Lyssia only had a moment to search frantically for her cousin’s lanky form. As soon as she pushed to the front of the growing crowd, she felt two hands take hold of her and pull her to the side.

“Roakev, Azerian,” Lyssia sighed in relief.

“Lyssia.” Roakev said her name in much the same tone. His fingers squeezed her wrist tight like he was regretting every decision he had made that day. Lyssia wriggled her fingers, trying to get just an inch of space to move, but he would not relent his hold.

Azerian’s hand on her other arm jumped and then squeezed even tighter as he began to pull her and Roakev back, away from the old sheep pen arena.

The crowd was forming a circle around two men who both wore plain brown masks that hid their faces as thoroughly as Lyssia's mask hid hers. Only their eyes and mouths were left uncovered.

The taller man standing to the left had a light brown beard that curled around the bottom edge of his mask and callused hands that looked too big for his long arms. The man standing across from him within the arena was shorter and stouter. Lyssia had no time to catalogue his other visible features. Her attention was snagged by the steel blade in his hand.

“I thought you said nobody ever used a real blade in the arena?”

She directed the words at Azerian, but he and Roakev answered at the same time.

“They usually don’t.”

“It’s just a stance. He won’t use it.”

Lyssia cocked her head at the surety in Roakev’s answer. Unlike Azerian’s voice, his voice did not quiver. His hand slid up from her wrist to her elbow.

“He won’t?” she said, leaning forward, not trying to break his restraining hold but straining to hear what the two men were saying.

She spotted a familiar figure across the circle. Her aunt had made it to the fighting arena. Carryn waved, then grabbed hold of the man’s arm beside her and pointed at Lyssia. Lyssia was sure he was one of their cousins, but she couldn’t remember his name. She could never remember their names. He and Carryn turned and slipped into the crowd.

“Azerian, your mother.”

“What? Where?”

She pointed at the spot where Carryn had been standing. “She’s gone, but she was there. She looked worried.”

Azerian took two steps forward, cursed under his breath, and returned to her side. She could read his thoughts as clearly as if she was privy to the words running through his head.

“Hey.” She yanked at his arm, pulling him down to speak directly in his ear. “She wasn’t alone, and she saw us. She’s probably circling around to us now.”

He nodded at her words, but the tension did not leave his hunched shoulders.

“Azerian, if you need to---”

“I refuse!”

Lyssia jumped and twisted back around to face the arena. The weaponless man had been the one to shout. She watched him jut out his arms and lengthen his spine, obviously trying to use his height to cow his opponent.

The stouter man responded by flexing both of his impressive forearm muscles. The sword jumped in his hand, and Lyssia winced as sunlight glinted off its length and blurred her vision. If she had any doubt that the sword was a prop, that hope was dispelled.

“You cannot refuse! A Martday challenge cannot be ignored!”

The first man spoke again, lower this time so Lyssia could not hear. The stouter man thrust his sword into the ground and dusted his hands off on the leather apron that hung from his neck.

“Guess you were right,” she said.

Roakev’s intake of breath did not sound like a victory. Lyssia’s eyes flashed up to his, and at that moment, the crowd gasped. She whipped back around, unintentionally breaking Roakev’s hold on her elbow.

“You have thrown mud on my honor, and I will have my recompense!”

The taller man was holding his jaw. There was a fire in his eyes now that matched his opponent’s, but still, he did not advance. He held up his free hand and shook a fist at his opponent, who had retreated to stand beside his sword again. “No! I will not set foot in…”

His voice dropped beneath the hum of the crowd again, and Lyssia gritted her teeth in frustration.

“...your fault that…”

“You hypocrite!” The stouter man shouted. He yanked his sword free of the earth and brandished it.

“Enough! Stop!”

Lyssia’s voice carried across the crowd, louder and stronger than it had ever been for fear that she was about to witness a murder. And not just a murder, but one where no one stepped forward to prevent it. The barrier of backs before her melted away, and with only one breath to think about what she would say next, she stepped forward until she stood in a triangle between the two quarreling men.

She heard Azerian and Roakev rush to keep step with her. Azerian hopped over the low stone wall to put himself between Lyssia and the man with the sword, but Lyssia placed a hand on his chest and pushed him back a step so that he wouldn’t block her line of sight.

She turned her attention back to the strange men before her. The spark of desperation she'd felt was already starting to grow dim. Lyssia inhaled sharply and bit the inside of her cheek, using that tiny prick of pain to fuel her voice.

“I am Lyssia, Daughter of Dizean and Drottine of Ilvana. Put down your weapon and explain the meaning of this disturbance.”

The stocky man slowly lowered his sword, and both men stared at her, unabashedly eyeing her up and down as they decided whether or not they would follow her order. For an order it had been, spoken with the feigned authority of one who was used to being obeyed.

The taller man moved first, lowering his eyes and bowing his head. “Drottine, please extend your blessing to me and allow me to explain. This display of temper is not my doing.”

“Liar! That is what you are, you filthy swine! Drottine, I swear to you---”

“Drop your weapon!”

The shorter man reacted immediately to the sharp ring of authority in Roakev's voice. The hilt of his sword thudded against his boot. He faltered mid-step, hastening to turn his advancing posture into one of retreat. Roakev and Azerian mirrored him as he stepped forward, to the side, and back.

Glancing between the two hostile strangers, Lyssia said, “It is a sunny day. Your families are enjoying the Mart. It is Eda-Yute! Can you not settle your argument honorably as neighbors are supposed to do?”

Her emphasis on the word “honorably” caused both men to shift and look down at the ground.

The stouter man broke the silence this time. “That’s all I ask. To prove my honor. To defend my name against this curd drinking dunga--"

“My lady, this man is no neighbor of mine. He is a thief and a cheat. He says that I have damaged his honor, but he---”

“You have!”

“I have not!” the taller man declared. “In truth, my lady, all this man wishes to defend is his coin purse.”

“Defend yourself then!” The stouter man kicked against something that lay on the ground.

Lyssia gasped in shock. She had not noticed the second leather-hilted sword laying on the ground. She appraised the man through narrow eyes.

She felt a flutter of fingers along her spine and glanced to her right. Azerian was gone. Carryn was now standing in his place, and Lyssia was surrounded by a crowd of cousins. The expressions on their faces ranged from nervous to alarmed, but they were a solid wall at her back.

“Who are you?” she asked.

She did not try to make her voice climb above the men’s argument, but the stouter man had not given himself over to his rage yet. His eyes flashed toward hers as he said in a gruff voice, "Ardbon Loakson, my lady."

"How do you make your livelihood, Ardbon, son of Loak?"

"My trade is smithery."

"And what is your neighbor's name?"

"This man is no neighbor of mine," Ardbon grumbled, but then he said in a voice growing cooler by the syllable, “Liefer. He tends his own fields.”

Lyssia nodded thoughtfully, though this told her nothing. She did not have to fake her curiosity when she asked, "And what is the nature of your disagreement?"

"My lady…" Ardbon paused. Lyssia patiently watched as he steadied himself and searched for the right words to explain the outbursts that Lyssia had witnessed.

“Drottine, forgive my rough speech. Liefer and I made a deal. We came to a fair agreement. He was to pay me four bushels of wheat, three bushels of corn, and an old bar of iron - pockmarked iron - for my five-year-old mare. Now he is trying to go back on our deal, though we shook and drank on it." His eyes narrowed as he glanced at Liefer, but his gaze snapped back to Lyssia’s quickly.

Liefer snorted; the crowd murmured and shifted around them; Carryn's fingers pressed lightly on her back. Lyssia scrunched her nose to keep from clenching her jaw and imagined drawing a curtain around herself and the two men whom she had chosen to confront.

"Karl Ardbon… it is true that you and Liefer shook on this trade? Four wheat, three corn, and iron. I am not adept at trading livestock, but what you call a fair trade sounds like a steep price for a mare who has passed birthing age."

Lyssia would have given anything to see the look on Ardbon's face at that moment. She passed a strand of hair behind her ear and leaned subtly back into Carryn's touch. But again, she kept her tongue and allowed Ardbon to find his words.

"The mare is worth it. She is too willow-legged for my purpose, but she is perfectly capable of pulling a harness plow. She’s gentle, obedient, hard-working. And she may have a colt in her yet if properly studded. Pardon, my lady," he apologized.

Lyssia inclined her head. The descriptive phrase did not offend her, but perhaps it would have offended another lady. So she said nothing, allowing nothing but the hint of an amused smile to give away her reaction

"Thank you, Karl Ardbon, but...there is more to the story." She turned to the taller man, Liefer. “You agreed to the deal, but…?”

Liefer struck a confident pose, spine straight, chest out, hands on hips. “But he did not tell me that the mare has a lame foot.”

“She does not!”

“She is going lame,” Liefer hissed over his shoulder without looking at Ardbon. "I was prepared to pay for her and take her to my farm today, but I cannot buy a lame mare. She will be no use to me.”

“I understand. I---”

“You promised to take her." Ardbon surged forward until he stood within grappling distance of Liefer. Standing in the taller man's shadow did not seem to make him nervous, but Lyssia had a different reaction. She flinched when she saw his finger pointing at Leifer's chest, just an inch away from poking him.

"Karl Ardbon, don't..." she squeaked. Thankfully, no one seemed to hear the slip over Ardbon's tirade.

"The deal was struck a fortnight ago! There is nothing wrong with the mare’s gait. You are a liar!"

“You are a liar. You lied to me about her condition. I have not damaged your honor by asking for your honesty. You have damaged your own honor.”

“Speak no more about damaged honor! You have dealt me a public wound. And I will not---”

“I have lived my entire life without stepping into those stones. I refuse to do so now!”

“Then you will forfeit the right to argue your case!”

Lyssia stood speechlessly staring between the two men. The argument had gotten out of her control so quickly, she had not even been able to prepare herself for what she would say once she had the full story. She had to act before one of them decided that they were not satisfied with trading verbal insults. She had to force their hands toward a solution that did not involve the swords that had been discarded on the ground between them.

Lyssia glanced down and gave a start. They had been there, but Lyssia was sure that her eyes were not betraying her. The two swords were missing.

Her gaze shot straight up and she locked eyes with a towering figure wearing a black half mask and a tanned cloak. Bjarke's mouth was pressed into a thin line. He showed no surprise at seeing her; his gaze directed hers to the right and down.

Azerian was half crouched on the ground at the front edge of the crowd, a sword in each hand. He looked up and caught Lyssia's eye, and an impish grin spread across his face. He balanced a sword on one knee, hilt pointed toward her, and gestured suggestively.

Lyssia waved him forward. Now that the swords were out of the bickering Karls' reach, she felt a huge weight lifted from her shoulders. Fear had been her motivator for stepping forward, not anger, and now that Azerian had nullified the cause of her fear, Lyssia felt her muscles starting to sag. She straightened her legs with some effort, locking her knees to keep her balance, and held out her hand toward Azerian, who had circled around their group of cousins to hand her one of the swords.

There would be time to ponder her motivations and emotions later. She would be plagued with the appearance of Bjarke and how her father would react to the news of her involvement in this squabble. She doubted he would have chosen to place himself in this situation, and he most certainly would be displeased with the news that she had. But now that she was here, surely he would prefer her to stand tall and speak with authority rather than turn tail and run like a hare confronted with two snarling dogs.

Lyssia did not exclaim at the heavy weight of the sword but stood there admiring the grip and twisting the blade this way and that to test its balance while Azerian handed his second stolen sword to Roakev and retrieved the two belt blades he had stashed away beneath his cloak.

She watched with eyes half lowered for the moment the Karls realized they had been visited by a nimble-handed pilferer. Their hands both flew to their empty knife sheaths, and Ardbon's face started to turn a deep shade of pink.

"Now see here, lad. That's my---"

"Karl Ardbon…"

Lyssia waited for him to turn back to her before favoring him with a smile.

"These blades are your work?"

"Y-yes, my lady," he stammered, caught off guard by her casual tone.

"They seem very well made."

"Thank---"

"But it is my understanding that steel blades are not allowed in the arena. I can see your disagreement is warranted, and I would gladly witness a bout of staves between you two so that this anger might find an end and this Mart might continue in its festive spirit."

Lyssia stumbled once or twice in her speech, but as she quickly replayed her words in her mind, she was pleased by them. She had reclaimed a sense of civility for the pair, and she expected them to be pleased by the change of course.

She was confused to find that her words were met with crossed arms and hard stares.

"Ahhh, here we reach an impasse again," Ardbon said, with no chagrin for having his rule breaking pointed out. "He refuses to step foot in the arena.”

“I don’t blame him. You're supposed to smack each other in the side, not hack each other's arms off. I wouldn't---"

Lyssia grabbed Azerian's arm and squeezed it until he stopped talking. "That is true. But now that my cousin has confiscated your steel, I'm sure Karlsman Liefer would not deny you a ---"

Liefer was shaking his head.

Lyssia's mouth snapped shut as her thoughts spun faster and faster, trying to keep up with this new turn of events. "You would? You would deny Ardbon the chance to reclaim his honor? For you to reclaim yours? I thought Martday bouts were a tradition followed by all Ilvana's citizens."

"I do not believe that a man's honor can be lost and reclaimed so easily. My father never fought a battle with anything but his words. He never stepped into this arena or any other, and I intend to uphold his example."

"I see," Lyssia murmured, and the hard part was that she could see both sides of the argument clearly. Liefer's words held just as much weight as Ardbon's. The solution called to her on the breeze like a well-known melody played just low enough to be out of her reach.

Lyssia's voice was low and even as she leaned into the wind, listening, silly though it may have been, to those calming notes the wind whispered in her ear.

"I held much the same view of the arena this morning as you do. But I think I can see now how useful a chance to deal a good whack on the side can be for calming angry spirits and allowing neighbors to create space for a peaceful discussion."

Almost without seeming to notice, the two Karls had leaned in to listen to Lyssia's quiet explanation. They were standing in a triangle again, and Liefer and Ardbon were both bobbing their heads along to her words, focused for once only on listening to her.

Lyssia's voice dipped down further into a conspiratorial whisper. "I do hope fear does not control your actions. Though I would understand if cautious fear were present in your hearts."

Ardbon was quick to respond, somehow making a whisper seem like a shout. "Fear, Drottine? No."

Liefer was slower to answer, but the careful manner of his speech was impossible to ignore. "I do not fear the arena."

"If fear is not present, might I suggest another means to reach an amicable compromise? One that will require some amount of courage but does not involve Karl Liefer fighting in the arena?"

Liefer and Ardbon shared a confused glance.

"Aye, Drottine. And what compromise do you propose?" Ardbon asked.

"That you allow me to examine the mare myself and make the decision as to who has the right of it. I promise to be thoughtful and fair if you both promise to abide by my decision. If either one of you decides he cannot do so, I will step into the arena to fight myself."

**********

"You, Drottine? What stake have you in this fight?"

Lyssia shrugged, trying to keep hold of her appearance of ease. "I feel as though I have already...