When the song came to an end and their instruments had finally found harmony together, Lyssia was surprised to find tears in her eyes.

“Well...what did...you...think?” Azerian asked in between gasps for air.

“It was good,” Lyssia answered honestly, and then realizing he was expecting more, she quickly added, “It made me think of something.”

Azerian opened his mouth wider as if to say something, but he was still catching his breath from his frantic flute playing. He waved at her to continue.

Lyssia hadn’t had anything prepared to say. She surprised herself by declaring, “The fight we witnessed yesterday.”

“The fight we...participated...in yesterday.” He nodded.

Lyssia glanced away from Azerian, allowing him another minute to catch his breath, and saw that they had amassed a small gathering of onlookers. They were facing toward the dusty exercise and stable yards, away from the courtyard and benches, but the crowd stood before them and whispered praise for Azerian’s song.

All eyes turned to her as Azerian raised his flute again and pointed to Lyssia.

“You sure you’re ready?” Lyssia asked.

In response, he set the jorki aside, retrieved his bone flute, and played the opening notes from the mourning drigneig she'd been practicing earlier. Lyssia cast her eyes out over the crowd one more time as she set her club to the strings. The fingers of her left hand - which rested delicately on the strings above the wooden club - jumped when they found Magnor’s gaze.

That was why she chose to start playing the Lay of Rilken. Surely, there was nothing behind it but a memory jogged free by surprise. It was the only song she knew that mentioned Dunival by name.

She could not read Magnor’s reaction, if he recognized the tune. He and his men still bore masks. Azerian paused in his playing, and he burned holes in the back of her head until she turned to him.

She was not supposed to be the impulsive one. She could read the accusation in his eyes, but now that her hands had started the song, her voice could not be stopped. She jumped into the first stanza in the shortened version of the Lay of Rilken that she had penned years ago out of frustration for failing yet again to impress the Kongr with a recital of the original song. Azerian had been joyfully embraced the change in pace, and for a while, it had been all they had played together, much to the chagrin of Bjarke and her father.

As the first verse of the Lay fell from her lips - ”Rilken the mighty, Rilken the bold” - he added his flute to her voice. Their version was not a long song, and seemingly before she could take a breath, the last note was escaping through her lips, and she was forced once more to sit up from her position crouched over her lyra and acknowledge the crowd. It had grown to include more of the regular stead residents as well as guests and what looked to be the entire Dunival party.

Magnor had inched his way forward until he stood right at Lyssia’s side. She had to tip her head back to meet his gaze. He reached out a hand, and she passed him her club. He turned it this way and that, appearing for all the world to be fascinated by the wooden tool. Lyssia passed awkward glances between Magnor’s bent head and the Dunival man who stood at his shoulder.

She couldn’t tell if Magnor was angry. Surely, he must be. She had just serenaded him and his men with the memory of Dunival’s great betrayal. How could he not be angry? The real question was what punishment the embarrassment she had just put the entire stead through would warrant.

It felt like she sat there stuck in the sandpit of her mind for an hour, unable to even fidget as she sank slowly more and more into her thoughts. And then, finally, Magnor looked up and smiled at her. It was the first time she had seen him smile since his arrival, and his eyes lingered on the mountain peak that adorned her mask.

“I see no feathers sprouting from your throat or your instrument, and yet I could have sworn it was a lark's song that graced my ears. Your voice reminds me of a song that my mother used to sing to me, a lovely lullaby. I wish that I was graced with such beauty of voice that I would be able to sing it for you."

The crowd took in a collective breath and shifted a step backward. Lyssia was sure the breath was in place of a groan.

"You'll just have to take my word for it. A lovely song. A lovely voice."

Lyssia was stunned speechless. The Lay of Rilken, the song of the great betrayal, reminded the Kongr of Dunival of a lullaby? Yet she couldn't help but feel touched by the emotion she heard in his voice. She had to believe that his smile was for his mother and the memory of her lullaby, but it was nice that she was the one who had brought it forth.

It seemed like everyone was waiting for her to speak, so she cleared her throat and attempted to add a bit of lightness to her voice.

"I'm sure your mother had a beautiful voice. I'm sorry I never got to hear her sing, but a song is a good memory to keep. You ought to praise my cousin's playing as well."

"Ahh...of course. Well played, Azerian. I also envy your skill with the flute."

"Oh no, I'm just the accompanist. Lyssia often reminds me I'm too prideful for my own good, but I thank you."

"On the contrary, I think you an avid musician," Magnor said. "You should take pride where pride is due."

Lyssia stole the flask from Azerian's hand and used it to hide her smirk. Jealousy and pride...could boys talk of nothing else?

The man shadowing Magnor shifted, to remind Magnor of his presence or simply step back, Lyssia didn't know. It was possible he suffered the same malady that Azerian possessed - the inability to stand still.

Most of the crowd had dispersed, stead workers hurrying back to their chores and guests seeking other entertainment. No doubt, they would return if she and Azerian took up their playing again, but she thought it time to vacate their seats and allow other performers to take their place.

She wanted to suggest this to Azerian, but Magnor and his companion stayed rooted to the spot, and it would look rude for her to turn her back to them.

Magnor gripped the strange man's arm, took a step back from him, and gestured with a slight bow as if presenting him to her. "I don't believe I have introduced my second, V---"

"Azerian, you dunga!" Roakev stood on the edge of the exercise yard, a long spear held out before him. He brandished it at Azerian. "I'm trying to enjoy a practice bout, and you've stolen my audience!"

Azerian jumped from his seat like a snake had bitten him. He handed both of his instruments to Lyssia and hopped up onto the bench to address Roakev.

"I did not! Is it my fault they prefer my music to being pummeled by you? And by the way, was I invited to take a whack at your head, or is that honor only reserved for guests?"

"You were invited. You were supposed to meet us a half hour ago."

"I do apologize for throwing off your schedule, my lord." Azerian flung his arms wide and bowed so low Lyssia was afraid he was going to fall over. She scooted as far back as she could until half her bottom hung uncomfortably off the edge of the bench. Just in case.

Azerian did not even falter as he straightened. "But as you can see - I had a previous engagement, and I forgot!"

Roakev slammed the blunted end of his staff into the ground and proclaimed, "Excuses spoken by a coward!"

Azerian responded to Roakev's insult in the expected way. He grabbed the flask, took a long swig of cider, and stalked off without a backward glance.

Lyssia sighed. “I’m invisible, as usual.”

"Invisible? Never."

Lyssia glanced up at Magnor, unsure what sort of response he was expecting.

"Well, clearly I am. But only when bouts of honor are involved."

“Why don’t you jump in there and steal a staff? Put them both to shame,” he said.

“Not today.”

Magnor chuckled softly, and Lyssia took her chances in turning away and placing her club and Azerian's flutes on the bench. She shifted her lyra from where it had settled between her legs, untangling the bottom from her skirt before leaning it against the bench beside the club.

She bent to retrieve the pastry that had slipped from her fingers earlier, her breath held against the memory of dropping it.

"Ooh…" The breath whooshed out her lungs, making room for blinding pain. "Ugh! Ahmmmmm…."

Blood coursing down her hand. Pain coursing up her arm. A polished knife shimmering in dappled light, twisting, turning, landing...landing point down in the top of a muddy leather riding boot.

"Aaaaaah!"

"My father..."

"Drottine!"

The shout, echoed by four different voices, broke her trance.

She was on the ground. Her hands were splayed before her, one palm squishing the pastry flat. It oozed dark juice from between her fingers. She blinked to clear her vision and found herself staring at a pair of boots.

The sight sent her reeling, and she reached without thinking for the nearest hand before she could pitch forward. Magnor pulled Lyssia to her feet, and she stood there for a moment, both of her hands gripping his.

She didn't open her eyes again until she felt the dizziness recede, and then she quickly cast her gaze about to confirm her situation. She was surrounded by Jarlsons, Sorev, Halvor's son, among them. It felt natural to lean toward Magnor and shift her grip to his arm. He cast an imperious look around the circle of boys, and they withdrew, casting dark glances over their shoulders.

Lyssia's grip on Magnor's arm softened, but he didn't insist that she release him, and so she stood there close beside him, half-hidden behind his shoulder, and focused on taking deep breaths.

"Lyssia, are you alright?" he asked twice before she answered.

“Yes, it was just a...headache. I get strong headaches. They mess with my balance sometimes.”

“Shall I escort you to your room then?” Magnor started to lead her in the opposite direction from the exercise yard, but he stopped when she pulled back.

“I’m fine now.”

“Are you sure? Because I don’t mind---”

“I want to watch Roakev’s bout. Besides, I’m not sure you can be spared. Surely, they will expect you to participate. Unless it’s unseemly for a Kongr to participate in such sport with Jarlsons. I wouldn’t know.”

Lyssia tipped her head back to survey the blank surface of his mask. She had hardly had reason to notice before, but he was tall. Nowhere near Bjarke’s height, but certainly taller than Azerian. Perhaps even taller than Roakev.

She cast back through her thoughts trying to remember if she had seen them standing together. What came to mind was an image of him standing chest to chest, eye to eye with her father. He had not stood so tall the last time she had seen him three years previous. She was sure of it. Did the responsibility of an entire kongdomr make one go through a growth spurt?

Magnor bent under her scrutiny, bringing his shoulders and head closer to her. “I’m sure I could be persuaded to throw my glove into the ring.”

“Then I must stay and watch.”

“As you will, Drottine. Please allow this humble ally of yours to escort you to a viewing area. Um...Your instruments?”

Lyssia cast an eye to her lyra but waved her hand dismissively. “No one will harm them. If I’m lucky, the lyra will show up in my room later as if by magic.”

As she predicted, Roakev cried out for Magnor to join him as soon as they stepped forward to the wooden rail that circled the exercise yard. Lyssia spotted a raven-haired woman she didn’t know holding onto her aunt’s elbow as they made their way to the row of seats set along one edge of the railing.

“Aunt Nimeah!” she called out.

Nimeah stopped and turned toward her.

“Please allow me to sit with you! Kongr Magnor.” Lyssia extricated herself from Magnor’s hold and curtsied to him before stepping forward to meet Nimeah’s young escort.

“Drottine Lyssia, it is an honor to meet you. My name is Sidne. I'm Jarl Gavin's wife.” She winced as she attempted a curtsy. Between Nimeah leaning on her arm and her pregnant belly, she had a hard time of it.

“Stand, Sidne. Please. Don't be discomfited on my behalf.” Lyssia’s hand hovered over her arm as Sidne straightened and smiled sweetly at her. “Jarl Gavin?”

“Yes, Gavin Brinson. Our hold is small and to the west. I am not surprised you don't recognize---”

“I recognize his name, and I'm pleased to meet you. I'm eager to hear talk of Ilvana’s western reaches. Perhaps you could help me organize an audience with your husband.”

“Of course, Drottine. I'm sure he would be pleased to gain an audience with you.”

“Well...yes…” Lyssia’s eyes darted away from Sidne's, which shone with scorching enthusiasm. “Nimeah, I heard you were ill. Are you feeling better?”

The older woman seemed to droop off Sidne’s arm like a heavy coat sleeve. She pulled herself up at Lyssia’s question and gave her a sad smile. “Much better. Yes. Just…tired...a little. My husband gave me something to help me sleep, but I...I could not rest properly . I thought an afternoon walk would be...nice. And then dear Sidne found me.”

“It is my pleasure, lady Nimeah. I had need of exercise, and now I have need of a rest. I saw you fall, Drottine. I hope you are well?” Sidne asked, her voice full of genuine concern.

“Just a mild headache. I did not wish to miss Roakev’s performance. If I may suggest...the chairs...”

Nimeah nodded and Sidne reached out to place a hand on Lyssia’s arm as they moved to claim three chairs. She wondered what it must look like - a woman of advanced pregnancy not being escorted but acting as escort to two other women. But Sidne smiled over at her as she settled Nimeah into her seat, and Lyssia was suddenly glad for the buffer between her and her aunt.

Sidne seemed the type who was adept at keeping up a conversation to hold awkward silences at bay. For their sake, Lyssia hoped her gift for assumptions was correct again. Otherwise, they were in for an afternoon full of awkward silence.