Risen

By Sharon Cramer

RISEN
Sequel to The Execution ~ Book two of The Wintergrave Chronicles

Ravan has been given a chance at a new life. Unable to live without his beautiful Nicolette, his first task?...journey to save his lover from the tyrant who’s taken her.

The dark mercenary, Ravan, has been given a chance at a new life. Unable to live without his beautiful Nicolette, his first task?...journey to save his lover from the tyrant who’s taken her. Believing it will be a venture against all odds—a death mission—he discovers instead a world of happiness he’d never imagined possible. But old enemies lurk in unforgiving shadows, turning his newfound joy into an unspeakable terror.

Now Ravan must learn to depend on those most loyal to him while embarking on a flight like no other. The Turkish empire is his final destination as he tries desperately to save his son. Little does he know Nicolette is fast on his heels to help in ways that only she can.

When their worlds collide in the Ottoman Empire, a dark mercenary, a sorceress, their son and the crippled girl he loves, find the power to rise above all and overcome for the noblest of reasons—perfect love.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sharon Cramer
• Release date: Aug 1, 2014
• ISBN: 9780983943785

Sharon Cramer

Sharon Cramer is an aspiring time-traveler, alien princess, and master painter of Halloween faces. In the meantime, she writes from a dank, dark cave, somewhere in Washington State. She is currently working on a Sci-Fi/fantasy series called THE CERULEAN STAR, and has a breakthrough, medieval paranormal novel series—The Wintergrave Chronicles—beloved by an amazingly loyal following. When not painting monsters and planning historical ruin and perfectly crushed hearts, Sharon can be found wandering the woods of Eastern Washington, talking to herself. Driven by sleeplessness and a seemingly endless draw to the keyboard (and the occasional extra strong coffee) she is inspired by unorthodox friends and extreme weather. Mother to three sons, a good horse, and an assortment of fish (most of which have names), she is married to a man who surely has won the Nobel Prize for Extreme Tolerance.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

†

Ravan sat in the grave, arms around his brother.

CHAPTER ONE

†

Stripping naked in the dim starlight, he laid the priest’s robes next to the corpse. Ravan frowned. He had never before undertaken such a task as this. It was not that he was unfamiliar with death or even particularly averse to handling mortal remains. This, however, was different. He loved this man, and the tender act he was about to undertake was as difficult as anything he had ever done.

Kneeling, he carefully undressed the dead man. Shortly they were both naked—the mercenary and his brother—one of them beautiful, cold, and asleep forever. Ravan could scarcely bear to look at the thinner frame of his twin. He refused to recount the sorrow that had robbed his brother of his will to live. Draping the robes over the naked body, he dressed himself first.

Before long, Ravan again wore the familiar clothing of a mercenary, absent his armor. Pulling his boots on, the ones his brother had worn to the gallows, he prepared himself for what he must do next. Kneeling, he handled his brother tenderly as though it were a lover, carefully dressing him one last time in the robes of his beloved church, enshrouding his twin’s kindness along with his body.

It tormented Ravan to see the mortal laceration on D’ata’s chest, the arrow launched by his own hand. Frowning, he passed his fingers over the wound, grimly lingering upon it as though he might brush the mark away. He believed himself unworthy of the sacrifice his brother had made—giving his life as he had…for him.

He stood up, his back and knees aching. Why did he feel so weary, so old? He was a young man yet felt as though he had lived forever.

Pacing the distance just so, for he wanted the grave to be perfect, he gauged where he must dig. Then, minute by minute, hour by hour, he dug the pit, working well into the night. It was so deep that he could scarcely look from it before he stopped. He dragged himself from the grave and brushed the dirt from his hands as he considered the brother who lay as though sleeping nearby.

Walking to the gelding, the mercenary pulled a bulky, wrapped item from the pack and returned with it to his brother’s side. Carefully, he swathed the body of his twin in the bolt of burial linen, bought with nearly his last coin. It was Cezanne linen—although he did not know this—and starkly perfect, bright in the darkness of the night. It seemed, in some awful fashion, wrong.

Ravan gazed at the peaceful face of his brother for a long time before pulling himself from the sad limbo and willing himself to finish this awful task. Then, with a broken heart, he draped the beautiful face of his brother, obscured now forever.

Never again would he see his twin; never again would he look upon the kindness of the one who came like an angel at his darkest hour. It was so awfully terminal, but there was nothing that could be done.

He swallowed his grief and steeled himself before stepping a last time into the grave. Standing on tiptoe, he was able to wrap his arms around the corpse. Easing his brother to his final resting spot, he sat for nearly an hour, holding and rocking the body of a man he had come to love in a single night. His tears fell freely, silently—streaks of salty mud on the tortured face of the mercenary.

Now, quite earthen and weary from such a heartrending task, he hauled himself from the grave one last time and entombed his brother. As the pit slowly filled, his mind relived the last night he spent in the cell, the night the young priest came to save his soul. He had come to know his brother—the twin he had never known about—in that one night.

How had such a thing happened? How had fate orchestrated such a string of events? He had been sincerely astounded when the priest appeared. Initially, he hid his surprise from the holy man, unwilling to accept spiritual charity, instead mocking the priest’s purpose and kindness.

It had not mattered, though. The tale of two brothers had escaped them both, and D’ata had, in the span of a singular night, compelled Ravan to love him. It was that simple. Then, his twin had tricked him, opened the gate to a life of freedom, and sacrificed himself at the gallows.

Sitting at the edge of the gravesite, the mercenary whittled a small cross from the enormous willow that towered, arms stretching greedily, over the grave. Notching the pieces so that they were well joined, he held them up and examined his modest efforts to see if it was acceptable; if it would respect the final resting place of his brother. When it satisfied him that it would, he secured the pieces together with the silk cord cut from his own longbow. Without the bow, his arrows were useless. The sacrifice rendered him weaponless except for his axe and knife, but that mattered not at all. D’ata’s burial was all-important. Nothing could be considered until it was supremely done.

The hours stretched on as Ravan placed stones around the grave. Fitting the last one into place, he was surprised to be done. He had lost all concept of time as his memories played like one grand, sorrowful loop in his mind. The stones were substantial, each about the size of a man’s head. He had handpicked them one by one, sometimes wandering several hundred yards away to find just the right stone. It was a tedious undertaking, taking most of the rest of the night, but he was satisfied in the end.

He brushed his hands together and squinted, studying the last resting place of his brother. Simply dignified, the grave was meticulously arranged, carefully dug, then surrounded with the white and speckled stones. It was, he thought, beautiful, and the best form of respect he could provide his brother given such extenuating circumstances.

Nearly done, he took one of the speckled stones in both hands and pounded the unmarked cross into the damp, newly dug earth at the head of the grave.

Nearby, the horses pawed their impatience. A clear and starry night, it was barely bright enough to cast a sad shadow upon the lonesome scene. The lack of any moon made the task of burying his brother just dim enough to be miserable.

He lingered, arms crossed, staring at the freshly-turned mound of earth. Then, reaching up, he grasped something and pulled it from around his neck. Bending over, he carefully hung the small copper ring—the one he had worn the better part of his life—onto the little wooden cross. The ring was significant, given to him as a gift when he was quite young by an old man who had loved him dearly. Years later, it was strung on a silver chain when he outgrew it, by a woman who had also loved him like a son.

It was most fitting that his twin brother should have it. He had worn the ring and chain most of his life. They had become symbols for him. Whenever things were most out of control, whenever he believed he could not persevere, it was the soft grate of the ring on the chain—the whirr-whirr as he ran it up and down—that calmed him, steadied his mind, and quieted his heart. It pleased Ravan to be able to make such a small gesture for his brother.

Now he evaluated his efforts. D’ata’s grave was a good grave, deep and even, worthy of the man laid to rest in it. Now, it was done. D’ata lay at last next to his beloved Julianne and their unborn child. The hand-hewn, wooden cross was in odd contrast to the massive white stone at the head of Julianne’s grave. The marble angel that perched on it had watched, observed the strange visitor perform his ceaseless task. Once Ravan had looked up and thought he saw the angel cry. But surely it had only been the night playing tricks on his eyes.

A long night, a long life, threatened to get the best of the mercenary. This was not right. His brother was not supposed to die, was not supposed to take his place at the gallows. A crafty one his twin had been…and compassionate, loving to a fault. That had been his weakness. That was his undoing. Had it not been so? D’ata had given his life for his brother—the hated one, the feared one, the mercenary.

Clearing his throat, Ravan tried to find his tongue, to offer some final respect, but words refused to come, and for a long moment he simply stood between the two graves, his head bowed, his matted hair falling across his battle-hardened face. I’ve known you such a short time but believe I’ve known you forever, he thought and was surprised to feel tears threatening again.

He brushed them roughly away. How had one so tender fooled him so completely? I only just found you–only knew you for one night!

Dropping to his knees on the edge of the grave, he took up a handful of the earth. Turned and damp as it was and packed on his brother’s body, it was almost inviting. He pondered just stretching upon the grave, sprawling above his entombed brother, and remaining there forever. Ravan was weary—physically and emotionally spent. When, he wondered, had things gone so terribly wrong?

He tried to remember if there was a time in his life when things were not horribly out of control. Now, at twenty-four years of age, he was exhausted, starved, beaten—and free. Wait…hadn’t his brother said that was the greater good? That he would die so that his brother could be free? He had refused the terrible barter his twin proposed, but D’ata had his way after all.

Ravan’s eyes narrowed. Would it be for nothing? Would his brother’s sacrifice be meaningless? He shook the cobwebs of the last few, harrowing days from his head and forced himself to think clearly.

For the first time in his life, he was unchained, unfettered, and most importantly, unknown. D’ata’s deed had given Ravan the greatest gift of all. Everyone thought it was the mercenary who swung three mornings ago, when in reality it was his holy twin brother who had taken his place, leaving him drugged and sleeping in the dungeon.

He placed both hands palm down on the grave, yet unwilling to part from the brother he had so singularly come to love. Love, that elusive, beautiful target. He sought it his entire life—the freedom to love. There was a handful of people whom he had loved and who loved Ravan in return, and he was acutely aware of the grace of this. This one, however—this brother—this twin was the most divine of them all. He made the ultimate sacrifice even though he had seen him only twice in his life—at his birth and at his death.

Overcome with the benevolence of the gift, his head was clearer than it had ever been. He stooped and scooped up a small handful of the damp earth. Carefully wrapping it in a remnant of the burial shroud, he tucked it inside his tunic, into a pocket close to his heart. Then he brushed the earth from his hands one last time.

Finding his voice, it broke as he whispered, I should have known you longer.

Ravan gazed at the stars, spoke to where he thought—hoped—his brother might be. May you have the peace you have so long searched for. Then, as an afterthought, he added, "I envy you, brother. I would die for what I believe you now have. If not by my side, then it is my sincere wish that you be at hers."

Turning from the grave, he stepping onto the bay mare. His mount was fresh, and she pranced in place, obviously wishing to be gone from this task and off into what was left of the starry night, but Ravan held her just a bit longer.

As a sliver of darkest pink claimed the horizon, he promised D’ata, murmuring respectfully to his brother’s grave, I shall try to be the man you believe I am. Then he spun and started into the breaking day, north, to find…

…her.

CHAPTER TWO

†

Nicolette leaned her thin frame over the cradle, her ebony hair falling carelessly over a starkly white shoulder. The hand that stroked the head of the child was ghostly pale against the complexion of the sleeping infant. It was a peculiar picture—the willowy creature, so exotic, draped in a gown so deeply red as to be almost black, leaning as though suspended over the baby’s bed. She stood barefoot on the stone floor of the castle.

Gently smoothing the soft hair of the child, she studied the infant, her deep, green eyes passing the length of the babe. It stirred but did not waken. Reaching for the tiny blanket, she swaddled her son so that the night’s dampness would not chill him. Satisfied, she rested both hands on the edge of the crib and leaned her head to one side. It was a lovely baby, with raven hair and soulful eyes. When she gazed at its face, it reminded her of him.

It was the first time today that she thought of Ravan. She did not mourn his loss; did not grieve the unknown destiny of her lost lover. It was simply not of her disposition to be so consumed, for Nicolette did not question the ebb and flow of fate. Neither did she allow it to run unchecked, for though she believed the universe could not be controlled, she certainly believed it could be manipulated. She was fearless in this way, and it was this odd fearlessness that frightened some a great deal. Even so, he slipped into her thoughts on occasion—claimed a memory from her.

No one could have predicted the entrance of the mercenary called Ravan. He had come into her life uninvited, and she left his without hesitation. There had been no other way. They were lovers; of that there was no question. Even more, there had emerged a connection between them that could not be denied.

But, in the end, there was only so much that could be done. The dark one was destined to fall, and he would have died on that fateful day had she not stepped in to spare him. Nicolette had orchestrated as much grace as she could for him, agreeing to marry the tyrant Adorno in exchange for allowing Ravan to be tried by the state. After that, his end was to become his own, and word was the feared one, her lover—father of her infant son—had swung from the gallows in Saint-Jean-de-Luz.

His memory fleeted across her subconscious again. Even as strong as she had been, that was a terrible time. Leaving her lover on the cliff’s edge, she was forced to return to the Bourbon estate and wed the dreaded Adorno de Bourbon. It was an arranged marriage, and her betrothed was a despot, filthy and cruel as a rusted blade.

Adorno had seethed with jealousy, for the babe yet unborn was already conceived of her on their wedding day. He knew this—knew that it was not his child, knew that the mercenary had been between her legs. No, it was begat of him, the heathen—Ravan—and Adorno’s intention had been to destroy the child, to rip it from her after the ceremony was sanctified.

This was not to be, however. His awful intent had gone unsung as Nicolette foiled his plans in a most unpleasant way. The grisly execution was manifest on their wedding night. She skewered him with a blade, even as he consummated their union. It slipped between his shoulder blades as he slipped into her. It was a perfect murder, and left the realm free of the tyrant Adorno.

Rumor flew through the castle, details of the horrific event. Nicolette, awash in blood, had been so dreadfully calm. Her husband, Lord of the Bourbon dynasty, was discovered spitted upon their wedding bed, supremely undone. But he had been despised by his entire domain, and treacherous as the crime might be, nothing was more monstrous than he. There was no mourning the dead ruler, and he left no heir apparent. Following, Nicolette—an English bride of a French realm for not even one day—stepped into the role of ruler and renamed it the Wintergrave Dynasty.

At first the township was terrified. Certainly the tyrant, Adorno, had been cruel beyond compare, but what would become of them with their new mistress? Could she be any better? Would she be as cruel, for certainly it would take one as treacherous as Adorno to marry him?

Their fears were unfounded. In a sweeping reformation, Nicolette restored compassion and stability to the dynasty in a remarkable way. She immediately planned a food reserve for lean years, forgave debt, and reduced the heavy taxations that Adorno had burdened them with. Suddenly gone were the cruel punishments of those taxes unpaid. There would be no more amputations, no more rapes, no more torture. It was as though an angel, albeit a very mysterious one, had come to rescue them. And it all happened in the flash of a blade.

A few short months went by, and the French domain, nestled south of Paris closer to Orléans, came to love their new leader despite their belief that she might not be of this world. It was true; Nicolette was unusual beyond all reasonable speculation. The black-haired beauty, so thin as to be almost starved and with eyes of green obsidian, rarely moved amongst the crowds. Her voice was soft, the touch of her hand tender, but there was a countenance about her that was otherworldly. This could not be denied.

Some townspeople whispered that she was a witch. Some suggested she was born of a peculiar lot; that nothing else could explain her unconventional manners. Others speculated she was a messenger—a mysterious arc-angel, perhaps, come to rescue them from Satan’s reign.

Nicolette heard the rumors but brushed them aside as nonsense. And what did it matter? Perhaps she was an unusual creature, but she was a welcome one at that.

And then there were the rumors of the dark one—the mercenary who had come to protect the tyrant only to sweep Nicolette away on a fearsome flight across the land. He had absconded her in the black of the night; stolen her and galloped from the castle on a steed that breathed fire. One man was left beheaded in his wake, another turned to stone. That was what the townspeople said, and they were at least partly correct.

When she returned without him, no one dared speak the unspeakable or wonder at her awful fate at the hands of the mercenary. To do so was to invite the wrath of Adorno, and so all remained grimly silent and acted as though nothing at all had ever happened. She, above all, seemed extraordinarily unaffected by the entire affair.

And then…there was the wedding day murder.

Now, on most days Nicolette was nowhere to be seen, but on some rare evenings she would step beyond the castle grounds. The villagers kept watch for her as though she was an apparition, and when she appeared, they would assemble quickly, calling out to their Lady. On these few occasions, she greeted them with a kind but silent expression. She would wave but, as always, would disappear nearly as fast as she appeared, behind the walls of her keep. There she would remain until they might next catch a glimpse of her.

This was not to say Nicolette was inactive within her court. She called her assembly frequently, sometimes at very odd hours. Midnight would barely have perished when the court might be summoned to her council chambers. Her officers complained of this but never did so openly to her. That would not have been wise. True, her hours were odd, but her purpose and intentions were flawless.

And so, within a few short months, all subversion was extinguished and treachery uncovered. She had seen to any discontent’s immediate elimination and soon had an elite, compatible court with which to work. All were faithful; all were just. None questioned the strange beauty who commanded them. Rehabilitation of the realm began.

Nicolette believed she had a purpose, an obligation to those within her domain, especially those without resources. Along with her belief in this obligation came the realization that there was always something that could be improved upon. When an idea or thought struck her, it was her nature to act on it at once, even if the sun was not yet up.

And then another miracle—the child! The village was elated with this news! A son, an heir to the dynasty! This sparked a new wave of gossip, for there was broad speculation that the infant boy was not of the tyrant. Who then was the father? Could it be? It must! It must be the mercenary—the fiend who stole her! And so it was a bastard’s child and born of rape!

But what of it? They had a monarch now, and she was kind and beloved by all. True, her lineage was English, but they had grown to trust her, and was this not her son? Would this baby not be the heir of it all, to inherit this vast dynasty? Yes, it would! And so the town was thrilled with hope and rejoiced openly in celebration when the child was born.

Nicolette remained at the side of the crib as dusk slid into night, watching. The baby was scarcely a month old when something happened. This child had planted within Nicolette the first notion of trepidation she had ever felt, ever. This was unusual, for Nicolette’s demeanor did not follow the emotional makeup of the rest of the world. Instead, her existence was of another plane, or so the whispers suggested. Even so, the child had done something to her, given her pause for his very existence—and this set her on edge in a terrible way.

Moulin? she called gently as she stroked the forehead of the sleeping baby.

* * *

Her guard, the Swiss pikeman, had been painfully loyal to his mistress. He even helped Nicolette to cover up the murder. Never mind she was awash in Adorno’s blood, the dagger lying at the bedside, Moulin covered the grisly face of his lord and never again spoke of it.

Now he was her personal castellan and stood outside her door, as he always did. There was no wish, no desire, that he would not try to satisfy for her. Even that awful night, while his mistress had calmly washed the blood from her hands, he set the stones that sealed the wedding chamber, locking Adorno away forever in his bloody tomb.

Moulin? he heard her call again for him.

He had a habit of doing that, of allowing her to call for him twice before answering. And his heart stirred to hear her say his name, for Moulin was in love with Nicolette. He was not only in love with her, he burned for her.

Long ago, he had seen her naked, tied and trussed upon Adorno’s bed, and he had grieved her abuse, suffering the indignity of it even when she did not. He became fiercely protective of the strange beauty, but Moulin was at great odds as he was unable to protect her from him—his master.

It had been his job to free his mistress after the rapes, to unfetter her bonds. He suffered such internal moral conflict for this, primarily because he not only saw her naked after she endured the rapes, but because of the undeniable desire he felt for her when he saw her nude on the bed, even in such a dreadful state. It gave him a terrible sense of depravity, and he rebuked himself for this, but it never removed the truth of it. He wanted nothing more than to have her as his own.

Moulin silently suffered as he recalled those dark events of days gone by. His master had raped many, but Moulin’s service had been to only Nicolette—Adorno’s betrothed. He averted his eyes as best he could at those instances, appalled by the debauchery, embarrassed for her. But she never reacted as though it was anything extraordinary. As was her way, Nicolette had almost shrugged the events off as insignificant. It was just one of the things about her that astonished him to his very core.

And all of this was before the barbarian, Ravan, had come and swept her away, before her return, and before the fateful wedding murder. As the months went by, she came to rely on Moulin as her closest confidant. And now, with Adorno and the mercenary gone, he allowed his imagination to run free. Consequently, the very presence of her stirred his soul and awakened in him feelings he barely kept at bay.

He fantasized that he could, would, eventually have the nerve to approach her, and ask of her what he longed for…her hand in marriage. But there was never a moment that allowed him to be any closer to this dream than the shadowy hopes of obscure make-believe.

And so, he was dutiful and attended her needs impeccably, only murmuring to himself, when he was perfectly alone and on the fringe of sleep, the words he longed to say out loud to her.

My lady, what is it you desire? Are you not able to sleep? He pushed the heavy door open, responding to her call.

Moulin, I was wondering… Nicolette motioned for him to approach before walking to her dressing table. Pouring a draught of brandy, she raised it to the candles, inspected the rich amber by the light of the fire, then offered it to her most trusted guard. Because it is late, she murmured as she held the drink out for Moulin.

He shook his head, No, my lady, not while I am at hand. It would not be wise.

She nodded, M-mm… and sipped the brandy herself before taking a seat and motioning for him to sit opposite her. He hesitated but finally crossed the floor and situated himself on a lovely brocade bench, glancing at the sleeping baby as he walked by.

He could not help but notice the child as he passed. It was stunning, so beautiful with its warm complexion, hair, and eyes. Furthermore, it had the nose and the forehead of its father—of that there was no doubt. The dead mercenary had sired this babe.

Ravan remained a mystery to Moulin. He had never known for certain the fate of the one who kidnapped his mistress nearly ten months ago. The black wraith had dragged her from the castle that cruel night and escaped with her upon the destrier stallion. They flew on the wind. It had been a horrible and prolonged chase to bring Nicolette back, Moulin heard, and she returned on that same stallion—without him. Then no one ever again spoke of it. It was as though nothing at all had happened.

After her homecoming, she refused to speak of her ordeal to anyone, never elaborated on the terrible flight, and her betrothal to Adorno was consummated. Before the ceremony, however, her belly swelled ever so slightly with the bastard child. Moulin had always believed the mercenary had raped her—that the child was begat in a cruel way; how could it be otherwise? Certainly she could not have loved him? No, he refused to consider this, that she may have loved the dark one.

Truthfully, he believed he would never know. After the shocking murder of Adorno, Nicolette had renamed the dynasty and become its perfect ruler. The fiefs were flourishing, the coffers filling, and their army was strong and loyal. There was not one element of the new rule that was not better off for the unusual woman sitting barefooted before him.

Moulin wondered if she had named the dynasty Wintergrave in deference to the heritage of the child, but had never summoned the courage to ask her. If it was the barbarian’s name, it would have been bad luck to do otherwise. Ill-begotten as it was, the mercenary was the father. That was it, he finally convinced himself. She had named the realm for him, and then Moulin convinced himself to think of it no more.

To be away from her was unbearable. But…to be with her, even now, with her oddly ethereal behavior, set Moulin’s nerves on edge in an exquisite way. It was the most divine toxin ever, and he would drink of it any chance he could.

Nicolette tipped her head to one side, studying the man seated opposite her. This made him immediately uneasy, for he believed she might see into his mind, could see his heart and the secrets he tried so hard to hide. Moulin shifted his weight, never quite comfortable in proximity to her and certainly not when he was within the chamber in which she slept.

What is it that troubles you, my lady? His eyes narrowed as he suspected something bothered her tonight. It was his belief that she was never quite right since the birth of this child; that something gnawed at her. None other than he likely noticed, but then again, none knew her like he did. He was certain of this.

Waving a hand as though she might wave away any significance of it, she cut straight to business. Should I baptize my son?

Moulin’s eyes shot open in surprise. All children were baptized, or so he thought. Until that moment, it had not really occurred to him that the baby was not. But then, of course he would certainly have been present had it happened. No, he could not remember a baptism of Nicolette’s son.

Madame? The child is not…it has no…? was all he could offer in return.

Of course, he is not. Nicolette’s reply was immediate. It is of no importance to me, but I have wondered if perhaps it bodes one way or another for my son. Her eyes narrowed as she studied first him then the babe. Humanity, the ordainment of your fate, she said generically and as though she was not one of them, I am not certain, for the necessity of the fate of man is elusive to me.

Moulin thought this was perhaps one of the oddest things he ever heard her say and was just about to comment on it when she continued, running her finger slowly around the edge of the brandy chalice. Drawing her knees up under her chin, she tugged at her gown to cover her pale legs.

This is why I seek your counsel tonight. I wish for fortune to be with this human. She indicated her son with a nod.

When he just stared, dumbstruck, she asked him, Have I not made myself clear?

Yes, oh yes, Moulin answered hastily. Of course. I understand completely, and you are correct. Moulin leaned toward her as he lowered his voice, as though no one else knew and it were a great secret only they shared.

"The child should be christened immediately."

He said this not because she pressed him about it, but because he believed the matter to be significant—very significant. It was significant because, at four weeks of age, the child—heir to the entire Wintergrave Dynasty—had no name.

CHAPTER THREE

†

Of the two horses, the bay mare was stronger. She was, by equine standards, a fine horse—a Barb Arabian—but larger than most. That awful day—the execution day when Ravan had bartered for his brother’s corpse—he had seen the mare put up a fuss in the thinning crowd.

Before he could transport his brother’s body, he needed a horse. Before a horse, he needed coin. So, still dressed as a priest, Ravan first went to the church and robbed it of as much as he thought he would need to complete his tasks.

"I do this for one of your best. They should have taken better care of him. He gestured to the ornate Christ figure suspended upon a timber over the pulpit. He now belongs to you."

When he went to the livery, Ravan was extremely lucky. There was the mare, and its owner was going through a rough patch with her. The shabby priest caught him at just the right moment, and the man had been more than willing to part with the disobedient steed. Even so, much of Ravan’s coin had gone to purchase the horse.

Now, four days later and after burying his brother, Ravan left the lesser of the two horses—the grey gelding—in a pasture not very far from the Cezanne estate. He would not see how, the next morning, the farmer would awaken to find a good horse in his field and wonder on the mystery of God for a long while. The man would not, however, report the lost animal to anyone.

Relieved of the slower steed, Ravan continued his trek northwest. Guessing it would take him just under two weeks to reach his destination, he was driven, and the Arab mare sensed his urgency, running relentlessly beneath him. They were exceedingly well-matched, for both master and steed were willing to run until they could run no more.

Ravan’s resources were dwindling for he had spent most of the stolen gold on the two horses, a knife, a hand axe, shovel, and the burial cloth for his brother. Stopping to hunt was not an option, for trapping would have taken too much of his precious time, and his bow was no longer functional anyway after making the cross for his brother’s grave. Foraging was also fairly out of the question, for autumn had breathed its meager silence across the land. But none of this really mattered. To the mercenary, all he had to do was make it alive to Adorno’s dynasty. Then, he would affect what destiny he might, or die trying.

Consequently, when Ravan entered a small village three evenings later, his belly was painfully empty, and the mare had chosen, for the first time since they left the grave, to slow to a walk of her own accord. Respite must be sought. His primary concern was lodging, food, and care for his mount. Second, he would restring the bow and sleep. Then, he would be on his way again…to kill Adorno.

Entering the small town, he was prepared to pay the last of his coin for a good meal and shelter for himself and his horse, and he had just enough gold left to manage that. One night was all he would need. Then, he would ride until his task was done.

Even so, he was surprised to find a small inn, central to the village. Ravan no longer wore the armor of a mercenary, no longer carried a sword at his side. And the knife he created so long ago—pig-killer—had served its purpose divinely but was with her now.

No matter; the new knife sheathed at his belt was fine enough…for now. He purchased it before leaving Saint-Jean-de-Luz, even before buying the horses. Standing in front of the bladesmith, he tossed the elegant weapon from hand to hand before balancing it midway on one finger, inspecting it very closely. After peering down the spine and testing the edge with his thumb, Ravan paid dearly for the knife, surprised to find such a decent blade in the small, coastal village.

The bladesmith had studied him carefully in return as though intrigued that the strange purchaser of the weapon was a man worthy of his craft, oddly dressed though he was in a priest’s garments.

What is your name? Ravan had quietly asked the man, curious of the rare man who could fashion such a weapon as this.

Boltof—and yours?

The question, innocent though it was, carried with it the weight of a boot on his chest. Such a question this was…who was he, now that D’ata had freed him of his past, set his life on a path unknown? Ravan thought for a long time before murmuring, I’m not certain, then he was gone.

Now, the weight of the blade against his hip was comforting as Ravan pushed the tavern door open and stepped inside. He paused, scanning the timbered warmth of the room. There were a handful of patrons within, and a blazing fire crackled on a large, open hearth. For a fleeting moment, he was reminded of the Fat Wife and of when he had lived and worked at an inn so long ago.

This paralyzed him, and he glanced about, startled by the similarity of it all. He half-expected her to step from the kitchen door and greet him, drying her hands on her skirts as she had always done.

Time seemed to crawl to a standstill, and with it sound faded away as well. He became suspended in the vortex of his memories, and all within