He was shown to the seat of honour at the centre of a trestle covered by fine linen and set with an earl’s ransom in crested silver and crystal. Asandir was placed on his right, Arithon and Dakar to the left, while Maenalle and the elder clan chiefs assumed the places opposite, between their prince and the lower hall as surety for their hospitality. Since potential threat must first pass through their ranks, any retainer who sought harm to a guest must first commit public treason and strike his sworn lord in the back. Visitor’s rights had not been forgotten in the wildest reaches of Camris, although in the towns, old ways had been replaced by the fashion of placing important persons at the head of the boards.
‘Insult as well as folly,’ Maenalle admitted sadly. ‘A guest seated there is isolated, a target for foul play should a turncoat defile the lord’s house. What respect can a host claim, who would expose another in place of himself?’
Hiding discomfort, Lysaer watched Maien pour the wine. Amroth’s court had kept no such elaborate custom, and rather than risk insult out of ignorance, the prince forbore to comment.
A touch on his forearm recalled his thoughts; Asandir, with reminder that the hall expected guest-oath. That ritual at least was familiar. Lysaer rose to his feet. The glittering array of gathered clansfolk stilled deferentially before him as he raised his goblet in fingers too proud to tremble.
‘To this house, its lady and her sworn companions, I pledge friendship. Ath’s blessing upon family and kin, strength to your heirs, and honour to the name of s’Gannley. Beneath this roof and before Ath, I share fortune and sorrow as your brother, my service as steadfast as blood kin.’
Maenalle arose, smiling, to complete the ancient reply. ‘Your presence is our grace.’ She raised her calloused hands, took the prince’s goblet and drank a half portion of the wine.
Lysaer accepted the cup back from her, drained it and laid it rim downward on the table between. ‘Dharkaron witness,’ he finished clearly.
Maenalle faced around toward her following. ‘Honour and welcome to s’Ilessid!’
As prince and steward took their seats to thunderous cheers from the clan scouts the banquet began in earnest. Accustomed to court fare as Lysaer was, he could not help being impressed. Surrounded by all but barren rock, caught at impossibly short notice, the Camris barbarians provided hospitality as fine as any grand fete held in Amroth. But although in manner and bearing these people seemed flawlessly refined, their high-table conversation better reflected the temper of the culture underneath.
‘The arrogance of the townsmen swells beyond belief,’ the eldest chief, Lord Tashan confided over his soup. ‘We confiscated a wagon recently. Among the goods were paper documents dividing land into portions and allotting coin value to each.’ The spry old lord laughed hugely. He set aside his spoon and fingered his goblet without drinking, concern threaded through his amusement. ‘Next they’ll be trying to tax the air a man breathes, do you guess?’
‘Mortals have been known to presume far worse,’ Asandir interjected. A sharp glance warned Lysaer to silence as he added, ‘What was done with those papers?’
‘We burned them,’ Lord Tashan said in disgust. Now he did take a swallow, a deep one. ‘Without ceremony, as tinder to kindle a watchfire. It’s an affront against Ath’s creation to number a mountain among one’s possessions. Thrice damned to Sithaer, and Dharkaron’s curse on the mayor who started the infamy. If he dares to cross Orlan, we’ll speed the Wheel’s turning for him, and send the blooded arrow to his heirs.’
Asandir locked eyes with the older noble. ‘The matter is beyond your jurisdiction, and the mayor’s life subject to the king’s justice.’
The chieftain bowed to the rebuke, but his outrage smouldered hot as the candle-caught glint of his rubies as he turned in appeal to Lysaer. ‘I ask pardon, my prince. Avenor has been five centuries in ruins, and as many years have passed since a royal heir has graced our land. Survival has forced a harsh code of law, and from habit, I forgot my place. Judgement remains the king’s right. But I’m confident you’ll resolve the matter firmly on the day your high council reconvenes.’
Lysaer hid unsettled thoughts by toying with the meat on his plate. Land-owning, an inalienable tradition on Dascen Elur, appeared to be bloodletting violation in Tysan. The prince held the concept daunting and uncivilized that he might one day be expected to punish a man for laying claim to the farmland he tilled. If Tysan’s charter of governance denied the security of home and hearth-rights, small wonder the townsmen had let sedition from a spiteful sorcerer incite them to bloody rebellion. Anxious to change the subject, if not the injustice of such laws, Lysaer admired the exceptional beauty of the tapestries.
Lord Tashan chuckled with relish. ‘They were the unwilling donation of the first Mayor of Erdane, damn his memory.’
‘Stolen?’ Lysaer prompted.
The old chief’s smile faded. ‘Not precisely, my liege. The weaving was originally done by the masters at Cildorn, before the old races vanished from the world. The clan chiefs of Taerlin paid fair price for the art, though the records that prove this burned when their holdings were stripped in the uprising. The more valuable spoils were sent north, catalogued as tribute. As a protest, my kinsmen in Caithwood saw fit to lighten the mayor’s wagons. The bloodstains washed out, well enough. But the forest caves turned dismal with mildew since the mists, so the Paravian tapestries were brought here for preservation.’
Lysaer measured the cavernous grotto surrounding him with new eyes: ruffians who lived by the sword would have small use for grand celebrations. The chamber where these barbarians feasted had not originated as a guest hall; more likely it had been fashioned as a storehouse, a vault carved into mountain rock to safeguard generations of plunder.
Maenalle’s eldest son, and Maien’s father, went on to describe the particulars of that historical first raid. Tashan’s comment concerning bloodstains had been no understatement. Trapped in public scrutiny, Lysaer hid disgust like a diplomat. Nobly born or not, these folk endorsed outright robbery. Filled by dismay, the prince who must one day rule them understood that the fine cloth, the jewels, even the plates and cutlery that graced the table were no less than the spoils of generations of ambush and murder. Upright trade did not exist among these clansmen; only knowledge of arms and tracking and a predatory penchant for raiding. Alarmed to find his hands shaking, Lysaer set down his fork. His adroit attempt to change the subject was foiled by his half-brother, whose forthright laughter encouraged further tales of thievery from their hosts.
Unpleasantly reminded of the past, Lysaer lost interest in the food. Arithon had sailed with Karthish pirates; naturally it followed that he had no sensibilities to offend. That he showed no rancour for the rough handling inflicted upon his person in the pass seemed a perverse and unlikely reaction for a man whose intense preference for privacy seemed the cornerstone for an unforgiving character.
