Island of Glass (The Guardians Trilogy #3)(98)

The archaeologist led the way, moved straight up, laid a hand on a stone. Pulled it back. “Did you hear that?”

“It . . . grumbled,” Sawyer said.

“No, it sang!”

“Annika’s closer. More a hum, right?” Riley asked. “And it gave me a little jolt. Not painful, more like: Think about it.”

“Here stand the guardians, placed here by the first.” Sasha held her hands out to the circle. “The circle, the dance, the source. Light and dark, as one must have the other. Morning sun and dark of moon. Joy and sorrow, life and death. Here is truth. And from it springs the tree, and beneath the tree the sword. Walk through, and wake the sword.”

She lifted her face. “Oh, I can barely breathe. It’s so strong, so beautiful. Walk through!”

Bran walked between the stones. They hummed, soft and quiet, the sound building when each of the others walked in, stood with him.

Light lanced out of the sky, struck the two smallest stones. Like a chain of fire, light streamed around the circle, struck the king stone. Voices rose like the wind in one strong, soaring note. The stones pulsed with it, shined silver with it. The mist burned away, revealed the ground of glass.

As the stones quieted, the sun showered over the hundreds of bare branches of a great tree that stood alone. Beneath it sheltered a gray spear of stone with a naked sword carved on its surface.

“Looks like step two.” Because her skin still quivered, Riley cleared her throat, sucked in a breath, then started across the circle to once again walk between the stones.

“Of the stone.” Riley walked around it, crouched in front of it. “Any idea how to get it out?”

“Reach in. Wake it. Free it. It’s all I know,” Sasha told her.

Riley straightened, stepped back. “Doyle makes the most sense. Agreed?”

That got nods all around.

Doyle studied the carving. A bit smaller, slimmer than his own, but a fine-looking blade with a simple, unadorned hilt. He gathered his faith, his trust, his hope, reached for it. Hit solid stone.

“I feel nothing. Should I? Only that it’s not for me to take it.”

“Then Bran. I’m sorry,” Annika said quickly.

“No need.” Doyle stepped back. “Your go, brother.”

Bran laid his hand on top of the stone, used what he was to try to feel through it. Shook his head. “Like a locked door,” he murmured, skimmed his hand down, laid it over the carved hilt. “Or a power sleeping.”

“Well, it needs to wake the hell up. Maybe there’s a code or a pattern. Maybe some sort of incantation. We just need to figure it out. Give me a minute to . . .”

Riley ran her hand down, fingers tracing the carving for a clue.

The stone trembled, sang in a sound like rising joy. When shocked, she pulled back her hand, she held the sword.

“Oh, shit.”

Immediately she swung to Doyle, held it out.

“It’s not mine.” He wondered if she felt the light beating around her. “It’s yours.”

“What am I supposed to—”

It all but leaped in her hand. Against her closed fist the rough stone hilt began to change, to smooth. Light streaked up the blade so she instinctively lifted it up to protect the others.

The sun struck it, searing. Before her stunned eyes the stone became clear polished glass.

“Did everybody see that?” Her heart thudded, her ears rang as she lowered the sword. And still its power raced up her arm, through her body. “It’s glass.”

“Like the palace.” Sawyer reached out, ran a finger over the flat of the blade. “You’ve got a magickal glass sword, Riley.”

“It sparkles,” Annika murmured. “And makes rainbows.”

“And holds power. Can you feel it?” Bran asked her.

“Oh, damn skippy. It’s like the stars. There’s a pulse in it. And it . . . it feels like mine, but let’s be practical. I’m no swordsman. I know the basics, but that’s it. I’d love to nail Nerezza with it, but I’m going to need a lot of training.”

Sasha gripped Riley’s shoulder. “She’s coming.”

Doyle ranged himself beside Riley. “Learn fast,” he told her, and drew his sword.

She came with a swarm, turned day to night.

Riley shifted the sword to her left hand—she’d need to get a lot closer for it to do any good—and pulled her gun.

They spilled out of the sky, slithered and shambled out of the trees, dark, twisted things with snapping fangs, swiping claws.

Bolts and beams and bullets struck against the dark. Shrieks tore the air as light exploded.

On the beast mangled by Doyle’s sword, Nerezza rode with them, pure madness now, her beauty gone, her hair a tangle, wild gray snakes, her eyes sunken, burning black.

Her lightning crashed with Bran’s, and the aftershocks knocked Riley off her feet. Something crawled burning over her boot. Even as she jerked back, Annika turned it to ash. Firing, firing, Riley flipped to her feet. Almost without thought, she slashed with the sword. The thing she cleaved screamed, vanished in a flare of light.

She felt the pump of power now, the thrill of it, and slashed, struck, jabbed, hacking her way through a swarm.

“I need to get closer. I can do it, I can take her. Can you get me up there, behind her?”