Honor-Bound [ Lore of Penrua: Book... - Chapter 69: Chapter 69

Uachi did not know how they would begin their charade, and being the focal point for so many people chafed at him. Not so Diarmán, who cared for the small business of beginning their performance with an over-the-top bow aimed toward the lady seated at the center of the high table.
"My lady!" he called. "A blessed good evening to you. My lord." He twirled his hat toward the young man seated at Lady Deran's right. Uachi followed suit, his own obeisances briefer and clumsier. He was not a man made for groveling.
Then Diarmán turned his attention to Liara. Because she was not under her own roof, courtesies had been owed to her hosts first, but in the world they now inhabited, Liara was the person of highest status. What was she, Uachi wondered? Here, they called her empress; in the Holy City, would she be a princess? A lady? Just a woman?
Diarmán bowed so low that his nose could have brushed the floor. "Your Majesty," he said, his words lower, almost reverent. "Your Most Magnificent Highness. And our noble prince. We are humbled beyond description to be in your presence tonight. It would be our greatest honor and our deepest pleasure to offer you an hour's entertainment."
Uachi caught the tail end of a shy smile on Liara's lips as he was rising from his own deep bow. That it surprised him brought his own expectations into focus: he had thought Liara would be cool, aloof, commanding, but it seemed she was none of those things. She leaned down and murmured something to her son, brushing a hand over his hair, and turned her attention back to Diarmán and Uachi.
Diarmán straightened, producing his flute. "With Your Majesty's permission?"
A lance of nerves pierced Uachi's guts. No chance to back out now. He was about to make a fool of himself in front of a hundred sets of eyes and there was no way past it but through. Liara cast a questioning glance to Lady Deran, who tipped her head. Then, she gestured her assent. The girls standing behind her had edged forward, their hands clasped, wearing twin expressions of interest.
And so, they began to play.
It was a very strange thing, that performance. Had Uachi been questioned on the matter beforehand, he would have predicted a passing fair performance carried on the back of Diarmán's talents. Uachi would not have consented to the mad plan were he certain of disaster, but a man who'd only learned to tap a drum a day before could hardly be expected to make up half of an exquisite ensemble.
As he looked around the room, though, Uachi realized that they were holding their listeners near completely in thrall. At the high table, lord and lady, renegade empress and prince, and ladies-in-waiting alike were absorbed in the music; the other members of the household, including a bevy of servants who'd crowded at the door to listen, were similarly captivated. They did not look shiny-eyed and drunk, as Ealin had the night that Diarmán had played just for her, but there was a general calm, a lull over everyone, a feeling of peace and warmth.
Uachi felt it, too. The anxiety that had rocked him when Diarmán had first flourished his flute had ebbed by the end of their first song. Diarmán paused every so often to explain the history of the song that would come next: a folk tale, a story about a great battle, a humorous yarn about an old drunk who'd made pipes out of wine bottles and become a great composer. As the opening notes of each new song pierced the silence, Uachi eased back into a simple cadence on his drum, finding the rhythm, watching Diarmán as he played.
At last, after what had seemed just a moment—or perhaps a hundred years—Diarmán lowered his flute and swept his arms out to his sides. Uachi held his drum to his chest in both hands and, succumbing to some bizarre whim, he sank to a knee, lowering his head. Applause rippled through the assembled people, polite but genuine.
Lady Deran leaned in to Liara, and the women exchanged murmured words, smiling. The young lord at Lady Deran's side stood, raising his goblet of wine. "An excellent way to pass an evening hour," he said. "Bayanna, if you would be so kind."
The servant woman who had brought them to the hall dipped a curtsy to the lord. She had been lingering with the other servants at the perimeter of the hall; now, she went to a sideboard and retrieved two goblets, which she filled from a jug. She brought them to Uachi and Diarmán right in the center of the hall.
Diarmán grinned broadly as he accepted his wine. Uachi took his, glancing at the lamplight reflected in its surface as he raised it for any telltale skims of oil or floating powders—but he had seen Bayanna pour it with his own two eyes, and there was nothing suspicious he could see.
"A toast. Thank you for the music," said the young lord of the house. Many glasses were raised; many voices echoed the toast. Uachi raised his goblet to his lips, but he only moistened them with the wine, swallowing nothing. When Diarmán passed him his goblet a moment later, it seemed to be untasted, too.
"With your lordship's permission," Diarmán said, "I would offer our honored empress one last song: a special composition, channeled through my lungs and my lips straight from the muses who reign over the Land of Pleasure and Repose."
The lord gestured magnanimously toward the other end of the high table.
Uachi was perplexed. With two goblets of wine and his drum tucked under an arm, he could hardly accompany Diarmán—but, watching his companion, he realized he was not meant to. Diarmán approached the high table slowly, stopping a short distance away, and he lowered his head, once again offering Liara a reverence that made Uachi want to roll his eyes. He did not, though. He kept his peace and his composure, and after attention had shifted to Diarmán and Liara, he drifted backward, toward the group of servants who were still clustered near the door, giving Diarmán the stage.
It was clear to Uachi that Diarmán was about to work some of his fae charms, but he was not certain what his aim could be. He could hardly coax Liara into spilling all of her secrets onto the flagstones. It wasn't her secrets they wanted. Nor could he plan to change her into something he could put into his pocket—not here, in front of the entire household. What game was the ruddy-headed fool playing, and why hadn't he seen fit to share it with Uachi?
Diarmán let the silence linger for some time, standing with his head bowed and his eyes closed. Despite his impatience, Uachi recognized the skillfulness in the playacting. It seemed that he was gathering his energy or drawing upon some force from beyond what could be seen. Though everyone in that dining hall surely recognized that the Land of Pleasure and Repose was a figment of the imagination, pretend even to the so-called Prince of Song, the effect of Diarmán's dramatic pause was very real.
When at last he played, oh, it was a song of surpassing beauty, as light as a spring breeze and as deep as the darkest parts of the night sky, as sweet as the forgotten sound of Uarria's laughter and as undeniably powerful as a beating heart. Diarmán was playing it for Liara, and she watched him, rapt, her face glowing as if lit by a new-rising sun...
...but, gods below, Uachi wished that song were for him.
"Just be patient," Diarmán whispered. "Do you know what that word means? Do they have patience where you come from?"
Uachi shot him a dark look, dragging the foolish cap off of his head and scratching his scalp. "What do you think is going to happen? Did you enchant her with your faerie charms? Make her fall in love with you? Is she going to call you to her bed, Diarmán?"
They were in their own beds, having been shown to a small, chilly chamber by Bayanna after Diarmán's final song had ended. There were two straw pallets and one tallow candle. The accommodations were not luxurious by any definition, but Uachi was simply glad to have been offered a private room—it was more than he'd expected and a token either of their host's generosity or of true appreciation for the music they'd played. That their songs had been so well-received still boggled Uachi's mind, but he supposed he should have expected no less.
Diarmán's music was magic, after all.
In response to Uachi's impatient questions, Diarmán raised an eyebrow. With frosty haughtiness, he said, "I certainly hope she does not. We haven't the time to spare for me to employ my usual thoroughness, and I do so hate to cut corners under the sheets."
A flush of embarrassment crept up Uachi's neck and cheeks, heating his face and his temper. "Don't rush on my account. We are only in danger of being killed if we make a single wrong move."
"Don't insult me." Diarmán actually sounded irritated. "And keep your voice down. When she calls for us, they could overhear anything we say."
"Calls for us?"
"Yes. Calls for us. Did you think I was up there pledging my troth?"
"I didn't know what you were doing up there, perhaps because you didn't tell me. I expected that we would be sneaking through the castle trying to find a royal bedchamber by now."
"Ah, yes. Two bards skulking through the corridors in the dead of night, knocking on doors. Nothing suspicious at all about that." Diarmán kicked off his boots and fell back onto his straw pallet, stretching out with a tired sigh. "Rest, Uachi. I am not sure when we'll be summoned, and it will be a hell of a journey back to your old friend's war-camp. I don't know about you, but I'm exhausted."
Uachi watched him for a moment. The candlelight flickered, throwing Diarmán's shadow further up the wall. With a sigh, Uachi leaned down to pull off his own boots. His feet ached. He had a pair of lovely blisters on the backs of two of his smaller toes. He gritted his teeth grimly and pinched them until they burst—better to do it here, where he could rest a bit and let them dry over, than to have them burst and chafe further on the road.
He fell back onto his mattress and folded his arms underneath his head, closing his eyes.