ripped the lining to shreds, overturned Shaylyn's throne.
In the distance, he heard the sound of running feet as the priests of the temple came running to see what was happening.
Like the angel of death,Navarre rose out of the rubble.
A dozen priests knelt on the ground a few yards away. Behind them,Navarre could see villagers gathering. And then, coming from Stone Hall Abbey, he saw the High Priest, followed by Markos.
Effortlessly,Navarre vaulted onto one of the huge stones. He had donned the black cape, and it swirled around his ankles like thick smoke.
"No more sacrifices," he shouted, and his voice echoed and re-echoed in the stillness of the night.
A murmur swept through the crowd. He heard the priests whispering together, wondering what had happened to Shaylyn, wondering what great wrong had wrought the destruction of the temple.
"The goddess Shaylyn has abandoned you,"Navarre said, his voice rumbling like thunder. "And I have come to take her place." He fixed the priests with a hard stare. "No more will you sacrifice living flesh. Do so, and I will return, and my vengeance will be terrible to see."
The priests stared at him, their faces as gray as their robes. Slowly, they bowed their heads, their voices lifting as one. "It shall be as you say."
"Markos."
The guard stepped forward.
"From this night forward, this man shall be chief advisor to the High Priest."Navarre turned his gaze on the leader of the priests. "You will heed Markos's words as you would heed my own. He is to have a house of his own, land of his own."
The High Priest lifted his head in defiance. A faint smile touchedNavarre 's lips as he let the full force of his gaze rest on the man's face.
"It shall be as you wish," the High Priest said, and then, to the astonishment of everyone present, he dropped to his knees beforeNavarre .
"The woman, Katlaina,"Navarre said, "shall be returned to her own people, and her child with her."
"I will see to it personally," Markos vowed.
Navarreacknowledged the guard's promise with a slight nod and then, moving too fast for mere mortal to see, he vanished into the shadows of the night.
He ran tirelessly, effortlessly, soundlessly, the cloak billowing behind him like Satan's breath. Driven by fear, by a sense of exultation that made no sense, he fled through the darkness, until the village and the priests of Shaylyn were far behind him.
And still he ran, his senses reeling, filling with the scents and sounds of the night. Only when he sensed the coming of dawn did his footsteps slow. A part of his mind wondered how he knew that dawn was approaching; another part warned him to find a place where he could pass the daylight hours.
He sought shelter in a copse of trees, digging his way deep into the earth where the sun couldn't find him.
Lying there, waiting for the darkness of oblivion to come upon him, he thought of the man he had killed, of the superhuman strength he now possessed. What had he become? He didn't breathe, but he had life. He cast no shadow, no reflection, but his body still had mass and substance. The sun was his enemy...
He closed his eyes, and Katlaina's image rose to haunt him, her face distorted with fear, her eyes wide with fright.
There's death in your eyes, Navarre, she had said. Death. It came to claim him in waves of darkness, enfolding him, stealing his thoughts, his consciousness. He fought it, still afraid to surrender to the darkness, but it overpowered him, dragging him down, down, into an endless sea of nothingness...
He woke at dusk, emerging from the earth like a moth from a cocoon.
He shook the dirt from his clothing, combed his fingers through his hair, and walked out of the woods to the road beyond.
Ahead, he could see the conical shapes of thatched roofs. He needed food. A bath. A change of clothes.
Feeling stronger with each passing moment, he headed for the village.
The townspeople eyed him warily. He was a stranger in a place visited by few outsiders. Some nodded at him, others drew away. An old woman dressed in black made the sign of the cross when he passed by.
He paused at the entrance to a small inn, drawn by the smell of roasting meat. A young woman stood in the doorway. She wore a long red skirt and a white blouse embroidered with flowers. A riot of red-gold curls peeked out of a dark blue kerchief.