The hall smelled of cooked venison and was somewhat smokey. There was laughter and an oily, boisterous atmosphere. Wine glasses burned like wine-blood in the torchlight, and silver Japanese plates glittered. The soldiers fermenting stories, bloodlust, and ale-laden voices filled the long, vibrant tables.

I felt like squirming even though I was seated at the head table with my hands clenched in my lap and a straight back. I was a storm on the inside, yet I maintained my composure. All the ...