“Enter!”

Lyssia drew back. She had barely touched her knuckles to the hardwood surface of the door.

Feeling as though she was about to enter an arena unarmed and severely outmatched, she tugged the door open. It was unlocked, of course. She held her breath in anticipation for the moment when the door would creak in protest, but it moved without a sound.

Lyssia let out her breath in a small, disappointed huff. It had been quite a while since she had been invited to step foot inside her father's private study. Had it become so foreign to her?

She glanced into the room, blinking as her eyes adjusted to the light. She looked to the desk first, expecting to find her father in his customary position bent over his desk by the single candle. It was such a familiar sight. He didn’t look up, and her greeting stuck in her throat when she saw that he was absorbed in a book.

Her gaze circled the sparsely furnished room and came to rest on the couch that was set against the wall beside the door that led to her father’s bed chamber. A wooden bowl sat perched in the middle of the couch as if it had never been moved. She didn’t have to look to know that it was full of freshly gathered pine needles and vanilla blossoms.

She had hazy memories of standing in this same spot, taking deep breaths of the pleasing mixture of leather, pine, and vanilla that was always present, and peering on tiptoes around the corner to sneak glimpses of her father sitting at his desk. She couldn’t tiptoe back into the hall now, so she might as well tiptoe the other way.

Lyssia entered just far enough to close the door behind her and jumped as the door issued a long, mournful creak. Her father finally glanced up, but he didn’t speak.

“Vas morginnen, Father,” Lyssia said, bowing her neck as she curtsied to avoid his hooded gaze.

Even in his own chambers where he sat alone, Kongr Rijek wore a mask. Lyssia did not possess enough pride to assume it had anything to do with her presence. This was a proper mourning mask - black and heavy. The rest of the stead had cast aside their Urd-Jute mourning, but her father never would.

A hunger to know her mother overcame Lyssia during the time of Urd-Jute. She more than fulfilled her duty as Erina’s daughter. She always participated in the ceremonies where her mother’s name was to be remembered. She encouraged the emotion in her voice when she sang of her mother’s absence. She offered grateful thanks for the life of the previous Drottingr and promised to never let her memory fade.

She did her duty to her aunt, as well, setting aside time every day to ask for stories about her mother and their family. Carryn had her favorites, but Lyssia tried to listen to them every year like they were new. She would close her eyes and try to visualize her mother’s voice, her laugh, her smile. Carryn said she looked so much like her mother, but Lyssia could only think of the figure in the golden mask. That made her grief all the more sincere.

She did not shirk her responsibilities to the dead, but neither did she cling to the days of Urd-Jute. Once the door to the stables was opened to her again, she ran for them. She found her release in the saddle. It hit her as a surprise every year when she remembered that the anniversary of her mother’s death fell in those days. The days of Eda-Jute, which were now upon them.

She had been allowed to remove herself from the crowded stead and the Aon-Jute celebrations. Every year, she ran away and refused to acknowledge that the day the Fever had taken her mother was upon them again. Her father could not escape either his role of chief mourner or host.

Apparently, he found himself very busy during this time. Too busy to do more than wave her forward before returning his attention to his book.

Lyssia rubbed the bottom edge of the Drakun pendant, quickly casting her mind over the count of days. It was only the sixth day of Eda-Jute. That day was approaching, but it was not here yet.

The room wasn’t large. Four steps took her to the center of the study. Another two brought her to the edge of the desk.

“Vas morginnen, Lyssia. Would you care for something to eat?”

Lyssia looked away from the patch of bare scalp that crowned the top of her father’s bent head and noticed for the first time the food laid out as if in preparation for a morning feast.

“No, thank you.” The answer was automatic, and she had to stop herself from reaching for the cup of fruit that sat beside a dish of boiled eggs.

“No?” He turned a page in his book, his tone light and airy. “After the way I saw you eat last night, I figured you were half-starving. A good morning meal would fix that.”

Lyssia felt her face grow flush with embarrassment. It was true. She hadn’t shown much restraint at the supper table, but she had barely eaten that day. Maybe he had a point.

“Yes, sir,” she said, reaching for the fruit. Her hand brushed two of the vanilla blossoms strewn amongst the plates and she snatched them up along with a shiny red apple.

Her father marked his place and set his book down. He watched her closely as she squeezed the nectar from the flowers onto her tongue and returned the discarded petals to the table. “Are you feeling well, Lyssia?”

Lyssia hastily took a bite of apple, mulling over the seemingly benign question. “I feel….fine.”

“You slept well?”

“Umm...No.” Lyssia took another bite of apple. Her father’s attention kept her locked in place. It was an effort to even lift her arm.

“Too many thoughts running through your mind? I understand. Do you know what helps me?” He pushed a cup of dark liquid across the desk toward her.

“More...volvstot?” She wrinkled her nose in distaste.

“No. Tea. I’ve had enough of Magnor’s brew. It doesn’t leave me as much of my mind as I want with our guests here.”

“Thank you,” Lyssia murmured, taking a cautious sip of the hot drink. Its bitterness mingling with the sweet taste of vanilla and apple on her tongue was as good as ten handfuls of cold water thrown in her face.

Lyssia’s father nodded at her wide-eyed reaction. He poured himself a second cup from the pot sitting before him and leaned back in his seat, appraising her in full. His gaze settled on her arm.

“You’ve left your mark uncovered today. I approve. We should not be ashamed of the marks we bear. Now, what I wanted to discuss with you...Please sit.”

If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

Lyssia glanced over at the hard couch. It looked as uncomfortable as the chair she would be sitting in all day. She would much rather kneel on the floor and save her back an hour of discomfort.

“Father, if this is about---”

“Sit, Lyssia. My feet are bothering me this morning, and I do not wish to talk to you while you stand above me.”

Lyssia retreated quickly. It was awkward juggling her apple and cup while moving the bowl of pine needles aside, but she managed. As soon as she sat it became apparent that she had been right. She hadn’t known it was possible, but she had found a seat that was less comfortable than the chairs in the meeting room. She shifted around, trying to find a section of the couch that would accept her weight without pushing back. Was it too much to ask for a cushion?

“Lyssia…” Her father’s impatient tone brought her back to what was really important. Her apology. She had to take responsibility for her speech before he called her out on it.

“Father, if this is about my speech---”

“Your speech?”

“Yes, my speech yesterday in favor of Magnor. I am sorry if it displeased you. I said only what I believed to be the truth, though I didn't mean to speak out of turn.”

Her father frowned. Lyssia had been so sure she knew the reason behind his summons, but perhaps she was wrong.

“You did not speak out of turn. You were asked to give your opinion. I would be displeased if you had refused, or if you had spoken falsely. But I believe you when you say you did not. In that, you did what was right.”

Lyssia ducked her head before her father saw her smile.

“Magnor was very appreciative of your support. Or so he told me. Perhaps now that you have received praise, you will speak up more. Though courage would dictate you speak whether your words are praised or not.”

Lyssia’s smile vanished. She shifted again, placing her cup on the couch beside her. “You wish me to speak up more in council, Father? You have always urged me to be an observer and not a speech giver, and now you chastise me for not joining in the debates? I can be a silent observer or an honest debater. But I cannot be both. Which is it that you expect from me, Father? How can I please you?”

Lyssia bit her tongue. There it was again. The anger that had overtaken her earlier. She was smart enough to know it was best to hold your tongue rather than speak without thinking, but this anger burned like the mouthful of volvstot that she had forced down her throat on the first night of Magnor’s visit. As quickly as it had taken hold of her, it vanished, leaving her to face her father alone.

The room was silent as her father absorbed her words, and Lyssia was forced to swallow back the acid that rose in her throat. She started to reach for her tea again, thinking it might calm her nausea, but her father’s glower stopped her. Her hand hung in the air, useless and quivering for a moment, before falling back onto her knee.

“Now you speak out of turn. I expect my daughter to have learned by now that there should not be a contest between her ears and her mouth. She can control both. She will control both. You will…”

His anger seemed as short-spent as her own. He turned away and grumbled into his tea. He sounded so much like Seaka that Lyssia almost looked around to see if the Lach was standing in the corner. In the time it took him to look back at her, Lyssia had fallen into a kind of stupor that had more to do with exhaustion than contrition.

“Lyssia, daughter, it is not enough anymore for you to ask what will please me. You are a Drottine of Ilvana, and that question---”

“Father…”

“A Drottine of Ilvana, and that question…” He paused as though waiting for her to speak over him again. As if she would dare. “...is beneath you. Do not forget who you are.”

Never.

“You will learn to control that tongue and use it to your advantage. But while our guests are here, I need you to play the part of the observer.”

Of course.

“Tell me what information you have gathered during our guests’ stay. Lyssia, are you listening to me? Speak.”

Lyssia took a deep breath and allowed the words to flow out of her. She was prepared for this request. She glossed over the beginning of the peacemeet - all the pleasantries and the ceremony - and started with the discussion of the standardization of trade rates.

She kept her opinions to a minimum and offered them in an even-paced monotone alongside her observations. There could be no denying that she had been attentive during the peace talks. She could summarize every main argument, of that she was certain, and she had kept only half her mind set on the discussion.

She was allowed to get all the way to the argument surrounding the issue of limber before her father stopped her.

“Lyssia, stop! This is not what I meant. I enjoy our discussions on policy, but we don't have time for that right now. What I need to know is your thoughts on the speakers.”

Lyssia was so caught up in her monologue that her father’s question did not make sense to her at first. “The speakers?”

“Yes, the Jarlscan. What do you think of them?”

“Errr...um....”

“Who strikes you as smart? Who has a good head on their shoulders? Who would stand in agreement with us on terms of trade and war?”

Lyssia sat up straight. The answer was obvious to her.

“I have not had much time to speak with him, but Jarl Gavin seems level-headed. He held his own against Halvor yesterday, and I thought what he said about the exchange of livestock was intriguing. Trading honey bees for...who knows what? I would be interested in learning more of his thoughts on trade.”

“Yes, yes. Gavin is a good man, but he’s young. This will be his first peacemeet without his father. He has no children, sons or otherwise.”

“No, but his wife is with child. He'll be a father soon.”

“Oh, and you would have me align myself on the promise of a hale babe, would you?”

"Of course not. What---?"

"No, you would have us aligned with Dunival and their bairn ruler."

"Magnor is not a baby."

"He is a child. There is nothing wrong with it. Nothing. That is a fact. Keep your wits about you, Lyssia. Or do you have any left?"

"I...I'm sorry. I don't understand."

“The sons, Lyssia! I have need of a strong ally among the Jarlsclan. A fresh perspective. A strong, level-headed perspective. Someone who will stand with us instead of trying to undermine us. What do you think of the sons?”

“Well, I...I do not know any of them.”

“No, of course not. But this is your job. Learn more about them. Observe them. Listen to them. Perhaps even deign to speak with one or two of them. Bring me news of who may make a passable ally. Can you do this for me?”

Lyssia could not muster enough breath to react to her father’s sharp tone. Either the charm she had attempted to place on the pendant had finally gone into effect, or she had gone numb to this conversation.

She had learned that her father never did anything without reason, and though she did not always understand those reasons, she respected him.

“Yes, Father. I will do as you ask.”

“Very good," he said, slapping the table for emphasis. He was already reaching for this bool again. "You may leave now. I am expecting Bjarke, and I need to speak with him in private. Think about your conversation and prepare yourself for the meeting today. Take the tea with you if you life.”

“Thank you, Father.” Lyssia stood, cup of tea in hand, and shuffled out the door, down the hallway, and back to her room. It wasn’t until then that she realized she had left her half-eaten apple behind for Bjarke to find.

She had intended to throw herself down on her bed, pull the blankets over her head, and try to steal another hour of not-sleep. She wound up sitting at her desk instead. Bits and pieces of yesterday's arguments kept replaying over and over in her mind. It would be useful to have her own account of the peacemeet. Perhaps going over what she remembered with her new role in mind would help her find something worth sharing with her father.

Roakev found her an hour later, quill in one hand and empty cup in the other. He offered her no conversation beyond, “Vas morginnen, Drottine. Wipe that ink off your fingers. We can’t be late.”

Apparently, he was still in a foul mood. The two of them made a perfect pair.

**********