Before Uachi had finished knocking on Aerte's door, she opened it, dressed in green and with her hair pinned up. She already looked grim, her features set into determination.

"Have you seen him?" she asked.

"Which one?"

"Either one of them, I suppose."

Uachi shook his head. After his cup of tea and conversation with Padréc, he had returned to his own room for a spell to wait until a decent time to rouse Aerte. He had not seen Diarmán, and he had not, thankfully, seen Han Taín.

"Good—then let's go to Diarmán's room."

Uachi stepped back, waving her ahead of him. It was strange, creeping through the castle like this. Walking around House Eldran had always seemed like subterfuge, it was such a vast and peculiarly lonely place with dark and dusty halls; now, though, both Uachi and Aerte took pains to be quiet, wanting to avoid any notice. It was as if both of them feared that Han Taín lay in wait, ready to pounce at the sound of a footfall.

Uachi rapped on Diarmán's closed door.

"What?" came a groggy voice from within.

"It's me," Uachi replied. "Can I come in?"

"That depends on how many clothes you plan to take off once you're on this side of the door."

Aerte put her hand over her mouth, smothering a laugh. Uachi, who preferred privacy regarding his romantic endeavors, did not look at her. "Let me rephrase," he said, trying to force down the heat that had crept up his neck. "It's me and Aerte. Can we come in?"

This was met with a moment of silence and then an inaudible mutter. After another beat of silence, Diarmán called, "Very well, you bloody tyrants. Allow me a moment to make myself decent."

He opened for them a moment later, clearly having thrown on yesterday's rumpled clothes. He stood barefooted on the threshold, frowning. "Why are you awake? And here? And together?"

"Let us come in," said Uachi.

Diarmán's features smoothed. His tone was calm, dry, as if the joke he was about to deliver was fruit that hung too low to be interesting. "I'm flattered, naturally, but I do not have the energy for more complicated romantic entanglements. You understand, Aerte, don't you? One man—"

Uachi took a fist full of Diarmán's wrinkled tunic and, ignoring his yelp, pushed him bodily into the room. Aerte followed, closed the door, and locked it immediately. She turned a frown upon Diarmán that could have frozen running water. She put her hands on her hips.

Uachi was glad she was here with him and not the other way around. "This is not a time for jokes," he said.

Diarmán swatted Uachi's hand. "Let go," he said, sounding irritated now. "If you drag a man from his bed before breakfast-time, you should be decent enough to laugh at his jokes. What is it? Why do you look like that?"

Uachi released him, staring in disbelief. How could he even ask such a question? "Have you forgotten what happened last night?"

"Of course I haven't forgotten."

"Your brother's aviary is filled with men and women wearing feathers. We must determine what to do. We gave you an evening of peace to mull it over, but now we must discuss how—"

"We? What do you mean, we?" Diarmán interrupted. He divided a churlish frown between the two of them. "You've been consulting behind my back?"

"I spoke with you last night—or tried. Then it occurred to me that Aerte might have been in the dining hall. She is lucky she was taken to bed with a headache—and so are we, for now she can help us."

Diarmán glanced away, folding his arms. "She would have made a lovely pheasant," he muttered.

"Diarmán!"

"Fine! What would you like me to do, go and talk to Father? Ask him to undo what he's done to half of the Narrian nobility so they can go home and chatter about what they'll do to us in turn?"

"What we would like you to do," broke in Aerte, "is to take an interest in what's happening here. These should be your allies and your friends, and you don't seem the slightest bit concerned about what is to become of them."

"Why should I care? Have they ever cared a jot about me and my brothers? They are polite on the surface, but underneath—well. Let me just say that in a way, I am grateful for my grandfather's vitriol. At least he was an honest man."

"Your father ate him," Uachi said.

Diarmán looked at him, confused. "Who?"

"You might not have seen, but he turned your grandfather into a pheasant, too. Then he took him away. I was down in the kitchens last night after we'd chased down all of the birds, and although it was well into the wee hours of the morning, Brente was roasting pheasant. She was cooking for your father."

Aerte gasped. Diarmán's stared at Uachi, his lips slightly parted, and a couple of seconds passed in silence. Then his features went uncharacteristically smooth, and he tossed a hand dismissively. "What does it matter? He can have felt no pain."

Aerte laid a hand at her throat. "Gods below, Diarmán."

"'Twas a childish act of petty revenge, too late to make any difference. Grandfather was dead already. Father did it to have the final say, and now he has it. A feud has ended."

Uachi grappled with Diarmán's reaction, unable to reconcile what he was hearing and what he knew about what had happened the night before. There had been no love lost between Diarmán and his grandfather, but certainly he must still possess a scrap of respect for the old man, and if not that, then at least some measure of mortal horror. A man had been roasted—alive or dead, in his own form or a borrowed one, to Uachi it made little difference: it was an obscenity.

"All of those other pheasants," Aerte murmured. "Every one of them used to be a person. A man or a woman with a house and lands and a family. He might do the same to any one of them."

Diarmán rolled his eyes and scoffed. "He's Faelán, Aerte, not a monster. He's simply demonstrating his power. He won't harm them further. Certainly not for the sake of a supper. You are worrying about impossible things."

"These are possible things," Uachi said, jabbing a finger into the air in the general direction of the tower. "Things that have happened under your own roof. How can you stand there and speak as if this does not trouble you? Gaerte was with me in the kitchens last night. He smelled his own grandfather being roasted, and I thought he might take leave of his senses!"

Diarmán drew himself up, lifting his chin. Uachi did not like this in the least. It reminded him powerfully of Han Taín and the way he'd looked at the people in the dining hall, as if they were so far beneath him that he could hardly make out their faces.

Who was this man? Padréc's warning hung in his mind. It may already be too late to stop what has begun.

Seconds later, though, Diarmán's quelling look softened and he stepped forward, putting his hands on Uachi's shoulders. "You are afraid."

"Of course I'm bloody afraid, and I am not the only one who—"

"You needn't be. All will be well."

"How can you say that?" Aerte asked.

"Because I know it. Give me time; I will restore those lords and ladies to their natural forms, and I will ensure no further harm comes to them. You must see and understand this for what it is: vengeance, a momentary storm of violence."

Uachi did not know what to do. He had never faced a problem like this one before. This man, a man he loved and respected, saw things in a completely different way than he did. How was he meant to change Diarmán's perspective?

What if he, Uachi, was the one who was wrong?

"We're reunited now: my father and his sons. We must not do anything rash. His anger will subside, and then he will give us counsel. He has taken rooms in the castle and plans to stay; we have time."

"And your mother?" Aerte said.

"Safe. He knows how he wronged her. He will not hurt her again. I will make sure of it."

"Diarmán—" began Uachi, but his lover leaned up, interrupting him with a kiss. It was light, but sweet, so sweet that whatever he had been about to say slipped from his mind like sand through his fingers.

"All will be well," Diarmán murmured against Uachi's lips. "We are all together now, in a place where we can be safe. My family has put down roots again and he is restored to us. He lives. He is our hope."