Island of Glass
Page 13
She just shook her head. “It makes what I already have look like a toddler’s bookcase. I could live here.” She let out a long breath. “If I can’t find answers here, there aren’t answers. And there are always answers.”
“I’ve looked, of course, but I don’t have your comprehensions all the same. And at this point, the search is more narrow and focused.” He crossed over, pulled a thin volume from a shelf. “This is said to have been written by one of my ancestors—on my mother’s side. It tells of his visit to the Island of Glass to celebrate the rising of a new queen. It’s written in old Irish.”
Taking it, Riley opened it carefully. Reverently. “I can work on translating. Doyle’s better there, being as he is old Irish.”
“I can’t speak to its veracity,” Bran continued. “But the family lore generally holds it up.”
“I can dig through lore and myth.” Riley spoke absently as she scanned the book. “I’m assuming what’s in here stays in here.”
“This chamber is magickally controlled to preserve the books—paper, bindings. Some are so old they’d crumble outside this air, and with handling outside this spell.”
“Got it. It’s a kick-ass place to work anyway.” She laid the book on the long table, gestured to the one on the stand. “What’s that one?”
“The Book of Spells, again from my family, from the first set down to the latest. I’ve added what I created on Corfu, and on Capri. Only one of my blood can open it.” As he spoke, Bran walked to it. “It came to me when I reached my twenty-first birthday. I will pass it to the one who comes after me. It holds knowledge, and legacy, and power.”
He laid his hand on the book, spoke in Irish. And as he spoke, the book began to glow. It began to sing.
“Oh!” Annika grabbed Sawyer’s hand. “It’s beautiful. Can you hear it?”
“Yeah. And feel it.”
The air moved; the light changed.
“I am of the blood,” Doyle translated Bran’s words for the others. “I am of the craft. I am all who came before, all who come after. This is my pledge, this is my duty, this is my joy.”
When Bran lifted his hand, the thick lock was gone. He opened the carved cover—a flash, a snap of sound. Then silence.
“Here, all who held the book mark their name.”
“So many,” Sasha murmured as he turned the page. “Yours is the last.”
“So far.”
“Would . . . our child?”
“If the child is willing. If the child accepts.”
“A choice?”
“Always a choice. The spells are catalogued. For healing, for knowing, for protection, for deflection, for worship, and so on. If any of you have the need to find a spell, you’ve only to ask and I’ll open it.”
“The illustrations,” Sasha said as he turned a few pages. “They’re wonderful, so vibrant.”
“The book creates them. You’ll see each page bears a name. If a spell is found useful, we write it out, offer it. If the book accepts, it’s added.”
“The book accepts?”
“It has power,” he said again. “If you have need, ask.”
He closed the book, held his hand over it. The lock materialized, snapped shut.
“One day, when we’ve got plenty of time to spare, I’d like to look through it. But for now . . .” Riley turned a circle. “I think I have enough to keep me occupied.”
“For a couple of decades,” Sawyer put in.
“It’s okay if I dig in, get started?”
“Of course.” As a welcome, Bran gestured toward the fire, so flames leaped into life. “I’ll be on the third level later. There are drinks on the second level, and the makings for tea or coffee.”
“Like I said, I could live in here. I’ll get some things from my room, then start that digging. My cell phone will work in here, right?”
“Here and anywhere else.”
“Can I help you with anything here?” Sasha asked.
“Maybe, but the fact is, Doyle would be more useful.”
He didn’t look very pleased about it, but shrugged. “I’ve got some things to see to, then I can give you some time.”
“Good enough. I’ll make some calls, haul some things down here, get going. Bran?” Hands on hips, Riley turned a circle. “This rocks it.”
• • •
Before she started, Riley contacted family. She should actually call, actually speak to her family, but . . . email was quicker, simpler, and she could blast one out to everyone at once.
She’d call her parents after the moon, but she could give them and her pack details about where she was on the quest—and where she was literally—via email.
Then she scrolled through her contacts list. She needed to line up a dive boat, scuba equipment. Since both the other stars had required diving, she’d assume they’d need it.
She found an archaeologist she’d worked with on a dig in County Cork years before, gave that a try.
It meant some conversation, some catching up—which was exactly why she’d chosen email for the family connection—but she scored a local name.
Within twenty minutes, a lot of phone flirting and negotiation, she had what she needed on tap.
She boxed up the books she wanted, along with her laptop and tablet, a couple of legal pads, and carted everything to the tower.
“I’ve looked, of course, but I don’t have your comprehensions all the same. And at this point, the search is more narrow and focused.” He crossed over, pulled a thin volume from a shelf. “This is said to have been written by one of my ancestors—on my mother’s side. It tells of his visit to the Island of Glass to celebrate the rising of a new queen. It’s written in old Irish.”
Taking it, Riley opened it carefully. Reverently. “I can work on translating. Doyle’s better there, being as he is old Irish.”
“I can’t speak to its veracity,” Bran continued. “But the family lore generally holds it up.”
“I can dig through lore and myth.” Riley spoke absently as she scanned the book. “I’m assuming what’s in here stays in here.”
“This chamber is magickally controlled to preserve the books—paper, bindings. Some are so old they’d crumble outside this air, and with handling outside this spell.”
“Got it. It’s a kick-ass place to work anyway.” She laid the book on the long table, gestured to the one on the stand. “What’s that one?”
“The Book of Spells, again from my family, from the first set down to the latest. I’ve added what I created on Corfu, and on Capri. Only one of my blood can open it.” As he spoke, Bran walked to it. “It came to me when I reached my twenty-first birthday. I will pass it to the one who comes after me. It holds knowledge, and legacy, and power.”
He laid his hand on the book, spoke in Irish. And as he spoke, the book began to glow. It began to sing.
“Oh!” Annika grabbed Sawyer’s hand. “It’s beautiful. Can you hear it?”
“Yeah. And feel it.”
The air moved; the light changed.
“I am of the blood,” Doyle translated Bran’s words for the others. “I am of the craft. I am all who came before, all who come after. This is my pledge, this is my duty, this is my joy.”
When Bran lifted his hand, the thick lock was gone. He opened the carved cover—a flash, a snap of sound. Then silence.
“Here, all who held the book mark their name.”
“So many,” Sasha murmured as he turned the page. “Yours is the last.”
“So far.”
“Would . . . our child?”
“If the child is willing. If the child accepts.”
“A choice?”
“Always a choice. The spells are catalogued. For healing, for knowing, for protection, for deflection, for worship, and so on. If any of you have the need to find a spell, you’ve only to ask and I’ll open it.”
“The illustrations,” Sasha said as he turned a few pages. “They’re wonderful, so vibrant.”
“The book creates them. You’ll see each page bears a name. If a spell is found useful, we write it out, offer it. If the book accepts, it’s added.”
“The book accepts?”
“It has power,” he said again. “If you have need, ask.”
He closed the book, held his hand over it. The lock materialized, snapped shut.
“One day, when we’ve got plenty of time to spare, I’d like to look through it. But for now . . .” Riley turned a circle. “I think I have enough to keep me occupied.”
“For a couple of decades,” Sawyer put in.
“It’s okay if I dig in, get started?”
“Of course.” As a welcome, Bran gestured toward the fire, so flames leaped into life. “I’ll be on the third level later. There are drinks on the second level, and the makings for tea or coffee.”
“Like I said, I could live in here. I’ll get some things from my room, then start that digging. My cell phone will work in here, right?”
“Here and anywhere else.”
“Can I help you with anything here?” Sasha asked.
“Maybe, but the fact is, Doyle would be more useful.”
He didn’t look very pleased about it, but shrugged. “I’ve got some things to see to, then I can give you some time.”
“Good enough. I’ll make some calls, haul some things down here, get going. Bran?” Hands on hips, Riley turned a circle. “This rocks it.”
• • •
Before she started, Riley contacted family. She should actually call, actually speak to her family, but . . . email was quicker, simpler, and she could blast one out to everyone at once.
She’d call her parents after the moon, but she could give them and her pack details about where she was on the quest—and where she was literally—via email.
Then she scrolled through her contacts list. She needed to line up a dive boat, scuba equipment. Since both the other stars had required diving, she’d assume they’d need it.
She found an archaeologist she’d worked with on a dig in County Cork years before, gave that a try.
It meant some conversation, some catching up—which was exactly why she’d chosen email for the family connection—but she scored a local name.
Within twenty minutes, a lot of phone flirting and negotiation, she had what she needed on tap.
She boxed up the books she wanted, along with her laptop and tablet, a couple of legal pads, and carted everything to the tower.
