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He could see the cook fire. He imagined his mother sitting in the parlor, tatting lace perhaps, or working on one of her tapestries. Waiting, hoping for news of her sons. He wished he brought her better.
His father might be with his man of business or out riding the land, and his married sisters in their own cottages, with young Nola in the stables playing with the pups from the new litter.
The house was tucked in the forest, because his grandmother—she who had passed power to him, and to a lesser extent, Cian—had wanted it so. It stood near a stream, a rise of stone with windows of real glass. And its gardens were his mother’s great pride.
Her roses bloomed riotously.
One of the servants hurried out to take his horse. Hoyt merely shook his head at the question in the man’s eyes. He walked to the door where the black banner of mourning still hung.
Inside, another servant was waiting to take his cloak. Here in the hall, his mother’s, and her mother’s tapestries hung, and one of his father’s wolfhounds raced to greet him.
He could smell beeswax, and roses cut fresh from the garden. The turf fire simmering in the grate. He left them behind, walked up the stairs to his mother’s sitting room.
She was waiting, as he’d known she would be. Sitting in her chair, her hands in her lap, clasped so tightly the knuckles were white. Her face carried all the weight of her grief, and went heavier yet when she saw what was in his eyes.
“Mother—”
“You’re alive. You’re well.” She got to her feet, held out her arms to him. “I’ve lost my youngest son, but here is my firstborn, home again. You’ll want food and drink after your journey.”
“I have much to tell you.”
“And so you will.”
“All of you, if you please, madam. I cannot stay long. I’m sorry.” He kissed her brow. “I’m sorry to leave you.”
There was food and there was drink, and the whole of his family—save Cian—around the table. But it was not a meal like so many he remembered, with laughter and shouted arguments, with joy or petty disagreements. Hoyt studied their faces, the beauties, the strengths and the sorrows as he told them what had passed.
“If there is to be a battle, I will come with you. Fight with you.”
Hoyt looked at his brother-in-law Fearghus. His shoulders were broad, his fists ready.
“Where I go, you can’t follow. You’re not charged with this fight. It’s for you and Eoin to stay here, to protect with my father, the family, the land. I would go with a heavier heart if I didn’t know you and Eoin stand in my stead. You must wear these.”
He took out the crosses. “Each of you, and all the children who come after. Day and night, night and day. This,” he said and lifted one, “is Morrigan’s Cross, forged by the gods in magic fire. The vampyre cannot turn any who wear it into its kind. This must be passed on to those who come after you, in song and story. You will swear an oath, each of you, that you will wear this cross until death.”
He rose, draping a cross over each neck, waiting for the sworn oath before moving on.
Then he knelt by his father. His father’s hands were old, Hoyt noted with a jolt. He was more farmer than warrior, and in a flash, he knew his father’s death would come first, and before the Yule. Just as he knew he would never again look in the eyes of the man who’d given him life.
And his heart bled a little.
“I take my leave of you, sir. I ask your blessing.”
“Avenge your brother, and come back to us.”
“I will.” Hoyt rose. “I must gather what I need.”
He went up to the room he kept in the topmost tower, and there began to pack herbs and potions without any real sense what would be needed.
“Where is your cross?”
He looked toward the doorway where Nola stood, her dark hair hanging to her waist. She was but eight, he thought, and held the softest spot in his heart.
“She didn’t make me one,” he said, briskly. “I have another sort of shield, and there’s no need for you to be worrying. I know what I’m about.”
“I won’t cry when you go.”
“Why would you? I’ve gone before, haven’t I, and come back handily enough?”
