While Lord Anshelm and his family usually took their breakfast and supper in their rooms, they ate their midday dinner in the main hall along with the rest of the hall’s residents. Lord Anshelm's family and oathsworn servants would sit at a table overlooking the longer one where all the ordinary servants sat. Anshelm would sit in the middle, with his sister, his nephew and Old Wulfger to his left, and his housecarls along with Fenric on his right. They sat ordered according to rank, so Ramunt took the seat closest to Anshelm, while Fenric sat at the very end, with Fredhelm to his left and no-one to his right. 

Gytha Jordis had been seated between Lord Anshelm and Lady Gerthrud. None were yet sure what business she had at Lord Anshelm's hall that would not have been better addressed at Cletzhem Stronghold. Next to Fenric, the young Fredhelm had first asked his fellow Housecarl, Sigurt, if he knew anything, before instead turning to Fenric.

“You were with Anshelm when Gytha Jordis arrived, were you not, Fenric?” he asked, a strip of ham dangling off his knife. “Did you hear of her business?”

Fenric shook his head as he finished chewing his cabbage. 

“Afraid not, Lord.”

Sigurt shoved his elbow into Fredhelm’s side. 

“Be quiet, we’ll learn soon enough.”

Fredhelm and Sigurt were both young men, but Fredhelm was by far the younger. He may not even be old enough to represent himself at a Thingstead. That Fredhelm was already in Anshelm’s service may come down to the fact that – as Fenric had recently learned – they were cousins. 

Sigurt was a bit older and not, to Fenric’s knowledge, a direct relation of Anshelm. He was certainly old enough to represent himself at a Thingstead – perhaps around 20 years old or so – and was a Werbane. House Werbane had been a raider house in the old days and now earned their fame through their long trade voyages and close relationships with overseas merchants. Sigurt had the tell-tale brown complexion common among both scions of House Werbane and the merchant families that traded and married south east of Haifaric. 

From several dinners taken seated with Fredhelm and Sigurt, Fenric had learned that Fredhelm was friendly, unconceited and eager to impress, while Sigurt was calm and confident, with a dry humour that sometimes went over Fredhelm’s head. Anshelm treated the two boys with indulgence, while Maunhilt was a patient teacher to them, if their practice drills were anything to judge by. Ramunt was stricter, perhaps seeking to uphold a formality that Anshelm did not – or did not with his housecarls, at any rate. This dinner had swiftly turned into a very formal affair. 

While Anshelm did keep a polite distance between himself and his commoner servants, he was not usually one to interfere in how his people conducted themselves while they ate. Dinner was often a loud affair, with excited voices carrying from the long table to the high table and occasional communal singing that involved both. Today, though, was quite different. The whole house was quieter, more solemn. With Gytha Jordis seated at the high table and her guard and her maidservant seated at the long table, all parties felt they must be on their best behaviour. The few times children among the servants got a bit too loud, they were quickly shushed by their parents. Once most had finished eating, the man who was most fond of singing, a dark-haired stablehand, suggested a song and was halfway to singing, but a look from Lord Anshelm quieted him.

Gytha Jordis was a slow eater – or perhaps she was merely eating more than most, after her long trek across Southern Haifaric. When she finally finished eating, she turned to Lord Anshelm and said something that Fenric couldn't hear from his position. Curses! If Fenric had known Gytha Jordis would be here today, he could have spent the night enhancing his hearing with sorcery!

Lord Anshelm stood up and what little talking had survived the heavy air in the hall halted at once. 

"My friends, you know we have a guest among us today. Great Gytha Jordis, the God-Sworn, has honoured us today by taking her dinner with us. As Gothi Gunwulf tells us every solstice and every evennight, it is vital to be hospitable in order to be honourable. If a man cannot receive an equal in his home with respect and fidelity, how can he be trusted to be honourable in any of his dealings with others? Being a good man to one's friends alone is no great measure of honour – whether strange or familiar, it is in how a man treats his guests that he may be best measured."

As Anshelm spoke, the whole room was quiet. Open respect was clear on many faces at the servant's table, and on Fenric's right side, Fredhelm was staring at his cousin with the admiration of a little boy for his loving father. Fenric was less convinced – receiving an equal well was not quite the same as receiving anyone well, after all – but did at least appreciate that Lord Anshelm was a decent master to his people. Growing up in Otzvic, Fenric had occasionally heard rumours of Anshelm's father, the late earl of Otzvic, and he had certainly not enjoyed the same good reputation among his servants as Anshelm did with his own. 

"It pains me, therefore, that we did not have time to prepare a proper welcome for Gytha Jordis. But no matter, you are here, and though I could not prepare a feast in your honour, I shall gladly fulfil the request you have made of me."

Whispers went through the hall at that, but as Gytha Jordis stood up, all fell silent once more. 

"Thank you, Anshelm King-Brother, for your welcome. Your name precedes you and yet you measure up to it. My colleague Gothi Gunwulf has done well in instructing you and your people."

Fenric suppressed the urge to roll his eyes as Anshelm's polite flattery was replaced by Jordis'.

"Your Lord has been so kind as to let me perform a ritual here today. The attempts on your king's life can hardly have remained a secret so close to Cletzhem and so I shall not seek to disguise the matter: foul sorcery has infested Silveck once more."

Fenric's heart sank as frightened whispers went through the hall. It was happening again. Panic and violent fear was about to wash over the city once more. 3 years. 3 years of peace was all The Autumn Bringer had granted them. 

"Still, the matter is a delicate one, so I beg you do not ask more about what is about to happen. Just know that I act in the interest of the realm and that all I do serves the security of your king."

Gytha Jordis walked to stand between the high table and the long table, then beckoned to Fredhelm.

"You there! Little Drotzet, I want you to assist me."

All eyes turned to Fredhelm. The boy looked almost as nervous as Fenric felt. Despite his fright, Fredhelm did as he was told and walked down to Gytha Jordis. 

"Hold my hands, little Drotzet,” Gytha Jordis said. “Yes, just so."

"Wise Crone, hear your servant, be with me," Gytha Jordis chanted. "Old Warrior, hear your servant, be with me. Lady of War, hear you servant, be with me. Master of Words, hear your servant, be with me."

As she chanted, Gytha Jordis stared into Fredhelm's wide eyes, still holding his hands. When she had called upon the Gods once, she let go, then started walking around Fredhelm, repeating her chant. She then turned to the fireplace and grabbed a piece of coal without skipping a beat.

When she returned to Fredhelm, she began drawing runes around him on the floor, now chanting:

"Show me what is and what will be. Show me the way of the world. Show me where sorcery hides. Show me the way to my enemies."

Fredhelm was practically shaking now and Fenric wasn't faring much better. He had known, theoretically, the power some gytha and gothi held to perceive sorcery, but never before had he witnessed anything like this. He had no idea what to expect. Would whatever this was show Gytha Jordis all in the vicinity who had ever practised sorcery? Was this where Fenric ought to run away and never look back? Or was this ritual only for Fredhelm? Did it even work, or was it merely a superstition, a piece of propaganda among many? Jordis was doing this in front of the whole household, after all – what reason could she have for that, if not to intimidate? Fenric ought to stay in place, keep his head down and his body still. Unless she really could perceive sorcery this way, and sorcery from all of them… Fenric had not performed any sorcery for a while, would that matter? He had been too frightened of discovery to use it since he began in Anshelm's service, was that about to save him? Or would it not matter in the end? Had he limited himself only to be discovered now?

Fenric thanked the Gods that his response to panic was to stay still, for had it been otherwise, he would surely have fled the hall, creating the very same suspicion he was seeking to avoid. As it was, he could not move a muscle as he watched Gytha Jordis draw blood from Fredhelm's arm and smear it onto a rune stick. 

Finally, after saying a quiet prayer over the rune stick, Gytha Jordis turned to her audience. 

"I have peered into the mind of the little Drotzet and I have perceived no sorcery in this hall. Go about your lives, but go about it with caution!" 

Some in the hall began clapping and when Lord Anshelm joined, the applause deafened every other sound. 

"Thank you, Gytha Jordis," Lord Anshelm said once the applause quieted. "I believe that is quite enough for today. You may all return to your duties."

The floor screamed as benches were dragged across it. Fredhelm was still standing where the gytha had left him, and Anshelm turned to Ramunt:

"Would you see to it that Fredhelm's cut is dressed?" 

Ramunt nodded and went to Fredhelm, putting a hand on the boy's shoulder in an almost brotherly manner as he led him away. Sigurt clearly wished to join them and was about to stand when a shake of the head from Maunhilt stopped him and he collapsed back down on the bench. 

"Maunhilt Scold-Slayer, Jordis God-Sworn, if you would join me in my chambers?" Lord Anshelm said. "Sigurt, have Fenric show you how he writes."

"What?!" Sigurt protested with all the indignation of a boy several years his junior. "Why?!"

"Your father complains that your letters are barely legible," Lord Anshelm said.

"But–"

"You need to learn patience," Maunhilt added. "It is an important skill in battle as well as in writing. Now do as you're told."

Sigurt was halfway through a groan when he spotted Gytha Jordis and remembered himself. He flushed, then hurriedly bowed to his superiors.

"Of course, Lord, Lady."

Lord Anshelm looked about to laugh, but when he looked over at Gytha Jordis, all mirth disappeared from his face. 

"Fenric, I trust you know what to do?"

"Yes, Lord," Fenric said quietly, desperate not to draw Gytha Jordis' attention. 

Thankfully, Gytha Jordis seemed far too impatient to take notice of a scribe. 

"This is a matter of some urgency, as you yourself told me, Anshelm," she said. 

The lack of a title made the statement sound almost reprimanding. Lord Anshelm lifted an eyebrow at her tone, but when he spoke, he made no mention of it.

"Yes, of course, Gytha Jordis. Let us talk in my chambers."