Uachi had been to House Eldran once before, when he had first journeyed into Narr in search of Uarria. He had not expected to spend several nights under the roof of a nobleman's house in the country—indeed, he had chafed sorely at the delay in his mission—but the experience had given him a window into Diarmán's past he would not have had otherwise.

As they rode into the crumbling courtyard of the ancient holdfast, Uachi reflected on that first visit: Diarmán's beautiful young mother, his half-dozen ruddy-headed brothers, and the grizzled grandsire who'd humiliated them all. The shadows of the old stone walls folded in around them, and Uachi's stomach turned with unease.

He pushed away the feeling. He was not a superstitious man.

Diarmán hardly waited for his horse to stop before he dismounted, landing more lightly on his feet than he had any right to after their long and weary ride. He patted his horse's neck, squinting up at the sky as if to judge the time.

"Are you waiting for a servant to come hoist your rump off the horse for you?" he called. "You'll find none of that here, Uachi of the North."

Uachi rolled his eyes. He swung his leg over his saddle and slid down off of his horse. "You forget that I've been here before. I'm well-acquainted with the myriad comforts of your home."

"Oh?" Diarmán squinted at Uachi now, his grin sharp. "Are you hoping to see a certain maidservant again? Don't hold your breath, my friend. The help never lasts long here. One can only suffer Grandfather's spleen so long. They're the lucky ones: they have an option to flee."

"You had plenty of options." As Diarmán began leading his horse over the cobblestones and into a narrow, walled passageway, Uachi followed, holding his own reins. "You could have stayed in the Holy City, had you wanted, and you could have stayed in Hanpe, too. You chose to come back here."

"You know well enough that it's hardly a choice. It's my duty."

There was a beat of silence. An uncomfortable silence. Uachi did know it: Diarmán played the rake, selfish and carefree, but in truth, he had a web of loyalties as snarled as Uachi's own. Nevertheless, he aimed for light sarcasm. "Ah, yes. Ever a man bound by duty, you are."

Diarmán frowned at him.

"Gallivanting along the countryside. Picking up wayward princess-hunters. Turning into a patchwork minstrel for the simple pleasure of it. 'Tis a difficult life."

This earned Uachi a laugh, though it was short. "You're right. The past many moons have been pleasant passage on a ship of luxury."

Diarmán stepped out of the stone-walled passage and into another courtyard. Here, the stonework was even more dilapidated. Near at hand was a stable. Once, it must have been a proud structure; now, it looked as if it had heaved a mournful sigh, slumped, its tiled roof soft and green with moss and its windows like large, empty eyes.

"Well."

Uachi looked up in surprise at the sound of a new voice. It was one of Diarmán's brothers. When they had first met, Uachi hadn't had much attention to spare, but he thought this brother must be the nearest to Diarmán in age. He was half a head taller than Diarmán and twice again as broad, a handsome lad with the same bold, red curls as his elder brother. Over his shoulder, he carried a rough-hewn wooden beam. For a moment, Uachi could only stare. The beam might better have been called a tree. It had to have been = twice, three times heavier than the man himself, yet Diarmán's brother carried it on a shoulder, balanced between two hands the size of bucklers.

As Uachi dragged the stagnant pond of his memory for the fellow's name, simultaneously trying to make sense of what he was seeing—was the beam hollow, perhaps?—Diarmán came unwittingly to his rescue. "Leán! Gods below, you're bigger than I remember."

"I wasn't sure we'd ever see you again, Brother."

"Oh, bollocks—you knew you'd not be rid of me that easily. What've you been eating? Have you finally sprouted hairs on your chest? Or on your—"

Leán whapped Diarmán on the shoulder with one fist; the beam swayed, but only slightly. Diarmán grimaced and rubbed his shoulder as his brother continued, "You cannot blame a man for hoping. And you've brought your friend back." He looked at Uachi, giving him a broad smile. "I'm afraid I don't remember your name."

"Uachi."

Leán extended his hand. Staring at the veritable tree the man was carrying one-handed now, Uachi shook, half expecting his fingers to be crushed in the handshake, but he was spared: it was a friendly, firm, brief gesture.

"Well met," Uachi replied. "Again."

"We shall see about that." Leán returned his grip to the beam, not that it seemed to be in any danger of slipping. He turned an apologetic frown upon his brother. "Grandfather's health has declined precipitously."

"Is he conscious?" Diarmán asked.

"Yes," Leán said, "And usually unhappy about it. He's dying, Diarmán."

"Ah, excellent. I'll fetch my mourning veils."

Even to Uachi, who'd lost his family many years ago and had little in the way now of close ties, this sounded cold. Certainly, Old Lord Emón had not been affectionate toward Diarmán—or any of his other grandchildren, for that matter—but was there not even an echo of love lost between the two men?

Leán's lips pressed together in clear disapproval. "Show some respect when you meet him, at the least. You egg each other on with your bitterness and barbs."

"What can I say? He has always brought out his own blood in me."

Uachi gestured to Leán's heavy burden. "Do you need some help with that?"

Diarmán barked a sharp laugh. The sound struck Uachi between the shoulder blades and sent heat up the back of his neck. He clenched his jaw.

He had never reacted well to being laughed at.

Leán's smile, though, was warm enough. "Thank you, my friend, but no. I should be getting on, now that you mention it; Declaen is waiting for this in storehouse. We're making some repairs."

He looked at Diarmán again and nodded toward the great house. "Mind your manners, won't you? I'd like a home to go back to."

"What, concerned the old codger will toss torches around again?"

Without rising to Diarmán's nettling tone, Leán turned away. He raised his voice to be heard as he left them: "Oh, yes—you'll find an old friend back at the hall, too."

"Will I? Who?"

"Don't say I didn't warn you!"

"Who?" Diarmán called.

But Leán didn't answer.

***

Diarmán led the way into House Eldran with affected nonchalance.

Strange, how one man could come to know another. Once, the young lord's lightness of step and breeziness of manner would have been proof to Uachi of his utter lack of concern for his surroundings, for this situation.

Now, Uachi saw it for what it was: a play-act. But quite what it concealed, Uachi didn't know.

The house was as dim and dusty as it had been the first time Uachi had visited. Diarmán led the way through the ancient halls to the kitchen, where he prevailed upon the single, aged serving woman to scrape together an afternoon tea for the pair of them. As she obliged, Diarmán flung himself into a creaking wooden chair next to a small table laden with a jumble of what seemed to be junk. His was the only chair in the kitchen, leaving Uachi to lean against the wall, crossing his arms.

Diarmán pulled a small knife out of his boot and began to clean underneath his fingernails as the old woman hung a kettle on the hearth. She produced half a loaf of bread from a basket and murmured to herself as she went in search of something else.

Silence reigned. A few moments passed. Then, Uachi kicked the leg of Diarmán's chair.

"Ow!" Diarmán scowled at him. "Could have chopped my finger off, you lunking idiot."

"I've always thought you had too many."

Diarmán snorted, but it was a sound without humor. He cut his gaze away from Uachi's, returning his attention to his fingernails.

"You're in a foul temper."

"Home, sweet home." The words were bitter.

"Oh, stuff it, you bloody infant. You've been moaning about coming back here for weeks. Now here we are, and you've transformed into a hissing cat."

"I haven't."

"You have indeed. I'd have thought you might be more..."

"More what? Sad, because my spiteful old grandfather's on his way to the grave?"

The elderly woman had been approaching them with a laden try. She hesitated at Diarmán's harsh words, but then she placed the tray on the table.

"Thank you, Brenta," said Diarmán, reaching for one of the steaming cups. "I'll wager you've not had half a minute to rest your bones today. Go on. Let us talk."

The woman made a rusty curtsy and then left without a word. Uachi picked up the other teacup and sniffed the contents.

"Had I wanted to poison you, I've had ample time," said Diarmán. "Why would I bother, anyway? You try to get yourself killed all the damned time."

"So you don't want to talk about your grandfather. Noted." Uachi took a sip of the tea. It was too hot to taste, but that in itself was good, one of the comforts of being inside walls, under a roof, and over a floor. He was uneasy here, but he could not help but think about the bed awaiting him that night with pleasure.

Perhaps he was growing old.  

Slowly, but surely, I am scribbling away! Thank you for your support! I have to say, our dear Diarmán is most insistent that I finish this story. I think he's encouraged by his readers' interest and plagues me.

Loudly.