“She wanted to finish something,” Bran said. “She won’t be long. Do you have pain?”
“Absolutely none. The couple of nicks are already healing. Let me just say, I know I’d have been in it deep if it wasn’t for all of you. Not just because I wasn’t a hundred percent—because I’d say I was closing in on ninety—but because she turned it on me, specifically. Even at a hundred, I couldn’t have defended myself.”
“She doesn’t understand us, the unity of us.” Bran gestured with his beer to encompass the room. “That we don’t just fight together, don’t just search together. We defend and protect each other, no matter the threat.”
“We do.” Carrying a canvas, Sasha walked in. “And we will. I wanted to finish this because, as we’ve said, symbols matter. This, I think, is a symbol of that unity. Of what we are, each of us, and what we are together.”
She moved to the table, turned the canv
as around, propped it against a vase of flowers cut that morning from the garden.
“A coat of arms,” Sawyer said.
“Actually, it’s an achievement, as it displays all the components, not just the armorials on the escutcheon, and . . .” Riley trailed off when she noted the puzzled looks—or in Doyle’s case the cool stare.
“We’ll just go with coat of arms.” Riley lowered her glass, walked closer. “An amazing coat of arms.”
“This is me, the mermaid.” Annika linked her hand with Sasha’s, squeezed, gestured to the painted woman with iridescent tail, with copper cuffs on both wrists, perched on a rock in a lapping sea. “And this stands for Sawyer.”
The man had a gun on each hip, and the compass he held in an outstretched palm seemed to glow against a shimmering sky.
“And you, Riley!”
“Yeah, so I see.”
Sasha had painted the image of a woman with her face thrown up to a full moon, her body a wolf.
“I told you I wanted to paint you transforming,” Sasha reminded her. “This called for it.”
“You captured it. I mean, I’ve never actually seen myself change—a little busy—but there’s a joy to it you’ve captured. Got you, too, Doyle. All broody look, billowy coat, and the sword in your hand.”
“It’s not brooding. It’s thoughtful. And there’s herself,” he added with a rare Irish idiom, “with crossbow and paintbrush, and eyes full of visions.”
“And you.” Sasha turned to Bran. “The sorcerer on the cliffside, riding the lightning.”
“Each of us as individuals in the panels,” Bran observed, “and here, under the crest, six together, standing together, as one.”
“Dragons for the supporters,” Doyle added.
“I liked the look of them.” Sasha studied her work. “Wanted something strong and mystical.”
“The three stars and the moon make the crest,” Sawyer noted. “Bull’s-eye, Sasha. What’s it say? The, you know, motto. Is that Latin?”
“It says: To seek the stars. To serve the light. To guard the worlds.”
Sasha looked at Riley with relief. “I got the Latin right? I was afraid I’d bungle it—then I couldn’t decide at first. Gaelic, Latin, Greek. But I kept coming back to the Latin, so I went with it.”
“It’s perfect.”
“And beautiful,” Annika added. “The colors are strong, because we are. And it has six sides, because we are six. Even the . . .” When she couldn’t find the word, she traced the edge of the coat of arms.
“Border,” Sawyer told her.
“Yes, the border. It’s three strands of two—yes—braided together. Because we are. Can you make drawings—like the sketches—for us all?”
“I think I can do something else,” Bran put in. “Leave it to me. This, fáidh, is magnificent, and it’s powerful. Will you let me use it?”
“Of course.”