The east wing dining hall had never been used for anything grand.
It was smaller than the great hall. A long table of dark wood ran down the center. High-backed chairs with faded silver velvet. Arched windows looked out over the lower gardens. Candles burned in simple iron holders. No braziers. No platforms. No altars.
The table was set for thirty. Women along both sides. Husbands standing behind them. Platters of spiced fruit, roasted quail, dark wine in crystal goblets. Roses floated in shallow bowls between every place.
No one sat until Isolde entered.
She wore the same gown. Her hair was braided loosely with silver thread. The sigil on her hip glowed softly beneath the silk. The thin silver necklace at her throat was the only ornament.
She took the head of the table.
"You may sit," she said.
The women sat. Husbands moved to serve—pouring wine, offering bread—without being ordered. Their hands shook only a little.
