The Summer King
“Readers will be easily caught by the continuous, heart-pounding suspense; the twists and romances; and the heroine, who is both a grieving, contemporary teen and an invincible rescuer of worlds.” —Booklist
“A story that is lyrical and mesmerizing in subject and scope. An essential purchase for fantasy collections in which Tamora Pierce is popular.” —School Library Journal
“Fans of The Hunter’s Moon will enjoy this next installment… a story about duplicity in many guises, the fight between good and evil, right and wrong, honor and fidelity…” —Kirkus
“Compelling fantasy.” —The Seattle Post-Intelligencer
The Hunter’s Moon
A Booklist Editors’ Choice, 2005
A Booklist Top Ten Fantasy selection
“Thrilling action… opulent and mystical, realistic and contemporary… timeless legends and modern teen emotions. Shimmering with magic, myth, and romance…” —Booklist, starred review
“The opportunity to immerse oneself in a sensation-loaded celebration of Ireland and Faerie will be a powerful draw for many readers.” —The Bulletin of the Center for Children’s Books
“A compelling blend of Irish mythology and geography. Characters that breathe and connect with readers, and a picturesque landscape that shifts between the present and the past, bring readers into the experience. Melling’s taut plotting, with its unexpected turns, moves the story quickly to a climax and leaves readers wanting more.” —School Library Journal, starred review
“Kudos to Melling… she brings the Irish countryside to vivid life and makes even the fantastic feel rooted and real.” —Time Out New York Kids
Also by O.R. Melling
The Druid’s Tune
The Singing Stone
My Blue Country
In The Chronicles of Faerie
The Hunter’s Moon
The Summer King
The Light-Bearer’s Daughter
The Book of Dreams
Adult Fiction
Falling Out of Time
PUBLISHER’S NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
The Library of Congress has cataloged the hardcover edition as follows:
Melling, O.R.
The Light-Bearer’s daughter / by O.R. Melling.
p. cm. — (The chronicles of Faerie; bk. 3)
Summary: In exchange for the granting of her heart’s desire, twelve-year-old Dana agrees to make an arduous journey to Lugnaquillia through the land of Faerie in order to warn King Lugh, second in command to the High King, that an evil destroyer has entered the Mountain Kingdom.
ISBN 978-0-8109-0781-2 (hardcover w/jkt.)
[1. Messengers—Fiction. 2. Voyages and travels—Fiction. 3. Fairies—Fiction. 4. Magic— Fiction. 5. Ireland—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.M51625Lig 2007
[Fic]—dc22
2006033517
Paperback ISBN: 978-0-8109-7123-3
Originally published in hardcover by Amulet Books in 2007
Text copyright © 2007 O.R. Melling
Map illustration copyright © 2007 Bret Bertholf
Excerpt of The Book of Dreams © 2008 O.R. Melling
Permissions
The author wishes to thank Pádraigín Ní Uallacháin for permission to use verses from her songs “Cara Caoin” (“Beloved Friend”), on page 62; “An Leannán” (“The Beloved”), on page 213; “Gleann na nDeor” (“Valley of Tears”), on page 238; and “An Phog” (“The Kiss”), on page 264. All songs are from her CD Ailleacht (Beauty), Gael Linn CEFCD 187, used with the kind permission of the singer/songwriter.
Chapters Twenty-seven and Twenty-eight were inspired by Glendalough: A Celtic Pilgrimage, by Michael Rodgers and Marcus Losack (Columbia Press, Ireland, and Morehouse Publishing, USA).
There are various quotes throughout the book from the King James version of the Bible.
Published in 2008 by Amulet Books, an imprint of ABRAMS. All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, mechanical, electronic, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the publisher.
Amulet Books and Amulet Paperbacks are registered trademarks of Harry N. Abrams, Inc.
Amulet Books are available at special discounts when purchased in quantity for premiums and promotions as well as fundraising or educational use. Special editions can also be created to specification. For details, contact [email protected] or the address below.
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For Michael Scott, mo chara, dear friend
As always thanks to many: my daughter, Findabhair, first reader and advisor; Georgie-mum for her constant support; sister Pat Burnes for fabulous photos; my editor, Susan Van Metre; agents Lynn and David Bennett of the Transatlantic Literary Agency Inc.; the Second Sunday hiking group for research adventures in the Wicklow Mountains; the staff at the Tyrone Guthrie Centre at Annaghmakerrig; Dr. Nena Hardie, dear host in Toronto; John Duff and Brian Levy, dear hosts in New York; Piers Dillon-Scott, my Webmaster; Joe Murray, my computer angel; Brenda Sutton and all the gang at the Mythic Imagination Institute; and last but not least, Na Daoine Maithe, for their assistance and permission. Go raibh míle maith agaibh!
year and a day after the fiery blast, it shuddered into consciousness. Hidden in the undergrowth, barely alive, it could not grasp its name nor even its nature. There was only the memory of blinding light and the searing pain that came in its wake. Then a fall into darkness.
But now as it woke, it began to move.
She stepped through the spinney of tangled trees that crept over the back of the small mountain by the sea. The green hem of her gown brushed the damp grass; the earth felt cool underfoot. Stopping to press her ear to the bole of an old hawthorn, she closed her eyes to listen. With a smile, she sang the refrain that coursed through the tree’s veins.
Tá grian gheal an tsamhraidh ag damhsa ar mo theach.
The summer sun is dancing on the roof of my house.
She left the spinney and came to a cliff that plunged down to cold waters. Her smile faded. A confusion of memories clouded her thoughts; shadows of another self, another life. She gazed down at the waves that struck the rocks in a fury of white spume. Why had she come here? What had drawn her to this place? Her skin shimmered faintly with a tint of gold. Her hair was wreathed with white blossoms. She stared around her, lost.
Then she froze.
It was like a wound in the earth: a gash of red mist like vaporized blood. Writhing through the grass, it trailed over the stony summit and into the mountains beyond.
She let out a cry.
The wind caught her cry and cast it through the air like a net, a summons. Out on the sea, a gray seal broke the surface. From overhead came the skirr of bird wing and the screech of gulls. A robin landed on her shoulder. Small animals scurried from their hideaways to form a circle around her—foxes, hares, field mice, badgers. On the slope above, a horned goat and a wild deer emerged from the dark of the mountain.
“A demon has entered the kingdom. A shadow of the Destroyer.”
Her words were met with noises of dismay and terror. She herself was undone. Trembling, she struggled to keep her voice firm.
“Be of good courage. I will bear this news to the King. You will not be forsaken.”
Deep in the mountains, the giant stirred. Something h
ad entered the kingdom that did not belong. He tried to rise but couldn’t. All around him was darkness. Were his eyes sealed shut? The smell of earth and stone was suffocating. A great weight lay upon his chest. What enemy had laid him low? What battle was lost on the plain that saw him defeated and entombed? He could hear a song spinning around him, words twisting like cords to bind and restrain. Whose spell enthralled him? He struggled like a wild man, striving to break free, but it was no use. He was blind and powerless. How did this happen? Even as he sought answers in the shadows of his mind, the words pulled him deeper into the darkness, where he drowned in layers of storied memory.
tanding at the front window of his living room, Gabriel watched his daughter play soccer on the road. Their street was lined with small terraced houses built in the 1930s that faced each other across scrappy bits of lawn. Like the dwellers within, each house was different, painted in various shades of yellow, blue, pink, and brown. Some had low stone walls and others, iron fencing. They were either owned by the town council, as was Gabriel’s, or purchased after years of rental. It wasn’t a prosperous or even a peaceful neighborhood, but Gabriel had been happy enough to rear his daughter in it. Behind the line of red-tiled roofs and brick chimney pots rose the Wicklow Mountains, their green hills patched with hedge and speckled stone.
In scruffy jeans and a none-too-clean T-shirt, Dana was the only girl in the soccer game and the loudest to boot. Taller than most twelve-year-olds, she had shot up suddenly that summer and looked underfed and scrawny. Gabriel winced at the thought that she needed new clothes as it meant an expedition to the charity shops on the main street. He was vaguely aware of the contrast between his daughter and the gaggle of girls who watched on the sidelines. The other girls were dressed in the latest styles, their hair sparkling with clips and bands. His income didn’t allow for fashion and Dana herself had no interest in girlie things. Still, there were days when she came home hurt and angry, and eventually she would tell him the unkind remarks. Girls could be cruel. Far worse than boys who just punched each other.
Dana had taken control of the ball. Chest heaving, dark hair flying, she headed for the goalpost.
A big lad with a face like a clenched fist ran to cut her off.
“Get outta my way!” she yelled.
If he meant to intimidate her, he hadn’t a hope. With the ball spinning between her feet, Dana wove deftly around him and laughed out loud.
Gabriel winced. The boy’s fury was unmistakable. There would be payback.
The goalpost was a crack in the road. If Dana kicked the ball over it, the game was won. Face screwed with resolve, she sped toward it. Scrums and fights broke out on all sides as her teammates blocked the opposition. Gabriel was reminded of June bugs scrambling over each other.
The girls on the sidelines screeched encouragement. Two dogs in the crowd began to bark, a shaggy-haired mongrel and a fractious Jack Russell. “Mutt and Jeff,” as Gabriel liked to call them. They had watched Dana keenly throughout the game and would growl if she appeared in danger. She was champion and provider to all the neighborhood animals, collecting bones from the butchers to distribute among the faithful and feeding any strays. Even the King of Cats, the fiercest warrior tom on the street, acted like a gentleman in her presence. And whenever the inevitable fights broke out, Dana thought nothing of running into the fray, often at considerable risk to herself.
Now the boy she had outsmarted charged again. It was obvious he meant to crash into her. Technically it wasn’t against street rules and it happened regularly—a fall, a sprawl, a head split open. All the players had been stitched up at one point or another. There was no use forbidding the game. They would only play elsewhere.
Gabriel tensed as the boy bore down on Dana’s right side. She was concentrating on the ball and didn’t notice. But the Jack Russell did and suddenly shot from the crowd. Someone grabbed him and hauled him back though he yelped and snapped. The boy was gaining on Dana. Gabriel sucked in his breath, but kept his eyes open. A father had to see what a father had to see. He was used to being afraid for her. She was so competitive it made her reckless, even dangerously so. He suspected she was the one who invented that terrible craze the previous summer—kids dashing in front of cars on a dare. Though she denied ever doing it, his heart still jumped every time a tire screeched. The only control he had in such matters was the threat of grounding. Dana hated being trapped indoors and was too restless to read or watch television. The only time she sat still was when he read to her himself or told her stories.
The moment of truth had arrived. Dana closed in on the goalpost. The big boy closed in on Dana. Without lifting her head, she made a feint in his direction that threw him off guard. And then, before he knew it, her foot shot out to trip him.
With a scream of rage and pain, he hit the ground.
With a yell of triumph, she kicked the ball over the crack.
Dana’s teammates roared their approval and so did the spectators. The two dogs howled. When the Jack Russell was released, he leaped into the throng that surrounded the victor. Gabriel relaxed. His daughter had managed to win without getting hurt. Then he tensed again, for he himself was about to hurt her and he could put it off no longer.
Leaning out the window, he shouted at Dana to come in for lunch.
Flushed with victory, Dana bounded into the backyard that was almost a garden. Wildflowers and tufts of grass sprouted through the broken concrete. The stone walls glared white in the sunshine. Clothes flapped on the washing line. The rickety picnic table in front of the shed was Gabriel’s handiwork, as was the hutch that stood nearby, the former home of Millie the rabbit who was still mourned. Seashells and candles marked her grave under the hawthorn bush. There were no pets in the house at present as the last three hamsters had lived out their pampered lives in “Hamsterdam,” as Gabriel called Dana’s bedroom. A trip to the animal shelter was long overdue, but he had managed to forestall it so far.
Dana’s eyes widened at the sight of the feast laid out on the picnic table. A white sheet stood in for a tablecloth and all her favorite foods were there: slices of pale-green melon, a jar of dill pickles, halves of avocado with lemon and olive oil, egg salad sandwiches cut in quarters, a tub of coleslaw, and a big bowl of raspberries.
“What’s up, Gabe?” she said, delighted. “New job? Big gig? Festival in Europe?”
“A new job, yeah,” he said uneasily. “Did you wash your hands?”
“’Course,” she lied, wiping them on her jeans.
She was too busy wolfing down her food and reaching for more to be aware that he was only picking at his. Nor did she see him fidget nervously. In between mouthfuls, she chattered about the game, slipping in a hint that they needed a new soccer ball. Her face glowed with the health of summer sun and fresh air. Whenever the tangle of raven-black hair fell into her eyes, she pushed it back impatiently. She was a child but not a child, for maturity was slowly dawning in her features: the curve of her cheekbones, the fullness of her mouth, the arch of her eyebrows. She would be a beauty, like her mother.
Gabriel felt a twinge of the old wound and let it pass. He had to focus on the moment. He had to tell her they were leaving.
She had almost finished her lunch. Dividing the raspberries evenly between them, she stuck hers on her fingertips and began eating them one by one.
“Dana, you’re not going to like this, but I need you to hear me out.”
Her reaction was instant. She straightened up, eyes hard, ready for a fight. Another attempt to ban her from soccer? A lecture about the state of her room? New rules to increase her share of the housework? Whenever these moments arrived, she faced him as an equal. Living together as a little family of two, they had forged their relationship over the years. He encouraged her to speak up for herself, often to his own chagrin. She would hear him out all right, but that didn’t mean she would agree or comply.
“Professor Blackburn rang this morning. He put my name in for a job at the University of Tor
onto. Teaching music and Irish language in the Celtic Studies program.”
“Toronto? As in Canada?”
She saw it coming. How could she not? Though they lived in Ireland, the country of her birth, Gabriel was Canadian. From time to time, he would broach the subject of going home, but it was always a vague and unlikely notion. They were well settled in Bray, and the low rent on their house provided security against the vagaries of a musician’s earnings. There was no reason for them to move.
“It’s not just the job,” he pointed out. “It’s for you as well. Look, you’re growing up fast and I’m clueless here. Remember the whole fiasco about getting you a bra and—”
“Da!!!”
“See? We can’t even talk about that stuff together. Your aunts Dee and Yvonne will be like big sisters. They’ll help you out. And your grandmother.”
“I don’t want to go to Canada! This is my home!”
“Canada is your home too. My family’s there.”
“They’re here too! Great-aunt Patsy and Uncle Sean. All the cousins. You’re always saying we’ve got too much family! This is our home! We’re Irish!”
“I was born in Canada,” he insisted quietly. “And I grew up there. I’m Irish and Canadian. And so are you.”
Gabriel started to fiddle with the silver ring in his ear. Then he rubbed his hand over his head which he had recently shaved. These were the things he did whenever he was upset. Though he was nearly thirty, he looked a lot younger and rarely acted his age. Dana sometimes treated him like an older brother. She liked his music, a fusion of Irish trad with jazz and folk, and her friends thought he was cool. They both knew that his status as an artist, as well as a foreigner, helped to counter the stigma of being poor and a single-parent family. But Dana had once admitted to him that she wished he were more normal, like her best friend’s dad who worked in a bank. Gabriel didn’t even own a suit.
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