Rónán slowed and turned to look at her curiously. ‘And where exactly is it that you come from?’
‘North.’
‘I come from the north, too,’ he said, as if he expected her to volunteer something further.
She smiled at him, refusing to take the bait. There was dropping hints, after all, and then there was giving the game away completely. She wasn’t ready to do that yet.
‘That’s where they found me,’ he added, when she didn’t answer. ‘In a lake up in County Donegal.’
That wasn’t what she’d heard. ‘They said on TV that you’d been found in Northern Ireland.’
‘Well, it’s north,’ he said. ‘They got that much right.’
‘Did your mother really save you from drowning like they said on TV?’ She had no doubt Rónán was Darragh’s twin brother, but by clearing this up now, Marcroy could never accuse her of not checking her facts once she returned home.
She even had a vague plan forming in the back of her mind about how she would carry out her orders so she could go home. But it worried her that Plunkett was following them. Things were going well. The last thing she needed was the Leipreachán taking matters into his own hands.
Rónán shook his head at her question. ‘Actually, it was one of the stunt men.’
By Danú, these people have some strange occupations. ‘What’s a stunt man?’
‘Seriously?’ he asked. ‘It’s someone who’s paid to dress the same as the actors in a movie and do the dangerous stuff. The insurance companies insist on them.’
Only about half of the sentence made sense to Trása, but she got the gist of it. ‘And it was her stunt man who found you?’
He nodded. ‘They were filming a scene where Kiva was supposed to be drowning. Needless to say, she wasn’t. She was tucked up nice and warm in her cabin on the production barge, having her Tarot cards read, probably.’
‘What happened to him?’
‘Who? The stunt man? He married Kiva’s cousin.’
‘That’s … nice.’ And convenient. Trása had no idea why her father had tossed Rónán through the rift at the exact point that he had, only that Marcroy had made him promise to ensure Rónán survived on the other side. From what she’d seen of Kiva Kavanaugh on TV, she doubted Amergin had intended her to become Rónán’s guardian, but it was possible there was something about the stunt man that made him special, a suspicion made even more likely given he was still in Rónán’s life. Not for the first time, Trása wished she’d been there when her father died. She would have given much to have questioned Amergin, before he passed on, about what he’d intended for the child he so callously tossed through a rift into an unknown realm.
Rónán shrugged as he walked along slowly, happier to talk about others than himself, it seemed. ‘Kerry was on set with Mum when Patrick dragged me out of the water. Kiva was certain I’d been sent by God — or whatever deity she was into at the time — so she decided to adopt me. Patrick kinda felt responsible for me, I think, so he started hanging around her trailer. That’s how he got to know Kerry. He had a kid the same age as me, that his first wife had just dumped on him, and one thing led to another … you know how it is.’
‘I see … and is he still a stunt-double man?’
Rónán shook his head. ‘No. He quit just after he and Kerry got married. Kerry used to worry about him getting hurt, I think, which is why Patrick gave it up. Mum hired him on as her chauffeur.’
‘That was nice of her.’
‘Yeah,’ Rónán said, with a faint smile. ‘I’m not sure if it was because of all that useful stunt-driver training he had, or because she figured with Patrick on the payroll, Kerry wasn’t going to up and leave her alone to fend for herself.’
‘So you know Patrick well?’
‘Closest thing I have to a father,’ he said. Rónán stopped walking and studied the swarm of cars parked further up the street. He frowned and took her hand again. This time he walked on the other side of her, and the hand holding hers was the hand with the triskalion. Trása could feel the faintest hint of the magic it could channel still lingering in the design, even here in this reality, where there was no magic to speak of. ‘Let’s walk on the other side of the road. With luck we might even get back to Jack’s place before anybody notices us.’
‘Is Patrick the one who named you Ren?’ she asked, as they stepped up to the kerb. Behind her, she heard leaves rustling in the branches of the leafy oak. Plunkett was still following them, she guessed. Don’t you dare let him see you, she warned the Leipreachán silently, knowing he couldn’t hear her, but wishing he could. She’d have a lot of explaining to do if Plunkett suddenly dropped out of a tree and landed at their feet.
She dragged her attention back to Rónán, who was shaking his head. ‘Ren was the only coherent thing I could say after Patrick dragged me out of the water.’ He glanced both ways and then, hand in hand, they jogged across the street to the path on the other side. Almost without thinking, Rónán moved to Trása’s right, placing her between him and the photographers further up the road, adding, ‘Kiva renamed me when I was officially adopted. My full legal name is Chelan Aquarius Kavanaugh.’
Trása wasn’t sure how to respond to that.
Rónán sighed at her silence. ‘I think Chelan is a Native American name meaning deep water, and Aquarius —’
‘Is Latin,’ Trása said. She knew that one. ‘The water bearer.’
‘It could have been worse,’ he said. ‘She could have named me Evian Perrier Kavanaugh.’
Trása waited, thinking there was more to his comment, but the joke went completely over her head. ‘So how is it everyone calls you Ren, if your name is really Chelan?’
‘I refused to answer to anything else. They gave up trying to call me Chelan in the end.’
‘Do you think Ren’s your real name?’ she asked, as she caught a flash of red tartan in the branches of the tree just ahead of them. ‘The one you’re supposed to have?’
He shrugged. ‘I don’t know. But at the very least, it’s way easier to spell than Chelan Aquarius.’
‘You don’t mind talking about this, do you?’ Trása was anxious to keep his attention on her. Plunkett was being very careless.
Rónán seemed unconcerned. He wasn’t paying attention to the movement in the trees ahead of them, but to the gauntlet of photographers they would soon have to run. ‘Not really. It’s no big secret, and to be honest, I don’t remember anything about it. I only know what I’ve been told.’
‘Don’t you ever wonder how you came to be in the water?’ Trása hoped she sounded curious rather than desperate to know the answer to that very important question. ‘Did they never find any clue as to how you came to be there?’
Rónán shook his head. ‘Not a thing. They assume I was on a boat with the rest of my family and it sank without a trace — even though they dredged the lake — because nobody even lodged a missing person complaint afterward, for me or anybody else.’
‘That’s so sad,’ Trása said, thinking the complete opposite, and a little sorry they were almost home. It had been a very enlightening conversation. She risked a glance at the tree. They were almost under it. She couldn’t see Plunkett. With luck he’d tired of them and had returned to the house to keep an eye on the old man.
‘My theory is they were crazy hippies who’d dropped out of society — hence the reason nobody reported them missing.’
‘Why would you think they were hippies?’
Rónán let her hand go and opened his left palm to reveal the triskalion tattoo she’d been able to feel, but not examine closely. There was not the remotest chance this wasn’t the Rónán she was looking for.
‘Who else would tattoo a baby like this?’
Fortunately, Trása didn’t have to pretend she couldn’t answer his question. Their walk had brought them past the tree where Plunkett had been lurking and almost opposite the high locked gates of Rónán’s house. So far, the photographers weren’t paying any attention t
o them. To the waiting paparazzi — who’d barely glanced at the couple on the other side of road — they probably seemed nothing more than local kids out for a walk on a bright summer afternoon. Their quarry — as far as the paparazzi knew — was still safely holed up inside the house and their long lenses were pointed in that direction, while they talked and joked among themselves, waiting for something to happen.
‘Keep your face turned away,’ Rónán advised, as they drew level with the crowd of photographers gathered around the gates on the other side of the road. They were mostly men, but there were one or two women, as well as a couple of American tourists hoping for an autograph, if their loud shirts and sandals worn over socks were anything to go by. Rónán thrust his hands deep into the pockets of his jeans, hunched his shoulders and lowered his head, making himself as inconspicuous as possible.
Across the road, Trása could hear someone’s phone ringing. A few moments later, she heard the photographers ribbing the recipient of the call. It was his wife calling, she gathered, demanding he pick up some milk on the way home.
Then two things happened almost simultaneously. The gates of the Kavanaugh house began to swing inwards.
And somebody called Ren’s name.
It was like throwing a crust of bread into a flock of seagulls. The photographers began simultaneously pushing and shoving, to see who was coming out of the Kavanaugh estate, and looking around for Rónán.
But it wasn’t a paparazzo who’d called Ren’s name, Trása realised, it was Plunkett.
What was he thinking?
Trása looked around for the Leipreachán but couldn’t see him. Across the street, however, was a girl of about sixteen or seventeen with dark hair pulled up into a ponytail and features so familiar that for a moment, Trása was rendered speechless. The girl was standing near Jack’s driveway, waving to them, and shouting something Trása couldn’t make out. Then a sleek silver BMW appeared behind the opening gates of the Kavanaugh house.
‘Oh, crap,’ Rónán said, with a panicked look. ‘That’s Murray’s car. I thought he’d left hours ago.’
‘Who’s that girl?’
‘Hayley,’ he explained. ‘Shit … Neil must have said something about me leaving. Come on,’ he added, grabbing Trása’s hand. ‘We’re gonna have to run for it.’
‘There he is!’ one of the photographers cried.
At the cry, the paparazzi went into a frenzy. Half of them were determined to get a shot of whoever was in the car, while the rest set off after Rónán. They were tripping over each other, calling out Ren’s name, yelling questions about who Trása might be, and where his mother was. They shouted and shoved, flashbulbs exploding with painful light. The driver of the BMW leant on the horn, and gunned the engine threateningly as he forced his way through the pack.
I am going to kill you, Plunkett, Trása promised herself silently. As slowly and as painfully and as many times as I can manage. She couldn’t see the Leipreachán, but she could feel him nearby.
Trása didn’t have time to wonder why Plunkett had alerted the photographers to Rónán’s presence. All she could do was hang on to Rónán as they ran, only a few steps ahead of the mob. Unfortunately, they were trapped on the wrong side of the street, making it impossible to return to either Rónán’s, or Jack’s, house.
Hayley saw their dilemma. Still waving and calling out to Rónán — as if there was anything she could do to rescue him — she ran across the road toward them.
Trása felt it before it happened. Whether or not there was magical power in this realm, she was still half-Beansídhe. She knew when someone was about to die.
The dread washed over her and instinctively she stopped, forcing Rónán, who was still holding her hand, back onto the kerb just as the BMW suddenly accelerated forward, slamming into Hayley, throwing her in the air like a rag doll.
CHAPTER 16
The day dragged for Darragh, made worse by the wound in his side that suddenly seemed to get worse as midday approached, making him double over with the pain. By the time the queen of the Celts and her party arrived at dusk with Marcroy Tarth — who was inexplicably unaccompanied by any other sídhe — it had subsided, somewhat, and then, miraculously, just as the evening’s festivities were getting underway, the pain faded away completely.
Darragh smiled, and not just because of the relief. He knew what the pain meant. The pain he felt wasn’t his, he realised. And that filled him with a sense of giddy anticipation.
Unfortunately, his smile coincided with his introduction to one of Álmhath’s countless court maidens. Everybody in the hall immediately took his delighted smile to mean he found her pleasing, and without causing the young woman enormous shame and embarrassment by saying otherwise, Darragh had no choice but to play along.
Not that the maiden wasn’t lovely to look at. She was his age — perhaps a year or two older — with a mass of thick dark curls that tumbled down to her waist, wide blue eyes framed by long dark lashes, a sprinkling of pale freckles across her creamy skin and a smile that hinted at a sense of mischief. She curtseyed low as the queen introduced them, meeting his eye in a manner suggesting that, far from being awed or frightened of him, she was enchanted.
‘I don’t believe you’ve met my court maiden, Brydie Ni’Seamus, Leath tiarna,’ Álmhath said, watching Darragh closely. ‘She’s Mogue Ni’Farrell’s daughter.’
Darragh tried to wipe the smile off his face, but it was too late. The damage was done. ‘I’ve not had the pleasure, an Bhantiarna.’ He’d heard of Mogue Ni’Farrell, a legendary beauty to whom Amergin, in his day, had composed more than one popular ode celebrating her magnificence.
‘She’s pretty enough to be one of the Daoine sídhe,’ Marcroy remarked from his seat further down the table — a high compliment indeed from the Tuatha lord. ‘Are you sure your Mogue was faithful to her husband, Álmhath?’
Darragh expected Álmhath to explode at the suggestion but, rather than take offence, the queen of the Celts laughed aloud. ‘If you knew my prudish little friend Mogue well, tiarna, you’d wonder not that she might have lain with a sídhe, but how she came to lie with any man at all.’
That was an odd thing for Álmhath to say …
Regrettably, Darragh was still smiling — it was hard not to — so he leant forward and offered Brydie his hand. ‘Do not listen to them, my lady. Your beauty is all your own.’
That’s done it, good and proper, Darragh thought, as Brydie rose to her feet, smiling at him with an open invitation. Quoting a line from one of Amergin’s epic love poems about her mother — however innocently — would have this girl in his bed by moonrise.
Any other time, that might not be a bad thing, but he had plans for the coming days, and they didn’t involve bedding the court maiden of the Celtic queen, no matter how enticing.
‘Why don’t you ask Brydie to join us, Darragh?’ Torcán suggested.
Darragh glanced at Torcán in surprise. The prince was sitting between his mother the queen, and his betrothed, Anwen. On the other side, Marcroy Tarth was leaning back in his seat nursing a cup, looking a little concerned. Torcán sipped his mead, feigning innocence, though not very effectively.
Darragh turned back to Brydie. Even without the Sight, he would have smelt the trap. Brydie was here to entice him and, in all likelihood, Torcán knew about it. He may have even been the one who suggested it.
Among the Tuatha, one never discussed business until the festivities were done, so there’d been no hint, until now, why Marcroy had asked for this meeting nor why Álmhath had agreed to be party to it. There was no good-mannered way for Darragh to inquire about the nature of their business, either, before the partying was finished. Darragh suspected it would be something frivolous. Some trivial matter that could have been handled by far lesser ranks than the lord of the Mounds, the queen of the Celts and the Undivided.
But perhaps this wasn’t about treaties. Perhaps this was about getting a pretty girl, who owed her loyalty to someone othe
r than the Druids, into the bed of a young man too blinded by desire to care that she might be a spy.
What have I ever done to make these people think I’m so stupid?
‘I think that’s a wonderful idea,’ Darragh said. Two can play this game. He turned to Colmán. ‘Have another place set for the Lady Brydie, my lord Vate.’
‘No need to go to any trouble,’ Marcroy told the Vate with an oily smile. ‘There’s already an empty place right next to Darragh. Lady Brydie can sit there, can’t she?’
Silence descended on the hall as every eye expectantly turned to Darragh. The empty place Marcroy was referring to was Rónán’s place; the place that had remained vacant for the past fifteen years, waiting for Darragh’s brother to return.
Darragh understood, now, what introducing him to Brydie was about. Forcing Darragh into making this very public gesture was one way of having him admit, in front of his own people, the Celts and the Tuatha Dé Danann, that the power of the Undivided was broken.
If he allowed Brydie to take Rónán’s seat, he would be telling the whole world his brother was lost forever. But what would such an acknowledgement achieve? While Rónán lived, even though he wasn’t in this realm, the power still flowed to the Druids through the twins, and if they killed Darragh, Rónán — wherever he was — would die too. That would render the Druids powerless …
Of course. This wasn’t about the Undivided. This was about Álmhath’s resentment of the Druids. She was queen of the Celts but it was the Druids who made the laws, recorded history and, in many ways, ruled her kingdom. She was an absolute monarch, but the Druid sorcerers and bards who roamed her kingdom had the power to overrule her, and quite often did.
Not being a Druid, she had no real concept of how the destruction of their magical power would decimate them and their world. Or perhaps she did.
Marcroy Tarth, on the other hand … what would he get out of this? The sacred nature of Tuatha law meant he could never knowingly break the Treaty of Tír Na nÓg, which guaranteed the sharing of Daoine sídhe magic with humans. But if the treaty became irrelevant because there were no more Undivided to bear the power-sharing burden? Yes, Darragh could see Marcroy embracing such a plan with great enthusiasm.
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