“She aged.”

He nodded at Sasha. “Put on the years. For a second I thought it was my imagination, and the fact that the wind, the lights were burning the crap out of my eyes, but her face started to sag, and she’s aging right in front of me. She’s aging, and her lightning strikes barely buzz me. She’s weakening, man, and I let go. She nearly pulled me with her—she had that much left. But I pulled away, and she fell. I don’t know where the hell, but she dropped. I couldn’t get a bead because I’d about used it up by then. And I really needed to get back.”

He turned his head, kissed Annika. “I really needed to get back.”

Sasha gripped his arm. “Could it have destroyed her?”

“I don’t know, but I put a hurting on her, and that fall’s going to leave a mark.”

“According to legend, it’s a sword that brings her end.” Still, Bran shrugged. “And legends have been known to be wrong. In either case, despite cuts and bruises”—he paused to give Sasha a telling look—“we hurt her more than she hurt us. If she exists, it will take time for her to recover, and that’s advantage us.”

“We know she fears,” Doyle put in, “and her fear is another weapon against her. With all that, this doesn’t end until we have the last star.”

“So we’ll look, and we’ll find.” Bran settled back, confident and at home. “As here’s where the quest led us.”

“I believe we’ll find it—the Ice Star,” Annika said. “We found the others. But now that we’re so close, I don’t understand what we do once we have them.”

“Go where we’re led.” Bran looked at Sasha, who immediately poured more wine.

“But no pressure,” she murmured.

“Faith,” Bran corrected. “All faith. But for tonight, we’re all here, we’re safe, and we’ve had a lovely meal.”

Pleased, Annika smiled. “I made enough for Riley if she’s too hungry to wait for breakfast. I wish she’d come back.”

“She will, and soon enough.”

“I can feel her,” Sasha announced. “I can feel her now. She’s not far, but not ready to come in. She’s not far though.”

“Then we’re all safe, as I said. And though Sawyer looks better, it’s rest he needs now. I’ll show you the bedrooms, and you can choose what suits you.”

It didn’t matter to Doyle where he slept, so he chose a room at random, one facing the sea rather than the woods. The bed might have been fit for a king with its tall, turned posts, but he wasn’t ready to use it.

He opened the doors leading to the wide stone terrace that wrapped the sea-front of the house, let the moist air whip through the room, let the rumble and crash of the sea drown out his thoughts.

Restless, anticipating the memories that might flood back in dreams, he strapped on his sword and went out into the night.

However safe they were—and he believed they were for now—it didn’t pay to forgo patrol, to ignore the need for vigilance.

Bran had built his home on the same spot where Doyle’s had stood—though Bran’s was surely five times the size. Doyle couldn’t ignore the fact—couldn’t pretend there were no reasons for it.

The house stood on the cliff, with a seawall built dry-stone-style rambling at its edge. Gardens here as well, Doyle noted, and the scents of rosemary, lavender, sage lifted into the air from their place near the kitchen wall.

He walked out toward the cliff, let the wind stream through his hair, cool his face while his eyes, sharp and green, scanned the turbulent sea, the misty sky, the full white moon that shifted and sailed behind gray fingers of cloud.

Nothing would come tonight, from sea or sky, he thought. But if Sasha’s visions held true—and they had till now—they’d find the last star here, in the land of his blood. They’d find it, and they’d find the way to end Nerezza.

His quest, one of centuries, would be done.

Then what?

Then what? he thought again as the soldier in him began to patrol.

Join another army? Fight another war? No, no more wars, he mused as he walked. He was sick down to bone and balls of blood and death. However weary he might be of life after three centuries of it, he was more weary of witnessing death.

He could do whatever he wanted—if he had any idea what he wanted. Find a place to settle awhile? Build his own? He had money aside for it. A man didn’t live as long as he’d lived and not have money, if he had a brain in his head.

But settling? For what? He’d been on the move so long, he could barely conceive the notion of rooting anywhere. Travel, he supposed, though God knew he’d done more than any man’s share of that already.

And why think of it now? His duty, his mission, his quest wasn’t done. Better to think of the next step, and leave the rest.

He came around the front of the house, looked up. He could see the good, sturdy manor his blood had built. See how Bran had used it, respected it, when adding to it, making it his own.

For a moment he heard the voices, long stilled. His mother, his father, his sisters, brothers. They’d worked this land, built their lives, given their hearts.

Grown old, grown ill, died. And he was all that was left of them.

That, just that, was beyond sorrow.