Honor-Bound [ Lore of Penrua: Book III ]

15

As the night wore on, Uachi and Diarmán lapsed into silence. Not certain how he'd gotten himself into this situation—traveling abroad with a stranger, having half-agreed to accompany him to the court of the Narrian High Queen—Uachi frowned at the path.

The matter of the High Queen should have worried him more, but he could hardly spare her a thought.

Uarria.

Ealin.

Jaeron, within reach. More than once, Uachi pushed the thought away, focusing on the little girl who needed him, on the grieving parents who waited with aching hearts for her return, on the woman who'd shared his heart and his bed and would not share his future.

But the archmage's grim, gaunt face swam into his mind again and again. His hand rested on the hilt of his favorite dagger. He could feel it, the lethal blow: muscles taut, fingers tightening, joints rolling into motion to drive the sharp point home.

Hot blood.

Cold revenge.

"I can't tell if you're thinking of killing me or something even more pleasant," Diarmán said lightly, breaking a silence of at least an hour's walking. They had been following the road, but for several minutes they'd been branching away from it and were now moving into a copse of trees. He glanced down to Uachi's hand, and a slow, handsome smile overtook his features.

Uachi followed Diarmán's gaze, lifting his hand away from the hilt with a frown. "I'm not thinking of killing you," he muttered, nonplussed.

"Ah. Well, I could give you something else to hold to ease your troubled mind, Uachi of the North."

Uachi drew to a stop, narrowing his eyes as he tried to suss out Diarmán's meaning. Before he could, Diarmán said, "We'll be there tomorrow." He looked around and then unslung his pack from his back. "Here's as good a place to stop as any."

"Aólane?" Uachi asked, incredulous. Diarmán had said it was a long journey; how could they have come to Aólane already?

"No, of course not, you ink-faced fool. My home."

Uachi frowned. He watched Diarmán, who was moving around, scanning the earth with a thoughtful expression. At last he stopped, dropping his pack and beginning to scrape a boot along the earth to clear away fallen branches and stones, making himself a spot to bed down. Uachi let his own pack slide from his shoulders and chose a spot for himself.

He was not of Narr, but the "ink-faced" descriptor had been used by the rude waitress at the ale-house, and it sounded like an insult. He opened his pack, rooting for a blanket as he suppressed a barbed response. He needed Diarmán's help. "And why are we stopping there?"

"I've been on an errand." Diarmán was unbuckling his sword belt. He caught Uachi's gaze and smiled at him again, a slow smile gleaming with good humor and something else. He rolled his head, stretching the muscles of his neck and upper back, and let the sword fall to the ground. "My return is greatly anticipated. Parades and toasts and pretty ladies' handkerchiefs await, Uachi. We have to stop."

Uachi didn't have to stop. He could go on alone, but he needed Diarmán's help if he were to make it to Aólane—and Ealin, and the archmage—in any semblance of good time. "How thrilling," he muttered. "Will we stay long at your house?" He lowered himself to his haunches, unstrapping his bed roll.

"Long enough for you to win a few hearts with your vibrant charms."

Uachi threw his bed roll to the ground and glowered at Diarmán. It was dark, but the trees where they were bedding down were not as thick and dense as those in the Duskwood, and he could see Diarmán's expression through the gloom. He looked curious. Curious and sharp.