Beneath a Midnight Moon

Kylene closed her eyes, her fingers curling around the iron bar over her head as she waited for the lash to fall. How many strokes before the pain would drive her to unconsciousness? she wondered morbidly. How many strokes would it take to steal the breath, the very life, from her body?



Why didn't he begin?



She opened her eyes and looked over her shoulder. The Executioner was standing motionless, his head cocked to one side, as if he were listening to voices only he could hear.



He was perhaps the ugliest man she had ever seen. His hair was lank and brown, his face scarred by the pox. His lips were thick, his nose decidedly crooked. He had massive shoulders, a bull-like neck, and huge, hairy hands that could break her in half as easily as she might snap a twig.



She stared at him, wondering why he didn't begin and get it over with. He nodded once, briefly, and then released her hands from the bar, though her wrists were still bound together by a narrow cord.



"Follow me," he said.



She hesitated only a moment. Perhaps he still meant to take her life, but, be that as it may, she was grateful for the reprieve, however short it might be.



He opened the heavy, iron-barred door, turned left, and started down the narrow corridor, his footsteps as wary as a wolf on the prowl. Not once did he turn to see if she followed, yet she knew he was aware of her every move, her every breath.



Swift and sure, he made his way along the corridor and up a winding staircase until they reached the rear entrance of the dungeon. Without hesitation, he opened the heavy iron door and stepped outside.



Kylene drew a deep breath as she crossed the threshhold, feeling as if she had just crossed the boundary from death to life as she breathed in the sweet, clean scent of fresh air, of trees and earth.



"Hurry," the Executioner said.



Kylene hastened after him, wishing he would stop long enough to free her hands. But then, perhaps he didn't mean to free her at all. Perhaps he only meant to use her for his own amusement before carrying out the Interrogator's orders.



The thought brought her to an abrupt halt.



Immediately, he whirled around to face her. "What is it?" he demanded curtly. "Why do you tarry? Is it your wish to die at the hands of the Executioner?"



Odd, Kylene thought, that he should speak of himself in such a way.



"No," she replied. "I have no wish to die at your hands, nor anyone else's."



"You will not die by my hand, lady." He glanced at her bound wrists as if noticing them for the first time. Muttering an oath, he drew his knife and cut her hands free. "Hurry now, before our escape is discovered."



"Our escape?"



"Trust me a few more minutes," he urged, "and all will be explained." He cocked his head to one side. "They're coming," he said, and he held out his hand.



In that instant, Kylene knew that she did trust him, though she couldn't help shuddering with revulsion as his thick, hairy hand closed over hers; then they were running up the hill, over the crest, and down the other side.



Two horses, saddled and bridled, awaited them.



"You can ride, can't you?" the Executioner asked.



"Of course I can ride," she said quickly, fearing that if she told the truth, he would leave her behind.



The Executioner looked skeptical; then, with a shrug, he lifted her onto the back of a long-legged gray mare.



Swinging aboard a big black stallion, he pounded his heels into the animal's flanks.



The gray mare needed no urging. She raced after the other horse, almost unseating Kylene, who grabbed the saddle horn with one hand and the horse's mane with the other, and held on for dear life. In truth, she had never ridden before; there had been no horses at the Motherhouse.



The Executioner glanced over his shoulder from time to time, no doubt to make sure she still followed him. She toyed with the idea of trying to get away from him, but it would be night soon, and she had no desire to ride through the forest alone. She would be easy prey for the many outlaws that roamed the countryside after dark.



After what seemed like hours, the Executioner drew his horse to a halt. Dismounting, he lifted Kylene from the back of her mount, tethered the horses to a sturdy tree, then led the way up a short steep cliff toward a small cave.



"We'll stay the night here," he said.



"And then what?"



"At dawn, we'll ride for the Sea of Mouldour. My men have a ship waiting to take us to Argone."



"Argone." She spoke the word in the same tone she might have used if he'd told her they were going to Perdition's flames.



"You object?"



"Would it do me any good?"



A wry smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. "No, lady, it would not."



He gathered a handful of leaves and twigs and carried them into the cave. Moments later, a small, cheerful fire chased away the darkness.



Kylene stood at the entrance to the cavern. The fire's warmth beckoned her even as the Executioner's ugliness repelled her.



He glanced at her, a hulking shape in the dancing shadows cast by the flames.



"Come, warm yourself." He looked at her askance when she hesitated, one grizzled brow quirked in amusement. "You still do not trust me?"



"Yes . . . no . . . I don't know."



Rising to his feet, he walked slowly toward her. "Trust me, lady, I will do you no harm."



Removing his fur-lined cloak, he placed it over her shoulders.



"Who are you?" Kylene asked. "Why are we going to Argone? Why have you brought me here?"



"I will answer your questions in good time, lady. For now, I would know who you are."



"It is as I told the Interrogator. My name is Kylene, and I am a foundling. The Sisterhood has cared for me since I was a child. I want only to take my final vows and join their holy order."



He shook his head in disbelief. He had saved her life and she still didn't trust him with the truth. And yet, he could understand her reluctance. He was, after all, in the guise of a stranger.



"Why would a woman as lovely as you seek such an existence?" he asked, willing to play along for a moment.



"I wish to embrace their way of life, to know the kind of peace that they enjoy."



"What kind of life is that? To hide yourself behind high walls for the rest of your days?"



Kylene lifted her chin defiantly. "It is my life. What is it to you how I wish to spend it?"



"You are a woman of rare beauty. They will clothe you in shapeless black robes, cut off your hair, and cover your face with a veil." Slowly, he shook his head. "It is a waste, to hide such perfection in ugliness."



Kylene felt her cheeks grow warm under his praise. She had little experience with men, still less with worldly compliments.



"So," he mused, "you are not the rightful Mouldour's daughter, but a foundling."



Kylene went suddenly cold. Would he kill her, now that he was convinced she was not Carrick's seventh daughter?



She stared at him, mute, wondering if she could buy a little more time by lying. A sudden weariness overcame her. Lifting her chin defiantly, she stared at the Executioner.



"I am not his daughter," Kylene said. "I have seen Lord Carrick but once, and from a distance. If it is your intention to kill me, then do it, but, pray, do it quickly and be done with it."



He grinned, amused by her unexpected show of temper. "Why did Lord Carrick offer you sanctuary?"



Kylene shrugged. "I am told he is a kind man."



"Kind, perhaps, but you cannot rule a country and maintain a throne with kindness."



He thought of the waste brought about through war with Mouldour, the lives sacrificed on the field of battle, the homes and crops that had been destroyed. Of course, Carrick couldn't be held entirely responsible. He had wanted peace. He had willingly agreed to see his daughter betrothed to the house of Argone in hopes of achieving peace.



But he had not been strong enough to keep the throne of Mouldour. Unfortunately, Bourke and his advisors seemed determined to keep the ancient feud alive, to seek the revenge that the ruling house of Mouldour had long felt was its due, and all because Hardane's great-grandfather's father had chosen to marry a Wolffan princess instead of the Mouldourian princess who had been selected for him. The Lord High Sovereign of Mouldour had been insulted when his daughter was passed over in favor of a woman he considered to be less than human. The Wolffan were an alien race. They were rumored to prowl the woods at night, slaughtering cattle and sheep and wild animals, stealing young children from their beds to be sacrificed to their heathen gods. The cry of war had been raised, and there had been war ever since.



"My people have never known kindness from any of Mouldour's monarchs," the Executioner remarked. "Surely Bourke does my liege no kindness by holding him prisoner in the dungeons on the Isle of Klannaad."



Kylene leaned forward, fear for her own life momentarily forgotten. No place in all the known world was viewed with such horror as the dungeons located in the bowels of Castle Conn on the barren Isle of Klannaad. It was said that to be imprisoned there was to look into the face of certain death.



"Your liege is Lord Bourke's prisoner?" she queried, frowning. "How can that be? Do you not serve Lord Bourke?"



"No, lady," he said, tiring of the game. "I serve only my father, the Lord High Ruler of Argone."



Kylene drew back as, quite unexpectedly, the Executioner's gruesome face and form began to change.



Her breath caught in her throat as the man who lived in the shadow world of her dreams stood before her, his eyes as dark and stormy as winter clouds, his hair long and sinfully black, his skin the color of wild honey.



"You." The single word whispered past her lips.



He inclined his head, the ghost of a smile hovering on his lips. "My lady."



"Who are you?" She felt her mouth go dry as her gaze moved over him. Surely there could be no harm in looking, for he was beautiful enough to tempt Saint Lorinda herself.



"I am your betrothed, lady," he said with a soft smile. "Hardane of Argone."



Kylene shook her head. "I am not the woman you seek, my lord." But now, looking at his broad shoulders, at the wide expanse of his chest, she felt suddenly envious of the woman who was destined to be his bride.



"Impossible," he retorted sharply. "We have met often in your dreams."



Kylene nodded. "That's true, but I am not your betrothed. The Princess Selene is Carrick's seventh daughter."



Hardane grunted softly. Selene. Kylene. "What is the color of her hair, her eyes?"



"I know not. I have never seen her . . ." Kylene's voice trailed off. "It was Selene you meant to communicate with, wasn't it?" she asked, unable to stifle her disappointment.



The man of her dreams had become flesh-only he belonged to another. It was just as well, she thought, hoping to console herself. She had vowed to unite with the Sisterhood, to devote her life to easing the pain and suffering of others. There was no place in her future for a man, especially one who was heir to a throne.



"You can tell me the truth, lady. Surely you know I mean you no harm."



"I am telling the truth," Kylene replied quietly. "The Princess Selene is the woman you want."



Hardane shook his head in confusion. It wasn't possible. Only his betrothed, the woman destined to be his life-mate, had the power to receive his essence.



If Kylene was not the woman meant for him, how then to explain the fact that she had seen his tashada, his spirit, in her dreams?