Seven Brothers Blessed [ Lore of Penrua: Book IV ]

[ 38 ]

Diarmán spent the early part of the day in his room. He made himself drink the water his brother had brought for him and ate part of the bread, and then he lay back down and closed his eyes, slipping in and out of a bleary and miserable sleep.

When at last his head had stopped pounding, it was middle afternoon. His room smelled terrible, and he no better: he'd sweated through his clothes, and his shirt was stuck to his chest with a grime that smelled of alcohol.

Moving gingerly, Diarmán pulled himself out of his bed. He washed his body and his face thoroughly in the cold water that waited on his wash stand, and he cleaned his teeth twice, and he dressed in fresh clothes. When he had done all this, he felt almost like a man again.

Then he realized he had to tackle the unsavory business of tidying away his chamber pot and cleaning the floor, and that took him down a few pegs once again.

As he walked the halls, Diarmán marveled at how much change a little scrubbing had wrought. The castle fairly gleamed; all of the dust, damp, moss, and cobwebs had been swept away, and even the tapestries he passed looked bright and new. He wondered how the servants had managed such a change in so little time when he had not seen a single one of them at work with a brush or broom. Mayhaps there was more to it than a simple, thorough clean, for even the stairs, where stones had been worn away at the edges, looked new, as if time had turned back a dozen years, fifty...

Diarmán was reminded of Han Taín's words. "This place has seen better times. It will see better times still in days to come."

But it was a strangely empty place, the halls echoing. With the exception of the night of Old Lord Emón's funeral feast, there had not been so many people at House Eldran for years; they were playing host now to borrowed servants from the estate and noblewomen saved from their pheasant forms, but Diarmán saw not a single soul on his way down to the kitchens. Even there, though he saw ingredients lain out for dinner, he caught a glimpse of just one young woman kneading bread.

Without disturbing her, Diarmán heated some water and found himself some rags and a stiff-bristled brush. Once he was back in his room, he stripped his bed of its linens and opened the window to air the place. Then he applied himself to scrubbing, working over the floor on his hands and knees until he was sweating and a bit dizzy with the effort, for he still didn't feel entirely well.

When he had done, he stood on the damp flagstones and stared at the naked mattress under his curtained canopy.

Gods, but this room was emptier than the echoing halls of the house, and his heart was a stone, a feelingless weight. His mind was sluggish and dull, tracing the empty spaces Uachi had left in his life.

Diarmán had never suffered like this before.

He had borne his share of pain and sorrow—perhaps a little more than his share—but never, though he had had a number of lovers, had he suffered a broken heart.

The last thing Diarmán wanted was to eat, but he had to; he was hungry and queasy. He would take his washing bucket back down to the kitchen and find something simple to put in his belly. Then, he'd hide himself away again to nurse this grief.

Turning down the last hall on his route back to the kitchens, Diarmán's solitude was at last interrupted. Ahead of him was Han Taín, walking with young Lady Naefe on his arm.

Diarmán hesitated, poised to slip back the way he had come, but Han Taín called out to him before he could.

"Diarmán, my son! I have not seen you all day."

"Good afternoon, Father. I am afraid I have been ill." Though Lady Naefe did not look at him, Diarmán offered her a smile and bowed his head courteously. "My lady."