The Undivided

by Jennifer Fallon; Jennifer Fallon

  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.

  CHAPTER 43

  ‘My lord Ciarán! You’re back!’ Colmán exclaimed.

  Darragh looked up at the Vate’s exclamation, just as surprised to see Ciarán striding into the hall as Colmán. Darragh was both grateful for the interruption and bothered by it. He was grateful, because in addition to bringing Ciarán up-to-date on what had happened this morning at the Druid Council, Colmán was driving him mad with his latest epic detailing the momentous and historical events of the meeting. The bard was having particular difficulty finding words to rhyme with Cairbré, and wanted Darragh’s opinion on each verse as he composed it.

  He had never missed the eloquent Amergin more.

  Darragh hadn’t yet had the time to figure out what he was going to do about the Council’s decision to kill him and his brother as soon as it was deemed convenient. Nor had he been able to reconcile the events that were happening around him with what he knew to be his vision of the future. Ciarán’s arrival meant the opportunity to share his uncertainty with the one person he trusted to give him sage advice.

  He was bothered, however, because only the most dire news would have taken Ciarán away from his charge to protect Rónán at all costs.

  ‘I’m not officially back, Lord Vate,’ Ciarán said, forcing a smile that Darragh could tell was false. He pushed past the servants who were carrying out the extra tables that had been set up for the Celtic queen and the visitors from Tír Na nÓg. Marcroy Tarth was nowhere to be seen, and Álmhath had left Sí an Bhrú after the meeting, taking her annoying son, Torcán, and his fiancée with her.

  Darragh didn’t know if Brydie had left with them, or was still waiting for him in his rooms.

  ‘I … er … just had some … weapons I wanted to pick up,’ Ciarán muttered.

  Darragh cringed. Could Ciarán not have thought up a more imaginative excuse? But Colmán didn’t seem to find the pretext at all strange. It was probably because he didn’t understand warrior Druids as a caste. To him, Druids and fighters were mutually exclusive professions. He considered Ciarán — who was both a gifted magician and a fabled warrior — to be a paradox. He was never certain how to deal with him.

  The Vate stroked his forked beard, his brow furrowed. ‘Whatever the reason, I am glad you’re here, Ciarán. You must talk some sense into Lord Darragh.’

  ‘Is he doing something foolish?’

  ‘He is being unreasonable.’

  Ciarán glanced at Darragh. ‘How so?’

  ‘The Vate fears I am not accepting my death sentence with sufficient equanimity, I fear,’ Darragh told him in a voice laden with irony. A couple of passing servants glanced at him, looking a little worried. Darragh realised he probably shouldn’t make comments like that in public, but then … a bard dogged his every step in order to chronicle his life. Nothing he said in Sí an Bhrú was ever truly private.

  The warrior’s eyes widened. ‘Death sentence?’ he asked.

  ‘Marcroy Tarth has found our Undivided heirs,’ Colmán explained, wringing his hands. ‘Lord Darragh, rather than see this as a positive event, thinks there is a plot afoot to murder him.’

  ‘I’ve missed much while I’ve been away,’ Ciarán remarked, looking at Darragh curiously. ‘Might I have a word in private with you, Leath tiarna?’

  ‘If you have matters to discuss of import with the Undivided,’ Colmán said, ‘then I should be there.’

  ‘This is a personal matter,’ Ciarán said. Darragh understood immediately that Ciarán wanted to discuss Rónán. The hall was not the place for any such discussion. It was always possible the Tuatha had spies among the servants at Sí an Bhrú. For most of Darragh’s life, the Vate of All Eire, the most trusted Druid in the whole world, had been Marcroy Tarth’s agent.

  But to go outdoors was arguably more dangerous, because one never knew if a vole or a fieldmouse was in fact a sídhe sent to listen in on mortal conversations. ‘A problem involving my affairs, not the Leath tiarna’s.’

  Colmán frowned, afraid he might miss something important.

  ‘It’s fine,’ Darragh assured him. ‘You need to work on your epic, anyway. You can be sure Álmhath’s bard will be itching to present his version of the Council at the next feast we share with them. We cannot be outdone, now, can we?’

  The Vate nodded, suddenly more concerned about being overshadowed by a rival than he was about Darragh. ‘If you’re sure you don’t mind, Leath tiarna?’

  ‘Go with my blessing,’ Darragh said. ‘Do us proud, Vate.’

  Colmán hurried from the hall, his footsteps shuffling on the flagstones as he tucked his hands into his sleeves and began muttering to himself, probably still trying to find a word that rhymed with Cairbré.

  ‘Nothing like a bit of professional rivalry to get the creative juices flowing,’ Darragh remarked as the Vate walked away. He turned to Ciarán. ‘Let’s talk in my rooms.’

  They said nothing as they made their way through the labyrinthine halls of Sí an Bhrú toward Darragh’s private chamber. People stood back as they passed, some bowing or nodding a greeting. Many just looked away, aware that here was a young man with a life span that might be measured in days.

  As soon as they were behind the closed doors of his bedchamber, Darragh magically lit the lamps and cast his senses around the room to ensure there were no Daoine sídhe eavesdroppers disguised as mice or cockroaches. There was no sign of Brydie. She was gone for now, along with her clothes. Perhaps to find some lunch, or maybe to report to her queen. Another thing to worry about. Once he’d spoken to Ciarán, Darragh needed to find her. Darragh had unfinished business with Brydie Ni’Seanan.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ he asked. ‘Has something happened? Is Rónán all right?’

  ‘He’s fine,’ Ciarán said. ‘What in the name of Danú has been going on here?’

  ‘Colmán tells it true,’ Darragh said. ‘They’ve found another set of twins. It was proposed at a special Council today that the boys be branded at Lughnasadh and the transfer of power take place immediately.’

  Ciarán didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. The Druid warrior knew what that meant.

  ‘I am a victim of my own cleverness, I fear,’ Darragh added with a sigh, taking a seat on the edge of his bed. The faintest hint of Brydie’s scent lingered on the furs. ‘I was so busy setting things up for the dramatic return of my brother, I didn’t see what was coming.’

  Ciarán shook his head impatiently. ‘Didn’t you tell them Rónán is back? They wouldn’t even consider transferring the power if they realised the Undivided are whole once more.’

  ‘I said nothing.’

  ‘Why not?’

  Darragh shrugged. ‘I can’t say. I was going to. I thought the same as you. But then I caught the look on Marcroy’s face and knew I mustn’t.’

  ‘That’s a ridiculous excuse,’ the warrior said. ‘You go out there right now, you fool, demand they reconvene the Council and tell them we’ve found Rónán, that he’s back and the Undivided are restored. I’ll bri
ng him here. Today. We’ll put this nonsense about transferring the power to these new heirs to bed, once and for all.’

  Darragh shook his head. ‘There’s no need, Ciarán. I’ll be fine. They’re not going to kill me. But Rónán is at far too much risk if we bring him here unprepared. We stick to the original plan. I have to trust my Sight.’

  Ciarán snorted derisively. ‘If your Sight is so damned reliable, Leath tiarna, how come you didn’t see this coming?’

  Darragh still didn’t have an answer for that. He knew his visions though, and knew what they portended. ‘I have a recurring dream, Ciarán,’ he explained. ‘Actually, it’s more like a nightmare but in it, Rónán and I are grown men. We are arguing over the fate of two children — baby girls, although I don’t know their names. One of us thinks they have to die, the other wants to spare them.’

  ‘Which is which?’

  ‘I’ve never been really sure. And I have no idea who the babies are. I used to think perhaps they might be our heirs, but the heirs Álmhath is bringing here are boys, and they’re already seven years old.’

  ‘Then the vision is wrong.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Darragh said, frowning. ‘And I’m pretty sure Rónán has had the same dream, although I won’t know for certain until we share the Comhroinn.’

  ‘Which will be fine consolation, I’m sure,’ the warrior said, ‘as they take your power and you and your brother die an agonising death from the withdrawal.’

  ‘You’re missing the point, Ciarán,’ Darragh said, rising to his feet a little impatiently. ‘In my vision, Rónán and I are grown men. The dream takes place here, in Sí an Bhrú. We will not die on Lughnasadh. We will live long enough to fight over the fate of those children.’

  Ciarán shook his head, unsure of Darragh’s logic. He folded his arms across his chest, looking grim. ‘I think you’re a fool. I think you need to bring Rónán to Sí an Bhrú, let them know the Undivided are restored and let these newly discovered heirs be trained and allowed to grow to manhood in peace.’