by Nora Roberts
She couldn’t be sure what he thought of her. Even when he’d kissed her—that single hot and desperate moment—she couldn’t be sure. And getting to the inside of matters had always been irresistible to her.
She heard footsteps, and turning, saw Larkin coming toward her.
“You should be in your bed,” he said.
“I’d only stare at the ceiling. The view’s better here.” She reached for his hand—her cousin, her friend—and was instantly comforted. “And why aren’t you in yours?”
“I saw you. Blair and I went out to help Cian for a bit.” Like hers, his gaze scanned the field below. “I saw you standing up here alone.”
“I’m poor company, even for myself tonight. I only wish it were done, then there would be what happens next. So I came up here to brood over it.” She tipped her head toward his shoulder. “It passes the time.”
“We could go down to the family parlor. I’ll let you beat me at chess.”
“Let me? Oh, will you listen to him.” She looked up at him. His eyes were golden brown, long-lidded like her own. The smile in them didn’t quite mask his concern. “And I suppose you’ve let me win the hundreds of matches we’ve had over the years.”
“I thought it good for your sense of confidence.”
She laughed even as she poked him. “It’s confident I am I can beat you at chess nine times out of every ten.”
“We’ll just put that to the test then.”
“We will not.” Now she kissed him, brushing his tawny hair away from his face. “You’ll go to your bed and to your lady, and not spend these hours distracting me from my sorry mood. Come, we’ll go in. It may be the limited view of my ceiling will bore me to sleep after all.”
“You’ve only to tap on the door if you’re wanting company.”
“I know it.”
Just as she knew she would keep her own counsel until the first light of dawn.
But she did not sleep.
In the way of tradition she would be dressed and tended to by her ladies in the last hour before dawn. Though it was urged on her, she refused the red gown. Moira knew well enough it wasn’t a color that flattered her, however royal it might be. In its stead she wore the hues of the forest, a deep green over a paler green kirtle.
She agreed to jewels—they had been her mother’s after all. So she allowed the heavy stones of citrine to be fastened around her neck. But she would not remove the silver cross.
She would wear her hair down and uncovered, and sat letting the female chatter chirp around her as Dervil brushed it tirelessly.
“Will you not eat just a little, Highness?”
Ceara, one of her women, once again urged a plate of honey cakes on her. “After,” Moira told her. “I’ll feel more settled after.”
Moira got to her feet, her relief profound when Glenna stepped into the room. “How wonderful you look!” Moira held out her hands. She’d chosen the gowns herself for both Glenna and Blair, and saw now she’d chosen well. Then again, she thought, Glenna was so striking there was nothing that wouldn’t flatter her.
Still, the choice of deep blue velvet highlighted her creamy skin and the fire of her hair.
“I feel a bit like a princess myself,” Glenna told her. “Thank you so much. And you, Moira, look every inch the queen.”
“Do I?” She turned to her glass, but saw only herself. But she smiled when she saw Blair come in. She’d chosen russet for Blair, with a kirtle of dull gold. “I’ve never seen you in a dress.”
“Hell of a dress.” Blair studied her friends, then herself. “We’ve got that whole fairy tale thing going.” She threaded her fingers through her short, dark hair to settle it into place.
“You don’t mind then? Tradition requires the more formal attire.”
“I like being a girl. I don’t mind dressing like one, even one who’s not in my own fashion era.” Blair spotted the honey cakes, and helped herself to one. “Nervous?”
“Well beyond it. I’d like a moment with the ladies Glenna and Blair,” Moira told her women. When they scurried out, Moira dropped into the chair in front of the fire. “They’ve been fussing around me for an hour. It’s tiring.”
“You look beat.” Blair sat on the arm of the chair. “You didn’t sleep.”
“My mind wouldn’t rest.”
“You didn’t take the potion I gave you.” Glenna let out a sigh. “You should be rested for this, Moira.”
“I needed to think. It’s not the usual way of it, but I want both of you, and Hoyt and Larkin to walk with me to the stone.”
“Wasn’t that the plan?” Blair asked with her mouth full.
“You would be part of the procession, yes. But in the usual way, I would walk ahead, alone. This must be, as it always has been. But behind me, would be only my family. My uncle, and my aunt, Larkin, my other cousins. After them, according to rank and position would walk others. I want you to walk with my family, as you are my family. I do this for myself, but also for the people of Geall. I want them to see what you are. Cian isn’t able to be part of this, as I wish he could.”
“It can’t be done at night, Moira.” Blair touched a hand to Moira’s shoulder. “It’s too much of a risk.”
“I know. But while the circle won’t be complete at the place of the stone, he’ll be in my thoughts.” She rose now to go to the window. “Dawn’s coming,” she murmured. “And the day follows.”
She turned back as the last stars died. “I’m ready for what comes with it.”
Her family and her women were already gathered below. She accepted the cloak from Dervil, and fastened the dragon brooch herself.
When she looked up from the task, she saw Cian. She assumed he might have stopped for a moment on his way to retire, until she saw he carried the cloak Glenna and Hoyt had charmed to block the killing rays of the sun.
She stepped away from her uncle’s side, and up to Cian. “You would do this?” she said quietly.
“I rarely have the opportunity for a morning walk.”
However light his words, she heard what was under them. “I’m grateful you’ve chosen this morning to take one.”
“Dawn’s broke,” Riddock said. “The people wait.”
She only nodded, then drew up her hood as was the custom before stepping out into the early light.
The air was cool and misty with barely a breeze to stir the fingers of vapor. Through the rising curtain of it, Moira crossed the courtyard to the gates alone, while her party fell in behind her. In the muffled quiet, she heard the morning birds singing, and the faint whisper of the damp air.
She thought of her mother, who had once walked this way on a cool, misty morning. And all the others who’d walked before her out of the castle gates, across the brown road, over the green grass so thick with dew it was like wading through a river. She knew others trailed behind her, merchants and craftsmen, harpers and bards. Mothers and daughters, soldiers and sons.
The sky was streaked with pink in the east, and the ground fog sparkled silver.
She smelled the river and the earth, and continued up, over the gentle rise with the dew dampening the hem of her gown.
The place of the stone stood on a faerie hill where a little glade of trees offered shelter. Gorse and moss grew, pale yellow, quiet green, over the rocks near the holy well.
In the spring there would be the cheery orange of lilies, dancing heads of columbine, and later the sweet spires of foxglove, all growing where they would.
But for now, the flowers slept and the leaves of the trees had taken on that first blush of color that portended their death.
The sword stone itself was wide and white, altarlike on an ancient dolmen of flat gray.
Through the leaves and the mists, beams of sun lanced, crossing that white stone and glinting on the silver hilt of the sword buried in it.
Her hands felt cold, so very cold.
All of her life she had known the story. How the gods had forged the sword from lightning
, from the sea, and the earth and the wind. How Morrigan had brought it and the altar stone herself to this place. And there she had buried it to the hilt, carved the words on the stone with her fiery finger.
SHEATHED BY THE HAND OF GODS
FREED BY THE HAND OF A MORTAL
AND SO WITH THIS SWORD
SHALL THAT HAND RULE GEALL
Moira paused at the base of the stones to read the words again. If the gods deemed it, that hand would be hers.
With her cloak sweeping over the dew-drenched grass, she walked through sun and mist to the top of the faerie hill. And took her place behind the stone.
For the first time she looked, and she saw. Hundreds of people, her people, with their eyes on hers spread over the field, down toward that brown ribbon of road. Every one of them, if the sword came to her, would be her responsibility. Her cold hands wanted to shake.
She calmed herself as she scanned the faces and waited for the trio of holy men to take their places behind her.
Some were still coming over that last rise, hurrying lest they miss the moment. She wanted her breath steady when she spoke, so waited a little longer and let herself meet the eyes of those she loved best.
“My lady,” one of the holy men murmured.
“Yes. A moment.”
Slowly, she unpinned the brooch, passed her cloak behind her. The wide sweep of her sleeves flowed back as she lifted her arms, but she didn’t feel the chill against her skin. She felt heat.
“I am a servant of Geall,” she called out. “I am a child of the gods. I come here to this place to bow to the will of both. By my blood, by my heart, by my spirit.”
She took the last step toward the stone.
There was no sound now. It seemed even the air held its breath. Moira reached out, curled her fingers around the silver hilt.
And oh, she thought as she felt the heat of it, as she heard somewhere in her mind the murmur of its music. Of course, aye, of course. It’s mine, and always was.
With a whisper of steel against rock, she drew it free and raised its point to the sky.
She knew they cheered, and some of them wept. She knew that to a man they lowered to one knee. But her eyes were on that point and the flash of light that streaked from the sky to strike it.
She felt it inside her, that light, a burst of heat and color and strength. There was a sudden burn on her arm, and as if the gods etched it, the symbol of the claddaugh formed there to brand her queen of Geall. Rocked by it, thrilled and humbled, she looked down at her people. And her eyes met Cian’s.
All else seemed to melt away in that moment, for a moment. There was only him, his face shadowed by the hood of his cloak, and his eyes so brilliant and blue.
How could it be, she wondered, that she should hold her destiny in her hand, and see only him? How, meeting his eyes like this, could it be like looking deeper, deeper yet, into her own destiny?
“I am a servant of Geall,” she said, unable to look away from him. “I am a child of the gods. This sword, and all it protects is mine. I am Moira, warrior queen of Geall. Rise, and know I love you.”
She stood as she was, the sword still pointing skyward as the hands of the holy man placed the crown on her head.
He was no stranger to magic, the black or the white, but Cian thought he’d never seen anything more powerful. Her face, so pale when she’d removed her cloak, had bloomed when her hand had taken the sword. Her eyes, so heavy, so somber, had gone as brilliant as the blade.
And had simply sliced through him, keen as a sword, when they’d met his.
There she stood, he thought, slender and slight, and as magnificent as any Amazon. Suddenly regal, suddenly fierce, suddenly beautiful.
What moved inside him had no place there.
He stepped back, turned to go. Hoyt laid a hand on his arm.
“You must wait for her, for the queen.”
Cian lifted a brow. “You forget, I have no queen. And I’ve been under this bloody cloak long enough.”
He moved quickly. He wanted to get away from the light, from the smell of humanity. Away from the power of those gray eyes. He needed the cool and the dark, and the silence.
He was barely a league away when Larkin trotted up to him. “Moira asked me to see if you wanted a ride back.”
“I’m fine, but thanks.”
“It was amazing, wasn’t it? And she was…well, brilliant as the sun. I always knew she’d be the one, but seeing it happen is a different matter. She was queen the moment she touched the sword. You could see it.”
“If she wants to stay queen, have anyone to rule, she better make use of that sword.”
“So she will. Come now, Cian, this isn’t the day for gloom and doom. We’re entitled to a few hours of joy and celebration. And feasting.” With another grin, Larkin gave Cian an elbow poke. “She might be queen, but I can promise the rest of us will eat like kings this day.”
“Well, an army travels on its belly.”
“Do they?”
“So it was said by…someone or another. Have your feasting and celebration. Tomorrow queens, kings and peasants alike best be preparing for war.”
“Feels like we’ve been doing nothing else. Not complaining, mind,” he continued before Cian could speak. “I guess the matter is I’m tired of preparing for it, and want to get to it.”
“Haven’t had enough fighting the last little while?”
“I’ve payment to make for what was nearly done to Blair. She’s still tender along the ribs, and wears down quicker than she’d admit.” His face was hard and grim as he remembered it. “Healing fast, as she does, but I won’t forget how they hurt her.”
“It’s dangerous to go into battle with a personal agenda.”
“Ah, bollocks. We’ve all of us something personal to settle, or what’s the point? And you won’t tell me that a part of you won’t be going into it with what that bitch did to King in your mind and in your heart.”
Because Cian couldn’t deny it, he left it alone. “Are you…escorting me back, Larkin?”
“As it happens. There was some mention of me throwing myself bodily over you to shield you from the sunlight should the magic in that cloak fade out.”
“That would be fine. We’d both go up like torches.” Cian said it casually, but he had to admit he felt easier when he stepped into the shadow cast by Castle Geall.
“I’m also asked to request you come to the family parlor if you’re not too weary. We’re to have a private breakfast there. Moira would be grateful if you could spare a few minutes at least.”
She would have liked a few minutes herself, alone. But Moira was surrounded. The walk back to the castle was a blur of movement and voices wrapped in mists. She felt the weight of the sword in her hand, the crown on her head even as she was swept along by her family and friends. Cheers echoed over the hills and fields, a celebration of Geall’s new queen.
“You’ll need to show yourself,” Riddock told her. “From the royal terrace. It’s expected.”
“Aye. But not alone. I know it’s the way it’s been done,” she continued before her uncle could object. “But these are different times. My circle will stand with me.” She looked at Glenna now, then Hoyt and Blair. “The people won’t just see their queen, but those who have been chosen to lead this war.”
“It’s for you to say, you to do,” Riddick said with a slight bow. “But on such a day, Geall should be free of the shadow of war.”
“Until Samhain has passed, Geall remains always in the shadow of war. Every Geallian must know that until that day, I rule with a sword. And that I’m part of six the gods have chosen.”
She laid a hand on his as they passed through the gates. “We will have feasting and celebration. I value your advice, as always, and I will show myself, and I will speak. But on this day, the gods have chosen both queen and warrior in me. And this is what I will be. This is what I’ll give to Geall, to my last breath. I won’t shame you.”
He took h
er hand from his arm, brought it to his lips. “My sweet girl. You have and always will bring me nothing but pride. And from this day, to my last breath, I am the queen’s man.”
The servants were gathered, and knelt when the royal party entered the castle. She knew their names, their faces. Some of them had served her mother before Moira herself was born.
But it was no longer the same. She wasn’t the daughter of the house now, but its mistress. And theirs.
“Rise,” she said, “and know I am grateful for your loyalty and service. Know, too, that you and all of Geall have my loyalty and service as long as I am queen.”
Later, she told herself as she started up the stairs, she would speak with each of them individually. It was important to do so. But for now, there were other duties.
In the family parlor the fire roared. Flowers cut fresh from garden and hothouse spilled from vases and bowls. The table was set with the finest silver and crystal, with wine waiting for Moira’s inner circle to toast the new queen.
She took a breath, then two, trying to find the words she would say, her first, to those she loved best.
Then Glenna simply wrapped arms around her. “You were magnificent.” She kissed both Moira’s cheeks. “Luminous.”
The tension she’d held tight in her shoulders eased. “I feel the same, but not. Do you know?”
“I can only imagine.”
“Nice job.” Blair stepped up, gave her a quick hug. “Can I see it?”
Warrior to warrior, Moira thought and offered Blair the sword.
“Excellent,” Blair said softly. “Good weight for you. You expect it to be crusted with jewels or whatever. It’s good that it’s not. It’s good and right that it’s a fighting sword, not just a symbol.”
“It felt as though the hilt was made for my hand. As soon as I touched it, it felt…mine.”
“It is.” Blair handed it back. “It’s yours.”
For the moment, Moira set the sword on the table to accept Hoyt’s embrace. “The power in you is warm and steady,” he said close to her ear. “Geall is fortunate in its queen.”