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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