Authors: Amanda Ashley

Beneath a Midnight Moon (26 page)

BOOK: Beneath a Midnight Moon

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Kylene’s arms tightened around him. There was nothing she could say to comfort him, to make the loss any easier to bear.

They stood there, in the waning moonlight, for a long time. Hardane rested his head on Kylene’s, his arms wrapped loosely around her waist, finding solace in her nearness, in her quiet understanding of his grief.

His father had been a man in his prime. He should have ruled Argone for years to come, should have lived to see the birth of his grandchildren, to see lasting peace forged between Mouldour and Argone.

You’ll pay for this, Renick,
he vowed, his arms tightening convulsively around Kylene.
You’ll pay in blood.

“No!” Kylene drew back, shaking her head vigorously as the image of a bloodstained sword flashed through her mind. “No, Hardane, please.”

“I must.”

“Why?”

“Why?” He looked at her as if he’d never seen her before. “How can you ask that after what he did to you? To my father? Not to mention what he did to my mother. To me.”

Releasing her, Hardane ran a hand through his hair, then began to pace the yard. “My father’s blood cries out to be avenged.”

Kylene wrapped her arms around her swollen belly. “And what if you’re killed? What do I tell our sons?”

Hardane whirled around to face her, his jaw rigid. “You tell them the truth, that I died avenging their grandfather’s death.”

“And do you think that will comfort them? That it will bring
me
comfort on cold nights?”

“Kylene, try to understand.”

She shook her head, her long auburn hair swirling around her shoulders like a thick fiery mist.

“I understand that vengeance means more to you than I do.”

“That’s not true!” Hardane exclaimed, suddenly angry.

“I don’t want to raise our sons alone.”

“Have you so little faith in my ability to defend myself that you already fancy yourself a widow?”

“Fighting Renick will solve nothing. Your father’s gone, and the Interrogator’s death will not bring him back.”

Closing the distance between them, Kylene laid her hand on her husband’s arm. It was as unyielding as stone.

“Please, Hardane . . .”

With a sigh, he drew her into his arms again, his chin resting lightly on the top of her head.

“Lady, you don’t know what you ask.”

Taking his reply for assent, Kylene rested her cheek against his chest and closed her eyes.

The next few days would be long and difficult for all of them.

Chapter 44

Lord Kray’s body lay in state for three days and three nights while people came from near and far to pay homage to their fallen liege. Hardane had sent a runner to advise his sister of her father’s illness as soon as they had reached Argone; another runner had been sent to advise her of his death.

Sharilyn, clad in a dress of charcoal gray, her head and face covered with a gossamer black veil that hid the dark shadows beneath her eyes, greeted the farmers, the townspeople, the curious, and the grieving who came to pay their final respects to her husband. Dry-eyed, she accepted their words of sorrow, their embraces, their tears.

Food was provided for the mourners; beds were offered to those who needed shelter until after the interment.

Hardane’s sister, Morissa, arrived late in the afternoon on the day before the funeral. She was a lovely woman with curly black hair and light brown eyes.

Morissa welcomed her new sister-in-law into the family with a warm smile and a hug, immediately putting Kylene at ease.

“I’m so pleased to meet you at last,” Kylene murmured, feeling as if she’d known Morissa for years instead of a matter of moments. “I only wish it could have been under happier circumstances.”

Morissa nodded. She wrapped her arms around her swollen girth as she apologized for her absence at the wedding.

“I understand,” Kylene said. “When is your baby due?”

“At the end of the month.” Morissa placed her hand over Kylene’s stomach. “And yours?”

“In late spring, I think.”

“I’m glad my time is almost here.” Morissa pressed a hand to the small of her back, a brief look of pain flitting across her face.

“Is something wrong?” Kylene asked anxiously. “Maybe you should sit down?”

Morissa sighed heavily. “I’m fine. Just a twinge. Eben wanted me to stay home, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t.” She blinked the moisture from her eyes. “I can’t believe Father is gone.”

“He was a fine man,” Kylene said sympathetically. “I wish I had known him better.”

“He was always so good to us. To Mother.”

Kylene glanced across the room to where Sharilyn stood talking to several mourners. “How’s your mother doing, really?”

Morissa shook her head. “I don’t know. I haven’t had any time alone with her. No one has, except Hardane. He’s always been her favorite, you know.”

Kylene made a vague gesture, not knowing what to say.

“It’s all right,” Morissa said. “I don’t mind. None of us do. Hardane and my mother have always shared a special bond, but Mother’s never given any of us reason to be jealous. I . . .”

Morissa’s words trailed off as her husband came up beside her and slipped an arm around her waist.

“I think you should go upstairs and get some rest,” Eben suggested. “The funeral is set for tomorrow morning.”

Morissa inclined her head in Kylene’s direction. “It was good to meet you at last, Kylene. See if you can’t persuade Hardane to go to bed early. He looks tired.”

Kylene nodded. “I’ll try.”

She watched them out of sight, her thoughts wandering. Lord Kray had passed away, but his daughter would soon give birth to a new life. And in a few months, Hardane’s sons would be born. It was an endless cycle, life and death. She wondered if Morissa was as apprehensive of childbirth as she was.

At length, the last visitor had paid his respects and all the house guests were bedded down for the night.

Sharilyn refused to leave her husband’s side. She stood there, her face wan, her eyes dry, as Hardane and Dubrey closed the lid of the carved oak coffin and covered it with a cloth woven in bloodred and black, the colors of the House of Argone.

“Mother,” Hardane said, “you should go to bed.”

Sharilyn shook her head. “No. I can’t leave him here alone, not tonight.”

“We’ll stay with you, then,” Hardane said, indicating his brothers, who had gathered around.

“No. I want to be alone with him.”

Dace laid a hand on his mother’s. “You shouldn’t be alone now.”

“Leave her,” Hardane said.

Dace immediately lifted his hand from Sharilyn’s arm and, after giving his mother a kiss on the cheek, left the hall. One by one, the other brothers embraced their mother and then followed Dace from the room.

Hardane was the last to embrace Sharilyn. He held her for a long moment, one hand stroking her hair, and then he took Kylene by the hand and led her out of the room, leaving his mother standing beside the casket, alone in the Great Hall.

The morning of the funeral dawned dark and cold. Heavy black clouds lowered in the sky, promising rain before the day was through.

It was fitting, Kylene thought, for the dreary weather matched the mood of everyone in Castle Argone.

The funeral was held in the Church of Alysha, half a league from the keep. Named after the wife of one of Argone’s former rulers, it was an enormous edifice, made of huge blocks of pink-hued stone and black oak. The double doors were ten feet tall. The windows, of every shape and size, were of stained glass.

Inside, beneath an arched window, was an altar three feet high and twelve feet long. Huge candlesticks were set at intervals along the outer aisles.

The Wolffan priest who had officiated at the Temple of Fire stood behind the altar. He was clad in a hooded white robe tied with a crimson sash. Kylene had thought it odd that a Wolffan priest would conduct the service until Hardane told her that Kray had embraced the Wolffan religion in the belief that, if he did so, he would be united with Sharilyn in the afterlife. It was fortunate, Kylene thought, that the people of Argone respected a man’s right to worship as he saw fit.

When everyone was seated, Hardane and his brothers carried the coffin into the chapel and placed it at the foot of the altar.

The service was not overly long. Prayers of consolation were uttered, a choir of monks clad in somber black sang a dirge in a language Kylene did not understand. And then each member of the immediate family went forward and laid a white winter rose upon the casket.

Hardane was the last to approach the altar. Reverently, he placed his rose upon the cloth-covered coffin and then, to Kylene’s horror, he drew a dagger from inside his shirt and cut a shallow gash in the palm of his right hand.

Turning to face the mourners, Hardane held his bleeding hand over the casket. Bright drops of blood splashed over the white roses.

“By my blood here spilt, I vow to avenge my father’s death.”

There was a long silence, and then the priest began to chant softly, and as he did so, he sprinkled Hardane’s head and shoulders with ashes.

Stunned, Kylene stared at Hardane, at the blackened ashes scattered over his head and shoulders, at the blood dripping from his hand.

He had lied to her. He had promised he would not leave her to avenge his father’s death and now, before half the countryside, he had vowed to avenge Lord Kray.

There was a final prayer, and the funeral was over. The mourners, somber in their silence, filed past the coffin and out of the chapel.

A gentle rain was falling; a cold, bitter wind blew from the north as Hardane and his brothers carried the casket into the graveyard behind the church.

The grave had already been dug. The earth waited to receive its own.

Kylene stood beside Sharilyn, her mind and heart numb as Hardane’s words echoed and re-echoed in her ears:
By my blood here spilt, I vow to avenge my father’s death.

The church bells began to ring as the coffin was lowered into the ground.

It was then that Sharilyn’s outward composure cracked. With a sob, she fell to her knees and buried her face in her hands.

The sound of her tears rose above the wail of the wind.

It was a sound that Kylene knew would haunt her dreams for days to come.

She watched as Hardane drew his mother to her feet and gathered her into his arms.

By my blood here spilt
. . . Kylene shivered as an image burst upon her mind, an image of another coffin, Hardane’s coffin, being lowered into the ground.

Choking back a rush of nausea, she left the graveyard and returned to the church. Inside, she dropped to her knees in front of the altar and began to pray.

It was Dubrey who found her there. Dubrey who took her home.

Kylene sat in the bedchamber she shared with Hardane. Sitting in the window seat, she stared into the darkness, the ache in her heart too deep for tears.

He had lied to her, had let her believe that he meant to forgo his quest for vengeance. She had trusted him, and he had betrayed that trust. He was going after the Interrogator, to kill or be killed, and she would never forgive him. Never.

For the first time since their marriage, she felt no joy at the sound of his footsteps approaching their room, nor did she run to the door to greet him.

She heard him enter their chamber and close the door, heard him cross the floor toward her, felt his hand caress her shoulder.

Without turning around, she pushed his hand away.

“What’s wrong, Kylene?”

“Wrong?” She drew her hurt around her like a cloak. “Why should anything be wrong simply because you lied to me?”

“I never lied to you.”

“You did!” She whirled around to face him. “You promised me you wouldn’t go!”

“I never promised any such thing.”

“You did,” she insisted. She tried to remember that night, tried to recall exactly what he’d told her, but she was too hurt to think clearly, too steeped in despair to bandy words with him now.

“It’s late,” Hardane said quietly. “Come, let’s go to bed. You’ll feel better in the morning.”

“No.” Rising, she folded her arms over her breasts. “I wish to sleep alone.”

“Kylene . . .”

“Get out.”

“Listen to me.”

“No, I listened to you before, and you lied to me. You let me believe that I meant more to you than some useless need for vengeance.”

“How could you have believed I would let my father’s death go unavenged? How could I live with myself if I didn’t try to bring Renick to justice?”

“Justice! What do I care for justice? Will justice feed my children if you are killed? Will justice warm my bed?”

“Kylene, please try to understand.”

He reached out to take her in his arms, but she darted past him, anger and hurt warring in her heart. “Leave me alone!”

“Damn, lady, be careful you don’t say something you’ll regret.”

“The only thing I regret is trusting you.”

He took a step toward her, one hand outstretched, but she backed away from him, her eyes shining with unshed tears. “Don’t touch me!”

Hardane stared at her for a long moment, his gray eyes turbulent, and then, without another word, he left the room, quietly closing the door behind him.

In the fortnight following the funeral, Kylene rarely saw Hardane except at meals. It seemed there were always people crowding into the Great Hall. Some were merely anxious to see their new ruler, but most of them came with problems: a land dispute, stolen cows or pigs or sheep, a need for help of one kind or another. She’d never realized how much time and effort went into the running of a country.

Under other circumstances, she might have resented the many hours he spent away from her. But not now. She was hurt and angry because he was determined to avenge his father’s death no matter what the cost.

For the first time, she was glad that she had a room of her own where she could hide and lick her wounds.

How could he be so uncaring of her feelings? How could he even consider doing something that would put his life in jeopardy when he would soon be a father? Was shedding the blood of the Interrogator more important than being there for his sons?

And what would she do if he were killed? Argone was not her home. Much as she loved Sharilyn, as much as she adored Hardane’s brothers, she had no desire to remain in Argone without Hardane. In spite of everything, Mouldour was her home.

She spent long hours with her father, expecting him to console her, to take her side. Instead, Carrick urged her to be forgiving, to try to see things from Hardane’s point of view. His father had been killed. His mother had been held captive. Hardane, himself, had been imprisoned and badly abused. Even Kylene had felt the wrath of the Interrogator. Did she truly expect her husband, a man born and raised to be a warrior, to ignore such treachery?

“Yes!” Kylene had exclaimed. “I should mean more to him than revenge.”

“He’s a man, daughter,” Carrick had replied quietly. “A man of courage and honor. He must do what he thinks is right.”

BOOK: Beneath a Midnight Moon

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