Seven Brothers Blessed [ Lore of Penrua: Book IV ]

[ 34 ]

Aerte led the way up the tower stair, her skirts gathered in one hand, and Uachi came behind with a basket she had filled with women's clothes.

Padréc had been nowhere to be seen at breakfast, and he was not the only one who had not appeared. Diarmán, Little Emón, and an irritable Han Taín had made Aerte and Uachi's sparse company at the quiet affair, and the atmosphere had been tense, the very air cobwebbed with invisible lines of loyalty, love, suspicion, and resentment.

"Is it wrong that I hope it will be over today?" Aerte whispered. "At least then we can determine what is next, whatever it may be."

"Maybe it's wrong, but I understand you. There are no right answers here and now."

She sighed, pausing for a couple of seconds before taking the last curve in the tower stairway. Then, she passed into the aviary, and Uachi followed.

Diarmán and Han Taín were already there. To Uachi's immense disgust, the latter was seated in a cushioned chair; he seemed prepared to be comfortable through the day's proceedings. Uachi tried to school his temper as he put the basket down near the wall.

"Good morning again," said Diarmán brightly.

Neither Aerte nor Uachi responded.

"They are as eager as I am to proceed," said Han Taín. He sat with a leg draped over the arm of the chair, his elbow propped on the other and his chin resting in his hand. "Have you some hens for us to meet, my son?"

"Aye, I do," said Diarmán. "I must say, I don't know what Padréc sees in these creatures. They have lizard legs and rats' eyes, and their little love-pecks draw blood." He raised a hand and then shook his fingers with a wince.

"Bring the first of them out," said Han Taín. Even he did not seem in the mood for Diarmán's jokes.

And so it began again. Diarmán took out the first of the pheasant hens. To Uachi, they all looked largely alike with only minor variation in hue or size. They were nothing like cats or horses or dogs, which he could tell easily apart, and there was no way to judge the creatures' human age or beauty.

Diarmán set the pheasant hen on the floor, and she immediately rushed toward the open aviary door. He hastened to cut off her progress as Han Taín began to play his song. Spooked, the pheasant burst into flight, but there was nowhere for her to go. She dashed up against the wall and floundered, falling gracelessly to the floor. By the time she regained her feet, she was changing shape.

Uachi turned his back and, across the room, he saw Diarmán do the same, but he suspected that Han Taín was witnessing more of these transformations than they had planned.

Only seconds later, a girl's sobs mingled with Han Taín's music. Then the music faded, and there was only the sound of crying, interspersed with soothing words from Aerte and the rustle of cloth and laces.

"Stand up," Aerte urged her. "It's alright. Let's have a look at you."

Yesterday, this phrase had become Aerte's coded permission for the men to turn around. Uachi told himself that standing with his back to the girl was likely more unsettling than showing her his face.

He turned to see a young woman, eighteen or nineteen, with long, tangled black hair and a dark complexion. She held Aerte's arm with both hands so tightly that her knuckles were white as she looked around the room, her gaze settling at last on the man draped in the chair near the window, a flute hanging from his long fingers.

"Welcome back," said Diarmán, offering what he probably believed was a charming smile and a half-bow. "I don't believe I had the pleasure—?"

She stared at him in clear confusion, and then looked back at Han Taín.