With Leán's toast finished, the ceremonial aspects of the evening were concluded. Now, it was simply a matter of finishing the meal, and Diarmán had had his fill. He leaned to his right, murmuring to his sleepy-eyed mother in an undertone. "How long must we endure the company of the gentry?"

She looked at him with something akin to resignation. "Do not be impatient, dear. They have come to pay their respects."

"As the buzzard does to his dinner." Diarmán swept his hands up, linking his index fingers and spreading his remaining fingers in the air like the flapping wings of a bird—an child's gesture symbolizing the greedy and uncivilized creature.

Diarmán had forgotten who his neighbor was, but he remembered as soon as he felt the sharp elbow jab his ribs.

He straightened in his seat, reaching for his wine. "You know, Leán," he said conversationally, "I always thought I had but one mother. What a comfort to realize that I have two."

"People are watching," Leán replied. "And whether they mean them or not, they have indeed come to pay their respects."

"And eat of our food and drink of our wine and sleep in our beds. Where have they been all this time? No friends to him they've been."

"He was never much a friend to anybody, either. 'Tis hard to make a visit to a place where there's no waiting welcome."

Diarmán was not disposed to feel kindly toward buzzards, though, so he simply rolled his eyes—discreetly, disguising the gesture with a sip of wine—and looked away, only to see the doors on the far side of the dining chamber open. In through it walked a figure so familiar that Diarmán's heart stopped.

It was his father.

Han Taín strode into the dining hall with a proud bearing, as if he were arriving precisely on time in response to an invitation. He turned every head on the way; many eyes lingered on him, and in the silence that had fallen, a soft rustle of whispers made its way through the hall.

Leán's knife clattered to the tabletop through slack fingers. Diarmán put a hand on his brother's arm. He did not have to look at him to know that Leán had seen. They all had.

"Gods of mine," Moigré whispered. "Gods of mine, gods of mine, no."

"Father?" Diarmán murmured, staring at the approaching man's face. He had to be dreaming.

But as if he had heard that single quiet word, Han Taín smiled, sharp as a blade. He stopped at the head of the assembly, just before where Old Lord Emón lay. He spread his arms with a flourish of his hands and gave a bow so deep that it was clearly a mockery.

"My lord!" he cried as he straightened again, addressing Diarmán directly. "Greetings to you on the evening of your ascension. And to my lady." His attention shifted to Moigré and then from one of Diarmán's brothers to another. "My lords."

At last, Han Taín looked down at Old Lord Emón's face. "And my dear, unfortunate, deceased lord of all—greetings to you. Or farewells, as it were."

Diarmán pushed back his chair, rising to his feet. His legs were weak; he braced himself on the table. A murmur was going around the crowd, noble folk leaning in to one another to whisper. "This cannot be."

Han Taín's smile grew broader and sharper still. "What cannot be?"

"You. Here. You're—"

"Late, I know. My deepest and most sincere apologies, my lord. It will forever be my sore regret that I was unable to consult with the late lord of the house prior to his timely demise. In my heart, I cherish the hope that he knew the precise nature of my regard toward him before he died."

Leán stood next, raising a hand. "My lords and my ladies, please forgive us. We must retire to welcome our new guest and to consult with him. Remain to enjoy—"

"Oh, no!" Han Taín cried. "You mustn't run off just yet, Little Lord Leán. Stay!"

"We—"

"Stay."

As one, Diarmán and Leán sank back into their seats. Diarmán searched the crowd and saw Uachi for the first time since Han Taín's arrival. The ranger was grim, watching Han Taín from a place near the wall—he had abandoned his seat.

"How can you even consider retiring from your beloved grandfather's final banquet before his funeral dirge has been played?"

"No," Moigré whispered.

"It's okay, Mother," said Diarmán, his stomach twisting anxiously. He reached underneath the table, taking her hand. She clutched his fingers tightly, her palm clammy. "It will be okay."

Han Taín flicked his empty right hand, and his flute appeared in his long, fine fingers. He twirled it, turning to address the assembled people, ambassadors and heads of household from a wide swathe of the north and northwestern reaches of Narr. "My lords, my ladies: I offer a tribute to the man Lord Emón was."

Again, Diarmán looked for Uachi, but he could no longer see where the ranger was. The temporary servants drawn from the estate stood in clusters of two or three, whispering to one another on the fringes of the feast. He shifted in his chair, urged to rise and find his lover, but he did not want to draw Han Taín's attention.

It had grown quiet again, the whispers subsiding in anticipation of a song.

The Faelán king put his flute to his lips. He went very still, slightly lowering his head. Though Diarmán could not see his father's face, he pictured him having closed his eyes, sinking into that silent sanctuary somewhere deep inside where music was born. And then, after a moment, the first sweet strains of a melody floated through the air.

It was a lovely song. Diarmán had a talent for music that surpassed the natural; music had been the gift his father had given him when he lay in his cradle, newly born. But Diarmán was not his father, and his gift was just a branch from his father's tree. Before Diarmán realized that he had become distracted, he was half-adrift on the sound.

Through the drowse, a lady's sharp cry sounded from somewhere on the other side of the room. It was followed by a piercing scream. Moigré tightened her grasp on Diarmán's hand, her fingernails digging into his skin.

"What's happening?" one of his brothers said in a rasp of a voice. He did not know which one. "Something—"

A current moved through the room, sweeping from the far end toward the high table like the arms of a gambler taking in his winnings at a game. Diarmán heard a sharp bird's call, two notes of alarm. It was echoed by another on the other side of the room. Then came the rumor of feathers and a flurry of motion as two birds, then three, burst out of a far corner of the room, their wings beating hard as they flew through the air in search of escape.

Pheasants.

The song continued. Diarmán stood, dropping his mother's hand. "Father!" he called. "Stop this!"

It was too late. The ripple had reached the end of the audience. As the family watched in horror, the men and women seated nearest to them changed shape, their noses and mouths elongating and sharpening into beaks, their bodies shrinking rapidly, their clothes slipping away to pool on their chairs or on the floor. There was a rain of tinkles and clinks as hair pins, diadems, necklaces, bracelets, brooches, and rings fell onto the tables and rolled onto the flagstones.

Panic tore at Diarmán's chest. He searched the room, seeing nothing now but a riot of motion as pheasants flushed from every corner. Where was Uachi? Which one was he? The only people he could see were servants, backed against the walls, some of them frozen, some of them crying.

Han Taín turned toward the high table, his flute still at his lips. He certainly possessed the power to soothe and ensorcel with his music, but he had not chosen to do that with this song. Terror coursed through them all—the people who had been turned into birds and the few who remained at the high table, watching, dumbstruck, what was happening.

"Father, stop!" Padréc cried. "Please, stop!"

"Gods of mine, gods of mine," Moigré continued to murmur. She had her hands over her face now, her head bowed, her body curled in on itself, as if she might find a way to shrink out of time and space if only she tried hard enough to make herself small.

A hand clapped onto Diarmán's shoulder, jolting him. He turned to see Uachi standing behind him. The ranger was not an easy man to frighten; Diarmán had seen him face battle, death, and magic with only a determined scowl. But Uachi looked frightened now. "We must go," he said.

Diarmán shot to his feet, knocking into his lover as he pushed back from his chair. He reached for his mother's arm. As he did, he caught a glimpse of what was happening on the other side of the high table.

Where Old Lord Emón's body had lain, dressed for the very last time in the finery of his station, there was now nothing but an empty suit of clothes.

Or so it seemed at first. There was a small shape underneath the clothing. The length of cloth that had lain over Lord Emón's closed eyes now covered the pheasant's head entirely. The bird was completely still.

"Mother, come," said Diarmán. "We must—"

The music stopped. Uachi's fingers tightened to the point of pain on Diarmán's shoulder. Moigré, half out of her chair only, sank back into it, staring at Han Taín.

Han Taín himself let the flute fall from his lips, gazing at the shape of the dead bird. With a twist of his fingers, he made his flute disappear, and he straightened, looking down his nose at what remained of the man who had burned his forest to the ground not so many years ago. He glanced up, fixing Diarmán with his gaze—a gaze the same color as Diarmán's own and that of all his brothers, each of them so alike. 

Posting today from the airport! I just could not wait to answer some questions you might have had after last chapter...