Seven Brothers Blessed [ Lore of Penrua: Book IV ]

[ 36 ]

"Gods below, Diarmán."

Uncertain where the voice had come from or to whom it belonged, Diarmán considered opening his eyes. But the world was spinning and he was tired, and the flagstones were sweetly cool against his burning cheek.

"Have you finished this all yourself?" Footsteps fell, and there was a muted clink and then a slosh. "You might as well have had the last half-cup, too."

"Pour it all in," Diarmán said. He made to roll onto his back, but the command did not make it from his brain to his limbs. "And I shall. I sh'll drink it."

"Why pour? It seems you've been drinking straight from the bottle."

"Shh. Well. Well, I dropped my cup, 'swhat happened. So you just shh."

A sigh. More footsteps. "Come up."

"Go away. I'm sleeping." Diarmán did not know who it was—a brother, certainly, but he couldn't tell which one. Not Padréc. Not Emón.

Not Padréc, not Emón—which was the other brother?

"You're not sleeping on the floor. You're liable to be tripped upon. Or Mother will find you."

"How? She never comes outside."

"You're in the dining hall, you idiot."

"No, 'm outside. Out. Side." Diarmán felt something passing under his arm and his back, and he groaned. "Leave me alone."

"If I can find a way to hang you from your ankles so you don't choke on your own sick, perhaps I shall."

"Which one're you?" Another arm slipped under Diarmán's ankles, and then both arms tightened, lifting him up from the ground. He grunted, his head lolling back on his shoulders without the convenience of the floor to hold it up. "Leán. You stink."

"Not half as much as you, I can all but promise you."

"Shh. Let me down."

"Get down yourself." There was a rock and a sway, and they seemed to be walking, Leán's footsteps a steady new beat to join the pounding of the pulse in Diarmán's head. Even with his eyes closed, he could see the world spinning—feel it, rather, a tilt and whirl to his equilibrium. He squirmed, but all of his limbs were leaden. "That's what I thought."

"You're a bore. Take a gl...take a glass and we can have some."

"Some what?"

"Mead, of course! 'Swhat we're known for. He doesn't like it. Too sweet. I believe it. Nothing sweet in him."

"I think the state of you might cure me of my taste for drink altogether."

"Ha!"

"So it's true what Padréc told me. Uachi has gone."

Gods deep below and deeper still, just the sound of his name. The drink should have numbed away this awful ache, this helplessness, but no: even still, it hurt. "He's gone, yes—good thing."

"I can tell. You are dancing with joy to be rid of him. Danced so hard you lost a boot, I see." The rock of Leán's body beneath him shifted.

Diarmán laughed, rolling his head to rest against his brother's broad chest. "He wasn't made to be a prince's man. Where're we going? What're you taking me for?"

"We're going up the stairs."

"Shh—wait. Shh. I can walk. P'me down."

"I shall put you down only in your bed. If there's any breaking of your skull to be done, Brother, I shall do it myself directly."