Six cookfires smoked inside the wagon ring while children chased a spotted dog between the tall wheels of the settlement. Eirwen stepped toward the serving post with open palms, ready to perform the greeting her court tutors repeated every winter.
'Eldest first, bread second, my name last, and nobody laughs at an envoy who does it properly.'
She bowed low to Olan and lifted the bread toward the seat beside the stew pot, exactly as taught.
The old road elder watched her with crinkled eyes and did not move a single step toward the seat.
"Lovely bow," he drawled, scratching his beard, "the capital still teaches it beautifully."
"You're the eldest here, so the place nearest the pot belongs to you."
"It did, twelve winters back."
He tipped his chin toward a woman and two small children sitting in that exact place with their supper bowls. Three empty bowls waited beside them, each one carefully covered with a folded cloth to keep the steam trapped inside.
