Island of Glass (The Guardians Trilogy #3)(75)

“Wine,” she ordered Malmon. “Just wine. For soothing rather than strengthening.”

Sitting on her jeweled throne, she toyed with changing her skirts from black to red, to black again. A child’s trick, but after her fall, she’d been unable to do even that.

Now, she thought as she sipped the wine. She was strong enough.

“I’ve allowed my thirst for revenge to cloud purpose. I will kill them, of course. Kill them all and feast on them. The immortal? Nothing but a toy to torment for eternity. But first, the stars. I lost sight of the stars.”

“You were so ill.”

“But no more. I will reward you one day, my pet. We will go to them. I am stronger, but it costs too much to send power over distance. We need to be closer to be on them when they find the Ice Star.”

“Travel will tire you.”

“Their deaths, when the stars are in my hands, will rejuvenate me. I have plans, my pet. Such lovely plans. Soon, soon now, the worlds will scream in the dark. Soon, the stars will shine only for me. And I will return to the Island of Glass, drink the blood of the gods, the false sisters who banished me. I will rule all from there.”

She picked up the Globe of All, smiled into it.

“See how the mists clear for me, how the dark swirls in? We’ll dig our fortress deep, and we’ll strike with a force of power that will rend the ground and crack the sky.”

She turned that fierce smile on Malmon. “Prepare.”

“My queen? Will I go with you to the Island of Glass, and sit beside you?”

“Of course, my pet.” She waved him away.

Until I have no need for you, she thought, or worse, until you bore me. But on that day she would reward his loyalty by giving him a quick, clean death.





CHAPTER SIXTEEN




A couple days of drenching rain boosted color and bloom in the gardens, and made for wet, muddy training. It didn’t stop six determined guardians from exploring caves and historical sites. In the plethora of books, Riley found references to stones, a name—never specified—carved into them that “marked the bed of the star.” Following that lead, they scoured ruins, cemeteries, cave walls while the incessant rain pelted them and turned the hills to shining emerald.

With rain dripping off the brim of her hat, Riley stood on the bumpy grass of a graveyard, boot-deep in ground mist. Behind her, the ruins of an old abbey stood stark gray above a winding curve of the river, tea colored under sulky clouds.

Atmosphere-wise, in her opinion, it hit every glorious gothic note. She hoped, as she’d hoped on every rain-washed stop of the last two days, that atmosphere would nudge Sasha into a vision.

“Early twelfth century,” Riley said. “Fertile ground for crops and animals, fish in the river. Not a bad spot. So, naturally, the Cromwellians had to sack it.”

“Nice, spooky feel. And could it get any wetter?” Sawyer looked up at the sky.

“I like the rain.” Annika gestured toward the purple spears arching out of crevices. “It makes the flowers grow in the stone.”

“It keeps up you’ll be able to swim on land. In or out,” Sawyer added. “Though in, in this case, is out.”

“Name in the stone,” Riley reminded him. “I’d say headstones first.”

“It might help if we knew the name we’re looking for,” Doyle pointed out.

“Blame the cryptic gods and their messengers.” Since complaining about the weather wouldn’t get them anywhere, Riley began to walk, to read headstones, to wonder.

It didn’t seem egocentric at this point to wonder if the name they searched for would be one of theirs. An ancestor’s. That connection. Certainly on a headstone or grave marker that made the most logical sense.

Barring that, she wondered if they would—at some point—find the names of the three goddesses, or the young queen—on some carving.

Or . . .

“Maybe it’s the name of the star.” Crouching, she ran her fingers over the faded name in a lichen-covered stone. “Most likely in Irish—réalta de orghor—since it’s from Arianrhod. But possibly in Greek or Latin.”

“It seems unlikely we’re going to find it somewhere so open,” Doyle began. “And as wet as it is, we might as well have dived.”

“Stones, names, water—this place has all three. It’s worth a look. And it’s not what I’d call overrun by tourists.”

“Any self-respecting tourist would be spending a day like this in a pub.”

Hard to argue, Riley thought, and wound her way toward the ruin.

She understood the old, had always been drawn to it and the foundation it laid for the next to come. She could imagine the life here, inside the stone walls. One of prayer and intellect, of husbandry and service.

And superstition.

Some had been laid to rest inside, under slabs of stone where the names and dates were faint fingerprints, eroded with time and weather. But for her, it echoed of life and death, of fires burning, pots simmering, voices hushed in prayer.

Smells of incense and smoke and earth.

She started up a narrow curve of stone stairs, noting where the joists—long gone—had once held up the second floor, and the third.

She stepped through an opening, onto a wide ledge overlooking the lazily flowing river. She spotted the bird huddled in a tree, reached under her jacket for her gun.