"H e keeps staring at you…" "Stuff! I know!" Eleyne whispered back to Soredamor, under the cover of a rumble of thunder. She squirmed uncomfortably at her place at table. Her skin crawled as the gaze of the Salian lord slid over her. It was one thing to dream about a foreign nobleman, but quite another to be confronted by the reality of one sitting at her father's side and looking upon her as if she was a morsel of bread to be devoured. She suddenly didn't feel nearly as grown up as she did before. "You have a good eye. She is called Eleyne, my lord," said Lot, and his daughter tried not to visibly cringe, even though she was being complimented on her beauty, which was usually her favorite thing to hear. "Should you say something to him?" Soredamor whispered. "Since Mother isn't here, you are technically the hostess." The formidable Queen of Gododdin had sent her regrets that she would not be dining in the hall that evening, and after years of marriage to Morgause, Lot knew better than to insist when she was in one of her moods. "I…welcome you to Din Eidyn," Eleyne managed to squeak out. She tried to look haughty, but only succeeded in turning paler than a mushroom. "Well," said Clamadeus, with a satisfied smirk. "Thank you, fair Eleyne. I do hope I'll be seeing more of you in the near future." He lifted his horn of mead in a toast to her, and learned over to whisper something in Amangons's ear. The nerve of them! thought Soredamor. They are guests in my father's hall and yet they act as if they own this country! They'd dare not behave this way if my brothers were here! Gawain and Agravaine were in service to the High King Arthur at Camelot, and Gareth was away on a scouting mission to the borders of Bernicia. The third princess felt sorry for her sister, and wished Arianwen were here to offer some sensible advice, or at least to glare frostily at the strangers. One look from the first princess had been known to instantly silence the cluckings of Lot's advisors. Soredamor let her gaze roam away from the unwelcome visitors and over to the hearth where baby Thaney slumbered peacefully, beneath a blanket of orange and brown tabby cats. Sitting near Thaney was another guest of the hall; his features were hidden in shadow beneath the hood of his cloak. This one presented himself as a weary traveler. He asked for the boon of shelter from the storm. Despite the traveler's rough cloak of cowhide and the stench of wet horse that clung to him, Lot granted his request under the laws of hospitality. The stranger had settled himself and dropped his chin onto his chest, seemingly remote and detached from the events that surrounded him. "Wretched weather you have in this country, Lot," remarked Amangons. His sharp eyes noticed that the king kept looking towards the back of the hall, as if he were waiting for someone to arrive. "Yes, we seem to have a terrible storm brewing this night," replied the King of Gododdin, and the irony of his words was not lost on the assembled company. "Well, Lot, we have an agreement then," said Clamadeus, exchanging a knowing glance with his companion. Outside, the sound of thunder grew louder. Lamorak nodded, and looked to his king for confirmation, but Lot's face was shuttered and unreadable. "I should like to ask a question of my distinguished guest, Lady Derelei," he said instead, as he turned to the Pictish princess. "What did you make of the men who attacked you in the forest?" By this time, the entire court had heard what had befallen Urien and his royal charge. "A craven pack of yelping dogs," Derelei retorted, with a toss of her head. The silver chains that adorned her neck flashed in the firelight. "An appropriate description, Lady," said Lot. "My man Urien tells me much the same thing. He believes them to be the outlaw hillfolk of Gododdin, and they very well may be. But they are certainly well armed outlaws. Ah, here comes the man I have been waiting for." The doors to the Great Hall opened a crack and a tall and spindly man squeezed through; he was carrying a rain-spotted bundle under one arm. His king beckoned and he approached with his burden. "When you arrived, Lady Derelei," he continued, "I noticed a wounded grey horse, wearing Pictish tack. Your mount I presume? I took the liberty of having the arrows removed from the beast and brought to my fletcher. Now I assure you, your animal is not harmed and will recover from his injuries." Lot paused in his speech to calm the painted girl, who was visibly bristling and looked angry enough to start throwing crockery about. "Master Fletcher, what do you make of those arrows?" He reached out and took one from the bundle, turning it slowly around in his fingertips. The fletcher chewed his bottom lip and rubbed at the back of his neck with one dirty hand, clearly nervous about speaking in front of his betters. He coughed, cleared his throat and finally found his voice. "These be not arrows made'n this country," he said. "Tail feathers be used for the fletchings, and 'ere we use wing feathers. There also be differences in the way wot the arrows tis wrapped, and in the arrow'eads themselves. This be is the way an arrow tis made 'cross the sea, my king. I be sure of that." Murmurs from the court mixed with the sounds of the storm. The timbers of the great hall shuddered overhead from the wind and rain that assaulted it. "Well now," said Lot as he looked upon his visitors. His gaze was a sharp, subtle weapon aimed at a vital place. "How is it that outlaws from Gododdin come to use foreign weapons? Weapons of the type that could be supplied by the likes of you two?"