The Summer King (24 page)

“There won’t be a battle—” Laurel began.

Grace struck the table with her fist.

“There is always a battle.”

aurel woke the next morning to the sound of birds scrabbling on the castle walls. Her eyes shot open. And she groaned. The pain was excruciating. It splintered through her brain, threatening to crack her skull, and throbbed like an engine behind her eyes. Disoriented, she didn’t move as several insights struck at the same time. The pain was a blinding hangover. The ground was damp beneath her. She was snuggled against another body snoring loudly. Ian, with his arms around her. She held herself rigid, determined not to wake him. First she needed to remember what happened. Images from the previous night were slowly seeping into her mind.

Grace clasping her hand with an iron grip and an iron-clad promise.

“I’ll be there when you need me.”

A call to celebrate. Cups of
uisce beatha.

Many cups.

That explained the bursting head and the queasy stomach. Ian had stopped snoring, but didn’t stir. Was he asleep or pretending? She wasn’t ready to deal with him yet. She raked her memory. Where did she go to bed? Ah yes, in a chamber high up in Grace’s stronghold. Soft blankets on sweet-scented rushes. A crockery night-jar filled with hot water to keep her warm. Moonlight streaming through the slit of a window in the massive stone wall. The sound of the sea on the rocks below. And from above, the clank of sword against stone and the murmur of male voices on the night watch.

But how did she get there?

Oh no.

An image of Ian helping her up the stairs. Carrying her, in fact. She was laughing loudly and singing out of key and making a lot of noise as she insisted that he join her.
You sing like a bird, like the birds you love
. Cringe. Those startling blue eyes, filled with laughter. He had drunk a lot too, but held it better. Much better. An earlier memory. The two of them dancing in the hall to wild reels and jigs played on pipes, drums, and bones. They spun across the floor, like figures on a music box. The golden comb went flying again. Her hair and skirts swirled. Clasping her waist, he had lifted her up and swung her around before he kissed her.

A different image now. A massive cringe. When he finally got her up the stairs and flopped her on the bed, she had insisted he stay. The blue eyes sparkled with amusement.

It’s not on, darlin’, you’d only kill me tomorrow.

Now Laurel bolted upright, pushing his arm away.

Ian didn’t move.

“I know you’re awake,” she accused him.

“Is it safe?” he said, as he opened his eyes, grinning.

They both scrambled to their feet.

She let out a moan as lights exploded in her brain.

“All right?” he asked, concerned.

“Not a word!” she warned.

Suppressing a laugh, he raised his hands in surrender.

“I’m sayin’ nothin’ and repeatin’ it.”

They stood in the empty shell of Granuaile’s tower. It was early morning. Through the ruins of the doorway they could see
The Lady of Doona
moored at the pier.

When they reached the boat, they found Gracie sitting out on deck, reading her paper and sipping a mug of coffee. She squinted at them as they climbed onboard.

“Well, if it isn’t my missing persons. When you didn’t show yesterday I made inquiries. Wasn’t I told the old currach you hired had come ashore without sight or sound of you? I almost put out an alert for an air-and-sea rescue.” Despite her words, she didn’t appear in the slightest bothered. “I couldn’t wait around, I had a party of Japanese booked. Howandever, you don’t look any the worse for wear.”

She winked at the two of them. They didn’t know what to say or think. Despite the hints to the contrary, she acted as if she knew nothing of her other self. Indeed, she ignored them on the journey back to Achill, though she did offer Laurel two aspirin when she saw her looking a little green and leaning over the side. And yet, when Gracie left them on the pier at Kildavnet, where she had first picked them up, she seemed to add weight to her parting words as she shook their hands with her iron grip.

“Keep in mind, now, I’ll be here when you need me.”

Laurel had revived by the time they returned to the cottage, but her feelings of shame and guilt still lingered. She had let herself go in Grace’s castle, dancing and flirting like someone who hadn’t a care in the world. Like someone whose twin hadn’t died.

There was also a smaller matter that niggled her conscience.

“We didn’t win fairly,” she said to Ian. “The cluricaun’s help was cheating. Grace might’ve been a bully, but she played an honest game.”

“Cop on,” he said, with a snort. “Did you see that last hand she got? What are the odds? She stacked the deck. You beat her at her own game. All’s fair in love and war.”

“And that kind of attitude can only lead to good things.”

“Winning is all that matters,” he argued. “That’s how both worlds work. We’ve only got two days left. Grace is with us. Let’s free the king.”

Ian’s plan was simple. Strike immediately. Gather Grace’s army and storm Slievemore, the mountain where Laheen said the Summer King was imprisoned. They needed to act fast and take the enemy by surprise. A short sharp war.

Laurel disagreed. An attack was exactly what the Fir-Fia-Caw expected. They would be ready to fight, and any kind of a siege would be disastrous. The king’s jailers had only to hold out past Midsummer’s Eve and all would be lost. Yes, surprise was the answer, but it had to be something that would truly catch them off guard. Something small and furtive. Guerilla tactics. If she and Ian went alone into the mountain, they could free the king themselves. Grace and her men would be the backup, a last resort. No matter what the pirate queen said, Laurel wanted to avoid a battle.

“Aren’t you overlooking something? What if we get caught? There’s no one to lead Plan B!”

“If we’re captured, Grace will come for us,” she insisted. “Don’t you see? She’s our trump card. We don’t play her unless we have to, but we can take risks knowing she’s there.”

“You’re the gambler,” he remarked wryly. Then he grinned. “You know the saying about that?”

She didn’t.

“Lucky at cards, unlucky at love.”

That ended the discussion.

They were sitting together at the living room table. Ian had made them some tea and toast, as there was nothing else to eat in the house. Now he slipped his arm around her and leaned forward for a kiss.

She drew back.

“Don’t,” she said. “We’ve got work to do and so little time. We need to figure out how to free the king.”

A flicker of annoyance crossed his face, then he relented.

“Right, no messing. It’s your turn to hit the books. Find out everything there is to know about Slievemore. I’ll go buy some food and cook us a meal. I could eat a farmer’s arse through a thornbush.”

“What?”

Laurel shook her head. Irish expressions were bizarre.

After he left, she spread the map of Achill over the table and riffled through her grandparents’ guidebooks. There was plenty about Slievemore, “the Great Mountain.” In her mind, she thanked Honor for all the nights of enforced study. Who would have thought it could prove useful? She was already sifting through wads of information, jotting down bullet points, and earmarking pages with slips of paper.

“And you call yourself the dumb twin?” was Ian’s comment, when he returned.

He had stopped to look over her shoulder before heading for the kitchen. Soon the cottage was filled with the savory smells of onions, tomatoes, and peppers simmering in the pan with olive oil and basil. He whipped up a pancake batter and grated some cheese.

“You’re an amazing cook,” she said, looking up from her work.

He stood at the stove, his back toward her, stirring the pan.

“I learned young. I didn’t want to eat meat, and both my parents do. My mother tried her best, but she’s a traditional cook—meat, spuds, and two boiled veg. In the end, it was easier if I looked after myself.”

She saw his shoulders slump.

“That must have been lonely,” she said quietly. “It’s hard when you feel it in your own family.”

Though she was referring as much to herself as to him, he looked angry when he turned to face her. She steeled herself for a cutting remark even as it occurred to her that this was how he shielded himself. Then his features changed and he smiled briefly.

“We shouldn’t fight so much.”

“Yeah,” she agreed, smiling back.

Lunch was vegetable crepes sprinkled with parmesan, and a green salad on the side. Neither spoke as they ate, they were both so hungry. When they were finished, Laurel presented her research on Slievemore.

“From what I’ve read, it’s like a sacred mountain. There are ruins scattered all over it, not only abandoned villages but megaliths and portal tombs. I looked for any legends about it. I remember reading in one of my Granda’s books that folklore is a kind of ancient memory.

“The guidebooks say there’s a web of tunnels inside the mountain which no one has found for centuries. There’s even mention of ‘the King’s Cave,’ but nothing about where it might be.

“I started to think about why the Fir-Fia-Caw imprisoned him in the mountain and not somewhere else. They were the Temple guard. In the vision of Hy Brasil, I saw swarms of them. They must have had a barracks or stronghold or something.”

“Of course!” Ian swore. “What better place to keep him than in their own fortress?”

Both were silent a moment as they acknowledged what that meant.

Ian looked grim.

“Any idea how many there are of them?”

She bit her lip.

“I think most were massacred, and when Laheen mentioned survivors he didn’t give a number. We know there are at least seven from the night they attacked us, but after that …”

“Right, it’s seven or seventy. Hopefully not seven hundred. Stealth mode all the way. You got a plan?”

She did.

“My guess is the King’s Cave is at the heart of the mountain and most likely high up. It wouldn’t make sense to keep him on the lower levels or the outer fringes. That would only help a rescue or escape attempt. So this is our mission: go deep inside headquarters, find him and get him out, while avoiding the guards.”

There was another moment’s silence.

“You found a way in?” he asked, in a quieter voice.

She showed him the map and the places she had circled.

“I looked for anything about entrances or secret doorways and came up with two. One’s somewhere near the Deserted Village, the big ruins at the southern base of the mountain. The entrance has an Irish name.”

He checked what she had written.

“Teach Faoi Thalamh,”
he read out loud, and then translated for her, “The Underground House.”

“The second entrance doesn’t have a name but it’s on the northwest slope of the mountain, above Blacksod Bay. It’s just outside a place called Dirk, one of those booley villages, like the one we found on Croaghaun.”

He nodded. “But what are the entrances like? Are they caves? Potholes?”

“That’s the bad news. No descriptions or details. And they could be blocked up, destroyed, whatever. We won’t know till we find them.” She sighed. “We don’t know ‘what’ but at least we know ‘where.’ Once we get there, we use our eyes.”

He studied the map again.

“We should go for the Underground House first. It’s the easiest to reach. If we don’t find it or can’t get in, then we head up to Dirk.” He stopped a moment and frowned. “But maybe we should check out Dirk as well? I mean, before we go inside? Confirm two exits? That’ll give us a second escape route.”

“There isn’t time. We’ve got to get moving. Keep it simple. Whichever way we go in, we go out.”

“You’re the boss,” he conceded, and though he looked worried, he said no more.

But she had caught his look. She, too, was beginning to dread what lay ahead. Who knew what waited for them inside the mountain?

They packed their knapsacks with flashlights, compasses, ropes, candles, matches, and bottles of water. The eagle feathers were tucked in their back pockets where they could reach them easily. When Laurel offered Ian charms against the Fir-Fia-Caw—packets of salt, a bag of white stones, several daisy chains—he didn’t refuse this time. He also packed his switchblade and the dagger he had won from Grace.