Honor-Bound [ Lore of Penrua: Book III ]

20

Inside the dining hall of Eldran's Keep, candles had been lit, illuminating one of the trestle tables. A number of people were already gathered there, and the same aproned serving girl who had brought Uachi water was busy pouring wine.

At the head of the table was a gray-bearded man wearing a plain silver circlet. He sipped his wine, then subsided into racking coughs, hunched over. The boy at his side—Uachi recognized him from the courtyard earlier; Emón, had it been?—put a hand on the old man's shoulder. "Grandfather, are you all right?"

"I'm fine, I'm fine, boy," the old man said, waving a hand. His rheumy eyes turned toward Diarmán and Uachi. "Diarmán, back so soon. What trouble have you gotten up to while you were away?"

Diarmán spared a glance for the lovely young woman he had called Mother, who sat at the opposite end of the table, gazing down at an empty plate. She did not seem to be aware of anything happening around her. "Just a little travel to refresh my mind," he said. "Grandfather, this is Uachi, a friend. Uachi, my grandfather, Emón, Lord of House Eldran."

"Ah." The old man waved a hand dismissively, once again falling into a coughing fit. After a moment, he drew a painful-sounding breath and said, "You make too much of this ruined shit any more."

"You make too little of it, Granddad," said another young man sitting near Emón.

"Leán," said Moigré in a quiet, tired voice, "Don't quarrel."

Diarmán threw a leg over the bench of the trestle table. He sat down, patting the space at his side, which just so happened to be the old man's right hand. "Uachi. Sit. These are my brothers: Leán, Declaen, Ruaraín, Gaerte, and Emón." He cast another glance toward his mother. "Padréc is the last of them. He isn't well tonight, I'm afraid. Hopefully you can meet him before we depart in the morning."

Uachi's head swam with the introduction to so many brothers. Diarmán seemed to be the eldest, with the youngest, Emón, sitting at Moigré's left hand. Again, Uachi studied her from his vantage point. She must be a stepmother, considering her youth and how little she looked like her sons. What of her husband, Diarmán's father?

The servant girl filled Uachi's glass. Since Lord Emón had already drunk of his wine, Uachi took a sip, pleased that it was not as sweet and heady as the floral mead had been. A pair of servant boys brought out roast venison with herb-seasoned vegetables. The smell of the food alone made Uachi rethink his insistence that he didn't care for a good meal.

When he looked up, his cheek full of potatoes, he caught Lord Emón's piercing gaze on him. "So, Uachi," he said, "are you a young lord from somewhere far afield? I imagine not, or Diarmán would have made a point to wave around your title. A commoner, then. Maybe a blacksmith, to judge by your shoulders."

Uachi nodded. "Perceptive, my lord," he said, grasping onto the lie.

"Don't grow attached to the lad." He held Uachi's gaze, sliding a piece of meat off his fork with his teeth. Around it, he said, "He's not averse to breaking maidens' hearts, and I think he's less careful with handsome young men."

"Granddad," said Leán, the eldest of Diarmán's brothers. "You'll upset Mother."

"She's hardly one to be prudish about unnatural relationships." The old man swallowed the meat and reached for his wine. As he drank it, his hand trembled, spilling a few drops over his chin. Up close, Uachi saw that more than wine was caught in that snowy beard.

His pale face glowing with a blush, Diarmán bit out, "Forgive my grandfather, Uachi. Perhaps we should have dined in my parlor."

"Oh, yes, you'd have liked that," Emón the elder said. He settled back into his chair. "No wonder you've not married yet. Not that it matters. Not that I'd've expected anything else from my daughter's son."