Seven Brothers Blessed [ Lore of Penrua: Book IV ]

[ 45 ]

True to expectations, the following day was going to be bright and warm. Diarmán could feel it in the air before the sun had even risen, as the first strains of birdsong filtered through his curtains.

He sighed, opening his eyes and gazing up at the canopy of his bed. He knew this day would be dangerous, rife with challenges, and while he was not facing them by himself, he felt terribly alone.

He turned his head to look at the empty space next to him in the bed: the pillow, the tangled sheets. He'd never been a still sleeper, which made him an inconvenient bedmate. He wished Uachi were there to gripe about stolen blankets and kicks in the night.

Diarmán rose earlier than was usual for him, and he bathed and tidied his hair, smoothing and twisting the curls so they would lay neatly; a man had to look respectable at his father's wedding, after all. As he pulled on the embroidered tunic he'd set aside for the wedding—not the one he'd originally planned to wear—amusement snuck up on him. He ran his fingers over the embroidery along the collar. "It's violet, my love."

He did not expect to see anyone when he made his way down to breakfast; while the servants would be up, preparing for the day's festivities, most of the household would still be abed. He was surprised, therefore, to find Lady Naefe seated alone near the hearth in her borrowed guise. She had a cup of tea in her hands.

"Good morning, Mother," said Diarmán with courtesy. Even in private, he could not risk addressing Naefe by her true name. "You are about early this morning."

She turned toward him, rising to her feet. "I could not sleep." She approached him, but kept a modest distance, searching his face with a troubled expression on her own.

With a wry smile, Diarmán gestured to the breakfast table. "Like mother, like son, I suppose. Sit and have something to eat, at the least."

A grimace touched Naefe's features, but she sat down, her hands wrapped around her cup to warm them. Diarmán settled across from her. He helped himself to cold mutton and berry sauce from last evening's dinner, then passed the platter to Naefe.

She shook her head. "Thank you, but I cannot eat."

"You should try. You know how your nerves play havoc with your stomach."

Again, she shook her head. She glanced over her shoulder toward the open, empty doorway, then lowered her voice and leaned toward Diarmán. "How is...Lady Naefe?"

"In good spirits," he replied seamlessly. He sliced into his mutton, speared a piece with his fork, and swiped it through the berry sauce. "I saw her only last evening at supper, although I noticed you did not come down."

"What did she say?"

"Say?" Diarmán glanced at the door now as he took his bite, allowing the silence to stretch on for a few seconds. Assured that they were still alone, he swallowed the bite. "She looks forward to the wedding. She is most pleased that Father has changed his mind about the location. It was meant to be in the meadow, but Gaerte waxed poetic about the beauty of a certain spot back home. You know how he can be. So romantic. All that poetry, muddying his head."

"Back home?"

"Aye. He spoke so highly of the place that Lady Naefe could not help but be intrigued. I do wonder if she will be disappointed when we arrive. So much walking, dust and grass on the long train of her dress, all to see a few handfuls of flowers along the stream...but if it will make her happy, Father was only too pleased to grant her wish."

"I don't understand," Naefe murmured, more softly still. "Where is this place?"

"Home, Mother, where else?" Diarmán met Naefe's eye, seeing her confusion. "Father's realm. The other world, past our own."