Seven Brothers Blessed [ Lore of Penrua: Book IV ]

[ 4 ]

Diarmán and Uachi saw no one as they made their way from the kitchen through the silent halls of the keep. Here and there, a sputtering oil lamp offered greasy yellow light, but the halls were otherwise cool, shadowed, and dusty.

"I guess you'll have your old room," Diarmán said, as if Uachi had stayed at the keep a hundred times rather than once, so briefly. He led the way up the worn stone staircase, wrinkling his nose. As they passed an old tapestry depicting a circle of women dancing in a field, he leaned in close, giving it a sniff. "Ugh. I told Leán we'd to fix the roof in this hall. The damp has been creeping in. Fall behind, and the whole place begins to molder."

Indeed, on closer inspection Uachi could see the dark bloom of mildew on the fine weaving. He was not a man with much interest in art or pretty things, but it was a discouraging sight. He thought of a woman laboring for many long hours over such a piece of work and wondered how she would feel, seeing what had become of her efforts.

He could not have found his way on his own, but when they arrived at the heavy wooden door, he recognized the room he'd stayed in before. His muscles sang with anticipation of stretching out over the mattress. "Will you need anything from me before the turning of the year? I've half a mind to sleep 'til then."

"Have at it. 'Twill do me good to go so long without your griping in my ear." Diarmán put both hands on the door and threw it open, spreading his arms with his typical theatricality. "And here you are, Uachi of—"

Something bright burst out of the room, arcing over Diarmán and then falling with a patter. Uachi's hand was on the hilt of his dagger before his mind caught up to what was happening. A few droplets spattered over Uachi's face and shoulders, and, just after he'd drawn his knife, realized what it was: water. A great splash of water.

"Get out!"

It was a woman's snapped command. Then came a clang, something metallic striking the flagstone floor.

Diarmán, who stood in the doorway with his arms still spread, dripping wet, said, "What the bloody hell are you doing here?"

"Diarmán?"

"Am I? I don't rightly know. You've scared the wits out of me. Gods below." Diarmán lowered his arms, looking down at himself. Uachi couldn't see his face, but his deflated posture suggested that he knew he looked like a half-drowned cat.

"I thought—they didn't say—...Heaven hold you, man, shut the door!"

Calmly, Diarmán did as he was told, stepping back as he swung the heavy wooden door back into place. He flapped his arms, flicking more droplets of water at Uachi, who raised an arm to shield himself. "Watch it!"

"Oh, be calm. It'll improve the smell." Diarmán's tone was tight. When he turned to look at Uachi, his pale face was flushed. This was a rare sight indeed; even when he should have been, Diarmán was seldom flustered.

"What in the world was that all about?" Uachi asked.

"It's Aerte."

"Who?"

"Exactly. Gods damn Leán. He might have warned me."

Recalling their exchange, Uachi raised an eyebrow. "He said he did."

"Bloody hell." Diarmán flapped his arms again, but the movement was weak and desultory now. "What's she doing here?"

"Judging from how she greeted you, I'd wager she was bathing."

"She was not! She was perfectly decent!"

"I can hear you!" The woman's voice was sharp and not a bit amused.

"Good! Tell him you didn't have anything on display so he knows how cruelly you've abused me!" Diarmán shot back.

"You waltzed right into a woman's room with no warning! You're lucky I didn't run you through with a poker!"

"It's not meant to be a woman's room!"

"Diarmán, you will not—"

"I mean—crimes of creation, I mean it's meant to be Uachi's room!"

Uachi folded his arms, watching the exchange between Diarmán and the door with mounting amusement. He was about to raise his voice and ask the woman if she wanted to run Diarmán through with a poker, and offer to hold him still for her, when the door swung open and the water-wielding warrior maiden appeared.

She was tall, as tall as Diarmán, with light brown skin and dark, wavy hair. She had plaited it cleverly, wearing it as a crown around her head with a blue ribbon woven through it. Her dress was blue, too, simple and modestly cut, and she wore an apron over it. She glared at Diarmán coldly, thrusting a dented pitcher toward him.

Diarmán actually flinched, but she seemed to be using the pitcher for emphasis, not as a weapon.

"You can't blame me for dashing water in your face when you barge into my room without so much as a knock."

"Are you mad? How was I to know that you would be here?"

"How were you to know I wasn't?" She shook the pitcher again, then shoved it into Diarmán's arms. Then she turned her attention to Uachi. Her look was briefly appraising, but her gaze stopped on his face.

Uachi realized he was not wearing his cowl. His heart twisted with sudden anxiety, and he started to reach for his cowl to pull it up, but the weight of his dagger in his hand surprised him, staying his hand.

The woman looked down at the dagger, then. She stared at it, and although her expression remained cool, she had stiffened. "Were you planning to use that on me, or on him?" she asked.

He sheathed it. A ready response evaded him.

"He's been threatening to chop my fingers off all day," Diarmán broke in. "Every time I turn around he's waving that knife at me. This is Uachi. He used to be a fancy captain in the Imperial Guard, but he's not any more."

Resentment coiled in Uachi's belly. He could bear a lot of banter and jokes. He found friendships much easier to manage when they were half made up of bickering. But since they had arrived at House Eldran, Diarmán's humor had had an edge to it, one that was increasingly sharp.

Uachi tightened his fist and relaxed it. Before he could find something to say that wasn't cruel, the woman who'd dampened Diarmán held out her hand to him.

"Well met, Uachi. My name is Aerte. Diarmán used to be my fiancé, but he's not any more."