True to expectations, the following day was going to be bright and warm. Diarmán could feel it in the air before the sun had even risen, as the first strains of birdsong filtered through his curtains.

He sighed, opening his eyes and gazing up at the canopy of his bed. He knew this day would be dangerous, rife with challenges, and while he was not facing them by himself, he felt terribly alone.

He turned his head to look at the empty space next to him in the bed: the pillow, the tangled sheets. He'd never been a still sleeper, which made him an inconvenient bedmate. He wished Uachi were there to gripe about stolen blankets and kicks in the night.

Diarmán rose earlier than was usual for him, and he bathed and tidied his hair, smoothing and twisting the curls so they would lay neatly; a man had to look respectable at his father's wedding, after all. As he pulled on the embroidered tunic he'd set aside for the wedding—not the one he'd originally planned to wear—amusement snuck up on him. He ran his fingers over the embroidery along the collar. "It's violet, my love."

He did not expect to see anyone when he made his way down to breakfast; while the servants would be up, preparing for the day's festivities, most of the household would still be abed. He was surprised, therefore, to find Lady Naefe seated alone near the hearth in her borrowed guise. She had a cup of tea in her hands.

"Good morning, Mother," said Diarmán with courtesy. Even in private, he could not risk addressing Naefe by her true name. "You are about early this morning."

She turned toward him, rising to her feet. "I could not sleep." She approached him, but kept a modest distance, searching his face with a troubled expression on her own.

With a wry smile, Diarmán gestured to the breakfast table. "Like mother, like son, I suppose. Sit and have something to eat, at the least."

A grimace touched Naefe's features, but she sat down, her hands wrapped around her cup to warm them. Diarmán settled across from her. He helped himself to cold mutton and berry sauce from last evening's dinner, then passed the platter to Naefe.

She shook her head. "Thank you, but I cannot eat."

"You should try. You know how your nerves play havoc with your stomach."

Again, she shook her head. She glanced over her shoulder toward the open, empty doorway, then lowered her voice and leaned toward Diarmán. "How is...Lady Naefe?"

"In good spirits," he replied seamlessly. He sliced into his mutton, speared a piece with his fork, and swiped it through the berry sauce. "I saw her only last evening at supper, although I noticed you did not come down."

"What did she say?"

"Say?" Diarmán glanced at the door now as he took his bite, allowing the silence to stretch on for a few seconds. Assured that they were still alone, he swallowed the bite. "She looks forward to the wedding. She is most pleased that Father has changed his mind about the location. It was meant to be in the meadow, but Gaerte waxed poetic about the beauty of a certain spot back home. You know how he can be. So romantic. All that poetry, muddying his head."

"Back home?"

"Aye. He spoke so highly of the place that Lady Naefe could not help but be intrigued. I do wonder if she will be disappointed when we arrive. So much walking, dust and grass on the long train of her dress, all to see a few handfuls of flowers along the stream...but if it will make her happy, Father was only too pleased to grant her wish."

"I don't understand," Naefe murmured, more softly still. "Where is this place?"

"Home, Mother, where else?" Diarmán met Naefe's eye, seeing her confusion. "Father's realm. The other world, past our own."

Naefe's eyes widened.

"You need not worry. I am certain Father does not expect you. You may spend today how you like and simply wish him well." He smiled at her, restraining himself from putting a hand over hers; it was hard to look into his own mother's face and not want to comfort her as he often had. "There's no need for you to go back there."

"But Lady Naefe will go?" she asked.

"Of course she will. She is the bride, and it was her wish." Diarmán sliced another piece of meat. "I am encouraged; she is still shy, but I saw the blossoming of joy in her. Today will be a day of great triumph."

They exchanged another look, laden with meaning, as Diarmán chewed. Silence fell, and Diarmán resisted the urge to fill it, focused on his breakfast. Lady Naefe sipped her tea slowly; by the time she had finished, it had certainly gone cold as bone.

"Good morning." Leán appeared. He was dressed in what he had worn for the funeral, a dark tunic and trousers, his red hair braided back from his brow. Diarmán had teased him about the length of his sleeves at the funeral feast; without much cause to wear fine clothes, it had been too long since any of the brothers had had anything new, and Leán could not take clothes from his brothers or even Old Lord Emón. But he looked respectable enough, and there would be no one outside from his family to see him.

Just behind Leán came Little Emón. As the youngest and still the smallest of the Eldran brothers, he had his choice of hand-me-down finery. Diarmán recognized the butter-yellow tunic he wore as having belonged to Gaerte, once upon a time. For the first time, Emón looked like a young man and not a little boy. Was it the clothing, Diarmán wondered, or the task ahead?

He caught Leán's eye. "I hope we can trust that all is arranged for the wedding?" he asked.

Leán glanced at Emón, then back to Diarmán, and gave the subtlest of nods. "I should hope so. I will go down directly after breakfast to see whether the servants require help with anything."

"Good morning, Little Emón," Diarmán said. "Here, the mutton—"

"My name is Samoch." Trailed by Leán, he moved toward the table with a frown, and chose a seat awkwardly distant from Diarmán and Naefe. Giving the latter a surly look, he added, "Good morning...Mother."

Naefe nodded at him, a polite rather than maternal greeting. "Good morning, Samoch," she replied.

Emón's scowl smoothed a bit at that. He snatched up a piece of bread and then reached for the jam, leaning far across the table.

Leán gently batted his hand back as he sat down across from him. He passed the jam over to Emón with one long arm. "Don't lie on the table, Little Brother."

"Not everybody has arms as long as the castle wall."

"Ha!" Diarmán smiled at Emón with a glimmer of pride. "What other jokes have you about our largest brother, I wonder? I'll hear them gladly."

When he looked at Leán, they were both smiling, but those smiles did not reach their eyes. Much unsaid passed between them. Their youngest brother was clearly in a sour humor this morning, and it was no doubt owing to what they had asked him to do.

Diarmán had not done the asking. He'd left that to Leán, and he did not know the details of how the conversation had gone. He knew Emón was bound to feel conflicted about imprisoning their father again. He had been without him all his life; to lose him again would be a deep grief. Though their experiences were different, Diarmán could nonetheless relate with Little Emón—Samoch—and his troubled state of mind.

Could they trust him to do what must be done when the time came?

"I'll have to think," said Emón, a hint of amusement in his tone now. "There's probably a lot of jokes about those boats of his. I mean, feet."

Diarmán threw his head back and laughed, tapping a fist on the table. "Ah, I'll soon be unseated as the lord of laughter in this house. Here." He rose, taking up the tray of mutton and placing it before his youngest brother. "Eat heartily to power that clever mind."