Honor-Bound [ Lore of Penrua: Book III ]

68

Uachi did not know how they would begin their charade, and being the focal point for so many people chafed at him. Not so Diarmán, who cared for the small business of beginning their performance with an over-the-top bow aimed toward the lady seated at the center of the high table.

"My lady!" he called. "A blessed good evening to you. My lord." He twirled his hat toward the young man seated at Lady Deran's right. Uachi followed suit, his own obeisances briefer and clumsier. He was not a man made for groveling.

Then Diarmán turned his attention to Liara. Because she was not under her own roof, courtesies had been owed to her hosts first, but in the world they now inhabited, Liara was the person of highest status. What was she, Uachi wondered? Here, they called her empress; in the Holy City, would she be a princess? A lady? Just a woman?

Diarmán bowed so low that his nose could have brushed the floor. "Your Majesty," he said, his words lower, almost reverent. "Your Most Magnificent Highness. And our noble prince. We are humbled beyond description to be in your presence tonight. It would be our greatest honor and our deepest pleasure to offer you an hour's entertainment."

Uachi caught the tail end of a shy smile on Liara's lips as he was rising from his own deep bow. That it surprised him brought his own expectations into focus: he had thought Liara would be cool, aloof, commanding, but it seemed she was none of those things. She leaned down and murmured something to her son, brushing a hand over his hair, and turned her attention back to Diarmán and Uachi.

Diarmán straightened, producing his flute. "With Your Majesty's permission?"

A lance of nerves pierced Uachi's guts. No chance to back out now. He was about to make a fool of himself in front of a hundred sets of eyes and there was no way past it but through. Liara cast a questioning glance to Lady Deran, who tipped her head. Then, she gestured her assent. The girls standing behind her had edged forward, their hands clasped, wearing twin expressions of interest.

And so, they began to play.

It was a very strange thing, that performance. Had Uachi been questioned on the matter beforehand, he would have predicted a passing fair performance carried on the back of Diarmán's talents. Uachi would not have consented to the mad plan were he certain of disaster, but a man who'd only learned to tap a drum a day before could hardly be expected to make up half of an exquisite ensemble.

As he looked around the room, though, Uachi realized that they were holding their listeners near completely in thrall. At the high table, lord and lady, renegade empress and prince, and ladies-in-waiting alike were absorbed in the music; the other members of the household, including a bevy of servants who'd crowded at the door to listen, were similarly captivated. They did not look shiny-eyed and drunk, as Ealin had the night that Diarmán had played just for her, but there was a general calm, a lull over everyone, a feeling of peace and warmth.

Uachi felt it, too. The anxiety that had rocked him when Diarmán had first flourished his flute had ebbed by the end of their first song. Diarmán paused every so often to explain the history of the song that would come next: a folk tale, a story about a great battle, a humorous yarn about an old drunk who'd made pipes out of wine bottles and become a great composer. As the opening notes of each new song pierced the silence, Uachi eased back into a simple cadence on his drum, finding the rhythm, watching Diarmán as he played.

At last, after what had seemed just a moment—or perhaps a hundred years—Diarmán lowered his flute and swept his arms out to his sides. Uachi held his drum to his chest in both hands and, succumbing to some bizarre whim, he sank to a knee, lowering his head. Applause rippled through the assembled people, polite but genuine.