Seven Brothers Blessed [ Lore of Penrua: Book IV ]

[ 41 ]

The lyre was nowhere to be found.

Diarmán searched every corner of the parlor, every chest and shelf. He even looked behind the heavy curtains, marveling at the lushness and the sheen of fabric that had until so recently been dusty and faded.

Nothing.

With a frown, he stood in the center of the room, turning slowly around to confirm he had searched everywhere. Perhaps one of his brothers had taken the instrument to their room or, gods forbid, perhaps one of them had played with it and broken it years ago. He'd have to speak with them, perhaps starting with Little Emón, to...

He noticed something strange, then: there were ashes in the hearth.

It was not uncommon for a fire to be lit on gloomy, rainy summer days, for the castle could be chill indeed with its dark passages and thick, stone walls. But this room was all but disused; had somebody needed warmth, they would have spared the wood to heat their own bedchambers for an evening and simply put on a shawl or a coat.

He approached the hearth, perplexed, and knelt down. Mayhaps it simply had not been cleaned since the last time they'd used it. It might have been months ago, or even years. It was simply strange—every part of the castle was clean and bright, and if Han Taín had set the servants to scrubbing the corners of the halls, certainly sweeping the ashes from the hearth would have been tallied on the long list of chores.

Something gleamed dully from the ashes. Reaching out, Diarmán picked up the object. It was a thin, flat cuff of gold, too small to be a bracelet and too large to be a ring. As he turned it in his long fingers, Diarmán recognized the engraved leaf pattern on the outside of the band, and horror struck him like a fist in the chest, knocking the breath out of him.

It was an embellishment from his flute.

"No," he whispered. Folding the gold band into his fist, he used his other hand to sweep the ashes aside, searching for the remnants of his instrument. But, of course, there was nothing. His flute had been made of wood, and there was nothing left of his most cherished possession but this useless scrap of gold.

He found some other things, though: a handful of small bone tuning pegs, blackened from the fire, which he recognized as belonging to the very lyre he'd come in search of. A metal tube, flattened at one end, which he did not recognize but thought might be the mouthpiece of a pipe or a whistle. More fragments of metal and shards of ash-covered clay.

Han Taín, if he was indeed responsible for this—and who else could it have been?—must have thrown every instrument he could find in the house into the fire to destroy.

Diarmán cast the ashes back across the fireplace, hiding the marks of his frantic searching. He backed away, taking with him only the ring of gold from his flute, and hastened out of the parlor.

He was already at risk of making his father suspicious, skulking around the castle when he should have been with Han Taín. He went to his room to wash his hands and change his shirt, pushing away another sorrow—the loss of his flute—and the mounting certainty that Han Taín knew precisely what he was doing here, protecting himself as he took control.

Diarmán washed and dried the gold ring from his flute and put it into his pocket, pausing only long enough to settle his rioting mind before he went down to meet with his father.

***

Han Taín was waiting in Old Lord Emón's study, seated at his desk, poring over old maps from Emón's record books. Perched on the only other chair in the room was Lady Naefe, her head bent over a book. She looked up as Diarmán entered the room and returned his courteous nod, then looked back down at the page. On a side table in the room was a tray of lunch, as of yet untouched.