There were women nearby, sewing, tending to children, speaking in low voices so it sounded like doves cooing.
Moira went quietly by, and slipped into her room. She exchanged her gown for riding clothes, laced on her boots. It felt wrong to put off her mourning garb so quickly, so easily, but she would travel more swiftly in the tunic and tewes. She bound her hair back in a braid and began to pack.
She would need little but what was on her back, she decided. She would think of this as a hunting trip—there, at least, she had some skill. And so she got out her quiver and her bow, a short sword and lay them on the bed while she sat to write a message to her uncle.
How did you tell a man who’d stood in as father for so many years that you were taking his son into a battle you didn
’t understand, to fight what was impossible to comprehend, in the company of men you didn’t know?
The will of the gods, she thought, her mouth tight as she wrote. She wasn’t certain if she followed that or simply her own rage. But go she would.
I must do this thing, she continued in a careful hand. I pray you will forgive me for it, and know that I go only for the sake of Geall. I ask that if I don’t return by Samhain, you lift the sword and rule in my place. Know that I go for you, for Geall, and that I swear by my mother’s blood, I will fight to the death to defend and protect what I love.
Now I leave what I love in your hands.
She folded the letter, heated the wax and sealed it.
She put on the sword, shouldered her quiver and bow. One of the women bustled out as she left her chambers.
“My lady!”
“I wish to ride out alone.” Her voice was so sharp, her manner so curt that there was nothing but a gasp behind her as she strode away.
Her belly shook, but she didn’t pause. When she reached the stables, she waved the boy away and saddled her mount herself. She looked down at him, his soft, young face bursting with freckles.
“When the sun sets, you’re to stay inside. This night and every night until I tell you. Do you heed me?”
“Aye, my lady.”
She wheeled her horse, kicked her heels lightly at its flanks, riding off at a gallop.
She would not look back, Moria thought. She would not look back at home, but forward.
Larkin was waiting for her, sitting loose in the saddle while his horse cropped grass.
“I’m sorry, it took longer.”
“Women always take longer.”
“I’m asking so much of you. What if we never get back?”
He clicked to his horse, walking it beside hers. “Since I don’t believe we’re going anywhere, I’m not worried.” He sent her an easy smile. “I’m just indulging you.”
“I’d feel nothing but relief if this is nothing more than that.” But once again she urged her horse to a gallop. Whatever was waiting, she wanted to meet it quickly.
He matched her pace as they rode, as they had so often, over the hills that sparkled in the sunlight. Buttercups dotted the fields with yellow, giving swarms of butterflies a reason to dance in the air. She watched a hawk circle overhead, and some of the heaviness lifted from her.
Her mother had loved to watch the hawk. She’d said it was Moira’s father, there to look down on them while he flew free. Now she prayed her mother flew free as well.
The hawk circled over the ring of stones, and raised its cry.
Nerves made her queasy so she swallowed hard.
“Well, we made it this far.” Larkin shook back his hair. “What do you suggest?”
“Are you cold? Do you feel the cold?”
“No. It’s warm. The sun’s strong today.”