Chapter fourteen
Of presents and whispersWhen I had been thrown down before her, with iron chains dragging on me, all bloody and foul and filthy, hairy and horrible, my Delia had recognized me instantly and flown to my side.
Now I stood before her, clean and shining and fresh, and she greeted me merely with, “You are most welcome, Strom,” in the cold and distant words of formal politeness.
Had she not recognized me? What a comment on the experiences through which we had gone together!
The ritual of greetings and introductions over — I had noticed how the universal formal “Llahal” was used here — we could lapse into more relaxed conversation. Light wine and miscils, which are those tiny fragile cakes that melt on the tongue, were brought, and the presents were looked at. In truth, they
