The Execution (21 page)

It was tragic that one so young as
Ravan should worry about such things, to have such sadness, such
deep and convicting sorrow. But it was becoming more a part of who
Ravan was, and there was no escaping it now.

As his body convalesced in and out of
reparative sleep, he sometimes dreamed that he was somewhere else,
hunting in the deep forests, or fishing along the creek banks. The
forest had been inviting and strangely safe, considering how wild
it was, and despite his terrible fall.

He tried to remember before the
orphanage, before the Old One had come for him, but the memories
were more like faded portraits, nebulous and vague. The only
certain memory he had of his mother was a feeling. Lately, he
couldn’t even remember her face. He’d told himself he would not
forget her face, but time, especially for one so young, can steal
things such as the memory of a face or the sound of a
voice.

Leaning heavily against the
windowpane, his eyes lost some of their fire as he watched the
birds. It was a crime to imprison another creature and more so for
one like Ravan. His spirit needed the great wildness of wandering
free. Perhaps if he could get back to the woods he would remember
her better.

His heart, for the moment, was free
despite his current dismal situation and he gritted his teeth,
vowing patience. Now, it was evidently determined that he was
healthy enough to make the trip east, and he knew it would not be
long before Duval came for him. He analyzed his resources…none. He
considered his allies, also none.

Barn swallows picked at the ice
between the roof shakes, drilling for insects, a mere arm’s length
from him. Ravan tapped lightly on the windowpane with his
fingernail, sending the swallows swooping from the shakes, free—as
they should be.

He limped back to his bed, dragging
the sheets behind, and was not surprised when Pierre came through
the door with a familiar set of clothes and boots.

Tossing the clothes on the floor next
to Ravan, recognizing it would be difficult for him to bend over to
pick them up, he snarled, “Get dressed you little bastard, you’re
leaving.”

Ravan made a point of avoiding the
man’s eyes and instead, looked directly at the wound on his face.
He painted upon his own face a look of benign satisfaction and
eased himself onto the edge of the bed, splinting his left side
still, determined not to let Pierre see his pain.

Pierre gloated, as though satisfied at
the situation’s ugly turn of events. He seemed gratified that Ravan
was injured, and it appeared that his intent was to injure him
more.

Ravan winced, but managed a
dispassionate grin without ever giving Steele the courtesy of eye
contact. “Do you enjoy being Duval’s little bitch?”

Pierre’s grin vanished.

“
I’ll wager you bend over
to him, too. Is it hard for you to sit?” Ravan continued, matter of
factly.

Pierre bristled instantly, stunned at
the audacity of the boy. He was frozen in his rage. Then he
bellowed like a stupid, insane bull, stabbed by a dung-egret into
an open sore. The jagged wound across his face turned from
brilliant crimson to a deeper, hideous purple. Spittle sprayed and
little flecks of frothy snot spotted the sheeting across Ravan’s
lap.

Standing up, Ravan struggled to stifle
the agony of even this effort and faced Pierre full on, eye to
eye.

A pearl of saliva glistened on Ravan’s
cheek, offsetting the grisly green of his bruised left eye. Pierre
plunged towards Ravan, fists raised, but then—he stopped short. He
trembled visibly, swaying in space as though tethered on invisible
twine, his colossal mass shuddering like a mountain in an
earthquake.

Ravan did not flinch, not one bit. His
smile vanished, and he regarded Pierre with a venomous, acrid
stare. If he’d looked into the looking glass hanging on the wall
across the room, he would have seen that his eyes had turned black
as onyx. His hatred settled about Pierre like blood left too long
in a slaughter pit, disturbing, thick, and deadly sick. “Kill me,
Pierre. Kill me, you pathetic bastard—you know you wish to.” He
hissed, his lip curling back with loathing and contempt.

Pierre’s pale green eyes grew
transparent as his rage peaked, but held. Even as witless as he
was, he took notice, for he'd never seen such a stare as this
before. He stood for an agonizing moment, controlled his rage only
with great difficulty. Finally, charging from the room, he spewed
words of wicked intent, his threats falling weak and broken upon
the one left behind.

Snorting, Ravan smiled to himself—a
test. Interesting...Duval did have control of his men after all.
Then, he frowned as he realized how perilous this meant his
situation really was. He would never underestimate his captor. If
Duval could so quickly gain control of the likes of Pierre, it bode
poorly for Ravan. His frown intensified as he stomached the
incident with Pierre. His hatred was very young—juvenile, in fact,
and it was uncomfortable to invite such an emotion into his being.
It was, as of yet, too raw, too feral, and he was confused, not
quite grasping the power of it.

* * *

True to her word, the Fat Wife found
the knife and buried it in the barley barrel. She rubbed her finger
along the smooth flat surface of it and tested the edge with her
thumb. A tiny crescent shaped sliver of skin flaked outward and she
marveled at it. She never felt the cut but the wound welled up with
red. ‘How had Ravan come by such a weapon?’ she wondered. The blade
held a balanced and dangerous weight to it, and there was something
else she sensed. It lived, as if it needed to kill.

She decided there were many things she
didn’t know about the boy—such a child, such a man. She was
fiercely protective of him and overcome with worry. In a private
moment, she told Ravan the knife was safely hidden, and he seemed
relieved to know, nodding silently. She wished there was more that
she could do for him.

Now she wrung her hands as she watched
the men bind the boy’s wrists and feet and drag him outside, lacy
snow canyons left in the snow where his feet dragged along. He
struggled against the men but was still very weak and easily
overpowered. The mercenaries mounted their horses and assembled
around the captured one, watching, pointing, and laughing at the
drama before them.

She had sewn him a new overcoat of
sheep’s skin with a precious ermine collar; Ravan had trapped the
exotic creature himself. Having worked tirelessly on it while Ravan
convalesced, she now ran to give it to Ravan so that he would not
suffer the trip north in the cold, but one of the men snatched it
from her.

Laughing, he shoved her viciously away
as he pulled his own waistcoat off, tossing it aside. He yanked and
pulled, trying to force the overcoat on. It was too small for him
and he scowled, tossing it onto the ground where he stomped upon
it.

When she was shoved, she stumbled
backwards and fell unceremoniously into the snow, her bulk
shuddering. She struggled to get her feet under her and to compose
herself, shaking the snow from her hands as she got up.

* * *

“
Leave her alone!” Ravan
shouted, furious that another should touch her, that they
disrespected her this way. He twisted to see her as he was forced
roughly into the box. “I will see you again! I promise you this!”
he called to her as he struggled to maintain composure. But his
voice broke with anguish and he sobbed, half out of breath, half
out of anguish.

Pierre cuffed him hard and shoved him
easily beyond the door of the hold.

The horses pawed nervously at the
tension in the air.

Ravan collapsed, fighting for breath,
his thigh erupting in a hot blaze. Pain overwhelmed him, daylight
spun about him while he lie paralyzed on his side and vomited,
retching only bile as his appetite had been so poor.

The transport rig was little more than
a cage on wheels, locking, with rails and a cover of canvas over
top. The tarpaulins stunk with the rancid smell of pig fat. The
makeshift mattress was only burlap stuffed with straw and would
prove to be of minimal comfort. It was flea-infested, but there
were a few tattered blankets. Ravan would not freeze to death on
the long and bumpy journey to northern France, but that would prove
to be poor consolation on the trip ahead.

He stifled his retching and grasped
the rails as the cart lurched and started to leave the courtyard of
the Inn. Struggling to see her, he jerked his fingers in just
before one of Duval’s men rapped the cart sharply with a scabbard.
He ignored the threat, hurriedly returning to the rails, grasping
them and pulling himself around. He strained but couldn’t see her
until the cart was turned almost completely about in the small
courtyard.

Duval, splendid on a striking roan
stallion, rode close enough to the cage to toss something at him.
“Here—a reminder.” Duval paused to make sure the token had landed
into the hold. “If you fight me, if you disobey me, the next time
you’ll get what’s attached as a bonus.” He laughed heartlessly and
spurred the stallion hard.

Ignoring Duval, Ravan continued to
look for the Innkeeper’s wife. He finally saw her and reached out,
his thin, outstretched arm wavering like the strut of a ship’s mast
in a storm. He saw her lift her fat little hand to wave, saw her
cover her mouth with her hands, her small eyes appearing so red,
even from the distance.

She bent over as she wept, sobs
shaking her round shoulders.

Next to her stood the Innkeeper, a fat
sack of gold in his hand. He was loosening it, fingering the coins
even as the band of men left.

She had been his friend, had cared for
him. He reached, watched, his heart stopped. The carriage rattled
out of sight. “No,” the whisper escaped, wretched, from his lips.
The feeling that enshrouded him was dreadfully familiar and his
heart sank into despair.

The cart careened, left the yard and
turned down the lane to start the long trek east. Ravan lay for an
indeterminate amount of time, frozen in space, grieving his
separation from her. As the carriage rattled along and the hours
blended, his heart started slowly beating again. Eternity
eventually thawed and sound dully returned. He pulled his sagging
arm back into the hold, shaking the numbness from it.

Watching with vacant eyes, he saw the
forest close in, a dark curtain against the road while Duval’s men
carried on in fine humor around him. His apathy and despair were
great, and he abandoned any ideas of flight. After an awful
eternity, Ravan looked into his lap to notice what Duval had thrown
at him. He turned gently in his hands the thin, gray braid that the
Innkeeper’s wife normally wound tightly at the back of her neck. He
held it up to his nose. It was a coarse little rope, silver and
black. He could smell the kitchen, could smell her and feel the
warmth of her kindness.

Feeling utterly alone, the boy
collapsed against the railings, gasping a single sob. Order was
gone. The universe was chaos. God was not here.

Closing his eyes, he pressed the braid
to his cheek and wept silent tears.

CHAPTER
SIXTEEN

†

Next Saturday, there were murmurs in
the congregation as D’ata’s absence was strikingly conspicuous. The
whispers continued all morning, and there was an agitated
electricity in the air. No one, however, spoke of it to the Baron
and Madame Cezanne.

The Baron and Baroness avoided
conversation at all costs, staying close to one another
instead.

The congregation’s suspicions were
confirmed. The young priest was smitten with the Lanviere girl,
wicked creature, and now he was gone!

Women were criticized for drawing
attention to themselves, either intentionally or by mere accident.
Sadly, these same women were guilty of judging each other. In
essence, they ate their own, devoured them and spat them out,
fragmented and shunned.

It was Julianne’s fault, in the eyes
of the congregation, and to protect D’ata, to protect the church,
he had been sent away for a time, perhaps forever.

All eyes fixed on Julianne—she was
responsible. She had caused their lovely young priest to be sent
away! The congregation seethed. It became one massive, angry
entity. Never mind it was irrational, as ridiculous as arresting
the prostitute but not the serviced.

Julianne noticed none of them. She was
engulfed in the river of loss that was her own torment. She heard
not a word of the mass as her mind raced. The Latin fell soundless
upon her and she sat wringing her hands. Her eyes welled up with
tears as she forced herself to stare down at the words from a page
of her prayer book.

She was unprepared for this. It was an
impossible situation and she’d awakened this morning with a clear
head. After thinking long and hard on the whole affair, and then
sleeping on it, she decided the right thing to do was to terminate
the blossoming romance—but to remain friends. A friendship would
make the whole situation so much more neat and tidy, and God would
not disapprove. Then, they would still be able to see each other,
to talk.