Valley of Silence

by Nora Roberts

  “Thanks, but I had quite enough at breakfast.”

  “Very funny. It’s a bomb.”

  “Red, it’s a ball of mud.”

  “Yes, a ball of earth—charmed earth, holding a ball of fire inside. If you drop it from the air.” She used her hands waving them down as she made a whistling noise—then a puff of breath to simulate an explosion. “In theory,” she added.

  “In theory.”

  “I’ve tested it, but not from a dragon perch. At some point you could try it out for me.”

  Frowning, he turned it over in his hands. “Just drop it?”

  “Right. Somewhere safe.”

  “And it’s not likely to explode in my hands and turn me into a fireball?”

  “It needs velocity and force. But it wouldn’t hurt to be sure you had good altitude when it’s bombs away.” She rose on her toes, kissed him on both cheeks. “Be safe. We’ll see you in a couple of days.”

  Still frowning, he secured the ball into one of the pockets of the weapon harness Blair had fashioned for Larkin.

  “We’ll be watching.” Hoyt laid a hand on Cian’s shoulder. “Try to stay out of trouble until I’m with you again. And you as well,” he said to Larkin.

  “I’ve already told him I’ll kick his ass if he gets himself killed.” Blair gripped Larkin’s hair, pulled his head down for a hard kiss. She turned to Cian.

  “We’re not doing a group hug.”

  She grinned. “I’m with you on that. Stay away from pointy wooden objects.”

  “That’s the plan.” He looked over her head as Moira ran toward the stables.

  “I’d hoped to be quicker,” she said breathlessly. “You’re ready then. Larkin. Be safe.” She hugged him.

  “And you.” He gave her a last squeeze. “Mount your dragons!” he called out, and with a last flashing grin for Blair, changed.

  “I have what you asked me for.” Moira held out a silver locket while Blair harnessed Larkin. “My father gave it to my mother when I was born, so she could keep a lock of my hair in it. I left that one, and put in another.”

  And had added what magic she could.

  Rising on her toes, she put the chain over his head. To make a point, to him, to any who watched, she took his face in her hands, and kissed him long and warm and tender.

  “I’ll have another of those waiting for you,” she told him. “So don’t do anything foolish.”

  He put on the cloak, lifting the hood and securing it. He mounted Larkin, looked into Moira’s eyes.

  “In two days,” he said.

  He rose up into the sky on the golden dragon. Others soared behind him, trumpeting.

  As she watched, as those glints of color grew smaller with distance, Moira was struck with a sudden knowledge, a certainty that the six of them would not come back from the valley to Castle Geall as a circle.

  Behind her, Glenna gestured to Hoyt, sending him away. She hooked an arm around Blair’s waist, around Moira’s. “All right, ladies, let’s get busy packing and stacking so we can get you back together with your men.”

  Chapter 16

  He wished for rain. Or at the very least a thick layer of cooling clouds to smother the sun. The damn cloak was hot as the hell he was eventually bound for. He just wasn’t used to feeling extremes in temperatures.

  Being undead, Cian mused, tended to spoil a man.

  Soaring on a dragon was a thrilling experience, no question. For the first thirty minutes or so. And another thirty could be spent admiring the green and pastoral countryside below.

  But after an hour in a fucking wool sauna, it was just misery.

  If he had Hoyt’s patience and dignity, he supposed he would ride steely-eyed and straight-backed until doomsday. Even with the intolerable heat melting the flesh from his bones. But then he and his twin had had some basic differences even before he’d become a vampire.

  He could meditate, he supposed, but it seemed unwise to risk a self-induced trance. He had the sun beating overhead just waiting to fry him like bacon, and a magic bomb strapped on Larkin that for all he knew could burst into flame just for the fun of it.

  Why exactly had he thought he had to do this idiotic thing?

  Ah yes. Duty, honor, love, pride—all those emotional weights that dragged a man down into the drowning pool, however hard he struggled to keep his head above the surface. Well, there was no going back now. Not on the flight, not on the feelings crowding inside him.

  My God, he loved her. Moira the studious, Moira the queen. The shy and the valiant, the canny and the quiet. It was stupid, destructive, hopeless to love her. And it was more real than anything he’d known in a thousand years.

  He could feel the locket she’d put around his neck—another weight. She’d called him a bastard one minute, then had given him one of what he was certain was her most valued treasures the next.

  Then again, she’d once aimed an arrow at his heart, then apologized with a simple sincerity and flushed mortification. It was probably at that moment when he’d fallen for her. Or at least tripped.

  He continued to study the land as his mind wandered. Good farmland, he mused, with rich, loamy soil and gentle rises. Streams and rivers thick with fish running through forests that teemed with game. The mountains in the distance rich with minerals and marbles. Deep bogs for cutting turf for fuel.

  She’d brought orange seeds through the Dance. Who would think of such a thing?

  She’d need to plant them in the south. Did she know that? Foolish thought, the woman knew everything, or had a way of finding out.

  Orange seeds and Yeats. And, because he’d seen it on the writing table in her sitting room, a roller ball pen.

  So she’d grow her orange saplings in the hothouse, then plant them in the south of Geall. If they pollinated—and how could they refuse her?—she’d have an orange grove one day.

  He’d like to see it, he realized. He’d like to see her orange blossoms bloom from the seeds she’d taken from his kitchen in Ireland.

  He’d like to see her lovely eyes light with humor and appreciation as she poured a glass of the orange juice she’d become addicted to.

  If Lilith had her day, there’d be no grove, no blossoms, no life here at all.

  Already he could see some of the death, some of the destruction. What had been tidy cottages and little cabins were rubble of scorched rock and wood. Cattle and sheep continued to graze in the fields, but there were carcasses rotting in the sun under a black cloud of flies.

  Cattle killed by deserters, he decided. Scavenging where and when they could.

  They’d have to be hunted down and destroyed, every last one. If even one survived, it would feed and it would breed. The people of Geall and their queen would have to be cautious and vigilant long after Samhain.

  He began to put his mind to that particular problem until, at last, Larkin began to circle.

  “Thank all your gods,” Cian murmured on the descent.

  It was a neat and pretty farm, as farms went. Soldiers were spread out, training, posted at points for guards. Women were among them, working alongside the men. And the smoke that rose from the chimney carried a scent that told him there was stew in a pot, likely simmering throughout the day.

  On the ground, hands were shading eyes as faces looked up, or were being raised in waves and salutes of welcome.

  They were surrounded the minute Larkin landed. Cian dismounted, began to unload the supplies. He’d leave it to Larkin and the other men to answer questions, and ask them. Now, he needed shadow and shade.

  “We haven’t had any trouble at all.” Isleen spooned up stew Cian didn’t want. But he thought it best to wait to dip into his supply of blood until he had privacy.

  Larkin dove into his bowl the instant they were set down. “Thanks,” he said with his mouth full. “It’s fine stew.”

  “You’re very welcome. I’m doing the cooking by and large, so I’m thinking our troop here is eating better than the others.” She dimpled into
a smile. “We’ve been keeping up with our training, every day, and locking up tight before sunset. We haven’t seen hide nor hair of anyone since we arrived and sent the other troop on its way.”

  “It’s good to know that.” Larkin picked up the tankard she’d set beside his bowl. “Could you do me a favor then, Isleen darling? Would you fetch Eogan—Ceara’s Eogan. We’ve some talking to do.”

  “Sure I’ll do that right away. Oh, and you can bed down here, or upstairs if you’d rather.”

  “We’ll be moving on to the next base after a bit, and leaving three of the men we brought behind here with you.”

  “Oh. I noticed you brought red-haired Malvin along.” She said it casually, with just the hint of a laugh. “I wonder if he’d be one you’d leave behind with us.”

  Larkin grinned and spooned up more stew. “That wouldn’t be a problem, not at all. Fetch Eogan now, won’t you, sweetheart?”

  “You’ve had a bit of that, have you?” Cian murmured.

  “Had—No.” Then his tawny eyes glinted with humor. “Well, a bit, but nothing substantial you could say.”

  “How do you want to handle this business?”

  “Eogan’s a sensible man, a solid one. He’d have heard of Tynan by now from those we brought with us. So, I’ll answer the questions he’ll have on that. I’d like it best if you’d go over the precautions and orders again with him. Then if he’s nothing more to report than we’ve just heard from Isleen, we’ll leave Malvin and two others here, and go on to the next. Aren’t you hungry then?”

  “As a matter of fact, but I’ll wait.”

  “Ah.” Larkin nodded his understanding. “You have what you need in that area?”

  “I do. The horses and cows are safe.”

  “I saw the carcasses along the way. Not like an army had fed, but a few scavengers. Deserters, would you say?”

  “It’s exactly what I’d say.”

  “An advantage now,” Larkin murmured, “with her losing troops here and there. A problem for later.”

  “It will be, yes.”

  “We’ll think of something.” Larkin looked over as the door opened. “Eogan. We’ve much to talk about, and little time.”

  There was little more at the next stronghold, but at the third, Lilith had left her mark.

  Two of the outbuildings had been burned to rubble, and in the fields the crops had been torched. The men talked of a night of fire and smoke, and the screams of the cattle as they were slaughtered.

  With Larkin, Cian stood and studied the scorched earth.

  “It’s as you said, you and Blair. She would lay waste to the farms and the homes.”

  “Stone and wood.”

  Larkin shook his head. “Livestock and crops. Sweat and blood. Hearth and home.”

  “All of which can be bred and grown, shed and built again. Your men withstood the siege, with no casualties. They fought, and held the ground—and took some of Lilith’s forces to hell. Your glass is miraculously half full, Larkin.”

  “You’d be right, I know it. And I hope if she tries to drink what’s left in it, it burns her guts black. We’ll move on then.”

  There were fresh graves at the next base, burned earth and wounded men.

  The sick dread in Larkin’s belly eased, finally, when he saw his younger brother, Oran, limp out of the farmhouse. He strode to Oran quickly, and in the way of men gave him a hard punch in the arm, then a bear hug.

  “Our mother will be pleased you’re among the living. How bad are your wounds?”

  “Scratches. How is it at home?”

  “Busy. I’ve seen Phelan at one of the other camps, and he’s safe and well.”

  “It’s good to hear. Good to hear. But I have hard news, Larkin.”

  “We know of it.” He laid a hand on Oran’s shoulder. His brother had been little more than a boy when he’d marched away from home, Larkin thought. Now he was a man, with all the weight that went with it. “How many besides Tynan?”

  “Three more. And another I fear won’t make the night. Two others taken, dead or alive, I can’t say. It was a child, Larkin. A demon child who killed Tynan.”

  “We’ll go inside, and talk of it.”

  They used the kitchen with Cian sitting back from the window. He understood why Larkin listened to the whole account, though they knew or could imagine most of it. Oran had to speak it all, see it all again.

  “I’d had the watch before his, and was still sleeping when I heard the alarm. It was already too late for Tynan, Larkin, already too late. He’d gone out, alone, thinking there was a child hurt and lost and afraid. It lured him, you see, some distance from the house. And though there were men posted, bows ready, when it turned and ripped at him, it was too late.”

  He wet his throat with ale. “Men rushed out. I think back, I think, I was second in command, and should have ordered them to hold. It was too late to save him, but how could we not try? And because we did, more were lost.”

  “He would have done the same for you, for anyone.”

  “They took his body.” Oran’s young face was alive with grief, and his eyes very old. “We searched. The next morning we searched, for him and the two others, but found only blood. We fear they’ve been changed.”

  “Not Tynan.” Cian spoke now, waited for Oran’s weary gaze to meet his. “We can’t say about the other two, but Tynan wasn’t changed. His body was brought back to Castle Geal. He was given a full burial early this morning.”

  “I’ll thank the gods for that, at least. But who brought the body?”

  As Larkin gave the account, Oran’s face hardened again.

  “Young Sean. We couldn’t save him in the ambush along the road. They came out of the ground like hellhounds. We lost good men that day, and Sean was lost as well. Is he at peace now?” He looked to Cian. “Now that what took him over is gone, is he at peace?”

  “I don’t have the answer.”

  “Well, I’ll believe he is, just as Tynan is, and the others we’ve buried. He can’t be held accountable by men or gods for what was done to him.”

  They double posted guards for the night, and at Cian’s instructions small bladders were filled with blessed water. These would be hooked to arrows. With this, even a miss of the heart would cause considerable damage, and possible death.

  In addition, more traps had been set. Men who couldn’t sleep whiled away the time carving stakes.

  “Do you think she’ll send out a raiding party tonight?” Larkin asked Cian.

  They sat in what had been a small parlor, and was now in use for weapon storage.

  “To one of the other points, she may. Here? Little point in it, unless she’s bored—or wants to exercise some of her troops. She’s done what she had in mind to do at this base.” Since they were alone, Cian drank blood from a pottery cup.

  “And if you were her?”

  “I’d send out small parties to distract and harass. Chipping away at enemy troops and morale at every base. The trouble with that is your men tend to stand firm, while we know some of hers desert. But your individual losses echo with you, where hers mean less than nothing.”

  He drank again. “But then I’m not her. Being me, I’d find satisfaction in seeking out a raiding party, taking it by surprise before it reached its objective. And killing the hell out of it.”

  “Isn’t that peculiar,” Larkin said with a grin. “Not being her, and not being you, the exact same thought had planted itself in my mind.”

  “Well then. What are we waiting for?”

  They left Oran in charge of the base. Though there was considerable argument, discussion, debate, Larkin and Cian set out alone. One dragon and one vampire, Cian had reasoned, could travel swiftly, and undetected.

  If they found a party and opted to land for hand-to-hand, Larkin’s weapon harness was well-loaded. Cian swung a quiver over his back, loaded extra stakes in his sword belt.

  “It’ll be interesting to see how the idea of aerial warfare flies—as it w
ere.”

  “Ready then?” Larkin changed, stood gold and sinuous as Cian strapped on the harness.

  They’d agreed to keep it short and simple. They would fly in widening circles, looking for any sign of a party or a camp. If they spotted one, they’d strike—quick and clean.

  The flight up toward a moon approaching its third quarter was exhilarating. The freedom of the night swept over Cian. He flew without cloak or coat, reveling in the cool and the dark.

  Beneath him, Larkin soared, his dragon’s wings barely a whisper on the air, and so thin Cian could see the glimmer of stars through them when they swept the air.

  Clouds drifted, thin wisps that slid like gauze over stars, sailed like ghost ships over the waxing moon.

  Far below, the first fingers of fog began their crawl over the ground.

  If nothing else, the pleasure of the flight balanced out the smothering discomfort of the day’s journey. As if he sensed it, Larkin aimed higher, rising in lazy loops. For one indulgent moment, Cian closed his eyes and just enjoyed.

  Then he felt it, a stroke along the skin. Cold, seeking fingers that seemed to slide into him and swirl through his blood. And a whisper inside his head, a quiet siren’s song that called to what he was beneath the form of a man.

  And when he looked down, the savage ground of the battlefield spread below.

  Its utter silence was a scream of violence. It burned into him like molten steel, brilliant and dark, deep and primal. The grass was wild sharp blades, the rocks rough death. Then even they would give way to black pits of chasms and caves where nothing dared to crawl.

  Guarded by the mountains the damned ground waited for blood.

  He had only to lean forward—such a short distance—and sink his teeth in the neck of the dragon to find the blood of a man. Human and rich, that gush of life, and a taste no other living thing could match. A flavor he’d denied himself for centuries. And why? To live among them, to survive wearing the mask of one of them?

  They were beneath him, so much less—fleas on a dog. They were nothing but flesh and blood, created for him to hunt. The hunger gnawed in him, and the desire, the feral thrill of it pumped through him like a heartbeat.

  The memory of the kill, of that first hot spurt of life gushing into his mouth, riding down his throat, was glorious.

  Shaking like an addict in the throes of withdrawal, he fought it. He would not end it this way. He would not go back to being a prisoner of his own blood.

  He was stronger than that. Had made himself more than that.

  His belly cramped with need and nausea as he leaned toward Larkin. “Put down here. Stay in this form. Be ready to fly again, to leave me if you need. You’ll know.”

  It dragged at him, that cursed ground, as they lowered toward it. It murmured and sang and promised. It lied.

  The heat was in him like a fever as he leaped down. He would not, he swore, he would not turn himself and kill a friend as he’d once tried to kill his brother.

  “It’s this place. It’s evil.”

  “I told you not to change forms. Don’t touch me!”

  “I feel it inside me.” Larkin’s voice was calm and even. “It must burn in you.”

  Cian turned, his eyes red, his skin slicked with sweat from his inner war. “Are you stupid?”

  “No.” But Larkin hadn’t, and didn’t now draw a weapon. “You’re fighting it, and you’ll beat it back. Whatever it is this place calls to in you, there’s more. There’s what Moira loves.”