Moonlight

by Amanda Ashley

  I am nearby, waiting for you. Will you come to me?

  He saw the doubt reflected in her eyes, and it cut him to the heart.

  I will not hurt you.

  She shook her head, and when she spoke, he heard tears in her voice. “I cannot. I…I am afraid. Please go away.”

  I must see you. Come to me, Katlaina.

  Slowly, she took a step toward the window.

  She was more beautiful than he remembered. Her hair fell over her shoulders like a waterfall of ebony-hued silk. Her skin was smooth and unblemished. She stared at him through eyes as green as new grass; eyes filled with the memory of the love they had once shared. Eyes filled with fear as she recalled their last meeting.

  I will not hurt you. He held her gaze, wanting her, unable to enter the house unless she bid him do so. Katlaina, please…

  He saw the hesitation in her eyes as she opened the window, then took a wary step backward. “Navarre…”

  In a single fluid movement, he was over the sill. “Katlaina, I have missed you. Longed for you…”

  “You should not be here.” Her gaze moved over him, wary and confused, hopeful and fearful.

  “Come away with me.”

  “I cannot.”

  “Why?”

  “I…I have a husband.” She placed a hand on her stomach. “We are to have a child.”

  He stared at her in disbelief, the hurt cutting deep into his heart and soul. “No.”

  “I am sorry, Navarre. I thought never to see you again.”

  “Do you love this man?”

  “Yes.”

  “As you once loved me?”

  Katlaina lowered her gaze, unable to bear the pain she saw in his eyes. And behind the pain, she saw death. It frightened her now as it had frightened her before. Unaware of what she was doing, she took a step backward, instinctively placing herself between Navarre and her son.

  The move was not lost on Navarre. His eyes narrowed with suppressed fury.

  “Do you think I would hurt my own flesh and blood, Katlaina? Do you fear for your own life, as well?”

  She lifted her chin defiantly, but said nothing.

  “I want to see my son.”

  She hesitated, and Navarre clenched his fists, waiting. He could bend her mind to his, force her to let him see the child, but he wanted it to be her decision. Wanted her trust.

  “Very well,” she murmured, and stood aside.

  Navarre crossed the room to stare down at his child. His son. The only son he would ever have. The boy was pink of cheek and fair of face. His hair was black and curly, like his mother’s. He made a soft sound of contentment as he sucked his thumb.

  “He seems a fine boy,” Navarre remarked.

  “He is.”

  “What name did you give him?”

  “Navarre.” Her answer was barely audible.

  “Will you tell him of me, when he’s older?”

  “Of course.”

  He looked up at her, the tender feelings he had experienced while looking at his son swallowed up in bitter fury as he imagined Katlaina in the arms of another man, bearing another man’s child when she was his.

  His fangs pricked the inside of his lower lip; his hands curled into fists as he contemplated storming through the house, finding her husband, tearing him limb from limb. It would be easy. So easy…

  As if she had read his thoughts, Katlaina stepped forward and grabbed him by the arm. “Navarre, no!”

  “You were meant to be mine,” he said, his voice filled with anguish. “I loved you.”

  “And I loved you,” she whispered. “But you are no longer the man I loved.”

  “I am!”

  “No. I do not know what happened to you in the Temple of Shaylyn. I thought you had been killed, yet you came back to me. But the man I knew is dead, and the man before me looks at me through soulless eyes.”

  She choked back a sob as she moved away from him. “I wish I could still love you, Navarre. But I cannot. I cannot! Please, I beg of you, go away from this place and never return.”

  “Katlaina…”

  “Please, Navarre, for the sake of the love we once shared, for the child born of that love, I beg of you, go away.”

  Loneliness knifed through him, cutting his heart from his flesh, destroying whatever was left of his soul, until he felt as though he were lying naked upon Shaylyn’s altar once again, his life’s blood draining from his veins, leaving him cold and lifeless.

  “Katlaina…” He held out his hand, silently begging for her to touch him, to make him whole again.

  Tears streamed down her cheeks. “I’m sorry, Navarre,” she whispered hoarsely. “I wish I could help you. I wish I could go with you. But I cannot. I cannot…”

  She stared at him, remembering how tenderly he had loved her. Aching for him, she took a step forward and wiped a tear from his cheek, stared, in horrified confusion, at the blood-red drop on her finger.

  She looked up at him as he reached for her.

  “Kiss me, Katlaina,” he begged, his voice hoarse. “One last kiss.”

  She could not refuse him, even though her heart pounded with fear and every instinct she possessed urged her to flee, to run away before it was too late.

  “Please do not hurt me,” she pleaded softly. “My son…our son…needs a mother’s care.”

  He gazed down at her, the ache in his heart beyond pain. “I will not hurt you,” he promised. “I swear it on the life of my son. I ask only a kiss of farewell, one kiss, to warm me through eternity.”

  His lips were cool against her own. Her eyelids fluttered down as he deepened the kiss, and she felt his loneliness seep into her heart, his need, the bitterness that welled within him.

  It was a kiss that branded her soul. And then, like a shadow running before the sun, he was gone and she knew she would never see him again.

  Chapter Ten

  During the next few years, time lost all meaning for Navarre. He went on a voyage of discovery, experiencing the things he had only read about in the scrolls. He learned to ride a horse, to fence with a sword, to sail a ship by the light of the stars.

  He took up residence in an abandoned cottage and surrounded himself with animals of every kind—dogs and cats, sheep and goats, pigs and chickens, horses and cattle, ducks and swans—watched them as they bred and bore young, watched the young ones grow to adulthood and repeat the never-ending cycle of life.

  He planted flowers and watched them bloom.

  He planted a vegetable garden and watched it grow, though he had no use for the food itself.

  He ventured into the nearest town and observed the people. Except for his mother, Katlaina, and Ahijah, he had never interacted with others. He knew nothing of courtship or marriage, nothing of ordinary day-to-day living.

  He lingered in the shadows, listening to the farmers as they talked of crops, of planting and harvesting. He tried to imagine what it would be like to toil in the heat of the noonday sun, to till the earth. He watched the women gather their children close as darkness spread her cloak across the face of the land. He heard the lullabies they sang, the stories they told—tales of kings and queens, of enchanted cottages, of demon creatures of the night. He watched the children, marveling at their innocence and their insatiable curiosity, at the way they embraced life without fear.

  And always, lurking in the back of his mind like the ache of an old wound, was the memory of his own child. He saw babies learning to walk and lamented the fact that he had not been there to see his own child take his first step. His son would be almost five now. What was he like? Had Katlaina told him of his father?

  Sometimes, alone in the dark of night, he wept for his own lost youth and innocence, for the learning and experiences that been denied him. At those times, he cursed the fate that had kept him locked in a cage for the first five and twenty years of his life, depriving him of a normal childhood.

  On a whim, he booked passage on a ship and left the Isle of Mikos. Like a va
gabond, he wandered the earth, never at peace, never at rest, a part of his heart always yearning for home.

  Try as he might, he could not forget Katlaina, or his son. Twenty-five years later, drawn like the tide to the shore, he returned to Mikos and made his way to Grenalde. At dusk, he walked down the narrow dirt road toward Katlaina’s cottage.

  She was sitting outside, shelling peas. A young woman sat beside her, a dark-haired child suckling at her breast.

  Navarre paused in the shadows, careful to stay out of her sight. Katlaina, still beautiful in spite of the passage of time, in spite of the fine lines that fanned out from her eyes, in spite of the gray in her hair. Katlaina…

  His gaze moved to the young woman. Was this Katlaina’s daughter? He frowned, trying to find a resemblance, but there was none.

  He drew back as the cottage door opened and a tall, handsome young man with curly black hair and eyes the color of thunderclouds stepped outside. Smiling with pride, the young man ruffled the babe’s hair, kissed the young woman, then caressed Katlaina’s cheek.

  Something deep within Navarre’s heart cracked as he stared at his son. He opened his mind and let their thoughts flow into his soul, felt his throat grow thick as he sensed the love that bonded them together.

  He looked at his son, now thirty years old and a man grown, at the child in the woman’s arms. A grandchild, Navarre thought, and wondered if the babe was boy or girl.

  Tears stung his eyes as his gaze rested on Katlaina’s face. Do you ever think of me? he wondered. Do you know that I miss you every day? Do you know that I have never stopped loving you?

  He drew deeper into the shadows as Katlaina’s head jerked up and she glanced toward the copse of trees where he stood. Had she seen him?

  “What is it, Kate?” the young woman asked.

  “I don’t know.” Katlaina shook her head. “I…thought…”

  “Thought what?”

  Katlaina smiled up at her son. “I thought I heard your father’s voice.”

  The young man frowned. “My father? Here?” He looked around, his gaze searching the road.

  “Just an old woman’s fantasies,” Katlaina said with a self-conscious smile. Placing the bowl of shelled peas under her arm, she stood up. “Supper will be ready soon.”

  “I’ll help you,” the young woman said, but Katlaina shook her head.

  “No, daughter, I’d rather be alone just now. Enjoy the quiet of the evening with your husband and child. I’ll call you when it’s time to set the table.”

  Oblivious to the tears that dampened his cheeks, Navarre watched her disappear into the house and close the door behind her.

  For a moment, he thought of following her, of pulling her into his arms, of crushing her body to his. The memories of the nights they had shared crowded his mind, vividly reminding him of the sweetness of her lips, the supple feminine flesh that had teased and tantalized him with every touch, every caress. He longed to inhale the fragrance of her hair, speak her name, tell her that he had never forgotten her, that he loved her, would always love her.

  But she had a husband now. The thought knifed through Navarre. And how would he explain his presence to his son? How would he explain the fact that he had not aged in the last thirty years, that he looked like his son’s brother, not his father?

  When Katlaina called her family in to dinner, Navarre crept around the side of the house and peered through the window. They sat at a small round table, talking quietly as they shared a simple meal. The scent of candles and fresh-baked bread filled the room.

  He imprinted the image on his heart and mind and then, unable to watch any longer, he disappeared into the shadows.

  * * * * *

  Painful as it was, he went back to Grenalde every year. Young Navarre fathered eight healthy children—five sons and three daughters. He built a new house close to his mother’s cottage so he could care for her in her declining years.

  Time and again, Navarre was tempted to reveal himself to his son, and yet something, some instinct, warned him that it would be folly to do so.

  In the dark of night, when his son’s family lay peacefully sleeping, he walked through their house on silent feet, gazing down at his grandchildren, feeling a sense of pride as he saw his likeness in their faces. Dark of hair and skin, they all bore the unmistakable stamp of his lineage.

  His next stop was always Katlaina’s. Always, he lingered in her room. Her husband had died long since. The child she had born him had died in infancy, and now she lived in the cottage alone, with only a mangy yellow cat for company.

  His grandchildren were all grown, his son showing his age, the night Navarre heard Katlaina weeping. Silent as a drifting shadow, he listened to her cries and then, as if a heavy weight had suddenly descended on him, he knew she was dying, knew that it was a secret she had kept to herself. Knew, deep in his soul, that she would be gone before the morning’s light.

  Katlaina.

  He heard the gasp of her indrawn breath as she sat up, her face wet with tears. “Navarre, are you there?”

  And because he loved her, because he could not bear the thought of her dying alone, he went to her.

  “Are you real?” she whispered, “or only a ghost conjured from my imagination?”

  “Real enough,” he replied softly. “If you want me to be.”

  She stared up at him, trying to see his face in the darkness.

  “Light a candle,” she said. “I can’t see you.”

  Reluctantly, he did as she asked. He saw the wonder in her eyes, the trepidation, the curiosity.

  “How is it possible?” she murmured.

  She stared at her hands, the skin wrinkled with age, yet he had not changed at all. Over fifty years had passed since she had sent him away, and yet he was as tall as she remembered. His shoulders were still broad, his back unbowed by the passage of time. His hair remained thick and black, his skin smooth and unlined.

  She shook her head in disbelief. “How?” she asked again. “How is it possible that I have aged a lifetime, and you have not aged a day?”

  “A gift,” he replied, “from the goddess Shaylyn.”

  “The devil’s gift,” Katlaina exclaimed, awed by the unearthly miracle that stood before her.

  Navarre grunted softly. It was the devil’s gift, indeed, he thought bitterly, to stay forever young when all you loved withered and died. He could scarce stand the pain of looking at Katlaina. Her beautiful green eyes were faded and dulled by time. Her hair, once as black as his own, had gone completely gray. The skin he had loved to touch, skin that had once been smooth and clear, was now careworn and lined.

  As if sensing his thoughts, she looked away. “Why are you here?”

  “I’ve come every year,” he admitted. “To see you, to see my son and his family.”

  “Every year,” she said, her voice edged with pain. “Every year, and only now have you made your presence known.”

  “You sent me away, Katlaina, remember?”

  “I remember.”

  He heard the regret in her voice, the harsh rasp of her breathing as she sought to draw air into her lungs.

  She was dying. She had no reason to fear him now, he thought bitterly.

  “Navarre.” Just his name, but it held a lifetime of yearning, coupled with the knowledge that she would never see him again.

  Gently, he drew her into his arms and cradled her to his chest. Tenderly, he stroked her cheek, and once again he saw the beautiful young girl who had taken him into her bed and her heart.

  “I love you,” she whispered. “I never stopped.”

  He nodded, unable to speak. She was dying. The thought struck him again, harder this time.

  “Kiss me,” she begged. “One kiss, to warm me through eternity.”

  He recognized the words, the same words he had spoken to her so long ago. Tears stung his eyes as he lowered his mouth to hers. Her lips were warm and dry and unbelievably sweet. Even now, when he knew she was dying, she tasted o
f life and sunshine.

  He kissed her with all the love in his heart, and for a moment, he was young again, mortal again. Tears burned his eyes as her strength ebbed and her life force slipped away. One last kiss, and her last breath mingled with his, the warm radiance of her spirit illuminating the darkness of his own for one brief moment before her soul slipped free from the bonds of mortality.

  “Katlaina.” He hugged her body to his, holding her close until the first rays of the sun peeked over the horizon.

  Only then did he release her. Never before had be felt so completely, irrevocably, alone.

  A last look, a last caress, and then he ran out of the house and into the woods, pursued by memories, and by the relentless, unforgiving heat of the sun.

  INTERLUDE

  He never went back to Grenalde. The thought of watching his son grow old and die was too painful.

  He spent the next two hundred years on a small tropical island pretending to be an ancient god of war come back to life.

  He dwelt in a temple hewn of red stone. It stood atop a lush green hill, surrounded by trees and brightly colored wildflowers. The villagers brought him live animal sacrifices to assuage his hunger, showered him with finely wrought gifts of gold and silver, of fine-twined linen and costly furs. They provided him with whatever he desired, and asked nothing in return, save that he slake his horrible thirst on the blood of beasts and let the people of the island live in peace.

  When the burden of his existence grew too great, he slept deep in the earth, rising when the people of the village called his name.

  After two hundred years, he wearied of being an object of worship. Gathering up the riches the villagers had bestowed upon him over the centuries, he left the temple in the dead of night and caught passage on another ship.

  For a time, he wandered aimlessly, not caring where he was. He kept aloof from the people around him, afraid they would look into his eyes and see that he was not one of them, afraid he would be hunted and destroyed, as those believed to be witches were hunted and destroyed.