Valley of Silence (7 page)

“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 dance, 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.

 

H
e 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.

The humans did not, could not. Not even Blair who understood more than most.

Still they would fight, and they would die. More would come behind them to fight, and to die. Some would run, of course—some always did. Some would break with fear and simply stand and be slaughtered, like rabbits caught in a jacklight.

But most wouldn't run, wouldn't hide, wouldn't freeze in terror. In all the years he'd watched humans live and die, he knew when their backs were pressed hardest to the wall, they fought like demons.

If they won, they would end up romanticizing the whole business, songs and stories. Old men would sit by fires years from now and speak of the glory days while they showed their scars.

And others of them would wake in cold sweats from reliving the horror of war in their dreams.

If he lived, what would it be for him? he wondered. Glory days or nightmares? Neither, he thought, for he wasn't human enough to spend his time on what was over and done.

If Lilith managed to end him, well, true death was an experience he'd yet to have. It might be interesting.

And because he heard what others didn't, he caught the footsteps on the stone stairs. Moira's footsteps, as he knew her gait as well as her scent.

He nearly melted back into the shadows, then cursed himself for being a coward. She was only a woman, only a human. She could and would be nothing more to him.

When she stepped out, he heard her sigh once, long and deep as if she'd just shed some enormous weight. She moved to the stone rail, tipped her head back, closed her eyes. And breathed.

Her face was flushed from the heat of the fire, the exertion of the dance, but there were shadows of fatigue haunting her eyes.

Someone had worked slender braids through her long hair, so the weaving of them with their thin ropes of gold rippled through the rain of glossy brown.

He saw the minute she sensed she wasn't alone. The sudden stiffening in her shoulders, and the slide of her hand into the folds of her gown.

“If you've a stake tucked in there,” he said, “I'd as soon you didn't point it in my direction.”

Though her shoulders didn't relax, her hand dropped to her side as she turned. “I didn't see you. I wanted some air. It's so warm inside, and I've drunk too much.”

“More that you didn't eat enough. I'll leave you to your air.”

“Oh, stay. I'm only taking a moment, then you can have the damned air to yourself again.” She pushed at her hair, then cocked her head.

He got a good look at her face now, her eyes, and thought, yes, indeed, the little queen was on the way to being plowed.

“Do you come out here to think deep thoughts? I can't decide if deep thoughts require space like this, or are better turned over in confines. I imagine you have many thoughts, with all that you've seen.”

She stumbled a little, laughed a little when he caught her arm. And immediately released it.

“You're so careful not to touch me,” she commented. “Unless you're saving me from death or injury. Or bashing at me in training. I find that interesting. You're a man of interests, how do you find it?”

“I don't.”

“Except for that one time,” she continued as if he hadn't spoken, and moved a step closer. “That one time you touched me good and proper. You put your hands on me then, and your mouth. I've wondered about that.”

He very nearly took a step in retreat, and the realization of it mortified him. “It was meant to teach you a lesson.”

“I'm a scholar, and I do love my lessons. Give me another then.”

“The wine's made you foolish.” He was annoyed with the stiff and pompous sound of his own voice. “You should go in, have your ladies take you to your bed.”

“It has made me foolish. I'll be sorry for it tomorrow, but well, that's tomorrow, isn't it? Oh, what a day this has been for me.” She did a slow turn that had her skirts swaying over the stones. “Was it only this morning I walked to the stone? How could it be only this morning? I feel I've carried that sword and the stone with it through this day. Now I'm setting them down, until tomorrow, I'm setting them down. I'm the worse for drink, and what of it?”

She stepped closer yet, and pride wouldn't let him back away.

“I'd hoped you'd dance with me tonight. I hoped, and I wondered what it would be like to have you touch me when it wasn't in a fight or out of manners or mistake.”

“I wasn't in the mood for dancing.”

“Oh, and you're full of moods, you are.” She watched his face carefully, studying him, he thought, as she might the pages of a book. “And sure, so am I. I was in an angry mood when you kissed me before. And a little frightened around it. I'm not angry or frightened now. But I think you are.”

“Now you're adding ridiculous to foolish.”

“Prove it then.” She closed that last bit of distance, tipped up her face to his. “Teach me a lesson.”

He could hardly be damned for it. He'd been damned long before. He wasn't gentle; he wasn't tender. But yanked her against him and nearly off her feet before his mouth swooped down to plunder hers.

He tasted the wine and the warmth—and a recklessness he hadn't anticipated. That, he knew, was his mistake.

She was ready for him this time. Her hands were in his hair, her mouth open and avid. She didn't melt against him in surrender, or shudder from the onslaught. She strained for more.

Need clawed at him, one more demon sent to torture him.

She wondered the air between them didn't smoke, wondered how it was both of them didn't simply erupt into flame. This was fire, in the blood, in the bone.

How had she lived all of her life without it?

Even when he released her, pushed her back, it stayed inside her like a fever.

“Did you feel that?” Her whisper was full of wonder. “Did you feel that?”

The taste of her was inside him now, and everything in him craved more of her. So he didn't answer, didn't speak at all. He slipped into the dark and was gone before she could take another breath.

S
he awoke early and energized. All through the
day before she'd dragged such weight with her, as if it had been shackled to her leg. Now that chain was broken. It didn't matter that rain poured out of moody gray skies that smothered even a hint of sun. She had the light inside her again.

She dressed in what she thought of as her Irish clothes—jeans and a sweatshirt. The time for ceremony and decorum was past, and sensibilities be damned until she could spend time soothing them again.

She might be a queen, she thought as she twisted her hair into a long, single braid, but she would be a working one.

She would be a warrior.

She laced on her boots, strapped on her sword. This woman Moira saw in the looking glass, she recognized and approved of. She was a woman with purpose, and power, and knowledge.

Turning, she studied the room. The queen's chamber, she thought. Once her mother's sanctuary, and now hers. The bed was wide and beautifully draped in deep blue velvet and frothy snow-white lace, for her mother had loved the soft and the pretty. The posts were thick, polished Geallian oak, and deeply carved with Geall's symbols. Paintings that graced the walls were also of Geall, its fields and hills and forests.

On a table near the bed stood a small portrait in a silver frame. Moira's father had watched over her mother every night—now he would watch over his daughter.

She glanced over toward the doors that led to her mother's balcony. The drapes were still pulled tight there, and she would leave them that way. At least for now. She wasn't ready to open those doors, to step out on the stones where her mother had been slaughtered.

Instead, she would remember the happy hours she'd spent with her mother in this chamber.

She went out, making her way to the door of Hoyt and Glenna's chamber where she knocked. Because it took several moments, she remembered the hour. She'd nearly stepped away again, hoping they hadn't heard her knock when the door opened.

Hoyt was still pulling on his robes. His long dark hair was tousled, and his eyes heavy with sleep.

“Oh, I beg your pardon,” she began. “I didn't think—”

“Has something happened? Is something wrong?”

“No, no, nothing. I didn't think how early it was. Please, go back to your bed.”

“What is it?” Glenna moved into view behind him. “Moira? Is there a problem?”

“Only with my manners. I was up and about early, and wasn't considering others would still be abed, especially after last night's festivities.”

“It's all right.” Glenna laid a hand on Hoyt's arm, signaling him to step aside. “What did you need?”

“Only a private word with you. The truth of the matter is I was going to ask if you'd have breakfast with me in my mother's—in my sitting room, so I could speak with you about something.”

“Give me ten minutes.”

“Are you certain? I don't mind waiting until later in the day.”

“Ten minutes,” Glenna repeated.

“Thank you. I'll see food's prepared.”

“She looks…ready for something,” Hoyt commented when Glenna went to the bowl and basin to wash.

“Or other.” Glenna dipped her fingers into the water, focused. She might not be able to take a shower, but she'd be damned if she'd wash in cold water.

She did the best she could with what she had as Hoyt beefed up the fire. Then, giving into vanity, she did a subtle glamour.

“It might be she just wants to talk about today's training schedule.” Glenna fixed on earrings she'd have to remember to take off for training. “I told you she's offered a prize—one of our crosses—to any of the women who takes her down in a match today.”

“It was clever of her to offer a prize, but I wonder if it would be the best use of the cross.”

“There were nine of them,” Glenna reminded him as she dressed. “Five for us, and King's, of course, making six. The two we agreed to give to Larkin's mother and pregnant sister. There's a purpose for the ninth. This may be it.”

“We'll see what the day brings.” He smiled as she pulled a gray sweater over her head. “How is it,
a ghrá
, that you look lovelier every morning?”

“You've got love in your eyes.” She turned into his arms when he moved to her—and looked wistfully at the bed. “Rainy morning. It'd be nice to snuggle in for an hour and have my way with you.” She tipped her head up for a kiss. “But it looks like I'm having breakfast with the queen.”

Moira was, as was her habit, sitting by the fire with a book when Glenna entered. Moira looked up, smiled sheepishly.

“Shame on me, taking you from your husband and your warm bed at such an hour.”

“Queen's privilege.”

With a laugh, Moira gestured to a chair. “The food will be along. One day, if the seeds I brought and potted thrive, I'll be able to have the orange juice in the mornings. I miss the taste of it.”

“I'd kill for coffee,” Glenna admitted. “Then again, in a way, I am. For coffee, apple pie, TiVo and all things human.” She sat and studied Moira. “You look good,” she decided. “Rested, and as Hoyt said, ready.”

“I am. Yesterday, there was so much inside my head and my heart, so it was all so very heavy. The sword and the crown were my mother's, and only mine now because she's dead.”

“And you've had no time to grieve, not really.”

“I haven't, no. Still, I know she would want me to do as I have, for Geall, for all, and not close myself off somewhere to mourn for her. And I had fear as well. What manner of queen would I be, and at such a time.”

With some satisfaction, Moira looked down at her rough pants and boots. “Well, I know what manner of queen I'll try to be. Strong, even fierce. There's no time to sit on a throne and debate matters. Politics and protocol, they'll have to wait, won't they? We've had our ceremony and our celebration, and they were needed. But now it's time for the dirt and the sweat of it.”

She got to her feet when the food was brought in. She spoke to the young boy—still sleepy around the edges—and the serving girl who was with him.

Spoke easily, Glenna noted. Called them both by name as the food and dishes were laid out. And while they both looked puzzled by their queen's choice of dress, Moira ignored it, dismissing them with thanks—and orders she and her guest not be disturbed.

When they sat together, Glenna noticed that Moira, who'd picked at her food for days, ate with an appetite to rival Larkin's.

“It'll be muddy and miserable for training today,” Moira began, “and that's good, I'm thinking. Good discipline. I wanted to say that while I'll be participating, and likely every day now, you and Blair are still in charge of the thing. I want everyone to see that I'm training, just like the rest. That I'll get dirty and bruised.”

“Sounds like you're looking forward to it.”

“By the gods, I am.” Moira scooped up eggs she'd coached the cooks to prepare as Glenna often had. Scrambled up with chunks of ham and onion right in them. “Do you remember when Larkin and I first came through the Dance to Ireland? I could plant an arrow anywhere I liked, nine of ten, but any one of you could plant
me
on my arse without half trying.”

“You always got up.”

“Aye, I always got up. But I'm not so easy to plant these days. That's something I want everyone to see as well.”

“You showed them a warrior when you fought and killed the vampire.”

“I did. Now I'll show them a soldier who takes her lumps. And there's more I want of you.”

“I thought there was.” Glenna poured them both more tea. “Spill it.”

“I've never explored the magic I have. It isn't much of a thing, as you've seen yourself. A bit of a healing gift, and a kind of power that can be opened and reached by others with more. As you and Hoyt have done. Dreams. I've studied dreams, read books on their meanings. And books on magic itself, of course. But it seemed to me there was no real purpose for what I had other than to offer some ease to someone in pain. Or a way of knowing which direction to take to find a buck when hunting. Little things. Small matters.”

“And now?”

“And now,” Moira said with a nod. “I think there's a purpose, and there's a need. I think I need all I have, all I am. The more I know what's in me, the better I use it. When I touched the sword, when I put my hand on its hilt, it poured into me. The knowing that it was mine, had always been mine. And a power with it, like a strong wind, just blowing into me. More through me, I think. Do you know?”

“Exactly.”

Nodding again, Moira continued to eat. “I've neglected this because it wasn't a particular interest. I wanted to read and to study, to hunt with Larkin, to ride.”

“To do the things a young woman enjoys,” Glenna interrupted. “Why shouldn't you have done what you liked to do? You didn't know what was coming.”

“I didn't, no. I wonder, if I'd looked deeper, if I might have.”

“You couldn't have saved your mother, Moira,” Glenna said gently.

Moira looked up, her eyes very clear. “You see my thoughts so easily.”

“I think because in your place, I'd have the same ones. You couldn't have saved her. More—”

“Weren't meant to,” Moira finished. “I'm coming around to that, inside my heart. But if I'd explored what I have, I might have seen something of what was coming. For whatever difference it would have made. Like Blair, I've seen the battleground in dreams. But unlike her, I didn't face it. I turned away. That's done, too. I'm not…wait.” She searched for the phrase. “Beating myself up? Right?”

“Yeah, that's right.”

“I'm not beating myself up over it. I'm after changing it. So I'm asking, if you can make the time to help me hone whatever I might have, the way I've honed my fighting skills.”

“I can. I'd love to.”

“I'm grateful.”

“Don't be grateful yet. It'll be work. Magic's an art, and a craft. And a gift. But comparing it to your physical training isn't far off. It's also, well, like a muscle.” Glenna tapped a hand on her biceps. “You have to exercise it, and build it. Like medicine it's said we practice magic, so it's never done.”

“Every weapon I take into battle is another strike against the enemy.” Brows lifted, Moira flexed her arm. “So I'll build that muscle as I have this one, strong as I can. I want to crush her, Glenna. More than defeat her, to crush her. For so many reasons. My parents, King. Cian,” she added after a pause. “He'd dislike that, wouldn't he, knowing I think of him as a victim?”

“He doesn't see himself that way.”

“He doesn't, refuses to. It's why he thrives, in his way. He's made his…I can't say peace as he's not a peaceful sort, is he? But he's accepted his lot. I suppose, in some sort of way, he's embraced it.”

“I'd say you have his number, as much as any could.”

Moira hesitated now, making a business of rearranging the food left on her plate. “He kissed me again.”

“Oh. Oh.” And after a pause. “Oh.”

“I made him.”

“Not to belittle your charm or powers, I don't think anyone can make Cian do much of anything he doesn't want to do.”

“Could be he wanted to, but he wasn't going to until I pushed him into it. I'd had a bit to drink.”

“Hmm.”

“I wasn't the worse for it,” Moira said with a laugh that had some nerves at the edges. “Not really. Just a little looser in my manners, so to speak, and more determined in my mind. I wanted air and some quiet, so I went up, out on one of the battlements. There he was.”

She pictured it again. “He might have gone anywhere, and sure I could have gone somewhere else. But neither of us did, so we both ended up in the same place, at the same time. In the night,” she said quietly. “With the music and the lights barely reaching us.”

“Romantic.”

“I suppose it was. With the rain that would come before dawn just beginning to scent the air, and the thin slice of moon very white against the sky. There's a mystery to him I keep wanting to pick at until I find the pieces of it.”

“You wouldn't be human if you didn't find him fascinating,” Glenna said. They both knew what she hadn't said. He wasn't. He wasn't human.

“He was being all stiff, the way he can be with me, and it was irritating. And well, I'll admit, challenging. At the same time…It comes in me sometimes, when I'm with him. The way knowledge does, or magic. Something rising.”

She pressed a hand to her belly, then drew it upward toward her heart. “Just…pulling up from the center of me. I never had strong feelings, in this way, for a man. Little flutters of them, you know? Comfortable and interesting, but not strong and hot. There's something about him that compels me. He's so…”

“Sexy,” Glenna finished. “At the outrageous level.”

“I wanted to know if it would be like it had been the other time, the only time, when we'd both been so angry and he'd taken hold of me. I told him to do it again, and wouldn't take no for an answer.”

She cocked her head now, as if puzzling it out. “Do you know, I think I made him nervous. Seeing him flustered a bit, and trying not to be, that was as intoxicating to me as the wine had been.”

“God yes.” On a long breath, Glenna picked up her tea. “It would be.”

“And when he kissed me it was like the other time, only more. Because I was waiting for it. For that moment, he was as much caught as I was. I knew it.”

“What are you looking for from him, Moira?”

“I don't know. Perhaps just that heat, just that power. That pleasure. Is it wrong?”

“I can't say.” But it worried her. “He'd never be able to give you more. You have to understand that. He wouldn't stay here, and even if he did, for a time, you could never have a life with him. You're stepping onto dangerous ground.”