Finally, the Hag opened her pale eyes and fixed her gaze on her visitor.
"I am cursed with the Sight," she said. Her voice was rasping and dry, as if autumn leaves rustled through her throat. "As if that is not bad enough, my Sight is filled with images of you and your cursed mongrel progeny."
Marcroy was shocked by the accusation. He had no half-blood get. He was very careful about that sort of thing, although if there was some mistaken belief among the Brethren that such abominations existed ... well, it explained the summons, at least.
He smiled with all the charm he could muster. "I can assure you, my lady, if that is what disturbs thee, I will make certain your visions never see the light of day. You need not fear. I will make no mongrel child to sully the proud line of Tarth."
His charm made no impression on her. She glared at him. "Too late for hollow promises, lad."
Marcroy couldn't ever remember anybody daring to call him "lad". He squared his shoulders and raised his chin proudly. Nobody, not even the Hag, spoke that way about the Tuatha Dé Danann. "Forgive me, my lady, but I am a prince of the Tuatha Dé Danann. How could you not trust my word?"
"Because the damage is already done, fool. And it's your progeny's progeny that keeps me - and my brethren - awake at nights."
"You are mistaken, my lady," Marcroy said, before he could stop himself.
The Hag snorted at him. "You are the mistaken one, Tarth. Your lust ... your mistake ... spawned RónánDarragh."
The accusation took Marcroy by surprise. He shook his head, refusing to believe it. "That cannot be."
"Their mother was a Druidess," the Hag reminded him, "impregnated during a Lá an Dreoilín festival. Too much wine and not enough sense. It is the cause of most ills that beset most realms."
Marcroy shook his head. It couldn't possibly be true. And even if it were true, what difference did it make? Rónán and Darragh were long dead.
There had been many Lá an Dreoilín festivals in Marcroy's long life, but no pregnancies, he was certain of that. If he occasionally weakened and allowed himself to dabble in a little bit of harmless fun, Marcroy made a point of taking any human lovers he fancied to Tír Na nÓg where he could magically ensure no half-breed child would be spawned by his indulgences. He made a point of never ...
... well there was that one time, he supposed, but that was years ago and she was masked ... and surely nothing had come of it. I mean, what Druidess would conceive a child sired by a prince of the Tuatha Dé Danann and not shout it from the rooftops?
"You lay with a Matrarchaí spy," the Hag said, answering his unspoken question. "Ready, willing and able to harvest your precious Tuatha Dé Danann seed. Sybille of Aquitania was her name. Did you ever bother to check if she actually came from Aquitania? In this realm or any other?"
"Why would I need to check on such a thing?" Marcroy asked, wondering if the masked seductress he vaguely recalled laying with in that Lá an Dreoilín festival so long ago really was a Matrarchaí spy. "As I recall, Sybille was an opinionated troublemaker. Some time after Rónán was removed from this realm she disappeared in mysterious circumstances which some tried to blame on us."
"Her disappearance was not so mysterious," the Hag scoffed. "Once you separated her boys, she had no further need to remain in this realm. She went back to doing what she does best - finding ways to force Partition."
Marcroy shook his head again, still not believing the Matrarchaí had the power or the knowledge to do such a thing. He glanced around. The fog seemed even closer. Would he get out of here alive if his answers displeased the Hag?
He dragged his attention back the Hag's words.
Who would be so foolish as to try to force Partition?
Marcroy knew the Hag wasn't talking about the human Partitionist movement who simply wanted to destroy the Treaty of Tír Na nÓg, and return to lives without magic or the need for it. The Hag spoke of true Partition. The ability to reset the universe. The implosion of realities to leave only a single realm - a feat that even the Tuatha Dé Danann considered too dangerous to attempt.
"Do you understand what the Matrarchaí are trying to do, Marcroy Tarth?"
"Other than cause trouble for trouble's sake?"
"They are attempting to splinter realities," the Hag warned. "They're trying to free themselves of us."
"Why not let them?" Marcroy asked, before he could stop himself. He usually cared nothing for what the Matrarchaí might be plotting, but he had been summoned before the Brethren to answer for something he knew nothing about and he couldn't believe those annoying human women had the power or the knowledge to do what the Hag was suggesting. Perhaps it was time to start paying attention. "Even if the Matrarchaí managed to achieve true Partition, of what matter is it to us? Of what use is such a realm?"
"Do you not appreciate what it means to sunder reality?"
Marcroy's first instinct was to respond that of course he knew what it meant, but the Hag's obvious irritation prompted caution. "Perhaps you should explain it to me, my lady."
"It means one reality."
"Yes ..."
"That's it. One reality. If the Matrarchaí are successful, every other reality will cease to exist."
Marcroy stared at the Hag for a moment, not sure if he'd heard her correctly. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me."
"That's not possible."
"So you say."
"But ..."
The Hag shifted on her log as if she'd been sitting in the same position for too long. "It is possible. Worse than that, it's becoming likely."
"I don't see how ... Why have the Brethren not warned us this could happen?"
"Because we never believed it could," the Hag said, with a sigh that seemed to ooze regret. "The circumstances seemed so unlikely ... a world almost completely denuded of magic populated by an organized group that could maintain its focus long enough to produce Undivided so powerful they make even the Brethren seem less than pixies ... Undivided, with polluted human blood, linked so closely they think as one ... we found it hard to imagine such a circumstance, even without it staring us in the face."
Marcroy had seen evidence of the Matrarchaí's unrelenting focus for himself: the wanton genocide of the sídhe races was pursued so relentlessly, whole realities had been denuded of their presence. But he never imagined for a moment that they posed a threat on the scale of the one the Hag was describing.
"I don't understand," he admitted, something Marcroy was not wont to admit lightly. "The Matrarchaí have been trying to drive our people from their realities for centuries. They haven't been trying to create new worlds, they've been trying to eradicate the sídhe races."
"They are experimenting," the Hag said. "They want to find out how few true Faerie they need to maintain a partitioned world. Make no mistake, Marcroy Tarth, their plan is the obliteration of us all."
Marcroy didn't want to appear to doubt the Hag, but what she was suggesting was unthinkable. "And the Matrarchaí want this realm, I suppose?"
She snorted, and fixed her rheumy eyes on him, full of contempt and derision. "I suspect they don't care about this realm, one way or another. This realm is only of use to them in so far as it has spawned the instruments of our destruction. The realm they are focused on is almost denuded of magic. Soon it will be beyond any hope of redemption."
"What is the use of such a world?"
"You cannot fill a cup that is already full, Marcroy Tarth. They have chosen their world wisely. Its very lack of magic makes it a syphon for all the realms connected to it. Why do you think they have tried to empty so many realms of Faerie? Each of those realms full of magic with none of our kind to defend it will be sucked dry when Partition happens. The magic will flood into the Matrarchaí realm and it will become so powerful it will not need any other realities to sustain it."
Marcroy struggled to comprehend the scope or the audacity of such a plan. "You have seen this, my lady?"
"I have seen them try," she said, "an
d I have seen them succeed."
"Then what is the point of fighting them?"
"Because I have also seen them fail. You are a part of that vision, Marcroy Tarth, much as it pains us to admit it. The Brethren need you."
Marcroy was silent for a moment, not sure he wanted the responsibility. But in the end, he had no choice. He was Tuatha Dé Danann. He would defend his own kind. "How can I be of service, my lady?"
"I'm not sure you can," the Hag snorted. "Each time you help, things seem to get worse."
Marcroy was too afraid of the Hag to let his indignation show.
"We asked you to fix the problem of your mongrel get years ago. Instead of solving the problem, you tossed one of them out of this reality and into the very arms of the Matrarchaí. I would dismiss you completely were it not that I have Seen the future again and it remains... fluid. There may be hope yet."
"The Brethren's instructions, as I recall, my lady, were to do something about RónánDarragh because you Saw they were going to destroy us," he reminded her, feeling the need to defend his actions so far, actions which had - in no small way - been driven by Jamaspa, acting on behalf of the very same Brethren the Hag claimed to represent. "I did as much as I could to sunder their power within the constraints of the Treaty of Tír Na nÓg. I worked tirelessly to remove them, my lady, and then, at the very moment of my triumph, Jamaspa intimated that far from being our ruin, RónánDarragh may be the key to our salvation and you wanted them saved." Marcroy didn't mind taking responsibility for what he'd done. It was the constantly shifting opinion of the Brethren regarding the value of his actions that irked him.
"And although you claim to have Seen them," he added cautiously, not sure of the reaction he would get to telling the Hag she was wrong, "I fear your hopes may be misplaced. The transfer killed them, my lady. Nobody has seen or heard of Rónán or Darragh in years. Jamaspa even sent Ciarán mac Connaught after them and he has never been seen again, either. I do not wish to question the veracity of your Sight, my lady, but one has to wonder -"
"Ciarán is dead," the Hag said. "Or he soon will be. RónánDarragh live. Their spawn are the key to our salvation."
There was clearly no arguing with her. He bowed, hoping she didn't notice his heavy sigh. "What would you have me do, my lady?"
"Find them," the Hag said. "Bring them to me."
He looked up, a little surprised by her request. "Surely you do not intend to kill them yourself?"
"I must speak with them," she explained, which was remarkable in itself. The Brethren were not in the habit of explaining themselves to anyone. "I must make certain they will do what must be done."
"And what is that, my lady?"
"They must destroy the children they spawn. Anything less will spell our ruin."
Chapter 21
When Hayley arrived back in her own reality she was freezing. The gossamer gown she wore was ill-suited to the damp, misty dawn in which she found herself. The lightning of the rift faded away to nothing as she wrapped her arms around her body, wondering where she was. There was nothing here to mark this as a magical portal, or to prove it had ever been anything more than an old, worthless ruin other than some ancient, moss-covered stones etched with Faerie symbols nobody in this world could read.
Hayley stepped gingerly over the rough ground and onto the cold - but much easier to walk on - manicured stretch of grass she could spy through the patchy mist. She glanced around, puzzled at first, and then realized she was standing on a golf course.
Why had the odd little man who'd brought her back to this reality left her on a golf course of all places?
Wouldn't it have been easier to drop her home?
The cold was seeping into Hayley's feet. She was barefoot and would be in serious trouble if she didn't find something warm to wear soon. She looked around and began walking down the fairway, hoping the direction she had chosen was taking her toward civilization and not away from it. Although the mist was patchy she could hear the faint sounds of traffic and, after a few moments, she spotted a golf cart and two golfers in the distance. She smiled with relief, even though her teeth were starting to chatter. Riding back to the clubhouse in a cart was a much better idea than traipsing over wet grass on foot. They would have a phone there. From the clubhouse she could call her father and ask him to come pick her up.
Setting out across the fairway at a brisk pace, her heart tightened a little at the pain her family must have suffered, wondering what had happened to her. She must have been away more than a week, although she couldn't be sure what the date was. In the strange world of Ren's alternate reality, time seemed to move at a different pace.
She hoped they hadn't been too worried.
Hayley was certain they would be relieved when she returned, rather than angry with her and Ren for disappearing.
As she hurried across the fairway, Hayley wondered what had become of Ren. She hadn't laid eyes on him the whole time she was in Tír Na nÓg with the Tuatha Dé Danann. She didn't know where he'd gone. Or what he was doing, although she suspected that whatever he was doing, he was doing it with the Faerie Elimyer's daughter, Trása, because Hayley hadn't laid eyes on that boyfriend-stealing cow the whole week she was away, either.
As she neared them, the golfers belonging to the cart in the distance resolved into two grey-haired men dressed in warm jackets and those ridiculous tartan plus fours - pants that otherwise sane golfers liked to wear for no logical reason that Hayley had ever been able to fathom. She called out to them as they shouldered their clubs and prepared to head back to their cart. If she didn't catch them before they moved on, who knew how far she'd have to walk to get back to the clubhouse.
They turned at her call, their eyes widening at the sight of a scantily-clad girl appearing out of the mist.
"Hi," she said through chattering teeth as she approached them. "I'm sorry to disturb your game, but I kind of got dumped out here and I need to get to a phone so I can call my dad to come get me."
The men stared at her as if they couldn't believe what they were seeing, and then one of them muttered something under his breath and hurried toward her, unzipping his jacket as he went.
"Jesus Christ, lassie," he said as he slipped off his coat and wrapped it around her shoulders. "Are you okay?" He glanced at his companion and added with a frown, "Do you think we need to call the Gardaí?"
"No! Of course not," she said, before the older man could answer. Ren was in enough trouble without making more for him by getting the police involved. "Really, I'm okay. I just need to get to a phone."
The other man reached into his coat and produced a small rectangular device and handed it to her. "Here, you can call him on the way back to the club. Who dumped you out here? Why?"
"Long story," she said, accepting the device. Hayley stared at it for a moment, not sure what it was.
"There's no password on it," the man said. He studied her for a moment with an odd expression. "What's your name?"
"Hayley Boyle," she said, and then she smiled helplessly and held the phone out to him. "I'm sorry, I don't know how it works."
The other man, the one who had given his warm tobacco-smelling jacket to her, laughed. "Christ, Mick, a teenage girl who doesn't know how to use an iPhone! I'll be tweeting that when we get back. Come on, let's get you into the cart and back to the clubhouse where it's warm. You must be freezing."
The old man who owned the odd phone didn't laugh. Without a word, he took the phone, pressed the screen a few times with his index finger and then looked at her. "I'll call it for you. What's the number?"
The man dialed the number as she recited it, and then handed the phone to her. She put it to her ear as it began to ring, wondering where he'd got such a cool thing. It must be some kind of prototype. Kiva would want one as soon as she saw it.
The phone rang a few times and then a male voice answered. "Hello?"
"Hi Dad, it's me. Can you come get me?"
"Wha- what?" the man mumbled so slee
pily she realized the call must have woken him.
"It's Hayley. I'm back. Don't worry, I'm okay. Can you come pick me up? I'm at the ..." she realized she had no idea where she was. She looked at the two golfers for help.
"Castle Golf Club," the man who owned the slick new phone told her.
"At the Castle Golf Club," she repeated.
There was silence for a long time and then her father said, "You sick fuck," and the line went dead.
Hayley stared at the phone for a moment, a little stunned by the man's vitriol, then she looked at the man who owned the phone. "Can you check the number you called? I think you must have mixed it up. That wasn't my dad."
The man pressed the screen a few more times and held the display up for Hayley to see. It really was an amazingly cool phone. "Is that the number?"
She read the digits and nodded, frowning. "I'm sorry, can you try again?"
"Sure, but why don't we call him from the cart. You're turning blue. I'm Mick, by the way, Mick Murphy. This is my brother-in-law, Lionel."
Hayley nodded gratefully and climbed into the back seat of the golf cart as Lionel climbed behind the wheel. Mick dialed the number for her again and she waited, hoping this time that her father was fully awake. That was the only reason she could imagine for his reaction to her first call.
This time, the phone was answered after the first ring. "Dad?"
"Look, you psycho little bitch. I don't know how you got this number, or why you're doing this, but it's not funny. Now leave me alone, or I'll call the Gardaí, have your number traced, and you and your sick friends will be arrested for harassment."
The phone went dead before Hayley could get out another word.
Hayley lowered the phone, her eyes welling up with tears as the cart bumped over the grass and onto the path. I've been gone a bit over a week.
It never occurred to Hayley that her father would do anything other than welcome her home. She never expected him not to believe it was her.
Reunion Page 15
