Ha'vama'l.


Three richly dressed warriors, clinking golden goblets across a table,--so
much Randalin caught in her first glance. On the spot where the sentinel had
released her she stopped, stock-still, and with eyes bent on the ground
tremblingly awaited the royal attention.

Clink-clank,--the golden goblet lips continued their noisy kissing. The hum of
the low-toned voices droned on without interruption. Minute after minute
dragged by. She ventured to shift her weight and steal an upward glance.

Her first thought was that a king's tent was very like a trader's booth.
Spears and banners and gold-bossed shields decorated the walls, while the
reed-strewn ground was littered with furs and armor, with jewelled
altar-cloths and embroidered palls and wonder-ful gold-laced garments. The
rude temporary benches were spread with splendid covers of purple and green,
upon which silver lilies and gold-eyed peacocks had been wrought with
exquisite skill. And the rough-hewn table bore such treasures as plunderers
dream of when their sleeping-bags are lying the most comfortably,--ivory
relique caskets, out of which the sacred bones had been unceremoniously
turned, gemmed chalices from earls' feasting-halls, and amber chains and
silver mirrors and strings of pearls from their ladies' bowers. Randalin's
gaze lingered, dazzled, then slowly rose to examine the master of all this
wealth.

He was not so easy to pick out. Of the three men around the table, only one
was a graybeard; and of the two striplings left, either might have been the
son of Sven of Denmark. Both were finely formed; both were dressed with royal
splendor, and the hair of each fell from under a jewelled circlet in uncut