’s second child that she’d survived?
Ravan remembered his flight in the woods so many years ago. They’d said a boy could not do such a thing. They said it’d been a task like no other. Just then, Ravan’s belief in the determination of his son deepened.
The two men loped their horses to the top of the small knoll. Velecent sat as Ravan dismounted, walked over to the body, and turned the corpse gently onto its back. Rigor was already beginning to set in, and it wounded him that the man had been left alone on the cold knoll, unable to defend his family from the terrible fire and disrespected after death claimed him.
Ravan continued to struggle with the sparse clues given him, struggled with such a seemingly reckless waste of human life. His had been a life of war. No one was more familiar with the brutality of conflict than him, but he’d never before seen such cruel waste with such obvious lack of purpose. It simply made no sense.
“Bury him,” he commanded of several soldiers as they approached, and as they began to gather Herluin’s body up, he ignored them, only studied the frozen, grassy ground around the man who’d for so long been a kind friend to his son. He tried not to consider too deeply the final moments of the child left amongst the burnt wreckage. Ravan was sincerely fond of both Tobias and Sylvie.
“My Lord…” Velecent began, but Ravan ignored him.
Carefully, as though he would awaken the earth if his foot fell too harshly, he walked to the nearby watershed. All the while, he stared at the sparse earth, marred with the muddied prints of livestock.
The small door was ajar; this was unusual as the shed was intended to provide a clean cistern for the family. Perhaps the enemy had left it open on purpose…but wouldn’t they have vandalized it as well, destroyed the source? Maybe they hadn’t had time, their greater urgency being the battle. But perhaps…
All of these questions coursed like a raging fiend through Ravan’s head. Nearing the cistern, his eyes narrowed. He paused, continuing to scan the ground before leaning his head in and allowing his eyes long enough to focus in the dark interior of the small shack. Something wasn’t as it should be; there was something more. The shallow pool was clear, but against the edges of it where the current could not quickly affect it, if one looked close enough, it was opaque with mud as though someone had recently stirred it up. He peered intently at the surrounding ledge, the narrow wooden poles, cut to provide a lip to the cistern. Kneeling, he ran his fingertips along the cold, damp, flattened surface of the wood and moss covered earth.
When the watershed ran out of secrets for him, he turned to leave it, but suddenly, there in the muck at the corner of the small shack, seemed to be a child’s small footprint. He blinked, knelt to study the mark more closely, at first not believing. Running his finger along it, he told himself that it could simply be one of the farmer’s children, returning from the cistern with water. But then again, even a partially frozen as the ground was, he could see that the print was deep and slipping, weighted heavily on one side, the side away from the farmhouse. It would have meant that the child was running, away from the house, toward…
Ravan held a hand to his eyes, studied intently the woods beyond. Leaving his horse where it stood, he strode toward the woods, stopping on several occasions to stoop and study the damp ground. Brushing his hand across what was left of the dead, waist high, winter grass, he focused again on the edge of the shadowy woods.
Velecent caught up with him, started to ask him something as though curious about what he saw, but Ravan waved him to silence.
“There,” the mercenary gestured with one hand. “They ran there.”
“Who?”
“Risen…and Sylvie.”
“I don’t see how?” Velecent appeared thoroughly amazed, almost disbelieving.
Ravan indicated the ground behind them. “The prints, two children, one larger than the other.”
“Could it be the farmer’s children?” Velecent wondered. “You said he had two?”
“No, at least not both of them.” Ravan looked up at Velecent, a new fire burning in his eyes. “Herluin had two children, a boy and a girl.”
“Yes, yes I know, I—”
“They were a year apart in age,” Ravan explained, his excitement growing. “The boy was younger than his sister and slight, but the girl was very small for her age, and a cripple. She was, I would say, the even weight of her younger brother, if that.” Ravan could barely contain himself. “But these prints,” he waved again at something that Velecent struggled to see, “are of two children; one heavier than the other.”
“I don’t…I think…Ravan, are you saying?”
“It is Risen. He is bigger than both of them. He is with one of them.” Saying it out loud for himself was all that Ravan needed to hear.
Nearly knocking Velecent aside, he swung onto his horse, then dispatched one of his knights to send message straightaway to the castle, to let Nicolette know that he was in pursuit of their son. Once the messenger was gone, Ravan gathered the remaining eight soldiers—eight of his very best—and rode into the forest with the purpose of one who intended to take down the devil himself…if he could catch him.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
†
Nicolette was in her bed chamber, standing next to the long vacant crib. She’d kept the babies’ bed in her room, had wanted to keep it close. She was idly rocking the cradle with one finger, very lost in her thoughts, when the soft rapping came on her door.
“Yes?”
“There are two messengers to see you, my Lady.” Moulin hesitated in the massive doorway. “They bring news.”
She did not ask him straightaway if they’d found Risen. Perhaps he’d expected she would, and the puzzled expression on his face went unnoticed as she swept past. Down the main stairway she went, Moulin on her heels, and approached the two men waiting for her in the grand foyer. As usually happened, both messengers appeared ill at ease in the presence of the strange mistress, looking away or down at their feet as she addressed them in turn.
“You have news of my son?” she asked, but somewhere in her being knew they’d not found him.
“No, my Lady, but our Lord has found the boy’s trail; he is tracking him as we speak.”
“Tracking him?”
“Herluin is dead. So are his wife and one chil
d. However, it appears two children escaped to the woods behind the farm.” The man gestured as though the woods were directly behind him. “Lord Ravan believes Risen is one of them. He’s followed the trail into the forest.” The messenger raised his eyes for the first time, meeting Nicolette’s. “He sent us to give you word that he’s gone after them. We’re to tell you…” the man swallowed, “…that he will not return until he has your son.” The message complete, the soldier dropped to one knee and averted his eyes.
She simply nodded. “I see.” The man stood and seemed surprised that she was apparently unmoved by this critical information.
“My Lady,” he implored, “we are dispatching a band of soldiers to follow after him, at this very moment. I know this must be difficult for you.” The man spread his hands in appeal. “Is there anything more we can do, anything you require of us? Something to ease the wait?”
“How many are with my husband?” She wondered.
“There are eight, my Lady. Eight of his best, and Velecent.”
“Stop them; do not dispatch the force. They will not be able to catch Ravan, and it will simply be a waste of our resources,” Nicolette ordered. “We must secure the safety of the town, put out the fires, help our people.” With that, she was as quickly done with him, and turned to the other courier. “Please, the other news?”
“Oh—uh, yes, my Lady.” The second messenger seemed as surprised as the first at her lack of emotion to the news of her lost son and blurted, “We have turned the battle. Victory is ours, and we have captured the leader of the resistance. He is being held, pending return of our Lord Ravan.” With some satisfaction, the man added, “We are prepared to execute him forthwith, if that be your wish, and—”
“Bring him to me.” She cut him off easily.
All were immediately silent.
The soldier cautioned, “But my Lady…he is a barbarian, a ruthless—”