feet. And Corlath, and Gonturan. Her hand had rested lightly on her sword hilt again as she slept, and through the first upheaval of waking; now her fingers recognized what they touched. She shivered, sighed, sat up.
She was in a long narrow hall with a dozen or so low beds in it; high overhead, narrow but close-spaced windows let in a flood of sunlight. She only dimly remembered coming here, having seen Tsornin stabled and unsaddled and happy with a manger of grain and a heap of hay; and falling into her bed, asleep before she touched it. Most of the other beds in the room were still occupied. The hall was built of large blocks of undressed grey-and-white stone; the same sort of stone, she thought, as much of Corlath's City. The room was cool, but it smelled clean and sharp, like young leaves.
There were doors at each of the narrow ends of the room, and as she stood at the foot of the bed she could look through either of them. The flagstones were cold underfoot. She sat back down on the edge of the bed - It's even a real bed, she thought - and regarded her pillow a moment. Then she sighed regretfully and pulled on her boots. Narknon opened one eye and closed it again. The rooms on each side looked much like the one she was in, and full of still-sleeping bodies rolled in dark blankets. There was another door midway in the wall opposite the windows. This she went through.
Here was a vast hall, taller than the ancient trees of the forest she had just walked wearily through, with windows cut at the very heads of the walls to open above the lower roofs of the sleeping corridors. At one end of this space was a fireplace that in any room less immense would have been itself enormous; here it looked insignificant. There were several massive wooden chairs before it, and a long trestle table beyond these; the rest of the chamber was empty. Opposite the fireplace wall were doors, thrown open to admit sunlight and birdsong and the rustle of leaves. She looked up at the ceiling. Curiously, there was no sense of oppression built by the stone and space; rather there was peacefulness, the quiet of repose.
Contented simply to be less tired than she had been the night before, she stood a moment, drinking in the sense of relaxation. For the first time since the confrontation with Corlath, the thought of the northwest pass left her freely, without her straining to push it aside; even the knowledge of the coming war, of her part in her first battle, did not trouble her at present. Of the latter she did know it would trouble her later - soon; but she would attend to it later. For now she smiled. Her mouth felt stiff.
She brought her gaze down from the ceiling and directed it again toward the fireplace. Sleep and peace were all very well, but she smelled food, and she was hungry.
The man with yellow hair who had stood talking with Corlath the night before was sitting in one of the great wooden chairs; she did not notice him till she was quite near. Her footfalls dropped gently to silence; no sullen echoes ran up the walls to disturb the birdcalls. She stopped. There was a tiny fire, barely two hands' breadth, burning at the front of the cavern of the hearth. Over it hung a large silver pot on a chain, and on a stool nearby were a stack of deep silver bowls, and a heap of shining silver spoons.
"Breakfast," said the man with yellow hair. "I've had mine; eat as much as you like. I flatter myself it's quite good, although I admit I'm not much accustomed to cooking for so many, and one begins to lose count of how many potatoes one has already put in after the first armful." She sat down with her bowl, feeling that formal introductions were not wanted and that he would be amused if she tried to be conventionally polite; and she was so hungry. As she sat, he brought up a leather bag from the far side of his chair and poured into a flagon discovered at his feet. He handed it to her: "Goat's milk," he said. There were brown flecks of spices floating in it. She smiled, not so stiffly this time.