Seven Brothers Blessed [ Lore of Penrua: Book IV ]

[ 32 ]

It was an unpleasant business, one Uachi would have given much not to have witnessed. The experience of being changed into an animal must have been traumatic, and if anyone had assumed there would be joy in changing back among strangers, they were proven wrong by the tears and shivering of the women left standing when the feathers fell away.

That night, after all had concluded, Uachi stood on the stone balcony that overlooked the meadow, the same place he'd sat with Diarmán to concoct grand plans of rescue and to drown sorrows.

Now, he was alone, and he was glad of it. Much and more it grieved him to realize that the last person in the world he wanted to see was Diarmán.

It was a pain that felt like anger, burning hot.

He leaned on the parapet with his eyes closed, his hands clasped before him and his head low. Perhaps he should never have left Hanpe. Had he stayed there, the greatest thing to trouble him would be something so trivial now as to seem absurd—supplies of cooking oil, perhaps, or a dearth of good fletchers.

The scrape of a foot on stone drew his attention. He straightened, turning his head just enough to catch a glimpse of the newcomer from the corner of his eye. He would never lose the urge to draw a weapon any time he was disturbed, but he had throttled it, at least.

"Oh."

"Gaerte," said Uachi, turning fully toward him. "Do you want the balcony?"

"To myself? No, I don't mind company." Gaerte raised a bottle of wine and shook it. "Though I'm afraid I brought no cups."

"If you mean to share, I aim to drink straight from the bottle," Uachi muttered. He crossed to the chairs that stood near the stone wall and sank into one.

Gaerte chose the other, putting the bottle down in front of Uachi. As he took a swallow, Uachi looked closely at Gaerte's face. In some ways, he resembled his wan, dark-haired mother more than his brothers that night: pale, shadows beneath his eyes, his lips dry, his hair unbrushed.

He had suffered since the banquet, and sorely.

"I heard what happened," said Gaerte.

"From whom?"

"Padréc. And I saw them myself."

"Oh. Well, Padréc did not stay to see it through—a wiser man than me."

Gaerte took the bottle back from Uachi and drank. "Do you think they're safe now from being cooked into a stew, or will my dear father crave something more substantial than fowl?"

Uachi's stomach turned. "I've an instinct to tell you not to be absurd, but nothing would surprise me now."

"I didn't meet them, but I looked in for a moment. I was confused, at first, to see eight or nine strange women sitting in the parlor, but then I realized what must have happened and went in search of the story. Padréc said he won't be satisfied."

"No, he isn't. Not yet." Uachi had been angry enough at Han Taín's games; he was playing dice with other people's lives. He'd grown angrier still as he watched the king through that long and weary afternoon. Two of the birds chosen changed into girls, hardly more than children; four were women in their middle years, one many months gone with child; and there was one whose hair was silver, a proud woman of advanced years. Of the lot, only one looked like the marriageable maiden Han Taín desired, and he did not seem interested in questioning them for their pedigrees or their prospects.

No: he took barely a glance at each woman before sending them off, confused, in Diarmán's company.

They were meant to resume the awful business on the morrow. The proud king had declared himself tired. How he could be tired after not a dozen small spells when he'd worked the magic that had cursed so many in one blow beggared Uachi's belief. Han Taín had seemed in that moment little more than a petulant child who had not gotten his way at once.