candles filled it with golden light. Clusters of red bubbles hung under rafters made from green glasswood. Mosaics in gold, blue, red, and purple glasswood patterned the walls in star designs that fascinated her. In places, their symmetry broke into scenes of mountains, suns, and plains. Roca couldn’t be certain, but she thought some of the images included stylized starships in the sky, symbols probably long forgotten by Eldri’s people.
The room was smaller than the hall where they entered the castle, but still substantial. Along table filled its center, made from blue glasswood that looked as deep as a sea when Roca gazed into it. Afire roared in the hearth at the far end of the hall, the flames gold, green, blue, and red, taking on the colors of the glasswood logs they were consuming.
The people of the castle and the riders from the plains poured into the hall together, filling it with their musical voices and bright clothes. The men dressed like the riders, and some had overshirts lined with fur. The women wore knitted leggings with fur-lined knee-boots, and tunics embroidered in glistening threads.
A shy girl had taken Roca to a chamber with sun and moon mosaics on the walls. She had given Roca a pair of leggings dyed a vibrant blue, and a gold tunic edged in blue and green embroidery. The leggings stretched to fit Roca’s long legs and she managed to pull the fur-lined tunic down to her hips, but the clothes clung to her more snugly than to the other women, who were smaller. The boots hadn’t fit at all, but Eldri had found a pair of his that she could wear.
Now Eldri sat at the head of the table, with Roca on his right. People filled the seats on both sides, and Garlin sat at the opposite end of the long table. No class distinction seemed to exist here; these were the same folks who took the lyrine to the stables, tended the hall, and set the tables.
Roca doubted many of them were over fifty and most seemed much younger. But they didn’t look young. Garlin was one of the oldest adults, and Roca was beginning to think he hadn’t reached forty. Everyone out of their teens showed signs of age: lines around the eyes, gray in their hair, drier skin that became leathery or loose on the eldest. Although she knew less advanced cultures had few means to delay aging, it stunned her to encounter such blunt evidence of that. She had never interacted with a culture this primitive. These people would be old and decrepit at an age when members of her own circle were just reaching the vigorous prime of their lives.
The servers were teenagers. They brought out pale stone dishes heaped with steaming entrées, then took their places at the table. Roca blinked at the food. It was all bubbles, nothing but bubbles in a multitude of sizes, shapes, and colors. A youth piled her plate high with fragrant spheres.
Eldri grinned at her. “Eat. Enjoy.”
Roca managed a smile, aware of the others discreetly watching her. She picked up a utensil by her plate, a fork with two prongs extending from a cupped bowl similar to a spoon. Then she delved into her meal. She ate slowly, giving her nanomeds time to analyze the food. Nothing reacted enough to stimulate a rejection in her body. If her meds encountered a poison they couldn’t neutralize or dispose of, they might spur her to vomit. It wasn’t the most elegant process, but it worked.
The food confused Roca, but it tasted delicious. Some bubbles were sweet, some sour, others crunchy or chewy. One particularly succulent entrée was hard and spicy on the outside and meltingly smooth inside.
The man next to her sipped wine from his mug, which was made from the same white stone as the other table settings. After setting it down, he picked up a white cloth embroidered with green and gold stars and wiped his mouth. It surprised Roca, though she wasn’t sure why. Then she realized, with embarrassment, that she had expected people in a less advanced culture to have less refined manners.
The room was smaller than the hall where they entered the castle, but still substantial. Along table filled its center, made from blue glasswood that looked as deep as a sea when Roca gazed into it. Afire roared in the hearth at the far end of the hall, the flames gold, green, blue, and red, taking on the colors of the glasswood logs they were consuming.
The people of the castle and the riders from the plains poured into the hall together, filling it with their musical voices and bright clothes. The men dressed like the riders, and some had overshirts lined with fur. The women wore knitted leggings with fur-lined knee-boots, and tunics embroidered in glistening threads.
A shy girl had taken Roca to a chamber with sun and moon mosaics on the walls. She had given Roca a pair of leggings dyed a vibrant blue, and a gold tunic edged in blue and green embroidery. The leggings stretched to fit Roca’s long legs and she managed to pull the fur-lined tunic down to her hips, but the clothes clung to her more snugly than to the other women, who were smaller. The boots hadn’t fit at all, but Eldri had found a pair of his that she could wear.
Now Eldri sat at the head of the table, with Roca on his right. People filled the seats on both sides, and Garlin sat at the opposite end of the long table. No class distinction seemed to exist here; these were the same folks who took the lyrine to the stables, tended the hall, and set the tables.
Roca doubted many of them were over fifty and most seemed much younger. But they didn’t look young. Garlin was one of the oldest adults, and Roca was beginning to think he hadn’t reached forty. Everyone out of their teens showed signs of age: lines around the eyes, gray in their hair, drier skin that became leathery or loose on the eldest. Although she knew less advanced cultures had few means to delay aging, it stunned her to encounter such blunt evidence of that. She had never interacted with a culture this primitive. These people would be old and decrepit at an age when members of her own circle were just reaching the vigorous prime of their lives.
The servers were teenagers. They brought out pale stone dishes heaped with steaming entrées, then took their places at the table. Roca blinked at the food. It was all bubbles, nothing but bubbles in a multitude of sizes, shapes, and colors. A youth piled her plate high with fragrant spheres.
Eldri grinned at her. “Eat. Enjoy.”
Roca managed a smile, aware of the others discreetly watching her. She picked up a utensil by her plate, a fork with two prongs extending from a cupped bowl similar to a spoon. Then she delved into her meal. She ate slowly, giving her nanomeds time to analyze the food. Nothing reacted enough to stimulate a rejection in her body. If her meds encountered a poison they couldn’t neutralize or dispose of, they might spur her to vomit. It wasn’t the most elegant process, but it worked.
The food confused Roca, but it tasted delicious. Some bubbles were sweet, some sour, others crunchy or chewy. One particularly succulent entrée was hard and spicy on the outside and meltingly smooth inside.
The man next to her sipped wine from his mug, which was made from the same white stone as the other table settings. After setting it down, he picked up a white cloth embroidered with green and gold stars and wiped his mouth. It surprised Roca, though she wasn’t sure why. Then she realized, with embarrassment, that she had expected people in a less advanced culture to have less refined manners.
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