Sawyer stopped, narrowed his eyes. “I hadn’t thought of that, but you’re right. One hundred percent.”
“She did it for fun. And when he failed, even after he saved her miserable existence, he was just a kind of diversion. Yeah, he tried to kill me, but she sent him in to pave the way for her. And after all that, bang, you’re dead. Thanks to you. Odds are she could’ve given him what Doyle has, instead it’s over like a fingersnap for him. And she doesn’t care.”
“You thought she would?”
“I’m saying if she didn’t give him a thought—someone—something that fed her, nursed her, did her bidding, worshipped her, fucking died for her, she sure as hell doesn’t care about any living thing. Dark or light.”
“I could’ve killed him if he’d still been human, but not the way I did. I couldn’t have just . . . not if he’d been human.”
“I know.” Riley gave him an elbow jab. “That’s why we’re the good guys.”
A few paces ahead on the rugged path, Annika began to sing.
“And that,” Sawyer said.
“And that.”
They climbed while the sun wheeled past noon with the stream rising with the path. Quick, frothy waterfalls poured over ledges of rock, but nothing came to drink. No bird soared overhead or darted through the trees.
Riley scented nothing but the water, the earth, the trees, her companions.
When the worlds still—she thought again.
Then there was . . . something. Something old, potent, alive. But not human, not beast, not fowl, not of the earth.
“There’s something—”
But Sasha had already stopped, was reaching for Bran’s hand as he reached for hers.
“Do you feel it?” Sasha’s words were barely a whisper over the music of the water.
“Power,” Bran said. “Waiting.” Bran glanced back at the others. “Let me have a look first.”
But Sawyer shook his head. “All for one, man. That’s how it is.”
Doyle’s sword slithered out of its sheath. “Together.”
And together they crested the high hill.
There the path ended, and there stood the stones, a perfect circle, graduated in size from one on each side no higher than Riley’s waist to the king stone, taller than two men.
They stood, quiet gray, under the strong afternoon sun, swimming in a shallow sea of mist.
“Not as massive as Stonehenge, but more symmetrical,” Riley observed. “I bet when I measure them, each set is precisely the same in height and width, and an exact ratio.”
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.