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  A few short months went by, and the French domain, nestled south of Paris closer to Orleans, 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 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 if that were the case.

  And then there was the memory of the dark one—the mercenary who’d come to protect the tyrant only to sweep Nicolette away on a fearsome flight across the land. He’d 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’s what the townspeople said, and they were at least partly correct.

  When she returned without him, no one dared speak the unspeakable, 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, acted as though nothing at all had ever happened. She, above all, seemed extraordinarily unaffected by the entire affair. And then…there was a wedding day murder.

  Now, most days Nicolette was nowhere to be seen, and on evenings she would only rarely step beyond the castle grounds. The villagers kept watch for her as though she was an apparition, and when she sometimes appeared, they would assemble quickly, calling to their Lady. On these few occasions when she was noticeably public, she greeted them with a kind but silent expression. She would wave but, as always, disappeared 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 not active 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.

  Within a few short months, all subversion was extinguished and treachery uncovered. She’d seen to any discontent’s immediate elimination and soon had an elite court with which to work. All were faithful; all were just. None questioned the strange beauty who commanded them. Reformation 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 on. 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 she’d born 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, Adorno. 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’d grown to trust her, and was this not her son? Would this baby not be the heir of it all, inherit this vast dynasty? Yes, it would! And so the town was thrilled with hope and rejoiced openly in celebration when the infant boy was born.

  She remained at the side of the crib as evening slid into night, watching. The baby was scarcely a month old and something happened. This infant son had planted within Nicolette the first notion of trepidation she’d ever known, ever. This was unusual, for Nicolette’s demeanor did not follow the emotional makeup of the rest of the world. She was neither trapped by the laws of the Earth nor the rules of passion that life forced onto the creatures that slogged upon it. 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, for the first time ever.

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

  * * *

  Her guard, a Swiss pikeman, had been painfully loyal to his mistress. Even when Nicolette had murdered her husband on their wedding night, he helped to cover up the crime. Never mind she was awash in Adorno’s blood, the dagger lying in the bedclothes. 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 in his bloody tomb forever.

  “Moulin?” her 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 instantly 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’d seen her naked, tied and trussed upon Adorno’s bed, and he grieved her abuse, suffering the indignity of it even when she did not. Becoming fiercely protective of the strange beauty who came to stay when it was decided she would be betrothed to Adorno, Moulin was at great odds for being unable to protect her from him—his master.

  Before the wedding, it’d been his job to free his mistress after the rapes, to unfetter her bonds. He was immensely conflict for this, primarily because he should see her naked after she endured the rapes, but then because of the undeniable desire he felt for her when he saw her nude on the bed, even in such a dreadful state as that. 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 suffered as he recalled those dark events of days gone by. Adorno 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. After, as the days and 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 to…for her hand in marriage. But there was never a moment that allowed him 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 massive door open, entering to her call.

  “Moulin, I was wondering…” Nicolette motioned 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 lad
y, not while I am at hand. It would not be wise.”

  She nodded, “Mmm…” 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 couldn’t 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 child.

  Ravan remained a mystery to Moulin. He’d 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’d 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—after him. This was now the Ravan dynasty, and she’d become its perfect ruler. The fiefs were flourishing and the coffers filling. There was not one element of the new rule that was not better off for the unusual woman sitting barefooted before him.

  But perhaps she’d named it thus on account of the heritage of the child, because it would have been bad luck to do otherwise. Ill begotten as it was, the mercenary was the father. That was it, he convinced himself. That was why she 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 the child?”

  Moulin’s eyes shot open in surprise. All children were baptized, or so he thought. It hadn’t really occurred to him until that moment 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’ve 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 of them, “I’m 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 as 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 of this, as though 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 Ravan 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 he’d bartered for his brother’s corpse—he’d 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 first, Ravan went to the church and robbed it only of as much as he thought he would need to complete his tasks.

  “I do this for one of your best,” 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, he was extremely lucky. There was the mare, and its owner was evidently 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 the purchase of 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.

  Now relieved of the slower steed, Ravan continued his trek north and west. 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.

  His resources were dwindling, for he’d 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. He had just enough gold left to manage that. But 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 taken from him when he’d been imprisoned.

  No matter; the new knife sheathed at his belt was fine enough…for now. He’d purchased it befor
e 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 sincerely 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 recognizing 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 one who could fashion such a weapon as this, for they were rare, indeed.

  “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 was a handful of patrons within, and a blazing fire crackled on the large, open hearth. For a fleeting second, he was reminded of the Fat Wife—of when he’d lived and worked at an inn so long ago.

  This paralyzed him, and he glanced further 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’d always done.