by Nora Roberts
battles will not end.” As she spoke, Sasha’s eyes went dark, went deep. “When there are three, as three were made, as three were given to the worlds, the dark will seek more blood, more death. Defeat her in unity. Fall to her in chaos. Choices to make, paths to take. Hold true, hold three, one by two, and then, only then, will the Island of Glass appear. Only then will it open to the valiant and the brave heart.
“Will you travel the storm?” With the vision on her like a thousand suns, she whirled to the others. “Will you leap into faith? Will you see what lives inside the stone and sorrow? Will you hear what calls your name? And find the last, and finding, hold strong, hold true?”
On a long breath, Sasha closed her eyes.
“It’s cold.”
Immediately Bran shot a look at the hearth, had flames leaping to life.
“No, I meant— Sorry. Where it is, the star. Wherever it is, it’s cold. I can’t see it, but I can feel it. And I don’t guess any of that was much help.”
“Beg to differ.” Riley gave her a rub on the shoulder. “You let us know part three’s not the finish. No point looking at it as done when it won’t be. We find it, we fight the bitch, and we find the Island of Glass. And get there, with the three stars. Piece of cake, right? If you like rock-hard cake with dirt icing.”
“I’m up for it,” Sawyer said. “Cake’s cake.”
“I like cake,” Annika said.
“Wouldn’t be the first dirt I’ve eaten.” Doyle looked at the stars. “We find the star, we find the island. Whatever it takes.”
“I’d say unity’s been met, and we’ve already chosen the path.” Bran lifted the stars toward the paintings. They rose to them, slid inside.
To wait for the third.
CHAPTER THREE
With the stars again secured by magick, Bran led them to the central spiral stairs.
The guy had class, start to finish, Riley thought while she scanned the second-floor lounge area. And with its addition of a big, burly desk, it could serve as yet another office or work area.
She approved its mix of old and new—the big flat-screen, an old burl wood bar, plenty of seating in those deep, rich colors he seemed to favor for hanging out, a fireplace framed in granite the color of the forest.
Niches in the rounded walls held statuary, alabaster, bronze, polished wood. Intrigued, Riley stepped over, ran a finger down the fluid lines of three goddesses, carved together in alabaster.
“Fódla, Banba, Ériu.” She glanced back at Bran. “Eyeballing it, I’d say circa AD 800.”
“So I’m told. It’s a favorite of mine, as are the goddesses, so it’s come down to me through the family.”
“Who are they?” Sasha asked.
“Daughters of Ermnas,” Riley told her, “of the Tuatha Dé Danann. They asked the bard Amergin to name the land—this land—for them, and he did. A triumvirate—not our three goddesses, but a triumvirate all the same. Queens and goddesses of an island. It’s interesting.”
She turned, gestured. “And that bronze. The Morrígan, caught in the change from female form to crow form. Another of Ermnas’s daughters, another great queen and goddess. War goddess.”
Riley moved to another niche. “Here we have the Lady of the Lake, sometimes known as Niniane. Goddess of water. And here in her chariot, Fedelm, the prophet, who foretold great battles.”
“Representing us?” Sasha moved closer to the polished wood carved into the prophet goddess.
“It’s interesting, I think. Irish here has plenty of most exceptional art throughout, but it’s interesting these particular pieces are in this particular tower.”
“Together,” Annika said. “As we are. I like it.”
“I’m pretty fond of it myself. It’s strength,” Riley decided. “And it feels like good luck. I wouldn’t,” she added as Sawyer reached for the statue of the goddess rising from the water. “That’s probably worth five, six mil on the market.”
“Say what?” Sawyer snatched his hand back.
“The legend of that piece goes that one of my ancestors was enamored of the lady, and conjured the statue.” Bran smiled. “However it came to be, it’s another that’s come through the family for generations. But your sensibilities on the grouping’s intriguing, Riley. I put these here with my own hands. I chose their places here before I knew any of you. Yet they fit well, don’t they?”
“They’re so pretty.” But following Sawyer’s lead, Annika kept her hands to herself.
“Interesting, too, is I’ve placed in the other tower a bronze of Merlin the sorcerer, and one of the Dagda.”
“Merlin’s obvious. The Dagda, again of the Tuatha Dé Danann,” Riley put in, “who among other things is known as a god of time.” She shot a finger at Sawyer.
“And with him I have Caturix.”
“King of the battle,” Riley murmured, arching eyebrows at Doyle. “Fits pretty well.”
“I have the mate to the triumvirate of goddesses in the first tower as well. The Morrígan, Badb, Macha.”
“The second set of daughters of Ernmas. I’d like a look sometime.”
“Anytime at all,” Bran told Riley.
“As interesting as it may be, they’re just symbols.” Doyle stood, hands in his pockets. “Statues don’t fight. They don’t bleed.”
“Says the guy cursed by a witch three centuries ago. I don’t expect the statues to leap up and join in,” Riley continued. “But symbolism matters, and right now it feels like it’s weighing on our side.”
“I absolutely agree. And that doesn’t mean I won’t groan my way through pull-ups tomorrow.”
Sasha got a half smile from Doyle. “Fair enough.”
“The main level may give us more, tangibly, to work with.”
“You wouldn’t happen to have Excalibur down there?” Sawyer asked Bran.
“Sorry, no. My cousin in Kerry has it. Joking,” he said when Riley’s eyes popped under her shaggy fringe of bangs.
“Never joke about Excalibur to an archaeologist. What’s downstairs?” Without waiting, she started down the spiral.
Doyle heard her reaction before she was halfway down. In his experience the sound she made was one usually made by a woman at the hard crest of an orgasm.
He heard Bran laugh and say, “I thought you’d approve,” as he circled down at the rear of the group.
Books, Doyle noted. Hundreds of them. Old, old books on rounded, towering shelves. The air smelled of their leather bindings, and quietly of paper.
One massive book sat on a stand, its carved leather cover locked. But others circled the room with its wide stone hearth. Windows, narrow and tall, offered soft light and recessed seats between the shelves.
A long library table stood gleaming in the center of the room.
His own interest piqued when he noticed the maps.
“Books, collected over generations,” Bran began. “On magicks, lore, legend, mythology, history. On healing, on spell casting, on herbs, crystals, alchemy. Journals, memoirs, family lore as well. Maps, as Doyle has discovered, some ancient. You’ll find some duplicates to what you already have,” he said to Riley.
She just shook her head. “It makes what I already have look like a toddler’s bookcase. I could live here.” She let out a long breath. “If I can’t find answers here, there aren’t answers. And there are always answers.”
“I’ve looked, of course, but I don’t have your comprehensions all the same. And at this point, the search is more narrow and focused.” He crossed over, pulled a thin volume from a shelf. “This is said to have been written by one of my ancestors—on my mother’s side. It tells of his visit to the Island of Glass to celebrate the rising of a new queen. It’s written in old Irish.”
Taking it, Riley opened it carefully. Reverently. “I can work on translating. Doyle’s better there, being as he is old Irish.”
“I can’t speak to its veracity,” Bran continued. “But the family lore generally holds it up.”
“
I can dig through lore and myth.” Riley spoke absently as she scanned the book. “I’m assuming what’s in here stays in here.”
“This chamber is magickally controlled to preserve the books—paper, bindings. Some are so old they’d crumble outside this air, and with handling outside this spell.”
“Got it. It’s a kick-ass place to work anyway.” She laid the book on the long table, gestured to the one on the stand. “What’s that one?”
“The Book of Spells, again from my family, from the first set down to the latest. I’ve added what I created on Corfu, and on Capri. Only one of my blood can open it.” As he spoke, Bran walked to it. “It came to me when I reached my twenty-first birthday. I will pass it to the one who comes after me. It holds knowledge, and legacy, and power.”
He laid his hand on the book, spoke in Irish. And as he spoke, the book began to glow. It began to sing.
“Oh!” Annika grabbed Sawyer’s hand. “It’s beautiful. Can you hear it?”
“Yeah. And feel it.”
The air moved; the light changed.
“I am of the blood,” Doyle translated Bran’s words for the others. “I am of the craft. I am all who came before, all who come after. This is my pledge, this is my duty, this is my joy.”
When Bran lifted his hand, the thick lock was gone. He opened the carved cover—a flash, a snap of sound. Then silence.
“Here, all who held the book mark their name.”
“So many,” Sasha murmured as he turned the page. “Yours is the last.”
“So far.”
“Would . . . our child?”
“If the child is willing. If the child accepts.”
“A choice?”
“Always a choice. The spells are catalogued. For healing, for knowing, for protection, for deflection, for worship, and so on. If any of you have the need to find a spell, you’ve only to ask and I’ll open it.”
“The illustrations,” Sasha said as he turned a few pages. “They’re wonderful, so vibrant.”
“The book creates them. You’ll see each page bears a name. If a spell is found useful, we write it out, offer it. If the book accepts, it’s added.”
“The book accepts?”
“It has power,” he said again. “If you have need, ask.”
He closed the book, held his hand over it. The lock materialized, snapped shut.
“One day, when we’ve got plenty of time to spare, I’d like to look through it. But for now . . .” Riley turned a circle. “I think I have enough to keep me occupied.”
“For a couple of decades,” Sawyer put in.
“It’s okay if I dig in, get started?”
“Of course.” As a welcome, Bran gestured toward the fire, so flames leaped into life. “I’ll be on the third level later. There are drinks on the second level, and the makings for tea or coffee.”
“Like I said, I could live in here. I’ll get some things from my room, then start that digging. My cell phone will work in here, right?”
“Here and anywhere else.”
“Can I help you with anything here?” Sasha asked.
“Maybe, but the fact is, Doyle would be more useful.”
He didn’t look very pleased about it, but shrugged. “I’ve got some things to see to, then I can give you some time.”
“Good enough. I’ll make some calls, haul some things down here, get going. Bran?” Hands on hips, Riley turned a circle. “This rocks it.”
• • •
Before she started, Riley contacted family. She should actually call, actually speak to her family, but . . . email was quicker, simpler, and she could blast one out to everyone at once.
She’d call her parents after the moon, but she could give them and her pack details about where she was on the quest—and where she was literally—via email.
Then she scrolled through her contacts list. She needed to line up a dive boat, scuba equipment. Since both the other stars had required diving, she’d assume they’d need it.
She found an archaeologist she’d worked with on a dig in County Cork years before, gave that a try.
It meant some conversation, some catching up—which was exactly why she’d chosen email for the family connection—but she scored a local name.
Within twenty minutes, a lot of phone flirting and negotiation, she had what she needed on tap.
She boxed up the books she wanted, along with her laptop and tablet, a couple of legal pads, and carted everything to the tower.
Wouldn’t she have loved working in here alone? she thought as she walked back in. Just her and hundreds of old books—and her own electronics. A big fire, a big table. Rain spitting outside, a little music from her playlist.
But she needed Doyle.
The man spoke and read as many languages as she did—and some of them better than she did. Which was annoying, she admitted as she set up her laptop.
Then again, he’d had a few centuries to learn linguistics. And everything else.
He had a good mind for strategy and tactics—she didn’t always agree, but he had a good mind for them. As a drill sergeant he was brutal—but she respected that. This was war, and war on an impossible level, so you trained brutally or you died.
And in battle, he was fierce, fast, and fearless. Of course, being immortal, why fear?
Not fair, she reminded herself. The man felt pain, just like anybody.
Anyway, it wasn’t a competition. Which was bullshit, she admitted as she arranged her things. For her, most everything was some sort of competition. She knew how to work on a team—pack animal, after all. But she preferred being an alpha.
Considering the night she’d put in, and what she hoped to accomplish now, she went up the circling stairs, made a pot of strong coffee. After a brief hesitation, she grabbed two thick white mugs.
If Doyle showed, having the second would save time.
Then she settled down at the table, fire roaring, rain pattering, and began to read—as best she could—the book written by Bran’s ancestor.
She made notes on the legal pad as she went, stopped when she needed to in order to check a word or phrasing with her laptop.
She barely glanced up when the door opened.
She wondered if the faded Grateful Dead T-shirt he wore was a snarky private joke about his immortality, or if he was—as any sensible rock lover should be—a fan.
Either way, it showed admirable pecs to advantage.
“Bran’s many-times-great-grandfather was full of himself,” she began. “Or maybe it just comes across that way. His writing’s pretty florid, and he’s pretty damn smug about getting invited to the rising. It’s what he calls the birth of this new queen.”
“Okay.” Doyle dumped coffee in the second mug.
“You could read this faster.”
“You seem to be getting through it. Besides, some guy’s trip to the Island of Glass hundreds of years ago doesn’t do much for us in the here and now. It’s wherever it chooses to be—that’s the legend, isn’t it?”
“‘It comes and goes as it wills,’” Riley quoted, “‘sailing the mists of time and place. Many have sought its shores, but the glass parts rarely. Only those chosen by the fates, those whose feats and deeds and powers merit, are gifted to pass through.’” She tapped the book. “Or words to that effect. This guy—Bohannon—is pretty pumped up about his personal merit. He’s taking the queen two jeweled birds—a lark and a nightingale—as his gift. One to sing her to sleep, one to sing her awake. There’s a whole passage about how he conjured them.”
“And that helps us how?”
“It’s information, Sparky. He’s definitely talking about an infant—so this verifies a birth. Most of the info we’ve dug up does, though there are theories about a young girl, à la Arthur, being chosen through a task or deed. But he writes about the infant queen, Aegle, and her guardians: Celene, Luna, Arianrhod.”
“We’ve had that much before.”
“More confirmation,” Riley insis
ted. “And his invite came through Arianrhod—Celtic to Celtic, I’m thinking. And he traveled from Sligo, to the coast of Clare—that’s here and now for us. He had to sail from here, which was rough on him—again thoroughly recounted. Dark sea under the full moon, blah, blah, but then it gets interesting.”
Riley flipped back in the book, pushed it to him.
“Read that. Out loud,” she said, impatient, when he started to skim the words. “It helps me to hear it.”
“Bloody hell. Fine then. ‘Though the sea rolled beneath me, and the moon danced behind clouds to blur the light, I did not fear. I drew my power around me like my cloak, and sailed on my own enchantment as the mists swirled and thickened. For a moment, even the moon was lost, and the sea shuddered as if in fear. Some might have cried out, or turned the boat around, but I sailed on, blood cool as I—’ For Christ’s sake.”
“Yeah, yeah, but keep going.”
“‘As I stayed my course, though the water demon roared.’” Doyle paused, gave her a cool look. “Water demon.”
Riley shrugged. “Could be a Wahwee, though that’s Aborigine, maybe a Munuane—maybe a whale, a waterspout. Or just hyperbole. Keep going.”
“Water demon,” he muttered, but continued. “‘Through the mists, lights, torches burning bright, and the moon slipped her clouds to shine a beacon to light the way. For me the glass parted, and the sea calmed, and the Island of Glass shimmered like a jewel before me.
“‘Sand, white as the moon, with those tall torches blazing. Forests, thick and green, alight with drops of dancing colors. On a hill the palace shined in silver. The music of pipes and flutes and harps enchanted the air. I saw jugglers and dancers, and could smell meat on the fire, mead in the cup as young boys raced into the shallows to pull my boat to shore.’”
When Doyle paused again, Riley just circled her finger in the air.
He cursed under his breath, but continued.
“‘And while the night had been chill and damp when I left the shore of my world, here it was warm and dry. I stepped from the boat onto the white sand of the Island of Glass where Arianrhod waited with her sisters to greet me. As my foot touched the ground, I knew I had been granted what few had before, and few would after me. For here is the beating heart of the power of all worlds.’”
Doyle looked up. “You buy that one?”
“Not enough information, but it’s interesting, isn’t it? Magick is—we can’t deny that one. What if there is a core to it, a heart, a world where it generates? It sure makes sense that Nerezza wants the stars—created there, by the three goddesses. It makes sense if she got them in her evil little hands she’d have all the power, and the ability to destroy, well, everything. So it’s interesting.”
She sat back. “Keep going.”
“If I’d known I’d be reading you a story, I’d’ve gotten a beer.”
“I’ll get you a beer if it saves me from translating.”
“Deal.”
She went up the stairs. “Something else to think about,” she called down.
“I have plenty to think about. What’s your something else?”
“I’d need to run tests to get a better estimate of the age of this journal, but I’m going with ninth century.”
“Okay.”
With a roll of her eyes, she looked down over the rail. “Have some intellectual curiosity, Doyle, and ask why.”
“You’re going to tell me anyway.”
