Aware of Laurel, the woman spoke aloud. Her voice trembled.
“It’s there, isn’t it? The blessed isle. ’Tis the seventh year. I can’t see her, but I can smell her. Sweet wood-smoke and the perfume of flowers beyond compare.”
“Yes,” Laurel said softly. “It’s there.”
Across the road, a silver Mercedes pulled up and a businessman jumped out of his car. He had binoculars in his hand and he trained them over the water. Now he let out a whoop and started waving at the island.
Nearby, a housewife came out to her yard to hang up the washing. She looked tired and worn out. When she shaded her eyes to look out at sea, her face lit up. Then she resumed her work, humming an old tune.
I have been to Hy Brasil,
And the Land of Youth have seen,
Much laughter have I heard there,
And birds among the green.
Laurel drove the Triumph to Kildavnet. There were more birds on the pier, strutting along the stone walls and circling the fishing boats. Tension crackled in the air, like that before a thunderstorm. She touched the feather in her pocket.
With relief, she spotted The Lady of Doona making its way into harbor. When the boat docked, Gracie jumped ashore and greeted her with a clap on the back. Exuding health and high spirits, the skipper wore faded jeans and an old shirt rolled up at the sleeves. A baseball cap was clamped down on her curls.
“I’ve earned enough this morning to take the week off!” she declared, looking pleased with herself. “Am I right in thinkin’ you need me today?”
“I do,” said Laurel, bemused.
It was hard to know whom she was talking to, the present-day skipper or the infamous sea queen.
“Where’s the boyfriend?” asked Gracie, looking over at the car.
“He’s … I … I think he’s inside Slievemore.”
Her distress was evident in her voice.
“Fret not, my foreign girleen,” said Grace, with a glint in her eye. “We’ll do this together, you and I.”
The indomitable will of the sea queen rang in her voice. For the first time that day, Laurel believed the plan might work.
“I want you to take the boat to the cove below Dirk,” she explained to Grace. “I’ll meet you there with Ian and another passenger. I don’t know how long it will take, but you’ve got to get us before sunset to …” she hesitated a moment, “the isle of Hy Brasil.”
Gracie didn’t even blink.
“Fair enough. But let me add, my friend, if you don’t arrive well before twilight, I’ll come looking for you, under hill and under mountain.”
Laurel felt the weight on her shoulders ease.
“Till we meet at Dirk.”
As Laurel drove to Slievemore, her hands shook at the wheel. The Great Mountain loomed ahead of her. Though the rest of Achill was bathed in sunshine, a dark mist hovered over the ridge. Drawing nearer, she spied what the fog helped to hide. Clouds of birds spiraled above the summit. As if from a jagged tear on the peak, they fanned out in a steady stream. Her heart sank. Their number was countless.
She parked the car near the Deserted Village where she had agreed to meet the cluricaun. When she passed Ian’s bike standing alone in the drizzle, she looked away. There was no sign of the little man. As she wandered through the ruins, all her doubts about him returned. Had he talked her out of her original plan in order to betray her? Was he a Judas goat leading her to the slaughter? In a situation where good and evil weren’t clearly defined, how could she know who was friend or foe?
Then she saw something scurrying down the mountainside, jumping over the heather with flying leaps. A little red mouse. When it arrived at the village, it stopped before her and unraveled its shape. There stood the cluricaun in his old red suit. His clothes were damp from the rain and a little muddied. With a wink and a nod, he sat down on a wet stone to catch his breath. As his glance took in the birds above them, she saw him wince.
“Have we a hope?”
“A fool’s hope,” he answered, “as is the way with these things.” Then he turned to her with a twinkle in his eye. “Still an’ all, the Fool’s been known to beat the odds.”
They set off up the slope together.
“Did you see any sign of my friend Ian?” was her next question. “He’s been taken prisoner too. At least I hope he has,” she added quietly. For she couldn’t—wouldn’t—believe he was dead.
The cluricaun coughed.
Laurel saw his uneasiness and her throat tightened.
“I didn’t see him,” came the reply, “and that’s the truth of it. But listen to me now, girseach. Ye must stick to the job at hand and not be worryin’ about anything else. You’ve only the day that’s in it and none other. If ye fail us now, all is lost.”
She knew he was right, but her heart ached. Was she the only one who cared about Ian?
“I’ve done me part as promised,” he continued. “A bit of transmogrification helped me at it; a wee mouse is not a thing them big birds could be bothered with. I scouted the premises as best I could. Your hunch was right. The gray crag beyant Dirk, on your way to the peak, is the King’s Cave.”
“Did you find a way into it?”
“I did. A class of a front door, ye might say, long shut and locked. But today we’ll knock and it will open, for Midsummer’s Eve magic is stronger than most, and in the seventh year is stronger agin. The only snag—once you’re in, the door’ll close and I can’t get it open for another seven years.”
Laurel shuddered.
“Éist to me now. That’s your way in, but there’s another way out. The Captain’s Quarters is right benext to the King’s Cave, as he likes to keep an eye on his prisoner. That’s how ye’ll get out. Through his private entrance.”
Laurel swallowed. An image of Ruarc flashed through her mind. The terrifying features, the eyes burning with madness. She felt a little sick. The cluricaun had done exactly what she asked; discovered the fastest way in and out of the King’s Cave. But could she do it? Snatch the king right out from under his deadliest enemy?
Sensing her fear, the little man’s voice was kind.
“Be of good courage. I’ve done more than ye axed me. I got up to a little mischief and mayhem this mornin’. Each troop thinks the other is mindin’ the king and they’re all out and about, chasin’ shadows. Once they meet up, they’ll discover me trickery, but that gives ye a smidgeen of time.”
Laurel felt a rush of gratitude and began to thank him, but he waved her words away.
“Just remember that next time you’re ready to eat the head off me and, to be sure, we both know that’ll come agin.”
She would have laughed if she wasn’t so nervous.
They were halfway up the mountain and in sight of the gray crag, the King’s Cave, when they came upon a massive quartz boulder she remembered from the guidebooks. An Réilt, the islanders called it, the Star. Pure white, though veined with amber lichen, it was five feet tall and just as wide.
The cluricaun stopped in front of the stone and groped for the bottle inside his jacket. With a doleful look, he unstoppered the cork and emptied the poitín onto the ground.
“A little libation,” he said, mournfully.
The words were no sooner out of his mouth than the clouds above them parted and a shaft of sunlight struck the Star. There was a burst of light, then a low rumble like thunder, and the great stone rolled away. A black hole gaped before them.
Laurel switched on her flashlight and peered inside. A stone tunnel, like the others, but not in ruins. It ran straight ahead and disappeared into darkness.
“It’ll take ye further in and further up,” said the cluricaun. “But don’t dilly dally on the way. They won’t be fooled for long. May the White Lady shed light across your path.”
“You’re not coming with me?”
She already knew the answer. The mission was hers and hers alone. She turned to thank him again, but he was already away, a little red mouse scampering down t
he hillside.
Laurel took a deep breath. Alarm bells were ringing in her mind. It was madness to go in alone. What if she was attacked? She slipped a packet of salt out of her pocket, tore it open, and clutched the grains in her palm. Then, aiming her flashlight like a gun before her, she stepped into the passageway.
She hadn’t gone far when a thunderous noise sounded behind her as the great boulder rolled back into place. Except for the beam of her flashlight, she was plunged into darkness. The finality of the moment made her blood run cold. She was sealed in a tomb.
If the tunnel had continued to lead her into the dark, she might have lost her nerve. But after a time, she came to a great stairway that climbed upward. It was very different from what she had previously seen in the mountain. Torches burned in metal brackets to light the way. There was no sign of cobwebs or mold, and the air was dry and clean. The steps were carved of white quartz, smooth and polished and faintly gleaming. On either side of her, the walls were a glassy black stone with no cracks or breaks. They were covered with the familiar inscriptions which she now realized were Fir-Fia-Caw art as well as writing. These were inlaid with silver and elaborately adorned.
The stairs rose steeply, tracing the slope of the mountain. The roof arched overhead. She doused her flashlight. The torches went all the way up. As she climbed, she peered into corridors and other stairwells that branched off in all directions. Despite the cluricaun’s warnings, she couldn’t forget that Ian might be here, and she clung to her hope of finding him as well as the king.
The glimpses she caught of dim rooms and hallways surprised her. One area even appeared to be some kind of playground, though long deserted. She passed an arch that opened into a great chamber and stood transfixed for a moment. It was a library. The countless shelves that reached the vaulted ceilings held not books but rolls of parchment and papyri. There were long reading tables and high-backed chairs. The more she saw, the more she understood. While she and Ian had discovered the military side of the fortress, this was where the Fir-Fia-Caw lived. This was their home. The insight brought a lingering sadness, for the halls were lonely and echoed with loss.
As she neared the end of the staircase, she instinctively slowed down. Her breathing came quicker. Her legs felt weak. An orange-red light glowed ahead of her, reflecting off the walls. The flames of a hearth? She reached the top. The landing ran a short distance and forked at the end. Two entranceways faced her. She knew immediately what they led to. The King’s Cave and the Captain’s Quarters.
With the golden feather in one hand, her only defense against the king, and a fistful of salt in the other, her only defense against Ruarc, she moved forward. The firelight was shining through the arch on the left. She would go there first.
Hurrying to outrun her fear, Laurel crossed the threshold and gasped with shock.
Too many impressions assaulted her at the same time. It was the King’s Cave, but not the dungeon she expected. The spacious room was furnished with every kind of luxury. A roaring fire cast its bright shadows over elegant furniture, a canopied bed, and a table laden with a feast. A jeweled chessboard stood on a carved bench, and a white hound with red ears sprawled on a rug by the hearth.
Yet it wasn’t the prison’s bounty that made her cry out, but the prisoner himself. He wore rich garments trimmed with fur and a circlet of blue stones on his brow. As he sat by the fire, absently scratching the dog’s head, he looked into the flames with a weary sadness. His ankle was bound with an iron chain that trailed across the floor. This was not the cruel king she had come to free.
“Ian!”
e jumped to his feet at the sound of her cry. To find him there, so suddenly and unexpectedly, was overwhelming.
Laurel ran to Ian and threw her arms around him.
“You’re alive!” she cried, weeping with relief.
He held her tightly for the briefest moment, then pushed her away.
“Get out of here, Laurel! Before he comes back!”
She was so happy she could hardly think. Pulling at the chain that bound him, she inspected the lock on the anklet.
“We’ve got to break this.”
She looked around for something heavy.
Ian backed away.
“You don’t understand!” he implored her. “It’s worse than we thought. Get out of here! Right now! You must go away!”
Something in his voice made her stop. She stared into his face and was shocked by what she saw. He looked tortured.
“What have they done to you?” she whispered.
There was no time to talk. The sounds of an uproar broke in the distance. The cluricaun’s ruse had been discovered. The Fir-Fia-Caw were on their way.
“We’ve got to go!”
Laurel was frantic. She followed the chain to where it was attached to the wall and struck at the metal ring with her flashlight. Sparks flew, but to no avail. She hurried back to Ian and tried to pick the lock.
“Do you know where the king is? I’ve got an escape route.”
His face darkened with impatience.
“Use the key!” he snapped.
“What do you mean?” she snapped back. “What key?”
“The golden feather!”
“Why didn’t you say so?” It was back in her pocket along with the salt. “Let’s not all panic at the same time.”
She had no sooner touched the feather to the anklet than the chain fell away.
“At last!” he cried.
“You’re welcome,” she said, dryly. “Now where’s the king?”
He hesitated. His eyes narrowed.
“They moved him to Croaghaun. Left me as a decoy. Once we get out of here, we can go and get him. Did you bring weapons?”
She handed him some packets of salt.
He threw them on the ground with a noise of disgust.
“These are useless against a full guard!”
She scrabbled to pick them up.
“Stop being a jerk! I know it’s been hard, but—”
“We must go!” he cut her off.
Drawing the switchblade and dagger from the folds of his clothes, he stormed out of the cave.
Laurel hurried after him. The screeches of the Fir-Fia-Caw were growing louder, drawing nearer. Ian was already at the stairs when she called him back and pulled him into Ruarc’s quarters.
The room took her by surprise. It was spartan, with weapons on the wall, as to be expected of a soldier’s quarters, but there was more. The furniture was elegantly crafted. The shelves of rolled parchment were reminiscent of the library, and there was a desk with brushes, quills, pots of ink, and paper. A soldier poet? As well as the swords and shields, there were musical instruments like lutes and lyres. But it was the shimmering cloth laid so carefully on a frame that made her heart tighten. She recognized it from her vision of the Temple of the Birds: the golden cloak of the Queen of Clan Egli.
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 corv
ine 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.
The Summer King Page 20
