Island of Glass (The Guardians Trilogy #3)(81)

“We’re making up for that now. Let’s keep it going. You’re up, Bran.”

“There’s a stream a fair walk from our home in Sligo. I’d set off for it when I was a boy and had deep thoughts to think. I’d sit with my back against an old, gnarled rowan tree, watch the fish in the stream, practice magicks, and dream of being a great sorcerer.”

“And you are!” Annika pressed her hands together. “Doyle, where was your place?”

“Days were full of work when I was a boy. Firewood to gather, peat to dig, stock to tend.”

“Walking barefoot through snow ten miles to school. Uphill,” Riley added, and earned his bland stare.

“You had no shoes?”

“She’s talking in smart-ass clichés,” Doyle told Annika. “I was the oldest, and so had more responsibilities . . . Knee-jerk,” he said with a glance at Sasha. “Old habits. We were forbidden to climb on the cliff, so of course, nothing appealed more. If I could slip away from my siblings, from the chores, that’s just what I’d do. I liked the danger of it, the sea crashing below, the wind whipping at me. And when I found the—”

He stopped, shocked, stunned. All along? he wondered as his mind struggled to grasp it. Had it been there all along?

“Not in the house. Not in the graveyard. The star’s not here, not there.”

Riley had already gotten to her feet. Now she set the tablet aside, walked over to the table. “But you know where.”

“I don’t—” The fact that he had to settle himself infuriated. “I may,” he said, calmly now. “A theory, following your dots. I climbed the cliffs, a bit, then a bit more, and when I didn’t get caught and hided, more still. Even at night, by moonlight, and Christ knows if I’d lost my footing . . . But that was part of it all. That thrill, that risk. I was the oldest, after all, and Feilim, he’d just been born, and my mother distracted, my father besotted. He was beautiful, even a boy of nine could see how beautiful he was. He was days old when I found the cave.

“I could use a whiskey.”

“I’ll get it.” As he rose, Bran glanced at the sketch Sasha worked on, quickly, skillfully, in her lap.

“A cave in the cliff wall,” Riley prompted.

“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?”