“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?”