I let her take it and tried to pretend I didn’t notice everyone staring. The servants were bringing out the food drip by drip, rather than putting all the dishes out at once and letting people choose what they liked. I also saw no sign of condiments: no pepper sauce, no pickles, no dried spices.

A servant set a bowl of blood before me. I found myself thankful Senera had insisted I eat earlier.

“I know it’s hard,” Senera whispered as she examined my hand, “but try to just smile and enjoy it.”

I met her eyes. “I’d rather stab myself with my hand’s broken bones a hundred times.” I leaned toward her. “Don’t even pretend you don’t feel the same.”

A warm glow suffused my hand. “Everything about you is difficult,” she muttered. When Senera set my hand back down, I noticed she looked quite tired. She’d been sweating too.

Sir Oreth dripped his soup off the back of his spoon. “This … what is this?”

“Narwhal blood,” Darzin said. “Try it. It took a little getting used to, but it’s good.” He waggled his eyebrows. “Spicy. It’s a very special dish in Yor, reserved for the nobility. Reminds me of our new friend here.”

I couldn’t stop myself from rolling my eyes.

Sir Oreth laughed and dropped his spoon back in the soup, so it splattered blood all over the white table linen. “Oh, don’t let her appearance fool you. Janel’s not noble blood.”

Senera moved quicker that time. Her hand closed on my arm before I could stand.

But Exidhar Kaen, returning from having his nose fixed, had no interest in keeping matters quiet, and considering what had just occurred, he had every motive to delight in gossip. “She’s not? I thought she was a Kolas? I mean, sorry, a countess? It’s countess in Jorat, right? How could that be true if she’s not nobility?”

“Sir Oreth, your recent experiences have done something to your mind,” I snapped. “You know my lineage.”

He gave me an evil smile. “Oh, I do. Better than you do, I’d wager. I even have proof. I was going to present this to Duke Xun at the tournament, but—” He shrugged even as he produced a sheet of paper from his coat. The paper looked old, folded and creased in a way that suggested it had been opened and read many times. “Anyway. If no one minds?”

“I mind,” I said. “I mind very much.”

“Your opinion doesn’t matter.”

Relos Var leaned over. “I don’t think this is the time or place.”

But Exidhar waved him off. “Oh no, Relos. I want to hear this.”

Still grinning, Sir Oreth snapped open the paper and began to read, “To my Markreev, Aroth Malkoessian, from your loyal herdsman, Jarin Theranon.”

I stiffened. Jarin Theranon was my grandfather.