Risen Read Online Free Page A

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 before 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,