Seven Brothers Blessed [ Lore of Penrua: Book IV ]

[ 11 ]

The small dining hall was poorly lit—more poorly even than Uachi remembered from his first visit to House Eldran. There were sconces lining the walls, but only every second or third was burning. The table was already set and laden with food when he and Diarmán arrived, bleary-eyed, their noses running from the dust of Emón's study.

"Will you be wanting wine, my lord?" It was the serving woman, standing near the dining table and wiping her hands on her apron.

"I shall make your employment a small bit easier, Brente: you must assume I shall always want wine."

"Just remember, Brother, that each cask costs coin we have in painfully short supply."

Uachi turned to see Leán entering the dining room, sweat staining the collar of his work shirt. He was flushed, as if he had just completed some vigorous exercise. Behind him trailed Declaen, his eyes half-lidded. He seemed dead on his feet.

"I know that. Just a glass," said Diarmán.

Leán raised his eyebrows as if he was not convinced that Diarmán could stop himself at just one glass, but he gestured ahead. Diarmán led the way, skirting the fine chair that stood at the head of the table. He took a place on the bench at one side and Uachi swung a leg over the bench to sit next to him.

The rest of the household trickled in one by one: Ruaraín next, and then Little Emón, then Gaerte. Finally came Padréc and Lady Moigré, he escorting her by the arm.

"Will Aerte be joining us?" Uachi asked.

As Brente passed with a jug of wine, Diarmán cast him a sidelong look. Uachi did not much care for the sly half-smile he wore. It was a knowing smile, and what on earth did Diarmán propose to know? "Likely not," he answered. "Don't worry, Uachi—she'll be freed from her duties soon enough, and you may get to know her well and spend all of your time gossiping about certain gentlemen."

"About fools and headaches, more like," Uachi replied.

As Diarmán laughed, Leán divided a curious look between the pair of them. Uachi did not meet the look; he reached for his goblet of wine instead. But Diarmán had no such discretion.

"Yes—since Grandfather will not be joining us to hurl loud abuse about the matter, allow me to declare it."

Uachi's heart seized painfully. He was not ashamed of whatever this thing between him and Diarmán had become; there was no reason to feel shame, no matter how Old Lord Emón or any of these others might feel about it. But he was not a man to loudly shout his feelings from the rooftops. He preferred to mutter them quietly behind closed doors. He glanced up at Diarmán, drawing breath to speak—but he was not fast enough.

"Uachi u Rora has become a dear friend to me over the past many, many months, as you all know." Diarmán turned on the bench seat, looking at Uachi, meeting his eye. And rather than the braggadocio and wickedness Uachi might have expected, there was nothing but warmth in the man's expression. "Indeed, to me, he has become something more than a friend. I've made my confessions, and I am pleased to my very soul that he has not rebuffed me."

That wasn't true. Uachi had rebuffed Diarmán. Not cruelly in the moment, but perhaps more cruelly, for by allowing hope to remain, they had passed an age in that strange, in-between state. But Uachi recognized the clever half-lie in Diarmán's announcement. By claiming the role of confessor, he claimed also the vulnerability that came along with it. In his family's minds, he would be the one whispering confessions in fear of being rebuked.

Emón's voice came then, clear as a bell. "Does this mean that you're getting married?"

"Two men can't marry," said Gaerte.