SUNLIGHT, MOONLIGHT

by Amanda Ashley

  The days passed slowly. His mother, Zoe, read to him for hours at a time. She was the center of his world, his life. He had no contact with anyone else save the guards who brought them food and water. The guards never spoke to Navarre, never allowed their eyes to meet his. Only on rare occasions did they speak to his mother.

  As Navarre grew older, Zoe taught him to read and write and cipher.

  Once, he heard her mutter something under her breath, something about it being a waste of time to teach him to read and learn his numbers.

  "Why, mother?" he had asked. "Why is it a waste of time to teach me these things?"

  She had knelt down to face him, her expression filled with kindness. "What do you mean, Navarre?"

  "I heard what you said. Why is it a waste of time for me to learn to read and write?"

  "I didn't say that."

  "You did!" He had stared at her, wondering why she was lying to him. She had never lied to him before.

  "No, Navarre," she had insisted, not meeting his eyes, "you must have misunderstood me."

  He hadn't argued with her, but later that night, when she thought he was asleep, he had seen her standing at the window, the moonlight casting silver highlights in her long blond hair. The sound of her muffled sobs had brought tears to his eyes.

  Sometimes she held him up to the window so he could look out. As a child, he had spent hours imagining what it would be like to run through the tall grass, climb the trees, play in the clear blue river. Far in the distance stood a gold-domed building made of sparkling white stone. It was known as the Stone Hall Abbey.

  Sometimes men clothed in long gray robes came to the window to stare in at Navarre, their pale blue eyes filled with curiosity and a strange kind of awe that bordered on fear.

  "Why do they look at me like that?" he asked one day.

  "They stare at you because you're such a handsome boy," Zoe replied. She turned her head, but not before he saw that there were tears in her eyes again.

  "Handsome?"

  "Oh, yes," Zoe said. "You look just like your father."

  "Father?" Navarre knew what a father was, of course, from the scrolls he had read. But he had never realized he had one.

  Zoe nodded. "He was a very handsome man, your father. He had blue-black hair, just like yours. And his eyes were the same shade of smoky gray. You'll be tall, just as he was," she said.

  "Where is my father? What was his name?"

  "Your father is dead," Zoe said. She took a deep breath. "You are named after him."

  "I am?"

  She nodded, a faraway look in her eyes.

  "How did my father die?"

  Zoe felt the color drain from her face. She had always known she would have to answer his question one day, but even so, she was not prepared. How did one tell a child that his father had been sacrificed to a heathen god? How could she tell her son that he was destined to meet the same cruel fate?

  "Mother?" He looked at her through eyes far older than his years as he waited for her answer.

  "Do we have to speak of it now?" Zoe asked. She glanced out the window. "Look, the vixen is outside, playing with her babes."

  "How did my father die?"

  "He was sacrificed to the goddess Shaylyn."

  Navarre frowned. "Sacrificed? I don't understand."

  "Please, Navarre," she pleaded. "Let us not speak of it now."

  "When, then?"

  "When you're older."

  "How old?"

  "When you have seen thirteen summers."

  Another year, he thought. Certainly he could wait another year.

  In the meantime, there were other questions crowding his mind, questions he had never considered before. It was as if his first query had unleashed an avalanche.

  "Why do we live in this place? Why can't I go outside?" Suddenly restless, he began to pace the room. "Where do those other people live, those gray-robed men who come to stare at me?" He glanced down at his hands. "Why is their skin so light when mine is dark? How long will we have to stay here?"

  He looked at his mother, eager for answers, only to find her staring at him, her face drained of color, her dark blue eyes filled with sorrow that seemed to have no end and no beginning.

  "I'm sorry, Navarre," she murmured, her voice thick. "So sorry. I didn't want this for you. I tried to kill myself, but they stopped me. Your father…" She took a deep breath. "He tried not to touch me, but they drugged him…"

  "What are you saying?"

  Zoe fell to her knees before her son. Her hands shook as she clasped his. "Forgive me, Navarre, please forgive me."

  "I don't understand."

  He was looking down at her, looking at her through eyes exactly like his father's. How could she explain? How could she make him understand?

  "We're kept in this place because we're prisoners, Navarre. Your father was born here, just as his father before him, and his father before that."

  "Were you born here, too?"

  "No." She released Navarre's hands and sank back on her heels, her thoughts turned inward. "I was kidnapped by the priests of Shaylyn when I was sixteen. We were imprisoned until the day of your birth, and then your father was taken to the Temple of Shaylyn and sacrificed to the goddess."

  Zoe closed her eyes, the memories she had sought to keep at bay flooding her mind as she related the story to her son.

  It was the way of the priests, to sacrifice a living male to the goddess Shaylyn every five-and-twenty years in the belief that such a sacrifice would ensure the goddess's continued benevolence, but the sacrifice must be a man who had proven his virility by siring a male child.

  Since time out of mind, the priests of Shaylyn had raised men who were destined to be sacrificed. Men who were pure in heart and mind and body because they were never exposed to evil.

  For a year, she had been locked in a cage across from Navarre's father. They had been able to see each other, to speak to each other, but never allowed to touch, until the year he was four and twenty.

  Aware of what the future held for him and any child he sired, Navarre had refused to bed Zoe, but the priests of Shaylyn had drugged him with a powerful aphrodisiac. She had been horrified when they brought him to her. His deep gray eyes had been glazed with lust, his body ready. She had been frightened of him then. That night, he had not been the gentle man she had grown to love, but a stranger, a man who had no regard for her virginity, no thought at all save to appease his drug-induced lust.

  Her protests had fallen on deaf ears, and he had possessed her over and over again, every night for the next fortnight, until his seed had taken root, and then she had been taken away, never to see him again.

  He had been sacrificed to the goddess the morning after their son was born.

  And now his son was destined to meet the same fate. When Navarre came of age, he would be mated to a virgin and then, when his son was safely born, Navarre would be sacrificed to the goddess Shaylyn.

  Zoe opened her eyes to find her son staring down at her, a look of horrified disbelief on his face.

  "They are going to sacrifice me, too, aren't they?"

  She couldn't say the words, but he read the truth in her eyes.

  "How?" he asked. "What manner of sacrifice is it?"

  Zoe shook her head. "I know not, Navarre. All I know is that they took me away and I never saw him again."

  Navarre spent the rest of the day and night thinking of what his mother had told him, more and more questions crowding his mind. But he had no chance to ask them.

  The next morning, when he woke, his mother was gone, and he was alone in the cage.

  Chapter Two

  Years passed, and he thought he would go mad from the loneliness. And the waiting. The gray-robed men still came to stare at him, but they never spoke to him, and when he tried to talk to them, they turned away, almost as if they were afraid, or ashamed.

  Did they know he was to be sacrificed? Was that why they refused to speak to him? But then, no one spo
ke to him. Not the guards who stood outside the door, not the man who brought him food twice each day, not the man who emptied the slop jar every morning and changed the rough linens on his narrow cot once each week.

  His mother had spoken of a sacrifice, but she hadn't known the method of execution. His dreams, heretofore only vague fantasies of being free to explore the vast land beyond his prison, now turned dark and ugly as, each night, he imagined a fate worse than the one he had imagined the night before.

  Often, he woke in a cold sweat, the harsh sound of his own hoarse screams lingering in the air. He had nightmares of being beheaded; of being torn to pieces and eaten by wild beasts; or thrown into a pit of snakes; of being bound hand and foot and tossed into the depths of a river. He dreamed of being tied between four horses and ripped apart…

  He had never seen death, but he knew the horrors that haunted his dreams existed because he had read of such things in the scrolls and manuscripts that were his only companions now that his mother was gone.

  In the beginning, he had thought such grisly deaths were merely the gruesome creations of the authors, but now he feared he would meet his fate in just such a cruel manner. He suspected that the scrolls that were left in his room had been deliberately chosen to warn him, to prepare him for a hideous death.

  But first he would mate with a woman…

  A woman. Except for his mother, he had never seen a woman. He knew nothing of females, nothing of mating save that his male member was used in the act.

  As the day of his twenty-fourth year grew closer, he scrutinized every manuscript, searching for some clue as to what went on between a man and a woman, but to no avail.

  It mattered not. He had no intention of mating with anyone, no intention of begetting a son who would grow up in a cage with nothing to look forward to but a hideous death.

  Navarre slammed his fist against the stone wall. His mother had told him his father had tried to refuse to mate with her, and they had drugged him into obedience.

  Slowly, hesitantly, he picked up the knife he used for eating and turned it over and over in his hand. The blade was short and slender. And sharp. If he were to cut off that part of him which made him a man, he would be unable to mate. Perhaps, then, they would let him go…

  Shutting his mind to what he was about to do, he lowered his breeches and sat on the edge of his cot. The blade was cold against his flesh, as cold as the sweat that covered his brow and dripped down his back.

  He wiped the perspiration from his hands and then, with a cry of despair, he hurled the knife against the far wall, cursing himself for his cowardice.

  The next morning, five guards came for him.

  They backed him into a corner, and when he tried to escape, four of the guards wrestled him to the ground and held him there while the other one shackled his hands and feet. When that was done, they led him out of the cage.

  Despite the chains that bound him, Navarre felt a tremor of excitement as he drew in a deep breath. For the first time in his life, he was out of the cage. He felt the coarse texture of sun-warmed earth beneath his bare feet, and then the soft velvet of spring grass as they led him across the meadow toward the gold-domed building.

  His gaze darted right and left, drinking in sights he had never seen but recognized from drawings and pictures in the scrolls: flowers, in a multitude of vibrant reds and pinks and yellows, a small herd of black-faced sheep grazing in the noonday sun. Lambs frolicked at their mothers' sides. A shaggy brown and white dog sat beside a handsome young man who carried the crook of a shepherd. Glancing up, Navarre saw a blue bird perched on the branch of a flowering tree.

  As they drew nearer the building, he saw horses and cattle and goats. He recognized the beasts from pictures he had seen, but pictures had not prepared him for the reality. They were so much larger than he had thought they would be.

  And the noise. The cage had ever been as silent as the grave save for the sound of his mother's voice before they took her away, but now he heard the bleating of sheep, the warbling of a lark, the caw of a crow, the lowing of cattle.

  He longed to stop, to run his hands over the grass, to touch the animals, to speak to the shepherd, but his guards urged him onward, refusing to let him explore the wonders that surrounded him.

  The building was much larger than he had thought. Up close, the smooth white stones seemed to glow in the light of the sun. There were half-moons and stars, sunbursts and comets carved on each of the two heavy wooden doors.

  Four men wearing long black hooded robes stood in front of the massive portal.

  They drew back as Navarre approached.

  One of the black-robed men opened the door on the left and when Navarre hesitated, one of the guards gave him a push and Navarre stumbled into the building.

  For a moment, he could only stare at what he saw. The walls were at least twelve feet high. The domed ceiling was covered with gold leaf. The inside walls were made of luminous white stone. Brightly colored tapestries, woven with the same suns and moons that decorated the outer doors, were hung at intervals. He saw dozens of tall golden candelabra. The light and scent of a thousand candles overwhelmed him.

  They led him down a long narrow hallway. Soft carpets muffled his footsteps. Paintings of stern-faced priests and kings lined the walls. An occasional window let in the sun's golden light.

  At last, they reached a large round room that was decorated in muted shades of blue and saffron. A man in a long white robe sat behind a small desk, his face hidden in his cowl.

  The guards made deep obeisance before the hooded man. "Your Eminence, we have brought the sacrifice, as ordered," said one.

  Navarre felt the hooded man's gaze move over him, as cold as ice, as palpable as a touch.

  "He will do," the High Priest replied. "Unchain him and take him below. See that he is bathed and fed, then take him to his cell."

  "It shall be as you command, Your Eminence."

  One of the guards took hold of Navarre's arm, but he shook him off.

  "Wait, I want to know…" Navarre grunted as two of the guards twisted his arms behind his back and forced him to his knees.

  "You will not speak to the High Priest unless spoken to," the guard on Navarre's right hissed. "You will beg His Eminence for forgiveness."

  Navarre had been taught from childhood to be obedient in all things, at all times. He had accepted the fact of the cage; he had accepted his fate; but now, from somewhere deep inside himself, sprang the first seeds of rebellion.

  "I will not."

  The guard on Navarre's left grabbed a handful of his hair, jerked his head back, and slapped him across the face, hard.

  Navarre gasped, startled more by the fact that the guard had struck him than by the faint burning pain in his cheek. In all his life, no one had ever laid a hand on him in anger or violence.

  "You will beg His Eminence to forgive you for your impertinence!" the guard demanded.

  Still stunned by the fact that the man had struck him, Navarre shook his head. "No."

  The High Priest leaned forward, and Navarre caught a glimpse of a face so gaunt, it appeared skeletal; eyes so pale, they seemed colorless.

  The High Priest lifted his hand in a faint gesture, and one of the guards drove his fist into Navarre's face.

  Navarre groaned as blood spurted from his nose and filled his mouth. He was stunned by the pain, and by the sudden urge to retaliate. He felt his hands curl into fists, and he wondered what it would feel like to strike out, to loose the anger and frustration building within him.

  "Apologize," the guard commanded.

  He knew it was foolish to defy them, but anger and pain fueled his resistance. Staring at the hooded man, Navarre shook his head. "No."

  Again, that faint wave of the hand.

  Navarre tried to shield his head as the guards began to beat him, their fists driving into his ribs, his face, his back, until his whole body was throbbing with pain and he fell to the floor, trembling convulsively.
>
  "Enough. He will be of no use to us if you damage him."

  The words, low and brittle, brought an end to the beating. Rough hands grabbed Navarre under the arms and dragged him out of the room, along a dark corridor, down seemingly endless flights of stairs, and into a small room that held a large wooden tub and nothing more. They did not leave him to bathe alone. After removing the shackles from his hands and feet, the guards stood at the door, keeping watch.

  Gritting his teeth, Navarre disrobed and stepped into the tub. Ignoring the guards, he closed his eyes, sighing as the hot water soothed his aching flesh.

  When he emerged from his bath, one of the guards offered him a coarse cloth with which to dry himself, then handed him a long black robe. When he was dressed, food was provided.

  Navarre ate slowly, aware of the two men who stood at the door watching his every move.

  When he finished eating, they led him down another long narrow corridor to a small, iron-barred cell which contained a narrow bed covered by a thick blue quilt. There was a square table, a single chair, a small shelf filled with scrolls. A covered chamber pot stood in one corner.

  The door closed behind him with a loud clang. Crossing the floor, Navarre sank down on the bed, his eyes closed against the pain that thrummed through him with every breath he took.

  When he opened them again, he stared at his surroundings. He was really in a cage this time, a cage made of iron bars. A second cage stood some six feet away. And in it, looking back at him, he saw a young female.

  Chapter Three

  Navarre stared at the girl for a long while, unable to think or speak. Except for his mother, he had never seen a woman. Zoe had been tall and regal, with blond hair and dark blue eyes; this girl was small and delicate, with a mass of curly black hair and deep green eyes fringed with long black lashes. Her skin was fair, like those of the gray-robed priests. She wore a long, loose-fitting blue robe. Her feet were bare.