Riley waited, let Doyle start the climb down, then rolled over the wall.
She considered the first five feet the kiddie slope, and would have enjoyed the challenge to come—along with the crash and spume of waves, the light swirl of wind, the feel of the cliff face—if she wasn’t worried about Sasha.
“Doing great!” she called out as Sasha carefully lowered a few more inches, with Sawyer advising her to ease right, plant this foot.
It surprised everyone when ten feet down it was Annika who lost her handhold as a rock gave way under her fingers. She teetered, nearly overbalanced. Riley braced, dragged up slack, then breathed again when Sawyer pulled Annika back.
“I’m apology!” she shouted. “I mean sorry.”
“Climb now,” Riley called back. “Swim later.”
With her own heart drumming still, Riley continued down.
She looked up once, saw the ravens perched on the wall above.
“Fire in the hole.” She let go with one hand, toes digging in hard, pulled her gun. She managed to hit two before the others took wing.
Below, Sasha lowered to the ledge. “She’s watching. I can feel it.”
“Nearly there.” Doyle gestured. “Just watch your footing.”
Even as Riley reached the ledge, she saw him ease into the cave. Getting back up again was bound to be more complicated. So she’d think about it later.
She moved carefully over the ledge, followed the others into the cave.
“Tight fit.” She squeezed in between Sasha and Annika.
“It’s pure, like the boy. Can you feel it?” Sasha wondered.
It echoed with the sea, smelled of sea and earth, and when Bran held his hand over a rock, Riley saw the old wax pooled there liquefy and glow so the cave washed with soft gold light.
“I’d’ve made a fort in here,” Sawyer commented as he looked around. “Irish cave version of a tree house. What kid could resist it?”
“It was for him, the boy, the boy who dreamed of being a man. It is for him, the man who remembers the boy.” Sasha reached out, laid a hand on Doyle’s back. “It waits, and its time is now. The time of the six. Of the guardians. See the name, read the name, speak the name.”
He saw the name he’d carved into stone so long ago, above the dragon symbol. He read the name, his own name, so it etched in his mind as it did on the wall.
And he spoke the name.
“Doyle Mac Cleirich.”
The light changed, burned from warm gold to ice white, and with it the air went cold as winter.
The name, his name, blazed in the rock, each letter spilling fire. The dragon roared with it.
Heart at a gallop, blood all but singing, Doyle dropped to his knees, reached into the flame. And from the mouth of the dragon took the star.
It blazed like the fire—but pure and white, blinding bright. Cupped in his palm, its power sprang free.
“It’s not cold.” Doyle stared at the beauty in his hand. “Not now. It’s warm.”
And so was the air.
“We have it.” He pushed to his feet, turned, held it for the others to see. “We have the last star.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
As he spoke, the ground shook. Loose rocks tumbled in front of the mouth of the cave, fell into the sea.