Risen

  She bit her lip. “Do we find him?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is he…does he…” What she wished to know was the unthinkable.

  Niveus shot her a glance. “Why do you ask such a thing of me? Is it because you believe I know?” She did not ask it in an accusing way, was in no way angry with Moira’s question. She was only intently curious.

  Moira gazed back at the pale face of the child. “Niveus, I love you.” There were no more questions.

  This caused the child to briefly flit her eyes to Moira’s before they again took up their watch over her shoulder. She said nothing more, but for Moira it would have to be enough. Smoothing the starkly white hair behind the little girl’s ear, she left Niveus behind, praying that God would watch over the lost child until she could return.

  The mist continued to swirl, and Moira was glad that she’d taken her heavier cloak. Nicolette remained silent as onward they plodded. The evening wore on, and there was next to no conversation, not for the maiden’s lack of trying. On several occasions she started up with some, questions mostly, but her lady seemed content to ignore her altogether. So Moira gave up, lapsing into a brooding silence as she followed behind.

  When evening passed and dusk greeted them, it was evident to Moira that they would not be camping this night. All the better, she thought. She much preferred to be on the horse and moving along if the wolves came. At least the clouds had broken apart, lacy curds against starlit whey, and from behind them shone the moon, a beaming beacon for their pilgrimage.

  The women rode through the night and well into the next day. The clouds reassembled themselves, and it became quite grey, the sky hanging low enough that Moira imagined it nearly touched the tops of the trees. The light was peculiar, she thought—that ambiguous sort that made it difficult to tell if it was indeed almost nightfall or just tricks played on her eyes. All the while, the sparrow followed.

  Still they spoke scarcely a single word to each other, and it was Moira who, at long last, broke the silence on this second day. “My Lady, it is reasonable that you should be tired. We are of no use to Risen if we cannot endure. And the horses…” She left it up to Nicolette to imagine what the issues might be for their mounts.

  It took a great deal for Moira to say even this, for she believed herself entirely responsible for Risen’s absence. Consequently, as they rode she tried to allow Nicolette to be the one to suggest when they might or might not stop. But, as it appeared she would not, and Moira was nearly exhausted, almost so that she thought she might tumble from the saddle at any moment, she finally summoned the courage to speak. When it seemed Nicolette hadn’t heard her, or chose not to reply, her spirits fell.

  The blending of grey on grey had lent Moira’s mood to self-loathing. This was contributed to by the long journey, but mostly it was for her perceived failure to protect Risen from being lost. She saw this as a terrible breach of trust on her part, and wondered if her Lady really did forgive her…and after Master Ravan and Lady Nicolette had been so kind and generous to her. She owed her very life to the boy’s father! Just thinking of Ravan allowed her memory to drive her thoughts to twelve years before.

  * * *

  It was a wondrous stretch of days, when Ravan saved her at the tavern. She witnessed the terrible chain of events, ran to the stables to bring him the mare. And then he didn’t leave her…he rescued her.

  Onward they rode, the dark knight so thin, so quiet, so strong. In his eyes was something she’d never seen before. It was like a fire that could not be spent; it was a burning of the most amazing sort. This man was driven. Moira had never witnessed the sheer determination of what one such as he possessed. It nearly exhausted her, his very presence, and when she could scarcely ride any farther, he placed her in front of him on the mare, held her as she slept, and rode on.

  When they at last reached the castle and approached the gates, he told her that it would be a battle, that she would need to find safety the moment they were past the gates…and that he would likely die that day. But that was not at all how it happened. The dreaded one—Adorno—was gone! The guard at the gate told them so. They were escorted into the courtyard, and the mystic beauty and all within her realm welcomed their new master with open arms. And what a reunion it was! Never before had Moira seen a kiss like that. It was destiny of the most beautiful sort, and then…there was the baby.

  * * *

  Moira was caught very much by surprise when she spoke. She appeared almost startled and nearly apologetic.

  “You are right,” said Nicolette. “I am preoccupied. My apologies, Moira. We have journeyed quite far, so let us stop and rest—us and the horses. Then we can be on our way first thing at daybreak.”

  “Of course, my lady. As you wish.” Moira was greatly encouraged.

  The road they were traveling on was scarcely a road at all. There were times when it dwindled away to nearly nothing, a tangled path through the dense forest, and times when the trees seemed to steer them one way or another, just with the slant of their limbs. But, unusual as it was, Nicolette appeared calm and determined, never wavering from her course, and it amazed Moira a great deal.

  Once, when there was only one possible path that could bring them down to the narrow trail that wound along and down a steep incline to a small valley below, they stepped from the stand of trees to the exact, correct spot. It was as though there was a string attached to the boy, and they were being pulled by it.

  More curious was the way Nicolette rode the horse. Seldom did she even lift the reins. The mare simply walked on, not altering her stride or direction, moving as though the delicate woman upon her back was a part of her.

  Now they strayed from the road a bit before Nicolette pointed and remarked. “Here.”

  She indicated a small clearing that had unexpectedly opened up in the middle of the smoky woods. It was closed in, nearly perfectly round, and the tree branches were so thick overhead that it would afford some shelter even if it rained. It seemed the perfect, safe meadow to rest.

  Moira untacked and hobbled the horses and was surprised to turn and discover a little fire already crackling at the edge of the glade. Good, she thought. Fire was always the best, first thing. It was their most primal defense and would give them light and safety in the approaching darkness. Yes, the horses would alert them first if predators were nearby, but if the wolves came closer, they’d sniff the smoke and likely just leave for, other than man, fire was not a friend to wild creatures.

  Nicolette was unrolling the hides when Moira approached, kneeling softly next to her. She hesitated before rallying her courage, taking her mistress by the hand and squeezing it gently.

  Nicolette paused, peering into Moira’s eyes. “What is it?”

  “My Lady…” Moira struggled, her words heavy on her heart.

  “Nicolette,” she said kindly, “Please…call me Nicolette.”

  Moira nodded. “Very well.” She took a deep breath. “Nicolette…I—I just wanted to say…” She was very nearly overcome with emotion and looked away, trying to spare Risen’s mother further pain.

  “Moira, what is it?” Nicolette seemed genuinely confused.

  “I’m so…sorry. I’m so sorry I lost him.” There, it was out.

  The dark beauty’s eyes softened, and she held Moira’s hand with both her own. “There is a current to life, my dear. Risen is gone because there is a tide to be honored.” She returned Moira’s hand to her own lap. “He cannot escape it; it has drawn him in. You could not have altered this.” Nicolette went back to smoothing the hides as though that were all there was to it.

  “How can you believe this?” Moira persisted. “How can you think that this is destiny, that his fate is cast? He could be…he could be…” She almost said that he could already be dead.

  Nicolette tilted her head and observed her companion in a most unusual way. “Not destiny, my child.” She said this even though they were nearly the same age. “No, God controls none of this. It is fortu
ne of quite another sort.”

  “I don’t understand. What is it you mean? And then, are we seeking to change it?”

  “Unlike fate, fortune can be altered…if you know how. There is no fate but what we devise.”

  Moira was swiftly overwhelmed with an unusual sensation, as though they were there kneeling in the meadow for a reason, as though the events about to unfold were already prearranged. Even more surprising was that Nicolette lifted her hands very abruptly and stood up. Extending both her hands, she looked down at her traveling companion—her son and daughter’s nursery maid.

  “What?…I…” Moira was confused.

  Nicolette reached for her all at once and hastily helped her to her feet.

  At that very instant, the horses snorted and spun, heads up, having sensed something the women could not yet see. Then, from the opposite edge of the meadow, three men appeared, riding into the clearing and across the small expanse, straight up to the women.

  Moira was immediately worried. She’d thought it unwise to travel without guards, very risky indeed to leave Moulin behind. True, the state of the dynasty could be at grave risk. England was very determined, and domains were falling every day. Even so, she’d been afraid to leave with only Nicolette, without at least a single escort.

  “Where are your men?” one of the strangers—the most calculating appearing of the three—asked straight up. He commanded the question as though the women were his servants.

  Before Moira could fabricate an answer, Nicolette said flatly, “We travel alone. But why does this concern you?”

  This brought a string of chuckles from all three of the men. The leader appeared not ready to believe the women and scanned the edge of the woods as though waiting for men to reappear. But, certain as Nicolette had claimed, there were only two horses to be seen.

  He took it upon himself to carry the conversation. “That is unfortunate.” He was less cautious now, empowered by his belief that perhaps the women truly were foolish enough to travel alone.

  “It is not, and your presence is not welcome here either.” She stood her ground firmly, Moira inching up behind her all the while.

  Blatant laughter erupted from the three, but it was not pleasant. When it died away, the leader swung his leg over the neck of his horse and tossed the reins to his companion before sliding to the ground. Then, pulling his gloves off one finger at a time, he approached the two women slowly, deliberately, a filthy grin revealing poorly kept teeth.

  Moira scrambled, started to move in front of Nicolette, but was pushed gently aside by her mistress. It immediately surprised her how strong Nicolette was, for she scarcely gave the impression that she might be able to break a petal from a flower.

  To the obvious surprise of the unwelcome stranger, Nicolette stepped forward to meet him head on. The man was large, not nearly as tall as Ravan, but heavy in a sturdy way. His beard was ragged and longish. He and his men had obviously not seen the comfort of civilization for some time. Moira instantly believed them to be thieves.

  “Leave,” Nicolette commanded. “You are not welcome here, and there is nothing to be gained by your staying.” She indicated the direction from which they’d come.

  “Oh…I think there is.” The stranger was perfectly comfortable to lay his intentions straight before them and began to ungird his belt.

  Astonishingly, the sparrow appeared from the blanketing dusk to alight on Nicolette’s shoulder. It’s beady, black gaze branded the intruders as well. Moira’s stare was immediately fixed on her lady, for Nicolette’s countenance so abruptly changed that it was simply…terrifying.

  The woman’s head fell back on her shoulders, and her eyes closed. Her mouth opened, but no sound came out. It was so startling, and evidently enough to make the man pause, for that is exactly what he did. When Nicolette’s right arm lifted, fragile as an icicle, her finger pointed at the man with the loosened trousers. All the while, the sparrow watched.

  There was a span of simple confusion when no one said or did anything before the two mounted men realized their leader could no longer breathe. His trousers sagged as both hands went up to his throat, and no sound escaped. The men swung swiftly from their horses and leapt toward Nicolette as though they might break whatever bizarre hold was upon their man.

  Her head snapped upright, and her eyes flashed open. Clear as a frozen lake they were, and as her other arm flew up and toward the two advancing men, both stopped, not yet as incapacitated as their leader but struggling nonetheless. Nicolette’s mouth remained unmoving, but from it came a soft sound—a hushed, falling sound—like the dropping of dirt into a grave.

  Moira was frozen in place, her handless arm over her mouth, her expression as shocked as it had ever been. She simply stared, unable to tear herself from the strange cluster of silent beings as her mistress controlled them as effortlessly as she might draw a curtain from a window.

  Time was finally broken by Moira’s gasp. She hadn’t even realized she wasn’t breathing, had held her breath since the beginning of the strange altercation. With her breath came awareness, and she moved.

  “Nicolette!”

  Nothing.

  “Nicolette, stop! You’re killing them. They cannot breathe! You must stop!”

  She staggered toward her but halted when Nicolette’s head snapped sideways. She could, for the first time since the strange incident began, clearly see her eyes. Moira was stunned to see there were no eyes at all. They were simply crystal clear globes where the color should have been. Moira gasped.

  Then the transparency dissipated, and Nicolette’s eyes returned as they should be—dark green, damp, and whole. She remained unmoving as the leader crumpled to his knees, his hands clawing viciously at his neck, leaving deep red scratches that seeped blood.

  “You must not hurt them so. I think they will leave now, if you let them live,” Moira pleaded, her gaze locked on Nicolette’s.

  As though it was almost incidental, Nicolette nodded and softly dropped both arms. The tiny sparrow disappeared into the canopy above. All at once, all three men gasped for breath, drawing deep lungfuls of air. The leader’s face was by then a dreadful ashen grey, his lips a pale blue, and he remained weakly on his knees until color returned. Then, lifting his head wearily, he cast tortured eyes on the dark beauty.

  His voice was a torn whisper as he cried, “What…what magic is this? What wicked—”

  Nicolette cut him off, and he cowered like a whipped mongrel as she did. “I believe all wickedness has been fairly vanquished. You need only to leave for it to be gone entirely.”

  It seemed briefly that she would take a step toward the man, and his eyes shot open further, as though he feared exactly this. He acted as though he might have something more to say but reconsidered. Staggering to his feet, he backed unsteadily away from the two women. He clutched at his fallen trousers and struggled to re-belt his pants. Reaching for his horse’s reins, and with some difficulty, he pulled himself up onto the steed.

  Facing the women one last time, the man’s eyes lingered first on the strange woman who almost killed him and then on the maiden who helped spare him. Without words, the three turned and rode away, swallowed up shortly by the black woods and the silence of the night.

  Moira turned to face her mysterious friend. She trembled, not at all certain if she was more shaken by the awful intentions of the men or from the exhibition of her mistress. She was about to say something when Nicolette spoke first…as though their conversation had never lapsed in the slightest.

  “What is done is done. There is no fate. However, circumstance might decide to have an unfortunate way with Risen, and so I must find him so that I might control it. That is the all of it.”

  Moira was stunned. She stared in awestruck silence and could only watch as her lady simply returned to readying their camp. Nicolette behaved as though nothing—absolutely nothing out of the ordinary—had happened.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  †

  T
he village they sought was farther east, much farther. Ravan and his men had ridden without stopping for nearly two days. His men were exhausted, and so were their mounts, but his troop would have ridden another two without complaint. Such was their loyalty to him, especially Velecent.

  There was another who once stood fearless at Ravan’s side. He’d been a giant, a fearsome one to even look upon. Their friendship had been unusual, tested by death and despair. And then…Ravan had killed him.

  That was a terrible time—to lose LanCoste by his own hand. The greatest agony had been that Ravan would have willingly died in his friend’s place a thousand times over. He’d not meant to harm him, had not meant to release the arrow that would so mortally strike him, his only friend.

  But it was done, and the sound of the giant falling still echoed in the mercenary’s soul. It’d leant itself perfectly to his own despair as the days turned into weeks and the weeks into months in the castle dungeon in St. Jean de Luz. And, he likewise believed he had lost Nicolette.

  But then, the night before his scheduled execution, a wondrous thing happened. He was visited by the soft-spoken priest, met for the second time in his life the robed angel named D’ata. On that night, he was visited by…his twin. How perfect it was that he should know his brother. He believed their one night together to be the most sacred hours of his life.

  Ravan physically shook himself, shook these memories from between his ears. It would serve Risen poorly to spend his time lost in thoughts such as these, bittersweet though they were. He could drown in these thoughts, spend eternity there, had spent eternity there. It was his nature—had always been. But a child had since been born, and this child had the face and beautiful spirit of his brother. It was D’ata reborn—D’ata victorious. Risen was destined to be. Ravan was convinced of it.

  With a sudden renewal of strength, Ravan led his men to the edge of the small town of Tonnerre. It was scarcely light as the ragged band of men pulled up to the only livery. A man, much too old to be tending horses, hobbled from the stables.