Seven Brothers Blessed [ Lore of Penrua: Book IV ]

[ 16 ]

The way ahead was lit by gray moonlight filtering through a haze of clouds. Emón walked beneath the blackened trees, several paces ahead of his brother Ruaraín. Above them, the naked branches crisscrossed the sky, a deeper dark against the night.

"Emón...are you crying?"

Scowling, he wiped a hand over his cheek. "No, it's the stupid ash. It makes my eyes water. All this time—why is it still so dusty? It's rained a thousand times since this place burned."

Ruaraín didn't respond, and Emón could feel his brother's skeptical stare. He hated it.

He bent down, picking up a stick that amounted to a piece of charcoal as long as his forearm. "I don't need you out here to babysit me," he said, swinging the stick viciously before him as if it were a sword. "Do you think I'm going to be kidnapped by bandits?"

"Hardly." Ruaraín's footsteps were soft on the blackened earth. He peered up at the sky through the skeletal branches. "I only wanted to get out of the castle for a little while now that Mother is finally asleep. Why—did you want to be alone?"

Emón considered this. He spent a lot of his time alone, especially of late. Leán and Declaen had absorbed themselves in all sorts of projects around the castle and their lands, often working until supper time and then going straight to bed. Ruaraín, for his part, spent most of his time with Padréc; they shared an affinity for quiet walks around the grounds and discussions about crops and livestock, which Emón found boring enough to dry his brain to a husk. And Gaerte, well, he was never happy unless he had a book in each hand, which made him dull company indeed. Emón had never understood the appeal of turning page after page for hours.

Of all his brothers, Emón liked Diarmán the best—Diarmán, who loved to laugh, banter, and frolic. But Diarmán was much older, and he'd had less and less time for the youngest of his brothers over the past few years; he had not even been home for the past many months.

So, yes, Emón spent a lot of his time alone, and some days, he preferred it. "I don't know. Perhaps," he replied. "I just wondered why you chose to spend your evening walking about with the baby."

Ruaraín laughed, a light, gentle sound. He leaned in, knocking his shoulder against Emón's. "Come now. You're hardly a baby any more—your stick-sword notwithstanding."

Emón swayed from his brother's nudge. He stoically resisted the urge to argue and simply straightened his slumped posture so that he would look taller.

"You're a man now," said Ruaraín. "Thirteen. Why, you'll be married in a year or two, I should think."

Stopping, Emón turned to his brother. "What? You aren't even married, and you're three years older than me. Even Diarmán isn't married, and he's—" He paused, narrowing his eyes to do some math in his head.

"Well, then, there's no need to panic just yet." Ruaraín's smile was playful. He hesitated for a beat, then leaned in, raking his fingers through Emón's hair in just the way the younger boy hated. "You're not quite yourself tonight."

Emón ducked his head, shaking off his brother's hand. "What do you mean?"

"It's okay to be sad."

Those words, calm and gentle, might as well have been a slap. They hurt Emón, twisting his belly sharply. He caught his breath and looked away. "I'm not sad," he muttered.

"Of course you are. I am. Everybody is." Ruaraín began to walk again. He kicked a stone, an echo of Emón's boyish stick-waving. "Just because somebody is not easy to love does not mean that you don't love him. He was our grandfather. Our patriarch and your namesake. I have many good memories with him as, I think, we all do. You can grieve him, Emón."