Valley of Silence
Page 6

“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.
I n 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.