Honor-Bound [ Lore of Penrua: Book... - Chapter 71: Chapter 71

The knock at the door jolted Uachi out of sleep as sharply as a bucket of cold water tossed over his face. He sat up, momentarily confused by the darkness and the straw pallet beneath his back. Neither he nor Diarmán had blown out the candle, and a weak flame guttered in a pool of tallow.
Diarmán rolled over with a sleepy groan.
There came another knock. Uachi groped over the side of the bed for his dagger. He had not been able to go obviously armed, so he had had to stow it in his pack. He paused when Diarmán raised his hand and waved him back, shaking his head.
Diarmán got up and opened the door, making no effort to hide that he was sleep-rumpled and exhausted, but his tone was humble when he answered whoever had come. "A thousand apologies, good sir—have we overslept?"
"No, no, travelers," answered a gruff voice. "I am sorry for waking you at this hour, but...ah...Her Grace has requested you."
There was a brief silence. Uachi could have laughed at the confusion in Diarmán's tone, then; it sounded so genuine. "...Her...Grace? Has requested—us?"
"Yes, sir. She cannot sleep, and she wonders if you would be so kind as to play for her again."
Uachi knew as well as anybody that empresses did not wonder if people would be so kind to do anything. The polite phrasing was a thin veil for a command. He grabbed his boots.
"We would be honored," Diarmán said, sounding for all the world like he meant it. "Only allow me a moment to make myself decent and to wake Drummer, if I may."
"Certainly. Certainly. I will escort you, when you are ready."
Diarmán closed the door. In the uncertain light of the dying candle, he gestured toward the door and raise both of his eyebrows, as if to say, See? Patience, Uachi of the North.
The entire adventure to House Resh Deran was an uncomfortable one for Uachi, owing to the fact that he was relying upon Diarmán's plans, Diarmán's wits, and Diarmán's skills to make it through. He, Uachi, had done nothing at all since they had arrived but try to hunch his shoulders and tap at a drum for a bit. As they followed a lantern-bearing servant down dim, midnight corridors and up a steep stone stairway, he once again adopted the mute role of Drummer, enhanced by a few dabs of freshly-applied paint.
The servant did not question why they had brought their satchels with them. Nor did the two guards posted outside of the humble wooden door to which they had been led. In their roles as traveling bards they had precious few possessions; it made sense for them to keep tabs on what little they owned—and it made Uachi feel a lot better to have his dagger near at hand, for all he could not wear it at his belt.
"Here they are," said the servant. He bowed his head to Diarmán and Uachi. "May you have a restful night, once you return to your beds, sirs."
"And you, my friend," said Diarmán with a smile.
The guards opened the door. One of them led the way into the room and, once Diarmán and Uachi had entered, the other followed, closing the door behind him. They took their posts inside the door this time, looking as tired as they had every right to at this late hour of the night.
It was a beautifully-appointed room. The floors and the walls were stone, as was the rest of the castle, but fine tapestries softened the walls and woven rugs covered the cold floors. The furnishings were not so large or so grand as those in the Imperial Palace, but they were wonderfully made. In the large bed lay the boy prince, sleeping. A pair of smaller cots was nestled against the far wall, empty. Near a blazing hearth, in cushioned chairs, sat Liara and the two princesses. The girls had needlework in their laps; the younger was nodding over hers.
Liara stood when Uachi and Diarmán entered. Although the princesses were still wearing their dinner clothes, she had changed into her nightclothes. It might have been indecent, but she wore an elaborate chamber robe that covered her from throat to toe, almost finer than what she had worn at the high table that night. "Oh, thank you," she said. "I am so sorry to bring you from your beds."
"They could be no greater comfort than your presence, Your Highness," Diarmán said at once. "The servant—forgive me—he suggested that sleep evades you."
With a shy smile, Liara dropped her eyes. She certainly was not what Uachi had expected. "Sometimes I do have trouble sleeping. I think perhaps it is because I am so often under different roofs. Usually, I can tire myself with some work or some reading, but..." She trailed off. "Would you play for me again, sir? Just once. Even if I do not sleep at all, it would be a balm."
Uachi did not fail to notice that Liara was speaking only to Diarmán. He had brought his drum, of course, but perhaps he would not need to use it. Diarmán already had his flute in hand.
"With pleasure, Your Highness. If it please you, I shall wait until you are comfortable again."
Liara smiled at Diarmán, gratitude shining in her face, and Uachi wondered how much of what was happening was the woman herself and how much had been wrought by Diarmán's musical spell. She went back to her chair by the fire and settled down. On either side, the girls endeavored to look alert, the elder with more success than the younger.
"And now, I begin," Diarmán said. A light and playful note had entered his tone. He looked at Uachi when he said, "Drummer, you will know when your part is required, I trust."
Uachi raised an eyebrow, but nodded assent.
The song began. It was the same gorgeous music Diarmán had played to end their performance earlier in the evening, that luscious melody which he claimed flowed straight from a mythical land through his fingertips. After only a moment, though, a strange lilt entered the music, breaking the pattern, then twisting it neatly into something new, something different.
Liara was rapt, just as she had been at dinner, her features so bright with pleasure that it seemed she was lit from within.
Then she looked down at her hands, frowning. Her face—something strange was happening to her face: in one instant, it was perfectly normal, and in the next, her features seemed to flatten, to pull apart and then to draw together. Her eyes rolled back in her head and then slid upward along her forehead, and her head tilted back; her chest bowed forward, and she slid out of her chair onto her knees, her head and shoulders rounding back further and further. The uncanny shift only accelerated until, quite suddenly, she was gone, leaving nothing but a pool of expensive fabric on the floor. A glance at the girls on either side of her revealed that they were succumbing to the same strange metamorphosis.
Uachi had no time to consider what had happened to the woman. He heard a soft exclamation of shock from behind him and recognized that his part had begun. He turned, poised to intercept the two guards. They had been slow to act—Diarmán had not drawn a weapon, after all, and the magic he'd wrought had been difficult to understand as it was happening. Just as one man was drawing his blade, Uachi punched him, knocking him to the ground. The other charged Uachi, who dodged him and turned, catching him by the back of the tunic and swinging him hard into the stone wall.
He did not want to kill these men. Subduing them would be sufficient, but that could be harder than simply putting a knife in them. He thwacked his current opponent into the wall again for good measure and judged the job done when he slumped bonelessly to the floor. Then he turned his attention back to the first, who was staggering to his feet. Uachi threw himself at the man, tackling him back to the ground. After a brief tussle, he managed to get an arm around the man's neck, tightening his grasp until, by cutting off the flow of his pulse and his air, he dragged him into unconsciousness.
Diarmán had continued playing. One of the girls was still sitting in her chair, her face blank and her head tilted back in that eerie convulsion. The other was conspicuously gone.
Uachi rushed to the curtains, which were closed for the evening. On hooks at either side hung thick golden cords used to hold them back during daylight hours. He drew back one of the curtains and peered out, confirming what he had suspected—they were on the second story of the castle, and there was no way out of the window but down the stone wall.
He grabbed the curtain ties. Then, he rushed back to the guards and used the cord to bind the guards to the legs of a large, heavy sideboard. He cast around for something he could use to gag them. On the tea table was an embroidered cloth; without a scrap of remorse, Uachi sawed it in half with his dagger and stuffed one piece into each senseless mouth.
The song had stopped. When Uachi looked up, Diarmán was rummaging through the empty bed.
"What are you doing?" Uachi demanded.
"Don't yell at me, help me," Diarmán snapped back. "Get them! They're rings."
Diarmán could be so perplexing that this statement did not even surprise Uachi, but as he rushed to the place where Liara and the girls had been seated, he echoed, "They're rings?" just to be sure.
"Yes. Rings. Little ornaments for dainty fingers—you know. Rings."
"Okay! Okay." Not without a grimace of unease, Uachi began groping through the puddled clothing one princess had left behind: a fine gown in blue satin, lace-trimmed undergarments, stockings, slippers. He found a small golden ring caught in a froth of lace...and another, a delicate thing of silver filigree, on the floor.
"How do I know which rings?" he asked.
A suspicious silence greeted this question.
"Diarmán? How do I know—"
"I didn't think of that!" he replied in a furious whisper. "Just get them all."
Uachi swore beneath his breath. He picked up each of the princess's garments and shook them out. The golden ring was the most likely object of his search—he'd found it inside her clothes—but he took the silver ring, too, and a matching bracelet. He pocketed both, unwilling to take chances.
In Liara's clothes he found half a dozen rings. His heart pounded in his breast. What if the ring they needed had simply rolled away? He was somewhat reassured to notice that there was another plain gold band among the ornaments he'd found. Perhaps...
By the time he made it to the third set of clothes, Diarmán was there, rooting through silk and ribbons. "Got it," he murmured.
"All of them?"
"I think there's just the one. Here, check—" He tossed a shawl to Uachi, who ran it through his hands and shook it out. "The prince turned into gold, and here, I've found this—"
"Like these." Uachi showed Diarmán his handful of rings, sliding the plainest ones along his palm with a fingertip.
"Good. Here." Diarmán had snatched a lace-trimmed handkerchief from the jumble of discarded clothing. Uachi poured the rings and bracelet into the center, and Diarmán swiftly rolled and knotted it. He debated for a moment and then stuffed the handkerchief into his boot. "Out the window?"
"Second story," said Uachi. "We can try to jump it, but—"
"No. We'll make it farther without any broken legs. Come on."
The great house was dark and quiet, and Diarmán and Uachi endeavored to keep it that way as they crept along the deserted hallways. Uachi had kept his eyes open as they had followed servants through the place—first Woll, then Bayanna, and then the unfortunate fellow who had woken them so late—and on the whole, the castle was not nearly as winding or as easy to get lost in as the Imperial Palace. Finding their way back to the stairs was straightforward.
Keeping a steady pace as they descended, less so. Every instinct within Uachi was screaming at him to run, but every wit he possessed urged him to walk. They went on quiet feet, not speaking, trying to strike a balance between keeping to the shadows and not skulking like the ne'er-do-wells they were.
The household slept. The great fire in the dining hall had been banked for the evening.
"Through the kitchens?" Diarmán whispered. Uachi nodded, gesturing toward the passageway they had used earlier in the evening. As the shadows danced, he could picture the faintly smiling faces of the servants clustered there, listening to their music. Leading the way, Diarmán murmured, "Quiet and calm."
The kitchens were still and silent. The ovens were still warm, the fires within them reduced to smoldering embers. Uachi and Diarmán were nearly to the door that would lead them back to the courtyard when a soft, low growl stopped them in their tracks. Uachi laid a hand on the hilt of his dagger, which had been returned to its place at his side.
"Shush, bone-breath," someone muttered. "Who's that?"
Diarmán straightened, turning on his heel with a broad smile. "'Tis only the Prince of Song," he said in a whisper.
With a scuffling step, Woll appeared, his gray hair rumpled. He peered blearily at them. At his heel was a small spotted dog, glowering at Uachi and Diarmán but wagging his tail. "Why, hello," said Woll, surprised. "It's rather late, fellows."
"A thousand apologies, good sir," Diarmán said. "We did not intend to wake you—nor are we rummaging, on my honor. We only mean to beat the dawn and be on our way."
"Now?" Woll scratched his jaw.
"To make it to our next destination by nightfall, an early start is necessary." Diarmán bowed. He was going to have trouble walking upright after all of the bowing he'd done in this place. "We thank you for your hospitality and your friendship. May the muses' blessings be upon you."
With a bemused smile, Woll gestured toward the way out. "Well. Thank you. Thank you very much. Here—let me send you on your way with a bite for the journey, won't you?"
Uachi wanted to say that it wasn't necessary; every second spent here talking was a second they had better use getting away. It would be strange for them to refuse the kind gesture, though, and so Diarmán accepted with flowery gratitude and they waited as Woll wrapped some carrots and some sausage rolls into a cloth. This he gave to them with a kind farewell before he nodded them on their way.
Diarmán led the way out to the courtyard, carrying the cloth bundle in one hand and wearing a grin of great satisfaction. "I do not think we have ever been welcomed with such generosity, Drummer," he said. "Supper, sleep, and some provisions—why, I've half a mind to stay."
Uachi was not foolish enough to respond. The courtyard was mostly empty, but there was a man on a bench near the great double doors, slumped over, dozing. When they approached, he did not stir. Diarmán hesitated, then cleared his throat.
The man jerked his head up, unfolding his arms and straightening. He blinked sleepily, giving Diarmán and Uachi a lingering look. "What is it?"
"I wonder if you might let us out, good sir," said Diarmán. He held up the bundle Woll had given them. "Our friend in the kitchens has given us a bite for the road, and now we are off to the next great house and we carry our music with us—but we shall remember House Resh Deran quite fondly. Won't we, Drummer?"
Uachi restrained the urge to hurry things along with a rough word or two. Instead, he nodded.
The gate-watcher did not seem to be disposed to conversation. He frowned at them, blinked up at the sky, and shook his head as if in bemusement at the foolishness of traveling bards. But he got to his feet despite his bemusement and tapped on the heavy wooden doors, calling, "Coming out, now, lads."
There were low voices on the other side of the door. The gate-watcher hefted a huge wooden bar off of a latch on the inside of the doors. Then, his muscles bunching, he heaved it inward just enough to allow Diarmán and Uachi to slip out into the night.
"I'd have gotten a few more hours of sleep in me," said one of the guards.
"Ah, I wish it could be so," Diarmán replied. "Alas; 'tis a long journey ahead. Sacrifice of an hour or two's rest at the start of the day almost always means a better night to come, you know."
"So you say. Travel safely, then, bard."
"Farewell!" Diarmán flourished a wave with his hat, then started off down the road, whistling happily. Uachi strode after him, his head low.
They walked in silence for as long as they could bear it, until a glance over their shoulder revealed that the house had receded well enough into the distance behind them that they could no longer make out the shapes of the guards in the darkness. Then, without a word, just a meaningful glance between them, they began to run.
Uachi and Diarmán ran through the night, keeping to the road for the first leg of their escape and then plunging off of the path into the brush to the side of the road so as to cover their tracks and be closer to cover should they be pursued. They had traveled long together and neither of them was soft or weak, but there is a difference between sitting in a saddle for many days' journey and sprinting. Before they had gone a mile, both were breathing heavily; by the time they had hit two, both were seriously flagging.
They ran until Uachi's lungs were burning and his eyes were watering and he knew he had to rest. "Diarmán," he rasped.
"What?" panted the other man.
Uachi reached out, snatching Diarmán by the sleeve. He stopped running, thereby yanking Diarmán to a stop, too. Diarmán turned toward him, his chest heaving with exertion, a frown marring his brow. "Uachi, we—"
And Uachi pulled him in by the hold on his clothes and kissed him, silencing him at once.
The world around them receded. The night-sounds dimmed and the moonlight winked out—seemed to, at least, because Uachi had closed his eyes. He was aware of nothing at all outside of two bodies, his own and Diarmán's, somehow one body now as their mouths met. The burning of his own lungs and the racing of his heart made him uncommonly aware of his own body heat, his own pulse. It was a beat echoed in Diarmán's body. He could feel it. They were pressed together, and Diarmán's heart was pounding against his own chest.
He could feel something else, too: after a second's shocked stillness, Diarmán's mouth had moved beneath his own. Uachi had kissed him, and he had kissed back.
The kiss broke as suddenly as it had started. The darkness and the heat were swept away by a cool breeze, which carried the hoot of an owl and the chirp of nocturnal insects. Uachi opened his eyes to see Diarmán staring back at him. There was paint smudged on his chin and on his open lips.
For once, the ruddy-headed fool didn't seem to have a single word to say.