†
Pierre Steele immediately enlisted his services to Duval. He was not a trained mercenary, not like the rest of the men, and had no serious potential either, but Duval was content to get what work he could from him. Perhaps with Steele he could buffer the losses he'd taken during the chase of the boy.
Nearly a week had gone by at the Inn, and Duval decided that Ravan was healed enough to survive being transported. He hadn't checked in on his prisoner—not even once since their conversation—but guards were stationed at Ravan’s room and around the Inn to prevent another attempt at escape.
It was a ridiculous gesture, really. Ravan could scarcely make it from his bed to the door. The guards squinted through the doorjamb at intervals, curious of the gangly youth whose capture had demanded such resource of a man so formidable as Duval. Ravan ignored their stares, intent on recovery, strength…and revenge.
Steele was driven entirely by rage, by the disfigurement Ravan had vested upon him. The wound was hideous, and Pierre was prone to proud flesh. The wound had already started to calcify in his nasal passages, and he was increasingly forced to breathe from his mouth, making his breath putrid and foul, his mouth forever dry. The ragged red and purple suture line was mending unevenly, stretching the surrounding skin in tented pockets, and it took on more and more the effect of a freak as time went by.
It enraged him when he heard giggles behind his back, and no amount of fury seemed able to stifle the observations of women. He was a terribly vain man, and despite his gross obesity and otherwise unattractiveness, he was convinced that his new appearance made him considerably less appealing than he otherwise should be. He also took no responsibility for the causative event.
Pierre vowed to finish his initial intent with the boy. He fantasized about the rape, losing himself in his self-gratification, masturbating violently. Naked images of the boy coalesced in and out of his sordid mind, always culminating in an orgasmic murder.
Duval’s men kept close notice and reported the progress of the young captive. Ravan’s breathing seemed one-sided still, as though he couldn’t catch his breath, and the slightest effort winded him terribly. The swollen left eye had shrunk enough that he could finally see from it, the deep laceration over it healing quickly. His right thigh, impaled through and through during his fall, seemed to trouble him, but with great effort he was able to hobble about the room.
Pierre watched him with keen interest, planning his moment of revenge. It was becoming an obsession for him. He reported to Duval that Ravan’s color was not so ashen and that the fire in his eyes was beginning to burn brightly once more. Steele was not sure what caused the fire to be there, believing vainly that it was the boy’s fear of him that caused it—that the boy sensed what his fate would be. Pierre did not speak of this to anyone. He only told Duval what he wanted him to hear—that the boy could travel.
“Then we leave tomorrow,” Duval announced.
* * *
Outside, the snow piled deep. Winter woke up from its yawn and bellowed like a hungry bear upon Limoge. Icicles hung frostily down in front of the windowpanes like prison bars, ritualistically completing Ravan’s entrapment. By keeping his clothes from him, Duval made Ravan vulnerable. It was just another safeguard against him trying to escape, a pathetic notion, really.
The boy hobbled about the room with his bedclothes wrapped around him. Sometimes, he leaned heavily against the windowpane, looking out at the birds that flitted from bough to bough in the barren trees, trying to escape the winter’s torment. He absently slid the copper ring up and down the silver chain, and it made a soft “whirr-whirr” sound. Ravan was going nowhere.
He thought of the orphanage and wondered how the Old One was managing. He thought of the other children and wondered if they were negotiating the winter safely. They had all been so kind to him, and it warmed his heart. The orphans were each in some way like him, and he considered them all, in a singular way, part of him—of the same cloth. When one was hurt, it hurt him. When one was happy, it made him happy as well. He wondered if they thought of him, if they could know of his circumstances, of what had happened. He frowned and hoped they did not, for it worried him that it would burden them. There could be nothing worse than to shoulder even one of the orphans with more worry or pain.
It was tragic that one so young as Ravan should worry about such things, to have such sadness, such deep and convicting sorrow. Nevertheless, 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 now was a feeling. Lately, he couldn’t even remember her face. He’d told himself he would not forget her, but time, especially for one so young, can steal things such as the memory of a smile 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 his mother 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—none who could help.
Birds 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 starlings 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, 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 would be 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 after he’s finished with you?” Ravan continued, matter-of-factly.
Pierre bristled instantly, obviously 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 toward 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, controlling 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 one such as Pierre, it bode poorly for Ravan.
His frown intensified as he stomached again 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 has 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. Nevertheless, 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 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 him so that he would not suffer the trip north in the cold, but one of the men snatched it roughly from her.
Laughing, the mercenary shoved her viciously away as he pulled his own waistcoat off. He yanked and pulled, trying to force the overcoat on, but it was too small for him, and he scowled, tossing it onto the ground before stomping upon it.
When the Fat Wife was shoved, she stumbled backwards and fell unceremoniously into the snow, her bulk shuddering. She struggled to get her feet under her and 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. However, his voice broke with anguish, and he sobbed, half out of breath, half out of misery.
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, and daylight spun about him as he lay paralyzed on his side and vomited, retching only bile as he’d not yet eaten today.
The transport rig was little more than a cage on wheels, locking, with rails and a cover of canvas over the 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 also flea-infested, but there were a few tattered blankets. Ravan would not freeze to death on the long, bumpy journey, 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, clutching them and pulling himself around. Straining, he 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 as he drew a blanket over his shoulders.
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. It was several hours later before Ravan glanced into his lap to notice what Duval had thrown at him. Turning it gently in his hands, he discovered 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.