Lyssia fidgeted with her long sleeves. She had been standing here all of five minutes, and she was already regretting her choice to wear such a heavy dress. Putting her hair up did not help as much as she had hoped to ease her discomfort. The air was still; there was no whisper of a breeze on this unseasonably warm morning.

The Master Skald called his musicians and singers to attention, and they began to perform the song chosen for this auspicious morning. Lyssia closed her eyes as the familiar notes reached her ears, imagining them spinning around her like motes of dust shimmering in the morning light.

Another familiar song, one she could easily have played on her bowed lyra or sung with the choir. But she had not been tasked with performing. Instead, she stood in a circle of men outfitted for battle. They all wore somber masks save her father, who had donned a stark white mask topped with a golden circlet.

Every Ilvanian gathered outside the receiving hall bore the mark of Ilvana in one form or another - pinned to their sleeves, hanging from their necks and arms, stamped on their clothing. Each Jarl also bore the mark of their family proudly displayed on bared arms and shoulders and carried sharpened weapons in their belts. Not hunting weapons or practice staffs but swords and poleaxe.

Their guests wore more modest clothing. There was no need for them to call attention to their bloodlines, but they each bore weapons and a small round shield stamped with Magnor's family crest, the mark of Dunival.

Lyssia had never felt more conspicuousness than she did standing outside in the mud in her long-sleeved, slipper-length dress. She tugged at its high collar and whispered soft hope for a breeze to find her.

She had cooler dresses that would have been suitable for this morning's ceremony, but she had another reason for choosing such concealing attire. She had a secret hidden from view in the chain hanging around her neck

The black stone was concealed, but part of the silver chain was still visible. She ran her fingers up and down the short length of chain until she found a knot and gave the necklace a gentle tug to make sure it was still in place.

She jumped as a cough - issued directly behind her ear - interrupted the musicians’ greeting song. Lyssia, eyes burning with accusation, turned to glare at Azerian, but her gaze softened when she saw him rubbing his bruised chin.

Her eyes sought out Roakev standing just outside the circle of men behind his father and then flew across the circle to Magnor. All she had gotten out of Azerian when she found him lurking in the darkest corner of the first floor of the lodging house was that he and Roakev had gotten into a tussle after she left them, that it had turned violent quickly, and that Magnor had been the one to pull Roakev off Azerian seconds before Roakev’s father jumped into the ring and threw them out. They had been banned from the dining hall that night for starting a fight during a peacemeet.

“You were sent to your rooms without supper? Like children?” Lyssia had tried to laugh it off, but Azerian was not in his usual joking mood.

Judging by the size of the bruise on his chin and the careful way that Roakev held his right arm, it had not been a pulled punches kind of fight. She could remember witnessing such a fight between the two only once, and she could not imagine what would have caused them to forget themselves now.

Azerian was not willing to share the details of the fight or its cause. She doubted Roakev would be in a mood to talk any time soon, and she could not even begin to imagine how she would broach the subject with her uncle. She couldn’t.

So that left Magnor, who had failed to say anything about the fight while he kept her company at dinner. Not one mention of it, though he had not been sparing with his words. She could not bring herself to glare at him now when she thought of the ease with which he had rescued her from a night spent fixating on her cousins’ empty seats. A champion indeed. Although a true champion might have warned her about the tension she wpas being forced to help bear in silence.

Magnor chose then to glance across the circle at her, and Lyssia dropped her hand. There was no way he recognized the necklace, hidden as it was, but she still felt awkward calling attention to it.

She had not worn Magnor's gift for several years. It had sat abandoned but not forgotten in her jewelry box. Thinking about the ease of their conversation last night had made Lyssia want to see the necklace again.

It had been an impulse decision, but once the chain was around her neck, she could not even think about taking it off. The rest of her outfit had flowed out of this one decision. Blue to compliment the starkness of the white-silver chain and black stone, a high neckline to hide the jewel, and a cloth-covered mask dyed to match the dress.

The music came to an end with a final mournful call from a flute. There was a moment of silence where Lyssia swore she felt the rush of air as Azerian took a deep breath and held it, a contingency against another cough. Then she saw her father nod to Eindre, and her uncle, in turn, nodded to the lur player.

After the second long blast from the deep-throated instrument, the bass drum started up again, a steady, insistent beat. Eighteen blasts of the lur preceded each of the Jarls as they stepped forward and drew their weapons.

“My hand belongs to my Kongr, for under his hand we have known peace. My weapon belongs to my Kongr, for I would follow him into battle. My heart belongs to my Kongr, for he upholds our traditions. My land belongs to my Kongr, for under his eye Ilvana has prospered. My stead belongs to my Kongr, for my respect he has earned. My trust belongs to my Kongr, for his counsel is sound. I declare my loyal heart and my strong arm to my Kongr, Dizean Inradson of Ilvana, and to his family.”

The Jarls’ recitation, spoken in the half-sung cadence required of all formal proclamations, was perfect. Guided by the beat of the drum and, for most of them, years of practice renewing their vows of fealty, not one voice faltered. The same could not be said for their steps as the Jarls surged forward in groups of four or five to place their weapons, hilts facing the man they had sworn allegiance to, in the center of the circle.

Nineteen swords laying in the sparse grass was not a particularly stirring sight, but the gesture was a powerful one. These were not the only men in Ilvana, but they were the most influential by right of the land and responsibilities they had inherited. To have all of them lay their swords down in honor of one man was reason for pride.

But Lyssia's father was not one to let such moments linger. No sooner had the last Jarl returned to his place in the circle than he stepped forward and reached back to place a hand on her shoulder. He grabbed hold of her sleeve, twisting the fabric tight as he put pressure on her shoulder. Lyssia gave him a tight-lipped smile and entered the circle.

The drum started up again as he led her halfway into the circle. He left her standing there alone, stranded and on display, and continued on until he reached the first laid weapon.

Stepping over it, he pivoted to face his men and released the buckle that held his scabbard in place. The blade he pulled free as the scabbard fell was old, though unstained by blood. None of the weapons laying at his feet were blood-stained. For as long as Lyssia's father had held leadership, his Jarls had had no cause to gather together for any reason besides peace. Wasn't that a cause for celebration?

The Lur sounded twice, the drumbeat stuttered, and Lyssia's father sang.

"My name is Dizean Inradson, and my heart has ever belonged to Ilvana and her people. My hand belongs to you. Until my last breath, I shall not abandon my duties. My sword belongs to you. I will never abandon the battlefield..."

He had an answer for each promise the Jarls bestowed upon him. When her father sang in his deep voice, Lyssia felt it on her chest. She felt his strength and sincerity humming through her bones.

Daughter of the mountain, the woman from the Mart had called her. She had heard the name once or twice before, and she believed it to be true, because her father sang like the mountain.

She wanted to examine the men her father sang to, but her back was to them, and she was hesitant to even shift her weight from her right to her left foot. Her eyes were the only thing she could move freely. She drew them along the length of the strangers standing before her. More than one was beginning to show signs of impatience.

Dunival visitors were not usually present for the renewal of these oaths, but this was an important ceremony. Magnor might not have chosen the right men to accompany him to peace talks. If they could not act as dignified witnesses to this shortly conducted ceremony, how would they fare sitting at a table for hours at a time while the treaty was discussed?

His final promise delivered, Lyssia’s father laid his sword down with its hilt facing the Jarls and its blade facing back toward Magnor’s men. Then straightening slowly, he gestured toward the Dunival party. One swift glance at the drummer, and the music ceased.

“By mine right as Kongr and by my own wisdom, I have welcomed this delegation from Dunival to discuss matters of peace. Does this seem wise to my Jarlsclan?”

“Yes, my Kongr,” nineteen voices answered. Although he was not a land-owning Jarl, Eindre answered with them, as he had participated in the ceremony.

“I value your counsel. Will you sit beside me at the table and lend me your voices to the discussion?”

“Yes, my Kongr.”

“That is good. Kongr…"

Lyssia’s father paused as he turned to face Magnor. Lyssia knew whose name was on the tip of his tongue, but he reined it in.

“Magnor, Kongr of Dunival, it is our wish to proceed with the peace talks. Are you and your men prepared to lay down your weapons in peace and join us?”

“We are.”

That is all he said. His clipped words were jarring after Dizean’s speech. But it was all the signal his men needed to step forward and drop down their weapons. They lay their shields down next, one by one, until the pattern was complete. The two Kongren now stood in the circle together.

Magnor placed a hand on the poleaxe that hung from a sling hilt attached to his belt. His fingers slid along the weapons’ top edge and down the hilt, but he did not move to pull it free. “I…”

Lyssia’s father raised his hand, waving aside Magnor’s explanation. “I will not ask you to abandon your father’s axe. If you will allow me…” Without waiting for Magnor’s response, he stooped to grab his sword and scabbard.

“Actually, I have a gift for you, Dizean. A gift for you and mine hostess. I have been remiss not to speak of it until now, but I was waiting for a moment when I could command both of your attentions.”

Magnor reached around behind his back and pulled free two daggers from his belt. “For the Kongr and Drottine of Ilvana.”

Lyssia’s father took one dagger and examined it. “Wonderful craftsmanship. Well balanced. An unexpected but appreciated gift. Drottine…” He waved her forward without looking at her.

Lyssia gasped when she saw the dagger laying flat in Magnor’s palm. The black stone set below the dagger’s grip seemed a perfect match for the one she already wore.

“They are a pair?”

“So it would seem,” her father said, holding out his dagger for her to see. It was identical to the one in Magnor’s hand. "A thoughtful offering, is it not?"

“Yes. It's stunning,” Lyssia murmured. She gave Magnor a shallow curtsy and hesitated with her hand held over where his had been.

He gave her full curtsy, his smile wide. "A matching pair."

Lyssia thought his eyes jumped momentarily down to the silver chain around her neck, but she did not wait to see if he reacted to it. Suddenly, she felt like she was ten years old again standing before a teenage boy and praying that her blush did not extend to her ears. She was not surprised when her thumb became caught between the dagger's jewel and his hands and she felt the same jolt of electricity pass between them.

Her father had already returned his sword and stuck the dagger into an extra loop on his scabbard. She spent a couple of heartbeats pretending to admire the dagger as she tried to still the tremor in her hands. She ran a hand across the sash tied around her waist, checking its fit, before slipping the dagger into the fabric close to her left hip. Once her hand was no longer touching the dagger's hilt, the tingling in her fingers subsided.

She glanced accusatorially at Magnor, but his attention had shifted to the musicians, who had begun to play again.

"Let the peace talks proceed. Lyssia, you and I must enter through the hall alongside our men. Magnor, you and your men must take the path around the building. When we meet at the negotiation table, we shall meet as equals."

Lyssia's father took her arm and began to lead her from the circle and toward the receiving hall. They were already several lengths away when Lyssia heard Magnor's response. Goosebumps flowered to life along her arms.

"That is my only wish."

**********

Hands are fascinating. Every little scar, every stain, every tremor tells a story. Fascinating.

That’s what Lyssia told herself, and she believed it. That’s why she was trying to discover the differences between the hands of the men who sat...