Seven Brothers Blessed [ Lore of Penrua: Book IV ]

[ 22 ]

It was very late, well past the middle hour of the night. Uachi was exhausted and filthy, his clothes soiled with sweat, excrement and small, clinging feathers. He, along with some of the Eldran brothers, had spent the last several hours chasing pheasants around the dining hall, doing their best to gather the birds in without hurting them. With the help of some of the tenants who'd served at supper, they had carried the birds up to Padréc's tower aviary, each one wrapped in a towel or an apron to prevent it from hurting itself or anyone else.

To make space for the new arrivals, Padréc had calmly released every one of his other birds except for the brooding hawk he called Bright-Eye and an owl with a broken wing. Even still, there were not nearly enough alcoves for all of the funeral guests, and Padréc had been forced to house the pheasants two or three to an enclosure. There was no way to know which birds belonged together, nor if they had enough of their human wits left to understand if they were caged with strangers.

Diarmán was nowhere to be seen. He had disappeared after supper had so abruptly concluded, and he had not returned. Lady Moigré had also gone. She had suffered a nervous collapse after her eldest son had disappeared, and when he had failed to return, Leán and Ruaraín had helped her to her chamber. They had not left her alone; Leán had stayed with her first, and Ruaraín had just gone to relieve him.

Uachi checked underneath a table one last time. He feared that if they missed any of the pheasants, they would not survive. They were empty-headed noblemen and women without a scrap of good sense to share amongst them, most likely, and who was to say how much bird-wit a man had when he suddenly found himself in the the body of one? Did he suddenly know how to properly fly and forage and fight, or would he still know nothing more useful than how to properly flutter a handkerchief?

"I'm convinced that's the last of them. I've been around the hall thrice now and have seen no others, except...what are we to do with Grandfather?" asked Gaerte. He lifted his tunic to wipe his face with the hem.

Uachi looked at Gaerte as he straightened, too tired and under too much strain to cushion his words. "He's already gone."

The younger man blinked, then frowned. "I know that. I meant his body. Grandfather—"

"He's gone," Uachi repeated. He turned toward the high table. Old Lord Emón's clothes still lay on the board just below it, but they'd been disturbed. Gaerte followed his gaze and sprinted over, patting the garments in search of the pheasant that had lain there.

Uachi did not tell him what he'd seen: Han Taín lifting the pheasant out by its limp legs and carrying it from the room, its wings falling, spread wide, at its sides. It had not even crossed Uachi's mind to stop him, and even if it had, it would not have been worth the danger. They would need to think calmly and carefully about how to challenge that creature, and thus far Uachi only had the beginnings of a plan: give the man no reason to harm them until he came up with a better one.

It was why he had spent the last several hours chasing birds around a hall rather than chasing a faerie around the castle.

It was also why he had not yet gone in search of Diarmán, although the man had been gone for that same number of hours. Uachi would have wagered that Diarmán was in conference with his father, and that unsettled him. He hoped instead that Diarmán had gone to comfort his mother.

The poor woman. To see her kidnapper in the flesh again, risen from the dead—she must be terrified. He needed to see to it that she was well-guarded until they could undo what had been done. And that would be a simple matter, if they could find a way to avoid being turned into birds themselves. Certainly whatever magic Han Taín had worked, Diarmán could unwork. They had the same skills with music.

Yes: Uachi would keep his head down until he could consult privately with Diarmán to determine what their next steps should be.

Gaerte was still staring down at his grandfather's clothes, and Uachi, whose tired mind had been wandering, realized the boy was struggling with what he saw before him. He would find one of his brothers to see to him.

When Uachi turned, though, the hall was empty. The others must have taken the last of the pheasants up to the tower.

With a sigh, he went to Gaerte, shaking a lock of hair back from his sweating face. "Shall we go and find a drink? I don't know about you, but I've a powerful thirst."

"Where did he go?" Gaerte asked. He lifted his grandfather's limp tunic and turned a troubled frown upon Uachi. "Was he—? Did it...live?"

Gently, Uachi shook his head. He put a hand on Gaerte's shoulder and turned him away from the board. "A drink, Gaerte. Come with me."

The two of them made their way silently through the castle. Strangely, Uachi found himself in the lead as he and Gaerte went down to the kitchens. There, they found Brente and a few younger maids, tenants whose time had been borrowed. They were all hard at work scrubbing and scouring dishes. One of the ovens still glowed, and the scent of cooking food pervaded the room: roasting meat, baking bread.

"We won't disturb you, madam," Uachi said to Brente. "Will you tell me where I can find a tankard of ale?"

Wordlessly, she pointed toward the pantry. Uachi pressed Gaerte into the chair on one end of the kitchen and then entered the pantry, searching until he found a small supply of ale and beer on a shelf. He brought a jug out to Gaerte. A younger maid offered him two cups with half of a curtsy.

"Thank you," said Uachi. He set them down onto the table and opened the jug of ale. "Is this to your taste, my lord?" he asked. "I can find mead instead, if it's better."

Gaerte was ashen-faced, staring into the middle distance as if he could not see anything before him. He shook his head without a word.

Uachi poured two cups of ale and slid one toward the younger man. "Drink deep, lad. It will steady you."

The boy—for he was indeed still just a boy, second youngest of all of the brothers—took a sip of the ale, and then a swallow. He closed his eyes, draining the cup in another few swallows. Uachi poured for him again without even tasting his own.

It was after Gaerte had finished his second cup of ale that he raised his voice, his eyes fixed on the oven.

"Brente, what are you cooking? Supper is over," he said.

She turned to him, nodding her head with perfunctory deference. "Roasted pheasant, my lord, and nutty bread. 'Tis by special request for a guest of the castle." 

I am so interested in your reactions to this chapter! 

In addition, tell me something you are excited about or proud of from the past couple of weeks. We need some good news.