Deirdre appeared with three servants carrying silver trays. She took one and knelt to present it to the king.
“Nay, you shall partake with me, and Lavarcham shall serve us. Let those others go.”
At a sign from Lavarcham the servants placed their trays on tables and retired with terrified courtesies.
“Taste from the cup, my brightness,” said Conachúr, “and afterwards I shall taste.”
“A Rí Uasal!” Deirdre stammered.
“All precedence is yours from this hour. Are you not called the Troubler?”
“I am, lord.”
“You have troubled the king, O sky-woman. Do not be shy with me or frightened, for although a king is terrible to all he is not fearful to a queen. Drink from my cup, O queen.”
Deirdre glanced hastily towards Lavarcham, for this conversation had taken a turn which her training had not provided for, but her guardian was sitting bemused, in a trance of benevolence and admiration.
She sipped from the cup, and, with a tiny smile of apology and fear, tendered it again to the staring king. He took the vessel, and her hand with it.