Free Earth Magic by Alexei Panshin, Cory Panshin

tongue knew his first war wound better. It touched the rough edge of his chipped tooth. His life was a knot, a chaos of wants and fears, but at the moment he was sure of one thing.
    “I have no wish to marry this fat little foreign girl, father,” Haldane said. “She does not know Garmund from Garulf.”
    “You have no wish,” said Morca. “My wish is your wish, and my wish is that you marry.”
    The moment of certainty passed. Morca stared at his son so dominatingly that the boy’s resolve broke and drained away.
    “Hear me all of you!” Morca shouted. “I want no more argument. It is settled now! The sealing will be a week tomorrow and that is the end of it.”
    Haldane said, “Bath night.” His submission.
    Morca said, “Is it? So it is. We’ll have our baths in that morning, before the betrothal.” His acceptance.
    “But first we have to speak with Furd Heavyhand. Make yourself ready, Haldane. We ride to find him come morning.”

Chapter 7
    T HE BANQUET IN CELEBRATION OF THE BETROTHAL of Princess Marthe, youngest and dearest to Lothor of Chastain of all his daughters, a child whose father’s fathers were Jehannes and the Three Kings of Nestria, but whose mother’s mothers were even older, to Lord Haldane, son and second to Black Morca, who would be a prince if the Gets had princes, was an early success. Men drank from full stoups and ate from full plates in the same great hall where they had bathed in the morning and witnessed the beginning of an epic in the afternoon. The banquet was the capstone of the day.
    An ox fit for best guests turned over one fire. On the other spit hung a wild boar returned by Ivor Fish-Eye’s hunters. The chief tumult of platter filling was over and men were well settled to their meat and drink.
    The dowry Morca had brought back from Chastain as his price for allowing his son to marry the Princess Marthe lay on display before the dais. All but the great doors, which had been fitted and hung while Morca pursued his business with Furd Heavyhand. Men admired the treasure for its bulk and Morca for his nerve. Morca Bride-Stealer. Ho, ho. At his work again.
    From his great chair at the table on the dais Morca could see his new doors. He ate beef and sopped his plate with bread. He wore pink ribands braided in his beard for the occasion.
    At the table with Morca were other great people. At Morca’s right hand, telling him stories to keep him amused, was Oliver, his strange and formidable maker of magic, visible evidence for all the room of Morca’s control of powerful forces. Oliver had shed his usual serviceable red woolen for magenta robes of cloth that dazzled the eye.
    At Morca’s left hand was Lothor of Chastain, cloaked in blue brocade. He pecked at his food and did not laugh at Oliver’s stories, even though they were told in Nestorian. He was without his dog tonight, but between bites he fondled the scepter that lay beside his plate, symbol of the slender power of Chastain, as he always did in the presence of the Gets.
    Between Lothor and Haldane sat Princess Marthe, the only woman who ate in all the room. Morca had allowed her to eat this meal at the table to give Lothor reason to leave lighthearted. Marthe wore pale blue and white, the colors of ice. Like her father, she was silent except when addressed.
    Haldane sat in Morca’s second chair, brought downstairs from Morca’s quarters. He cut Marthe’s pork for her with a new narrow knife he had. His chair, much smaller than Morca’s, framed him neatly. Morca had given it to him after the betrothal. Like so much else that had happened in this last week, it was evidence of his father’s favor.
    Barons and carls and knights of Chastain spilled ale on the rushes and stuffed their guts with meat and savory kitchen dishes. A serving woman carried a trencher new-brought from the kitchen to Svein All-White All-Wrong on his stair and let the oldster breach the pottage. At the next table, Rolf the carl sat with his again