The banquet hall roared with life.
Long trestle tables groaned under platters of roasted venison, steaming haunches of pork, baskets of dark bread and thick slabs of yellow butter. The smell of meat and woodsmoke mingled with the tang of spilled ale.
Minstrels played a lively tune from the corner, trying to be heard over the shouts and laughter of the High King's warriors.
Áed Findliath himself sat in the great oak chair at the center of the high table, the gold torc at his neck gleaming in the firelight.
Beside him, as though he were some long-lost son, sat Glasán.
The boy looked stiff, hands folded on the table, eyes darting around the room like he was half-ready to bolt. On either side of the hall, the King's cliarthairí raised their drinking horns and slammed them down, demanding another round.
The King's voice cut through the din.
"So, lad," Áed said, turning to Glasán with a broad grin. "Tell me of yer people. Who's your father?"
