Even with the extra care, Risen’s spirit fell and his appetite waned. His weight slipped to the point that his fingers rested within the creases of his ribs when he hugged himself in his sleep. He became obsessed, searching for Sylvie almost all of his waking hours, his eyes locked on the entries to the holds. But he never once saw her moving amongst the confines of the vessel.
“Please,” Risen asked the boy, “is she all right? Have you seen her?” He indicated his own long locks as though meaning Sylvie’s, hoping the boy would remember the day Sylvie had given him her hair.
The boy babbled in a tongue that Risen could make nothing of, indicating first the bow and then the stern of the ship. He seemed satisfied with whatever information he was passing on and moved beyond Risen with no more to be said.
William, also mysteriously absent until seven days later, according to the scratches on the massive rib of the ship, appeared quite suddenly in front of Risen’s face one night, startling him awake.
He shot upright and exclaimed too loudly, “Where is she? Is she all right?”
William motioned for Risen to lower his voice. “She lives. She is safe.”
This information alone was nearly enough to drop the boy where he sat, and he struggled to keep his tears from betraying his weakness. “She lives? Oh, is she well? Can I see her?”
“She is up yesterday, only just then strong enough.” William knelt by Risen. “I believed she would not survive, but there is a strange tea aboard that appears to fortify. This was all she took for several days. But the tea and a yellow rice sustained her and, I believe, her memory of you.”
“Me? She asks for me?”
“When the fever held her, she did. Now she says next to nothing at all. The girl loves you. Of that I have no doubt.”
“Where is she? I want to see her. Please, can you bring me to her?”
William shook his head. “She serves the officers now.”
This set Risen immediately back. “They will harm her! I know they would!”
“No, they cannot. She is a slave now—belongs to the Sultan—and she will be his to do with as he pleases. But until then, they are quite enamored with your fair Sylvie.”
“Can you bring her to me? Let me see her?”
“I cannot. She is forbidden to leave the galley or servant quarters. But I keep close watch on her, Risen. I will not allow her to come to harm.”
Risen was elated that she lived but yearned to see her, even if just a glimpse. “Please…to the deck door. Bring her just to the door so that I might see her face, just for a moment.”
William seemed uncertain but nodded he would. “In the dark of the night, I will. But only long enough so that you see that she lives.”
Risen nodded his gratitude and swallowed his worry. Before he could say anything more, he felt William press something into his hands. Looking down, he saw his knife, the one that he lost in the scuffle at the livery. His eyes widened with surprise. “But…”
“Hide this, wherever it was the first time you hid it—your boot, I imagine. I know the crest of this blade. I know without a doubt you are who you say you are.”
This surprised Risen, and again he acknowledged in a proud whisper from where he’d come. “I am Ravan’s son, from the dynasty of the same name.”
William bobbed his head slowly. “Yes, Risen. Your father is a dreadful foe, one Yeorathe and Tor should never have taken on.”
“He’s met my father before, hasn’t he? Before the strike.”
“Yes, when you were barely born. And should Yeorathe have his way with you, he would kill you on the mark. But you are valuable to him alive.”
“I don’t understand?” Risen was confused.
“You are noble and carry yourself like a warrior, young as you are. Your skills—they are already obvious. The Sultan will believe you have a destiny, and Yeorathe knows this will fetch a great price.” Then William indicated the knife again. “It is yours; I’m assuming your father had something to do with the fashioning of it. When the time comes, a warrior needs his blade. But careful you do not create that moment in haste. It must be just the right time.” He slapped Risen gently on the knee. “You will know when it is at hand, and it will not be aboard this ship. You would wind up skewered for sure and cast for the creatures of the deep to feed upon if you begin something.”
Risen hid the blade, indicating that he understood. “My father has taught me patience is an essential strategy when at war.” Then he asked, “So you still wish to help us?”
William regarded the boy with a sad sincerity. “Surely you understand that we are outnumbered and undone. It will be a valiant effort, but we—and your lovely Sylvie—will likely not escape from this with our lives. I cannot lie to you.”
“My father rose above worse than this. I will as well.” His eyes flashed with pride.
An expression of sincerity crossed William’s face, and he spoke no more of their fate. “I will bring Sylvie to the door, Risen, son of Ravan, so that you might look upon the one you love.”
These words warmed Risen’s heart, and he added swiftly, “Oh, please, and can you give her a message for me?”
“I can.”
“Tell her-tell her…” Risen struggled.
“I should tell her that you love her?” William offered gently.
“Tell her that I’m not sorry we ran.”
This appeared to surprise the soldier somewhat. He agreed to pass on the message and disappeared down the row of condemned men. Risen repositioned himself, squatting for a while on his heels. It was too warm and stifling in the hold. His joints ached from the long confinement, his buttocks sore from sitting so long on the roughly hewn planks. He yearned to be with his father in the woods, running through the cool expanse of the forest, smelling the sweet earth and hearing something other than the incessant slap of water next to his ear and the oar drum.
His thoughts went briefly to his family. He knew his father would be searching for him, knew that a hunt would be underway, but he was at a loss how Ravan could possibly track him across the expanse of water that seemed to go on forever. For the first time in his life, he doubted his father could succeed, but he didn’t blame him. It would take a man of godly might to orchestrate his salvation, he believed.
It made his heart feel good to think of his father and his mother. They were wonderful parents and tried to give him the means to survive. He would not have made it this far had he not spent those long days learning from this extraordinary man who called him son, that and the late evening hours when his mother debated mind and body, purpose and conviction with him. Young as he was, he’d learned to trust his own mind, to believe in the power of it over circumstance.
A sad smile tugged at his mouth, and Risen looked up just in time to see William at the aft door. For a second he believed him to be alone. Then, from around the hip of the soldier, appeared Sylvie. There she was, so fair as to be nearly transparent. Risen breathed an audible sigh at the sight of her and lifted a hand to wave softly.
She was an angel, a beautiful messenger standing alone on a battlefield. Risen thought her frail as a flake of snow and was suddenly so outraged, again, at those who’d taken them. But he swallowed his hatred and tried to force an expression of kindness and hope, for he knew Sylvie would want that.
A fleeting glimpse of relief passed over her features, but she did not smile, only returned the wave, lifting her arm and hand as a leaf on a breeze, first to her lips and then toward him. She was only there for a second and was then gone again, and Risen blinked, unsure that he’d even seen her at all.
It would be seven more days before they would make the port in Antalya.
* * *
Yeorathe was complacent. He was nearly home, but as a Seljuk Turk by faith, he must pay a long overdue tax. True, he had in his keep the unrighteous pillages of his campaigns, mostly gold, and five slaves to be sold—all children. The auction would pay well for the males, but the Sultan would pay most handsome
ly for Ravan’s son.
Because of the taxes he owed, Yeorathe had been forbidden to return to the Ottoman Empire, to set foot on his homeland without making good on his debt. He was indignant about it, one of those dispositions that believed that his right to own land should be without fees. Most of all, he coveted the gold he’d pillaged and was largely unwilling to part with any of it, even if it was for debt he owed. It had been nearly a year since the barbarian had set foot on Antalya’s shores
Standing on the deck of the slave ship, he peered into the distance. This was his least favorite part of the campaigns—transporting the “goods,” but his pilgrimage was nearly at an end. He would return to his homeland now, enjoy a season of warmth and gluttony, and return to the godforsaken west only after he’d had his fill and then some.
Greed was familiar to him, an old friend, and it settled warm in his gut as he considered his options. Yes, he was nearly positive that almost, if not all, of his debt could be made right through the sale of one particular slave boy—the dark-haired one that sat a horse so well. Then he would keep his gold and be out from beneath the cursed tax, free to stay or go as he pleased. When his appetite for pillaging returned, and it always did, perhaps he would return to Europe, perhaps Hungary. It was always better to plunder a foreign land than your own, he thought.
His chest puffed out with pride. He intended to deliver his enemy’s son to the Sultan personally. The Ottoman militia would make him a martyr, and Risen would die for the Sultan’s cause. And when he did, Yeorathe would make certain that word was sent to the Ravan Dynasty…that the wretched father would know.
Yeorathe thought of Sylvie. He should kill her now, dump her body as so much swill. But then he thought that maybe there was some worth to her after all. She was uncommon enough to perhaps be of temporary value, but only time would tell.
Yes, it will be good to be home.
An unpleasant smirk contorted the wicked face of the single eyed man as the faint, white frosting of white cliffs danced on the watery horizon. Antalya was in sight.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
†
“I do not wish to sell the boy on the general market,” Yeorathe argued. “Why would I sell him there? Why are you even here, on this boat, as it is?”
“My job. I handle the prisoners—remember? And the others, to bring their shares back. They do not trust you.”
“Hmmph.” Yeorathe eyed William closely. “But Ravan’s bastard is worth more sold to the Devsirme. We will take him beyond Antalya to Isparta to sell him and the girl.” He paused, studying the response of his first in command. The Englishman had been distant as of late, more so than usual. And there was a vigilance to him about the female slave.
The female—she appeared to be a weakness for William, and Yeorathe was at a loss why. True, if the Englishman had not pulled her from the hold, she would have perished, but what of it? She would be sold as a sex slave, most likely, or as a servant, perhaps. True, her appearance was uncommon, although Yeorathe strongly preferred the darker complexion of the women in his native land.
It’d been some time since he’d seen home and the women there. The prostitutes were sturdier, lithe and velvety soft for the oils they smoothed upon their skin. No, the captive girl, with her bent leg and delicate countenance—a stiff breeze would blow her to the ground—and Yeorathe despised weakness.
So what was it that possessed William to care at all for her? Yeorathe brooded a bit further on this, for it had irked him greatly when his intent for the girl—to rape her back at the inn that night—had been foiled. Yeorathe wondered at his own desire, to have the waif with the uncommon hair and eyes that looked as though they would fall from their sockets.
He’d meant to be done with her that night, to satisfy a need, a growing ritual. No one but he knew his true intent had been to rape and then kill her…slowly. She was no more than a soiled towel to him, to be used and thrown away. Yeorathe had done this seldom enough before, but it always left him supremely satisfied to degrade the victim so horribly and culminate it with a slow murder. And it was children, he discovered, who suffered this the best for him.
Strangely, he did not question that his need for this ritual had grown these last few years, and he fed it like a rich queen feeds an over spoiled child. Oddly, it was nothing he shared with anyone. He could not seem to make that leap. Brutal as war was, cruel as mankind could be, he was not willing to step beyond, not willing to allow mankind to know that he was not just a rapist of children, he was a killer of them.
So, something prevented him from telling. On the surface, his behavior had been something he considered a perquisite of his job, as though he was simply entitled. But if one dug deeper, which he was careful not to allow, he knew he would be judged for this—considered, in some way, less of a man.
Yeorathe focused his intentions back on the Englishman, and his rancor rose. His ire for the halfwit Englishman had recently grown, for William had not only countered his intent with Sylvie, he’d shamed him in front of the men. This had pinched him ever since, and he attributed it entirely to the soldier’s own desire for the child. Of course; it must be so; it could not be any other way! Not so long ago, he’d seen William at his worse, had seen the extent of drunken debauchery and death this one was willing to dispense. Now, foolishly, Yeorathe passed judgment over the man and believed he, with his dim-witted English heart, was beyond repair.
So he was vigilant of the female child. What of it? Yeorathe harrumphed. That must be it, of course! William had meant to use the girl for his own needs, probably already had. It was all of a sudden clear to the general why the Englishman would covet the European girl. She was simply to his liking.
Well, then so be it, Yeorathe thought, for he simply could not comprehend it any other way. Let him rape the child himself, with his weak argument about her pureness and all. But, when it was all said and done, Yeorathe would have it his way. Sylvie would be sold when the time came, for gold was always preferable to gratification. Gold could purchase anything one desired. And with his growing spoils, he believed his gold would make him a king in his own right. He could have ten Sylvies!
Yeorathe shrugged his judgment of William off and foolishly overlooked signs that something was changed about the man. Passing his palm over his beard, he twisted his fingers, pulling it to a gnarly point. He’d done this so many times before that the hair spiraled to a point off his chin, giving him an even more sinister appearance, more than was already gained by his singular, peering eye and perpetual snarl.
His musings were interrupted by the Englishman. “Very well. We will go inland to sell the noble child to the Devsirme,” William countered, “but the female will go with him until we do, for he will be unruly if she does not.”
“What do we care of it? Drag him to the sale block if he objects, by his testicles if need be!” Yeorathe was losing patience.
“You claim to recognize that this slave will serve well in the Janissary; his disposition fit for that.” William gestured to below the hold, to where Risen remained shackled. “Complicate our last quest and you risk destroying this. He is worth all of the others together; you already know this, but his weakness is the female. Remove her and he will destroy himself in his effort to destroy you. Of this I have no doubt.”
“As I said—”
“Drag him to sale by his heart if you wish, but you know he will be worth nothing if he does not stand defiant on the block. You know this, Yeorathe. It is the same as with a horse.” William minimized it in terms he hoped the lout would understand. He knew his argument was weakening. “Let us not have come all this way to have your pride destroy our profits.”
Yeorathe grunted and sneered, lifting the corner of his lip just enough to reveal a rotting incisor. “For now, then. But if the bitch annoys me or slows us down, I will kill her as soon as look at her.”
William only nodded, and went below.
* * *
The massive slave vessel pulled into th
e port, and the first thing Risen was aware of was the lack of pitch with the boat. Just when he believed he was entirely forgotten, for the other slaves were already gone from the hold, William came for him.
As his bonds were released, Risen asked, “Sylvie, where is she?”
“Still below. I will go for her next.”
Risen’s right ankle shackle fell away, and as it did, the hilt of the knife showed briefly over the top of his boot. William’s eyes caught his. He only stared until the boy nodded, a silent agreement that he would not incite their freedom until the moment was just right, until William signaled it would be so.
The boy pulled his trouser leg down over the hilt of the blade, hiding it, and struggled to stand for the first time in nearly two weeks.
“Are you all right? Can you walk?”
“Yes,” Risen ignored his weakened legs and stepped toward the galley. “Take me to her.”
Through the belly of the nearly vacant hold they wandered, to the rear quarters where the commanders were generally housed. Here was where William had been bunked, and going straight to his berth, he pulled the curtain aside. There, curled on his bed, lay Sylvie, a vacant expression on her lovely face. She appeared almost not to notice them.
Falling to his knees, Risen took both her hands in his. “Sylvie, we are landed.” He whispered. “We must go now. William will help us to escape. We can go home, and…”
As his voice trailed off, Sylvie’s eyes blinked, and she focused on his. “Where, Risen? Where will I go when we go home?”
“Me! You will stay with me, at the castle.” Risen’s voice caught as he added, “I have something for you. A colt, Sylvie, beautiful as you’ve ever seen, born the morning we were taken.” He smiled and blinked tears from his eyes. “Remember? He was mine all along. Father promised, and so he is mine to do with as I please. I was going to give him to you. A surprise, and we could train him together. Because…” he allowed his voice to trail off.