(no subject)
The great hall in the silver-circled castle is full of lords and ladies, kings, artisans and Makers of every kind, Old Ones dressed in the clothes of a dozen centuries and a hundred cultures. Rows of tables stand under the beamed wooden roof. Arthur had thought of erecting a round table, but no such table could efficiently seat the hundreds of people in the Summer Country. The tables are laden with beef and pork and venison, great trenchers of bread, fruits, grains, ales, meads and wines of all descriptions. The platters of food hardly empty as the people eat. (One wonder of the kingdom beyond the North Wind is that no one has grown fat in the years of idleness.) In other words, this is a feast like all the feasts of the Summer Country--
until something shivers, and Arthur Pendragon goes still, eating knife lifted in his hand.
until something shivers, and Arthur Pendragon goes still, eating knife lifted in his hand.