‘Danú bring peace to the north,’ she chanted. ‘Danú bring peace to the east. Danú bring peace to the south. Danú bring peace to the west. Danú bring wisdom and peace to the Undivided.’
Darragh didn’t answer her. No response was required. But he flexed his hands at his side, the only indication that he might have been even a little nervous.
Farawyl lifted her mask, so that she could look at Darragh. ‘You have been missed, Leath tiarna.’
CHAPTER 39
‘Have you been to many other realities?’ Ren asked, as the four of them emerged from the shepherd’s hut into a misty sunrise. ‘You know … where the Dark Ages actually … finished?’
Brógán shook his head at the incomprehensible question, and then headed over to the dead cook-fire to see if he could stoke some life into it. Ren stretched appreciatively, glad to be out of the close and smelly confines of the hut. Both Ciarán and Sorcha made for the nearby bushes to relieve themselves. Ren supposed he ought to do the same. The rain had stopped sometime during the night and the early morning chill was making his breath steam as he spoke. He took a step forward and tripped over something in front of the hut — he recoiled in horror when he realised it was a dead body.
‘Christ! The werewolves are still here!’
Brógán looked up from the fire. ‘What did you expect? Phantoms to spirit them away during the night?’
Ren hadn’t thought about it. Gingerly, he stepped a little closer to examine the body. The pale creature was naked and filthy, with matted hair so fouled it was impossible to tell what colour it might once have been. The body had leaked fluid overnight. The creature’s loins were soiled and the tips of its fingers and toes were purpled with pooling blood. Its mottled ears were pointed, as were the small teeth visible through its partially open mouth. It was the creature’s eyes, however, that drove home to Ren how alien it was. They were open, staring at nothingness, but even in death they displayed an unusual golden sheen and a vertical iris reminiscent of a cat’s eye. Ren poked at the dead Faerie with his foot. It felt solid and real and stank like a cesspit; not otherworldly at all.
‘Is that a ritual in the place you come from?’ Sorcha asked, coming up to stand beside him. ‘Kicking the corpse of your enemy after he is slain?’
‘Bit hard to kick his corpse before he’s slain,’ Ren remarked, regretting the words almost as soon as he uttered them. It was comments like this that used to get him in trouble in his weekly sessions with Murray Symes.
Sorcha glared at him. ‘In this realm, you will be required to show respect for the dead, Leath tiarna. Even dead enemies.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Ren said, genuinely contrite. ‘I’ve got plenty of respect for the dead. It’s just …’ He glanced around at the other bodies. ‘Well … this is all pretty new to me. I’m still trying to get my head around the whole alternate reality, long-lost brother thing. I’m not sure I’m ready for live werewolves that turn into dead Faeries.’
Sorcha studied him for a moment, as if judging how sincere he was. Then she nodded. ‘You must have many questions, Leath tiarna.’
Ren nodded. ‘That’s something of an understatement.’
Suddenly all business, she slapped his arm with the back of her hand and pointed to the nearest corpse. ‘You can ask them while we’re cleaning up. Ciarán has gone to hunt us up some fresh meat. After the rain last night Brógán will be a while getting the fire alight, even using magic. It would not do for the Tuatha to stumble across these bodies.’
‘They attacked us,’ Ren pointed out, wondering what ‘cleaning up’ entailed. He was already feeling queasy.
Sorcha stepped over to the corpse and grasped its ankles. ‘Never fear, Leath tiarna. A few dead bodies won’t spoil your appetite.’
‘I’m glad you think so,’ Ren muttered, mostly to himself as he bent down and grabbed the corpse under the armpits. He helped Sorcha carry the surprisingly light body away from the hut toward a flat spot a little further down the slope where the corpses could be burned.
It took them the better part of an hour to pile up the bodies and set them alight. Brógán used magic to light the fire. Ren wasn’t sure what that involved. One moment he was looking at a pile of dead bodies, the next the tattoo on his hand was tingling and the bodies were engulfed in flames as if they’d been soaked in gasoline.
‘So … which one of us is the evil twin, do you suppose?’ Ren asked, as he dropped to the damp ground beside the cook-fire. Breakfast proved to be freshly killed rabbit, which Ciarán skinned with the same ease Kerry Boyle might have displayed preparing a pack of instant noodles.
Brógán, Ciarán and Sorcha turned to stare at Ren. ‘Why do you assume one of you is evil?’ Sorcha asked.
‘I thought that was the way it worked … on TV your evil twin always comes from another reality.’
Brógán smiled. ‘In make-believe stories perhaps, Rónán. Here there is no evil. There is light and dark. Safe and dangerous.’
‘But not good and bad?’
‘Good and bad are intangibles,’ Sorcha said. She sucked on a rabbit bone to strip it of its meat. ‘They are points of view, not objects one can buy and sell at market.’
Ren was not sure he was ready for such a radical worldview. ‘Some things are evil,’ he said.
‘I’m sure deer think us killing them for food is the height of bad manners,’ Ciarán agreed. ‘Doesn’t make them any less tasty.’
‘Danú has granted us a world that requires balance,’ Brógán added. ‘Good requires evil in order that both may exist.’
It was too early in the morning for philosophical discussions, Ren decided. There were other, more practical considerations to be dealt with. Things that had kept him awake most of the night, as Ciarán snored and Sorcha tossed and turned, muttering softly in a language Ren didn’t understand. ‘When can I go home?’
‘Darragh will be able to tell us when he returns from Sí an Bhrú,’ Ciarán said. ‘There are political considerations that make your return an event requiring careful management.’
Ren looked at the big warrior in confusion. ‘Political considerations? What political considerations? They’re just going to think I’ve lost my marbles when I get back and tell them I’ve been to another reality. That’s not political. It’s just something likely to get me prescribed psychotropic medication and a nice long stay in a padded cell.’
Ciarán and Sorcha exchanged an odd look before the big warrior responded. ‘You won’t be returning to the reality where Brógán and Niamh found you, Rónán,’ he said with a frown. ‘This is your home. This is where you belong. You are home.’
Ren stared at him for a long moment. ‘Are you serious?’
‘Of course,’ Ciarán replied, as if surprised by the question. ‘Why would I joke about such a thing?’
‘No frigging way!’ Ren exclaimed, jumping to his feet. ‘I’m stuck here?’
‘Stuck would imply you have no desire to be here,’ Sorcha said, wiping her hands on her trousers as she rose to her feet. In daylight, the warrior seemed more unlikely than she had last night. Her frame was so slight, she looked like a strong wind might carry her away.
‘Why would I want to be here?’ Ren asked, shaking his head. He pointed to the pile of burning corpses, and the black smoke being carried away from their campsite on the cool morning breeze. ‘So far I’ve been kidnapped, knocked unconscious, dragged to a world apparently populated by insane Faeries who want to eat me whenever there’s a full moon, and little old ladies who behave like Xena, the Warrior Princess. I’ve been attacked by werewolves and briefly met some kid who may or may not be my evil twin. Exactly which part of that sales pitch is supposed to have me signing up for the full tour of duty?’
Brógán climbed to his feet and stood beside Ren, holding his hand out as if to comfort him. ‘Rónán … it will be all right …’
‘How will it be all right?’ Ren demanded, taking a step backwards. ‘Hayley’s lying in a coma while we sit here
mulling over the philosophical differences between good and evil. Meanwhile, there’s a dozen or so dead bodies over there, being cremated as we speak, and you lot are sitting here like it’s an everyday occurrence, enjoying breakfast. This isn’t funny any more. I want to go home.’
‘You are home,’ Ciarán repeated. ‘Accept it.’
‘Get fucked,’ Ren said in English, not knowing the Gaelige equivalent. He turned on his heel and stalked away from the fire and hut, heading east, thinking he’d return to the village. If he couldn’t find someone there to help him, well, there was always a stone circle. Darragh had used the circle to appear out of nowhere. If he and Darragh truly were magically linked, perhaps from there, Ren could find his way home.
He’d not taken more than three steps before the big bearded warrior blocked his way. Ciarán may not have known exactly what Ren said to him, but he certainly got the sentiment and, apparently, he could move like a ninja.
‘You may not like what the future holds for you, Leath tiarna,’ he said unsympathetically, his hands on his hips, ‘but that is your burden, and how light or heavy it becomes is entirely up to you. You are here and you will do what you were born to do, or I will see to it myself that you live to regret your reluctance.’
Ren stared at him in surprise. ‘What are you going to do, tough guy? Break my legs?’
‘If I have to.’
Ren realised that Ciarán wasn’t joking.
The trouble was, neither was he. Ren smiled, hoping reason would work where cussing and bravado had failed. ‘Look, big fella, I appreciate you’re thrilled you’ve found Darragh’s long-lost twin, but I have a life, dude, and it ain’t here.’ The impact of his appeal was somewhat lost by the fact that he made it in English, a language only Brógán understood.
‘He is asking for consideration of his previous life,’ Brógán translated. ‘It’s not an unreasonable request, I suppose.’
‘What does he expect us to do?’ Sorcha asked Brógán, glaring at Ren. ‘We can’t let him go back.’
‘I have a family in my reality,’ Ren reminded them, speaking their language again. ‘My best friend is lying in a coma, and I’m stuck here with …’ He stopped and stared at Brógán for a moment, as something occurred to him. ‘Jesus! You could fix her!’
‘What?’ all three of them asked simultaneously.
‘You could fix her!’ Ren repeated. ‘You guys … you could magic her up and she’d be fine.’
Brógán shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, Rónán, it’s not possible.’
‘Why not?’
‘There is no magic left in your realm.’
‘But you are a healer!’
‘No, magic is a natural force,’ he explained.
But Ren was excited by the idea that Hayley could be magically healed. The sight of her lying in that hospital bed, her head bandaged, tubes sticking out of her, haunted him. He still felt responsible. If these Druids could take him back … he could heal her …
‘Magic … the magic we use … is an elemental force,’ Brógán said. ‘It’s tied to the Daoine sídhe and the life force of all growing things. In your world, so many of your forests and rivers have been destroyed, there is only a small vestige of the magic left. The lands of the sídhe have been destroyed. There’s barely enough magic left in your realm to sustain a Leipreachán.’
‘But you crossed into my reality with magic, didn’t you?’ Ren pointed out. ‘How did you get back?’
‘The rifts were opened from this side,’ Ciarán said.
Ren stopped listening for a moment as he realised he couldn’t get home unless someone opened a rift for him.
‘Then why don’t you bring her back here?’ he asked. ‘You could bring her to this reality, heal her with magic, and then send her home once she’s fixed.’ And I could go with her. Back to the world where my nightmare is just that … a disturbing nightmare that can be medicated away … not a glimpse of the future.
Brógán glanced at the others before conceding the point. ‘Well … theoretically, I suppose …’
‘Then you’re going to have to do it,’ Ren said, crossing his arms. ‘You want me and my twin to rule your world, or whatever it is the Undivided do? Fine. You do something for me first.’
Sorcha shook her head. ‘The Undivided do not rule the world, Leath tiarna. And even if they did, your brother will never agree to such a bargain.’
Ciarán, however, didn’t seem so certain. ‘I fear, my lady, this is Darragh’s brother,’ he reminded her. ‘It’s just the sort of harebrained lunacy that would appeal to him.’
That made perfectly good sense to Ren. After all, if Darragh was his identical twin, they probably had a similar outlook on life. Of course, that might also mean that if Ren asked to go back to his own world, Darragh might know he wasn’t planning to come back. Or would he? Were they so similar?
‘Then it’s settled,’ he said, surprised at how easy it had been to win their agreement for something so potentially dangerous. He wondered vaguely how he was going to explain it all to Hayley when he saw her again. ‘You talk to my brother and magic up whatever it is you need to do to get us —’ He stopped abruptly as something moved around the corner of the hut.
‘What’s the matter?’ Sorcha asked, her hand on the hilt of her sword, instantly alert.
‘Nothing …’ Ren frowned. He squinted, trying to decide if he’d seen something real or just imagined it. ‘I thought I saw something, that’s all.’
‘What did you see?’ Ciarán asked, his knife already in his hand, looking around just as Sorcha was.
Ren shrugged, feeling a little foolish. ‘Really, it was nothing … just my imagination running away with me.’
‘Let us be the judge of that,’ Sorcha said. ‘What did you see?’
‘You’re going to think I’m crazy.’
‘We’ll probably think that anyway,’ Sorcha snapped. ‘What do you imagine you saw, Leath tiarna?’
Ren sighed, bracing himself for their derisive laughter. ‘I thought I saw a Leipreachán.’
Without a word Ciarán and Sorcha closed in on Ren like bodyguards on assassination watch. Alert, tense and facing outwards with Ren protectively between them.
‘Where?’ Sorcha demanded.
Ren was stunned. ‘Seriously?’
Brógán was looking around now, too, with a worried expression. ‘Where did you see the Leipreachán?’
‘Over by the hut,’ Ren said, staring at the Druids as if they were mad. ‘I thought I saw him ducking behind the wall …’
‘See what you can find, Brógán,’ Ciarán ordered.
Brógán hurried up the slope to the hut, holding a silver dagger at the ready.
‘Can you describe him?’ Sorcha asked.
‘Yeah … he looked like a Leipreachán.’
‘How did you know it was a Leipreachán? Have you ever seen one?’ Ciarán asked, glancing over his shoulder at Ren. Brógán had disappeared around the side of the hut. There was no other sound but for the soft rustle of a faint breeze in the trees.
‘Friend of mine had a toy one,’ Ren told them. ‘He looked just like —’
‘There’s nothing there,’ Brógán announced, appearing from the other side of the hut. ‘If it was a Leipreachán,’ the Druid added, walking toward them, ‘he would have vanished the moment he realised Rónán spotted him.’
Sorcha and Ciarán relaxed a little and turned to each other.
‘What do you think, an Bhantiarna?’ Ciarán asked Sorcha, calling her ‘my lady’. ‘Can we risk it?’
Sorcha shook her head. ‘Breaga’s a known haunt for Leipreachán. In fact, I can’t think of a worse place to use as a safe haven, if you’re trying to avoid any of the lesser sídhe. Those wretched weremen should have proven that last night.’
Ciarán nodded, apparently in agreement with the warrior, and then he turned to Ren. ‘You said the sídhe looked like something you knew. What was it?’
‘You’re gonna think I’
m crazy.’
‘If he says that one more time,’ Sorcha complained, ‘I’ll run him through myself.’
Ren took a step back, a little alarmed by Sorcha’s vehemence.
‘I have a friend,’ he explained. ‘Back in my reality. Her name is Trása and she has this creepy Leipreachán doll called Plunkett …’ His voice trailed off as he noticed their incredulous expressions. ‘Now what?’
‘Trása?’ Ciarán asked in a strangled voice. ‘You have a friend named Trása?’
He nodded. ‘So?’
‘Describe her,’ Sorcha ordered.
‘Um … about yay-high, pretty, really long blonde hair.’
‘How long have you known her, Rónán?’ Brógán asked, looking positively nauseous.
‘A few days.’ He studied the three of them. ‘Do you guys know her, or something? You’re all staring at me like I’ve started spewing pea soup and I’m about to do a three-sixty with my head.’
None of them understood what he was talking about and they didn’t seem interested. Sorcha turned to Ciarán. ‘Darragh needs to know this. And we need to move Rónán.’
‘The little sídhe bastard is probably reporting to Marcroy as we speak.’ Ciarán nodded in agreement and then turned to Brógán. ‘Why didn’t you tell us about this?’
‘I didn’t know, Ciarán,’ he said, clearly worried about something. ‘I swear, we saw no sign of any sídhe in the other realm. They’re not supposed to be able to survive there.’
‘Fullbloods couldn’t,’ Sorcha agreed. ‘But Trása’s a mongrel. And there might be enough magic left in the other realm to sustain a Leipreachán.’
‘Trása’s a Faerie?’ Ren asked.
Ciarán turned on Ren angrily, towering over him. ‘Trása Ni’Amergin is the mongrel get of the leanan sídhe, Elimyer and the bard, Amergin, the worst traitor the Druids have ever spawned. If you have befriended her, Leath tiarna, and if you should wish to keep that friendship over allegiance to your own kind, then it would be quicker and easier if I give you my sword so you may fall on it now, and save us the trouble of executing you for treason.’
The Undivided Page 28