He told himself not to worry about Annika, and not to think about time other than whatever year, month, night Riley chose. But his mind circled around all of that, until he really focused in on Sasha’s painting.
He didn’t know a lot about art, other than what appealed to him or didn’t. And knew nothing at all about the creating of it, except for what he’d watched Sasha do when she sketched or painted.
What lived on the canvas now struck him as ridiculously beautiful. Almost impossibly. The light—how did she create that luminous, inside-a-seashell sort of light?—just bloomed over a stately (that was the word that kept coming back to him) stone manor. All tall, arched, leaded-glass windows. It held two towers, round and peaked, and what he supposed were terraces built to resemble battlements.
Flowers and shrubs spread at its feet like colorful skirts, and trees, summer green, spread their shade, dappling the spread of grass, greener than emeralds.
And all of it rose above cliffs, dramatic, stormy gray, and the thundering sea that crashed below.
He could see Bran there, perfectly. The magician in his cliffside castle. For himself, when he settled, he’d look for a cottage-type place, on the beach somewhere—anywhere—with blue water and the sway of palms. But he could see the heart-clutching appeal of Bran’s home on the cliffs.
When Sasha stepped back, he started to speak. But one look at her eyes had him holding his silence.
She picked up the painting, set it on the worktable, then propped her sketch pad on the easel.
So there was more.
After opening a box, she picked up colored chalk, and began to sweep and guide it over the page.
He watched Annika come to life, but as he’d never seen her. Rising up in the water, or so it seemed to him, her face toward the surface, and transported. Her hair swirling through the impossible blue.
For a moment Sawyer thought it was like watching a photograph develop, so quick and sure were Sasha’s strokes.
Annika’s arms lifted high above her head, wrists touching, hands cupped. And with Sasha’s chalks, with her gift, the star appeared in Annika’s hands, brilliant and blue.
“In the water and of it,” Sasha said. “From the goddess’s
hands into the guardian’s. And she is in the water and of it. Luna’s star, star of water, gifted with grace, with joy, with love, now held by the daughter.”
Slowly, Sasha set the chalks down, turned to Sawyer. “But the night comes, brutal and bloody, and must be faced. The risk will be yours, traveler. And the choice to take it.”
“What risk?”
“Your life, to save all else. Will you embrace the goddess of dark, take her to the light, leave her lost? She will find her way again, but will you risk to spare the blood of friends? To make the time to heal again?”
“Pull her into a shift? Is it possible?”
“Only you can know. You are the traveler. She is the daughter,” Sasha said, gesturing to the portrait. “You must both choose. So do we all.”
Sasha’s eyes closed; she breathed out a sigh. “Sawyer?”
“Yeah, hey, welcome home. You need to sit down.”
“No, I’m fine.” She waved him off. “Really, even a little buzzed. I know what I said to you, but—”
“Let’s just let that simmer. Annika finds the star, the Water Star.”
“I know she can.” As she studied her own work, Sasha picked up a rag to wipe chalk from her hands. “And I know there will be voices all around her, and weeping with the sighs and songs. It’s all I know.”
Now she turned to her worktable, and the painting.
“This is where we need to go, and the star of ice waits for us. It’s Bran’s home, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, he recognized it when you were working on it earlier.”
“Bran’s,” she repeated. “And more. Could you ask the others to come up? They should see.”
“Yeah, I’ll get them. Here.” He offered her a bottle of water. “You’ve been at this for a good four hours straight.”