“Ho, Karl!” Azerian cried out.

The cart driver had stopped several lengths up the road to allow a group on foot greater access to the path so they wouldn’t have to trample through the tall grass and weeds. Short, rocky outcroppings migrated along the width and breadth of the passing fields like the strands of an intricate spider web or the sharp spine of some massive creature that lay hidden beneath the ground. It would be too easy to catch a boot in between the rocks and twist a foot, or a hoof.

The man turned to wave them forward, but Lyssia reigned in her mare. Every muscle in her body constricted. The mare tossed her hand, and it was all Lyssia could do to relax her hold enough to bring the reins to rest in her lap. Carryn stopped beside her, but Roakev rode a little ways before turning back to face them both, waiting for her to make a decision.

Lyssia looked over at Carryn. Her attention wasn’t on the cart but the road past it; her eyes were once again glassy and unreadable. But when Lyssia raised a hand to swat at a passing fly, she startled.

“You okay, saedhirte?”

“Me? Oh, yes. Just...a bit of a headache.”

“Hmmm. Me too.” She drew her horse closer to Lyssia’s and reached out to fiddle with a loose stitch in her sleeve. After a moment, she said, “I’m thinking about visiting some of your mother’s cousins.”

“Another visit?” Lyssia swallowed. “So soon?”

“It’s been a few months.” Carryn laughed. Then patting Lyssia’s arm, she added, “Just a short visit. I’ve been feeling cooped up. And your father...well...he doesn’t like it when his kitchen staff pace the hallways.”

Carryn’s bright eyes - golden in the early afternoon light - soothed Lyssia’s glare, even as her words stung Lyssia's heart. Carryn was a widow. That title usually held some respect. It meant she should be the head of her own household, held in trust for Azerian until he married.

But she was not the head of her own household. She just shared household duties with her sister-in-law, Roakev’s mother, while she resided under a roof that was not her own. Lyssia had never understood why her father disliked his wife’s sister so much, or why Carryn had chosen to sacrifice her inherited freedom to fetter herself to living under his close scrutiny when she so clearly craved the freedom of widowhood.

She imagined it had a lot to do with Azerian. In theory, proximity to Lyssia and her father should gain him favor. If only he had more of a propensity for following established rules, like Roakev. Lyssia might cringe each time he spoke out of turn and counsel him to keep his toes in line more often than he was wont to do, but she loved him - and Carryn. She knew there had been a time when they did not live at the stead, but she couldn't imagine living without either one of them now.

"I sent a note to your mother's cousins to let them know our plans. Hopefully, a few of them will be at Steiner Mart today to greet us."

Lyssia's chest fluttered with nerves. She had not had the opportunity to get to know her mother's family well. In fact, she barely knew them at all. An old memory of her standing beside a wheel of cheese that reached her shoulder while a smiling woman Carryn's age held it upright from the other side rose to the surface of her thoughts, and she smiled.

“Do you think Reeza and Odil will be there?”

Carryn laughed in delight. "You remember Reeza and her old goat?"

Lyssia shrugged uncomfortably. She had guessed at the names. She was as surprised as Carryn that she got them right.

"Hey! Hey!" Azerian was motioning for them to join him.

Roakev approached the cart cautiously and exchanged a tense greeting with the driver. He looked so uncomfortable, shoulders taut and knees digging into the sides of his horse.

Azerian waved to them again, and then turning to Roakev, he called in an unnecessarily loud voice, "Aren't these the reddest, juiciest apples you've ever seen?"

Lyssia, wary of the strange cart driver’s scrutiny, had the odd urge to turn around and ride back to familiar settings, but the rush of curiosity she felt at Azerian’s words won out. She stood up in her stirrups attempting to catch sight of the cart's contents. She couldn't see any apples from this distance, but she did catch sight of a pair of blue eyes peeking at her over the cart's edge. She raised a hand in greeting, but the eyes disappeared as if a little head had ducked back down nervously. A moment later, two pairs of eyes popped back up, cautious but too curious to stay down.

A slow, shy smile spread across Lyssia’s lips. She raised her hand in silent greeting but got no reaction from her mysterious observers. She rubbed a finger along the skin at the top edge of her mask, as close as she could come to kneading her forehead in thought.

She would be the first to admit that she was not the most adept when dealing with people. It was impossible to let herself relax completely when she could feel eyes on her. It wasn’t her fault. If anyone knew the truth of it, they would surely find no blame in her. Wasn’t it enough that she was trying to step out of her comfort zone?

But that was no excuse for Azerian. He had assured her often enough that he was no expert at making friends. He was just more experienced at bluffing. If her cousin felt even the slightest bit of tension or distrust now - if he was bluffing - he hid it well. His confidence was a well-tailored mask that he wore over his white and green painted face mask.

Lyssia knew masks; if he could wear one made of confidence, so could she. It wasn’t so different than her public performances. She could not think of time spent in front of her father and his Jarls as anything but a performance.

Azerian was still waving her forward. Taking a deep breath, Lyssia approached the cart. This had been her goal for the day: to step out amongst her people, to speak with them, to foster goodwill and friendship. Let this be her first.

She kept one eye fixed on the cart driver as she studied Azerian. Taking note of his posture, she relaxed her shoulders slightly, dropping the mare’s reins in a loose hold on her lap. She tilted her head, pointing her chin and shoulders toward the cart driver, and sought his eyes honestly.

“Ladies, Vas Morginnen. I was...”

Lyssia knew the moment the Karl recognized her. His hands dropped to clench at the lead reins before him. Surprise then alarm flashed across his face. He hunched in on himself, hiding his face from her.

"Drottine! Vas Heill! Vas Eda-Yute! Excuse us! Please! Please!" He swept his arm wide to indicate that the way was clear for her to pass.

His nervously shouted greeting, unnecessary for their close quarters, caught the attention of the group he had let pass earlier. Lyssia saw them turn back out of the corner of her eye, but she did not look over to see if they covered their faces.

Her eyes sought out the eyes that had peered at her over the cart edge. The cart was, indeed, full of rosy crabapples. Sitting among the barrels of produce were two girls. The younger girl was hunched over her lap lyra and did not look up, but her older sister met Lyssia’s gaze and smiled before bowing her head, and a jolt shot up Lyssia’s spine.

“Vas Morginnen, Karlsman! Vas Heill, Karlswomen! My cousin is right. Your apples are the fairest I’ve seen by far.”

The younger girl pressed her pink cheeks into her hands, but her sister’s smile widened. She picked an apple out of the barrel beside her. “Vas Heill, Drottine. To your health!” she exclaimed and drew her hand back as if to toss the apple at her.

“No, no!” Lyssia protested, throwing her hands up just in case.

“Isi, don’t throw it! But please…” He gestured to his daughter, who had fallen back onto her knees at her father’s shout, to offer the apple again.

Carryn’s soft chuckle soothed the hurt look on the girl’s face. “I believe what my niece means is that you should keep your wares for a bargaining customer. Your blessing will be enough of a gift on this fine morning.”

Lyssia gasped, a soft exhalation of surprise, and then she went absolutely still. Carryn nodded encouragement, even reaching out her hand to help steady the girl as she leaned forward and pressed her fingertips to Lyssia’s brow. She hesitated in that position, leaning over the side of the cart. Then finally realizing that she was not about to be reprimanded further, she took a deep breath and shouted, “Vas Heill, Drottine! May your strength never fail, and may you find peace everywhere you walk!”

Lyssia tensed at the ringing volume of her voice. Her mare responded to the movement and shied to the side. If Carryn had not had hold of her side, the girl would have toppled out of the cart. The cart driver cried out, but before he could react further, Roakev was already pushing the girl back beside her sister.

“My...my apologies,” Lyssia said, yanking on the mare’s reins harder than was necessary.

Lyssia looked closer at the older daughter. She had spoken with so much authority. She was not that much younger than Azerian or herself, Lyssia realized. But there was a childish youthfulness to her that was foreign to Lyssia. Seeing that fire in her eyes - in both of their eyes - and the way they leaned against one another now reminded Lyssia of another pair of sisters, pale-haired girls she had met once a long time ago. Her heart swelled with affection for them.

The mare pulled against Lyssia’s grip, but she held the reins firm and pulled her forward until her nose brushed against the wooden planks of the cart’s side. Without stopping to ask for permission, she laid her entire palm over the older girl’s forehead and offered her a blessing of her own.

“May you, and your sister, never be harmed by that which cannot be cured. May the rain always fall upon your fields. May you never find yourself without love."

The girl looked to be in awe as Lyssia backed away. It made Lyssia nervous to sit beneath such a stare. She turned to listen to the grateful Karl as he praised Roakev’s speed. She noticed the younger girl directing her awe-filled gaze at him. He didn’t seem to notice, but she offered the girl a kind look and was rewarded with a shy smile in return.

The crowd around Lyssia’s group - which had tripled in size as travelers on the road to Mart caught wind of the commotion - released a collective intake of breath. She threw her glance around the gathering of onlookers, pretending as if she was only just now realizing that her actions had drawn attention.

None of those surrounding them wore masks. Most lowered their eyes when she turned their way, but a few heads did not bend under her gaze. She felt respect for these hardworking people. She envied them their freedom and the surety they must feel in their roles in life. She felt an overwhelmingly sudden urge to be a part of them.

She waved to the crowd, including them all when she proclaimed, “Vas Eda-Yute!”

Cries of “Vas Eda-Yute!” and “Vas Heill, Drottine!” echoed in her ears.

“My companions and I are riding to Steiner Mart. Will you join us?”

Again, the crowd of strangers responded in eager affirmative. Lyssia sighed in remembrance of her original plan to keep her head down and slip silently into the crowd while the Mart was in full swing. Now she would be marching in at the head of a noisy procession. She sacrificed one desire for another, but it was too late to take back her words.

Lyssia started to ride forward and claim the lead position of the procession, but the unexpected weight of Azerian’s hand on her arm stilled her. Her mare swayed beneath her, uncomfortable caught between the cart and Azerian’s horse. Lyssia stroked the horse’s neck to comfort her as she shot a questioning look at her cousin.

“Drottine, Cousin, I did not break my nightly fast before leaving your father’s stead. Perhaps I could have your leave to ride beside our new friends and attempt to charm an apple from them. A song may be worth an apple or two...If I had proper accompaniment.”

He gestured to the younger sister’s lyra, and judging by the way she clutched her instrument and ducked her head again, Lyssia was fairly certain that Azerian had winked at the girl behind her back. She shook her head and exchanged a look with Carryn, who had not stopped smiling since Lyssia’s blessing of the girls.

“By all means, Cousin,” she said, speaking quickly to hide her pause. “It is right to journey forth with song. Our Eda-Yute celebration demands it. You need not ask my permission to grace our ears with your voice.”

Prompted by her formal reply, Azerian bowed low in his saddle, sweeping his hand before him in a grand gesture and knocking his knuckles against her leg. “Do you know…” His voice dropped low as he consulted with the young lyra player, and with a little cajoling, he was able to coax her into playing for him.

Lyssia positioned herself beside the cart driver as their group started forward. She listened closely to the opening strains of the girl’s song, curious to hear what tune Azerian had chosen. She groaned when she recognized the first line of a popular Ridineig, a fast-paced dancing song that was often sung at gatherings. She had taken an instant dislike to it the first time she heard it. No matter what instrument it was played on, the music always sounded out of tune with the song’s words.

Clearly, the poet who had written the lyrics did not understand the true lack of charm one would feel chasing a sweetheart whose face he has never seen, who always wore a mask. The ending of the musical tale should be more bitter than sweet, and it should definitely not be accompanied by an upbeat tune. It made no sense whatsoever, and it annoyed Lyssia to no end.

Her aunt and the cart driver both heard her reaction to the chorus and chuckled. They said nothing, but their sympathetic looks made it easier to endure the performance. Azerian had a sweet voice. Like a chickadee in full wing, Bjarke had once remarked begrudgingly during one of their music lessons. And the girl’s lyra, though not made of the finest materials, was expertly turned. It was easier to listen objectively when they switched to a second song. It was clear that they made a fine pair, and Lyssia found her fingers tapping along her saddle horn and wishing for her own instrument.

The rest of the journey passed quickly as the large group, buoyed by festive music, made their joyous way to the crossroads that marked Steiner Fields, where the Mart was held every Eda-Yute morn.

The Steiners had been an old, well-off family, and the fields where the Mart was held used to belong to them. The tale of how the fields became a public meeting ground was odd in a sad way. The Jarl named Steiner had had ten daughters and no sons. He had spent the better part of his life attempting to marry off his daughters, and the moment after his youngest daughter stepped over his doorstep to take her new husband’s hand, Steiner, then an old man who had outlived two wives, fell over and took his last breath.

Rather than claiming possession of the land, his generous sons-in-law had come together in agreement to gift certain parcels of his land to the nearby Karls, freeing them of their obligations to the Steiner family. The old house that Steiner and his daughters had lived in was burned to the ground along with his personal garden and farming field, long since unused, and the location turned into a place for people traveling along the roads to meet and rest.

When exactly Steiner Mart had been established, Lyssia wasn’t sure, but she knew the story of Steiner and his daughters as well as anyone else. Surely, he would have been pleased that his legacy still existed in some form.

A melodious sound greeted Lyssia and her companions as they crested the last hill that stood between them and Steiner Field: many voices raised together. Lyssia could not make out the words but the tune was one she knew well. It was the same song that she had overheard Bjarke lead this morning.

Several people from her group joined in. Those who had experienced a bountiful winter sang along with those who voices who held the strain of a lean season. They sang of the joy they held in the knowledge that they had stood their ground another year. At the Mart, they would share all they had with one another and begin to discuss their preparations for the season of growing that lay just around the corner. No one would go home today with an empty stomach or a mournful heart. Today, they were all family. They sang with one voice, and the beauty of their song brought tears to Lyssia’s eyes.

It was well known, even to her, that Ilvana was not a rich kongdomr. They had no patron of good fortune watching over them. Not anymore. But still, they thrived because Ilvana was their home, and they knew how to live alongside her wildness. That’s how she imagined Bjarke would start his tale, by invoking thoughts of the Old Age and reminding them that their land was still alive with a light strumming of his fingers on his instrument.

“If rocks and weeds could make someone rich, every Ilvanian would have a cartload of gold.” That was how Carryn explained it. “But our people do not need gold. We are blessed with an abundance of stubbornness. The animals are stubborn. The people are stubborn. There is no reason to fear the cold months because they always give way for the time of spring blessings. Always have. Always will. The land is stubborn too.”

Recalling the memory of her words, Lyssia tucked a strand of hair behind her ear as Carryn had done and trailed her fingers absently along her mare’s neck. Slowly, the group of strangers around her started to disperse, off to tell the news of what had happened on the road to Mart.

She kept having to twist in her saddle to acknowledge their farewells, but she could not turn away from the Mart. It had thoroughly captured her attention. Her eyes danced along the sharp line of tents and the shapes that darted in and out among them and then raced along the short line of trees that marked the field boundaries.

Steiner Field was spread out below them, two miln of green-yellow grass that did not seem bare for its lack of trees or flowers. The field was alive with men, women, children, and pack animals. Their height made the sound of so many people still seem far away, but still, despite the distance, the revelers’ song rose on the wind to greet them.

She counted the masks in the small portion of the Martday crowd she could see. One in three people strode about with covered faces; the rest did not seem fazed by them at all. It was fascinating to watch them going about their business like busy little ants without a care for the eyes that watched them from above.

Just then, the smell found her nose as the song had her ears, and she turned in her seat and pressed her sleeve to her nose. The movement dislodged the image of a hawk swooping down on an ant pile from her mind, which was good. She had no idea where her thoughts were going.

Roakev turned away with his nose covered at the same time she did, and they locked eyes in solidarity a second before Azerian pulled up between them. Roakev's parted lips pinched into a hard line. Lyssia tightened her hold on the mare with her knees, expecting her to show signs of nerves again, but it was Roakev’s horse who bucked and skittered forward. He wrestled control back and circled around to sit on Lyssia’s other side, fire in his eyes. Whatever he had been about to say was lost.

Lyssia sat like a lump of rock between them, wanting to show support for Roakev and confront Azerian, but also feeling the familiar pull to lean in toward Azerian’s excitement and share in that. Carryn broke the silence first, saving Lyssia the trouble of being peacekeeper.

“Well, come on then. We’re the last ones down. Let’s find the cousins’ tent first. It will be yellow with a blue sun painted on the side, grandfather Idun's mark."

Lyssia’s eyes darted from one tent to the next. There were yellow tents tucked in everywhere among ones of every hue and shade of the rainbow. “Blue and yellow tent. Right. Easy.”

She lingered near the top of the hill even after Azerian and Roakev had started after Carryn. Her nose had gotten better used to the smells that wafted up from the jumbled mess of people and animals, and she took a deep breath, savoring the hints of sweet baked things hidden among the tents. Her stomach fluttered with nerves, and she clutched one hand to it. But then it rumbled with hunger, and that settled the matter.

Her mother’s cousins...her cousins...if they had come, would have plenty of food to share. Tucking her hair up against her mask to hide the easily recognizable three-point mountain, she trained her eyes on Carryn’s fast-retreating form and spurred her mare forward.