Sunlight drifting through tree branches painted Lyssia's closed lids. She tipped her head back, listening to the hustle and bustle of a stead alive with activity. Azerian was late for their session. Even though he had told her not two hours ago that he planned to be punctual and prepared.

She was used to her cousin’s tardiness. It wasn't that he didn't know where to find her. They always held their practice sessions in the performer's courtyard that connected the stead's two lodging houses.

Three trees grew around the perimeter of the stone courtyard. The two shorter trees grew blooms that gave off a sweet scent during the warm months. The white and gold blossoms when dissolved on the tongue tasted faintly of vanilla and sunshine. The third tree didn’t bear any blooms, but it stood green and tall above the other two.

Lyssia always chose to perch on the bench beneath this third tree. There was something beautiful about its unchanging nature. No matter the season, its leaves never withered or fell.

“Jarl Halvor! Sorev!”

“Jarl Fulrik! Well met, old friend!”

"I'm pleased to see you and your son made it in time. When Kongr Dizean said he was only giving the rest of the council two days to gather, I was worried my western brethren would not be able to make it."

"The messenger happened to come to our door the night before we intended to set out for the Yute meet. It was quite fortuitous."

"Yes, I'm sure. You've heard the news then? The Dunival…"

Lyssia bent forward and busied herself with the instrument that sat across her lap, trying to ignore Fulrik's voice. She recognized Halvor's name, but she had no interest in eavesdropping - however unintentionally - on his conversations.

She had already tuned her lyra that morning to be played manually, but she began prepping the instrument for use with her club. She knew no one else at the stead who was as eager to practice the club’s use as she was, but it was the reason she preferred the larger instrument to its smaller cousin. She could tickle the chords and strum them at the same time. The bowed lyra sang to her, so much emotion released by one fluid motion.

Lyssia held the club an inch above the strings, pretending to draw the bowed stick across all four strings at an angle with her right hand while she ran two fingers along the first cord. The instrument was silent, but she heard music in her mind. She heard the club catch against the fourth string.

Shifting her right foot forward slightly and allowing the lyra to settle more against her knee on that side, Lyssia laid the club to the strings and pulled it straight across. The low sound it produced vibrated first in her ears, wiggled its way down her throat, and settled in her chest. She leaned into the club and ran it up just the first string, testing the lay of the notes. Then she stopped to listen for a reaction from the nearby Jarls.

Fulrik did not pause his account of the version of the last forty-eight hours that he was privy to. Lyssia reached out to tighten the pull of the lyra's first string and moved on to test the next.

“Much has happened since your arrival," Halvor remarked. "Mark my words: change is coming, and we must be a part of it. We need support. Are there any other of our brethren in attendance?"

"One - Jarl Gavin. He bears a black and blue raven as his mark. He's brought his wife with him."

“Gavin?” Halvor’s voice was bitter with disappointment. "I do not know him well. But he has no sons to pose competition, so he may be of use to us yet.”

“He has youthful strength, but he doesn't seem very bright. He keeps his own counsel most of the time. It's clear he was not educated in the power of the tongue.”

“Even a raven can be taught to speak a few words on its master's behalf. I see no reason to delay our plans for---”

Lyssia ceased in her ministrations, every muscle in her body going rigid.

"Father!"

Lyssia didn't recognize this third voice, but she knew it must belong to Halvor's son. She could feel all three pairs of eyes turning to her.

She waited a moment and then glanced over her shoulder, holding her club out steady like a sword before her. The older man with grey in his hair would be Fulrik. Halvor and his son were tall figures in half masks, riding clocks bearing matching crests, and the ink-dark hair of their family. Lyssia noted that Halvor - whom she had been forced to remember due to all the grief he gave her father during the annual Jarlmeets - had sheared his hair short. A distinctive look that made him look unwell.

Sorev's hair hung long like Roakev's, nearly tangling in the polished silver brooch he wore on his cloak. Lyssia's eyes flicked down to the brooch and away quickly. Sorev's family claimed a unique symbol for their crest - a bjurn with bloodied jaws opened wide and claws raised to strike. It was a far more violent and stylized symbol than Lyssia and her father bore. She did not like to stare at it.

"Jarl Fulrik, Jarl Halvor, vas daginnen. Forgive me if I do not stand."

"Of course, Drottine. Of course." Halvor's reply came even before she could finish her greeting. The three could barely contain their haste as they offered her polite bows and quit the courtyard.

Lyssia, chafing against the awkward silence of their retreat, quickly finished her work tuning her lyra and played a series of warmup chords. Without conscious thought, she leaned into the club and began to play the song that Bjarke had chosen for her to perform the night of Rijek’s remembrance feast.

She had woken up in time from her impromptu nap in the bathhouse with just enough time to return to her rooms and find the black dress that someone - probably Carryn - had laid out for her beside a note from the Skald indicating which song she was to sing.

The song was short and easy to memorize, which was crucially important as she had all of ten minutes to learn it. But more than that - it was mournful and dignified and beautiful in a sad way, an appropriate choice for the remembrance feast of a Kongr. The entire celebration was appropriately planned.

Magnor sat beside Lyssia’s father, presiding over the feast and her performance in stoic silence. Azerian and Roakev had created their own form of tribute that involved flaming arrows and two bales of hay sculpted to resemble floating funeral barges. To them, Magnor offered sincere thanks and cups of the dark beer that he had brought from Dunival. To her, he offered nothing.

Lyssia was forced to take a cup of beer out of politeness, but she could only pretend to drink it. Two sips of the strong, bitter brew was enough for her. Lyssia heard Magnor's men call it volvstot and wulvstot, which she thought an appropriate name for a drink that had such a bitter bite. Azerian did not fare much better than her with his cup, but her father and uncle drank copiously to Rijek’s memory.

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It had been a long night, and the next day, Lyssia found herself nursing a horrible headache that had little to do with anything she drank the night before and more to do with exhaustion. The feast stirred a mixture of emotions to life in her heart that she had never felt before.

Sadness chiefly, but also fear so deep that she couldn't lay still in bed until she poured her thoughts out on vellum and watched the words curl up and die in her fire grate. It had felt like a release at the time, but she knew the fear would return. She heard it now in her playing. It was wrong, all wrong. The notes weren’t supposed to be sharp. She was rushing them.

Lyssia paused to shake her hands out and started over again. Her mind cast about for something else to think about and landed on Fulrik and Halvor and the mass of Jarls that had descended upon the stead over the past two days.

The count was up to fourteen Jarls in attendance. Twenty-four Listorian guests including the three Jarlswives and the pack of sons that had tagged along with their fathers to attend the Jarlsmeet. Lyssia groaned internally. Twenty-six, including Sorev and his father.

And on top of that, the twenty guests from Dunival they now had to house and entertain. How had Carryn found room for so many guests? How was she going to feed them all?

“Lyssia...Lyssia...Lys!”

Lyssia started and turned to find Azerian perched on the bench beside her. "Oh, hi."

"Hi...You feeling alright?"

"Yeah. Why?"

He leaned back, crossed one leg on top of the other, and began to roll a bone flute up and down his leg. Lyssia was so caught up in the motion that she jumped again when he spoke.

"You were staring at that tree and grimacing while you played. Did I miss something? Has the tree offended you in some way? Because I've never been fond of it. I could have it chopped down within the hour."

"No. I was just thinking…"

"Thinking about anyone in particular?" He gave her a meaningful look, and she swore he batted his deceptively long eyelashes at her. "Has one of our handsome young visitors finally managed to catch your eye?"

"Nooo," Lyssia said, drawing out the word to make him pause. "I was actually thinking about the mortality of parents."

"Oh well…" Azerian sat up straight and cleared his throat. Lyssia heard his clenched brow in his voice. "I'm prepared to weigh in on that topic if you want to catch me up."

Lyssia leaned into his shoulder, hiding from the gaze of passerby, and shook her head.

"Then maybe you'd prefer to hear my excuse for being late. And before you say anything…" He reached into his pocket and pulled out a slightly squashed pastry wrapped in a blue handkerchief.

Lyssia's lips lifted at the sight.

Same old, Az.

She extended her hand to accept the pastry, but she recoiled in pain as soon as the treat touched her hand.

Pain shot through her fingers, coursed up her arm, lodged deep in her throat. When she opened her eyes, it wasn’t berry juice that stained her fingers but blood.

She dropped the pastry on the ground and reached for the hem of her skirt. She had no idea what had injured her, but she had to staunch the flow. There was so much blood. So much...

"Lyssia?”

“Hmmm? Sorry. It...slipped.” Lyssia clenched and clenched her left hand. It was whole, unblemished. There was a red mark on her palm, but it wasn't blood. She rubbed the sticky berry juice off on the bottom of her skirt before glancing up to meet Azerian’s eager gaze.

“Did you hear me? I have reason to beg your forgiveness, my lady. I was struck with sudden inspiration this morning, and I have been able to think of nothing else until my composition was complete."

"Another song?"

"Yes. The uh…" Azerian cleared his throat, his eyes dropping to the bone flute he twirled between his hands. "...the lyrics have yet to come to me."

"They will. But we both know the notes are what's important." She gave his knee a squeeze and slid down the bench to give him more room. "So go on! Play it for me."

"I want to hear how it sounds as a duet…" he trailed off again. Lyssia leaned forward, intent on needling him about absent minds, but she paused when she saw him struggle to take a deep breath.

He flung one leg over the bench so he straddled it and continued rolling his flute down, up, down. His nerves only seemed to come to the forefront in these moments before he debuted a new tune. Lyssia, who would have ordinarily tried to coax it out of him gently, had no patience today.

She huffed at his silent fidgeting. "Should I go tell Bjarke to fetch a lur player?"

"No, I wrote the piece for flute and bowed lyra. Oh look, you've got one! Vas adhuil!"

Lyssia rolled her eyes but smiled at him.

"Don't tell Bjarke I have another half-finished song."

His whispered request prompted Lyssia to lean forward and answer in kind. "Why not?"

"Because he's been trying to convince my mother that I should study history."

"Study history...with Bjarke? Why...? Oh! He wants you to be his apprentice!"

"Not officially."

The dread in Azerian's voice didn't make sense to her. Being beholden to Bjarke didn't sound like a sunset stroll to Lyssia, but Azerian studying to become a Skald...that was the first thing that had made sense to her in the last three days.

"I think that's great! That's wonderful! Bjarke's right. You'd make a fine Skald."

"Bjarke's right?" Azerian's mouth fell open.

"Will you not even consider it?" Lyssia asked.

"I'm not meant to be a Skald. I'm sworn to your service, remember? I'm your champion. Your Drengr."

"I'm not sure I need or want a Drengr, so…" Lyssia folded her hands primly before her, club still in hand. She lifted her chin high. "What I will need is a recorder of history, because I'm going to be making history."

"I don't doubt that,” Azerian laughed. “But even your our Mighty Kongr Dizean has a proclaimed Drengr. Uncle Eindre…"

"Then I'll just have to give the job to Roakev. He can follow in his father's footsteps. He's much better at dealing with people anyway."

"Hey now! That hurts!" Azerian pressed a hand to his heart, but Lyssia only laughed and tapped one finger lightly against his flute.

"We're not done with this conversation, but I do believe you had a song you wanted to teach me."

"Right. Here goes. Just pick it up as you can. Keep two paces behind me; I want it to sound discordant. And don't try to upstage me, my lady. I'm the Drakun."

He swiveled his head to check who was nearby before placing the bone flute on the bench between them and producing a jorki from his belt. Lyssia stifled her surprise by readjusting her hold on her instrument, but she was secretly pleased to see Azerian showing his true colors.

The jorki was called "pan flute" by some. Others referred to it as the "child's flute" because of its deceptively small and simple design. But when Azerian played it, the wooden instrument became a master's tool.

And it was nearly indestructible. An acceptable choice for a young musician who gained a reputation as someone who throws instruments when frustrated. It was a good thing that phase was behind them all, or Bjarke wouldn't be considering taking on Azerian as a skald-dreg.

Azerian gave the flat flute a quick polish with his shirt. Then with a wink, he took a deep breath, brought the flute to his lips, and began to play a fast melody that made Lyssia nervous. She struggled to keep up at first, but before too long, she was caught up in the piece, blind and deaf to anything else.

Azerian’s song was constructed out of chaos, but it had moments of resolution as well. It possessed a beserk beauty.

**********

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........