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man and stopped on the slope before the two chieftains, resting the butt of his crook on the ground before him. It showed his office plainly, and also made a barrier between the new comers and the increasingly uneasy crowd behind him.
    Colan moved to the bishop’s side and picked up the bishop’s theme. “You find us here on our feast day. Will you accept a drink in welcome?” He spread his hands gesturing to the kettles. “Then let me take you to the hall where you can rest and be refreshed.”
    Laurel scooped up a dipperful of the ale and strode smartly up the slope. Lynet did the same, so there would be equal welcome for both men. The crowd parted for them, murmuring to themselves. The elders pushed the children behind them, but none spoke. Misrule might be the game of the festival day, but this thing was out of bounds. All of Cambryn’s people saw the pikes and the swords. If it came to blows, shovels, picks and numbers might eventually cause the armed men to give over, but there would be a river of blood shed first.
    Mesek gaze swept over them all, counting, calculating. His fingers rubbed the leather of his reins and his horse danced uneasily under him. Then, his thin lips twitched beneath the moustache, as if he did not know whether to smile or frown. But, he did slip from his saddle, bow his head to Laurel and drank from the ladle she offered up to him. It was an informal welcome cup, but it would serve. By accepting the drink, Mesek bound himself to the rules of hospitality and guestship. Colan, acting as Cambryn’s lord, must now protect Mesek and his men as he would any of the folk of Cambryn, but Mesek could not now shed blood or offer violence in their home.
    â€œMaster Peran?” Colan inquired.
    Peran only scowled at the dipper Lynet held out. Fire had made him a fearsome sight. But even beneath the burns she could tell he had been a hard-bitten man. He did not bother to measure the crowd on the river bank. He instead looked at Lynet, looked and wondered. Lynet bit her lip and made herself hold steady under his gaze.
    â€œI will not drink with my son’s murderer,” rasped Peran at last.
    â€œYou do not drink with him, Peran Treanhal,” said Colan quietly, taking the dipper from Laurel. “You drink with me.”
    Peran’s brows lowered until his eyes were almost lost in their folds, but he did at last dismount to accept the ladle from Lynet’s cold hands. He raised it to Colan, who nodded in return, and watched closely as the chieftain sipped the amber liquid. With that single act, the tension that sang in the air eased. Lean Meg, always the quick one, came up behind the sisters with a bucket of ale drawn from the kettle. She and Lynet moved among the other men, offering each the dipper, welcoming and binding them all to the law with each draught.
    Lynet tried not to notice how many of them eyed her with the same hard, thoughtful gaze as their chief.
    By the time all had drunk, Colan had reclaimed his tunic and his cloak and, for all he was still soaked and mud stained, looked much more the young lord.
    â€œNow, Masters,” he said pleasantly. “Will you walk with me?”
    Mesek looked to Peran, his head cocked and his air so plainly mocking that Lynet shivered to see it.
    Who can so calmly make mock of murder?
    Colan stepped between the two chieftains, carefully not taking notice of at the hard-eyed men who accompanied them. Those men who shifted their weight, clutched their pole-arms, and eyed each other with the pure and burning anger that came from nothing less than a bloody hatred.
    Mesek and Peran both found accord enough to fall into uneasy step with Colan, leading their horses alongside. Their men walked behind, clustering close to their fellows and chieftain and keeping well apart from those of the other clan. Lynet cast a worried glance at Laurel, who only handed her dipper off to Meg, hiked up her skirts and followed their