Valley of Silence

by Nora Roberts

  “My hands feel so full, they make my arms ache.” She looked down at them where they lay in her lap, and sighed. “And there, I’m off again. What is it Blair says? Bitch, bitch, bitch.”

  She surprised a laugh out of him, and turned her head to smile into his face.

  “I suspect Geall has never had a queen such as you.”

  And her smile faded away. “No, you’ve the right of that. And we’ll soon see. We go tomorrow, at first light, to the stone.”

  “I see.”

  “If I lift the sword from it, as my mother did in her time, and her father in his, and back to the first, Geall will have a queen such as me.” She looked off, over the shrubberies toward the gates. “Geall will have no choice in it. Nor will I.”

  “Do you wish it otherwise?”

  “I don’t know what I wish, so I don’t wish at all—except that it was done and over. Then I could do, well, whatever needs to be done next. I wanted to tell you.” She shifted her gaze from whatever she saw in her mind, and met his eyes again. “I’d hoped we’d find a way to do this thing at night.”

  Soft eyes, he thought, and so serious. “It’s too dangerous to have any sort of ceremony outside after sunset beyond the castle walls.”

  “I know it. All who wish to witness this rite may attend. You can’t, I know. I’m sorry for it. It feels wrong. I feel the six of us, our circle, should be together at such a time.”

  Her hand reached up for her cross again. “Geall isn’t yours, I know that as well, but the moment of this, it’s important for what comes after. More than I knew before. More than I could have known.”

  She took a shaky breath. “They killed my father.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I have to walk again. I can’t sit.” She got up quickly, rubbing her arms to warm them from the sudden chill in the air, and in her blood. She moved through the courtyard into one of the gardens.

  “I haven’t told anyone—I didn’t mean to tell you. What purpose does it serve? And I’ve no proof, just a knowing.”

  “What do you know?”

  Easier than she’d believed it would be to talk to him, to tell him, she realized, because he was also so to the point. “One of the two that killed my mother, that you brought here. The one I fought.” She held a hand up, and he watched her draw in her composure again. “Before I killed it, he said something of my father, and how he died.”

  “Likely trying to get a rise out of you, break your concentration.”

  “It did that well enough, but was more, you see. I know it, inside me.” Looking at him, she pressed a hand to her heart. “I knew it when I looked at the one I killed. Not just my mother, but my father as well. I think Lilith sent them here this time because she’d had success with it before. When I was a child.”

  She continued to walk, her head bowed with the weight of her thoughts, her circlet glinting in the light of the torches. “They thought it was a bear gone mad. He was in the mountains, hunting. He was killed, he and my mother’s young brother. My uncle Riddock didn’t go as my aunt was close to her time with child. I…”

  She broke off again as footsteps echoed, keeping her silence until the sound of them drifted away. “They thought, those who found them and brought them home, they thought it was animals. And so it was,” she continued with steel in her tone now. “But these walk like a man. She sent them to kill him, so there would be no child but me.”

  She turned to him then, the torchlight washing red over her pale face. “Perhaps, at that time, she knew only the ruler of Geall would be one of the circle. Or perhaps it was easier to kill him than me at that time, as I was hardly more than a baby and kept close watch on. Plenty of time for her to send assassins back for me. But instead they killed my mother.”

  “Those that did are dead.”

  “Is that comfort?” she wondered, and thought—from him—it likely was an offer of it. “I don’t know what to feel. But I know she took my parents from me. She took them to stop what can’t be stopped. We’ll meet her on the battlefield come Samhain, because it’s meant. Whether I fight as queen or not, I fight. She killed them for nothing.”

  “And nothing you could have done would have stopped it.”

  Yes, comfort, she thought again. Oddly, his pithy statement gave her just that. “I pray that’s true. But I know because of what was done, what was not done, what had to be, what comes tomorrow is more important than rite and ritual. Whoever holds that sword tomorrow leads this war, and wields it with the blood of my murdered parents. She couldn’t stop it. She cannot stop it.”

  She stepped back, gestured up. “Do you see the flags? The dragon and the claddaugh. The symbols of Geall since its beginning. Before this is done, I will ask that one more be hoisted.”

  He thought of all she might choose—a sword, a stake, an arrow. Then he knew. Not a weapon, not an instrument of war and death, but a symbol of hope and endurance. “A sun. To shed its light on the world.”

  Surprise, with pleasure running just behind it, lit her face. “Aye. You understand my thinking, and the need. A gold sun on the white flag to stand for the light, the tomorrows we fight for. This sun, gold as glory, will be the third symbol of Geall, one I bring to it. And damned to her. Damned to her and what she brought here.”

  Flushed now, Moira drew a deep breath. “You listen well—and I talk too much. You must come inside. The others will be gathering for supper.”

  He touched a hand to her arm to stop her. “Earlier I thought you’d make a poor wartime queen. I believe it might have been one of the rare times I was wrong.”

  “If the sword is mine,” she said, “you will be wrong.”

  It occurred to him as they started inside, that they’d just shared their longest conversation in the two months they had known each other.

  “You need to tell the others. You need to tell them what you believe about your father. If this is a circle, there should be no secrets to weaken in.”

  “You’re right. Aye, you’ve the right of it.”

  Her head was lifted now, her eyes clear as she led the way.

  Chapter 2

  She didn’t sleep. How could a woman sleep on what was, in Moira’s mind, essentially the last night of her life? If in the morning it was her destiny to free the sword from its stone scabbard, she would be queen of Geall. As queen she would rule and govern and reign, and those were duties she’d been trained for since birth. But as queen on this coming dawn and the ones to follow, she would lead her people to war. If it wasn’t her destiny to raise the sword, she would follow another, willingly, into battle.

  Could weeks of training prepare anyone for such an action, such a weight of responsibility? So this night was the last she could be the woman she’d believed she would be, even the queen she’d hoped she might be.

  Whatever dawn brought her, she knew nothing would ever be quite the same again.

  Before her mother’s death, she’d believed this coming dawn was years away. She’d assumed she would have years of her mother’s company and comfort and counsel, years of peace and study so that when her time came she’d be not only ready for the crown, but worthy of it.

  A part of her had assumed her mother would reign for decades longer, and she herself would marry. In the dim and distant future, one of the children she bore would take the crown in her stead.

  All of that had changed on the night of her mother’s death. No, Moira corrected, it had changed before, years before when her father had been murdered.

  Perhaps it had not changed at all, but was simply unfolding as the pages of the book of fate were written.

  Now she could only wish for her mother’s wisdom, and look inside herself for the courage to bear both crown and sword.

  She stood now on the high reaches of the castle under a thumbnail moon. When it waxed full again, she would be far from here, on the cold ground of a battlefield.

  She’d come to the battlement because she could see the torches lighting the playin
g field. Here the sights and sounds of night training could reach her. Cian, she thought, used hours of his night to teach men and women how to fight something stronger and faster than humans. He would push them, she knew, until they were ready to drop. As he had pushed her, and the others of the circle, night after night during their weeks in Ireland.

  Not all of them trusted him, she knew that as well. Some actively feared him, but that might be to the good. She understood he wasn’t after making friends here, but warriors.

  In truth, he’d had a strong part of making one of her.

  She thought she understood why he fought with them—or at least had a glimmer of understanding why he would risk so much for humankind. Part of it was pride of which she knew he had abundance. He would not bow to Lilith. Part, whether he admitted it or not, was loyalty to his brother. And the rest, well, it dealt with courage and his own conflicted emotions.

  For he had emotions, she knew. She couldn’t imagine how they struggled and whirled inside him after a thousand years of existence. Her own were so conflicted and torn after only two months of blood and death she hardly recognized herself.

  What must it be like for him, after all he’d seen and done, all he’d gained and lost? He knew more than any of them of the world, of its pleasures, its pains, its potentials. No, she couldn’t imagine what it was like to know all he knew and still risk his own survival.

  That he did risk it, that he was even now lending his time and skill to train troops, earned her respect. While the mystery of him, the hows and whys of him, continued to fascinate.

  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 curta
in 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.