Wouldn’t she have loved working in here alone? she thought as she walked back in. Just her and hundreds of old books—and her own electronics. A big fire, a big table. Rain spitting outside, a little music from her playlist.
But she needed Doyle.
The man spoke and read as many languages as she did—and some of them better than she did. Which was annoying, she admitted as she set up her laptop.
Then again, he’d had a few centuries to learn linguistics. And everything else.
He had a good mind for strategy and tactics—she didn’t always agree, but he had a good mind for them. As a drill sergeant he was brutal—but she respected that. This was war, and war on an impossible level, so you trained brutally or you died.
And in battle, he was fierce, fast, and fearless. Of course, being immortal, why fear?
Not fair, she reminded herself. The man felt pain, just like anybody.
Anyway, it wasn’t a competition. Which was bullshit, she admitted as she arranged her things. For her, most everything was some sort of competition. She knew how to work on a team—pack animal, after all. But she preferred being an alpha.
Considering the night she’d put in, and what she hoped to accomplish now, she went up the circling stairs, made a pot of strong coffee. After a brief hesitation, she grabbed two thick white mugs.
If Doyle showed, having the second would save time.
Then she settled down at the table, fire roaring, rain pattering, and began to read—as best she could—the book written by Bran’s ancestor.
She made notes on the legal pad as she went, stopped when she needed to in order to check a word or phrasing with her laptop.
She barely glanced up when the door opened.
She wondered if the faded Grateful Dead T-shirt he wore was a snarky private joke about his immortality, or if he was—as any sensible rock lover should be—a fan.
Either way, it showed admirable pecs to advantage.
“Bran’s many-times-great-grandfather was full of himself,” she began. “Or maybe it just comes across that way. His writing’s pretty florid, and he’s pretty damn smug about getting invited to the rising. It’s what he calls the birth of this new queen.”
“Okay.” Doyle dumped coffee in the second mug.
“You could read this faster.”
“You seem to be getting through it. Besides, some guy’s trip to the Island of Glass hundreds of years ago doesn’t do much for us in the here and now. It’s wherever it chooses to be—that’s the legend, isn’t it?”
“‘It comes and goes as it wills,’” Riley quoted, “‘sailing the mists of time and place. Many have sought its shores, but the glass parts rarely. Only those chosen by the fates, those whose feats and deeds and powers merit, are gifted to pass through.’” She tapped the book. “Or words to that effect. This guy—Bohannon—is pretty pumped up about his personal merit. He’s taking the queen two jeweled birds—a lark and a nightingale—as his gift. One to sing her to sleep, one to sing her awake. There’s a whole passage about how he conjured them.”
“And that helps us how?”
“It’s information, Sparky. He’s definitely talking about an infant—so this verifies a birth. Most of the info we’ve dug up does, though there are theories about a young girl, à la Arthur, being chosen through a task or deed. But he writes about the infant queen, Aegle, and her guardians: Celene, Luna, Arianrhod.”
“We’ve had that much before.”
“More confirmation,” Riley insisted. “And his invite came through Arianrhod—Celtic to Celtic, I’m thinking. And he traveled from Sligo, to the coast of Clare—that’s here and now for us. He had to sail from here, which was rough on him—again thoroughly recounted. Dark sea under the full moon, blah, blah, but then it gets interesting.”
Riley flipped back in the book, pushed it to him.
“Read that. Out loud,” she said, impatient, when he started to skim the words. “It helps me to hear it.”
“Bloody hell. Fine then. ‘Though the sea rolled beneath me, and the moon danced behind clouds to blur the light, I did not fear. I drew my power around me like my cloak, and sailed on my own enchantment as the mists swirled and thickened. For a moment, even the moon was lost, and the sea shuddered as if in fear. Some might have cried out, or turned the boat around, but I sailed on, blood cool as I—’ For Christ’s sake.”
“Yeah, yeah, but keep going.”
“‘As I stayed my course, though the water demon roared.’” Doyle paused, gave her a cool look. “Water demon.”
Riley shrugged. “Could be a Wahwee, though that’s Aborigine, maybe a Munuane—maybe a whale, a waterspout. Or just hyperbole. Keep going.”
“Water demon,” he muttered, but continued. “‘Through the mists, lights, torches burning bright, and the moon slipped her clouds to shine a beacon to light the way. For me the glass parted, and the sea calmed, and the Island of Glass shimmered like a jewel before me.
“‘Sand, white as the moon, with those tall torches blazing. Forests, thick and green, alight with drops of dancing colors. On a hill the palace shined in silver. The music of pipes and flutes and harps enchanted the air. I saw jugglers and dancers, and could smell meat on the fire, mead in the cup as young boys raced into the shallows to pull my boat to shore.’”
When Doyle paused again, Riley just circled her finger in the air.