"Your grandfather must have had a great many friends," said Uachi to Diarmán as they looked out over the courtyard of House Eldran. They were standing in the shade near the way to the stables, watching a small company arrive to join one that was still dismounting. Over the past day and a half, other noble guests had arrived and dispersed into the grand old house like pebbles cast over cobblestones.

"There is not a man or woman here who is Grandfather's friend," replied Diarmán. "They are his fellows of noble blood; that is all."

"Then why would they make a journey for his funeral feast?"

"It's what's done, that's all. If even one of them chose to come and saw the others missing, it would become the next bit of gossip to flit around the kingdom on butterflies' wings. No one wants to be the carer before a man dies, but everyone wants to mourn."

A well-dressed gentleman of middle years handed his reins to Little Emón. The household could support neither stable boy nor the horses to keep him busy, so Emón had taken up the post. His brothers, too, had chosen tasks to help with the preparation of the castle for so many guests, and even Uachi had hauled wood and water and furniture around.

"I should go join Mother to greet them," said Diarmán.

"Go, then. I'll see you at supper, I expect."

Diarmán smiled, fingers brushing Uachi's as he stepped past him and entered the courtyard proper. Lady Moigré and Leán were already standing near the main door to the house, waiting to greet the newest arrivals and offer them their hospitality. Diarmán joined them, his courteous smile not quite reaching his eyes.

Uachi lingered for a moment longer to watch, wondering what words were being exchanged. Empty pleasantries, no doubt. Mild allusions to sorrow and condolences. He wondered, not for the first time, how the highborn could bear living in a world that was so carefully constructed that every thought had to be examined before it was spoken.

Perhaps if Uachi had been raised to the life, he could have survived. As he was, he could never have settled into it. Even Diarmán seemed ill-suited to a life where any ungoverned thought was carefully concealed behind a shining mask. Charming and clever he might be, but he was no better than Uachi at schooling his tongue.

"You there—the trunks?" barked a man in garish and costly clothes.

Folding his arms and leaning back against the stone wall of the courtyard, Uachi indicated the way into the castle with a jut of his chin. "Of course you may take them in," he said. "I won't stop you."

Confusion crossed the stranger's face. Then offense. Before he could muster a harsh word, though, Leán appeared at his shoulder.

"Lord Alrain. Welcome. Allow me to take those for you." He leaned down and lifted one of the trunks easily into his arms. "I shall show you where you and your lady wife will be."

Uachi watched the pair disappear into the house, meeting Lord Alrain's scathing glance with a tight smile. Leán could easily have taken both trunks at once. To have taken just one was a choice. Perhaps the Eldran lads' powers were not known throughout the countryside.

It went on like that through the afternoon. Uachi did his share of lifting and carrying for guests who did not speak to him as if he were a dog. It kept him occupied as the afternoon waned, and as the sun descended, Uachi retired to his bedchamber to wash his face and hands and to change into clean clothes.

When he entered the dining room, he looked like a pauper compared to the lords and ladies in their finery. The room was already stifling, crowded with people. It was nothing considered against the feasts Uachi had attended at the Imperial Palace in Karelin, but here, in a room that had just yesterday been crowded only by shadows and cobwebs, it was jarring.

Old Lord Emón lay on a long board at the foot of the dais where the head table stood. He had been bathed and dressed in fine clothes, his snowy hair brushed and laid over his shoulders in white waves. His beard was braided with chains of gold, and he wore a circlet on his head. His hands were folded on his breast, a wooden scepter carved to resemble an old, gnarled tree held underneath them against his chest. Over his eyes was lain a length of woven cloth which fell over the sides of his table and dangled above the floor.

Usually, meals at House Eldran were informal affairs in a small antechamber. Moigré and her sons came and went as they pleased, and Uachi was free to sit with Diarmán. Tonight, he seated himself with strangers as Diarmán and his family presided over the formal dining hall from the high table standing behind the table where Old Lord Emón lay in state.

The first course was served by tenants of the estate who had been brought in to supplement the household's meager staff. The noble guests seemed to think. their lack of polished gestures and matching clothes an enormous shame. Uachi held his tongue; he had only to survive this dinner, not make friends.

Or enemies.

When the course was finished, there was a ceremonial toast led by Lady Moigré. She spoke in her normal, hushed tones, and there was no hope of anyone hearing her unless they were seated at her side. Like everyone else in attendance, Uachi simply followed her gestures, raising his glass when it seemed to be time and drinking to the memory of a man he had deeply disliked.

A second course arrived, and when it was concluded, there was a second toast, this one led by Diarmán. He had much more of a presence than Moigré, and he put power behind his voice so that he might be heard in the far corners of the room.

"My mother declares that Lord Emón of House Eldran lived under the sun," he said, raising his glass. "I now declare that Lord Emón of House Eldran has died under the moon in the bosom of his own proud house." He drank, and so did everyone else.

Uachi had always thought that toasts were meant to honor a person's memory with a story and flowery words. It seemed a waste of time to declare that a dead man had lived and then died—else, why had they all gathered for a funeral?—but there was a certain beauty in the brevity of it, and it was not often one could claim that every word spoken in honor of a dead man was true.

The third course was served, a hearty gravy rich with herbs and pieces of vegetables, poured over a slice of pork. Baskets of steaming bread were placed in the center of the table, and Uachi gladly broke into a loaf, tearing a crust off and swiping it through the sauce. It was delicious. He ate as he always had, slightly hunched over his plate, using his fingers and the bread more than any other utensil. By now, he was aware of the stares of the noblemen and women surrounding him, but he ignored them completely, wiping a drip of gravy from his chin with his thumb and then licking it clean just for the satisfaction of hearing a woman's disapproving sniff.

Focused on the food, he did not realize that the third toast had begun until Leán was already standing, his glass raised. "My brother declares that Lord Emón of House Eldran has died under the moon," he called. "I now declare that Lord Emón of House Eldran has taken his seat in the realm of the gods. May his right hand be raised in blessing."

Uachi raised his glass, wondering what sort of a blessing Old Lord Emón would offer—perhaps none of them would want it. Nevertheless, he drank, his gaze sweeping the hall to see everyone else sipping their mead and their wine as well.

His attention was caught by a movement at the back of the hall: the wide double doors, swinging open. The people nearest the door turned to look, curious to see the late-coming guest.

Recognition jolted Uachi. Bewildered, he looked back up at the high table, but Diarmán was stead where he had been before. He turned back to the newcomer, grappling with his shock.

He was older than Diarmán, only just, but fearsomely handsome. His skin was all but luminous in the lantern light, and he had the same flame-red curls as the other Eldran boys, worn loose to his shoulders. He was dressed in deceptively simple clothes, yet when he passed, Uachi recognized how fine the garments were. The breeches were doeskin, the boots beautiful, polished leather with a sliver of a heel and silver buckles at the ankle. His tunic was wide at the elbow and narrow at the cuff, creating a billowing effect, and when the light shone through the fabric, it was as soft and transparent as mist. Over it, he wore a green vest that clasped at the waist. It was embellished with many hours' worth of intricate embroidery: vines, budded flowers, and winged silver hinds. On this man's brow was a circlet shaped like curling vines that twisted round his head and over his bright curls like a halo.

Uachi was, for just a moment, breathless at the sight of this stranger. With a nearly celestial grace, he strode down the passage between the two banks of crowded table.

He did not look to his right, nor to his left.

With his chin lifted, he gazed straight ahead, ahead to the very center of the high table, where Lady Moigré and her eldest son sat side-by-side, flanked each by three Eldran brothers.