The Summer King (30 page)

Laurel’s quick scan of the room showed no other doorway, but she wasn’t deterred. Checking her compass, she ran to the north wall and began pressing against the writing carved in the stone.

“What are you doing?” demanded Ian.

“What do you think?” she said, impatiently. “Give me a hand!” But it wasn’t necessary. The familiar rumbling had already sounded as the stone began to move. A dark passage was revealed.

“If we are where I think we are, it’s a short run,” she told him.

The tunnel twisted and turned around several corners, but it was when they neared the end that Laurel’s anxiety peaked. A circle of light shone ahead. Why was the entrance open? Then the light blinked, like an eyelid closing. Or did she imagine it? She readied the salt in her hand and hissed a warning to Ian.

Knives drawn, he pushed ahead of her.

The mouth of the tunnel was wide, but once they crossed the threshold their way was barred.

There stood Ruarc, Captain of the Fir-Fia-Caw, garbed in black battle-dress with weapons drawn. Each hand gripped a curved sword. The dark corvine features were twisted with fury.

Aaawwrrrccckkk.

Ian didn’t wait for Ruarc to attack but charged him, roaring.

Despite her horror, Laurel was glad to see that Ian’s street-fighting skills were a match for his opponent. The two fought with such force it was hard for her to know what was happening. Neither had shields, but both wielded double weapons: Ian, two knives; and Ruarc, two swords. Yet it seemed as if each had six or even eight blades, they moved so swiftly. Ian’s face was pale and determined. Ruarc’s dark eyes burned. At times they were locked together in a murderous embrace, bashing against the rocky crags of the cave. Except for the harsh grunts and the clash of metal, their struggle was silent and terrible to watch.

Laurel didn’t know what to do. She picked up a rock in the hopes of disabling Ruarc, but she had to be careful. She couldn’t risk doing more harm than good.

First blood was drawn by the Fir-Fia-Caw captain. His sword slashed Ian’s hand. There was a streak of red. Ian jumped back with a cry, clutching the gash.

Heart pounding, Laurel ran behind Ruarc and smashed the rock against his head. Caught off guard, he fell forward and dropped one of his swords. Ian leaped to grab the fallen blade and charged at the captain. But Ruarc was back on his feet in time to parry the blow. The two swords rang as they met in the air.

New terror gorged in Laurel’s throat. There were noises in the tunnel. Reinforcements were on the way!

“They’re coming!” she screamed to Ian.

Tearing packets of salt, she ran to line the passageway; but she didn’t have enough for so wide a space. She let out another yell, one of pure frustration.

Now Ian hurled his full weight against his foe. They both crashed to the ground, with Ian on top. His sword arm blocked Ruarc’s throat, pinning him down, while the dagger hand rose to strike.

With a sudden twist, Ruarc shifted his body, lifting his arm to block the blow. But he let out a screech as the knife tore through flesh and tendon. A red wound gaped from shoulder to wrist. He began to shape-shift into raven form.

But Ian was faster. He jumped up and brought his foot down with a violent stomp onto the injured arm that was now a wing.

Laurel heard the bones cracking, saw the blood seep through long black feathers, heard Ruarc’s cry of agony. Half-man, half-raven, he lay dazed on the ground, unable to move.

With a yell of triumph, Ian lifted his arm. The jewels on the dagger glinted.

Laurel saw that he meant to kill.

“No!” she cried.

With a flying tackle, she knocked Ian over. His aim went wide, his dagger slashing the air as he fell. Laurel landed near Ruarc. There was a moment when their eyes met, and she registered his surprise and acknowledgment. Then she scrambled upright

Ian was also on his feet, cursing her.

“There’s no time for this!” she said, furiously.

Grabbing him by the arm, she dragged him away, running toward the western side of Slievemore.

“Keep down!” she hissed, indicating the sky behind them.

The flocks of birds wheeled over the peak like a swarm of bees. Laurel and Ian were on a lower slope, out of sight of the summit, but once the alarm went up, they could easily be spotted. They had to get off the mountain. Keeping low as they ran, they traveled downward over rough ground. To their right spread the blue sheet of Blacksod Bay. Ahead, in the distance rose the ridge of Croaghaun. All around rolled the broad boggy flanks of Slievemore.

Laurel led the way, keeping the stone huts of Dirk in sight, her marker for the cove where she had agreed to meet Grace.

“Where are the others?” Ian demanded, as they ran. “Surely you are not alone?”

She didn’t answer him. Her mind was racing, adjusting her plan. Overjoyed as she was to have freed Ian, she needed to find the king. Thankfully Croaghaun was not too far away and, better still, accessible by boat. They would get there all the faster.

When they reached the slope below Dirk that led down to the cove, she nearly wept with relief. There on the water, anchored like a gull on the waves, was
The Lady of Doona
. And there on the shore, beside an inflatable raft, stood Grace herself, in a red anorak as bright as a beacon. The sea woman leaned on her oars as if they were spears. She waved up at Laurel.

A steep cliff path plunged to the cove through patches of rock and briar.

“Is this all you’ve brought?” said Ian, incredulously. “Where is our army?”

She stopped herself from yelling at him. She could see he had suffered at the hands of the Fir-Fia-Caw. And was he angry that she had taken so long to find him? With a pang of guilt, she conceded that if things had been reversed, he would have come for her sooner.

She spoke firmly but patiently, as if to a child.

“We don’t need an army. It would only attract attention. Look, the birds haven’t even noticed us yet. This is not what they’re looking for. A few people on a beach. A lone fishing boat. They’re expecting a big attack. If Ruarc didn’t see which way we went, we just might get to Croaghaun without a fight. We’ve got to free the king and head for Hy Brasil, but Grace will help us do that. And maybe Laheen.”

His grunt showed that he saw her point.

“There won’t be a battle?”

“Not if I can help it,” she said. “No birds will die today.”

They hurried down the cliff path, dislodging stones as they went, and then raced across the beach toward the skipper.

Grace had pushed the raft into the water by the time they reached her. The sea woman’s face was creased with concern as she eyed the birds in the sky.

“The king is at Croaghaun!” Laurel said, catching her breath. “We need to move fast. Our best bet is Laheen. He must know where they’ve hidden him.”

Grace was already glaring at Ian when he planted himself in front of her.

“We go to Hy Brasil!” he commanded. “Now!”

Her face flushed angrily.

“I give the orders. I don’t take them!”

One of the oars was in the raft, but she still held the other. She raised it like a weapon.

Ian was faster. He grabbed hold of Laurel and put his dagger to her throat.

“Do as I say or her blood is on your hands.”

Laurel was dazed with shock. What was going on? The world had suddenly turned upside down. Ian’s grip was hard, deliberately hurting her, and his tone so cold it sent a chill up her spine.

Grace lowered the oar, and nodded curtly.

Ian climbed into the raft, holding Laurel in front of him as a shield.

Laurel exchanged looks with Grace. A mere flicker of the eyelids. An almost imperceptible nod. The skipper looked fit to kill.

“You row,” Ian ordered Grace.

He settled astern, pulling Laurel down with him. She sprawled helplessly as the knife pricked her skin.

White-faced, Grace got into the raft. Her movements were awkward and she fumbled with the oars. As she struggled with their weight, she dropped one in the water.

“You’ll have to help,” she said to Ian. “I can’t do it alone.”

“Useless woman!” he swore. “Ever weak!”

Laurel saw Grace’s look. Sword-eyes. He would regret those words when chance allowed.

And that chance came the moment he reached for the oar.

Laurel moved first, jabbing him with her elbow and ducking out of the way. Grace was already lifting the other oar high and brought it down on his head with a mighty whack. He keeled over, stunned. She hit him again for good measure.

Laurel winced at the sound of the crack on his skull, but reflected grimly that he deserved it.

“I don’t know what they did to him!” she said to Grace, “but he’s been acting crazy since I found him.”

Sliding the oars into the water, Grace rowed the raft toward
The Lady of Doona.

Laurel moved Ian’s limbs to make him more comfortable, and gazed with worry into his unconscious features.

“I should’ve rescued him sooner.”

The sea woman let out a sigh. The look she gave Laurel was one of pity.

“You won’t see, girleen, what you don’t want to see, though it is right in front of you.”

Laurel stared at her, bewildered. Then it struck her. The dark truth she had denied since she found him in the King’s Cave. Her voice echoed her dismay.

“Ian’s under the Summer King’s spell!”

Grace sighed again and shook her head.

“Ian
is
the Summer King.”

hat’s crazy! Ian’s a human being!”

Laurel was still arguing her point as the raft drew up alongside
The Lady of Doona.
She was a little surprised to see Cormac, the pirate queen’s first mate, on the modern fishing boat. In jeans and a T-shirt, he was leaning on the gunwales and winked over at her. Then he moved to haul the unconscious Ian aboard and, on Grace’s orders, bound him hand and foot. Laurel opened her mouth to protest, but thought better of it. The skipper’s rage was unappeasable. Pale with fury, she pulled open the deck locker, pitched out its contents, and signed to Cormac to heave Ian inside. Then she slammed the lid shut and locked the hatch.

“Weak woman, is it?” she said, with a satisfied snort.

When they were underway, Laurel tried again.

“The Summer King is fairy. Ian is human. My grandmother’s a doctor, she delivered him. And I saw the king in a vision. Ian doesn’t look anything like him!”

“Of course not,” Grace said, shortly. “Ian looks like his human parents. But that does not change the fact he is the Summer King. Have you learned nothing from your quest?”

She stood at the helm, feet planted apart, hands gripping the wheel. The smell of diesel greased the air. The engines growled. They had left the shelter of Dirk’s cove and were skimming over choppy waters on their way to Saddle Head. They had to sail around the tip of Achill to turn south for Hy Brasil.

“Am I Gracie of your time or Granuaile? Is the island to which we sail real or imaginary? Is Ian of Faerie or of the Earthworld?”

She trained her fearless gaze on Laurel.

“Far more importantly, my foreign girleen, the question you have struggled with since your sister’s death.
Are we mortal or immortal?”

In the immensity of that setting of mountain and cliff, endless sky and water, Grace’s words carried inexorable weight.

Laurel choked back the tears.

“I want to believe.”

As the sea woman guided her small boat over the waves, her voice grew calm.

“Perhaps it is not a question of belief, nor even one of hope. Perhaps it is something you already know. Let the soul rise over the intellect, as the sun rises over the sea.”

But Laurel felt lost and confused. Though she understood what Grace was saying, she couldn’t accept that Ian was the king. There had to be another explanation for his behavior.

When they rounded the tip of Achill Head, the isle of Hy Brasil appeared in the distance. Despite her worries, Laurel’s heart lifted. Over the waves came scented breezes and the faint strains of a sweet song.

Gile na gile.
Brightness of brightness. Shining cliffs rose above blue bays and zawns. Hills and glens bristled with woods.
Agus fasann úlla agus géaga cumhra ar an chrann is ísle bláth.
And apples and fragrant blossoms grow on the low bough.
Ceol as binne de gach ceol.
Music sweeter than all music wafted on the air. Laurel found herself longing for something only dimly remembered.
An grá a théid fán chroí, cha scaoiltear as é go brách.
When the heart finds what it loves, it will never lose it.