by Nora Roberts
“I’ve got some details on what it looks like—sketchy, ha-ha. And what the palace looks like, what the goddesses—Arianrhod in particular—look like. If you were to draw them from my notes . . . ”
“Maybe I’d see more. I can try. And the queen was a baby, so the birth was literal.”
“He presented his gift—the songbirds—to the goddesses, and was himself presented to the infant queen.” Riley flipped through her notes. “‘A fair bairn with golden hair and eyes of blue, deep lakes, already wise. And on her shoulder, bared for all to see, the royal mark. The star of destiny.’”
“Another star. Did he write about her parents?”
“He was more about the food and wine, a lot more about the goddess, the clothes, the queen. He was a little bit of a jerk, at least in his own telling. And by his account the palace comes off as fairy-tale sparkle. Big and silver and full of art and elaborate rooms. But he also talks about the thick forests, and a stone circle on another hill where he walked to pay respects to the ancients. A waterfall and a troubling path, the Tree of All Life.”
“And Nerezza?”
“Gossip. Pretty juicy.” Riley took a swig of beer, wiggled closer in her chair. “First, no invite for her. She lives on the far side of the island, semi-banished to that area when she tried stirring up trouble for the former queen. Not much hard data there, but she’s feared and disliked. Everybody gives her a wide berth. On the night of his arrival, our narrator hears what he thinks is a storm. He ignores it at first, but it sounds like a big one. He gets out of bed—lots of description of his chamber—and looks out. He sees this scorched gulf cutting across the beach. Deep and black, he says, and the three goddesses on one side of it. He claims he felt the power shake the world, and the white sand flows over the split. As things settle, he looks up, as the goddesses are, and sees three new stars under the moon. More brilliant and beautiful than any star in any heaven and so on. Before dawn, Arianrhod appears in his chamber, they get it on. He’s there three days and nights, and she comes to him every night.”
“To conceive a child, part god, part sorcerer,” Sasha concluded as Riley took a huge bite of sandwich.
Riley nodded, circled a finger in the air. “I figure maybe he comes off smug and pompous in his journal, but he had to have some qualities she valued and wanted. When he left, she gave him a ring with a brilliant white stone. The Stone of Glass, she called it, and told him she would send into his world a greater gift, one that would one day return to her.”
“The child. Its descendants.”
“Same page, Sash.”
“It’s sort of lovely. I’ll get my sketchbook. It’s stopped raining, so I’d like a walk, I’d like to get a sense of where we are, where Bran’s home is, then I’ll see if I can use your notes to sketch anything.”
“I need to unpack and organize a little more.”
“I’ve got dinner tonight, with Bran assisting. I thought I’d try my hand at Guinness stew. I’ll make sure it’s done before moonrise so you can eat before the fast.”
“Appreciate it. Take the path you painted,” Riley advised. “In the moonlight it was pretty fantastic. Going out from here’s a winner, but coming back? Absolute champ.”
Sasha rose, then stopped. “Bran wants me to meet his family.”
“Well, sure.”
“There are so many of them. And I’m—I’m this American woman they’ve never met, and who’s only known Bran for—”
“Cut it out.” Still eating, Riley sliced a finger through the air. “Stop putting up problems. Meeting the parents, et cetera? You can be a little anxious, sure, but, Jesus, Sasha, you’re a freaking warrior. You’re fighting gods here. This’ll be a snap.”
“I know I have to meet them—want to meet them,” she corrected. “Eventually. I just don’t want to mess anything up.”
“Look at the man. He’s pretty great, right?”
“Beyond that.”
“And it’s a pretty sure bet his parents had something to do with that. They’re probably great, too. Relax.”
“It’s silly to worry about something like this when there’s so much else to worry about.”
“It’s human,” Riley corrected. “Can’t get around being human. Except for me, three nights a month.”
Sasha smiled. “And even then. You’re right. I’m putting this aside and away. Leave your notes there, and I’ll see what I can do with them after I take a walk.”
“Will do. And I’ll be around if you have any questions.”
• • •
Doyle walked to the cliffs, and as he had as a boy, climbed down the treacherous rocks, down the unstable hunks of turf. The boy had believed, absolutely, he’d never fall. The man knew he’d survive if he did.
He told himself he risked the fall—the pain of dying and resurrection—in order to survey the caves pocked in the cliff wall. However unlikely the star lay so close to hand, you didn’t find until you looked.
But under the excuse, he knew full well he climbed, without rope or harness, simply because he’d done the same as a boy. He did so then, did so now, as the whip of the wind, the throaty roar of the sea, the slick and chilly face of the cliff exhilarated. To cling like a lizard high above the wave-tossed rock, defying death, gulping life like the salt-flavored air.
Oh, how he’d longed for adventure as a lad. To fight brigands, or to be one, to ride off to swing a sword against tyranny, to set sail on a journey to some undiscovered land.
Mind what you wish for, he thought as he paused on a narrow ledge to watch the lash and swirl of sea and rock below.
He’d had adventures, fought brigands—been one from time to time. Lived a soldier’s life in war by war by war until he’d lost all stomach for it. He’d sailed, and he’d flown, to lands ordinary and exotic.
And Christ knew he’d grown weary of it all.
But he’d set himself on this quest, and set that course centuries before any of the other six had been born. He’d see it through.
And then . . . he had no notion whatsoever.
A quiet life for a time—but then he wasn’t built for the quiet life. Traveling? But there wasn’t a place in the world he had a burning desire to see again. He could entertain himself bedding women, as that desire always burned—though tedium could creep in when the spark guttered.
Whatever he did, however he did it, wherever he did it, he could never stay above a decade or so. Could never create bonds, even loose ones, as after a time people noticed a man who never aged a day.
And to those who wished for immortality, he’d again advise: Be careful what you wish for.
No point brooding over it, he reminded himself. His lot was his lot. But the trouble was once this quest was done, so was the companionship he’d, however reluctantly, come to prize.
Being part of an army equaled comrades, true enough. But being part of this? Part of six who lived and slept and ate and fought and bled together against such odds?
It made family.
Each of them, despite their talents and powers, would go through the natural cycle. They would age, they would die.
He would not.
And no point brooding over it, he thought again as he picked his way over the ledge to the narrow mouth of the cave he’d sought.
Once it had been his secret place—one where he could sit on this same ledge and dream his dreams with no one knowing where he was. He’d snuck tinder and tallow into it, honeycakes and mead. He’d dreamed, and he’d whittled, made wishes, had his sulks, watched the seabirds wing.
The mouth was smaller than he remembered, but wasn’t everything? The boy had slipped easily inside, and the man had to work at it a bit.
It smelled the same—dank and delicious—and inside, the roar of the sea echoed so the air seemed to tremble with the sound. For a moment he crouched, shut his eyes, and smiled as in that moment he was transported back to simple, innocent boyhood, where the future lay ahead, all full of color and courage and chivalry.
Rather than the stub of a candle, he took out a flashlight, let the beam play.
Not so much smaller than memory, he noted as he crab-walked back until he could stand—just barely stand. And there, the little jut where he’d kept a candle. Bending, he rubbed his fingers over the hardened pool of wax. And there, the tattered remains of the old blanket he’d stolen from the stables. It had smelled of the horses, and that had been fine with him.
The cave curved into a little chamber, what he’d designated as his treasure room, as the wall nearer the mouth angled to hide it.
There still lay the bounty of his childhood, like artifacts. The broken cup he’d pretended into a grail—perhaps one of Arthur’s. Pebbles and shells hoarded in a chipped bowl, some copper coins, an old arrowhead—ancient even then—bits of rope, the knife he’d used for whittling—and had used to carve his name in the rock.
Again he used his fingers, tracing the name the boy had so painstakingly carved.
Doyle Mac Cleirich
Beneath it he’d done his best to carve a dragon, as he’d designated the dragon as his symbol.
“Ah, well,” he murmured, and turned away.
The beam of his light struck the shallow depression in the facing wall, and the tiny bundle of oilcloth.
“After all this time?”
He stepped over, drew it out, unrolled it. Inside lay the pipe he’d carefully made from a small branch of a chestnut tree. He’d imagined it magic, made for him—and only him—to call up the dragon. The one he, naturally, saved from certain death. The one who became his friend and companion.
Oh, to be a boy again, he thought, with such faith and so many dreams.
He brought it to his lips, placed his fingers over the holes, tested it. To his pleasure and surprise it carried a tune true enough. Mournful perhaps in the echoing cave, but true.
He allowed himself the sentiment, rolled it back in the cloth, and slipped it into his pocket.
The rest could stay, he thought. One day another adventurous boy might find the treasures and wonder.
He climbed back up, leaving the cave, the memories, the sea.
When he swung over the wall, Sawyer hailed him.
“Hey! Did you climb down?”
“Having a look around.”
Shoving up his cap, Sawyer leaned over, looked down. “Tricky. I’ve been having a look around myself—on more even ground. What do you think about setting up the targets over there?”
Doyle followed the direction. “In front of those gardens?”
“Yeah, well, you can’t get away from the gardens, not really, unless we set up in the woods. We could do that, but this is more private. We’ve got a lot of land, but from what I gather, people can just sort of wander around, and some do. Back here, the noise from the water will mask gunshots.”
“The private suits me, though I suspect Bran’s well enough known around the area, and no one would make trouble.”
Though he knew the ground well, Doyle considered it.
“More room to spread out on the other side of the house, and we can use that for other training. But this would do well enough for weapons training.”
“Good enough. Word is Riley’s scored us the boat and gear.”
“Has she?”
“She’s got some network. I want to take a look at the maps, but I’ve scouted out the general area, gotten the lay of it.”
“So you can get us back here from wherever we might go.”
Sawyer jerked a thumbs-up. “No sweat. More word is Sasha’s sketching from the notes you and Riley put together out of the journal, hoping for . . .” He circled his fingers in the air. “Don’t know how that’s going. And apparently you and I are on weapons detail, so since we’ve got the target area picked, we can set that up.
“After a beer.”
“Can’t argue with it.”
The fact was Doyle found it hard to argue with Sawyer about anything. The man was affable, canny as a fox, unbreakably loyal, and could shoot the eye out of a gnat at twenty yards.
They went in through the mudroom, into the kitchen that smelled temptingly of whatever Sasha stirred in the pot on the stove as Riley looked on.
“Wow.” As he had an interest in cooking as well as eating, Sawyer went over to her. “What is it?”
“Guinness stew. I found a couple recipes online, and I’ve been playing with them. I think it’s going to work.”
“Looks awesome. We’re after a beer. Want some wine?”
“I think it’s just about that time, thanks. I’ve been dealing with this, sketching. I think the cooking’s more successful than . . .”
She turned, saw Doyle had picked up her sketch pad.
“It’s hard to be sure I’m even close, considering I’m going on more or less general descriptions.”
When he said nothing, she moved to him, studied, as he did, one of her sketches of Arianrhod. “I can’t know if I made her beautiful because the journalist found her beautiful. I don’t know the shape of her face, or the length and style of her hair, shape of her eyes. I just went on instinct, I guess.”
“This is your instinct?”
The rawness in his voice had her looking up at him in alarm. She saw that same rawness in his eyes.
“Yes. What is it? What’s wrong?”
“Dude.” Sawyer stepped over, put a hand on Doyle’s arm. “You all right?”
“I read the way she was described myself. It’s from my reading Riley took the notes for you. And this is how you’ve drawn the goddess?”
“Arianrhod, yes. It’s as close as I can imagine. It’s—it’s just how I saw her from the notes. Why?”
“Because . . . you’ve drawn my mother. This is my mother’s face you’ve drawn in your book.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Bittersweet. That was the term used, wasn’t it? Doyle thought as he stared at the sketch. Those opposing sensations twisting and twining together until they merged into one shaky emotion.
He’d never understood it quite so well until now.
When he forced himself to look away, look up, he saw they’d surrounded him. Sawyer at his back, the women on both sides.
He had to fight the instinct to pull away.
“I won’t ask if you’re sure,” Riley said carefully, “because it’s clear you are. Sasha’s sketched your mother from the description of Arianrhod.”
Another internal battle—to hold Riley’s gaze, to keep everything steady. “My mother might have sat for this.”
“There are others.” Reaching down, Sasha turned pages in her sketchbook. Profiles, full face, full body.
He made himself take the book, flip through as if it meant nothing . . . personal. But Jesus, even the half smile in this sketch here, the one that said: I know you’ve been up to something.
His mother to the life.
“She never dressed so . . . elaborately, and would usually have her hair braided back or put up, but these might have been drawn of her when she was young.”
“Could Sasha have, you know, picked up on Doyle’s memories? Not on purpose,” Sawyer said quickly. “But just felt them?”
“I don’t think so. I really don’t. Doyle wasn’t around when I worked on these, and I used Riley’s notes.”
“I’ve got a theory.”
Doyle glanced over at Riley. “Naturally.”
Before she could speak, Annika came in with Bran, leading with her laugh.
“I like helping make magick. I’d like to— Oh, hello.” Her quick smile faded when she focused in on the faces of her friends. “Something’s wrong. Do we have to fight?”
“No, not now, but it’s good we’re all here. We can go over all this at once.” Sasha held out a hand to Bran. “Let’s sit over in the lounge by the fire.”
“If there’s a pint involved, I’m ready for that.” As he took her hand, Bran glanced down at her sketches. “What’s this now? Did you dig out some old photos?”
“What? No, I—”
“It’s the sound of my theory ringing the damn bell,” Riley said. “Your grandmother, Doyle’s mother.” Riley slapped a finger on the sketch. “Arianrhod.”
“I see.” Nodding slowly, Bran looked back at the sketch. “I feel I’ve missed a great deal.”
“She’s so beautiful.” Annika angled around for a better look. “Is Doyle’s mother Bran’s grandmother, and also a goddess? I don’t understand how this could be.”
“I don’t think so.” Sawyer slid an arm around Annika’s waist. “Let’s get you some wine, and catch everybody up.”
When they settled in the lounge, the fire snapping, drinks at hand, Riley remained standing. She rarely taught, and more rarely lectured—formally in any case—but when she did, she knew how to punch her points.
“I’m going to sum up, but first, Bran, you’ve read your ancestor’s journal, the one you gave me.”
“Of course. While it may have been written in purple, it gives a good firsthand accounting of the rising of the new queen, his time on the island. Some salt may be doused over the purple.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Expressions,” Sawyer told Annika. “I’ll explain later.”
“So you know he claims to have slept with Arianrhod—on all three of the nights he stayed on the island.”
“Well, even gods and sorcerers have needs, and it was quite the party. I don’t . . . Ah, I see. Of course.” Leaning back, lifting his beer, Bran nodded to Doyle. “She wanted a child—a magickal child.”
“Bloodline,” Riley said. “A child she could one day send to Ireland, to continue the bloodline. Descendants of that child settled right here, others migrated. Your family’s in Sligo.”
“They are, most of them,” Bran agreed. “And my grandmother’s grandmother was a Clare woman, a witch from Quilty. Not far from here, as the crow flies. So it fits, very well, wouldn’t you say? Brother?”
Doyle brooded into his beer. “I don’t know of any witches in my family history. And I wasn’t born immortal.”
As, to her, his grief bled through the iron shield he’d erected, Riley might have felt for him. But she had to press. “No talk around the fire of a relation with the sight or the power to heal, to commune with animals?”
He shifted, shot her an annoyed look. “There’s always talk. And it’s Ireland, so . . . ”
“Talk has roots somewhere. Regardless, you’re not going to argue the facts. Sasha drew Arianrhod, and the resemblance to your mother, to Bran’s grandmother is unarguable. We’re connected, the six of us. Sasha connected us, every one, when she was still in the States, drawing and painting visions she didn’t want to have. We all came to Corfu, at the same time. We all came together. You and Bran, you come from the same root, planted the night of the stars on the Island of Glass. And so do we all.”
“We’re all from her?” Annika asked.
“There are three goddesses. I doubt they’d have put all their eggs—pun intended—in one basket. Big celebration, lots of magickal people. Plenty, I imagine, of men who suited their needs. Shapeshifters, travelers, merpeople.
“Arianrhod came to Bran’s ancestor on the night of the stars, the same night Nerezza cursed them,” Riley continued. “The night the goddesses understood the seeds of—let’s say misfortune—had been sown. So they took steps to conceive and
