Seven Brothers Blessed [ Lore of Penrua: Book IV ]

[ 7 ]

Diarmán was relieved to leave Uachi behind.

They'd found a room for the erstwhile captain—poorer accommodations than those Aerte had claimed, but after sleeping on the ground for weeks, suffering the rain and the cold as they came, Uachi should be comfortable enough.

"You should prepare yourself," said Aerte.

She was leading Diarmán down a corridor, carrying a tray laden with nursing necessities: clean cloths, a bowl of broth, a cup of dried herbs. It occurred to Diarmán that he should offer to carry the tray for her, but he did not feel particularly gentlemanly. Besides, he knew Aerte well enough to know that if he suggested she wasn't capable of carrying a tray herself, she'd pin him with a stare that could stop his heart.

He preferred to survive the day.

"Prepare myself? To be drowned again?" he asked.

And there it was. Gods below, the woman's glower could be a weapon of war.

"To see your grandfather," she said. When he only scoffed and looked away, she continued, "I'm serious. He's doing very poorly, Diarmán."

"So I've heard." After a moment or two of silence, he glanced back at her, finding that her expression had softened again. She was a striking woman with a clear, keen eyes and a confident bearing; he did not know if he'd ever seen her walk with her head down. She was the sort of woman who took up space in the world. Diarmán did not know a lot of woman well—did not know a lot of people well, in truth—but aside from his own mother, Aerte was the one he knew best, and she was different from Moigré in virtually every way.

So why on earth had she come back to this cobwebbed crypt?

"What are you doing here, Aerte?" he asked.

"I told you. I'm your grandfather's nurse."

"Aye, you told me that, but of all the things in the world you could find to do, why this? Why here?"

"Why not here?"

Diarmán wrinkled his brow, staring at her. "I just...I did not think you'd find it a pleasant place to return to."

Aerte paused in her step, raising her eyebrows. Diarmán moved back from her under an instinct of self-preservation, but she was not looking at him with that biting coldness, now. There was something softer in her face.

Something like concern.

"You must know that I do not blame you," she said.

Diarmán looked his ex-fiancée in the eye, his stomach twisting sharply. If only she had snapped at him. He could bear her anger; he could throw it back at her and be half-justified in doing so.

What he couldn't bear was kindness.

"Are we to do this now, then?" he asked. "You'd best give me the tray. I'll find a spot to set it down so that we can drag out our volumes of history and turn all the pages."

"Diarmán."

"What is it you do not blame me for? Dashing our childhood friendship to bits? Humiliating you? Breaking your heart?"

She pressed her lips together. For a moment, he thought she'd lash out, but, of course, Aerte had never done anything anyone wanted her to. She was her own woman completely.

It was terribly inconvenient.

With crisp enunciation, she replied, "I don't blame you for your nature." Her tone was an indication that he'd irritated her, at least, but when she began to walk again she gave him a smile. "And if I cannot blame you for that, it is difficult to blame you for any of the rest of it."