Honor-Bound [ Lore of Penrua: Book III ]

72

It had been a long and painful journey back to the Holy City for Uachi, and he knew he had caused his own suffering but could do nothing to ease it. He knew, too, that he had made Diarmán suffer, and even still he could do nothing but make matters worse.

After that stolen kiss in the moonlight, both of them breathless and exhausted, Diarmán and Uachi had turned their faces again toward safety. They had walked on in silence, and after they had reached Matei's encampment, they had stowed their precious cargo in a locked box in the emperor's own keeping.

Then they had gone to their shared tent, to their beds. Their separate beds.

Their silent beds.

The next morning, Diarmán had ventured into conversation. "It seems that mouth of yours is good for something aside from grousing, after all," he'd said cheerfully over breakfast.

Uachi had been completely unprepared to talk about the kiss—had been unprepared even to think about it. He had brushed the matter aside with some stiff comment he could not even remember now, leaving the matter unresolved. From the expression on Diarmán's face it was clear he had hurt him, and Diarmán didn't attempt to speak of the kiss again. Not once. Not once in all the endless minutes, the endless hours, the endless days they spent under Matei's banners, journeying back to Tuamach. Not once in all the risings and the settings of the sun and the moons as they sailed from Tuamach to Karelin, salt spray in their hair and uneasy silences hanging between them.

The two men had returned to something like friendship, made painfully uncomfortable by the weight of that kiss and all of the unspoken questions between them. They had not even discussed the matter of Diarmán coming north. He'd simply come, somehow, and for all Uachi knew his skills would be required once they were safely home to turn those golden rings back into people—surely that was why he went with them, the only reason—it was difficult not to feel his company as a promise, or perhaps a threat.

Now, Diarmán was at the palace, a guest of the crown; he was enjoying the sovereigns' gratitude for the role he had played in returning their daughter. For the first time since they had stayed in Diarmán's own house, the two men slept in different quarters.

Now, Uachi woke every morning without a lanky limb in his face, without Diarmán's jokes about his sour demeanor and sourer breath, and it was a solace to be alone. It was a comfort to let Diarmán explore the sumptuous palace and the sprawling city all on his own, leaving Uachi to his own devices.

It was a freedom.

Wasn't it?

***

Sunlight shone in a golden shaft through the enchanted silence of Mhera's chambers. Uachi lingered in the doorway between her parlor and her bedchamber, his eyes half-closed, listening to that sound—that silence—and watching the dust motes dance in that beam of light.

Beneath it, in a well-worn chair, sat the empress. She was dressed in blue, and she looked lovely that day. She seemed weary, and older than when he'd seen her last, but she was beautiful—perhaps more beautiful because of how she had changed.

"Mhera," Uachi said quietly.

She looked up at him, and he noticed that her eyes were glassy with tears. The smile she gave him turned his heart into a butterfly. "Uachi," she whispered. "You've come home."

He smiled back at her, stepping into her private room. She rose to greet him, stretching out her arms. That is when Uachi noticed that she was changed in another way. Judging by the cut of Mhera's gown and the shape of her body, she was several moons gone with child.