Lyssia opened her eyes and saw the Drakun face hovering inches above her own, glittering teeth parted. She took a deep breath to scream, but then she heard the wordless melody that emanated from the Drakun’s mouth. The breath whooshed out of her as her eyes drank in the face that floated above her.

Hard, gold scales. A halo of brown to hair that shone red in the flickering light. Sharp teeth drawn back in a wide grin. Gray eyes that held a piece of the sky at nightfall in the specks of lavender that twinkled in their depths.

All desire to scream left her. Instead, she closed her eyes and nestled deeper into the warmth that surrounded her.

It was a dream.

The past haunted Lyssia's dreams. She spent most of her nights running through hazy mazes of memory until, her mind thoroughly exhausted, she would land in the arms of the woman who held her close and serenaded her with a haunting melody that sounded so familiar.

Surely, if Lyssia could remember the notes, she should remember the words that went along with them. She had tried to put words to the song when she was younger. Childish lyrics about sunset eyes and golden wings. They had never sounded right.

Lyssia tried to reach out and take the songstress’ hand. She tried to sit up and remove the Drakun mask so she could, at last, see the woman's face. But she could not move her arms. They were constrained. All she could do was turn her face into the woman’s arms and take a deep breath. Rosehips and forest pine. The scent of her dreams.

She tried to hold onto the dream as long as she could, but she could already feel herself beginning to wake up. Her eyes fluttered open and came to rest on the row of color that graced the far wall: black, blue, red, gold. They were the first thing that she saw every morning when she opened her eyes.

The room wasn’t bright; the window was still covered. The light that did sneak through the edges of the shutters hinted that the morning was already growing late.

Lyssia groaned. She threw her blankets up over her head and cast her mind back through the night, attempting to recall her earlier dreams. They were usually so real, so vivid, that she could remember the details several days afterwards. But her mind drew a blank. So that's why her limbs felt heavy and relaxed. Last night had been one of her rare dreamless nights. A few hours of peace from the whirlwind of sight and sound and feeling that usually kept her from deep sleep.

She stretched her arms up above her head. Her fingers brushed against the wall and snapped back quickly. She tucked them under her chin and peeped up over the edge of her blankets, blinking blearily at the empty fire grate. She had forgotten to prepare a fire before going to bed.

The spring chill snuck beneath her blankets, wound its way down her body, and froze her toes. She wiggled them, wincing as feeling returned in the form of tiny bolts of lightning. Once she felt her feet were returned to normal, she rolled her ankles, stretched out her legs, and twisted her spin, slowly coming back to life.

She kneaded her shoulders for a minute, digging her fingers into the stiff muscles. Soft fabric met her fingertips when they glided up her neck and along her cheek. She ran a light finger from her fabric-covered forehead down to her chin, checking the way the sleep mask fit snugly over her features. Then there was nothing else she could do to delay getting up.

She slipped her feet out from underneath the blankets and buried them in the soft bjurn fur rug that lay beside her bed. Her bleary eyes roamed over to her desk, once again memorizing the route over the collection of rugs that would save her feet from the floor.

Steeling herself against the rush of cold air, she sprang up out of her blanket cocoon and ran across the room. Her foot banged against the edge of the desk, and she hopped the rest of the way to the chair, breath held against the flash of pain that coursed up her leg.

Only half of the old cedar wood desk was set up for her use. The pots of cheek and lip stain, the hand lyra made of polished wood and horsehair string, the hall-full bowl of hazelnuts, the bottle containing water and old rosehip petals, the gold finger band that lay in a carved box beside a dozen pieces of precious jewelry and covered over with a film of dust, the row of four ornate masks that hung high on the wall - all these things did not belong to her.

Neither did the cedar chest full of clothes and furs she would never use, nor the tiny bed made with a bright orange child’s blanket and pressed against the wall beneath the shuttered window, nor the unfinished woven tapestry of a yellow-leaved forest that hung beside the door.

This room was only half hers, but truly, she did not mind. It had a history all its own that did not belong to her. She did not crave more space within these confining walls. She craved the freedom of the warmth of the sun on her face. But she had not felt that type of freedom for many years.

Lyssia reached over and carefully, deliberately, flipped over the mirror that was propped up on a wooden keepsake box set between a stack of plain leather masks and blank sheets of writing vellum. Only once she was sure that she would not be startled by the sight of her bare face did she tug at the triple knot behind her left ear that kept her sleep mask in place.

She tossed the mask over her shoulder. It landed on the bjurn fur rug. She pulled the lid off a clay pot that sat on the desk and sniffed at the contents. The salve made from a mixture of witch hazel and yender leaf was still potent enough to sting her nose.

There was a cloth damp from last night hanging off the edge of the desk. Lyssia picked it up and rubbed at her face, taking special care with the rough skin of her cheeks, before applying a thin cooling layer of salve. She bent her legs under her, crouching in the chair with her cold feet tucked underneath her bottom, and reached automatically for a mask off the stack on the desk. It was made of two pieces of plain brown leather, double stitched together so that the outside could be oiled and treated to help it hold shape while the inside was left the slightly softer texture of cowhide.

She had amassed quite a collection of masks over the years, all commissioned by her father and offered as gifts that she could not refuse. She kept her more formal masks hanging on the wall in a neat line beneath the masks that were not hers, but she rarely wore them.

The mask in her hand was cracked along the edges, the inside was almost too stiff from the sweat stains, and there were faint food stains around the opening left for her mouth. Her hand strayed toward the least ornate mask that hung in her collection. It was also made of hardened brown leather, but a swirling design had been tooled into the leather and dyed green like a vine. Three purple flowers sprouted from the vines climbing along the mask’s cheeks.

But no, her father would expect her to choose something plain and somber for the days of Urd-Yute.

The Yute celebrations fell in the time between the dark of the cold season and the planting season. Urd-Yute was the celebration of the past, and it was a somber time of thanksgiving. At least it was for those living at the Kongr’s stead.

Thinking about her father waiting for her in full Urd-Yute black to join him in another reading from the Lays of Past Kongren, Lyssia jumped into action. She fastened the plain mask in place and hopped over to her privy room, which was just a corner of her room sectioned off to hide her chamber pot and washing stand from the view of the door.

She intended to give herself a quick cloth bath, but her actions were interrupted by the soft strains of a familiar song coming from the hallway. She dropped the rag into the bowl of wash water, yanked her slip back over her shoulders, and ran across the room to press her ear against the door.

“...Waiting through the dark

Voice locked up tight with my heart

And when the clouds finally part

With the sun, I shall rise

Hope does not fade

But if you can find a way

To wait for the sun

Then you will see

You have reason to sing

Rustling your feathers

in the dawn’s healing light

The hope in your heartsong

Bidding your feet take flight

And you will fly to...”

Lyssia sighed in disappointment as the songstress moved on down the hall, taking her sweet song with her. Lyssia’s hand inched toward the lock on the door. She pictured throwing the door open and finally discovering the identity of her mysterious morning visitor. But then, like always, she pulled her hand back and leaned her forehead against the door instead.

She didn’t need to know who passed by her room each morning and greeted her with song. It was enough to know that she wasn’t the only one who needed to wake up with a song that heralded the dawn and not the night. And just like her, this songstress was caught up in the same tune. The notes and the words might be a little different each time, but the songstress always sang of the sun returning hope to her in climbing arpeggios that made it impossible for Lyssia - listening behind her door - to not lift her eyes off the ground.

Rustling your feathers in the dawn’s healing light! The hope in your heartsong bidding your feet to take flight!

Lyssia pushed away from the door and twirled on her feet, throwing her arms out like wings. She felt the truth of the stranger’s song, like a wingtip brushing her heart. She had to pause for a moment to catch her breath at the sheer pleasure of finding the right words to describe a feeling.

She flew over on tiptoe to the window and threw open the wooden shutters. Light streamed into the room. Lyssia spun on the spot, reaching for the door to her wardrobe, and caught sight of the clothes already laid out on the oak chest.

A pair of deep brown riding pants peeked out beneath a long, robin egg blue skirt. A pale green blouse was laid out beside the skirt along with a sage-colored cloak and a pouched belt. A pair of full, well-worn saddlebags sat on the floor beside the chest.

Colorful clothes. Riding clothes.

“Eda!” she exclaimed. “Eda-Yute!”

Urd-Yute was over, and so was the solemn time of remembrance of the past. Today was the first day of Eda-Yute, the time of giving thanks for the present. It was also the first day of Steiner Mart.

She had spent the long days of the cold season preparing goods with her own hands to barter at the Mart - containers of jam, embroidered squares of fabric, smooth river stones polished to a quick shine and inscribed with the old mark for luck, and little trinkets that she had turned into necklaces.

They weren’t particularly well-crafted, but the Mart was a chance for people to come together, celebrate their families, shake off the past year, and share what they had with one another. She would bring what she had and practice her bartering skills.

She had also packed a small bag of coin in her belt pouch, but it was unlikely that she would find anyone at the Mart who had need or want of the thin iron coins. She kept it safely tucked away in a belt pouch alongside a letter - twice rolled and sealed - that she had written many weeks ago and kept hidden in her darkwood keepsake box until last night. She didn’t know if she would be able to get it to the right person, but just thinking of it gave her a rebellious thrill.

For all the time she had spent preparing her goods, she had spent twice as much time crafting her discussions concerning the Mart with her father. Her attending the Mart wasn’t the problem, but the idea of her attending the Mart without the entirety of the stead accompanying her had to be approached delicately. She wasn’t sure her father had been going to agree until yesterday when she had stumbled upon the right point of argument.

“Might some consider me weak, father, for never showing courage or interest enough to venture further than a stone’s throw from the stead without a ten-man escort.”

Her comment infuriated him, but he could not deny the logic that he heard in her words. His arguments had ceased immediately, and Lyssia quit the room soon after that when the supper conversation turned to talk of the Eda-Yute hunt.

Her father had not spoken agreement to her plan to attend the Mart with just her two cousins and aunt for escort, but on the way to her room, she had been gifted with a glimpse of multi-colored tent tops and a table set beneath a blue tent laden with cheese rounds of all different sizes and colors.

It was a glimpse of Steiner Mart in the afternoon light, and she knew it instantly for what it was. A glimpse of what was to come.

Her dreams belonged to the past.

Her daydreams belonged to the future.

Her father would agree to let her attend the Mart on her own. She was sure of it.

* * * * * * * * * *

Eager to get her day started now, Lyssia made quick work of getting ready. She fastened the...