†
Duval was surprised at how little resistance he met from Ravan over his new and sudden assignment. The mercenary stood before his master, outwardly the epitome of the savage he'd become. For all his horrible countenance, none really knew the man beneath the armor. No one speculated upon the heart or the soul of this one. Blood and death were the mantle this man wore. The child fleeing through the woods was nowhere, no longer to be seen.
“How long?” was all Ravan asked.
“Until I say that you have finished.”
Ravan processed this with a silent stoicism, staring at his feet. Duval wondered if his mercenary had even heard him. At last, Ravan nodded and turned to leave.
“Oh…and Ravan?”
He halted, but did not turn back toward Duval.
Duval drummed his fingers softly on the table before he spoke. “He will be easy to hate, Ravan, but he is of no use to me dead.”
Slowly, Ravan looked back over his shoulder. “I know my job. Do you think all I know is how to kill?”
Duval was surprised by the question and slightly unsettled by his mercenary’s expression. Ravan's face was blank, but his eyes always seemed to speak of something else—something Duval never quite calibrated.
“No, it is just what you do best.” Then, as if an afterthought, he added, “And take LanCoste with you.”
“You waste your resources. How many can it take to defend this man?”
“Do as I say, Ravan; it is not your place to ask why.”
“As you wish,” Ravan murmured and strode from the room.
Duval pulled absently at his beard as he watched his mercenary leave. Ravan always did just as he was ordered, ever since the Innkeeper's wife had been disposed of. Why then did Ravan feel the need to question this assignment? Surely, he did not now prefer the slaughter of battle to standing easy watch over a tyrant? Also, it was unlike Ravan to not prefer the company of LanCoste; the two seemed to have developed a symbiosis of late.
He started to question his decision to send Ravan. Perhaps he was too talented a warrior to waste on an assignment such as this. Maybe he was right; sending LanCoste was a waste of resources. Duval wondered if he’d made the decision to send Ravan in haste, to shake the sniveling Adorno to his core.
Prone to rumination, Duval argued further with himself, playing his own devil’s advocate. Perhaps Adorno really is hated enough to require two bodyguards. Besides, Ravan can not guard Adorno all the time; he needs to sleep sometime. Duval came to the conclusion that the heinous little despot would eventually be a sure target for assassination and almost certainly while he slept. It would reflect poorly on Duval if Adorno was assassinated, at least in the near future. Therefore, Duval concluded that he needed two bodyguards.
Finally convinced that he’d calculated correctly, Duval shrugged his feelings of apprehension off, going back to the ledgers that lay before him. He'd thoroughly enjoyed the spectacle Ravan created when he’d walked in with Adorno here, and pride kept him from changing his mind. He smiled for a brief moment at the memory and told himself it would only be for a while, until Ravan selected and trained one of Adorno’s own soldiers to the task. Then Duval would have him back. Until then, Adorno’s gold could not be denied and was already safely stored in the mercenary king’s coffers.
* * *
The next morning, Ravan and LanCoste set out for the township of Adorno’s estate, LanCoste leading the way. Ravan seemed particularly reticent this morning, and the giant did not press him about it. For as much as they worked together, Ravan and LanCoste spoke very seldom. They had, however, developed an implied language. It was efficient and not without a certain camaraderie. LanCoste glanced back at his companion, and Ravan made eye contact only briefly, shrugged, and then squinted as if to search the hills about them.
It was en route to their new assignment that they deviated a good ways from their designated course, to a small lodge along the way. Ravan stood on the crest of the little knoll, overlooking the Inn. He paused, trying to swallow a thickness which had formed in the back of his throat since seeing the familiar building, smaller than he remembered it. He saw the blanket of forest that spanned behind the Inn, remembered hunting, running, and playing there. It all seemed a very long time ago.
LanCoste rode up next to him, but Ravan’s thoughts were somewhere far away. His memories flooded back to him, wrapping around him as though it was only yesterday. He was surprised to feel tears in his eyes and confused by the heaviness on his chest. Bewildered, he brushed the tears away. It must be the wind, he thought to himself.
The wind shifted, and Ravan could suddenly smell the familiar aromas of succulent roast and sweet bread pudding. It was unexpectedly nostalgic and very comforting to him. He briefly wondered who cooked for Monsieur LaFoote now that…since she wasn’t there anymore.
Reaching absently into his vest, his fingers wrapped gently around the thin, silver braid of hair tucked in his tunic pocket. He gritted his teeth. He was here for one reason alone—to re-claim Pig-Killer from the bottom of the barley barrel. She’d hidden it there, nearly five years ago, and he had unfinished business to take care of. The knife would be needed for this unfinished business. It had its own destiny and could not be denied.
LanCoste said nothing, only sat his horse without words or questions. His eyes squinted deeply, studying the young warrior at his side, and then he simply nodded. Ravan knew the giant would wait for him here, for hours if need be.
Riding down from the knoll, he approached the Inn stealthily from the north side and to the rear—the direction from which he'd so often dragged his kill after hunting for the LaFoote’s. He tied the horse at the edge of the woods and crept silently to the back of the Inn.
The splitting axe was resting against a small heap of firewood, split by another’s hand now. He stood full up and walked slowly up to the building, pausing at the heavy door, laying his palm against the rough hewn wood encasement. Closing his eyes and leaning his head against the door, he allowed the memories to wash over him.
Time ceased. The cyclone of the past swept abruptly against him, and for a good long while he was lost. This had been a good and a bad time, but there was no denying the effect his time here had upon him. He wondered if he’d ever been as happy as he was here—perhaps at the orphanage.
When Ravan was suddenly startled to the present by the boisterous laughter erupting from within the tavern, it occurred to him that the sun had sunk another hand’s breadth deeper. He shook his head, clearing the hauntings from his mind, and focused on what he must do.
Pushing the iron catch, he eased the door open and slipped silently into the kitchen. He was instantly overwhelmed as he looked about himself. Nothing was changed! The enormous stew pots hung as always upon their heavy iron spits. One bubbled slowly with what must be a leek and turnip stew. The pig he'd smelled from the distance lay wrapped in wet cloth in the fire pit, roasting slowly, the damp smokiness of its own casing rising in wispy threads up the chimney flu. Ravan knew the meat would literally fall, succulent and sweet, from the carcass when it was done.
He turned and saw the very stool he used to fall asleep upon, still in the corner near the blackened iron stove. He recalled how he would sit on that stool as she cut his hair, and—
No! This served no purpose! There was nothing to be gained by these hauntings! He shook himself from the heavy wrappings of his past and cast his memories from him. Setting himself firmly to accomplish this one, singular task, he would be away from here straight away.
He was surprised that he trembled. There was nothing to be afraid of anymore as Ravan no longer feared his own mortality. Death would be a welcome visitor at any time, and there were few who would even dare to engage him or offer him such a thing. So what was it that made him tremble now?
He stepped to the pantry and slid the wooden lid from the barley barrel, second one from the left—as always. His arms sunk easily to the bottom as he plunged them down, almost to the shoulders. There was a time not so long ago when he wouldn’t have so easily reached the bottom of the barrel. He fished around for only a moment until his fingers palmed the familiar old friend, just where she said it would be!
Smiling briefly to himself with his success, he did not expect the gasp and crash that came from behind him. Jerking his arms from the barrel, he spun around, barley kernels flying everywhere, showering down about him like cherry blossoms on a wedding day. Wielding his knife instinctively, he stared at the figure standing before him, a tray of broken clay steins dangerously decorating the floor at her feet.
* * *
She had collected the evening mugs. The pork was almost roasted, and dinner would be available to those who could pay. They would need more servings, and she'd hastened to the kitchen to wash her bounty. Turning the corner to the pantry, she was altogether surprised to see the man bent over and, for some reason, immersed into the grain barrel.
His long, black hair hung glistening down between the shoulder blades, braided thickly. The face was only partially visible, turned away from her—the beard and mustache trimmed short. His garments carried the oily, purple stains of battle, and he was shrouded with the thick stench of death. He was a big man and terribly fierce. A sword was belted at his side; a heavy bow and quiver of arrows lay across his back. The only men who sported such weapons were soldiers, or…mercenaries.
The man had been leaning over into one of the barrels. How unusual that he would be eating the raw barley instead of stealing of the stew or tender pork, but just then she remembered about the knife. It had been so long since she’d thought about it, and how would someone know that she’d hidden his blade there? Her surprise was so complete that the tray and mugs crashed to the floor, shattering on the stone at her feet. Frozen, her mouth a silent “oh,” she stared at the wild creature in front of her.
The intruder, hearing the crash behind him, lunged upright out of the barley barrel, the grain flying up and about him in the air. He looked absurd, the tiny barley grains decorating him, clinging to his hair and beard. In his hand was Ravan’s dagger.
How could he have known I hid it there? She wondered again.
Her mouth dropped open as she searched the hardened young face of the man, standing stunned and frozen before her, the knife outstretched in his hand. In one fleeting second, her eyes passed the whole him. She instantly recognized the scar that cruelly transected his left eyebrow. Her startled gaze finally rested upon his dark brown eyes.
Still holding an invisible tray, she was without words. Like a child’s marbles falling down a flight of stairs, her eyes cascaded from one emotion to another—fear, recognition, astonishment, and ultimately, joy! She witnessed his expression also pass from surprise to recognition and dismay.
Then, without hesitating, the intruder was across the kitchen hearth in three easy, long strides. He unabashedly folded her into his arms, standing a good head taller than her, and kissed the top of her bonnet.
“I thought you were dead!” He squeezed the breath from her and continued, “He told me you were dead! They said you were…” All at once, his voice caught in his throat, and a single, silent sob escaped. He held her tightly as though afraid to let go. His tears cascaded freely along his cheeks, so unlikely on the face of such a man.
“It’s all right, child. I’m all right!” She pushed away from him to better see him. “Oh, Ravan, how you have grown! And such a handsome young man you are, too!” She laughed, tears welling in her own eyes.
Ravan searched her face for answers. “I don’t understand; Duval sent Renoir to kill you! He never came back, but Duval said you were dead. I was injured, and I thought…I thought…” He didn’t finish the sentence only grinned broadly at her. Relief flooded his features, and a rare and glorious smile—beautifully sublime—appeared on his face.
She was thrilled and tried hurriedly to explain. “It was the big fella, Ravan. The giant.” Ravan’s eyes flew open as she pressed on. “He came by and didn't have much to say other than I was to be presumed dead and to take the effect of my sister now. He said I should say I—I mean my poor sister—had fallen to the plague, should anyone ask. And no one ever does.” Habitually, she went to one of the kettles to spoon a hearty bowl of soup for him. “Then he was gone, just like that.”
She shrugged and flaked off a thick slab of the succulent pork, plopping it into the bowl as well. Sawing a generous portion from a fresh baked loaf of barley bread, she slathered one swipe of churned butter across it and rested it atop the pork, allowing the butter to melt straight away. It was culinary perfection.
Handing it to Ravan, she nodded to the stool. “Sit and eat, child.”
He laughed unabashedly as though amused that she still referred to him in that way.
Sweeping up the broken shards, she further explained, “The skinny, ugly one—Renoir, as you call him? I remember him from when they took you away.” She frowned. “He never came—only the giant.” She pulled up the chair from the corner and sat opposite Ravan, drying her hands on her apron. “The big fellow never mentioned that skinny one. I assumed you sent a friend to warn me. And I never heard anything more.” She glanced away. “That was years ago.”
He listened intently, the pieces of the puzzle falling into place. The only mystery was Renoir. Something had happened to him, and by the sound of it, he’d either succumbed to the journey or LanCoste had intercepted him. Either way, Ravan was fairly certain he was no more.
She motioned behind her, toward the noisy room where the travelers ate and drank. “I’ve asked about you—of men from far away, soldiers and such.” She shrugged. “No one remembers you, or they say they don’t. And by the looks of you now, how would they?” She paused, somewhat embarrassed by what they both knew, how Ravan had changed. “The giant—I asked him about you. All he said was, ‘He lives.’ Not one much for words, that one.” She turned and walked to the pantry, putting away the broom. “I stay away from the crowds, child. When somebody asks, Monsieur LaFoote says that I am his sister-in-law, come to help out now that he is widowed.” A pained expression flashed across her eyes, but it evaporated as she continued, smiling at him. “And nobody notices too closely one such as me. It’s fortunate Duval and his men seldom come to the Marseille.”
Ravan spooned the soup into his mouth, obviously savoring the flavors as their sweet testimony reawakened his tongue. “I’ve forgotten how much I missed this.” He held the bowl up with grin.
She sat across from him, content in their silence.
Then she said, “Ravan, what of you now?” Wringing her hands in her apron, she asked, “I know you must work for Duval. Why are you here?” Looking away she wondered aloud, “What is it you will do? And with the weapons you carry, why would you come for your knife and…” She let her voice trail off.
Swallowing, he looked happily at her, still obviously overcome by the simple fact that she was alive.
After a moment she pleaded, “Please tell me you are not just become his mercenary, his…killer?”
Hesitating, Ravan finally explained, “I will finish some unfinished business. I intend to kill Pierre Steele, and it is with this knife that I shall do it. It is destiny. Then?” He shrugged, spooning another mouthful and chewing thoughtfully. “I will kill Duval.”
Covering her mouth with one hand, she stifled a gasp.
Her response seemed to surprise him a small bit, and he confessed, “I have killed—you must know that of me—but I am not his killer.” He set the bowl aside and slid closer to her, taking her hands into his. “I am not a killer. This you must believe—not in my heart. And that is why I must do this. I will never be free until I finish Duval.” He motioned with his hands. “By all that is right, I cannot allow Pierre to live either. He deserves what his fate holds for him, and I intend to have a hand in that fate, that no other shall bear what…” another long pause and he looked away, “…what he has done to me.”
She watched him chew absently, seemingly engaged somewhere else, his eyes so dark and lost.
Then, just as quickly, he focused intently upon her and squeezed her hands earnestly. “You must be careful. You know nothing of me; do you understand?”
Nodding, she listened carefully.
“And the orphanage—if need be, they should have a place to hide on sudden notice. You have to go there to help them. I know this is much to ask, but it must be done until I can finish this.”
She nodded again in agreement, listening intently but saying nothing.
“Is Steele here?” he asked.
“No, but he comes through frequently enough, usually much later in the evening.”
He seemed to consider this for a bit.
They sat for a while, sharing each other’s warmth, pulling strength from the integrity of each other’s compassion. The present was warped into a shroud of time gone by—fleeting glimpses of kinder days, safe and timeless. She openly recalled the day of the fox fur mittens, and he spoke of the time he’d received the silver chain. As he did, he involuntarily reached up to briefly grasp the ring. Her heart rejoiced in the familiarity of the bygone gesture.
* * *
Ravan felt warm and at peace sitting with her. The moment was one which made his life a worthy task. It suddenly occurred to him that it was only when good and righteous purpose ceased, when times like this no longer existed, that life could accept its finality and welcome death. As he tested the weight of Pig-Killer in his hand, he knew for certain a righteous purpose had been set into motion. There was a spark of life that moved within him. He’d not experienced that for some time, and it was warmly welcomed. Something stirred within his hardened heart, and he felt more at ease.
He stood and held her at arm's length. “I have loved you as I believe I must have loved my mother.” He said it with all sincerity and kissed her again on top of her head.
Then, he reached for her hand, gently pressing into it the thin silver braid of hair. She gasped, clearly overcome with emotion as she palmed the tender token of her past. He was surprised at how suddenly she sobbed, how quickly emotion surfaced as though she remembered too clearly the terrible day they’d cut the braid from her head and taken him away. He was, for a second, sorry that he’d given it to her, but then her eyes lit up with gratitude.
“Thank you, Ravan.”
Presently, the noise within the Inn rose, and it was obvious she would be needed soon. Rising, she put together some food for him, and the sun fell beyond the horizon.
He made his way to the door. Pulling her close to him, he struggled one more time with leaving her. “Please don’t worry for me. I am strong. And they…they will answer for what they have done. Of this I swear.” His expression was sincere. “When it is all said and done, I will come back.” He joked lamely, “Perhaps then I can learn the trade of the Inn.”
She blinked back tears as though determined not to cry this time. “I have loved you too, child, as though you were my own.” She shook her head toward the noise behind her. “I will be leaving here, now that I know you are alive. Look for me here no more.”
He paused, nodded, and understood. They said their short goodbyes, their faces speaking volumes more than their words ever could. She watched him slip, one more time, from her life. This time, as he left, she bolted the heavy door closed behind him when he left.
As he walked from the Inn, he heard the catch engage behind him and believed that, somehow, she was fearful no longer for the child of his past.
* * *
The next morning, Ravan spoke to the giant as they tacked the horses out. “She lives.”
“Hmm,” was all the giant offered in return.
“Renoir, apparently, does not.” Ravan glanced up from beneath his brow at the barbarian across the way, but LanCoste remained intent on his task, pulling at the massive girth cinch until it measured two fingers width when pulled out from the side of the warhorse.
He smiled to himself. The giant had come to her, had perhaps intercepted Renoir along the way. It must have been during the weeks of convalescence, after Renoir had beaten him in the courtyard. Ravan thought back and remembered that he'd spent much time in a despair driven catatonia as his wounds slowly healed. He'd been left alone for long stretches of time. It was nearly a month later before the giant came for him to continue his training.
Sometimes, the mercenaries were sent on errands with messages or contracts. LanCoste was seldom utilized for these duties as it was ordinarily a lighter rider with a faster horse who was chosen. However, if he’d been unable to train Ravan, perhaps the giant had been sent on such a task simply to pass the time. Perhaps it was on just such an errand that he’d sidetracked to catch up with the Fat Wife at the Inn. It meant he would have ridden hard, and it was surely because of him that she now lived.
Ravan looked long at this man he knew so little about, the giant whom he’d fought beside on so many occasions. Something made him suddenly sad about the breadth of the colossus of a man who stood so alone and silent, preparing his steed for the day’s ride. No one pretended to know him. Even Duval, who depended so much on him, treated him as more animal than human.
He wondered if LanCoste had killed Renoir? That was very unlikely. To kill another mercenary violated the code—Duval’s code. Perhaps the Black Death had taken Renoir after all. He again studied his companion. LanCoste ignored him, swinging his great weight up onto his steed and turning away.
Stepping onto his own horse, he clucked gently, urging his mount alongside LanCoste. He suddenly recognized a growing companionship for the great man next to him. “I should like to know you better, LanCoste.”
“Hmm,” again, was all he received in reply.
* * *
The little valley was in a spring freeze when they departed for Adorno’s estate. Frost fuzzed the branch twigs and grass blades so the world looked deceptively soft, especially in contrast to the unlikely pair of travelers. Their horses left two dark trails in the tall grass behind them, where the frost was disturbed by the step of the animals. LanCoste rode his enormous draft, each step shaking the ground beneath them. Ravan sat astride a French destrier stallion, strikingly black and athletic.
Ravan’s horse was wild and vicious and had been untamed when he’d first taken it from a field during a raid. That had been a harrowing trip home—Ravan struggling upon his saddle horse, the black stallion fighting at the other end of the makeshift rope halter for nearly the entire distance. From then on, it had allowed no one other than Ravan to touch it.
Today, the magnificent animal cakewalked early on, fresh as the morning air. Its hooves didn’t even appear to touch the ground. It floated with neck arched, blowing with each step, chomping and frothing at the bit in thorough excitement for the new day. The stallion was an extension of the man who sat it, and it was a remarkable sight to behold as they rode north.
The pair traveled in silence, stopping only to water the horses. Eating as they rode, they camped on open, high ground where they could see the horizons and then only long enough to allow the beasts to rest and feed. Thirteen days later, they’d covered the four hundred miles to Adorno’s estate and approached the fortressed walls of the impossibly massive manor. Rising impressive from a hilltop, it was exquisitely well built. The Bourbon estate was a revered dynasty for it had thwarted armies, would-be rivals, despots, and kings.
It was surrounded by a moat and portcullis and was protected by guard towers. Beyond the twenty-foot-thick walls of the castle fortress lay lavish grounds. The grandeur was complete with stables, servants’ quarters, and a small church. The main estate consisted of donjon spirals, elaborate rooms, staircases, hidden passages, and banquet halls.
Apart from the castle was the township, safe behind the defense of the mammoth structure, or so it should have been had it not been for the tyrant ruler who commanded it. Homage to this Lord should have been from an oath of the townspeople. Vassal to a lord such as this should bind the social structure of the estate, and so, the lord should have, likewise, defended the vassal in return. There was a recognized feudal structure which should have begged a noble code of ethics. However, this was, sadly, not the case of this very corrupt dynasty. Insurgence was evidenced by the need for the guards who stood twelve abreast before the massive gate of the would-be king.
Ravan sat quietly, impassive on the outside but quite skeptical about his current, unusual assignment. He allowed LanCoste to negotiate their entrance.
“We have come from Duval. We are here at Monsieur Adorno’s request and purchase.” LanCoste’s deep voice carried incongruent and far on the spring breeze.
There were stirrings and whisperings amongst the tower guards concerning the mercenaries mounted before them. Ravan’s reputation had preceded him when Adorno returned from Duval’s. No embellishment had been necessary.
It was only moments before their entry was approved, and they were shown where to stable their animals. A groom reached to receive the reins of the extraordinary black stallion. He shrieked in pain and surprise when the beast laced out with a foreleg in the manor of a mule, striking the man’s hip sharply with its hoof. It was an exceedingly unusual behavior for a horse. The animal—lean, sleek, and incredibly fit from the hard ride—pinned its ears and bared its teeth in a fearsome gesture of savagery. The groom cowered from the animal, dropping the reins to the ground.
“He does not tolerate another’s hand. I should have warned you. My apologies.” Ravan reached for the horse’s reins and checked the stallion firmly.
The stable hand nodded at him—bent over and rubbing his hip. He seemed surprised at the civility he'd received from this most fearsome barbarian. He watched as the stallion dropped its head and followed Ravan obediently to a stall.
Ravan and LanCoste were shown to their quarters so that they might organize their belongings and freshen themselves before reporting to their new master. Their quarters were comfortable, refined, and very clean. They were located on the ground floor with a welcome western exposure. The mercenaries shared a room, each with a bed on opposite sides, an open fireplace between them. The sun languished late in the day, and as the weak evening sunlight glanced along the stone and marble walls, a fire already blazed on the hearth to cut the chill.
There was a washstand with mirror and a latrine outside the door. It was fine lodging, even acceptable enough for traveling nobility. LanCoste seldom and Ravan never had been so finely accommodated in their pasts.
After stripping from his tunic, Ravan stepped toward the washstand. As he splashed water on his face and righted himself to dry off, he froze when he caught his image in the mirror. Ravan—nor any of Duval’s other mercenaries for that matter—did not keep a looking glass in his own quarters back at Duval’s camp. Only rarely did he catch a vague and passing image of himself on the surface of a stream or the edge of a blade. Now, the face that stared back at him was unfamiliar, ruthless, and void. He searched the eyes for the child who’d long ago worked and played at the orphanage and chopped wood at the Inn.
The man looking back at him was hard and cold—a stranger to him. A wicked scar jagged across one brow while a war hardened jaw gave a grim set to it all. No wonder she’d been so shocked when she discovered me fishing through the barley barrel! He stared at the face, into the eyes—black as a starless night—sifting their depth to see where the little boy was, where the child might have gone. When did I lose him? At what point did my childhood end?
He was abruptly reminded of a terrible night past, choking face down in snow and held to the ground. He shook his head hard, pulling back from this memory, back into the reflection of his own eyes. The abyss offered nothing in return, and for all the warmth of the room, he turned away from the reflection with a feeling of cold.
Across the room, LanCoste also shed his armor, leathers, and tunic. Quietly, the giant watched his friend, sideways, from the depths of his deep set eyes. Ravan just caught his glimpse in the mirror as he turned away.
His shoulders sagged, and he sighed more to himself than to his companion. “What am I, LanCoste?” He reached for the towel. “What have I become?”
LanCoste shrugged his massive shoulders. “You are what you are. It is as it should be.”
Ravan chuckled dryly, surprised that the giant had even answered. “I was supposed to help at an orphanage; I was supposed to be an Innkeeper.”
He watched as LanCoste turned his head to one side, deaf on the other. The bad ear was fat and fleshy, deformed and overgrown. Ravan never asked him about it, had assumed it had always been that way, and he now politely disregarded his friend’s only perceptible weakness. He'd become accustomed to speaking up a bit if the giant’s good ear was away from him.
“You are what you are destined to be,” LanCoste replied, his deep voice rumbling forth like an earth tremor.
It was unusual, and the sound appealed to Ravan as it occurred to him how seldom he heard it. But unsatisfied, Ravan pressed him, “And you, LanCoste? How did you become a mercenary for Duval?”
LanCoste pealed neatly out of his tunic. He was chiseled and immense, like an avalanche come to rest. He folded the garment gently and laid it upon the dresser. It was an oddly delicate gesture, and the giant paused before he stepped over to share the basin with Ravan. As always, Ravan, not a small man himself, was amazed at the personal space the giant occupied.
“I have always been Duval’s mercenary. I remember nothing more.” The giant never once glanced into the mirror as he wrung a towel in the water as if it were a washcloth and swiped it across the expanse of his face.
“But…you must have come from somewhere? A family, a caregiver, a home—somebody?” Ravan leaned back against the dressing table, arms across his bare chest, and searched the face of his friend.
LanCoste wrung the towel, folded it once and laid it on the edge of the basin before turning away. “I remember no other.” He retreated to his designated side of the room and effectively closed the conversation.
Ravan withdrew into his own thoughts, comforted by the steadfast presence of his companion but without the answers he wanted. Over the long side of five years, Duval had kept LanCoste paired with Ravan. It had been an effective strategy. Initially, it kept Ravan in check as it ho