Beneath a Midnight Moon

Chapter 18

Under cover of darkness, Hardane and his men went over the side of the Sea Dragon, swam to the Isle of Klannaad, and made their way ashore.
Leaving his men well hidden behind a jumbled mass of boulders, Hardane did as he had done the night before. He overpowered a prisoner who had wandered away from the others and rendered him unconscious. After assuming the man's shape, Hardane moved up the ridge toward the abandoned castle that housed the dungeon.
Lurking in the shadows, he waited for one of the guards to step outside; then he quickly disarmed the man, bound his hands and feet, and changed shape once again.
There were two guards playing dice in the dungeon's antechamber. They looked up only briefly as Hardane entered the room.
He acknowledged them with a nod, then took one of the torches and started for the stairs.
"Crill, where are you going?"
Hardane glanced over his shoulder, his fist tightening around the torch. "To check on the prisoners."
The guard shook his head. "It isn't necessary. Hanse went down a few minutes ago."
Hardane grunted. "I've got nothing else to do," he remarked. "I'll just see if he needs help."
The guard looked at him suspiciously for a moment, wondering at Crill's sudden ambition, and then he shrugged.
Hardane waited, but when there were no objections, he descended the stairs. His men would be storming the island in a quarter of an hour. He had to get his father out of the dungeon before then.
He saw the light from the guard's torch at the far end of the corridor. Frowning, he watched the man for several moments, and then he grinned as he saw the man tip a bottle to his mouth. Apparently the guard kept a flask hidden in the dungeon.
The guard looked up, a guilty flush staining his cheeks, as Hardane walked up to him.
"Oh, Crill," the man muttered in relief. "I thought-"
Hardane never discovered what the man thought. Drawing back his fist, he flattened the guard with a single blow to his jaw. He caught the torch before it hit the ground.
There was a stirring from within the nearby cells as the prisoners saw one guard strike another.
Hardane paid them no mind as he hurried toward his father's cell. "My lord?"
Lord Kray approached the door cautiously. "What is it?"
"Better to die as a wolf than live as a dog."
"Hardane!"
There was a world of relief, of hope, in the older man's voice as Hardane slipped the key into the lock and opened the door.
For a brief moment, the two men embraced; then Hardane thrust the torch into his father's left hand and the fallen guard's sword into his right.
"We've got to go," he said tersely.
"I'm right behind you," Kray said, and quickly followed Hardane down the corridor toward the narrow winding staircase.
Hardane heard shouts of alarm, the hoarse cries of men in pain, and the harsh clash of metal striking metal as he reached the top of the staircase.
"We're under attack!" One of the guards shouted the warning as he slammed the door that led outside. "Crill, arm yourself. . . ."
The guard's voice trailed off, his expression changing from concern to confusion when he saw Kray standing behind Hardane, a sword in his hand.
The second guard stood up, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. "What's going on?"
"You're under attack in here, too," Hardane replied calmly. "Drop your weapons, both of you."
The two guards exchanged glances and then they both lunged forward.
Hardane engaged the man on the left, and soon the air rang with the harsh clang of blade meeting blade. For a moment, his attention was divided between the guard and concern for his father, but soon he had no time to think of anything but his opponent, who wielded his sword with great skill. The guard managed to draw first blood, but it was Hardane who landed the fatal blow, his sword driving into the man's chest, piercing his heart.
Withdrawing his blade, Hardane whirled around in time to see his father deliver the fatal blow to the second guard.
"Let's get out of here," Hardane said, assuming his own form so his men would not mistake him for the enemy.
"Wait!" Lord Kray took hold of his son's arm. "You're hurt."
Hardane glanced at the blood dripping from his left shoulder. "It's nothing."
Lord Kray started to protest that the wound needed to be bound up, at least, but it was too late. Hardane was already out the door.
Whatever fighting had taken place outside the dungeon was over. Jared and the others stood in a ragged half circle, their swords drawn. The surviving prisoners were huddled together, their expressions malevolent as they waited to see what would happen next.
Jared smiled as he saw Hardane and Lord Kray emerge from the castle. Lord Kray paused to speak to some of the crewmen, while Hardane continued on toward the shore. Jared started forward, intending to pay homage to his liege, when a ferocious cry rent the stillness of the night.
All eyes swung toward the sound.
Too late, Hardane saw the Executioner bearing down on him.
Too late, Jared saw the huge, scar-faced man hurl himself at Hardane. The impact knocked Hardane off his feet and sent the sword flying from his grasp.
Muttering an oath, Jared sprinted across the uneven ground, knowing, even as he did so, that he wouldn't get there in time.
Lord Kray watched in horror as the scar-faced man plunged a crudely fashioned knife into Hardane's chest.
And then Jared was there, his finely honed saber cutting through the air like a scythe, cleanly severing the Executioner's head from his body.
Heedless of the shocked gasp that hissed from the prisoners, Jared hurried to Hardane's side. Lord Kray was already there, his face pale as he cradled his son's head in his lap.
"Is he . . . ?" Jared looked into Lord Kray's eyes, unable to say the word.
"No, only unconscious. We must set sail for home at once."
Jared nodded. Rising to his feet, he ordered the prisoners into the antechamber and locked them inside so that they could not swarm the ship in a bid for freedom. It wouldn't take them long to break down the door, but the Sea Dragon would have set sail for home by then.
Lord Kray packed the wounds in Hardane's chest and shoulder with damp sea moss, then ripped his shirt into strips and bound the wounds. When that was done, several of the crewmen carried Hardane toward the shore.
A short time later the Sea Dragon was running before the wind, her course set for Argone.
Lord Kray paced the captain's quarters, his gaze never leaving his son's face. He was free at last, he thought, but at what a price!
Kylene sat up in bed, her face and body drenched in perspiration, the sound of her own anguished cry still ringing in her ears.
She had been dreaming of Hardane, dreaming that they were walking hand in hand through a shady glen, when suddenly she had heard a wolf's agonized cry.
Instantly, the images of her dream had vanished and she had seen Hardane lying on the ground, his shirt covered with blood, his eyes closed, his lashes like dark fans upon his pale cheeks.
She glanced around the small, barren cell that was hers, her heart pounding. She'd had the same dream for the past four nights.
Rising from her narrow cot, she went to the window and gazed out into the darkness. Low clouds shrouded the moon and the stars. The only light visible came from the garden below where a single candle burned before a life-size statue of Saint Hadreas, the patron saint of the Bourne Sisterhouse.
"Please let it be a dream," Kylene murmured, yet even as the words left her lips, images of Hardane lying helplessly in bed surrounded by candles flooded her mind. A bloody cloth was bound around his chest; his face was as white as the coarse linen nightgown that covered her from neck to heels. He tossed restlessly on the big four-poster bed, his hands clenching and unclenching. He was in terrible pain, feverish. She saw his lips move, heard the harsh rasp of his voice as he whispered her name over and over again.
It wasn't a nightmare at all. She knew it with a sudden heart-wrenching fear. Hardane was hurt, perhaps dying, and he needed her.
"Hardane, hear me."
She didn't realize she had spoken aloud until she heard the sound of her own voice. She frowned, confused by the inexplicable inner prompting that had forced the words past her lips.
"Hardane, I'm coming. Wait for me."
Kylene spoke the words with fervor, willing them across the miles to Castle Argone, repeating them again and again without knowing why.
And then, in her mind, she saw her words encircle Hardane like a soft blue flame. A deep sigh escaped his lips; his body stopped its restless churning.
She was surprised to find herself dressed and standing before the Holy Mother a few minutes later.
"What is it, sister?" the good Mother asked. "Are you ill?"
"I have to leave."
"Leave? Leave the Sisterhouse?"
"Yes. Right away."
"I'm afraid that's impossible."
"I have no time to explain, Mother, but I have to go. Immediately."
The Holy Mother frowned in consternation. "You realize that, once you leave the order, you cannot return?"
Kylene nodded. There was no time to ponder the wisdom of her decision, no time to fret over the future. Hardane needed her, and an inner force she didn't understand was urging her to go to him as quickly as possible.
"Let us pray about your decision, child," the Holy Mother suggested, rising to her feet. "Surely a few days of meditation will help you see things more clearly."
"I don't have a few days," Kylene replied sharply. "I have to leave now, tonight, with or without your blessing."
"I see."
"Is there someone who can take me to Castle Argone?"
"I'm afraid not."
"Can I at least borrow a horse? I'll see that it's returned as soon as possible."
"I'm sorry, child, Lutres took the horse to go into town for supplies. He won't be back for several days."
With a nod, Kylene turned toward the door. She couldn't wait several days. She couldn't wait another moment. She had to go, now, even if it meant walking every step of the way.
"My child, won't you at least wait until morning?"
"I'm sorry, I can't wait."
"Very well. Godspeed, and may the Father of Us All protect you in your travels."
Sharilyn stood beside her son's bed, her head bowed, her hands clasped in prayer. Her husband's homecoming, which should have been a joyous occasion, had been overshadowed by Hardane's infirmity. The gash in his arm, dealt by one of the guards, was already healing, but the knife wound inflicted by the Executioner had festered on the voyage home, and nothing seemed to help. Physicians had been called, prayers had been said, to no avail.
Because she didn't know what else to do, she had turned to the old ways. She burned a dozen blue candles to invite healing and peace into the sickroom, red candles for vitality, black ones to banish illness.
She filled a jar with angelica and mistletoe, flax and trefoil, mugwort and mullein, and placed it beside Hardane's bed in hopes their protective qualities would ward off any evil that lingered in the room.
In desperation, Sharilyn had sent for Druidia, the dark witch of Argone, hoping that the old crone's powerful magic might be able to heal Hardane's wounds. Many of the people viewed witches as evil, but the Wolffan shared an affinity with witches and warlocks, sorcerers and wizards, perhaps because they, themselves, were thought to be evil.
The witch had arrived in a swirl of heavy black wool skirts and the lingering scents of vervain and yarrow. She had nodded in approval at the numerous candles burning around the bed, and then produced one of her own-a long, slender, purple candle specially made to boost her magical powers. She had examined Hardane, withdrawn several packets of herbs from her bag, ground them with mortar and pestle.
The scents of rosemary, sage, rue, and wood sorrel had soon filled the air, mingling with Druidia's voice as she stood at the foot of the bed, chanting softly.
Hardane's breathing had eased almost immediately, the swelling and the redness had faded from his wounds, but he had remained unconscious, tossing restlessly as though he were suffering from some deep inner pain that even Druidia's magic could not reach.
"An illness of the heart, it is," Druidia had decreed.
"An emptiness in his soul. Heal the heart, and the flesh will mend."
That had been two days ago. Since then, Sharilyn had been trying to prepare herself for her son's death. Despite all she could do, she feared he would not survive much longer. Druidia was right, she thought, his ailment was of the heart and the soul, not the flesh.
She looked across the bed into her husband's eyes and saw the same awful knowledge reflected in his gaze.
"Kylene." Hardane whispered her name, his voice weak, halting.
"She's coming," Sharilyn said, hoping it would soothe him to think so.
"No . . ." He shook his head. "Betrothed . . . to the Sister . . . hood . . ."
Sharilyn blinked back her tears. He sounded so weak, so forlorn. Perhaps if she sent word to the Sisterhouse at Bourne . . . but even as the thought crossed her mind, she knew it was too late. A low keening wail rose in her throat as she took Hardane's hand in hers, willing him to fight, to live just one more day.
"Kylene . . ." He breathed her name, railing at the Fates that had brought them together only to tear them apart. It was so unfair, he thought. If she was never to have been his, why had he been allowed to see her, hold her, touch her? If she was never to be his, why had their paths crossed at all?
He summoned her image to mind, wishing that he could have made love to her just once. . . . Kylene. Her name whispered through his mind like a prayer.
"I'm here."
Sharilyn whirled around, her hand going to her throat as she stared at the hooded woman standing in the doorway.
A soft cry escaped Kylene's lips as she approached the bed. Was she too late?
Sobbing his name, she knelt by the side of the bed and took Hardane's hand in both of hers. It was cold, so cold. She grasped it tightly, willing her strength, her life-force, into him.
"Hardane! Hardane, come back to me." She pressed her lips to his cheek. "Come back to me, my Lord Wolf," she murmured brokenly. "Please come back to me."
"Kylene . . . is that you?"
"Yes, oh yes." She squeezed his hand as his eyelids fluttered open and she found herself gazing into the gray depths of his eyes, eyes filled with pain and wonder.
"You . . . came back?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because you needed me. Because . . ." She squeezed his hand again, afraid to say too much, afraid her heart would make promises she couldn't keep.
"You'll stay?"
"Yes, for as long as you need me."
He smiled weakly, his eyelids fluttering down once more. "Stay . . . stay . . ."
"I will."
"Always?"
She bit down on her lip, knowing she couldn't promise him always.
"As long as you need me," she said again, but he was already asleep.
"Bless you, my dear," Sharilyn said, placing her hand on Kylene's shoulder. "He's resting peacefully for the first time in days."
Lord Kray came to stand beside his wife, his brow furrowed thoughtfully as he stared down at Kylene, who was still kneeling beside the bed. "Might I have the pleasure of an introduction?"
"This is Kylene," Sharilyn answered. "She arrived here with Hardane some weeks ago."
"Why wasn't she here when we returned from Klannaad?"
"She was at the Bourne Sisterhouse, Kray."
"At Bourne? Why?"
"It's her vocation."
"Her vocation?" Lord Kray exclaimed. "What are you talking about?"
"She's taken the vows of the Sisterhood."
Lord Kray shook his head, completely bewildered.
"Hardane rescued her from the bowels of the Citadel," Sharilyn explained. "He thought she was Carrick's seventh daughter."
Lord Kray frowned. "Isn't she?"
"No."
"Are you blind? She looks just like Carrick."
"Does she?" Sharilyn stared at Kylene. "I've never seen him."
"Oh, yes, I'd forgotten," Lord Kray murmured absently. "Well, I've seen him. This girl has his eyes, his coloring."
"I'm sorry, my lord," Kylene interjected shyly, "but I'm not related to Lord Carrick. I'm a foundling."
"Go on."
"I was given into the care of the Sisterhood when I was very young. I have no memory of any other life."
"How did my son happen to rescue you?"
"I'm not sure. I . . . I saw him in my dreams and then, shortly after I was captured by the Interrogator, Lord Hardane rescued me and brought me here. He thought I was his betrothed, but as I've told you, that's quite impossible."
"You saw my son in your dreams?"
"Yes, my lord."
"You know, of course, that such a thing is impossible unless you're destined to be life-mated?"
"So I've been told."
Lord Kray shook his head. Deny it though she might, Kylene was related to Carrick. The resemblance was far too strong to be happenstance.
He glanced down at his son, who was sleeping peacefully. "We will discuss this further in the morning," he decided, taking his wife by the hand. "I suggest we all get some sleep until then."
Kylene looked at Hardane's hand resting in hers. "I'd like to stay here, if it's all right."
"Of course," Sharilyn said. "Bless you, my dear."
Alone, Kylene stared out the window, her mind replaying Lord Kray's words. She looks just like Carrick . . . she has his eyes, his coloring . . . you saw my son in your dreams . . . such a thing is impossible unless you are destined to be life-mated. . .
Weary and confused, she rested her head on her arm and closed her eyes. Was it possible? Was she Carrick's seventh daughter? But what of Selene? It was no secret that Selene was Carrick's seventh daughter. She had gone into exile with her father, her whereabouts were unknown, but it was common knowledge that she had been betrothed to Lord Kray's son since birth. They were to be married this year, in the seventh month.
"Kylene."
His voice, though faint, made her pulse race with new life. She could feel him watching her and she opened her eyes slowly, wanting to savor the moment when her gaze met his again.
His eyes were clear, as fathomless, and beautiful, as always.
"I thought I had dreamed you," Hardane murmured.
He slipped his hand from hers, then caught her hand in his and pressed his lips to her palm. His touch, though light, spread through her like heat lightning, making her heart sing, bringing a warm flush to her cheeks.
"Are you really here?" he asked, his lips brushing against the sensitive skin of her palm.
Kylene nodded, her gaze locked with his, her mind unable to accept the fact that he was growing stronger before her very eyes. His skin had lost the pale waxy look that had frightened her so. His hand was no longer cold, but cool, his breathing steadier, less erratic. It was impossible, she thought, and yet the proof was before her eyes, a living, breathing miracle.
He stretched, and then he sat up. She was too stunned by his sudden recovery to protest when he lifted her onto the bed, then gathered her into his arms. "How did you know I needed you?"
"I saw you in a dream. I heard you calling my name."
"And I heard you." His hand delved under her hair to stroke the nape of her neck. "I knew if I held the darkness at bay long enough that you would come to me."
"You heard me? What did I say?"
"You said, 'Hardane, I'm coming. Wait for me.' I heard what my father said, too," he murmured, his breath tickling her ear. "Do you still deny that you are my betrothed?"
Kylene nodded. "Aye, my lord. And yet I cannot deny that we are truly bound in some way that I do not understand."
"I understand," he replied quietly. "You are a part of my heart, my soul, my very life. How else can you explain our bond?"
"I can't." She looked at him, her expression troubled.
What if it was true? What if she really was a part of him? What if he couldn't live without her? And what if the reverse was true? Would she somehow die without him? She thought of how lost she had felt while residing at the Sisterhouse at Bourne, how long the days had been, how empty the nights had seemed. Without Hardane, she'd had little appetite for food or drink or for life itself.
The thought of being so closely bound to another frightened her in ways she feared to examine too closely.
"What are we to do?" she asked tremulously.
"I don't know. I only know that you've come back to me, and I won't let you go again."
"Why has this bond made itself known only now?"
"Because the time for mating is approaching. The bond lies dormant until the time of the mating moon."
Kylene swallowed hard. The seventh day of the seventh month would soon be upon them.
Her heart fluttered with excitement at the thought of being his woman, his wife. "And will the bond go away once you've joined with your betrothed?"
"No." His right hand roamed up and down her spine. "Do not be afraid, lady. You cannot change what was meant to be."
With a sigh, Kylene buried her face in the hollow of his shoulder. In spite of what he thought about fate and destiny, in spite of all he'd said about not letting her go, nothing had been settled. He was still betrothed to another, and she was still promised to the Sisterhood. But for now, for this one night, she didn't care. Hardane was here, beside her, and that was all that mattered.
Tomorrow, they would worry about the future.
Tomorrow, she would ponder what Lord Kray had said about her uncanny resemblance to Lord Carrick.
But none of that seemed important now. Hardane was alive and well, and she was in his arms, content to be there for as long as the Fates allowed.