by Nora Roberts
She looked over the stones now, to the hills, the distant mountains. “I’ve learned you didn’t die as we always thought, but were murdered. You and your young brother. Murdered by the demons who are even now in Geall, preparing for war. I’m all that’s left of you, and I hope it’s enough.”
She knelt now, between the graves, to lay the rest of the flowers over her mother. “I miss you, every day. I had to go far away, as you know, to come back stronger. Mathair.”
She closed her eyes on the word, and on the image it brought to her, clear as life.
“I didn’t stop what was done to you, and still I see that night as if behind a mist. Those that killed you have been punished, one by my own hand. It was all I could do for you. All I can do is fight, and lead my people to fight. Some of them to their death. I wear the sword and the crown of Geall. I will not diminish it.”
She sat awhile, with just the sound of the breeze through the tall grass and the shifting lights of the sun.
When she rose, turned toward the castle, she saw the goddess Morrigan standing at the stone wall.
The god wore blue today, soft and pale and trimmed in deeper tones. The fire of her hair was unbound to lay flaming over her shoulders.
Her hands empty of flowers, her heart heavy, Moira walked through the grass to meet her.
“My lady.”
“Majesty.”
Puzzled by Morrigan’s bow, Moira clasped her hands together to keep them still. “Do gods acknowledge queens?”
“Of course. We made this place and deemed those of your blood would rule and serve it. We’re pleased with you. Daughter.” Laying her hands lightly on Moira’s shoulders, she kissed both her cheeks. “Our blessings on you.”
“I would rather you bless my people, and keep them safe.”
“That is for you. The sword is out of its scabbard. Even when it was forged, it was known that one day it would sing in battle. That, too, is for you.”
“She’s already spilled Geallian blood.”
Morrigan’s eyes were as deep and calm as a lake. “My child, the blood Lilith has spilled would make an ocean.”
“And my parents are only drops in that sea?”
“Every drop is precious, and every drop serves a purpose. Do you lift the sword only for your own blood?”
“No.” Shifting, Moira gestured. “There’s another stone here, standing for a friend. I lift the sword for him and his world, and for all the worlds. We’re all a part of each other.”
“Knowing this is important. Knowledge is a great gift, and the thirst to seek it even greater. Use what you know, and she will never defeat you. Head and heart, Moira. You are not made to give greater weight to one than the other. Your sword will flame, I promise you, and your crown will shine. But what you hold inside your head and your heart is the true power.”
“It seems they’re full of fear.”
“There’s no courage without fear. Trust and know. And keep your sword at your side. It’s your death she wants most.”
“Mine? Why?”
“She doesn’t know. Knowledge is your power.”
“My lady,” Moira began, but the god was gone.
The feast required yet another gown and another hour of being fussed over. With so much on her hands, she’d left the matter of wardrobe to her aunt, and was pleased to find the gown beautiful and the watery blue color flattering. She enjoyed pretty gowns and taking a bit of time to look her best.
But it seemed she was being laced into a new one every time she turned around, and subjected to the chirping and buzzing of her women half the day.
She could admit she missed the freedom of the jeans and roomy shirts she’d worn in Ireland. Beginning the next day, however it shocked the women, she would dress as best suited a warrior preparing for battle.
But for tonight, she’d wear the velvets and silks and jewels.
“Ceara, how are your children?”
“Well, my lady, and thank you.” Standing behind Moira, Ceara continued to work Moira’s thick hair into silky braids.
“Your duties and your training keep you from them more than I would wish.”
Their eyes met in the mirror. Moira knew Ceara to be a sensible woman, the most centered, in her opinion, of the three that waited on her.
“My mother tends them, and is happy to do so. The time I take now is well spent. I’d rather lose these hours with them than see them harmed.”
“Glenna tells me you’re very fierce in hand-to-hand.”
“I am.” Ceara’s face tightened with a grim smile. “I’m not skilled with a sword, but there’s time yet. Glenna’s a good teacher.”
“Strict,” Dervil piped in. “Not as strict as the lady Blair, but demanding all the same. We run, every day, and fight and tumble and carve stakes. And end each day with weary legs, bruises and splinters.”
“Better to be weary and bruised than dead.”
At Moira’s flat comment, Dervil flushed. “I meant no disrespect, Majesty. I’ve learned a great deal.”
“And are, I’m told, becoming a demon with a sword. I’m proud. And you, Isleen, are said to have a good hand with a bow.”
“I do.” Isleen, the youngest of the three flushed with the compliment. “I like it better than the fighting with fists and feet. Ceara always knocks me down.”
“When you squeal like a mouse and flutter your hands, anyone could knock you down,” Ceara pointed out.
“Ceara’s taller, and her arms longer than yours, Isleen. So,” Moira said, “you have to learn to be faster, and sneakier. I’m proud of all of you, for every bruise. Tomorrow, and every day after, for no less than an hour each day, I’ll be training with you.”
“But, Majesty,” Dervil began, “you can’t—”
“I can,” Moira interrupted. “And I will. I’ll expect each of you, and the other women to do their best to knock me down. It won’t be easy.” She stood when Ceara stepped back. “I’ve learned a great deal as well.” She lifted her crown, placed it on her head. “Believe me when I tell you I can knock the three of you, and any else who comes, on your arse.”
She turned, resplendent in shimmering blue velvet.
“Any who puts me on mine, or bests me with bare hands or any weapon will be given one of the silver crosses Glenna and Hoyt has charmed. This is my best gift. Tell the others.”
It was, Cian thought, like walking into a play. The great hall was the stage, and festooned with banners, enlivened with flowers, blazing with candles and firelight. Knights and lords and ladies were decked in their very best. Doublets and gowns, jewels and gold. He spotted several men and women sporting footwear with the long and pointed upturned toes that he recalled were fashionable when he’d been alive.
So, he thought, even regrettable styles spanned worlds.
Food and drink were so plentiful he imagined the long tables groaned under the platters and pitchers. There was music, bright and lively, from a harper. The talk he overheard ran the gamut. Fashion, politics, sexual gossip, flirtations and finance.
Not so different altogether, he mused, from his own nightclub back in New York. The women wore less there, of course, and the music was louder. But the core of it hadn’t changed overmuch through the centuries. People still liked to gather together over food and drink and music.
He thought of his club again, and asked himself if he missed it. The nightly surge, the sounds, the press of people. And realized he didn’t, not in the least.
Very likely, he decided, he’d been growing bored and restless, and would have moved on shortly in any case. It had only taken his brother’s sweep through time and space, having Hoyt land—more or less—on his doorstep to up the timetable.
But without Hoyt and his mission from the gods, moving out would have meant a change of name and location, a shifting of funds. Complicated, time-consuming—and interesting. Cian had had more than a hundred names and a hundred homes, and still found the forming of them interesting.
Where might
he have gone? he wondered. Sydney perhaps, or Rio. It might have been Rome or Helsinki. It was only a matter, essentially, of sticking a pin in a map. There were few places he hadn’t been already, and none he couldn’t have made his base if he chose.
In his world, in any case. Geall was a different matter. He’d lived through this sort of fashion and culture once, and had no desire to repeat himself. His family had been gentry, and so he’d attended his share of high-flown feasts.
All in all he’d have preferred a snifter of brandy and a good book.
He didn’t intend to stay long, and had come only because he knew someone would come looking for him. While he was confident he could have avoided whoever had come hunting him, he would never avoid the haranguing Hoyt would subject him to the next day.
Easier altogether to put in an appearance, toast the new queen, then slip away.
He had drawn the line at wearing the formal doublet and accessories that had been delivered to his room. He might have been stuck in a medieval timeline, but he’d be damned if he’d dress for it.
So he wore black, pants and sweater. He hadn’t packed a suit and tie for this particular journey.
Still he smiled with some warmth at Glenna who drifted up to him in emerald green, in what he thought had been termed a robe deguisee at one time. Very formal, very elegant, and showcasing her very lovely breasts with its low and rounded neckline.
“Now here’s a vision I prefer to any goddess.”
“I almost feel like one.” She spread her arms so the full bell sleeves swayed. “Heavy though. It must be ten pounds of material. I see you went for a less weighty ensemble.”
“I believe I’d stake myself before I squeezed into one of those getups again.”
She had to laugh. “Can’t blame you, but I’m getting a kick out of seeing Hoyt all done up. For me—maybe for you after all this time—it’s like a costume ball. Moira chose regal black and gold for the house sorcerer. It suits him, as your more contemporary choice does you. Still, this whole day has been like a very strange dream.”
“I was thinking a very strange play.”
“Yeah, that works. Whatever, tonight’s feasting is a short and colorful respite. We managed to do some scouting today, Hoyt and I magically, Larkin and Blair with the fly-over. We’ll fill you in when—”
She broke off at the sound of trumpets.
Moira made her entrance, the train of her gown flowing behind her, her crown flaming in the light of a hundred candles.
She glowed, as queens should, as women could.
As his unbeating heart tightened in his chest, Cian thought: Bloody, buggering hell.
He had no choice but to join the others at the high table for the feast. Leaving beforehand would have been an overt insult—not that he minded that overmuch—but it would have drawn attention. So he was stuck again.
Moira sat at the center of the table, flanked by Larkin and her uncle. Cian, at least, had Blair beside him, who was both an informative and entertaining companion.
“Lilith hasn’t burned anything yet, which was a surprise,” she began. “Probably too busy nursing Fifi. Oh, question. The French bitch has been around about four hundred years, right? And you more than double that. How come both of you still have accents?”
“And why is it Americans believe everyone should speak as they do?”
“Good point. Is this venison? I think it’s venison.” She took a bite. “It’s not too bad.”
She wore siren red, which left a portion of her strong shoulders bared. Her short cap of hair was unadorned, but there were ornate gold medallions, nearly big as a baby’s fist, dangling from her ears.
“How do you hold your head up with those earrings?”
“Suffering for fashion,” she said easily. “So they’ve got horses,” she continued. “A couple of dozen in various paddocks. Might be more stabled. I figure why not have Larkin put down, and we could run the horses off. Just make a nuisance of ourselves. Maybe—if I can talk him into it—light a few fires. Vamps stay inside, they burn. Come out, they burn.”
“Good thinking. Unless, of course, she had guards posted inside, with bows.”
“Well, yeah, like I didn’t think of that. I figure I’ll wing a few flaming arrows down, get their attention. I pick my target—cottage nearest the biggest paddock. Gotta be some troops in there, stands to reason. Imagine my surprise and chagrin when the arrows bump off the air, like it was a wall.”
His eyes narrowed as he shifted to face her. “Are you talking force field? What is this, bloody Star Trek?”
“That’s what I said.” In tune with him, Blair punched his shoulder. “She’s got that wizard of hers, that Midir, working overtime by my guess. And their base camp’s in a protective bubble. Larkin flew down, to get a closer look, and we both got a jolt. Like an electric shock. Pisser.”
“Yes, it would be.”
“Then the man himself comes out—from the big house, the manor house? Creepy-looking guy, let me say. Flying black robes, lots of silver hair. He just stands there, so we’re looking down at him, he’s looking up at us. Finally, I get it. Mexican standoff. We can’t get anything through, but neither can they. When the shield’s up, they’re locked down, we’re locked out. Good as a freaking fortress. Better.”
“She knows how to make the best use of the people she brings in,” Cian mused.
“Looks that way. So I was lowered to making rude gestures, just so it wasn’t a waste of time. She’d lower the shield at night, wouldn’t she?”
“Possibly. Even if they brought enough food with them, the nature of the beast is to hunt. She wouldn’t want her troops to get stale, or too edgy.”
“So, maybe we can make a night run at it. I don’t know. Something to think about. That’s haggis, isn’t it?” She wrinkled her nose. “I’m skipping that.” She leaned a little closer to him, lowered her voice. “Larkin says the word’s gone out on how you dealt with the guy who tried to kill Moira. You’ve got the castle guards and the knights behind you on that one.”
“It hardly matters.”
“You know better than that. You get what’s essentially going to be this army’s first line not just accepting you, but respecting you, it matters. Sir Cian.”
He winced, visibly. “Just don’t.”
“Kind of rings for me. This Jell-O sort of thing is a little gritty. Do you know what it is?”
Cian waited, deliberately, until she’d taken a second bite. “Jellied internal organs—likely pig.”
When she choked, the laugh just rolled out of him.
It was such a strange sound, Moira thought. To hear him laugh. Strange, a little wicked, and very appealing. She’d made a misstep with the clothes she’d sent for him. He was too much a creature of his own time—or what had come to be his own time—to put on garb from hers.
But he’d come, and she hadn’t been sure he would. Not that he’d spoken a word to her. Not a single word.
He’d killed for her, she thought, but didn’t speak to her.
So she would put him out of her mind, as he’d so obviously put her out of his.
She only wished the evening would end. She wanted her bed, she wanted sleep. She wanted to peel off the heavy velvet and slide blissfully—for one night—into the dark.
But she had to make a show of eating, despite her lack of appetite. She had to make a pretense, at least, of paying attention to conversations even though her eyes wanted to close.
She’d had too much wine, felt too warm. And there were hours yet before she could lay down her head.
Of course, she had to stop, to smile, and to drink every time one of the knights was moved to toast her. At the rate they were moving, her head would likely spin right off the pillow.
It was with huge relief that she was finally able to announce the dancing could begin.
She had to stand for the first set, as it was expected of her. And found she felt better for moving, for the music.
He didn’t danc
e, of course, but only sat. Like a dyspeptic king, she thought, foolishly irritated because she’d wanted to dance with him. His hands on her hands, his eyes on her eyes.
But there he sat, gazing down on the masses and sipping his wine. She spun with Larkin, bowed to her uncle, clasped hands with Hoyt.
And when she looked back again, Cian was gone.
He wanted air, and more, he wanted the night. The night was still his time. What lived inside the mask of a man would always crave it, and always seek it.
He went up, and out, where the dark was thick and the music from the hall only a silvery echo. Clouds had rolled over the moon, and the stars were smothered by them. Rain would come before morning; he could already smell it.
Below, there were torches to light the courtyards, and guards stood at post at the gates, on the walls.
He heard one of them cough and spit, and the quick flap of the flags overhead in a sudden kick of wind. He could hear, if he tuned himself to it, the rustle of mice in their nest tucked in a gap of the stones, or the papery swish of the wings of a bat that circled overhead.
He could hear what others didn’t.
He scented human—that salt on the flesh, and the rich run of blood beneath it. There was a part of him—always—that burned a little with the need. To hunt, to kill, to feed.
That burst of blood in the mouth, in the throat. The sheer life of it that could never be tasted in what came in cool packs of plastic. Hot, he remembered, always hot, that first taste. It heated all the places that were cold and dead, and for that moment, life—or its shadow—stirred inside that cold and that dead.
It was good to remember, now and then, the unspeakable pleasure of it. Good to remember what he pit his will against. Vital to remember what it was those they fought craved.