Beneath a Midnight Moon - By Amanda Ashley Page 0,38
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 She had examined Hardane, withdrawn several packets of herbs from her bag, ground them with mortar and pestle.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.