Valley of Silence
Page 87

He studied it without interest “But I didn’t get anything for you.”
She crouched at his feet now. “We’ll consider your opening it my gift. Please. It’s important to me.”
“Will you go away if I open it?”
“Soon.”
To placate her, he lifted the lid with its silver paper and elaborate bow, brushed aside the top layer of sparkling tissue.
And Moira looked out at him.
“Ah, damn you, damn you, Glenna.” Neither whiskey nor will could hold against the image of her. Emotion shook in his voice as he lifted the framed portrait. “It’s beautiful. She’s beautiful.”
Glenna had painted her in that moment Moira had drawn the sword free from the stone. The dreaminess and power of it, with green shadows, silver mists, and the new queen standing with the shining sword pointed toward the heavens.
“I thought, hoped, that having it would remind you what you helped give her. She wouldn’t have stood there without you. There’d be no Geall without you. I wouldn’t be here without you. None of us would have survived this without each one of us.” She laid a hand on his. “We’re still a circle, Cian. We always will be.”
“I did the right thing for her, leaving. I did the right thing.”
“Yes.” She squeezed his hand now. “You did the right thing, an enormous and pure act of love. But knowing you did the right thing for all the right reasons doesn’t stop the pain.”
“Nothing does. Nothing.”
“I’d say time will, but I don’t know if it’s true.” Sympathy swam in her voice, in her eyes. “I will say you have friends and family who love you, and will be there for you. You have people who love you, Cian, who hurt for you.”
“I don’t know how to take what you want to give me, not yet. But this.” He traced his finger around the frame. “Thank you for this.”
“You’re welcome. There are photographs, too. Ones I took in Ireland. I thought you might like to have them.”
He started to lift the next layers of tissue, then stopped. “I need a moment.”
“Sure. I’ll go finish the coffee.”
Alone, he uncovered the large manila envelope, and opened it.
There were dozens of them. One of Moira and his books, and with Larkin outside. One of King reigning over the stove in the kitchen, of Blair, eyes intense, sweat sheening her skin as she held a sword in warrior position.
There was one of himself and Hoyt he hadn’t known she’d taken.
As he studied each one his feelings swirled and mixed, pleasure and sorrow.
When he looked up at last he saw Glenna leaning against the doorjamb with a mug of coffee in her hand. “I owe you more than a gift.”
“No, you don’t. Cian, we’re going back to Geall for New Year’s. All of us.”
“I can’t.”
“No,” she said after a moment, and the understanding in her eyes nearly broke him. “I know you can’t. But if there’s any message—”
“There can’t be. There’s too much to say, Glenna, and nothing to say. You’re sure you can go back?”
“Yes, we have Moira’s key, and an assurance of Morrigan herself. You didn’t wait around long enough for the thanks of the gods.”
She walked over, set the coffee on the table beside him. “If you change your mind, we’re not leaving until midday, New Year’s Eve. If you don’t, after that Hoyt and I will be in Ireland. We hope you’ll come see us. Blair and Larkin are taking my apartment here.”
“Vampires of New York, beware.”
“Damn right.” She leaned over, kissed him. “Happy Christmas.”
He didn’t drink the coffee, but he didn’t drink any more whiskey either. Surely that was a step somewhere. Instead he sat and studied Moira’s portrait, and the hours passed that way toward midnight.
A swirl of light brought him out of the chair. Since it was the closest weapon, he grabbed the whiskey bottle by the neck. As he wasn’t nearly drunk enough for hallucinations, he decided the goddess standing in his apartment was real.
“Well, this is a red-letter day. I wonder if such as you has ever paid a call on such as me before.”
“You are of the six,” Morrigan said.
“I was.”
“Are. Yet you hold yourself apart from them again. Tell me, vampire, why did you fight? Not for me or mine.”
“No, not for the gods. Why?” He shrugged, and now did drink from the bottle in a kind of defiance, of disrespect. “It was something to do.”
“It’s foolish for such as you to pretend with such as me. You believed it was right, that it was worth fighting for, even ending your own existence for. I’ve known your kind since they first crawled through the blood. None would have done what you did.”
“You sent my brother here to see I fell into line.”
The god lifted her brow at his tone, then inclined her head. “I sent your brother to find you. Your will was your own. You have love for this woman.” She gestured toward Moira’s portrait. “For this human.”
“You think we can’t love?” Cian’s voice shook with rage, with grief. “You think we aren’t capable of love?”
“I know that you are, and while that love may run deep in your kind, its selfishness runs as strong. But not yours.” Robes flowing, she walked to the portrait. “She asked you to make her one of you, but you refused. You could have kept her had you done as she asked.”
“Like a goddamn pet? Kept her? Damned her is what it would have done, killed her, crushed out that light in her.”
“Given her eternity.”
“Of dark, of a craving for the blood of what she’d been. Condemned her to a life that is no life. She didn’t know what she asked me.”
“She knew. Such a strong heart and mind she has, and courage, yet she asked and she knew, and would have given you her life. You’ve done well, haven’t you? You have culture and wealth, skills. Fine homes.”
“That’s right. Made something of my dead self. Why shouldn’t I?”
“And enjoy it—when you’re not sitting in the dark brooding over what can’t be. What you can’t have. You enjoy your eternity, your youth, your strength and knowledge.”