The Summer King (35 page)

The moment of remembering was but a blink of light, a mere flicker of hope, yet it was enough to offset the darkness.

Laurel reached out for the Summer King and pulled him toward her.

By that which you kill are you bound.

And she kissed him on the mouth.

They were back in the nether place, locked together, and her hold was so strong he couldn’t move. There in the void the White Lady rode toward them, and Laurel saw that she smiled with Honor’s smile. And with the strength of the kin-blood of she who was slain, Laurel vanquished the Summer King and threw him down.

As he lay at her feet she felt hatred surge through her. She wished him dead, but she couldn’t kill him; certainly not in cold blood. And what would happen to Ian if the king died?

She sensed Ian beside her. Torment echoed in his voice, and it seemed as if he could read her mind.

“I’d kill him for you, no matter what it did to me, but we need him to light the fire. He’s the one who has the spark.”

His words filled her with dismay and dread.

“Then
you
must control him, Ian. I’ve done all I can.”

They were back on the summit of Purple Mountain. Ian fell to his knees and buried his face in his hands.

“I killed her. Oh God, I killed your sister.”

Laurel dropped beside him, too numb to respond. She couldn’t console him. Yet she made a last effort to speak.

“Death is not the enemy,” she said hoarsely. “Light the fire.”

Though lost in his own nightmare, Ian stretched his hand toward the pyre. She could see the titanic struggle in his features as he fought to command the king. Now a single blue spark flew from his fingers and struck the branches. The wood began to burn, but the flames were slow to rise. Would the other bonfires see the beacon?

The sun had set. The sky was gray with twilight.

“Is it too late?” she whispered.

From above came the beating of wings. A golden shadow fell over the pyre as Laheen descended. He landed on the bonfire, but before the flames could touch him, he rose up like a phoenix, bearing in his beak a burning branch. And as he soared into the sky, light exploded around him.

The signal was seen on every hill and mountain. The Midsummer Fire had been lit.

It was as if fireworks were embroidered on a cloth of gold. Wildfire snaked around the coast of Ireland as one pyre was ignited after the other. When the circle of flame enfolded the land, Midir stepped forward on the Hill of Tara. From the star on his forehead flashed a ray of light that set the heart-fire ablaze. As the last link was made and the chain was forged, a cord of light flared.
The Fáinne na Gréine.
The Ring of the Sun.

And then the Summer King returned.

With a last gasp, he lurched toward the fire and stepped inside it. As he raised his arms, Laurel knew what he meant to do. He would use the fire as a weapon once more, and destroy them all.

Steeling herself against the pain, she reached through the flames. It was the only way to stop him. She almost fainted; not from the scorching heat, but from the surge of power. Storms of light whirled around her. She stood at the heart of the sun. It was only for a dazzling second and then, as she caught him, they were back in the void.

Laurel saw immediately that it was no longer her battle. Two fiery columns writhed together in mortal combat. Within the streaks of light, dim shapes were visible: the Summer King as she remembered him from her vision, and Ian. Even in that nether place, the Ring of the Sun burned, and both were drawing on its power. For the first time since the king had claimed him, Ian was on equal ground. And while the king had only rage to goad him, Ian fought also from grief, remorse, and love.

When she saw who was winning, Laurel’s heart lifted. The Summer King was on his knees. In those final moments, she thought Ian would kill him.

But Ian’s stance was not that of a warrior. He opened his arms. There was strange pity in his voice, though he spoke fiercely.

“It ends here. I am no longer your shadow. You are mine.”

The Summer King howled, knowing that his doom had come, but there was nothing he could do. As Ian embraced him like a fallen brother who must yet be owned, the king was subsumed.

Out of the void and back in the fire, Laurel expected the worst; but Ian put his arms around her and kept her safe, even as he surrendered the stolen power to Faerie. As part of the circle, she was able to see the end. The
Fáinne na Gréine
inundated the Realm with waves of light and energy, healing all in its path. When it reached Midir where he stood on Tara, it illuminated his person, bringing him into full knowledge of himself and his sovereignty.

Just before Ian took her from the flames, Laurel glimpsed something else: a slender figure ran across the Hill of Tara, into the arms of the High King of Faerie.

nce the Ring of the Sun was forged, the battle of Hy Brasil came to an end. The darker creatures fled the field, returning to the shadows from whence they came. The sea fairies threw down their arms to surrender. Yet instead of wails of defeat, ragged cheers rose up and then rapidly swelled as the word spread like wildfire. Clan Egli had made peace with the Summer King. The strife in the West was over.

The Amethyst Palace was thrown open to fairy revels. A thousand lights glittered from the chandeliers and were reflected in the mullioned windows. Delicate harmonies filled the air. Dancers twirled on floors of purple glass between fluted pillars. A fabulous feast was served on jeweled dishes; wines flowed from fountains. Music and laughter echoed everywhere.

Though they had pardoned the Summer King, the Fir-Fia-Caw did not attend the celebrations. With Aróc as their Captain, the twelve survivors of the battle retrieved the bodies of their slain and carried them back to Slievemore. There they held funereal rites for their fallen leader and comrades. It would be long before they were seen in the two worlds again, but they would return; for not all that is gone is gone forever.

Laurel had also declined to join the festivities. Unlike the fairies, she could not make war one minute and carouse the next. Her experiences on the battlefield and inside the fire had left her solemn and pensive. She was amazed she had survived. And she was mourning the loss of Grace. Though she now trusted that her friend existed elsewhere, she missed her all the same.

Sequestered in a bower high in the castle, she sat in a window seat overlooking the gardens. She wore a gown of green silk with a golden bodice. A crespine of emeralds bound her hair. Outside, sporadic fireworks illumined the night, while burning tapers lit up the spacious lawns. This was Ian’s domain, over which he was now lord and sovereign. But though Laheen and the Fir-Fia-Caw had forgiven the Summer King, she had not. From the time he took her from the fire, she wouldn’t speak to him, and though he ordered his people to look after her, she refused his company. She had made it clear that she would remain in her chambers till Faerie fulfilled its promise to her.

And yet, as Laurel waited for her sister, she grew nervous and uneasy. Beneath her anticipation, she found herself nursing a vague foreboding.

Her solitude was broken when Grace herself strode into the room, dressed in pirate gear.

“I thought you died!” Laurel cried.

Overjoyed, she jumped up to greet her friend but stopped short of a hug. Grace was not the type for shows of affection. They clasped hands instead.

“We shall make this brief,” said the sea queen, briskly. “There are two things I like to avoid—a lingering death and a lingering good-bye.”

Laurel spied the bandages under her clothing.

“Close enough!” Grace agreed, when she caught her look. “But I have an excellent leech, a Parsee I rescued from a corsair slave ship. It takes more than a few hobgoblins to kill an Irishwoman!”

Laurel laughed along with her, but grew serious again.

“I want to thank you—”

“No lingering! ’Twas a great gamble, well-played and most entertaining. Fare thee well, my foreign girleen, till we meet again on the high seas.”

To Laurel’s surprise, the pirate queen smothered her in a warm embrace concluded with a hearty thump on the back. Then she gripped Laurel’s shoulders and stared into her eyes.

“What you face next is hardest of all. Be of good courage.”

Laurel caught her breath. She didn’t ask what Grace meant. She couldn’t.

It was not long after the sea queen departed that Laurel had a second visitor. He sidled into the room, his rust-colored beard twitching nervously. He was dressed as the Fool from the O’Malley deck of cards in a costume patterned with red and silver diamonds, and a peaked cap with a bell. In his hand he carried a slender rod with more bells attached, shaped like silver apples. Yet despite the merry garb, there was a serious air about him and neither of them laughed.

“The king has sent me to escort you to the ball.”

“I’m not going near him or his feast!” she said furiously.

The cluricaun took off his cap and started to fidget.

Laurel returned to her window seat, expecting him to leave. Instead, he shuffled over to her, all bells tinkling, and sat down opposite her. Though he waited patiently, she continued to ignore him, gazing down at the garden. Immediately below was a great labyrinth of boxed hedge trimmed in the shapes of birds and animals. Like the lawns and flower beds, it was lighted by torches that flickered in the night breeze.

From where she sat, she could see the solution to the maze.

“There’s nothing like a bird’s-eye view,” she murmured.

Sounds of music and merriment spilled out of the palace windows and onto the terraces. She watched the fairies, bright as fireflies, playing chase and calling to each other with peals of laughter. Some danced barefoot over the grass that glittered with evening dew.

“Will ye not join the hooley?” said the cluricaun. His voice was unusually gentle. “’Twould do ye a power of good. Ye deserve a bit of happiness after all’s been said and done.”

“I’m not here to have fun. I’m just waiting for what you promised me.”

Her voice trembled. She noticed that the cluricaun looked apprehensive himself and she recognized the shifty look in his eyes. He squirmed in his seat, making the bells jitter. It was as if a cold hand suddenly clutched her heart. All the warnings rang in her mind.
They are not like us. You always get more than you bargained for. The fairies are tricksters. They can’t be trusted.

“You said I could save her,” she whispered.

As she implored him with mute appeal, she saw something much older and graver look back at her, and there was compassion in that gaze.

“The time has come,” he said quietly, “and you must face it. ’Twas not the Summer King who sent me to escort you. He has stayed away, mindful of your feelings.’Tis the High King himself who awaits your pleasure. With him has come—”

The cluricaun didn’t get to finish his sentence. Laurel had already run out of the room. Catching up her long skirts, she raced down the marble staircase that seemed to spiral forever, and into the great hall.

Like Cinderella arriving late at the ball, she was dazzled by the scene before her. Beautiful sea fairies mingled with the Gentry of the High King’s court, all dressed in rich raiment and sparkling jewels. As Laurel made her way through them, the throng parted before her, bowing and curtseying as if she was the guest of honor. And as they drew aside, she saw ahead of her two stately figures enthroned on the dais.

It was Midir whom Laurel recognized first. He wore a golden tunic sprayed with stars and a fiery mantle. His red-gold hair shone like the sunset. As he stood up to greet her with a smile of friendship, beside him rose another, her hand resting on his arm.

Laurel could barely take in what she was looking at. It seemed so long since they had last met. An eternity of loss and despair, guilt and mourning.

Tall and fair, Honor was dressed in a silken gown fili-greed with silver. Her long blond hair was wreathed with white blossoms. She looked more elegant and beautiful than Laurel had ever seen her; and though this was the prize, so eagerly sought, it was almost too much to accept.