The Dark Divide

by Jennifer Fallon

  CHAPTER 49

  Trása flew back to Shin Bungo in hawk form, and then changed into a cat after she landed on an isolated section of the wall out of sight of the people of the Ikushima compound.

  She was amazed at the difference a few days had made in the outside world. It was hard to keep track of the time in Tír Na nÓg but she hadn’t realised so much time had passed and that Lughnasadh was already almost over.

  The courtyard of the Ikushima compound was transformed. Gone was the pristine raked sand with its carefully laid-out pathways connecting the buildings, small and large, in an intricate, but functional design. Now there were huge rectangular akunoya tents covering the paths, housing the Empresses’ entourage, maybe even the displaced Ikushima clan. Trying to explain what to expect now the Empresses were still at Shin Bungo, the lesser Youkai had warned Trasa that the Empresses had probably taken over the family house, as was the custom among high-ranking officials. The common soldiery, the taiko drummers, the servants and the displaced family would be in these brightly coloured temporary shelters, or just bedded down wherever they could find a dry spot inside the walls. Complete with tatami floors, the wooden-framed tents looked plentiful enough for a small army. This army was dedicated to the care and comfort, as far as Trása could tell, of two spoiled little girls.

  There were six or seven of the akunoya, tall, decorative tents woven from brightly coloured silk, dwarfing the main house with its pretty upturned eaves and deep shaded verandas.

  Trása was both relieved and curious, not sure why the Empresses were still here in Shin Bungo when they were only a short trip through the rift to their capital, Nara, located faraway in Chu-cho-, which was what the lesser Youkai — and presumably the humans of this realm — called this reality’s version of Japan.

  It made no sense, Trása thought, as she morphed into feline form, that they would still be here for Higan No Chu-Nichi. According to the lesser Youkai, everyone in this realm was preparing to visit their family tombs at this time of year. In this realm the autumn equinox was a time for honouring ancestors and that’s where the Empresses should be — back home honouring their ancestors. Or maybe in Sweden or Gaul or somewhere, given their Nordic appearance. Celebrating the Higan and the end of the summer was a big event, the lesser Youkai claimed. It was something they would not want to miss.

  Puzzled, Trása jumped down from the wall, wondering what the evil little girls were up to. It was almost sunset, she saw with concern — or at least as much concern as she was capable of as a cat. She began to walk towards the largest tent, thinking that would be where she was most likely to find Rónán, assuming the Empresses hadn’t killed him already and were only still here because they hadn’t finished celebrating his demise.

  If he wasn’t there, she would have to try the main house, but she wasn’t sure what the reaction would be to a cat wandering inside. She might be able to roam about unobserved and unhindered, or someone might chase her away with a broom. Trása wasn’t sure and decided if she couldn’t find Rónán in the tents, she would stop and ponder the problem for a while, before doing anything rash. The smaller a creature one became, the harder and harder it got to retain the sense of one’s self. A seagull was about as small as Trása was prepared to go without someone to watch over her. She had just found a way to break the curse that kept her trapped as an owl in her own reality. She didn’t want to inadvertently trap herself in another animal form, just because there was nobody about to remind her of who she really was.

  ‘Atsusa samusa mo Higan made,’ the servants called to each other as they passed, rushing back and forth. Heat and cold last until Higan. She heard the phrase several times as she wove carefully between the tent pegs and the guy ropes securing the tents, and figured it was some sort of ritual greeting. Members of the Empresses’ entourage hurried to and fro carrying bunches of wildflowers, ewers of incense and trays of sticky round ohagi, the treat made from mochi — a glutinous rice pounded into a paste and then rolled into balls and covered with soybean flour or azuki bean paste, known as anko. The lesser Youkai in Tír Na nÓg had been anxious to educate Trása about their realm. They had bombarded her with information like that. Some useful, some utterly absurd. The description of the ohagi, however, had been for a very practical reason. She might need to eat, Toyoda reminded her, while she was out in the mundane world. Real food. Like the food the humans lay out for their ancestor spirits, which the sprites and the pixies usually carried away in the dark of the night, to convince the poor souls their ancestors were actually paying attention to their pitiful mundane lives, and their ghosts had nothing better to do than hang about waiting for a snack every three months.

  He had a point, although Trása was not yet hungry enough to steal food left out for the dead off their graves. It may have been her feline appetite at work, too. Cats were carnivores and had no interest in tasty balls of rice. They were much more interested in rats.

  Trása reached the largest tent, a magnificent structure, striped with red, yellow, blue, white and black, adorned with gold trimmings and the Empresses’ kamon painted onto the silk in gold paint. The pattern of the girls’ family crest — their kamon — looked alarmingly like the triskalion branded onto the palm of both Rónán and Darragh, but she supposed it made a twisted sort of sense. Somewhere in history, the Undivided shared a common point of origin with these twins who wielded the power of the Youkai and yet were bent on destroying the true owners of that power. Every realm Trása had ever visited had something in common with another world. Even where the Undivided were unknown, there were still the same sídhe races. It was as if they populated the world and the humans came later, twisting their tradition, imposing their will on their more credulous magical neighbours, until eventually, whether out of ignorance, jealousy or malice, they destroyed them. On closer inspection in the rapidly fading light, Trása realised even the guy ropes were made of a gold-painted rope and the pegs themselves seemed coated in the precious metal.

  What a waste, she thought, wondering who was responsible for such frippery. Was it the girls who demanded such pretty shiny things or the adults charged with their care? Feline Trása realised she wasn’t all that interested. She was more interested in the smells coming from this tent. Somewhere inside, she gathered, there was a meal going on, and they were eating fish. Raw fish. It smelled delicious.

  Trása was able to slip into the akunoya on the heels of a servant rushing a platter heaped with the most delicious-smelling fish. She told herself that shadowing the food was probably the quickest way to find Rónán. That the food had the enticing aroma of raw fish was just a bonus for Trása’s feline senses, and in no way influenced her decision to follow, she told herself.

  Her instincts proved correct. The Empresses were hosting a banquet.

  The Empresses, as well as each guest, were being plied with food and drink served on low individual tray-tables set up around the tent in a semicircle. The carved, ivory inlaid honzen tray-tables were quite small, so the number of dishes and the amount of food that could be served at one time were necessarily limited, hence the frantic if restrained efforts of the servants to ensure the royal guests remained sated. There were so many dishes, in fact, that beside each honzen was a second tray-table — the ni-no-zen. On the honzen — at a perfect height for a hungry cat — the servants had placed what Trása supposed were the principal dishes of rice, soup and san-sai, while on the ni-no-zen she thought she could smell an additional soup and another couple of the san-sai side dishes.

  Trása sat down to watch, hoping nobody was paying attention to this uninvited black and white furry visitor. The smell of the food was driving Trása mad, her stomach rumbling louder than her purr. But none of the dinner guests noticed her, so she watched without them being aware of her.

  The Empresses sat at the centre of the large canopy, naturally enough, Trása supposed, given that they were, well, Empresses. Rónán was seated directly in front of them, to make it easier to talk to him, she guess
ed. They were having quite a discussion, she could see, but she wasn’t close enough to hear what they were saying.

  On the left of the Empresses — she had no idea which girl was which — sat the woman Toyoda had identified as Wakiko, the long-suffering mother. She seemed disinterested in the discussion or anything else that was going on about her. On the right of the two little girls, trying to appear as if he was a part of the conversation between Rónán and the girls, was the Ikushima Daimyo, Namito. Arranged in the semicircle around them were the old lady, Masuyo, and the lovely Aoi and little Kuzusa, who spent most of the meal fixing her angry gaze on the Tanabe contingent opposite her. They must have been invited for the festival, and could not, Trása guessed, have refused the invitation without incurring the wrath of the Empresses.

  Trása was puzzled by the seating arrangement, not familiar enough with the customs of this realm to know if Rónán’s place was one of honour or something to be concerned about. The presence of Chishihero, the samurai Hyato — who’d tried to slit her throat — and several other Tanabe warriors was worrying, but not surprising, Trása supposed. Obviously, it was the Tanabe who had betrayed Rónán’s presence in Shin Bungo — and this realm — to the Empresses.

  It was hard to tell if Chishihero was pleased or angry with the seating arrangements. Unlike Kazusa, she was far better schooled at keeping her thoughts to herself.

  Trása really wanted to know what Rónán and the Empresses were talking about. The conversation between him and the girls seemed to exclude everyone else. Rónán didn’t look happy, either. Trása watched as the fading light was revealed every time the tent flap was opened by a servant hurrying in with a new tray of dishes. She wondered if Rónán realised how close they were to sunset. In their own realm, right now, Orlagh would already be halfway through invoking the aid of the gods …

  You don’t have time to sit here looking pretty, Trása told her feline self sternly, aware that with her long whiskers and her distinct markings, she was very regal, attractive and … Oh stop that! Trása moved off, hoping that once she had a purpose, she would find herself a little less susceptible to feline vanity.

  Trying to act as if she belonged, she began to edge her way around the akunoya. For the most part, the dinner guests ignored her. One of the Tanabe even tossed her a scrap of raw fish, which tasted delicious, but she was sure it must be a dire breach of protocol. She didn’t wait about to find out, working her way around until she was right beside Namito. Without being noticed, she sat down behind him. From this vantage, she could see Rónán’s face, although only the back of the little girls.

  ‘… release her from her oath,’ Rónán was saying, although it sounded more like he was asking a favour of the little girls. ‘I’m not leaving here until you do.’

  ‘If she was silly enough to swear such an oath,’ one of the girls responded, ‘why is it up to us to revoke it?’

  ‘Because I won’t leave this place unless you do,’ Rónán replied, in a tone that implied he’d made the statement many times before, to little or no effect. ‘She only swore the oath to keep me here until you arrived.’

  They’re talking about Aoi, Trása realised, and her insane oath to commit jigai if Rónán tries to leave Shin Bungo.

  Rónán was lying about why Aoi had sworn the oath, though. She’d done it because the Ikushima wanted this Youkai male to father a potential member of the Konketsu on one of their daughters to gain influence at court. They certainly hadn’t been planning to hand him over to the Empresses, without gaining some advantage from the lucky accident that had placed him in their custody.

  ‘Lady Delphine said she would send someone to aid us,’ one of the girls pointed out, sounding a little petulant. ‘Your oath to the Matrarchaí should mean more than some silly girl’s oath to her social-climbing brother.’

  Trása smiled, and then remembered that these girls had shared a Comhroinn with the mysterious Lady Delphine. Perhaps that’s why they weren’t falling for Rónán’s flimsy web of lies. They knew more than they appeared to know. Trása wished there was a way to warn Rónán of that. Or maybe he’d worked it out for himself. He wasn’t stupid.

  ‘And I will help you,’ Rónán promised. ‘I just need to go back to my own realm first, and get a few things I —’

  ‘He wants us to open a rift,’ the twin on the left said to her sister. ‘If it’s so important to go back and get something, why can’t he open his own rift? Or bring it with him when he came here?’

  Yeah, Rónán, Trása added silently. Explain that one. She could see what he was doing. The girls had been expecting someone from the Matrarchaí and he was playing along with the idea he was the one they were waiting for. He wasn’t being very subtle about it though, and he was running out of time. The servants were already starting to place lighted candles on each diner’s honzen, in preparation for the fast-approaching sunset.

  ‘Lady Delphine promised us a guardian. How can you be our guardian if the first thing you do when you get here, is to leave again?’

  Rónán opened his mouth to answer, but the words never came. Without warning, his eyes rolled back into his head and he stiffened and then fell backwards, sending the honzen, the ni-no-zen, the rice, soup and san-sai flying.

  The akunoya erupted in choas. The Empresses started screaming. Everyone jumped to their feet. There was food strewn everywhere, staining the tatami matting. Masuyo was yelling at Chishihero, as if she had done something to cause this. Someone was yelling something about poison. Aoi and Kazusa were trying to back away from what might well turn into a bloodbath. Hyato and Namito even drew their weapons, looking about for the invisible assailant that had taken down one of the dinner guests.

  It was Wakiko, though, who reacted calmly to Rónán’s apparent seizure. With the stoic calm that allowed her to care and nurture two monstrously powerful, spoiled brats, she pushed everyone out of the way, rolled Rónán onto his back and checked his pulse with her fingers, just under his ear.

  Trása found herself unable to move. Through the forest of legs surrounding him, she could see Rónán was having trouble breathing. He was rigid and in obvious pain. She could only see the whites of his eyes.

  It’s happened, she thought, fighting the need to return to her true form so she could run to him. Orlagh has transferred the power to the new Undivided.

  Somewhere out there, in a realm she couldn’t reach, Darragh would be going through the same withdrawal, the same agony.

  Trása wished cats could cry, because all she wanted to do was weep for Darragh. And for Rónán.

  She forced herself to move, wending her way through the panicked legs of the dinner guests, until she reached Rónán’s side. Wakiko shooed her away, but she refused to be deterred. Trása rubbed her face against Rónán’s shoulder, as if she could will him to fight the effects of the devastating loss of magic that was going to kill him sure as darkness followed the sunset.

  Wakiko pushed her away again, but she was determined. Ignoring the shouting and the accusations going on above her, as the Ikushima and the Tanabe tried to blame each other, she rubbed against his arm, pushing her face into his hand — as if that would revive him — as if he would realise that she wanted to be petted when he felt her soft fur against his fingers — as if that would be enough to counter the death sentence Orlagh had unwittingly carried out on this young man who had not, until a few weeks ago, even known what magic was.

  It was a waste of time, of course. Rónán didn’t respond. He was hardly breathing, although she could feel his racing pulse.

  Trása pushed against his hand. Don’t die, Rónán, she pleaded silently. Don’t die. Please, Danú, don’t let him die.

  It was a wasted prayer, she realised as his open palm fell lifelessly on the straw matting beside her. Danú had abandoned this young man.

  The triskalion tattoo that marked him as Danú’s chosen was gone.

  CHAPTER 50

  It shouldn’t be so easy to take a life. The killer pondere
d that thought as he approached the cradle rocking gently in the centre of the warm, candle-lit chamber. Their mother would have set the cradle in motion, he supposed, to soothe the twins before she left the room, trusting their visitor so profoundly it would never occur to her the children might be in danger.

  He reached the cradle and stopped to study it for a moment. The oak crib was carved with elaborate Celtic knot-work, inlaid with softly glowing mother-of-pearl. It looked antique, expensive. Probably a gift from their grandmother. Perhaps it had been in her family for generations.

  Generations that would end now. Tonight. By his hand.

  He glanced down at the blade he carried. The polished silver caught the candlelight in odd places, illuminating the engraving on the blade. He hefted the razor-sharp weapon in his hand. Faerie silver was useless in battle, he’d been told, but for this task, nothing else would suffice.

  Warmed by the fire crackling in the fire pit in the centre of the large round chamber, the twins slept peacefully, blissfully ignorant of their approaching death. Even if they had been awake, it was unlikely they would recognise the danger that hovered over them. The man wielding the blade above their cradle — the man who had come to take their lives — was a dependable presence they trusted to keep them safe.

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

  He glanced over his shoulder. His brother had appeared in the shadows by the door like a corporeal manifestation of his own conscience.

  ‘It has to be done. You know what will happen, otherwise.’

  His brother shook his head and took a step further into the room. The assassin found himself staring at a mirror image of himself, except the face of his reflection was filled with doubt and anguish, while his own was calm and resigned to what must be done.

  ‘They are innocent.’

  ‘They are death.’

  ‘If preventing our death requires the death of innocent children, then perhaps we deserve to die.’