“Aye. It was like a treasure. I went right in, as a boy with no sense would. The sea echoed in it. Here was something no one knew of but me, no one would have but me. I was a pirate, claiming my prize. Over the next weeks and months and years, it was my place. I took an old horse blanket, tinder, tallow, a small boy’s treasures. I could sit on the ledge outside it, look out to the sea and imagine the adventures I’d have. I whittled a pipe to play, to call my dragon. I’d settled on a dragon for my spirit guide long before. Thanks.”
Doyle lifted the glass Bran set in front of him. “I carved the symbol of one into the cave wall, and above it my name.”
“Doyle Mac Cleirich, writ the boy in the stone, and dreamed of the man to be. Warrior, adventurer.” Sasha set the sketch pad on the table.
On it she’d drawn a cave lit by a single candle held on a rock by its own wax, and a boy—dark, shaggy hair, dirt-smeared shirt—his face intent as he carved letters into the stone wall.
“Dreaming of what would be, he doesn’t see the fire and the ice. Nor feel the heat and cold. That is for the man, one who knows war is blood and death and will still fight. The star waits for the boy, for the man. See the name, read the name, say the name and its ice burns through the fire. One for the seer, two for the siren, three for the soldier. Dare the storm, children of the gods, and take them home.”
Sasha shuddered out a breath, reached across the table for Doyle’s whiskey. “Mind?” she said and downed it. Shuddered again. “Wow. That was probably a mistake.”
“You did well.” Bran laid his hands on her shoulders. “You did brilliantly.”
“You saw it?” Doyle tapped the sketch pad. “You saw this?”
“As soon as you started talking about the cliffs. It’s been like a film over my mind—hard to explain. And when you started to talk, it just lifted. And I saw you—I saw you as a boy in this cave. I felt . . .”
Doyle picked up the bottle of whiskey Bran had brought to the table, tipped more in his glass. “Go ahead.”
“Determination, excitement, innocence. Power all around you. You nicked your finger with the knife, and when you traced the letters you carved, your blood sealed them.”
Doyle nodded, drank. “Here, all along. Just as you said.” He looked at Riley. “I never thought of the cave. I even went there after we came here. Climbed down, went to see it again. I thought nothing of it. I felt nothing.”
“You were alone. Next time you won’t be.”
“It isn’t the easiest of climbs.”
Riley arched her eyebrows. “Getting to the other two wasn’t a stroll in the park either.”
“I’d say give me the coordinates, but if you’re off by a foot or two.” Sawyer scratched his head. “It’s a long way down.”
“We’ll use rope.” Bran looked toward the window. “But not tonight. Not in the dark, in the rain. In the morning then—please the gods we get a break in the weather—and together.”
“Say we find it, and I say we will. What do we do with it?” Sawyer asked. “Where do we put it until we figure out how to take it home?”
“Well, according to the established pattern . . .” Riley looked toward Sasha.
“A painting. I’ve been painting when I’ve had the chance, but nothing’s compelled me like the other two. Maybe, now that the film’s gone, I’ll be compelled. Otherwise, maybe a more ordinary painting will work as well.”
“And question after that, where the hell is the Island of Glass? I’ll keep hitting the books on it,” Riley promised. “But I’m starting to think I’m not going to find that answer in the library or the ’net. Still, I’ll keep digging. Starting now.”
“If we climb, we climb at first light,” Doyle told her.
“I’ll be ready,” she said and walked out.
• • •
She worked until after midnight, played with a couple of theories. Discarded them.
She wrote a long email to her parents, catching them up with where she was, how she was, asking them if they knew of any lines to tug she’d missed.
Time to shut it down for the night, she told herself. Time to get some sleep—or try to. If tomorrow was the big next step, they all needed to be ready.
Not just ready to find the star, to protect it, but to fight. The minute Nerezza got wind they had the last star, she’d come calling.
Thinking just that, she left the library, made her way to the sitting room where they stored weapons. Doyle sat quietly by a low fire, polishing his sword.
“You should get some sleep,” he told her.