Moonlight (4 page)

Katlaina nodded. “You will always be in my heart, Navarre.”

He kissed her gently, tenderly. And then he placed his hands
over her belly, a look of amazement flickering in his eyes as he felt the child
move.

He lifted his gaze to Katlaina’s face, and she smiled at him
through her tears.

“Navarre!” Ahijah’s voice was sharp with rebuke. “Go, we
must!”

“Farewell, Katlaina,” Navarre murmured. “Think of me once in
a while.”

“Every moment of every day.”

So much to tell her, he thought, but he couldn’t speak past
the lump in his throat. He kissed her one last time, and then left her chamber.

There was an unmistakable ring of finality as Ahijah closed
and locked the door.

The nightmares began the following night, always the same,
yet upon waking Navarre could remember nothing but the terror of being buried
alive.

As the day of the sacrifice drew nearer, Ahijah spent more
time with Navarre, sitting outside the cage in silence when Navarre seemed
pensive, talking about his own childhood when Navarre was in the mood to
listen.

Knowing Navarre’s penchant for sweets, Ahijah made sure that
Navarre’s supper always included a tart or some other kind of confection. Knowing
the scrolls were the prisoner’s only form of escape, he brought new ones every
week.

It was just after dawn on a bright spring morning when
Ahijah made an unexpected appearance at the cage door.

“What is it?” Navarre asked, his heart hammering with fear. “Is
it time?”

“Not yet,” Ahijah said. “But soon. A healthy boy was born
Katlaina less than an hour ago.”

The hope that she would somehow give birth to a girl child
drained out of him at the news. There would be no reprieve now.

“How soon?”

“When next the full moon shines.”

Two nights hence, Navarre thought. A cold sense of dread
speared through him. Two nights, and his life would be over.

“Ahijah…”

“Do not ask it of me.”

“Please.”

The guard let out a sigh of resignation. “Try, I will.”

An hour later, Ahijah returned carrying a small bundle
wrapped in a fleecy blue blanket. “Time you have for one quick look, that is
all.”

One quick look. Navarre devoured the child in a single
glance, marveling at the infant’s tiny fingers and toes, at the thatch of curly
black hair, the soft skin that was only slightly wrinkled and red. He felt his
heart catch in his throat as the babe opened its eyes and looked at him.

My son
, Navarre thought. Joy mingled with despair as
the baby’s tiny fist curled around his finger. Tears welled in his eyes as he
imagined his son growing up in a cage, shut away from the rest of the world.

“My son,” he murmured, “forgive me.”

Ahijah cleared his throat. “Back I must take him before he
is missed.”

“I understand. Bless you, Ahijah, you for letting me see
him.”

“Remember your promise,” Ahijah said.

“I remember,” Navarre replied, his gaze intent upon the
infant. “A dozen sons and wealth beyond your imagination.”

“Do you…is there anything you want me to tell his mother?”

Slowly, Navarre shook his head. It had all been said.

* * * * *

The next two days were the longest and the shortest of his
life.

At dusk the second day, he was taken into a large room and
stripped of his clothing. Moments later, a eunuch was sent in to bathe him. His
body was rubbed with fragrant oils and spices. His hair was brushed until it
gleamed like polished ebony.

Symbols of fertility and long life were painted on his
chest, and then the eunuch helped him into a pair of skin tight breeches made
of delicate cloth of gold. A long cloak made of finely woven black wool lined
with whisper-soft silk was draped across his shoulders.

And then the priests entered the room. There were three of
them, all clad in long gray robes, their faces hidden within the folds of their
cowls.

“You will present these requests to the goddess Shaylyn,”
said the first of the priests. “You will beg her for a good harvest, for rain
in due season.”

“You will ask that our women and our beasts will be fertile,
that our enemies will be weak, that our men will be strong in battle,” said the
second.

“You will ask that our crops will be fruitful, that his
Eminence will live long, that our people will prosper in the land,” added the
third.

“And if I refuse?”

“The woman Katlaina will be drawn and quartered, her
still-beating heart torn from her breast. Your son will be raised by strangers.”

“How will you know if I’ve delivered your message once I’m
dead?”

“The goddess has always granted our requests. Should she
fail to do so, we will know that you displeased her,” the first priest replied.

“And your mate’s life will be forfeit,” the second priest
remarked, his voice as hard and cold as the stone floor at his feet.

“I will do as you wish,” Navarre said.

The three priests nodded. “We will pray for your soul,
Navarre,” they said, their voices blending as one. “May the goddess Shaylyn
accept your sacrifice, that your death will not be in vain, that the people of
Kenn may prosper.”

One of the priests offered him a goblet filled with wine. “May
your death be as sweet as the fruit of the vine.”

Navarre stared at the blood-red liquid for a long moment
before he lifted the jewel-encrusted goblet to his lips.

When he had drained the cup, the priests stepped forward,
one by one, and placed their hands upon his head, and then they left the room,
and he was alone.

A short time later, two men clad in black came to escort him
to the sacrificial chamber.

It was in Navarre’s mind to resist, but his body felt
strangely heavy. Only then did he realize that the wine had been drugged.

The Temple of Shaylyn was located in a large building across
the river behind Stone Hall Keep. He was hardly aware of the hands that grasped
his arms as they led him across a narrow, wooden bridge.

The night air was warm, fragrant with myriad scents. A
million stars twinkled high above. He heard the questing call of an owl, the
song of a cricket, the rush of water beneath the bridge. The wood beneath his
bare feet was cool and damp.

The Temple was made of finely hewn black stone. Narrow
windows were set high in the walls, the glass black and empty, like sightless
eyes. A single torch, set in an iron holder, sent shadows dancing across the
building’s façade.

The thick iron-barred door opened without a sound, and they
stepped into darkness.

“May the goddess bless you,” said the guard on his right.

“May the people prosper,” said the guard on his left.

He felt a whisper of air as they closed the door behind him,
heard the harsh clang as the heavy iron locking bar was dropped into place, and
then he was alone in the darkness.

It was his nightmare come true.

He swallowed hard as a hundred candles suddenly burst into
flame, and he saw the statue of the goddess, just as he had seen her in his
dreams. She was dressed all in white, seated on a white marble throne. Her hair
was as black as the night, her skin as smooth and pale as the marble itself. He
shuddered with dread when he saw the long black altar located to the left of
the throne, and behind the altar, an open casket made of dark oak lined in
black silk.

And then, very slowly, the goddess opened her eyes. She
stared at him for a timeless moment, and then she was drifting down the stairs
toward him.

He heard the whisper of her silken robes swishing across the
cold stone floor, the frantic beating of his own heart. He wanted to run, to
hide, but he couldn’t draw his gaze from her face. She was a being of
incomparable beauty, tall and slender, her movements filled with quiet grace as
she glided toward him.

Her voice was like the rustle of dead leaves. “Come to me,
my Navarre,” she whispered. “Come, quench my thirst.”

He wanted to refuse, but he could not speak.

He wanted to run, but he lacked the power of movement.

And then she was reaching for him, lifting him in her long,
slender arms as though he weighed nothing at all. The touch of her skin was as
cold as a tomb. The expression in her fathomless black eyes chilled him to the
marrow of his bones.

“Please…” Navarre forced the word past the terror in his
throat. “Please…”

“Yes,” she said, “you please me very well.”

She placed him on the altar and removed his cloak.

He shivered at the touch of her hands on his chest, gasped
when her nails dug into the muscle of his left arm. She trailed her fingertips
over his shoulders, across his belly, along the inside of his thigh.

“Yes,” she said again. “You please me very well.”

He couldn’t move, couldn’t take his gaze from her face, her
eyes. She was beautiful, but her touch was as cold as death, and in the depths
of her eyes, he saw the endless torment of hell.

“Have those puny mortals sent me a message?” she asked.

Navarre nodded.

“Will you tell it to me?”

“They ask that you will bless their fields, that their women
and cattle will be fertile, that their crops will grow, that their enemies will
be defeated.”

“Always, it is the same.”

She bent down, her eyes glowing, and he felt her tongue, hot
and moist, skim over the wildly beating pulse in his throat.

“What of you?” she asked. “Is there nothing you desire?”

Through a fog of fear, he remembered his promise to Ahijah. “I
ask that you bless Ahijah with sons and wealth.”

“Nothing for yourself?”

He was trembling now. “Only that my death might be quick and
merciful.”

“I am not going to kill you, my Navarre.”

“No?” He felt a faint stirring of hope in his breast, a
fluttering as faint as the wings of a fledgling chick.

“No. I’ve killed all the others, but after a thousand years,
I grow weary of death.”

“You’re going to let me go, then?” That first faint ray of
hope brightened within him, as radiant as Katlaina’s smile. He was going to
live. He would see Katlaina again.

The goddess looked down at him, a trace of pity in her eyes.
“Yes, Navarre,” she murmured. “I’m going to give you a new life, one you never
dreamed of.”

Relief washed through him, warm and sweet, like honey kissed
by the sun.

“I’m not going to die, Katlaina,” he murmured, and he felt
the sting of tears in his eyes.

“Oh, yes.” The goddess caressed his cheek. “You must die,
but for a moment only, my handsome one, and then you will be reborn into life
eternal.”

Only then did he realize how quickly hope could be crushed. “I
don’t understand.”

“You will.” Her voice grew deep, husky, ominous. There was a
sound, like the rushing of many tiny wings, and the candles went out, leaving
them in darkness.

He was truly afraid now. The darkness seemed to grow
thicker, heavier, yet even in that thick blackness, he could see her face, her
eyes…the eyes that had haunted his dreams. Red eyes, filled with an insatiable
hunger and an unholy lust.

“No!” He screamed the word even as he willed his body to
move, to run before it was too late. But her hand rested heavy on his chest.
Just her hand, holding him down as if he had no more strength than a newborn
colt, and he could only lay there, the stone beneath him as cold as death.

She bent over him, her eyes glowing. He gasped when he felt
her teeth at his throat. His heartbeat roared like thunder in his ears. Her
teeth pierced his flesh, and he felt the warmth of his blood trickle down his
neck. He recoiled in horror when her tongue lapped it up, even as her touch
stole his breath, his life.

Helpless to move, Navarre felt the weight of eternity
pressing him down, the loneliness of hell, the emptiness of death. And then,
gradually, warmth crept back into him, and with it a sense of well-being, of
strength, of life.

He opened his eyes to darkness, and yet he could see
clearly.

The goddess, Shaylyn, sat on the end of the altar. Her
cheeks were no longer pale, but the color of ripe peaches; her lips were as red
as…blood. She regarded him through eyes that no longer glowed red, but were
again a deep, endless black.

“Welcome,” she said. “Welcome to the world of the undead.”

Navarre sat up, muscles flexing. “What happened?”

“I have given you eternal life, my brave Navarre. You need
fear death no longer. You will stay as you are now forever. You will not age.
You will never be sick. You will have the strength of a hundred men. If you are
cut, you will heal.”

“What nonsense is this?” Navarre demanded.

“I assure you it is not nonsense.” She stood up and walked
the length of the room, then returned to his side.

“I have lived in this place for a thousand years,” she said,
and her voice echoed off the walls. “A thousand years! It is enough.”

“You want me to believe you are a thousand years old?”

“No, my Navarre. I am far older than that. In the beginning,
I needed to feed every night, but as the centuries went by, the need for
nourishment grew less and when I grew weary of traveling, I came here. I spoke
to the priests. I told them I would give them peace and plenty if they would
provide me with a living male sacrifice every five and twenty years.”

She glanced around the opulent room. “It has been a most
satisfactory arrangement, but now I grow weary of being a goddess. I yearn to
see the world again, to return to my homeland. You may come with me, and I will
teach you what you must know, or you may stay here, and learn what you have
become.”

He did not understand her words, nor did he like the fear that
congealed in his heart.

“What?” he asked hoarsely. “What have I become?”

“You are a creature of the night now, my Navarre. One of the
undead. You have powers you cannot imagine. You must have blood to live. You
will cast no shadow, no reflection. Sunlight is your enemy. Seek her light and
she will most assuredly destroy you.”

“And what of my father? And his father before him?”

She frowned, perplexed by the question. “They were
sacrificed, as you were.”

“And are they… Did you do to them what you say you’ve done
to me?”

Soft laugher escaped her lips as she shook her head. “No, my
Navarre. Never in a thousand years have I spared the life of one meant to be
sacrificed.”

“Never?”

“Never.” She trailed her hand over his chest and shoulders,
her touch sensuous, her fingertips lightly caressing the strong muscles that
flexed beneath his dark skin. And then she held out her hand.