Honor-Bound [ Lore of Penrua: Book... - Chapter 16: Chapter 16

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.
"You really do worry for her," he said.
"I told you that," Uachi snapped, sounding harsher than he had anticipated. He drew a breath, trying to calm himself. "She isn't...easy in her mind."
"We won't stay home long." He sat down, giving a tired sigh as he did. "I need to stop—a night, perhaps, no more. We can get horses, and we'll make better progress."
"Horses," Uachi echoed. Did Diarmán have more means than he had let on? Not every peasant could afford a horse, let alone horses.
"You heard me." Diarmán spread out the bed roll he had taken out of his pack. "Besides, I think I know someone who can help you."
The next morning, the sunlight filtered through the canopy with the dawn. Uachi woke with a sore back and a sour disposition—which was not too much out of the normal. Diarmán, for his part, seemed to be in good spirits.
Too good.
He was humming to himself as he rolled his bed roll up and strapped it to his pack, sparing a bright smile for Uachi. "Good morning, Uachi of the North."
Uachi shoved his belongings into his pack, making no response.
"It's not far. We should be there by middle afternoon."
"Why did you walk?" Uachi asked. "If you have a horse, like you say?"
He shrugged. "The world will turn and turn again, no matter how quickly I move," he said, "and I don't mind the exercise."
"And what's this errand you were on? If you get that kind of treatment every time you nip to the market for your wife, I should expect you wouldn't linger for supper in an ale-house where the barmaids call you pig." Uachi tipped his head toward Diarmán's bruised face.
The red-headed man turned a dark look on him. "You don't win any friends by your kindness, do you?" he muttered. "It's a family matter, and none of your business."
"Mm." Uachi fell into step behind Diarmán as they unceremoniously started their day's journey. "How much of a family do you have?"
"Enough." A pause. "And you?"
"Enough," Uachi replied.
They walked for the better part of the early morning before they stopped for a drink and to share a light repast. Then, the two of them struck out again, and by midday they had come to the edge of the forest.
"Not long now," said Diarmán, which irritated Uachi, who felt like he had heard this same sentiment a million times already.
"And how long's not long?" he asked. Uachi did not like feeling helpless. With unknown roads stretching on before him, he knew every moment lost was a moment for Ealin to gain ground, and yet there was nothing for him to do but walk, one foot before the other, and hope he was going the right way.
Diarmán did not respond; he walked on. Frustrated, Uachi followed him up the steady, gentle slope of a hill until they reached the very top. Once they were at the crest of it, Diarmán clapped Uachi on the shoulder and gestured to indicate the scene stretching on before them into the distance.
Well beyond where they now stood—a good hour's walk yet, perhaps more—was a large keep, stone-walled, with high square turrets jutting out of the earth. Surmounting each of the turrets were flagpoles from which green banners flew. From the distance at which they stood, Uachi could not make out the device. Betwixt the two men and the proud stone structure was a broad plain and more gentle, rolling hills. Beyond the keep was a gray haze that to Uachi looked almost like mist from a distance. Vaguely, he could make out the naked branches of trees stretching up in a forgotten appeal to the clear blue sky.
"What is this place?" Uachi asked, knitting his brow. He got a very strange feeling looking out across this vast expanse—as if he might walk forever and forever and never reach his goal.
"That's Eldran's Wood," Diarmán said, gesturing. "And that's Eldran's Keep. My grandfather's house, and someday, mine."
Uachi cast a suspicious, startled glance at him. In a tattered tunic and travel-stained breeches, Diarmán looked nothing like a young heir who would someday be lord of such a place. Then again, ever since they had left the alehouse, Diarmán's sullen bitterness had faded. He'd revealed confidence and a cavalier manner that now made it impossible for Uachi to dismiss his claim outright. This was a man who would tell the truth or a lie with the same indifferent smirk.
Uachi, trying to decide whether to believe him, settled for skepticism. "If we get there and you prove to be the stable boy, I'll not be amused."
Cocking a brow, Diarmán said, "Ouch. Had I any pride, it would be sorely offended. You're speaking to a lord."
"Aye, a lord who was pelted in the back of the head with breadcrumbs by a—what was it? Menadrak?"
"Manál derach," he said, with an amused twist of his lips. "As a gentle reminder, it's not a polite phrase, and I'll thank you not to say it in my mother's hearing."
"What's it mean?"
"And offend your virgin ears?" With a grin, Diarmán started down the hill. "I wouldn't dream of it."