Island of Glass (The Guardians Trilogy #3)(20)

“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.