Eager to get her day started now, Lyssia made quick work of getting ready. She fastened the window shutters before dancing over to her desk and switching her plain leather mask for the one with vines and flowers. It might have been too colorful for Urd-Yute, but it was quite appropriate for Eda-Yute.

Then she danced back over to the pile of waiting clothing, hopping again from rug to rug. The mysterious songstress’ music was still stuck in her head. She hummed along in harmony.

She cast another forlorn look at her unused fireplace. Two pairs of shoes - her black slippers and her riding boots - had been placed beside a long pair of woolen leggings on the warming shelf, but with no coals to warm them, they would be as cold and firm as the ground.

Oh well, she thought, as she finished pulling on her cloak. She opened the shutters to let daylight in, confident now that she had a mask in place again. Then retrieving her boots, she returned to her desk. She had no need of powder to paint her face, but she still had to make her hair look presentable, and that was often an unbearable chore.

She flipped the mirror back around and her humming died off as she stared at her reflection. Her head twisted from side to side as she examined how the mask looked on her. Her hair was beginning to unravel from the loose braid she’d fixed it in the night before. She shook the rest free and ran a thick strand through her fingers.

It doesn’t really matter, she told herself. No one will be looking at my hair while I’m bearing the mark of Ilvana on my mask.

All of her masks were engraved with this symbol, and she bore it on her forearm as well. A three-pointed mountain encircled by a double circular band. She was the only person aside from her father allowed to wear this mark on her skin.

"Allowed" was a generous term. She could not choose to set the mark aside, but she would have worn it anyway. She was proud of her kongdomr, proud of her family. She would not mind the mark, except for the fact that it made it too easy for eyes to find her.

It didn’t truly matter what she looked like, but she forced herself to sit still long enough to work the knots out of the bottom half of her frizzy locks and divide her hair into three sections. Slowly, she began to twist the locks into thin braids that she could secure at the base of the tie that kept her mask in place.

As she worked, she spoke aloud all the emotions that she had felt since waking up. She listed them one by one. "Excitement. Confusion. Appreciation. Disappointment. Laziness. Peace."

Each tug to pull another strand of hair into hand was an emotion named, and each braid secured was an emotion tied down. Her hands stuttered with nerves. Her appearance did matter. She just didn't like to admit it. But everything she did mattered. Her every step was watched, her every sigh measured. And there was no room for nerves.

She added nervousness to her list of emotions and gave another twist to the braid in her hand before tying it off. She stopped to examine herself in the mirror one more time, smoothing the sections of hair she'd left hanging straight to frame her mask and then flipping them over her shoulder. The ends hit the dip in her lower back. It would have to do.

She stood and smoothed her skirt out, adjusted the flowing, bell-shaped sleeves of her cloak, and settled her belt over her hips. She walked across the room to retrieve the rest of her things in the delicate manner that she had been taught to walk - short strides, feet flat-footed and placed close together, back straight, hips slightly swaying. It was meant to catch the eye and display gracefulness, a trait that she had found hard to learn. Riding boots or no, it would do no good to forget herself and leap down the stairs like a crag goat.

With a saddlebag and strap hanging over each shoulder, she crossed to the door and threw it open. Two figures stood on either side of her door like sentries, their oiled masks gleaming in the light from the lantern that hung in an alcove from the post set opposite the door. To someone else they might have gone anonymous, but she recognized them in the shape of the shadows they cast and the angle of their postures.

“Vas Morginnen, Cousins-mine.” Lyssia greeted them both with a shallow curtsy.

The brown-haired figure on the left responded by pressing his hand to his heart and bowing. “Lyssia,” he greeted her simply and held out his hand for her bags.

Lyssia handed them over so he could sling them over his shoulders beside his own and turned to the shorter, lighter-haired boy on her left side.

“Vas Morginnen, Lys,” he said in a cheerful voice, snaking his arm around her shoulders. They were about the same height, but he liked to emphasize the inch and a half of difference by leaning over her. “You finally decided to grace us with your presence. Ready for the Mart?”

Lyssia glanced past him down the hall and then turned to glance down the stairs. Both were empty. “Where is your mother?”

“Hahaha-mmmh.” Roakev choked back a laugh, and Lyssia glanced at him with wide eyes.

On impulse, she made sure that they were alone before asking, “What? What happened? Ro?”

Roakev ducked his head to avoid her gaze, but Lyssia shook Azerian off and stepped toward him, standing on tiptoe and craning her neck to peer into his eyes. “What’s so funny? Tell me. Tell me.”

Azerian spoke first. “My mother is in a bit of a...mood this morning. I think she’s just eager to quit the stead for a while. She said she would wait for us by the stables.”

“Did she take official leave of the Kongr?”

“No.” Azerian’s subdued response and glance at the ground told Lyssia that there was more to the story.

“She threw her shoes at him,” Roakev said, tripping over the words in his haste to speak, and though his arms were back in their defense position crossed before his chest, she heard the laughter that wanted to break through again in his voice.

“Well, what actually happened was…” Azerian froze his constant shifting, his hand creeping up to clasp his neck. “I hid them on the stairs. She had to spend longer looking for them. I could sense she was getting tense last night, and I thought she could use a laugh. But I may have miscalculated.” He shrugged and leaned back on his right foot, and then he was rocking back and forth again.

“Uh-hu,” Lyssia and Roakev said at the same time. Lyssia patted her older cousin’s arm, and he leaned into the touch briefly before pulling away and nodding toward the stairs.

“Right. After me.” Lyssia took her skirts in one hand and brushed past Azerian, who fell into step beside Roakev. She glanced back at the odd pair, pausing on the second step down.

“Lyssia?” Azerian asked, his eyes raking her from top to bottom searching for the cause of the troubled look in her eyes.

“Have either of you seen my father today?”

Both boys shook their heads, and Roakev asked, a hint of suspicion in his voice, “Why? Are you worried he’s changed his mind?”

Lyssia thought for a moment, but she knew deep down that he would not.

A bright blue tent. Yellow and white wheels of cheese. Bright red apples. Voices talking, singing, laughing. A feeling of contentment.

She gripped the stair railing as the vision swept over her. It was gone a moment later, and she swayed on her feet, grateful for the solid feeling of the wood beneath her fingers.

“Lys, you okay?”

“Yes. No. He will not change his mind. I’m sure of it.”

Roakev stared at her, his eyes unreadable. She saw his fingers working against the straps of her saddlebag, though, and she sensed his discomfort.

Azerian reached up pretending to adjust his mask and lifted it to the side so Lyssia had an uninterrupted view of his grin and wink. “I know. I feel it too. It’s written on the side of Aturnel.”

Roakev groaned. “Not this again.”

“What?” Azerian asked.

“You cannot predict the future.”

“Oh really? You’ll be thankful the next time it’s going to rain and I remind you to take a cover.”

“You didn’t predict that last time I was caught in the rain.”

“Oh, yes I did.”

“You little---! I was sneezing for a week!”

“Manners, boys!” Lyssia called over her shoulder as she started down the stairs again. Then she tuned them out. She was already down the steps and out the door in her mind.

For once, the weather seemed willing to cooperate with her wishes. There was not a cloud in the sky. Azerian and Roakev kept up their bickering until they set foot on the stone-lined path that would lead them to the receiving hall where the Kongr would be waiting for them to bid him good morning. No doubt the hall was already full of visitors. There would be no getting around a public farewell.

The sound of a dozen voices raised in song reached Lyssia before she rounded the long building that housed her father’s receiving hall and meeting room and the dining hall. The group of singers was accompanied by a quartet of instruments - a hand lyra, a bone flute, a low bass drum, and a lur. The latter was played with such enthusiasm as it kept tempo with the drum that it nearly drowned out the singers.

It took Lyssia half a stanza to recognize the lyrics beneath the lur’s blaring tone. It was a classic Yute song that summoned the spirit of all three cycles of the celebration - Urd, Eda, and Aon. The past, present, and future. The singers finished the song and then started again.

Lyssia, Azerian, and Roakev stood in a line, watching them with varied expressions of patience. As the singers started their third and final repetition, Lyssia closed her eyes and focused on one of the female voices. She mouthed the words along with the woman, imagining that she sang the harmony. It was a song that every child was taught when they were young. She had performed it many times over the years for her father and his guests.

When the song was over, the trio offered polite applause and turned toward the open doors to the receiving hall, waiting for the crowd of musicians to clear the way. The flute player stood from the bench he had occupied at the front of the group and approached them. “Drottine,” he said in a thin voice that sounded like the whisper of leaves in the wind.

“Skald Bjarke.” Lyssia inclined her head respectively. “Vas Morginnen.”

“Yes, Morginnen. Will you play for us?”

He held out his flute toward her, fingers lovingly cradling the weathered bone casing. Lyssia tucked her hands into her sleeves. It was an honor for him to offer his instrument to her, but the thought of touching it, let alone his hands, made her stomach turn sour.

Bjarke’s scrutiny always left Lyssia feeling like ants were crawling up her spine. He was a tall man - easily the tallest in any room he found himself in - and thin as a pole. He always wore somber colors, no matter the season, and half masks that kept the bottom half of his face uncovered. It helped with his trade. As a Skald, he was both musician and historian.

Needless to say, he was easily identifiable, and Lyssia had taken note of his tendency to be found lurking in the background everywhere. It was another habit that linked him to his trade, she supposed, but that did not ease the tight feeling in her gut every time she crossed paths with him.

Bjarke drew the flute back. “Or perhaps you would sing for us?”

“I’m afraid I have other plans this morning. I do not intend to stay long.”

“You three are...visiting the Mart?”

“If the Kongr allows.” Lyssia’s eyes turned toward the receiving hall again, and she shifted onto the foot closest to it, unconsciously leaning in that direction.

“We shall miss your voice this morning, but perhaps it is for the best. I, too, must beg leave of the Kongr.”

“You are leaving the stead?” Lyssia’s attention snapped back to the Skald.

“I have a longing for my ears to be filled with nothing but the sweet sound of birdsong, and I feel I have neglected my horse as of late. He will be eager for a chance to stretch his legs among the trees.”

Lyssia’s tense shoulders fell into relief, and she smiled. The forest lay to the east of the stead, and the crossroads where Steiner Mart was held was to the north.

“Good luck in your query, Master Skald.”

“And you in yours, Drottine, Roakev, Azerian.” Bjarke folded his form into a bow that encompassed all three of them. He did not retreat but held this posture until Lyssia nudged her cousins’ arms, and they stepped past the Skald. Lyssia’s spine tingled as Bjarke fell into step behind them.

The musicians were still milling around the front of the receiving hall, trying to catch word of whatever discussion was happening within. Lyssia walked through the small crowd, barely registering the sight of others hurrying out of her path, and stepped into the shadows of the double doors.

Two dozen pairs of eyes fixed on her as soon as her boot met the hardwood floor. The line of windows along either side of the hall let in some light and air, but the room still felt stuffy crowded as it was.

Lyssia could never fathom why her father would prefer to spend a fine weather day stuck indoors in discussions when he could enjoy the fresh air. She supposed that he was aware of this shortcoming in her and that it contributed to his overall opinion of her, which seemed to change daily.

He seemed to be in an agreeable mood this morning as he welcomed her into the hall with a merry, “Daughter! Come! Come!”

She might have rushed forward to greet him and soak in the warmth in this voice were it not for the stares that riveted her to the spot.

She was gifted ten months of relative quiet and very few stares every year, but as soon as Yute began, the Jarls descended upon the stead.

It was not always the same group of men. Of course not. But none of them dared to stand in the Kongr’s presence - or hers - without a mask for fear of insulting the memory of the Kongr’s lost wife, and so they were all one big masked blur to her.

When she sat at the table with them for their discussions on peace and governance and crops, she would try to follow along with the speakers. That meant taking note of who carried what mark on their masks or their arms; who had dark, straight hair as opposed to light, cropped hair; who had beards unruly enough to be seen around their masks; whose bellies were large and whose were skinny.

She tried to prepare herself for the test she felt was always about to be given her, but by the next morning, all her observations would be washed away. She failed before she could even begin. What she could never tell her father, though she wished she could, was that it hardly mattered who spoke when they all said the same thing.

There seemed to be more of a crowd celebrating Yute at the stead this year. The stares were growing worse. A few Jarls brought their wives with them during their yearly visits. Their wives, but never their daughters, nor any younger children. But eldest Jarlssons were common guests.

Lyssia imagined her father would shudder at the thought of her forming a bond with a girl her age, someone she might actually enjoy spending time with or spilling her secrets to. Thinking of her loneliness made her feel guilty and she glanced at her cousins over her shoulder.

Azerian and Roakev were waiting quietly on either side of her, one step behind. Azerian’s eyes slid to her momentarily and he gave her an encouraging smile. Lyssia took a deep breath as she turned back to face her father, who was reclining in his seat at the far end of the room. She would have to pass through the crowd of onlookers to reach him.

With all those eyes on her, she had to make a quick decision about what mask she was going to wear. She could afford to lose her hold on one emotion, but which should she choose? One that would make her appear bold or meek. Bold or…

She chose meek.

Lyssia did not try to hide the nervous fluttering of her hands as she took hold of her skirts. She lifted them a little higher than was necessary and leaned forward to keep herself slightly off balance. Once the choice had been made which mask she would wear, it was easy to throw herself into the role. She kept her gaze lowered as she sailed across the room just a clip too fast to look graceful.

She glanced up only once at a grouped trio who stepped aside to let her pass, but their masked faces gave nothing away. As if she had been caught looking at someone she should not have, she snapped her head back around and kept her eyes on the floor until she could see her father’s boots resting on the ground before her.

Two straight-backed chairs were set at the head of the room, the only seats in the hall. Her father always sat in the seat to the right. It looked no different than the one beside it. They were set close together like equals might sit close to whisper plans in each other’s ears. Her father’s hand would often stray to land on the second chair’s arm, but it wasn’t Lyssia he was reaching for, and she always felt squashed trying to make sure that his arm went undisturbed.

She saw him reach out for the hand he imagined was waiting for him to hold, and her eyes snapped back to the floor. Without saying a word, she tossed a section of hair over her shoulder to block her view of the whispering observers and lowered herself onto her knees before him. She waited a heartbeat for her cousins to follow her cue and drop to their knees as well. Roakev was hidden from view by her hair, but Azerian shot her a furtive glance.

Lyssia tipped her face up and smiled at her father. Up close, she could find no trace of the warmth of his voice in what she could see of his face. He seemed impassive beneath his white and gray rabbit fur mask. It was not black, but it was a far cry from the colorful outfit that she wore, and she felt suddenly foolish for the choice. She wiggled one of her boots free from the edge of her skirt and imagined her nerves traveling all the way from her head to her foot. Her boot began to tap against the floor while the rest of her remained still.

Dizean’s expressionless eyes traveled along their line before settling on Lyssia. He leaned forward in his chair, extending his hand palm up toward her. “Vas Morginnen, daughter.”

“Vas Morginnen, father,” Lyssia said. She lifted her hand, but when he dropped his hand without taking hers, she shifted to brush another strand of her hair back from her face. Her smile remained glued in place even as the tip of her boot began to tap faster against the ground. She held her breath, hoping the movement was not as loud as it sounded to her ears.

“You have not come to sit with us,” Dizean said, and Lyssia saw one of his feet swivel to the side. The tips of his toes now pointed at the group of Jarls that stood closest to his seat.

Lyssia followed the movement and glanced at them without turning her head. She sensed an expectant mood in the room, one that had nothing to do with the turn of the season. She was put instantly on guard, but she didn't know how to combat the feeling.

“No. I have come to ask leave to attend Steiner Mart. I...We…” She opened her arms to indicate Azerian and Roakev and kept them wide, imploring. “...wish to experience the first day of Mart alongside those who have traveled far to celebrate the joy of Eda-Yute with their countrymen and women. This is the best way that we know to celebrate our present, to give thanks for Ilvana and her people. We hope this plan pleases you.”

He knew her reason for coming before him in riding attire. He knew she meant to attend the Mart. He wanted her request heard here and now for his own reasons. She would play along, making her words dance to the old tone of formal language and bent postures. Anything to secure her chances of attending the first day of Mart.

Dizean nodded at her explanation as his gaze swept over her group again. “You have plans to ride to the crossroads, and yet you do not ask for anyone to join you. Do you not wish for company? Have you no need of an escort?”

His other boot shifted as he leaned an arm against the side of his chair, and now both of his feet pointed toward the Jarls.

Lyssia tilted her head to glance down at her lap, shifting her body in the same direction without turning away from him. “Of course, I will bow to your wisdom, but I am not afraid to ride alone.”

She would not look at the observant group of Jarls and their sons who, if she was reading the room correctly, would jump at the chance to accompany her. It wasn't her presence they craved but the attention it would gain them.

Or perhaps, she thought, berating herself for her harsh thoughts toward this group of strangers whose names she could not even keep straight, they too were just jumping at the chance to leave the stead. That was fine. She could not stop any one of them from attending the Mart. But they would have to find their own way there.

“As you should not be among your people,” Azerian muttered.

Dizean’s eyes cut to him, and Lyssia felt Roakev stiffen on her other side. Lyssia’s foot doubled its tempo as her heart leaped into her throat. She willed Azerian to look over and read the warning in her eyes.

Follow the script, Azerian. Just keep your head down, play your part, and stick to the script.

“Because we shall be her escort.”

Lyssia’s breath rushed out of her as Roakev rose to his feet and bowed low, a fist clasped over his heart.

“I offer you my solemn vow. No harm shall befall the Drottine.”

Compared to the look he had given Azerian, Dizean's eyes fairly glowed with warmth as he turned his gaze to Roakev. Lyssia took advantage of her father’s distraction to nudge Azerian’s leg with her boot. He bent his head under the force of her glare.

When Dizean - and the rest of the room - turned their attention back to him, Azerian had an air of sincere chagrin about him. He left Lyssia on the ground alone and stood to mirror Roakev’s posture.

“No harm shall befall the Drottine. I swear it. I will never leave her side. She shall be as safe with me as she has been during every hunt and visit that I have accompanied her on, where no one has ever thought to harm her, but where I was vigilant and observant and… and furthermore, I am honored---"

Lyssia’s boot shot out again and kicked his ankle.

"---at the trust you are showing us. On my word. No harm. None.”

No one moved, no one breathed, as everyone waited to see how the Kongr would react to his nephew’s speech.

Dizean held his gaze for a long moment before sighing and proclaiming in a weary voice, “Sometimes silent agreement is all that is necessary, Azerian. You must learn to use silence as a tool.”

Azerian looked like he was about to respond, but he bit his lip instead and inclined his head in acknowledgment of the Kongr’s words. He missed the release of the tension in Dizean's posture that Lyssia looked for. He was not truly mad at Azerian, only frustrated. He was fighting an uphill battle if he still thought he could tame Azerian's quick tongue.

“You will allow us to be your representatives at the Mart this year, father?” Lyssia asked, trying to bring his attention back to her.

“Yes. You will be my representatives. This shall be my Eda-Yute gift to you. In the spirit of the season, I say go, spread joy, and celebrate this day with songs of glad thanksgiving.”

"You honor us, Kongr, with your blessing and your gift. I offer you a blessing. May you be surrounded with joy tenfold this year and may your strength ever increase."

For the first time that morning, Lyssia saw a genuine smile grace her father's lips. He extended his hand to her, and Lyssia took it, gratefully standing and smoothing out her skirt.

“Thank you, father. Thank you.” She curtsied to him as she motioned for Roakev to pick up their bags and start for the door. Then she raised her gaze to the watching Jarls, and after completing one full turn, curtsied to the room.

Azerian offered her his arm, as eager as she was to quit the receiving hall. She placed her hand lightly atop his sleeve, matching her pace to his stately retreat. They were halfway to the door before Dizean called out again, “Drottine!”

Lyssia paused with one foot raised, her muscles involuntarily stiffening. Azerian’s hand snaked up to keep hers in place. Roakev, one foot out the door, stopped as well. They both heard it. The warning in his voice.

“Remember who you are.”

As if she could forget.

“I trust you shall conduct yourself with pride. No daughter of mine should kneel before anyone else.”

I should have chosen bold.

Lyssia turned back and lowered herself into another stiff curtsy. “Yes, my Kongr.”

She hurried out the door, towing Azerian in her wake. She turned to pull Roakev along as well, not trusting herself to stand there for one more moment, and saw that Roakev’s father had followed them out.

“Drottine, I request a moment of my son’s time.” His words were clipped, but he inclined his head politely and waited for her to respond.

“Of course, Uncle. We shall wait over here.” Lyssia tugged Azerian over to the bench that Bjarke had occupied earlier. He strained against her hold, hoping to overhear Roakev’s conversation and tease him about it later. But Lyssia knew that tone in her uncle’s voice. It was the same tone that her father had just paralyzed her with, and it did not deserve an audience.

“We need to talk.”

“About what?”

“Az!”

“What?”

“Thank you.”

Azerian finally stopped trying to pull away and swung around to face her. “For…?”

“For drawing attention away from me.”

Azerian started to shake his head, but Lyssia held up a hand to halt his protest. “Don’t waste your excuses on me. I know you better than that. Besides, you need to save them. You’re starting to run out of material.” She patted him on the arm, her voice dipping in sympathy.

Azerian lowered himself into the bench beside her and clutched his chest in mock defense. “I truly have no idea what you mean.”

“Mmmhmm.” Lyssia was startled to see Bjarke slipping out of the receiving hall and heading toward the stables in loping strides.

“The Kongr is generous this morning.”

Lyssia ignored the snarky comment. Her attention was caught by Roakev and his father, both standing straight and immovable as tree trunks with arms crossed and knees locked. Their voices were too low to hear, but whatever Eindre was saying, it was causing Roakev to fall back behind his stiff mask.

Lyssia wondered why her uncle was displeased. Had he not seen what had just happened? Roakev had conducted himself in a manner that should make his father feel proud. It wasn't his fault if Lyssia and Azerian were chastised for their performance.

Eindre dropped his arms when he walked off, hastening to return to his place beside the Kongr’s chair. But Roakev stood there for a long moment without moving. When he turned and started to make his way over to them, his movements were wooden.

Lyssia jumped up before he reached the bench and flashed a quick smile at both her companions, baring her teeth. “Come on!”

Without stopping to wonder who might be watching, she hiked up her skirt, displaying several inches of riding breeches, and took off at a fast pace for the stables. Her feet did not run, but her heart ran before her, and she hurried to catch it.