Magnor’s well-mannered group of men sprang from their chair and swarmed toward their Kongr like a hive of bees that had been kicked to the ground and set free. Most went to form a haphazard ring around Magnor and their fallen compatriot, their backs pressed up against the chairs and the map-covered wall. Their actions were disciplined, but their voices were not. Confusion and anger rang forth in their tirade.

Five of them left the group to wave off the few Listorian witnesses who had jumped forward to help. Their hands opened and closed near their hips, as though looking for the swords that they had left behind in their rooms.

Magnor’s second stepped forward and took charge, sending the Listorians back to their seats and pushing the five back into the circle. They obeyed, but the tension in the room was unbearable. It didn’t help that Magnor was yelling from within their ranks.

“Get up! What happened? Why didn’t you tell me you weren’t feeling well? Did anyone else know?”

Lyssia recoiled from the anger in his voice and the mirrored threat in his men’s stances.

“If it’s poison, it wasn’t me.”

“Poison?” Lyssia rounded on a Jarl who sat a few chairs down from her.

He startled, clearly unaware of how loud he had been talking. “Drottine, it...it was only a joke.”

“I’m sure it was,” Lyssia said, shaking her head. “But it was ill-timed.”

“Yes, my lady.”

He spoke it like a question. Lyssia turned her back to him, glaring around the segregated table. Dunival separated from Ilvana. Jarls from the east separated from those from the west. Each group eyeing each other like they were a bug to be squashed beneath a boot. Was the peace they larked about so tenuous?

Lyssia turned to her father, who had his head bent toward Eindre. Only their lips moved, their bodies held in rigidity so as not to give away any thoughts, as they observed the spectacle before them.

“How long has he been ill?” Magnor yelled to be heard above his quarreling men.

There was fear beneath the anger in his voice. So much suffering. He was been a witness to so much suffering.

Lyssia reached for Roakev’s arm and pulled him forward, whispering urgently in his ear, “Roakev, we have to help.”

“They’ll decide what to do,” Roakev said, nodding to their fathers, who were working hard to portray an aura of calm.

Calm. Calm. Calm. Lyssia’s racing heart fought against her control, leaping erratically as the distressed man started moaning again.

“Enough! Enough!” Magnor pushed to the forefront of the group. He dragged two men from the circle and sent them running out of the room. “Set your focus on caring for your comrade. Get him up. Get him outside.”

“Do you know what ails your man, Magnor?” Lyssia’s uncle called out.

Regardless of what emotions battled to take control of Magnor, he was attempting to contain them. Lyssia would do the same. She would not give in to her urge to bolt to Magnor’s side and offer him whatever help he needed. She would lead with her mind, not her heart.

“It is likely fatigue from the trip,” Magnor was saying. “He was overtaxed on the journey. His body is overstressed. We are all stressed.” Magnor voice shook a little, but he steadied it. “This incident has caught my men off guard. I apologize for the disturbance, but he needs his bed, and I should accompany him to make sure that he is settled into it.”

“Oooh no…I...no...Ahhhh.”

Magnor turned back and extended his hand toward the circle of men that grew tighter around the distressed man who was still hidden from view. That was just as well, because Lyssia was suddenly sure she did not want to see what state he was in to make such sounds.

Magnor’s voice rose as he strained to be heard above his man’s cries. “Yes, rest is the remedy. I should have traveled with a healer. Though I suppose a healer can not do much good against travel pains.”

“Yes, I understand," Dizean said, eagerness to be done with the situation coloring his voice. "You should go. We will reconvene our talks later. Or tomorrow, perhaps. The afternoon is already growing late.”

“Would it not be wise to send someone for the Lach?” Azerian stood, glancing between Magnor and Lyssia’s father. “Just in case she can do anything. It wouldn’t take long for me to ride to the village and bring her back.”

Bless you, Azerian.

“I can accompany him. I won’t slow him down, and Seaka will come faster when she sees this is urgent enough for two riders.”

“Very well,” her father said, agreeing far quicker than Lyssia expected.

“In that case, I should stay. I can help make sure everything is ready for the Lach’s arrival.”

“Azerian? What…Why...?"

“The Drottine cannot ride out alone,” Eindre said without looking her way.

“Uncle…”

“No, Lyssia. What he says is true.”

“But father...my Kongr, Azerian is right. Magnor’s man needs a Lach.”

"No."

"I will escort her."

Lyssia’s closed her eyes, hiding from the person whose voice was the last she wanted to hear.

"You think you can keep up with the Drottine, Halvorson? She can ride like the wind when asked to, and I would expect any party that left to fetch the Lach to return within two hours.”

"Yes, my Kongr," Sorev said, lowering himself into a deep bow. "As you command."

Seven more chairs scraped against the floor as the rest of the Jarlsons stood to proclaim their intent to join the Drottine’s retinue.

No. No. No. No! Lyssia shouted. She stared at her father’s ear, willing him to hear her thoughts.

"Very well. If two riders would have hurried Seaka along, let's see what nine will do. It’s not the luckiest of numbers, but so it must be. Do be gentle with her though, daughter. She is getting on in years."

Lyssia could not stand until Roakev pushed his chair back. She glanced over her shoulder to signal him to move, but he was already standing.

"If you would think better of an even count of ten, I shall add myself to the riding party, Uncle."

"Yes. Good. Go," her father snapped impatiently, shooting Roakev's father a telling look. Lyssia noticed a lot of looks passed around the room as she led the newly formed group toward the exit that led through the receiving hall. She made no effort to acknowledge the glances thrown her way.

The Dunival party had made use of their distraction to carry the moaning man from the room. Azerian walked amongst them. Lyssia recognized his mop of brown hair. They had chosen the same exit as Lyssia and her escort. She saw them disappear through the front doors to the hall.

The men set to guard and operate the doors when the hall was empty were absent, but Magnor, who trailed the group a short distance, noticed her approach and called for his men to hold the door.

Lyssia paused when she reached him, allowing Roakev and the Jarlsons to go on ahead of her. "We will return with Lach Seaka as soon as we can. She’s very skilled. I’m sure she’ll know a way to help."

"I fear a fuss is being made over little, but at the same time, I am grateful for your aid.”

Lyssia swallowed a lump in her throat.

"I hope to see you ride as the wind one day, lady songbird. But for now, all I can say is thank you.”

Again, that nickname...It sent an arrow straight through her heart.

“Magnor…”

“Take care with that lot of ruffians." He nodded to the Jarlsons.

"I’m not worried about them. Only that they won’t be able to keep up.”

Lyssia turned away reluctantly. Her gaze snagged on Bjarke's form standing in the hall’s shadowed doorway.

"This cannot get any worse…" she muttered to herself before calling out to him. "Skald Bjarke, would you like to accompany us as a witness and make us an unlucky number again?"

"I thank you for the invitation, Drottine, but I’m afraid it’s one I must decline. Even I don’t have such fortitude. But I would appreciate the chance to visit with you after your return and hear tell of the trip.”

Had it been anyone else who said those words, Lyssia would have thought he was making a jest of her discomfort. But she had never known the Skald to play the part of a jester.

Fortitude. Fortitude. She took up the chant as she led the way to the stables. Haste made her stride long and her movements shaky. One of the Jarlsons offered to saddle her horse for her, but she declined as politely as she could.

"Arvid does not care for strangers."

He returned after she had outfitted her horse and bent to one knee before she could refuse his offer to help her into the saddle. It was a bit awkward due to his height. The Jarlsons ranged widely in size and shape and age from the youngest who couldn’t be older than eighteen to the oldest, who knelt before her now. He could have easily celebrated his thirtieth birthday this year. And they all shared a common role: to make her feel like she had just stepped out of a cold river onto a thistle-covered bank barefoot and shivering.

Lyssia quickly realized that although she could have swung herself up into the saddle and ridden just fine in her loose dress, mounting on her own while she was being watched would have been awkward. It was easy enough to balance one boot against the Jarlson's knee and the other on his proffered hand and allow him to do the hard work of lifting her to saddle height.

He waited with a hand pressed against her horse's neck, holding him steady as she adjusted her seat. She looked up to offer him sincere thanks, but he spoke before she could.

"No bridle?"

He sounded impressed, but she did not rise to the opportunity to brag. It had been important to her that she learn to ride in the old style. It had more to do with her horse's skills than hers.

"Arvid does not care for many things," she said, leaning forward and clicking her tongue.

Arvid stepped forward smoothly, slipping around the horses and riders in his path and out into the stable yard. Lyssia allowed him to approach the barrel of water set out for animal use and take a long drink. Then, without pausing to see who followed her, she directed him toward the path that circled the stead and led to the village and gave a sharp whistle. Arvid, her beautiful Dubkir charger, took off like an arrow set loose.

They couldn’t keep up such a pace the entire distance, but Lyssia did not slow until they were through the stead gate and well on their way down the steep road that connected her father's stead to the village whose patronage they depended on. Here the rocks that had taken on a life of their own on the road to Steiner Field were more subdued.

Still, it felt like they were climbing down a series of rocky stairs that would take them half an hour to traverse at least. Arvid handled them beautifully. She could have chosen a more direct road, but she had no fear of galloping full speed down the slope in broad daylight.

The Kongr's land held room for several animal barns and storage houses and a few rows of potatoes and barley, but the majority of their vegetables and grain came from the village and their outlying farms. Lyssia’s father was always adamant in insisting that the villagers retain their rights to be called Karls, free farmers and workmen. They were partnered with the Kongr’s stead, not owned by it. If one prospered, the other would as well.

This arrangement had been a cause for several debates over the years. The Kongr could do what he wanted with his land. The debates should have ended there, but she often thought her father was overindulgent in the patience he showed his Jarls and their tendency to want to discuss everything.

Her puzzle concerning the Jarlsons sat unfinished at the back of her mind. Her thoughts were on her current task, but she couldn’t help but take notice of the men riding with her as Arvid fell back into a sustainable pace. They all seemed to be excellent horsemen, but then they would have had time specifically devoted to training in the saddle. She took note of which ones tried to pull ahead of her, which ones seemed content enough to stay back behind Arvid, which ones led with hard hands.

The Jarlson who had helped her mount rode without a bridle and reins, but she could tell that his horse was not trained to it. The pair kept veering off course to the right.

Roakev kept to Arvid’s right flank but did not try to outpace her. Halfway through the trip, Sorev attached himself to her left. His black steed was like a fly that Arvid could not flick off. She had a look prepared for him if he tried to talk to her as they rode. It would be the perfect combination between, “I can’t hear you!” and “Are you really trying to talk to me right now?”

But Sorev concentrated on maintaining his position and didn’t try to engage her in fruitless dialogue. He sits his saddle well, she grumbled to herself. He could be the best rider of the lot.

The first indication they had reached the outskirts of the village was the carefully tilled and tended fields, barren of crops for the moment save potatoes and turnips - hearty plants that grew beneath the surface of the hard ground - and a single long row of golden wheat Preparations were already being made for the time of planting, which would begin once the six-week Jute celebrations were complete. A few villagers were bent along the rows working the soil and repairing damaged structures used to support crops that liked to grow toward the sun, but not as many as she would have thought.

The majority of the villager's fields lay to the east of their homes, the animals to the north and west. Perhaps those areas were more populated.

This would work in their favor. Lyssia was able to find an unoccupied path between two beds of raised earth that would allow them to continue at half their previous pace. Roakev took the next row over. A couple of Jarlsons followed him while the others fell into a single file line behind her.

The villagers they passed glanced up to gawk at the riding party, but Lyssia did not stop to offer greetings or explanations. Seaka's hut was located on the eastern edge of the village closest to the forest, which sat within view of her back garden. It would do them no good to turn that way now if Seaka was tending to a villager, or worse, if she was traveling.

The Lach periodically visited other villages and homes to offer what help she could. Lyssia hadn't considered the possibility that she would be away before they set out, and the thought soured her stomach.

It soon became clear why the outer reaches of the village appeared empty. A festival was taking place in the village center, and paths that would normally have remained open were crowded with celebrants. Everything was decorated in the tiny white flowers that grew abundantly in the rocky soil - the ground, the doorways, the well, the little girls’ hair. Every child in the village must be present twirling, jumping, and cavorting in the space before the high-stepped well.

Girls dressed in their prettiest frocks trailed ribbons behind them, trying to coax the boys to grasp the other ends and dance with them. A few managed to snare a partner, but not many. There were pockets of girls with clasped hands dancing together in circles, all thoughts of the boys - who were staging some kind of swordplay act on the fountain steps - forgotten.

Lyssia’s eyes were naturally drawn to the musicians who hid just within sight down another path that led to the well. They were playing a dancing Ridineig that drove the dancers ever onward with its increasing pace. The steady drums beat like the heart Lyssia could feel pounding in her chest.

So many people. There would be no way through the village center. They should have just ridden straight to Seaka's hut.

She turned to Roakev, prepared to explain her mistake and ask the Jarlsons to retreat, but the shout that went up from the other end of the dance floor drew her attention.

"Drottine! Drottine!"

An older man, a village representative that she had met before, rushed toward their group. Every adult he passed stopped what they were doing to bow their covered faces and bend their knees in Lyssia's direction. The man stopped to grab hold of a young woman and pulled her along after him. Her right hand was bound up in a pink ribbon, and attached to the end of the ribbon was the left hand of her new husband.

"My lady!" the man exclaimed, forcing the young couple into a deep bow before letting them go.

"My lady," the young couple echoed in murmured tones. They clung to each other and drew back behind the older man.

“My lady, I did not know that you would be visiting us today. You honor my family. This is the brudpar - my niece, Hanne, and her husband. The ceremony is complete, but the feast has not been served. The winter was kind to us. There will be more than plenty for you and your party.”

"You are most welcome, Drottine." The woman glanced up with a shy smile. “We will prepare a seat of honor for you.”

Lyssia panicked for a moment as she tried to remember the formal phrasing for a wedding blessing. In the end, it didn’t matter. Before she could speak, Sorev Halvorson decided to speak for her.

“The Drottine is here on far more important matters than a wedding feast.”

He attempted to sidle up to Arvid’s left side again. The path would not allow for three horses to stand abreast, but he seemed intent on making either Roakev or Lyssia give up their positions at the front.

Lyssia's cousin tried to take charge of the situation. "Jarlson, do not overstep. Your opinion has not been called for."

“But I shall give it. They act disrespectfully toward the Kongr's daughter. They should wait for her to speak before bombarding her with such low propositions." He forced his horse to press forward a step further, ignoring its anxious wicker. "The Drottine demands that you summon the Lach here immediately, and while we wait, I would advise you to curtail your tongues and show the Kongr’s daughter respect.”

Lyssia held onto her saddle pommel as Arvid's head whipped around and his teeth grazed the leg of Sorev's mount. The other horse drew back with a cry of fright, and Arvid immediately returned to his calm, watchful stance. He was a well-trained horse, but he did not like to be crowded. Lyssia released her grip on the saddle and threaded her fingers through Arvid’s mane.

Good boy.

He flicked an ear back as though he heard her.

“Hey!” Sorev cried out.

“Move back, Halvorson! And get control of your horse," Roakev snapped. “Please forgive the offense, Drottine. His outburst shall be dealt with swiftly. And Karlsman, please accept our apologies.” He bowed his head to the village representative.

“Yes, please forgive us.” Lyssia winced at the meek tone in her voice. She sounded so like the nervous woman who was practically cowering before their horses. But Sorev’s actions had thrown her off guard, and it would take her more than a minute to find herself again.

She knew without a doubt that Sorev and his father did not understand the partnership between noble stead and free Karlsmen. They owned their workers; they would expect nothing less from their Kongr.

“My lady, if...if this is about the la...lambing…”

Lyssia’s attention shifted from the young woman to her uncle. He was nervous, and he had every right to be. If Sorev’s horse were to spook and bolt, he would not just be knocking aside Lyssia and Roakev. He would be running into a square full of oblivious partygoers, family members and well-wishers, children.

Sorev was slowly gaining control of his mount. Lyssia could still hear its panicked breathing and the way it kept moving its feet, but the rhythm to its stamping was slowing down. She didn’t think they were in any real danger, and she did her best to convey this by smiling reassuringly at the quivering brudpar.

“...I am afraid you may have wasted a visit. I reported the early births for record’s sake, but we are not expecting the season of lambs for another moon at least. Then we will need all the help we can get tracking them down.”

Ah yes, the lambing season, a season of good, hard labor to be shared by all. Even, to a limited degree, the Kongr and Drottine.

Last year, the village had seen fifty-eight lambs found and brought to the barn for safekeeping. Fifty-eight in all, and she had carried four of them herself. She had walked half a mile into the forest to retrieve her last wayward lamb, guided only by a sharp feeling in her gut and a soft, inconsistent bleating for help.

Hard, honest work and lamb cuddles - what better way could she ask to celebrate the change of seasons? Lost in her memories, it took her a moment to realize that the representative had stopped talking and was waiting for her to reply.

"Yes, um...That is good news. I shall inform my father. However, I am here in search of the Lach, not lambs. Can you tell me if she is near or far?"

“She came to wish my niece well, but she left early. She is not one for social gatherings, our Lach."

Lyssia tried to ignore the disapproving tone that crept into his voice.

"As far as I am aware, she should be at home. I hope nothing is amiss at the stead. The Kongr...is he well?”

She heard more than one Jarlson shifting impatiently behind her, eager to be moving again. She had not forgotten their reason for coming, but what did they expect her to do? They could not simply drive through the crowd without any explanation or thought for the people.

Lowering her voice so that no eavesdroppers would overhear, she explained, “My father is fit as an Elke, and as strong as one as well, but he bid me make hate and fetch the Lach to attend to a guest's sudden illness."

"Sudden illness? Oh no. I shall send someone to fetch her right away.”

He glanced over his shoulder, already searching for his messenger, but Lyssia drew his attention away from the other celebrants by urging Arvid to step up beside him.

“No, I shall go. My father has given this task to me, and our horses are swifter than any running feet. I have told you of our purpose in coming here in confidence. Please do not repeat it.”

“Of course not, my lady.” The man shared a glance with the young couple, and they nodded silently, their lips pressed into thin white lines.

“Brudpar…” Lyssia waited until the couple turned back to her before having Arvid step forward again and reaching a hand out toward the woman. She laid her left palm on Lyssia's, but Lyssia shook it away gently and pointed toward the couple's bound hands.

“May the warmth of the sun fall upon your heads more than the rain. But on the days the rain falls, may you find shelter in each other’s arms...and in the home you both shall build together.”

“Thank you, my lady. Such a fine blessing you bestow upon us. We shall remember it.”

“I wish I had more than words to give, but you are welcome. Now if you would permit us, we shall take the next path over and make our way to the Lach’s hut.”

“Ride in strength, my lady. Vas heill!”

“And to you! Vas heill!” Lyssia called over her shoulder and lifted a hand in farewell as the cry of, "Vas heill, Dizeandaughter!" was taken up.

She directed Arvid to head down the next deserted path that would take them in the direction of the forest, driving him as fast as she dared. The village was not all that large, and yet it took them many minutes to make their way through the rows of houses and small barns.

Lyssia knew the paths well. Or at least, she knew how to keep Seaka’s hut and the forest before her. She stopped short at the start of the row of houses that would end in Seaka’s hut.

“What is it?” Roakev asked, pulling up beside her.

“I think perhaps we were too hasty to discount the Karlsman’s offer to share a table.”

“I’m not sure…”

“And we do not want to spook the Lach unnecessarily by showing up with ten riders.”

“Right…” Roakev glanced over his shoulder at the loose grouping of riders behind them. “So what do you want to do?”

Lyssia still felt embarrassed over her reaction to Sorev’s earlier interruption. She had shown hesitation when she should have remained unyielding. What were these men - these boys - to expect from her now? She would show them.

“I have made a decision!” Lyssia proclaimed without preamble, turning halfway to glance over her shoulder at her escort.

With five simple words, she had their full attention. They were hanging on her every breath. She could sense the tension humming in the air, taunt as a pulled lyra string. They wanted to impress each other. They wanted to impress her. Was there anything she could ask of them now that they would deny her?

Lyssia almost hissed out loud at the thought. She never wanted to be in a position to ask herself that. It was too much power. And yet here she was.

“I do not need an escort of nine to collect one woman, and it is my wish to honor the villagers who have so generously given my father their loyalty. I am asking for volunteers to return to the celebration. Be my messengers, and spread my good wishes. Share a drink with the brudpar. Enjoy a dance. Appreciate their food and be loud with your compliments.”

A look passed along the line. No one stepped forward.

Lyssia would not beg. She would not look at Sorev.

“You need not fear the Kongr’s anger. I will explain that your absence is my fault. You will not face repercussions for my decisions.”

Lyssia glanced back at Roakev when it seemed that no one was still willing to volunteer. He shrugged and shook his head.

“Well, if no one will....”

“Drottine, we will go.”

Lyssia looked to see that the two youngest Jarlsons had distanced themselves from the others.

Beggars be not choosers.

“Thank you. Go, enjoy yourselves, but remember who you are…errr...who you represent. I will look to see you return before dinner.”

Lyssia watched them go, barely hiding her smile as she saw how eagerly they fled the company. Even their horses kicked up their heels in joy at being able to let free. She hoped they would remember to calm them down before they returned to the crowded paths closer to the village center.

Remember who you are…

Lyssia hunched her shoulders and looked at the remaining riders. As it had so often today, her hand reached up to finger the necklace she wore.

Of course, Sorev had not volunteered. But had she really wanted to send him straight back to people he had just insulted? No.

"Drottine, if I may…"

"Yes, cousin?"

Roakev was not the scheming kind, but he wasn’t dumb. There was something in his voice that told her he knew exactly what she was thinking, and he agreed.

"It may be prudent to send out one more rider who can make all speed for the animal keeps on the western side of the village. Your father may be interested to know how many lambs have been born prematurely, and as long as we’re here…"

"Yes, I think you're right. But he would have to be fast - faster than the wind - to make it back with the information and meet us on the main road. Are there any volunteers?"

She turned to meet the gaze of the closest Jarlson. What use did she have for a pretty face to cause a distraction when simply holding back an eye roll was enough to cause the rider to sit up straighter and toss her a lazy grin?

“Drottine, I would gladly---"

“I shall go.”

Lyssia did not even glance in Sorev’s direction. If she did, she might not be able to keep from bouncing with glee in her saddle. She flicked her hand toward the road that led around the village and faced Arvid in the opposite direction, toward Seaka’s hut.

“Yes, you shall go.”

Sorev, thinking he had won a boon, had apparently been expecting more of a send-off, or perhaps even a thank you. He called after her in a voice meant to carry, "I shall obey your command, Drottine. As surely as my word can be trusted, I will bring you the information you seek. Do not worry for me or my horse. We shall be back at your side soon enough to see you safely returned home.”

Lyssia raised her hand in acknowledgment before he could continue. Deep laughter sounded from behind as the Jarlsons spurred their mounts to follow her.

If her father were to ask her for a report on this young generation of the Jarlsclan she would have to be honest with him. They seemed more trouble than they were worth. He would not accept the answer, but it would be an honest one, and if his speech to her this morning was to be believed, that still counted for something.