Risen Read online

  RISEN

  By Sharon Cramer

  Copyright 2014 Talking Bird Books LLC/B & F Publishing

  Smashwords Edition

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Copy edited by D. L. Torrent

  Cover design by Elana and Justin Westphal

  Publisher’s Note:

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places and events are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to real persons, places, or events is entirely coincidental.

  Author’s Note:

  The backdrop for this story is fourteenth century France and the Ottoman Empire. However, I have interpreted, within this period, events, timelines, characteristics, and people—both fictional and real—in a loose manner that may not coincide with the actual historical course of events. I have done this solely for the purpose of literary embellishment. It is my greatest wish that the reader would enjoy simple and gratuitous entertainment of this piece of historic fantasy.

  PROLOGUE

  †

  Ravan sat in the grave, arms around his brother.

  CHAPTER ONE

  †

  Stripping naked in the dim starlight, he laid the priest’s robes carefully next to the corpse. Ravan frowned. He’d 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. No, he’d had his fair share of exposure to the dead, on one occasion hiding beneath several fallen men on a battlefield. Tonight, however, was different. He loved this man, and the tender act he was about to undertake was as difficult as anything he’d 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, refused to recount the sorrow that had robbed him 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’s corpse tenderly as though it were a lover, carefully dressing him one last time in the robes of the 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 accord. Frowning, he passed his hand 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…taking 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’d 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 nearly 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 dead man who lay 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 in linen, obscured now forever.

  Never again would he see his twin; never again would he look upon the kindness of the one who’d come 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 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’d 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 heart-rending task, he hauled himself from the grave one last time and entombed his brother. As the pit slowly filled, his mind relived the one night he’d spent in the cell, the night D’ata had come to see him, come to know his brother.

  How had such a thing happened? How had fate orchestrated such a string of events? He’d 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 hadn’t 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.

  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, 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, and eventually Ravan placed the last of the stones around the grave. Fitting the final one into place, he was surprised to be done. He’d 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. On some level, he’d realized this as he hand picked 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 that it was well worth it in the end.

  He brushed his hands together and squinted, studying the final 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. Although it was light enough for Ravan to accomplish what he set forth to do, 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. Reaching up, he grasped something and pulled it from around his neck. Bending over, he carefully hung the small copper ring—the one he’d worn the better part of his life—onto the little wooden cross. The ring was sincerely significant, given to him as a gift when he was quite young by an old ma
n who’d loved him dearly. Years later, it was strung on a silver chain when he outgrew it, by a woman who’d also loved him like a son.

  It was most fitting that his twin brother should have it. His entire life he’d worn the ring and chain. They’d become symbols for him. When his life was most out of control, whenever he believed he could not persevere, it was the soft grate of the ring on the chain—the ‘whir-whir’ as he’d run 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. Ravan hadn’t known D’ata, never even knew he existed until three nights before when the young priest had come to see him in the dungeon, to give him last confession.

  At first, he’d not welcomed his brother’s visit, had been unwilling to feed his soul to a holy man, even if it was under such peculiar circumstances such as they were twin brothers. But as the night unfolded they each shared their own strange tales, both of them inconceivable but heartbreakingly true, nonetheless.

  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 from his undertaking and thought he saw the angel cry. But surely it’d 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 wasn’t supposed to die in his place, wasn’t 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, horribly 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 just then and was surprised to feel tears threatening again.

  Brushing them roughly away, he was angry, not so much for the tears but because his brother had been so divinely successful with the ruse, sacrificing himself so superbly in his stead. He was the warrior, not his brother! How had one so tender fooled him so completely? I only just found you–only knew you for one night. It wasn’t supposed to be this way!

  Dropping to his knees, he knelt on the edge of the grave. The earth, turned and damp as it was and packed on his brother’s body, was almost inviting. He pondered just stretching upon the grave, sprawling above his entombed brother, and remaining there forever. Ravan was weary. More than anything, he was bone tired. When, he wondered, had things gone so terribly wrong?

  He struggled, tried to remember if there was a time in his life when things weren’t 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’d 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, stepping to the gallows for his twin, 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’d 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’d so singularly come to love. Love, that elusive, beautiful target. He sought it his entire life—the freedom to love. There were a handful of people whom he’d 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’d seen him only twice in his life, at his birth and at his death.

  Overcome with the benevolence of it all, his head was clearer than it’d 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 approached the horses, stepping onto the bay mare and leading the gelding. 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 the dead man, 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’d 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 had 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’d been, that was a terrible time. Leaving her lover on the cliff’s edge to become a victim of the state, she’d been forced to return to the Bourbon estate and wed the dreaded Adorno deBourbon. It was an a
rranged 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, 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’d slipped between his shoulder blades as he’d 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, victim to a wicked crime. But he’d been despised by his entire domain, and wicked as the crime might be, nothing was more monstrous than he. The dead ruler was unmourned and 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 Ravan dynasty.

  At first the township was terrified. Certainly the tyrant, Adorno, had been cruel beyond compare and terribly feared, 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 match the dead master in hand and deed, 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 mysterious, uncommon one, had come to rescue them. And it all happened in the flash of an eye.