The Undivided (20 page)

‘Our mother was a Gaulish Druidess. Her name was Sybille.’

Rónán’s eyes suddenly glistened with tears. He brushed them away impatiently, as if showing emotion over the mother he didn’t remember was a sign of weakness. ‘You say “was”. Past tense. That means what? She’s … not around now?’

Darragh shook his head. ‘She died not long after you disappeared.’ He hoped that was explanation enough for his brother. There would be time later — perhaps after the
Comhroinn —
when Rónán had come to grips with his new circumstances, to explain the manner of her death.

‘Do we have a father?’

‘Naturally.’

‘Does he have a name?’

‘Undoubtedly.’

Rónán stopped walking and stared at Darragh in annoyance. ‘And …?’

‘I’m sorry. I’d tell you his name if I knew it, but, as is often the case with the Undivided, we were conceived during the Summer Solstice festival. Our mother lay with many men during the festivities and all were masked.’

‘So you’re saying you don’t know?’

Darragh wasn’t sure why the mystery of their paternity bothered his brother so much. ‘What does it matter? We are children of the people, and they are of us. It is as it should be.’

Rónán resumed walking, his expression forlorn. But after a moment, he seemed either to come to terms with the idea he could never know the identity of his father, or to put the matter aside for more practical concerns. Darragh suspected the latter. It’s what he would have done.

‘Do we share anything else?’

‘Like what?’

Rónán was silent for a moment. ‘Dreams … nightmares … maybe?’

Darragh hesitated before he answered, wondering if Rónán was asking a general question or if he had a specific dream in mind. ‘I’m not sure,’ he said, figuring that was the safest way to answer the question. Once they’d shared the
Comhroinn
, he would know if his visions involving his brother were true visions of the future or just a vivid nightmare he shared with his twin.

‘Do you eat the same food in this reality?’ Rónán asked after a while. If he had any other questions about sharing dreams, he seemed content to wait for the answer.

‘Actually, it’s better,’ Niamh said. ‘We sing to our crops, to encourage them to grow. Happy food always tastes better.’

‘Good,’ Rónán said, in a tone so reminiscent of Darragh’s own, it gave Darragh the chills. ‘Because I’m starving and, brother, you have a shitload of explaining to do.’

Trása was intensely relieved to be heading home. She stepped through the rift, ready to announce the successful conclusion of her mission to prevent the Druids ever finding the lost Undivided twin.

Her return was not unexpected. Someone had to open the rift from the other end, after all. There wasn’t enough magic left in the other realm to do much more than keep a
Leipreachán
amused, and the effort of sustaining an open rift for an indefinite time from this side was impractical, even for the
Daoine sídhe
. Her
marra-warra
cousin, Abbán, had been given the task of opening the rift when she was ready. He was waiting for her as she and Plunkett splashed into the icy water beside the rift-raft. She was convinced he’d moved the vessel at the last moment to be certain she got a dunking.

Abbán helped Trása onto the floating wooden platform with its carved stone circle, ignoring the
Leipreachán
who followed Trása through the rift and landed with a loud yelp and a splash a few feet away.
Leipreachán
hated water but Plunkett didn’t hang around and object to his inelegant re-entry. As soon as he surfaced, he vanished into thin air.

Abbán wasn’t quite as tall as Trása. His upper body was muscular and well-tanned, and only the gills running in line
with his ribs marked him as different from other
sídhe.
His legs, however, were spindly and pale, a sure sign he spent as little time as possible on land. Once he slid back into the water, his fishtail would return and he would once again be the magnificent specimen he fancied himself to be.

‘I’m sorry, cousin,’ Abbán said insincerely, as Trása wrung the icy water from her long hair. She was naked, but unconcerned by the merman’s gaze. For a
sídhe
to step through the rift wearing anything produced by the technology of another realm was a crime punishable by death. Besides, among the Faerie, clothes were an affectation most of them only bothered with when they had business in the Land of Men.

‘I must have misjudged the location of the rift,’ he added with a helpless little shrug, his gills exhaling apologetically. ‘What with the waves, and the motion of the raft … well, you know how it is.’

Trása knew exactly how it was, which is why she didn’t believe him for a moment. Abbán was a merman. He could sense the movement of the water the way Trása could sense the wind. The rift would have opened directly over the centre of the floating stone circle the
marra-warra
had constructed to travel around this realm. For her not to land on the raft, meant the raft had been shifted sharply and quickly out of the way.

Trása had no intention of giving Abbán the satisfaction of thinking he’d bested her, however. Shivering a little in the crisp, offshore breeze, Trása smiled. ‘And here was I, cousin, thinking you’d thoughtfully moved the raft clear of the rift to ensure I’d have a soft landing.’

Abbán smiled, as if he knew her sentiments were as suspect as his apology. He stepped away from the edge of the small platform, making it rock alarmingly, threatening to send Trása straight back into the water. Trása grabbed at the nearest standing stone, its etched granite warm under her fingers from
the recent infusion of the magic Abbán had channelled to open the rift.

She stared at her cousin, wondering why, of all the
Daoine sídhe
, her uncle had sent Abbán to open the rift for her. It wasn’t as if they were friends, even though they shared the same bloodline. Like Trása, Abbán was the offspring of one of Marcroy’s many
leanan sídhe
sisters. He’d inherited his
marra-warra
father’s pale colouring, his mother’s dark eyes and blonde hair and, like Trása, his ears were not so pointed they raised comment when he walked among humans, if no one examined them too closely. He was a striking creature, and he knew it, which made him insufferably conceited.

‘Of
course
you misjudged it,’ she said, glancing at the small jewel sitting in the exact centre of the circle. It was still glowing with magic, its etched triskalion pulsating with rapidly fading light. She drew on a little of the dissipating magic to dry her hair — thrilled to feel magic coursing through her again — and took a step nearer to the raft’s centre where it was a little more stable. She bent down and picked up the dark red jewel for a closer look, frowning. ‘This is Marcroy’s own talisman.’

‘He opened the rift you went through,’ Abbán said with a shrug. ‘It was safer to bring you back the same way.’

That made sense. But it was an act of extraordinary trust, for Marcroy to let the talisman out of his sight.

Trása refused to let the thought stir her to jealousy. She didn’t need to be jealous of anybody. For once, she had the better of her cousin. ‘Our uncle will be pleased with your efforts, Abbán, given the news I bring.’

Abbán leaned forward and plucked the jewel from her fingers. ‘Yes, Marcroy says you are the bearer of great tidings.’ There was a note of scepticism rather than congratulation in his tone.

‘I found the Undivided twin and sent him to a place where he will not bother us again,’ Trása announced. She had rehearsed
the announcement in her head a thousand times since watching Rónán being driven away from the burning warehouse in a Gardaí car.

It felt marvellous to say it aloud.

Abbán set the raft moving toward the shore, the tingle of his magic making Trása’s skin prickle. It was wonderful to breathe in magic with every breath, instead of the fumes of the other realm.

She would miss television, though.

‘What was he like?’ Abbán asked.

‘He’s like Darragh,’ she said. And then she shrugged. ‘Only different.’ Trása realised she’d be hard-pressed to pinpoint exactly what it was about Rónán that made him different from his brother, other than the obvious, superficial changes wrought by his upbringing. But there was something else, too, something she couldn’t put her finger on.

‘That’s to be expected, I suppose,’ Abbán said. ‘Are you sure you confined him well?’

Trása nodded. Of that, she was certain. The penalty for murder in Rónán’s reality was life imprisonment. She and Plunkett had watched enough police shows like
The Bill
and
Law and Order
in her six months away to be sure of that, and Jack had confirmed it. They took murder very seriously, had many inexplicable scientific tricks for discovering the truth, and invariably sentenced the culprit to life in prison.

Although she’d thought Plunkett had ruined everything when he caused Hayley’s accident, it turned out perfectly in the end. Thanks to Hayley’s injuries and Rónán’s guilt, thinking he was in some way responsible, Trása and Plunkett found a reason to coerce him into thinking he could avenge his cousin. Plunkett couldn’t glamour him, so it had taken every bit of skill Trása owned to convince him he should take the rented Ferrari and drive to the address Jack had given him, believing he would
catch Murray Symes in a criminal act. Trása knew they’d been lucky. Rónán was in a vulnerable state of mind and probably not paying enough attention to the flaws in her story. And there were plenty of flaws. He just hadn’t seen them, because he was so distraught at the thought his cousin might die, or be permanently injured, that he was ready to believe anything that even smelled of redemption.

The doctors had told Hayley’s family she was suffering from a bilateral trauma to her primary visual cortex, Rónán had said. Trása wasn’t entirely sure what that meant, only that when Rónán had heard about it, he became even more upset than he had been the night of the accident. His distress was fertile ground for Trása’s scheme to take root.

Lure him somewhere he shouldn’t be, make it look like he’s killed someone and then lead the authorities to him
, Plunkett had suggested after Trása decided Rónán would be best hidden if he were imprisoned.

Plunkett had burned down the warehouse, setting the fire just before the ERU arrived. He’d glamoured the old homeless man into staying put as the flames engulfed his cardboard lean-to, and Rónán — caught red-handed at the scene of a drug bust just as the building began to burn — was considered responsible.

Poor Rónán
, she thought, feeling a twinge of guilt. He hadn’t known anything about the homeless man. Or the drug deal going on between one of Jack’s old criminal associates from his prison days and the drug lord, Dominic O’Hara. It hadn’t taken Plunkett long to glamour the police. He glamoured away the memory of her presence and reinforced the idea that Rónán was the criminal responsible for the whole sorry mess. Whatever he said, no one would believe Rónán.

But prison didn’t sound like much fun. Rónán didn’t really deserve such a fate, but saving his life by sending him away
would save Darragh, too, and Trása was prepared to go to extraordinary lengths to preserve Darragh’s life. She reminded herself again that Rónán would be under guard, confined, and out of reach of the Druids if they discovered the reality of where Marcroy and Amergin had sent him.

‘So …’ Abbán prompted, as he magically guided the raft toward the shore.

The wind was cool, but flavoured by the sweetest hint of impending autumn, something she’d missed in the other realm, where the air smelled like burnt dead things, and the magic was so thin even Plunkett was hard-pressed to find it.

‘What did you do with him?’

Trása crossed her arms against her body and turned to look toward the misty dark-green line of the land in the distance. She was reluctant to reveal her secret to Abbán. She wanted to wait until everyone was assembled before she announced her solution to the Undivided problem that plagued the
Tuatha Dé Danann
.

‘I sent him away.’

‘Sent him where?’

Trása hesitated, wondering what Abbán’s reaction would be to her news.

‘I had him sent to prison,’ she said. ‘For murder,’ she added. ‘He’ll be there for life.’

Her cousin didn’t react immediately, no doubt trying to find some flaw in her plan. ‘Are you sure life means life?’ he asked, after a time.

‘I have it on the best authority,’ she said. Trása was satisfied he would stay where she sent him, until the fates conspired to end his life, or his brother’s.

Abbán said nothing, turning his attention to getting the raft safely back to land. Trása closed her eyes to let the cool, sweet-smelling breeze caress her face, and realised that for once, she’d got the upper hand on her cousin.

Of course, the downside of beating Abbán at anything was that he would spend the rest of the journey back to
Tír Na nÓg
trying to find fault with her plan.

The trick then, was to not give him time, she thought. She was back in her own reality now. Every breath she took was infused with magic. For the first time in months, Trása felt whole.

Spreading her arms wide, she let the thrill of simply
being
overwhelm her.

Then, before Abbán could stop her, Trása shifted form into a white owl and took off from the raft. She soared upwards, filled with ecstasy and glee, circled the raft once to laugh at Abbán in a raucous squawk and then turned and headed north toward the Giant’s Causeway and home.

Ciarán came at Rónán with a vicious flurry of sword strikes, driving him backward, but never quite breaking through his guard. Rónán was too busy to be frightened, too focussed on staying alive to wonder how he managed to parry even half the blows the Druid warrior was trying to land on him. One semester of fencing at school with Olympic foils, endless lectures about safety and head-to-toe protective gear, had in no way prepared him for the real thing.

Ren stumbled backward, the sloped, uneven ground doing nothing to help him, until finally Ciarán landed a blow that sliced deep into the muscle of his forearm. With a cry of pain, he dropped his sword and fell backward, grabbing his arm, trying to put pressure on the cut to stem the bleeding.

Ciarán stepped back, lowered his sword and shook his head. ‘This is never going to work,
Leath tiarna.
’

Ren was doubled over with pain, sweating despite the chill. These people, he decided, were crazy. Instead of telling him anything about this reality, the first thing they did was stick a sword in his hand and try to kill him.

Darragh came forward, squatted beside Ren and grabbed his arm. He examined the wound critically for a moment, apparently unaffected by it.

‘How come you’re not bleeding all over the scenery, too?’ Ren asked.

Darragh seemed a little surprised to discover his brother needed an explanation. ‘Because Ciarán’s blade is simple iron.’

‘You left out the bit about bloody sharp, too.’

Darragh seemed amused. ‘The link between us is magical, Rónán. It takes a magical metal to affect us.’

Ren still wasn’t used to being called Rónán. He was about to remind Darragh that his name was Ren, when his brother took his wounded arm and healed the deep slice as he watched, the pain vanishing along with the cut. Darragh then did the same to the cut on his ribs. Ren’s skin and the tattoo on his palm prickled with the sensation, as it had when Brógán cured his headache on the boat. The feeling was much sharper here, much more intense, almost thrilling.

Flexing his hand in wonder, Ren examined the bloody mark on his arm where the cut had been. ‘Wow … Thanks.’

‘It is my honour,
brother
,’ Darragh said with a grin.

‘Can I do that?’ he asked, wiping his other, still bloody, hand on his trousers, still not convinced he had any sort of magical powers.

Darragh shrugged. He offered Ren his hand and pulled him to his feet. ‘The Undivided have many talents. Your arm feels better now, does it not?’

Darragh was being polite. He didn’t need to ask how Ren felt, any more than Ren needed to ask how Darragh felt. Although conscious knowledge of their link was still very new to him, he realised — now he knew what it was — he had always been able to sense his twin in a way that was impossible to describe. It wasn’t telepathy. It was more an
awareness
. He’d only just begun to understand the reason for a feeling he’d experienced all his life, never considering it odd, because he couldn’t imagine what life would be without it.

‘So how come the blade you used in your little demo earlier cut us both?’

Darragh withdrew the small knife from his belt and handed it to him. Ren turned it over in his hands, examining both sides. It was a thin dagger, with a leather-wrapped hilt, the silver blade etched with unfamiliar symbols.

‘That blade was forged from
airgead sídhe.
’

‘
Faerie
silver?’ Ren looked at the three of them, trying to detect some indication they were pulling his leg. He didn’t know where Niamh had gone. She’d headed back to the village not long after Ciarán and Darragh decided to see how well Ren could defend himself. The sun was almost set, and the roast that had been turning on the spit for most of the day appeared to be ready, which was a good thing because Ren was starving. But try as he might, he could detect not a hint of amusement in any of them.

‘This is never going to work,’ Ciarán said, planting the tip of his sword in the earth. ‘We can’t take him back to
Sí an Bhrú
like this. He knows nothing.’

‘He’ll learn,’ Darragh said with absolute confidence, his gaze fixed on his brother. ‘Once we’ve shared the
Comhroinn —
’

‘The co-rin?’ Ren asked, but neither his twin nor the Druid seemed to notice his question.

‘It won’t matter,’ the big man warned Darragh. ‘He’ll be killed — and you along with him — long before he can learn anything useful. The
Comhroinn
will give him knowledge, not the experience to use the knowledge wisely.’

Ciarán was — so Ren gathered — something of a cross between a teacher and a bodyguard, assigned to protect and tutor Darragh, which gave his assessment of Ren’s chances of survival a lot of weight.

‘Killed by whom?’ Rónán asked. ‘
Faeries?
’

‘Amongst others,’ Darragh replied, as if Ren had meant it as a serious question.

‘Dude … I was joking …’

‘You see,’ Ciarán said, looking displeased. ‘He doesn’t even understand the most basic threats, let alone have any notion how to deal with them. By
Danú
, he doesn’t even know what a threat looks like!’

‘It will be your job to teach him.’

Ciarán shook his head. ‘I can’t protect you and train him at the same time. We need help. Someone we can trust. Someone who’ll keep him alive while he learns.’

Darragh turned to the warrior curiously. ‘Who did you have in mind?’

‘Sorcha.’

His brother didn’t answer immediately. He glanced at Ren, squinting a little in the setting sun behind him, and then turned his attention back to the warrior. ‘Would she come?’

‘For this she might. She has no love for the
Tuatha Dé Danann.
’

‘I wasn’t aware she had any great love for her own kind, either,’ Darragh said, frowning.

‘Who’s Sorcha?’ Ren asked.

‘The oldest Druid warrior alive,’ Ciarán said. ‘In this realm or any other.’

‘Sounds like a plan,’ Ren said, wondering exactly how much help one little old lady Druid would be against apparently evil Faeries bent on killing him.

‘It does sound like a good plan, doesn’t it?’ Darragh agreed, not getting Ren’s ironic tone or else deliberately ignoring it. ‘Having my brother finally take his place at the head table a month from now, with Sorcha by his side, will give even Marcroy Tarth pause.’

‘A month from now?’ Ren asked, a little alarmed at the speed with which his life was being taken over. ‘What’s happening a month from now?’

‘
Lughnasadh
,’ Brógán explained, as he returned to his spit-roasting lamb. ‘The autumn equinox.’ He turned to Darragh. ‘Are you wishing,
Leath tiarna
, or have you had a vision of Sorcha helping us?’

‘Wishing, I fear,’ Darragh said with a shrug. ‘But that doesn’t mean it won’t happen.’

‘You have visions?’ Rónán asked.

‘Your brother’s gifts include the Sight,’ Ciarán explained.

Rónán looked at Darragh warily. ‘You see the future?’

‘Sometimes,’ said Darragh. ‘The future is not so fixed it can be predicted with any great accuracy. I dream dreams of possible futures.’

‘You can’t seriously mean to do this.’

‘It has to be done. You know that.’

‘They are innocent.’

‘They are our death.’

Ren shook his head to drive away the lingering memory of the dream that had haunted him for much of his life. Was it a dream? Or had he, like his brother, been dreaming of a possible future?

‘Rónán?’

‘Yeah?’

‘Are you unwell? You’ve gone quite pale.’

Ren nodded. He wondered if he really had paled, or if Darragh was simply sensing his unease. A part of him wanted to get Darragh alone for an hour or two and demand some real answers. Another part of him didn’t want to know.
Would I rather discover my nightmare was just the result of watching too many horror movies, or discover I can see the future and know that one day my own brother is going to have to threaten to kill me, to prevent me murdering a couple of babies?

Ren couldn’t decide.

‘I’m fine,’ he lied. Darragh knew he was lying, too. Ren could feel his scepticism.

He didn’t make an issue of it, though. Instead, Darragh turned to Ciarán. ‘Do you know where to find Sorcha?’

‘I think so.’

‘I’d ask her myself, but we have visitors in
Sí an Bhrú
tonight,’ Darragh added. ‘And if I’m to maintain the fiction I’m currently entertaining Lady Brydie in my chamber, I need to get back before she decides to change sides. Again.’

Ren stared at Darragh for a moment, almost afraid to ask for an explanation of that particular statement.

‘Rónán can stay here with me until Ciarán gets back with Sorcha,’ Brógán offered. ‘And then we can move him somewhere a little more comfortable until it’s time to present him at
Sí an Bhrú
. Nobody knows he’s back. He’ll be safe enough.’

‘It’s going to be a full moon,’ Ciarán pointed out.

Ren wasn’t sure why that was important, but it seemed to bother the warrior. He was a little concerned, thinking anything that bothered Ciarán was probably something to be bothered about.

Brógán shrugged. ‘I can handle a few weremen. Assuming they’re about.’

Darragh turned to Ren. ‘Is that all right with you, Rónán?’

Ren shrugged. ‘I guess. What’s a wereman?’

Darragh glanced at Ciarán briefly. ‘Nothing you need to worry about, brother. Brógán is right. He can probably handle any danger you might encounter.’

‘So they’re dangerous?’

Darragh didn’t answer, stooping to collect his robe from the damp grass. The temperature was dropping and the air was already thick with moisture.

As Darragh tied his robe, Ren turned to Brógán, wondering if he could get a bit more information from the young Druid once the others had departed. ‘Does that mean we can eat?’

‘Of course.’

Unconsciously, Ren rubbed at the triskalion tattoo on his palm. The one that matched Darragh’s tattoo. When he looked up, he saw Darragh mirroring Ren’s gesture without even noticing.

Creepy
, Ren thought, wondering what else he shared with his twin besides the same genes, a tattoo, and an impressive array of scars.

And dreams of a possible future where he was a killer.

It was dark by the time his brother left. Darragh hugged Ren briefly, before he headed off with Ciarán, promising to return as soon as possible. The warrior offered no signs of affection, just a curt nod, a warning to Brógán to remain vigilant, and then he and Darragh turned and headed back through the darkness toward the village and the standing stones — Darragh to see to the Lady Brydie and Ciarán to bring back Ren’s bodyguard, Sorcha.

And what of the life I’ve come from
, Ren wondered as he watched them walk away? What of his own realm … his own reality … or whatever the hell they were calling these different worlds?
Is this a one-way trip? Am I stuck here forever, while my life at home chugs along merrily without me? Am I still wanted for attempted murder back in my own reality?

What a choice. A lengthy trial and a good chance of spending the prime years of his life behind bars for a crime he knew nothing about, or stay where he was, and confront the possibility that his frightening dream wasn’t a dream but an event yet to happen.

The thought made Ren ill.

And then he thought of Kiva. What of his mother? The Boyles?

What of Hayley?

Ren’s heart constricted as he thought of his cousin Hayley. Would she wake to learn he’d disappeared? Would she spend
the rest of her life wondering what happened to him? Would she even
wake
from her coma, and if she did, was her brain damage permanent?

Ren needed time alone. Time to work out what went wrong with Trása’s grand plan to take vengeance on Murray Symes. Time to work out what had happened to Jack’s apparently imaginary granddaughter. Time to figure out why the cops insisted he had been alone at the warehouse. Time to wonder if Kiva was worried sick that he’d disappeared, or just chalking up his absence to more attention-seeking behaviour.

He needed time to consider something else, too.

Is the dream going to happen if I stay here?

Or if I go?