Honor-Bound [ Lore of Penrua: Book III ]

70

The knock at the door jolted Uachi out of sleep as sharply as a bucket of cold water tossed over his face. He sat up, momentarily confused by the darkness and the straw pallet beneath his back. Neither he nor Diarmán had blown out the candle, and a weak flame guttered in a pool of tallow.

Diarmán rolled over with a sleepy groan.

There came another knock. Uachi groped over the side of the bed for his dagger. He had not been able to go obviously armed, so he had had to stow it in his pack. He paused when Diarmán raised his hand and waved him back, shaking his head.

Diarmán got up and opened the door, making no effort to hide that he was sleep-rumpled and exhausted, but his tone was humble when he answered whoever had come. "A thousand apologies, good sir—have we overslept?"

"No, no, travelers," answered a gruff voice. "I am sorry for waking you at this hour, but...ah...Her Grace has requested you."

There was a brief silence. Uachi could have laughed at the confusion in Diarmán's tone, then; it sounded so genuine. "...Her...Grace? Has requested—us?"

"Yes, sir. She cannot sleep, and she wonders if you would be so kind as to play for her again."

Uachi knew as well as anybody that empresses did not wonder if people would be so kind to do anything. The polite phrasing was a thin veil for a command. He grabbed his boots.

"We would be honored," Diarmán said, sounding for all the world like he meant it. "Only allow me a moment to make myself decent and to wake Drummer, if I may."

"Certainly. Certainly. I will escort you, when you are ready."

Diarmán closed the door. In the uncertain light of the dying candle, he gestured toward the door and raise both of his eyebrows, as if to say, See? Patience, Uachi of the North.

***

The entire adventure to House Resh Deran was an uncomfortable one for Uachi, owing to the fact that he was relying upon Diarmán's plans, Diarmán's wits, and Diarmán's skills to make it through. He, Uachi, had done nothing at all since they had arrived but try to hunch his shoulders and tap at a drum for a bit. As they followed a lantern-bearing servant down dim, midnight corridors and up a steep stone stairway, he once again adopted the mute role of Drummer, enhanced by a few dabs of freshly-applied paint.

The servant did not question why they had brought their satchels with them. Nor did the two guards posted outside of the humble wooden door to which they had been led. In their roles as traveling bards they had precious few possessions; it made sense for them to keep tabs on what little they owned—and it made Uachi feel a lot better to have his dagger near at hand, for all he could not wear it at his belt.

"Here they are," said the servant. He bowed his head to Diarmán and Uachi. "May you have a restful night, once you return to your beds, sirs."

"And you, my friend," said Diarmán with a smile.

The guards opened the door. One of them led the way into the room and, once Diarmán and Uachi had entered, the other followed, closing the door behind him. They took their posts inside the door this time, looking as tired as they had every right to at this late hour of the night.

It was a beautifully-appointed room. The floors and the walls were stone, as was the rest of the castle, but fine tapestries softened the walls and woven rugs covered the cold floors. The furnishings were not so large or so grand as those in the Imperial Palace, but they were wonderfully made. In the large bed lay the boy prince, sleeping. A pair of smaller cots was nestled against the far wall, empty. Near a blazing hearth, in cushioned chairs, sat Liara and the two princesses. The girls had needlework in their laps; the younger was nodding over hers.