GOLDEN STRANGER

First recorded by Drottingr Lyssia in the eighth year of her life

Golden snout.

Gray eyes -

with just a hint

of the lavender

of morning skies.

Small hands.

Brown hair -

with just a hint

Of the red

Of fire, alive.

Scaled cheek.

Tanned arms.

A smile seen

through pointed teeth,

sunlight adorned.

She of my dawn hour.

She of memories dreamed.

She whom I do not know -

who looked a lot like me -

but beautiful and strong,

as a Drakun

ought to be.

Good morning,

beautiful woman.

Good morning,

stranger-ami.

Good morning,

Erina.

**********

CHAPTER 7

Lyssia had left her father’s stead that morning under a gray cloud, and she returned in the midst of a full downpour.

She felt Magnor’s gaze on her the entire ride back along the road and across the green hills. She recognized the weight of his eyes; she could not count the number of times she had glanced up during one of Dunival’s Aon-Yute visits and found herself trapped by his stare.

But the Kongre-Fyr of Dunival did not speak. He had uttered not one word to either her or his men after securing her promise to safely escort them to her father. It was the honorable thing to do, being formally escorted into her father’s presence, but his party numbered twenty men including himself. Twenty armed men on horseback.

She fought the urge to glare at him as his silence stretched on. She was an excellent Hefat player; she knew when she was being pushed across the board like a pawn. He’s weeks early, he’s clearly not in the mood for a cordial visit, and his group is large and---She eyed the half-circle of men that surrounded her---suspiciously even-numbered.

Her amused snort was muffled by her mask, but she swallowed back a dramatic sigh. But he has every right to be here.

As the son of her father’s only ally, he had the right to call on her father. Lyssia and her group rode within the Dunival party’s ranks, which afforded her the position of taking the lead while still feeling protected from all sides. Surely, this sight would please her father. She was returning with a respectably sized escort.

And a masked one as well. Kongr Rijek had started a tradition of his own during his visits. One where the Dunival party arrived under the guise of masks as a physical sign of respect to their royal ally, but their masks never stayed on long. Lyssia couldn’t blame them. Who would want to walk around masked hour after hour, day after day?

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Lyssia gasped, and she dropped the length of hair that she had been twirling between her fingers. She twisted in her seat, her eyes burning holes into the foreheads of the masked strangers that surrounded her.

Kongr Rijek was not among the Dunival riders. She would have recognized his bearing, even if he forsook his usual overly enthusiastic greeting. She did not expect Magnor’s brother to travel with them. He had only attended the treaty day celebrations once since Dunival and Ilvana’s first meeting. But Rijek had not missed a peace meeting once.

Perhaps he had stayed behind on the ship that had brought them to Ilvana, and Magnor would send for him as soon as he had gained her father’s blessing to remain. Or perhaps he had trusted Magnor enough to travel on his own. The Kongre would have turned twenty-five this past year; he was of an age to assume responsibility for some of his father’s duties.

She turned her head slowly to meet his troubling gaze. She willed him with her eyes, to offer an explanation for his presence that she could tell her father. But his expression gave her more questions and no answers.

Lyssia steered the group away from the gate and the men set to guard it and instead led them to jump across the hip-height wall. She wanted to complete her job without any chance of encountering a question she couldn’t answer. Still, they were spotted. She saw a messenger sent out from the gate and slowed her mare to a fast walk.

She was glad for the silent bubble that surrounded her now; there was nothing to distract her from clearing her thoughts of anything but her current task. Her fingers resumed their thoughtful twirling, her left hand wrapped up in her hair, her right hand clutching the mare’s reins in a tight fist. She seemed uncharacteristically resentful of their slow pace, tossing her head every few seconds and kicking her back feet higher, but Lyssia wanted to give the messenger ample time to warn her father of their approach.

Unfortunately but not unexpectedly, that meant there was time for a crowd to gather in the performer’s area before the open audience hall doors. Lyssia hesitated only a moment before driving her mare through the center of them, dismounting, and handing the reins to the nearest person with a free hand.

“Thank you,” she murmured, taking a moment to adjust her skirt as she waited for Carryn, Azerian, Roakev - her initial escort - and Lach Seaka - who had accompanied them back - to dismount as well. “Come, let us greet my father and tell him our good news,” she said, waving her cousins forward and stepping into the space left between the two women.

Seaka had spent the entire trip in whispered consultation with Carryn, and she ignored Lyssia now, leaning toward the horses that were being led away by reluctant aides and the bags that were packed full of the supplies that Lyssia had promised her.

“Later,” she whispered, no resentment for the snub in her voice.

Azerian and Roakev started forward, and Lyssia moved to follow them, but a hand on her arm made her pause. In front of everyone gathered, Magnor grabbed her arm and pulled her back.

Lyssia stood in stunned silence for a moment, staring up at him. His grip wasn’t tight; there was a hesitancy in the way the pads of his fingers lightly brushed her skin. She chanced a small smile that he did not return, pried his hand loose, and pushed him back away from the doors.

“Allow me to announce your presence. I will make haste.”

Lyssia brushed past her aunt and Seaka and hurried to overtake her cousins. They were not even halfway across the hall, and she was able to turn her shoulders to fit through the gap left between them. Their disjointed footsteps paused, sounding like a stuttered heartbeat against the quiet background noise that filled the hall.

They started up again a step or two behind her. Her eyes closed for a moment as she listened to their bootfalls, now blessedly in tune with one another. She was the center of the circle they constantly paced around, trying to avoid stepping on each other’s toes. The brief thought made her feel a feather lighter and carried her like a wave rushing toward the cliffs to crash against the step before her father’s chair.

“Father,” Lyssia murmured, holding her curtsy for a count of ten as his eyes swept over her. No mark of sun or dirt, not one scratch, would have escaped his attention. But he would find nothing.

She stood again and met his gaze, relaxing her posture just enough to lean to the side and take Azerian's arm. “As you can see, father, we have returned safe and sound bearing gifts.”

Lyssia’s father cocked his head. “Safe and sound?” His gaze shifted to Azerian and then to Roakev, who nodded silently to the question.

“Bearing gifts?”

“Fresh honey and jam."

Dizean clasped his hands before him and Lyssia imagined his eyebrow jumping at her tone. There was no hint in his voice of any impatience. Rather he sounded almost bored when he asked, “Fresh honey and jam and...anything else?”

Lyssia released her cousin and turned to gesture to the entrance where she had left Magnor, extending one hand as if intending to reach across the distance and pull him to her side.

“My Kongr, I present to you Magnor, son of Rijek, Kongre of Dunival, and trusted ally of Ilvana. I met him and his escort on the road back to you. He approached me with peace in his heart and asked for safe passage into your presence. He was under my protection on the road. Now I transfer him into yours.”

The hush of whispered voices finally ceased, respect for the newcomers a thin veil for the gathered Jarls and stead residents to hold their breaths, lean their heads forward, and not miss a word.

Magnor did not pause until he reached her side. "Gracious Drottine, you kept your promise, and you have my gratitude."

He offered her his arm, and she used him as a steadying block as she stepped up and took the seat beside her father. His gaze lingered on her for another long moment. Let the onlookers take from their staring contest what they would, but she refused to look away first. Here, at last, she would get her answers for Magnor’s strange behavior.

It was like they were children once again, and she had been wrangled into a game of chicken foot. Magnor was the rooster, Lyssia the hen, and Azerian and Roakev were the chicks that cleared the stage for the two to battle. But this was not her stage.

Her cousins had escorted Carryn and Seaka to the edge of the crowd. Magnor’s men stood at attention in tight formations several lengths back. Magnor and her father occupied opposite ends of an empty stage.

The Kongr made no move to stand in greeting; the Kongre made no move to show respect to his host. It would not be Lyssia’s father who spoke first. She had sat through many a lecture from him on the skills of victorious oration. In all conversations that mattered, she had been taught that the person who speaks first in argument forfeits the upper hand, and her father would never do that.

Lyssia wanted to scream. She wanted to kick Magnor's boots out from under him and force him to bend a knee to her father. She wanted to stand up, yank free the knife that had stayed hidden out of sight all day in her boot, and declare that they would end this standoff or she would jump into the arena.

But none of those options were available to her. All she could do was wait, and watch, and notice for the first time how pale the skin beneath Magnor's mask appeared and the tired, unschooled droop of his shoulders. His men seemed no better. More than one was starting to list to the side like they were about to lose their feet.

The Dunival delegate gave a start, and his eyes blinked rapidly as if he had truly drifted off and did not know where he was. Taking a half step back, he offered Lyssia's father a shallow bow that was little more than a quarter hand incline of his spine. Then hands dropping to his belt, he spoke.

“Vas Eda-Yute, Kongr Dizean, Ilvana's strength and friend of my father. I carry my father’s greetings and all the well wishes of my people, and I humbly apologize for arriving in such a state.”

“Magnor…” Lyssia’s father did not say anything more for a moment, his dark eyes clouded without thoughts. “Do you?”

“Kongr...I’m no-not sure what it is you a-ask me,” Magnor said, his voice shaking just the right amount to bring Lyssia's father to his feet.

"Do you carry your father's greetings?"

Magnor's eyes fell to the ground. "I wished to speak with you privately."

"Lyssia, you should not pledge your protection to a stranger."

"A stranger, father? No. The Kongre is your ally. I did not think---"

"You had thought but not sight. This man is not the Kongre of Dunival…"

**********

Lyssia kept a tight hold on her surprise as her attention returned to Magnor. There was something about her father's tone...