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Drenda jerked to his feet rapidly on being addressed, motioning to Torguar to follow his lead.
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"Good eve, aye, Lord Uldor," he stammered. "My mother is quite well, I think." A little irritation could not help entering his voice as he thought of her. It was she who had caused this absurd situation; here he was, caught between the Chieftain's son, the cynosure of all his ambitions, all his prospects; and on his other side, that stupid lunk of a farmer. Both, naturally, were friends of his mother. His mother. How long would she continue to pluck at the strings of his existence?
"This is Torguar Torgatling, your Lordship's loyal subject," he muttered, gesturing to the man beside him, his voice fading away. He felt lowered by the very introduction, as if some quirk of chance had forced him to hurl a lump of mud at Lord Uldor's passing chariot.
But Uldor was apparently no longer listening. A slight, veiled figure, who had passed through the front doors without question, so proud and chilly was her air, now approached the Lord's left side.
"I heard you asking after me," she said calmly. "That was courteous." She made a slight, deferential movement, which cast her black veil from her face.
Though she was nearing forty years of age now, Gausen's presence in the hall was impressive still; the precise, sharp regality of her features, the plain but striking adornments of silver in her black hair, and the fact that no other woman had as yet joined the throng, and certainly not an unaccompanied one. She did not smile at the Ulfing prince, but directed an intense glance at him, as if inviting him to speak to her, and to her only.
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