She would write this document, Moira determined, with the instrument of another world.
She’d use a pen.
What did she have of value, she wondered, that wouldn’t by rights belong to the next who ruled Geall?
Some of her mother’s jewelry, certainly. And this she began to disburse in her mind between Blair and Glenna, her aunt and cousin, and lastly, her ladies.
Her father’s sword should be Larkin’s, she decided, and the dagger he’d once carried would go to Hoyt. The miniature of her father would be her uncle’s if she died before him, as her father and uncle had been fast friends.
There were trinkets, of course. Bits of this and that which she gave thought to bequesting.
To Cian she left her bow and quiver, and the arrows she’d made with her own hand. She hoped he’d understand that these were more than weapons to her. They were her pride, and a kind of love.
She wrote it all carefully, sealed it. She would give the document to her aunt for safekeeping.
She felt better having done it. Lighter and clearer in her mind somehow. Setting the paper aside, she rose to face the next task. Moving back into the bedroom, she crossed to the balcony doors. The drapes still hung there, blocking the light, the view. And now she drew them back, let the soft light spill through.
In her mind’s eye she saw it again, the dark, the blood, the torn body of her mother and the things that mutilated her. But now she opened the door and made herself walk through them.
The air was cool and moist, and overhead the sky was full of dragons. Streaks and whirls of color riding the pale blue. How her mother would have loved the sight of them, loved the sound of the wings, the laughter of the children in the courtyard below.
Moira walked to the rail, laid her hands on it and felt the sturdy stone. And standing as her mother had often done, she looked out over Geall, and swore to do her best.
She might have been surprised to know that Cian spent a large portion of his restless day doing what she had done. His lists of bequests and instructions were considerably longer than hers and minutely more detailed. But then he’d lived considerably longer and had accumulated a great deal.
He saw no reason for any of it to go to waste.
A dozen times during the writing of it he cursed the quill and wished violently for the ease and convenience of a computer. But he kept at it until he believed he’d spread his holdings out satisfactorily.
He wasn’t certain it could all be done as some of it would be up to Hoyt. They’d speak about it, Cian thought. If he could count on anything, he could count on Hoyt doing everything in his considerable power to fulfill the obligation Cian meant to give him.
All in all, he hoped it wouldn’t be necessary. A thousand years of existence didn’t mean he was ready to give it up. And he damn well didn’t intend to go to
hell until he’d sent Lilith there before him.
“You were always one for business.”
He pushed to his feet, drawing his dagger in one fluid motion as he turned toward the sound of the voice. Then the dagger simply fell out of his limp fingers.
Even after a millennium, there can be shocks beyond imagining.
“Nola.” His voice sounded rusty on the name.
She was a child, his sister, just as she’d been when he’d last seen her. Her long dark hair falling straight, her eyes deep and blue. And smiling.
“Nola,” he said again. “My God.”
“I thought you would say you have no god.”
“None that would claim me. How can you be here? Are you here?”
“You can see for yourself.” She spread her arms, then did a little turn.
“You lived, and you died. An old woman.”
“You didn’t know the woman, so I’m as you remember me. I missed you, Cian. I looked for you, even knowing better. For years I looked and I hoped for you and for Hoyt. You never came.”
“How could I? You know what I was. Am. You understand that now.”