The Summer King

by O. R. Melling

  Ular spoke to the Captain of her guard, a light remark, and they laughed together. Laurel couldn’t take her eyes off Ruarc. He looked so youthful and passionate, so proud and noble. Her heart ached to see him before his downfall, before the Doom of Clan Egli cursed him with madness and despair.

  In the shadows, Laurel felt the Summer King raise the great bow to his shoulders. Felt him nock the arrow. Though she knew it was only a memory, a deed long done and gone, she tried to scream a warning. But the only sound was the whine of the arrow as it shot through the air.

  And the cruel laugh of the king as he struck at the heart of his enemy.

  Then the cry of the Queen as the arrow pierced her heart, and she toppled from the ledge.

  Her death cry was drowned in the wild shrieks of Ruarc as he leaped from the cliff after her, changing form in midair.

  And his cry was echoed by Laheen inside the eyrie, who had felt his own heart stop and knew what it meant.

  Laurel was devastated by the scene, yet the vision didn’t end.

  The arrow was loosed so close to the Queen, and with such force and enmity, that it tore through her body and continued onward. Over land and sea it flew, across plains and mountains, penetrating a rend in time and space caused by the weakening of the fabric of Faerie. Now it began to drop, plummeting toward a rocky coast on the eastern seaboard.

  Laurel could hardly breathe. She recognized the small mountain that fell into the sea and the ledge skirting the cliff face. The ledge on which stood a young woman with long blond hair, making her way carefully. Carefully and with confidence, for she expected no mishap.

  Until the arrow struck her heart.

  And she fell backward into the waters below.

  A new voice joined the anguished cries of Clan Egli.

  “Honor!”

  aurel went limp in the Summer King’s arms. She had lost all will to oppose him. The truth was shredding everything she had come to believe in. Everything she was fighting for.

  He released her, smiling cruelly as she backed away from him.

  “Collateral damage. Isn’t that what your people call it? An innocent casualty of a war she knew nothing about. How ironic. If Faerie did not exist, your sister would still be alive.” His shrug was casual, pitiless. “Faerie is not the land of your dreams. It is the home of your nightmares.”

  Laurel stared around her, dazed; at the pyre that stood waiting, heaped with wood, and the bodies of the birds who had died to build it. What was the point? Shattered wings, blood-soaked branches, broken dreams. Everywhere she looked, death wiped out life. Why keep trying? There was nothing at the end but the dark of night.

  Ian’s voice called to her, as if from far away.

  “Forgive me, Laurel. Please forgive me.”

  She was drowning in despair, gulping for breath between her sobs. When he tried to reach out to her, she pushed him away, weeping for Honor, for Ular, for Ruarc and Laheen, weeping even for Ian and also for herself; and for a world where nothing was purely right or good, not even the land of hopes and dreams.

  The Eve of Midsummer was passing. The last rays of sunset faded in the sky. The last shimmer of light sank beneath the waves. Dusk was falling over the land. The dark was rising.

  The Summer King’s voice rang with triumph.

  “Let us part now. You to your world and me to mine. The time to light the fire has passed.”

  His voice was low, even charming. He almost sounded like Ian. “Give up your mission. Forget the world of Faerie, the cause of your sorrow.”

  In all that he had said and done to her, this was his greatest mistake. His undoing.

  “I have a mission,” she whispered.

  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.

  Almost.

  “Honor!”

  She ran to her twin and, nearly fainting with happiness, clasped her in her arms. How light she felt! Like an armful of air!

  “Is it you? Is it really you?” she said, tou
ching Honor’s face, hugging her again.

  It was too good, too incredible, too miraculous to be true.

  They were both crying and laughing.

  “I had a dream,” Honor told her. “I fell out of the sky and into the sea, but before I could drown, you fished me out and wrapped me in a shawl of golden feathers.”

  “Did I?” said Laurel happily.

  More laughter. More tears.

  “Then I dreamed you needed me,” Honor continued. “And I rode out on a pale horse to bring you succor.”

  “Yes, yes, you did,” said Laurel, too dazed to really hear. “Oh God, I’ve missed you so much! I can’t believe you’re here! I’ve dreamed and hoped and worked for this. And I’m sorry, I really am. I’ve so wanted to say that to you. I’m really sorry.”

  “Sorry?” said her twin, laughing. “For all you have done for me?”

  “No, not that. For before … I should’ve … I was so selfish. Just thinking of myself.”

  “And did I think of you?” Her sister’s voice was gentle. “Though some might call it selfish, we each must follow our own star. It’s not right that you should blame yourself. I chose my destiny, and it is you who have brought me to it.”

  That was the moment when an icy sliver entered Laurel’s heart. And though she could already see the truth emerging, she made a last effort to deny it.

  “I was told if the Midsummer Fire was lit, if the Ring of the Sun was forged, that I could save you. That’s what they promised me.”

  “You did save me,” her twin said softly. “You woke me from a sleep in which I was lost, and here I am, in Faerie, where I wish to be.”

  “But … but aren’t you coming home? To Mom and Dad? To me?”

  “Oh, my dear one.” Honor touched Laurel’s face and took her hands. “I cannot return to the Earthworld. You know that. I died there.”

  The pain was so strong that Laurel thought it might break her, and yet she wasn’t really surprised. Wasn’t this what she had dreaded all evening? The true reason for her reluctance to join the feast? Deep inside, she had always known what lay in wait for her. But against it she had clutched a handful of hopes—that Honor would come home, live out her life, change and grow old along with her. Now those hopes withered like fairy gold turned to dried leaves in her hand, crumbling into dust.