He was determined that he would stand by her and die with her if that was the intent of those chasing them. Because…he loved her.
“Risen, stop,” Sylvie was breathless.
“Do you need me to slow down?”
“No, that’s not what I mean. Stop taking care of me. Run ahead.”
“No,” he said flatly.
“Risen—”
“No!” he maintained and continued to drag her along.
Sylvie thought otherwise. “Risen, leave me. Why do you insist? You’re being unreasonable. You’re so much faster, you could go on without me.” She stopped, dragging him to a halt with her. “Quit being so stubborn! This is wrong. You must leave, now. I can delay them for you, and you can get away.”
“I’m not leaving you!” He shook his head defiantly.
“Please listen to what you are saying,” she choked, breathless from the exertion. “This is not only about us. You are the heir to this dynasty. You cannot be taken. You mustn’t be taken. For the good of our people, you must survive. Risen, this is not game.”
He stared dumbly at her, could not believe what she was saying. It was fairly obvious that her stamina was fading. Sylvie had experienced, as an infant, the red rash disease that afflicted some. Her mother had sponged both her and Tobias with a damp rag when they succumbed to the strange pox. Tobias had the awful fever for a mere two days and was then up and about—his normal, active self in no time. Sylvie, however, had languished with it, bedridden for over a week. The priests had come and said prayers, and the wise women had burned herbs. Even so, all had been doubtful the female child would survive. But she had survived and eventually met the young heir to the Ravan Dynasty.
Her crooked leg was a product of a bad lie during her mother’s pregnancy, but her heart was permanently weakened by the Scarlet Fever. Risen didn’t know any of this, only that Sylvie struggled to keep up sometimes. There was no way he could not know how crippled her heart truly was. What he did know, however, was that she had a greater capacity to love than most anyone he’d ever known.
She was a frail beauty, like a fragile, spring blossom in a hail storm. Her spirit, however, was very strong. Sylvie was also exceedingly clever and calculating. And courage and compassion—of these she had considerably more than most.
“We are friends, Risen,” she pressed him. “But you are important. I am not.” She appeared unwilling to take another step. “You must go. We will both die if you don’t, and I will not allow you to sacrifice for me…ever.”
He was stunned by her words, not willing to accept the truth of what she was saying. They were horrible words, cruel because they were true, and so courageous. But it was simply wrong, and he’d never seen her face so sad. He wanted to strike something, punish something because of the pain Sylvie had endured, plunge his knife into the heart of something evil.
When it appeared as though she would get nowhere with him, she took his hand in hers. Her words could not have come easy. “Risen, I know my family is dead. I know mother and Tobias…” She swallowed, blinked back tears from her lovely, pale fawn eyes. Her voice was barely a whisper now. “You’ve been so kind to me, helped spare me. I should have died back there. You are more dear to me than anyone, but I cannot ask you to die for me. It would kill me.”
This statement, put into real words, both mortified and amazed him. Risen thought she looked—standing in the cold, damp grey of the woods—so out of place, like a precious treasure God didn’t know was missing.
“I won’t leave you; stop saying such things. I won’t!” he hissed, genuinely upset with her. He was anxious, his instincts being that they would eventually be caught by someone who was of no good whatsoever.
Risen refocused, assessing their strengths and weaknesses. Sylvie was tired. It seemed she was more tired lately, but Tobias told him it was because it was lambing season, and she insisted on sitting up with the “orphans.”
He thought of the dagger, secured at his calf and hidden in his boot, and it gave him a small comfort that at least he had that. It was a fine dagger, and the superb edge challenged any other in the realm. Thank you, Father, he thought silently. Nevertheless, the blade gave the boy little courage today. This was not because he had unreasonable fear in his heart. It was because something else within his heart—because of who he had next to him…Sylvie.
* * *
The men were by then within visual line of sight and advancing on them quickly. There was no doubt the children were the object of the strange soldiers’ intent. If Risen might have escaped, left Sylvie behind and, it was too late.
“Do not tell them who I am,” he cautioned harshly, “and let me speak for both of us.”
“If they know who you are, they might effect a ransom,” she whispered.
“No,” he warned. “It’s too risky, could place my father in a bad position. Don’t tell them, no matter what.”
This was an exceedingly altruistic thought for one so young, especially considering the gravity of their impending situation, but this child was not ordinary. He was the son of Ravan—offspring of the mercenary Lord—descendant of the one who was martyred by the priest, D’ata, for which his namesake remembered. This memory Ravan had made certain his son knew well.
True, the dynasty thrived when other townships had suffered, but Ravan told him how quickly this could all change, how all at once fate could cast one asunder. None knew it better than he, and he was determined that his past would be a lesson for his son. This is what he told him.
Consequently, he trained his son rigorously with the notion of survival always at the forefront. The payoff was a boy steeled beyond his tender years. He was adequate at swordplay, above average with the longbow, an extraordinary equestrian, and wielded his knife with fairly unscrupulous cunning. And all this by the tender age of twelve.
This was what Ravan had observed, and yet he pushed the boy, drilled the child continuously on matters of battle, strategy, timing, espionage, and history. And even more so on matters of deception, betrayal, and treachery, for these are the trifecta of ill fate and can close in on a good man in the beat of a heart. This was what Ravan had taught him.
These lessons were not easy, and there was more than the occasional night when the child disappeared into the dark recesses of the castle to lick the wounds of pride, cross that his father could be so difficult with him. Life was not hard, so why did Father have to make it seem so much as though it was?
During these moments, his mother would sometimes appear, sit next to her son, and offer conditioning of another sort, of the kind that removes the mind from the body, sparing the soul of horrible things.
“Why would I do this?” the boy had wondered aloud once, “Why must I be able to remove my mind?” He said it as though it were a trick.
“Because if an enemy cannot reach the soul, they cannot destroy the heart, even when they believe they can,” she answered without emotion.
It was moments like these that Risen wondered which of his parents truly was the stronger.
Now, as the horsemen—three of the original fleeing band who’d evidently backtracked for the children—circled them, the boy tensed with something his father had told him would taste cold on the tongue.
“Fear will paralyze you. Take it in your mouth like ice to a thirst, and push it first to your heart and then to your head.” He touched his son on the chest and then on the forehead. “Then, you will draw from the beast its strength and turn fear to your advantage.”
This was the thought that entered Risen’s mind just now, for now, and for the first time ever, he tasted this beast called fear.
It seemed Sylvie had something more to say, but there was no time. Risen pulled her close, placed his back against hers, and faced the three men as they advanced upon them, surrounding them in a lazy circle as they walked their horses. He wondered where the rest of the fleeing band was and glanced from one to the other, taking into his mind as many details as fast as he could—weapons,
size of the steed, armor over strategic anatomic spots…or not. It was then that Risen recognized the one, the man who looked back at him and met his stare at the creek bed.
And that was not all. There was another amongst them whose face immediately stood out, triggering something the boy had once heard, a memory of a tale. It was something Moira had once shared with him, when he’d pressed her on how she came to live with them. She swore him to secrecy, told him he must never tell his mother or father that she’d shared.
He promised, and she described a man. Now, his assailant met the description perfectly. He was brutish, his hair and beard unkempt and streaked grey and black, his eyebrows thick and menacing. A long, narrow, hooked nose flared at the end with large nostrils, and his lips were fat and wide. When he spoke, he looked like he could swallow a fish whole. Most significantly, he had one eye, and chose not to cover the vacant socket with a patch. It made for a dreadful appearance, and was exactly as Moira once described him…horrendous.
“He was ghastly,” she admitted, although she did not mention the man had intended to rape her, “and your father rose up against the fiend as though he was less than a maggot.”
Risen recognized the fiend instantly from Moira’s tale and took the chance to speak first. “You waste your time with us. We are only poor children and not strong. Is it your Lord’s wish that children would be harmed, that this might grant you shallow victory after a failure?” His words were unnecessarily confident given his situation.
“Silence!” Yeorathe ordered, swung from his horse, and approached the two children every bit the same loathsome monster Moira described. “You,” he pointed at Risen. “Step away from the girl.”
“I will not.” His hand tightened on Sylvie’s thin wrist. He wondered if he might hurt her, but she did not cry out.
“Then you will both die,” the man snorted and lifted his sword as though prepared to run them both through.
“Agreed,” Risen replied flatly and stood as tall as his tender age would allow.
This stopped the man, and he peered at the boy, sword drawn, his only eye narrowed as he stared down the blade. “You will die with the girl? You are prepared to do this?”
“I am. She lives, or we both die, as you wish.”
“And how do you mean to affect that…” another of the men wondered, almost bemused, “…if we simply overpower you?”
“You can destroy her, and may take me yet alive but, the instant I could, I would have my way.”
“No! You can’t—” Sylvie started to object.
“Silence!” Risen snapped sharply to her and glanced over his shoulder. “Sister, be silent now.” His voice was unnecessarily gruff, but his hand held onto hers, and he squeezed gently, his eyes imploring her to follow his lead.
This caused a round of laughter amongst the others. The treacherous man with only one eye, snorted. “The urchin has bite. He will bring a fair penny. The girl will serve until she no longer can.” With that, they seemed to have made their choice on the matter.
Risen trembled, repelled by the expression on the face of this one, and he knew for certain this man must be the one Moira spoke of—the fiend back at the inn before his father had come for Nicolette. This monster was one of them, one of the only two who’d survived the wrath of Ravan twelve years before. The horrid man who engaged he and Sylvie was part of the terrible fight when his father had taken Moira from the inn so long ago. And so that had been the motivation for the raid this morning…revenge.
Straightaway, Risen knew that he mustn’t at any cost allow his identity to be discovered, for it would certainly be their undoing and could place his father in a terribly compromising position as well.
With that the children were taken and placed on the backs of horses, separate from each other. Sylvie was placed in front of her rider, the soldier’s meaty arms encircling her in a human cage. She clutched the pommel of the battle saddle, her sad, beautiful eyes stricken with fear.
Risen hated this—hated that she must be held by this barbarian in such a way—but he also realized that Sylvie would be very cold, and the man’s body heat would warm her somewhat. His own hands were bound tightly behind him, and he was placed behind his rider so that his only opportunity for stability on the steed was with his legs. He was careful when the horse began to crow hop to loosen the grip he had on the animal’s flanks, to offer it respite, the moment it steadied out, from what annoyed it.
In this fashion, Risen subtly trained in very short time the beast beneath him to accept a gentle grip of his legs. Had it been any other way, he would have hit the forest floor several times over in short order. Risen decided almost instantly that the clod who sat in front of him was an average equestrian at best. It was exhausting to try to maintain his balance as the soldier had a lazy habit of leaning backwards to stabilize himself, thrusting his shoulder blades into his young passenger and throwing him continually off balance and nearly off the back of the horse.
It was miserable going, and within the hour Risen’s legs ached. Even worse, the small of his back burned. He was thirsty, having drunk nothing since waking this morning. Was that just this morning? Why had he not drunk water when he’d arisen? He made a mental note that, if he survived, he would never again allow that to happen, allow himself to be so careless.
His thirst intensified as the day wore on, the backache becoming almost unbearable. He closed his eyes and concentrated, sent his mind back to a time in the forest, a few precious days with his father. It was a good memory, a strong memory, and despite his anguish, the boy’s face softened as he recalled what his father had taught him. Risen could still hear his words…
* * *
They’d done tactical maneuvers for two days straight without water.
At the outset, Ravan told him, “You must know how important water is. Food you can survive without for days, but without water, your will die. It feeds your heart.” He thumped his fist against his chest. “Without it, your enemy will have you, and it will strike you first here,” his father warned him as he rested his hand on the small of his son’s back.
“I don’t know,” Risen admitted. “I think hunger is so much worse. I would hate that even more.”
Nodding, his father only said, “We shall see.”
Six hours in, the hunger gnawed at him in a terrible way. Risen wanted to stop, to make a fire and roast some delicious grouse and be done with all of it.
“Father, I understand now, and I believe you. Thirst is the worse. Now, can we please camp and build a fire?”
Ravan only smiled, and onward they pushed. By dusk the second day, it was exactly as his father had said it would be. Almost unbearable, an awful pain throbbed in his lower back, and his skin burned, unnaturally hot. Risen bit his lip hard to prevent the tears from coming. He believed he would sacrifice his own hand for just a sip of water.
At last, the test was done, and father and son camped together in the woods. Beside the fire they sipped cool water together. His father instructed him to close his eyes, made his son feel the life of it trickle down his throat and back into his heart. And, it was just that, a physical sensation of well-being, of coming back to life when all was so unbearable, when it seemed truly possible to die of thirst.
* * *
The horse stumbled, snatching Risen back to his miserable present. He glanced at Sylvie, but her head bobbed wearily, and she did not look up. He wondered how far they’d gone, peered overhead at the darkening gray blotches between the tree branches. It was hard to tell the time of day or the direction in which they were headed. They’d not yet crossed a river, so they were either headed north or perhaps east.
“Suffering can distort time,” his father had once explained to him. “It can make minutes stretch into hours, or make a single night seem like the solitary beat of a heart.” Ravan’s eyes had gone to that faraway place that they sometimes went.
“That night, the one you speak of. It’s that night, isn’t it?” Risen asked. “Y
ou mean the one in the prison with Uncle D’ata.” His curiosity could not be restrained. “Was it like that—that night? Fleeting, like the beat of a heart?”
This had prompted his father to turn his gaze away, his lips grim and his jaw set. Ravan hadn’t answered. Sometimes, Risen wondered if his own face was painful for his father to look upon. He’d heard the rumors, knew that he reminded his father of D’ata. His uncle had been the bravest man Ravan had ever met—that was what his father told him. Risen wished he’d known his uncle, wished he had the strength of heart to do what this man had done—to love another human being enough to lay his life down for him, after only knowing him for a single night.
The sky looked blacker now, and as the horse slid down a small embankment, Risen decided that this particular suffering made time slow to a crawl. Never mind, though. His father would figure out what had happened to him and find him. Of this he had no question. He once watched his father track a fawn across a dry pine-needle floor and pull the brush aside just enough for his son to see the yearling deer grazing thoughtfully across a small meadow.
“Here…see here,” Ravan whispered of the trail. “Do you see? The needles are imperfect, misaligned, bowed and scuffed.” He pointed at the trail but, try as he might, Risen could not see a difference. “Don’t worry,” his father had assured him. “Someday you will see as clearly as if it were a road.”
They will pay. When my father catches us, they will be sorry they’ve ever taken a breath, Risen thought to himself, gaining some small satisfaction from it. But his face remained blank, his outrage hidden, for he was cautious—unwilling to spark any anger amongst the foreign band of men.