Morrigan's Cross (Circle Trilogy 1)

“You’re not following me.” Patience, she reminded herself. He’d worked as hard as she had today, and was just as tired. “It’s about symbolism. We have the same foe, yes, but not the same purpose.” She walked to the window, and saw how long the shadows had grown, and how low the sun hung in the sky.

“It’ll be dark soon.” Her fingers groped for her pendant. It struck her then, so simple, so obvious.

“You were looking for a shield for Cian, because he can’t go out in the day. But what about us? We can’t risk going out after sundown. And even inside, we know she can get to us, get inside us. What about our shield, Hoyt? What shields us against the vampire?”

“The light.”

“Yes, yes, but what symbol? A cross. We need to make crosses, and we need to put magic into them. Not only shield, but weapon, Hoyt.”

He thought of the crosses Morrigan had given him for his family. But even his powers, even combined with Glenna’s fell short of the gods.

Still…

“Silver,” he mumbled. “Silver would be best.”

“With red jasper, for night protection. We need some garlic, some sage.” She began going through her case of dried herbs and roots. “I’ll start on the potion.” She grabbed one of her books, began flipping through. “Any idea where we can get our hands on the silver?”

“Aye.”

He left her, went down to the first level of the house and into what was now the dining room. The furnishings were new—to him, at least. Tables of dark, heavy wood, chairs with high backs and ornate carving. The drapes that were pulled over the windows were a deep green, like forest shadows, and made of a thick and weighty silk.

There was art, all of them night scenes of forests and glades and cliffs. Even here, he thought, his brother shunned the light. Or did he prefer the dark, even in paintings?

Tall cupboards with doors of rippled glass held crystal and pottery in rich jewel tones. Possessions, he thought, of a man of wealth and position, who had an eternity of time to collect them.

Did any of the things mean anything to Cian? With so much, could any single thing matter?

On the larger server were two tall candlestands of silver, and Hoyt wondered if they did—or if they had, at least.

They had been his mother’s.

He lifted one, and had the image of her—clear as lake water—sitting at her wheel and spinning, singing one of the old songs she loved while her foot tapped the time.

She wore a blue gown and veil, and there was ease and youth in her face, a quiet contentment that covered her like soft silk. Her body was heavy with child, he saw that now. No, he corrected, heavy with children. Himself and Cian.

And on the chest beneath her window stood the two candlestands.

“They were a gift from my father on the day of my wedding, and of all the gifts given, I prized them most. One will go to you one day, and one to Cian. And so this gift will be passed down, and the giver remembered whenever the candle is lit.”

He comforted himself that he needed no candle to remember her. But the stand weighed heavy in his hands as he took it up to the tower.

Glenna looked up from the cauldron where she mixed her herbs. “Oh, it’s perfect. And beautiful. What a shame to melt it down.” She left her work to get a closer look. “It’s heavy. And old, I think.”

“Aye, it’s very old.”

She understood then, and felt a little pang in her heart. “Your family’s?”

His face, his voice, were carefully blank. “It was to come to me, and so it has.”

She nearly told him to find something else, something that didn’t mean so much to him. But she swallowed the words. She thought she understood why he had chosen as he had. It had to cost. Magic asked a price.

“The sacrifice you’re making will strengthen the spell. Wait.” She pulled a ring from the middle finger of her right hand. “It was my grandmother’s.”

“There’s no need.”

“Personal sacrifice, yours and mine. We’re asking a great deal. I need some time to wri

te out the spell. Nothing in my books is quite right, so we’ll need to amend.”