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 around the negotation table. It seemed necessary for each Jarl to speak up at least once an hour during such gatherings. Her mind should have been kept busy.

But if she was being honest with herself, she would have to admit that she was bored. The Jarl’s chatter could not fill all the empty spaces in her mind, and if she didn’t fill them, she feared she would be in danger of falling asleep.

“I must agree with Halvor on this point. While I am not against sending wood to our allies across the waters, I agree that there is an imbalance in the amount of resources taken from the eastern and western forests. Should not more trees be taken from the largest resource available? Is not the forest to the east of the Scyftan the...the larger resource?”

The man speaking threw a nervous glance toward Halvor, who sat with his pale hands folded before him.

“I fear that this imbalance might be the cause of the...the harm I have seen in the western forest. The compensation delivered to the households who rely most heavily on this forest life is generous, but it is not worth the forest’s death. That being said, I...uh...I do not know if the harvesting of wood...if it really… or how much...In the end, I recognize that we all stand together. We are one tree...tree trunk, and therefore...we should remain honored to honor our agreement with our allies. And...yes.”

The man heaved a heavy sigh of relief as sank into his seat, but no sooner had his backside touched the chair than Halvor was back on his feet.

“Thank you, my friend. You bring up an interesting point of discussion.” He favored the last speaker with a nod before turning toward Lyssia and her father and extending a beseeching hand toward them. “If I may be permitted to hold the floor for one more minute, I think I may be able to address this question that has been posed of the equality of the eastern and the western forests…”

Lyssia squeezed her eyes shut to keep from rolling them. This was not what they were supposed to be discussing, but leave it to Halvor to twist even this foolish nonsense into a chance to promote his own agenda. Lyssia doubted there was a problem present in the western forest. He just needed an excuse to complain. If the dent that her father’s thumb was currently working into the table was any indication of his patience level, he would not be able to last another outburst from the western Jarl. Halvor was wading into dangerous waters.

“...and I know I do not speak for myself when I remind my wise Kongr that these peace negotiations should be a benefit to all of us…”

Oh! Lyss cocked her elbow back and prepared to tap Azerian’s arm with it, but he beat her to the punch with a gentle kick to the ankle.

He had started the game two arguments back. Every utterance of the word "peace" was a chance to shake themselves awake and engage in a private battle of nudges, jabs, and kicks. Lyssia could only imagine that the same need to stay awake had been what finally drove him from his sullen stupor.

“Yes, peace for all must be the force that drives our marching feet forward…”

“Ow!” Azerian tried to cover his exhalation with a low cough, but Lyssia heard it and the corner of her mouth twitched with a smile. The score didn’t really matter, but she was pretty sure she was winning this game.

“Jarl Halvor, I am sorry for the interruption.”

Lyssia’s head shot up, her eyes flying to the end of the Ilvanian side of the table where Jarl Gavin was taking to his feet.

“Jarl Gavin…” It was apparent that Halvor was not pleased by his interference, but he could not deny the younger man’s polite request. He sat and leaned forward against his clasped arms, his eyes fixed with dagger-like intent on Gavin.

“I mean no disrespect to you, Gavin, but this matter at hand is not one of Ilvanian policy. This is not a Jarlsmeet. We are here to discuss matters of peace between Dunival and Ilvana."

Azerian was quick on the draw, and the pain in Lyssia’s ankle was sharper this time.

"We all agreed that when we sat down at this table, we sat as equals with one common goal. We are all part of one...forest..." Gavin gestured toward the man who had spoken about the export of lumber. Lyssia glanced over quickly enough to see his ears and neck turn a deep shade of pink. "One living, breathing forest with one common pursuit. The pursuit of a peaceful and prosperous life."

Jab. Kick. Another point for me.

Lyssia's father stirred, and she froze in horror at being found out. But he ignored her and addressed Gavin instead. "Do you have anything new to say, Jarl Gavin, or shall we proceed on to the next part of the treaty? We have much to get through today, and I'm afraid we have chased too many rabbits already.”

"Yes, my Kongr. I studied the treaty between Ilvana and Dunival in preparation for the peacemeet this year, and I was shocked to find the paragraph baring the trade of animals between the two kongdomren. Silent goods are all well and good, but I see no reason for the exclusion of livestock that cannot be overcome. The positives could far outweigh the negatives as such an arrangement would only bring our people closer.”

He paused, waiting for his Kongr’s nod to continue.

“Transportation is not such a big problem if one focuses on smaller livestock. Or perhaps our hesitation lies in how well a chosen species would thrive in a new environment. I am adept at the raising and charming of bees. I have seen the way that honey is coveted by our friends who do not possess the golden liquor in their homeland. From what I have heard of Dunival’s climate, I believe the hives would thrive there. It would be an easy matter to train a few selected volunteers in their care.”

A low murmur arose amongst Magnor’s men. One pressed his hands against the table and half rose. “To learn the arm of charming the bees...what would we be expected to pay?”

“You would send a modest amount of livestock in return. Something we do not have here, small enough to transport, and easy enough to learn to raise. Something useful for food or labor. I have one thought, a suggestion only. I heard someone claim that the wulvken of Dunival are stunning creatures. If---”

“Who has been speaking of the wulvken of Dunival?” Magnor glanced around at his men. The man who had spoken to Gavin sunk slowly back into his seat, almost as though he was afraid of making any fast or sudden movements.

Gavin did not give away his informant by glancing their way. "It was just a passing comment I overheard, my lord. I have a long memory for what I find curious, and I admit, with my limited knowledge of lands outside my own, I find myself often plagued with curiosity. It is a disease that's hard to cure."

"Indeed, and one I know well," Magnor replied, leaning back in his chair and staring at Gavin over his steepled fingers. "Even so, we do not eat the wulves, and we do not employ them. They are wild, strong, untameable, like your black bjurns but more...slegrl. Um...sly."

"Interesting. Well if not the wulvken, perhaps we could discuss a different trade...if the alteration to the treaty is allowed."

Magnor did not answer but gestured, almost lazily, to his second who sat close by his right side.

"Yes, we will discuss this idea amongst ourselves. I'm sure a mutual agreement can be made."

"Very well," Lyssia's father growled, slamming his empty cup back down on the table and glaring at it. "We will discuss it later. I suggest we pause our discussions to see what the kitchen has prepared for our midday repast."

Lyssia glanced at her father. She had not known the extent to which these long speeches and Halvor's diatribes had soured his mood. She cleared her throat to gain his attention and reached for his mug.

"Father, will you allow me to fill your cup for you?"

"No, no. There's nothing but watered wine here. I have a desire for something stronger from the kitchens."

"Something stronger, you say?” Magnor asked, motioning to one of his men that sat closest to the door.” I hold the same desire. Allow me to send for more volvstot. So long as you are my host, you should never have an empty cup."

"Well said, young Kongr. Well said." Lyssia's father lifted his cup to Magnor. "Bring your beer. I have found it useful for soothing tensions."

"Indeed," Lyssia sighed, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

A consensus was reached, and two messengers were dispatched - one to the kitchens and another to the storehouse where Magnor's beer had been stored. Lyssia was forgotten again, trapped between Azerian and the table.

Her thoughts circled back to Jarl Gavin. What impressed her most wasn't what he said, but how his even tone never wavered. She sent her elbow into Azerian's side and slid her chair back an inch. "Move. I want to talk to…"

She cast her gaze toward Gavin and his friends, pausing when she saw that he was already looking her away. Lyssia was used to having eyes follow her. She was sure that Gavin wasn't the only one staring at her now, but the way he straightened when he felt her gaze and turned away only to look back a few seconds later gave away his eagerness at gaining her attention. How long had he been watching her? Since before he confronted Halvor? Was all that real, or merely a means to gain attention?

She turned away suddenly, sliding her chair back into place.

"Lys?"

"It's nothing. Nevermind."

She had been so caught up by Sidne, by her forthrightness and cheer and how she seemed to put everyone around her at ease. But Gavin was not his wife. Of course, he was similar to every other young Jarl and Jarlson here. All hungry for power and attention. If not from her father then from her.

You must give trust to get any in return, a quiet voice in the back of her mind reminded her.

But she was too tired to play that game today.

She turned her hands over on her lap, picked a line, and traced its path all the way across her palm and back. There were no scars, no dirt, no unseemly marks. Her hands were unnoteworthy save for the calluses on her fingers that revealed her practice at the bow and arrow. And even those were slight, not the marks of a hunter who used their bow every day.

These were the hands of a Drottine. But what did they say about her?

She was unremarkable.

The scars she bore unwillingly, the name she was born with, the title she was awarded because of her station. These made her noteworthy, but they were unsubstantial. They meant nothing.

If anyone tried to gain power through her, they would be in for a sore surprise. What little power she possessed was not for the taking.