The Undivided (27 page)

As the high priestess began the long ceremony to wind up the Council of Druids, Marcroy watched Darragh. He felt a moment’s pity for the lad. It was clear Darragh hadn’t seen this coming. Interesting. The lad had the gift of Sight, which was one of the first things they looked for in a twin, when one was seeking a new set of heirs. And yet the young man looked stunned when Álmhath announced they’d found Broc and Cairbré. Clearly, Darragh had not had any hint that his future was about to be cut short.

Their eyes met for a moment as Marcroy tried to decide if Darragh’s Sight had failed him, or if the young man had seen a future that extended beyond
Lughnasadh.
If he had, then perhaps the fault lay with Marcroy’s plans and not Darragh’s prescient abilities. Marcroy would have to discuss this possibility with Jamaspa when he returned, pleased beyond words he’d thought to give Brydie the brooch inhabited by the djinni. Jamaspa would have some interesting tales to tell about Darragh, Marcroy thought, having spent so long in the young man’s chamber while he romanced Álmhath’s court maiden.

‘
Psssst!
’

Marcroy realised someone was hailing him, and looked down to find Plunkett O’Bannon crouched on the hem of his cloak.
Marcroy glanced around, but the Druids, the Celtic queen and her son were engrossed in the closing ceremony.

‘By
Danú
, you’d better have a good reason for seeking me out here,’ Marcroy hissed, lifting his foot and bringing it down sharply so the
Leipreachán
was pinned by his neck to the stone paving of the Druid circle.

The little man nodded, his eyes wide with fear.

Marcroy cursed softly, and turned his attention back to the Council. He wasn’t pleased by the outcome. Doing nothing until
Lughnasadh
was not what Marcroy had hoped for, and it was not enough to hold Jamaspa and the Brethren at bay. They wanted Darragh — and, by default, his missing brother in the other realm — disposed of as soon as possible.

Still, the Autumn equinox wasn’t that far away. They could wait, he supposed, until then.

The ceremony was likely to go on for some time yet. Marcroy took the opportunity to drop his kerchief and then squat down in the pretence of retrieving it — his foot still on Plunkett’s throat — to look the little
Leipreachán
in the eye.

‘If you’re back here in this realm,’ he whispered, ‘I can assume your companion returned with you safely?’

Plunkett nodded silently.

‘Your mission is accomplished?’

Plunkett squirmed uncomfortably, his face turning an interesting and not unpleasant shade of blue. The
Leipreachán
managed a strangled reply: ‘Of course,
tiarna
.’

‘Then why are you here?’ Marcroy hissed. He straightened, stepping a little harder on the
Leipreachán
’s throat. He looked around. The Druids were still giving thanks for everything from last night’s dinner to the very air they breathed. Only Torcán seemed to notice the
Leipreachán
under Marcroy’s boot, and he found it amusing, rather than cause for concern. At a nudge
from his mother, he turned back to repeating the prayers Farawyl was reciting.

Marcroy glanced down at Plunkett then joined in the prayers, ensuring all the deities were thanked. When the thanks were done, the circle full of Druids, led by Darragh, filed out of the stone circle and headed down the grassy slope toward the huge quartz-covered
Ráith
with its turf-covered roof that was
Sí an Bhrú
.

Marcroy waited until he was alone with his minion. He bent down, grabbed Plunkett by the throat and picked him up, holding the wriggling creature at arm’s length. ‘Why are you here bothering me, Plunkett? Is it because you failed me, and you wish to confess your ineptitude in the hopes of clemency?’

‘No, no!’ Plunkett gasped. ‘We did exactly what ye asked! I swear we did! We put him in a place he canna ever escape from,
tiarna
, I promise ye!’

There was an edge of panic in the
Leipreachán
’s voice that worried Marcroy. This was not the report of an underling proud of what he had achieved. This was the panicked whining of failure and repentance. ‘What happened?’ he demanded.

‘I did what ye said,’ Plunkett was desperate to point out. ‘Exactly as ye asked. We found him. It took months, but we found him. And I came up with a plan. I found a way for the mongrel to put the lad away and, when we got back, I went straight back home to Breaga. Just like ye ordered me to.’

‘Then what’s the problem?’ The irritating creature wasn’t sweating undiluted fear because he’d done exactly as ordered. Something had gone wrong and Marcroy was in no mood for a drawn-out narrative.

‘Ye told me to report anythin’ unusual, once I be home.’

‘And …’ Marcroy prompted.

‘I saw him. In Breaga.’

‘Saw who?’

‘Darragh,’ Plunkett said. ‘I saw him meeting with Ciarán and Sorcha. They be meeting in a shepherd’s hut outside the village. I figured that was unusual enough that ye need to know about.’

Marcroy frowned. What was Sorcha doing in Breaga? She was a complication he didn’t need. For that matter, what business did Ciarán have in the remote coastal town? Or Darragh? ‘When did you see them?’

‘No more’n a few hours ago.’

Marcroy shook the
Leipreachán
. Hard. ‘That’s not possible. Darragh is here.’

‘I swear,
tiarna
, it’s as true as me hangin’ here,’ Plunkett insisted.

Marcroy wanted to disbelieve him. But he knew Plunkett well enough to know that only fear of his master’s wrath, should this sighting
not
be reported, would bring Plunkett O’Bannon willingly within Marcroy’s reach now his debt was paid.

Had Darragh sneaked out? Was that why the boy seemed so smug at the start of the Council? He had supposedly spent the last few nights with Brydie.

‘Breaga, you say?’ Marcroy asked. It was an insignificant little coastal hamlet. What were two powerful warriors doing there, meeting with Darragh?

Plunkett nodded.

Marcroy eased his hold around the
Leipreachán
’s neck. ‘Show me,’ he said. ‘Show me what you saw in Breaga.’

Trása’s summons to visit her uncle, Marcroy Tarth, arrived via
Leipreachán
. Although he could have called her using any one of the numerous shallow pools that collected moisture among the branches, he sent Plunkett O’Bannon, that irritating little
sídhe
Trása had been so glad to see the end of when she returned to her own reality.

The
Leipreachán
appeared on the wide branch outside her mother’s dwelling, and began knocking with his
shillelagh
. Trása emerged, poking her head out to see what the racket was about. She’d thought it might be Éamonn, her mother’s pet artist, who was prone to artistic tantrums when he feared his inspiration was fading.

Her heart skipped a beat when she saw Plunkett.

‘Is my uncle back?’ she asked, tying an iridescent, finely woven spider-silk shawl around her body. Although it was common, here in
Tír Na nÓg
, to shed her human inhibitions and the need to cover her body, she’d not spent so long back home that nakedness came easily to her in front of strangers.

‘Aye,’ the little man grumbled unhappily. ‘And he wants to see ye.’

Trása couldn’t hide her smile. ‘I can’t wait to tell him what we did.’

‘Aye,’ the
Leipreachán
agreed, in a tone that was anything but enthusiastic. ‘It’s going to be a thing to behold, I can promise ye that.’

Trása looked at him oddly. Plunkett seemed flustered. His coat was rumpled, his hat awry and he was definitely out of sorts.

‘Where is he?’

‘Where’s who?’

‘My uncle, of course.’

‘Oh … ye’re to come with me.’

‘To where?’ she asked. ‘Is he here? In
Tír Na nÓg
?’

Plunkett shrugged. ‘He’s waiting for ye. Somewhere else.’

It was not unusual for Marcroy Tarth to be cagey about his movements, partly to avoid his own kind from bothering him, and partly because he liked to seem mysterious. Trása smiled in anticipation of their meeting. Her achievement had no parallel in her world. She had been to another realm — one where she had only her wits to rely on — and she had found the missing Undivided twin. More importantly, she had made certain he could never come home.

After a lifetime of not quite fitting anywhere — neither in the human world of her father nor among the magical beings of her mother’s people — Trása was looking forward to a reward that would elevate her in the eyes of the
Tuatha Dé Danann.
Once word of her feat got about, she would be revered — she was certain — rather than looked upon with pity and disdain as the unfortunate consequence of the union between a dismal human and a careless Faerie muse.

Despite her mongrel heritage, Trása was a child of relative wealth and privilege in both the human and Faerie worlds. But she hungered to be accepted by either her mother’s or her father’s people — and she didn’t care which — with an ache that sometimes made her feel hollow inside.

‘Is it far?’ she asked, unable to dampen her enthusiasm, even in front of a
Leipreachán
. Trása glanced around the surrounding trees. Above her, other
sídhe
went about their business without sparing her a glance. Beneath them, in the branches housing less well-connected
sídhe
, they knew better than to look up or give the impression they were spying on, or judging, their betters.

‘I told you, already. He’s not here in
Tír Na nÓg
, if that’s what ye’re not-so-subtly asking,’ Plunkett told her grumpily, leaning on his
shillelagh
. ‘I’m to take ye to him. Ye’ll need a cloak.’

So Marcroy was somewhere in the human world, Trása concluded. Some place where the vagaries of wind and weather ruled. Somewhere unlike the pleasant, warm confines of
Tír Na nÓg.
Somewhere cold.

‘Mother thought Marcroy was at
Sí an Bhrú
,’ Trása remarked, turning into the hollowed-out part of the trunk that made up the only room of her mother’s residence. She bent down and threw open the trunk where she kept the few material possessions she owned.
Had Plunkett heard the catch in her voice?
she wondered, as she rifled through the trunk. Could he tell how desperately she wanted to go to
Sí an Bhrú
? How much she wanted to see Darragh again?

‘Aye, Marcroy was there,’ Plunkett agreed, looking about nervously.

It wasn’t the height of the branches that frightened him, Trása guessed, as she found what she was looking for. She stepped back out onto the branch and shook out the dark woollen cloak embroidered around the hem with gold knot-work that had been folded at the bottom of the trunk. Plunkett’s nervousness was probably fear of running into one of the queen’s cousins:
sídhe
like her mother, who were notoriously intolerant of the lesser
sídhe
and who weren’t averse to kicking them off their branches, if they thought the smaller creatures had outstayed their welcome.

Not that the fall would kill the little
Leipreachán
, of course, but the sudden stop when he hit the ground a hundred feet below them would undoubtedly be very unpleasant.

‘But he’s not at
Sí an Bhrú
now?’ Trása asked.

‘He’s in Breaga,’ the
Leipreachán
said.

‘What’s he doing there?’ Trása didn’t really expect an answer. She was compelled to obey her uncle. He wasn’t compelled to explain anything to her. But she had been to Breaga a number of times, and she couldn’t imagine what Marcroy was doing there. The rude village had little to commend it, although it was rumoured that the stone circle there could open a reality rift with relative ease due to its proximity to the ocean.

‘Ye can ask him yourself when we get there,’ Plunkett said.

‘Ask who what, dear?’

Trása looked up in time to see her mother floating down from the branches above. Naked and elegant, Elimyer seemed to glow and the lightness of her descent meant she had fed recently and well.

‘Marcroy wants to see me,’ Trása explained. She glanced around looking for Éamonn.

‘Say hello to my brother for me, won’t you, dearest?’ Elimyer said, as she gently touched down beside her daughter. She fondly cupped Trása’s cheek, the magic tingling on her skin at her mother’s touch.

‘I will. You look well sated,’ Trása remarked with a frown. It was unusual to see her mother like this. Had she been human, Trása would have thought her drunk. In a way, she was. But she was drunk on magic, and it was so much magic Trása could feel it in Elimyer’s touch. Rarely, unless they were out working a battlefield, had Trása seen her mother like this.

They’d visited quite a few battles since she’d been sent to live in
Tír Na nÓg.
With Trása’s
Beansídhe
senses able to identify who was about to die, she could point out the vulnerable lives to
the
leanan sídhe
. Her mother, and sometimes her similarly gifted aunts, were able to suck dying soldiers’ life force from them in such a way that the man passed away in bliss and the
leanan sídhe
were able to feed without seeking out a commitment from a human which might — if one was not careful — result in a mongrel child. Like Trása.

It had been a while, though. Not since that border skirmish last year between the O’Flahertys and the O’Malleys had she seen her mother so intoxicated.

Elimyer smiled. ‘I am sated, daughter. I am filled with life.’

Oh shit
, Trása thought. ‘Whose life, mother?’

‘The boy’s … what was his name?’

‘Éamonn?’

‘Yes,’ she said, with a wistful smile. ‘He was so pretty. So talented.’

‘Then why did you kill him?’

‘He was much too demanding, darling,’ Elimyer said with a shrug. ‘Much too clingy.’

‘You made him that way,’ Trása pointed out, wishing now that she’d said something to the young man. Perhaps she should have warned him he was about to die.

And perhaps he wouldn’t have believed her. He certainly wouldn’t have expected his doom to come from the hand of the muse he imagined he was in love with.

‘It’s of no matter,’ Elimyer said. ‘He’s gone now.’ Her smile faded as she noticed Plunkett. ‘What are
you
staring at, creature?’

Plunkett dropped to his knees, threw his
shillelagh
down and bowed his head. ‘I bring a message for the mongrel,
an Banphrionsa
.’

Trása frowned, but her mother didn’t seem bothered by Plunkett’s description. She was more concerned that her tree was being invaded by a lesser
sídhe
.

‘And you dare deliver it here?’

‘The message is from your brother,
an Banphrionsa
.’

Elimyer was so full of Éamonn’s life force that she couldn’t maintain her irritation very long. ‘Ah, well, if the message is from Marcroy …’ She turned and floated across to a nearby tree, where one of her sisters lived.

‘And they reckon the
Leipreachán
can’t hold their magic,’ she heard Plunkett mutter, as he picked up his
shillelagh
and climbed to his feet.

‘You watch your tongue, Plunkett O’Bannon,’ Trása warned. ‘I could easily tell my uncle of your disrespect, you know.’

‘Ye tell him anything ye want, Trása,’ the little man responded. ‘Assuming he’ll listen to ye.’

‘Why wouldn’t he listen to me?’ Trása asked. There was something far too smug and insolent in the
Leipreachán
’s manner.

‘Wait ’til ye get to Breaga,’ the
Leipreachán
said, ‘then ye’ll see.’

With that Plunkett vanished into thin air, reappearing a few moments later on the lower branches of a neighbouring tree, and a few moments after that, even further away and almost out of sight. Cursing, Trása dropped her embroidered cloak, changed into the white owl shape she favoured, snatched up the cloak in her beak and followed Plunkett through the branches before she lost sight of him again, leaving only the spider-silk wrap lying puddled on the branch behind her, to let her mother know she was leaving.