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painted,” Haldane said. He spoke in Gettish.
    “Embrace her. You can wipe it off after.”
    Oliver stood silent. He did not speak to Lothor, but stood toes a-squelch in the mud and looked steadily at him, as though his sheer presence spoke against all doubts. Men here knew him if Lothor did not.
    At his father’s continued urging, Haldane finally stepped forward and put his arms around the stranger princess. The material of her dress was thick rich brocade, stiff and heavy under his hands. She must have been a-teeter on pattens because he threw her off balance and only saved her from falling by seizing her shoulders. She pressed at him to be free and, balancing, struck at him, knocking his bow off his shoulder so that it hung at his elbow by the string.
    “Don’t touch me,” she said. “You have grimed and soiled my dress. Do you understand Nestorian?”
    “My little bull,” said Morca.
    “I’ll teach her to speak Gettish,” said Haldane, speaking Gettish.
    “Let us go in,” said Morca. “At dinner, I’ll have Oliver prove his magic for you. An Ultimate Spell, if you are willing to try your courage. Stone Heath in reverse.”
    “If you have so many wizards to spare,” said Lothor.
    “Wizards are of nature economical,” said Oliver. “We suit the size of our spells to the occasion. We do not waste ourselves idly. But tonight I will show you magic.”
    “Odo!” Morca called. “Show King Lothor and Princess Marthe to their apartments. We meet at dinner, Lothor. Bring your fork.”
    “And you bring yours,” said Lothor.
    “I will. I will.” And Morca held his new fork high, finer than Rolf the carl’s, and he waved it. As he saw Lothor and Marthe led away, he said, “Come, you two. Follow me to my rooms. We will talk before dinner.”

Chapter 4
    M ORCA LED THE WAY TO THE HALL followed by Oliver at one heel and Haldane at the other. Within his dun, Black Morca was first. That is what it means to rule. Morca was never late. Other men clocked themselves by him and nothing began until he gave signal. Whatever he commanded was done. Whatever he chose to want was his. He was served first and ate sweetest. When he walked, he was followed. Where he walked, way was made.
    A careless serf, too intent on the heavy brass-bound chest he helped to bear to realize his mistake, stepped backward onto the portico and into Morca’s path. Morca informed him of his error with a casual backhand blow that separated him from the chest and sent him tripping over his feet and into the wall. The chest became too much for the other man and he was jerked forward. He dropped the chest and it landed on his toes, sending him into a painful dance.
    All laughed at the joke but Morca who was content to grin hugely. Once when he was drunk, Morca had won a bet by breaking a door with a slack serf, a dropper of food and spiller of ale, lifting the Nestorian in his two hands and carrying him forward like a lance as he yelled his slogan, “Alf Morca Gettha!” The serf was broken as well as the door. Men still marveled at the thickness of wood that was smashed and the proofs of Morca’s strength.
    Morca said to the serf he had struck, “You’ll never rise to serve within the hall if you continue clumsy.”
    “Your pardon, master,” said the serf, first in Nestorian and then again in rude Gettish. “Please.”
    Odo the Steward rushed past them and began to strike the man. “Is this the way you see your lord home? There will be no meat for you tonight.”
    Odo looked to Morca for approval. He was still beating the shrinking serf when Morca, Oliver, and Haldane passed inside the hall.
    After the cool evening air, the main room of the hall was warm. There were fires in both fireplaces and the air was moist and heavy with the odors of dinner seeping through from the kitchens behind the dais. Arrases, some of Gettish fashioning, some taken from the West, hung before all the walls and kept the warmth and homey smells well contained