Lyssia could describe every inch of this room with her eyes closed. She had spent many uncomfortable afternoons locked inside it.

She could number the squared stones that had been used to build up the walls, and she could describe the height of the ceiling based on an average man or the length of the spotted caterpillars that liked to climb the cool walls in summer.

Unlike the reception hall, there were no low windows in the Kongr’s meeting room. Only a high rectangular opening near the ceiling that ran the length of one wall. She had learned to tell the passage of time from the shadows that it cast against the wall and the smells emitted from the nearby kitchens.

The two woven tapestries that had been hung on the walls long before Lyssia was born were as familiar to her as the one that hung in her room. A map detailing the original location and territories of the five Drakun kongdomren had been placed in a prominent position behind the line of chairs on the Dunival side of the table. Each kongdomren was outlined in a different bright color, and the names had been added in the corners of the areas of land in matching thread: Ilvana in green, Dunival in orange, Listoria in yellow, Sinnet in blue, Nukrevn in red.

A tapestry depicting a bloody hunting scene decorated the wall behind the Ilvanian side of the table. It might be called beautiful in a certain light. The weaver had used muted colors for the background so that the bright reds and oranges of the felled Elke’s blood and spilled organs shone like they were caught in a shaft of bright sunlight. It was well crafted, but Lyssia had always wondered why such a gory scene had been chosen to hang in a room where peace was discussed. She could not spend more than a minute looking at it without having to turn away, but with all the hours she had sat in these chairs, she had memorized the graceful line of the Elke’s neck and majestic antlers, the curve of the hunter’s bow, and the flowing mane of dark hair that graced the man’s head and chin.

In those months when the stead was deserted of visitors, Lyssia’s father often called her in to sit in one of the hard, straight-backed chairs and answer questions about her lessons. History, diplomacy, and discourse were subjects he deemed of the utmost importance to her education. Just as important or more so than music, riding, and defense - the lessons she shared with her cousins.

When she was younger, he had sometimes taken her outside the confines of the stead for their lessons. They would leave in the early mornings when dew still clung to the grass and mist clung to the trees and venture beneath the shelter of the eastern forest. Hidden out of sight of any prying eyes, she was allowed to remove her mask for a few hours.

She remembered those peaceful mornings and the joy she felt as she clung to her illusions of freedom with crystalline accuracy. But even more so, she remembered their last morning outing and the look of disappointment on her father’s face when he told her that she was too easily distracted and they could not continue their forest excursions whilst she remained so. It had been years since her father had invited her to enjoy a morning lesson beneath the safe canopy of the forest, and she had long lost hope that he ever would again.

She could not count the number of afternoons she had spent sitting at this table, listening to voices drone on in the background while she tried to stay alert. Yet it seemed to her that no afternoon spent in this room had dragged along as this one was. That’s why her father’s announcement that he was calling a halt to the discussion caught her off guard.

His mood had increased significantly after he started drinking the volvstot that was served alongside the midday meal. Lyssia hadn’t touched her cup or plate. She hated to waste food, but she didn’t think her stomach could manage to keep hold of the sausage stew that the men greedily wolfed down. Full stomachs seemed to help the Jarls better organize their thoughts, and Lyssia had allowed her mind to wander more as the men fell back into their old patterns of discussion.

The abrupt end to the day’s discussions shocked her into alertness, but what her father said next was even more surprising.

“Thank you for your patience, my friends. At this pace, I do believe that we shall see a new signature added to the treaty tomorrow, and we shall have a new reason to feast tomorrow night.”

Smiles and muted cheers from both sides of the table greeted this statement. Only Magnor did not appear pleased. His grave bearing was nothing like his father’s, who had constantly seemed to search for some reason to celebrate.

“Dizean…” Magnor stood for the first time since sitting at the table. “I have a request to ask of you.”

“A request?”

“I cannot sign the treaty as it is.”

“You cannot sign the treaty…” Lyssia’s father repeated slowly, pausing after each word as if struggling to find meaning in them. “Did you lie to me then when you told me that this was your purpose when I offered you hospitality?”

“I have not lied to you. I wish to honor the treaty that my father helped craft and the peace that he established between Dunival and Ilvana. It was his last wish that I do so. I have not come here to undo my father’s work. But I must be honest in this. My father proposed...how many amendments to the treaty over the years? My heart weeps when I think of not giving sound to his voice. I would be performing my duty as his son if I could hear these amendments included in the reading of the treaty. Or even, perhaps, seeing one of those amendments written into law. I would not detract from our treaty of peace. I would add to it, expand upon it, see it grow...”

“We have kept a record of every law Rijek proposed,” Lyssia’s father said, nodding toward where Bjarke sat on the opposite side of Eindre. It had been his duty to read the treaty out loud today.

"I have them in my study," Bjarke said in a voice that shook with fatigue. Lyssia winced just thinking about his raw throat. This would have been a good opportunity to avail himself of an apprentice’s voice, but alas, he had none.

"If it pleases you, Magnor Rijekson,” Lyssia’s father continued, “we will read through each amendment and discuss them anew after you sign the treaty that your father saw fit to sign twelve years ago.”

Magnor started shaking his head before the compromise was even proposed.

Lyssia’s father half rose from his seat, and she steeled herself against the outburst that she was sure was coming. But he merely adjusted his position and leaned his elbow against the table, pressing two fingers against his tired eyes. “A straightforward answer. I beg you. Does Dunival intend to sign the treaty or not?”

“We will. I will. Of course, I will.”

A sigh of relief was passed around the room. Magnor continued to speak as though he had not heard it.

“But not yet. The treaty may be altered tomorrow, or the next day. If my father’s amendments are given due consideration, I have every belief that it will be. My father was a wise man. I must honor him in this.”

“Kongr Magnor, a question.”

The Jarl who spoke waited until he had everyone’s attention to haul himself up into a half-standing position. Lyssia wracked her mind for his name, but it eluded her. The sight of the portly man in a yellow cloak secured to his shoulders by wooden clasps painted with green and yellow stripes struggling to remain in his crouched posture would be hard to forget.

“I’m sure we’re all wondering...is there a specific amendment you have in mind to add to our treaty?”

Magnor nodded to acknowledge the speaker, and the brightly dressed man sank back into his chair. He leaned over to consult with the young man sitting behind him. So, Lyssia thought, one of the Jarlsons who had taken a sound beating in the practice yard the previous day belonged to him. She wouldn't be surprised if the son had been the one to pose such an obvious but crucial question, but, of course, he would not be able to deliver it. He was here merely to observe and learn, as she was.

But what was his name?

Curse her memory. She could perfectly recall a moment in the forest from years before but her mind was a sieve for names.

“My father spoke at length of his desire to see an exchange of settlers between Dunival and Ilvana. I know his plans by heart. I am aware this has not been a popular idea amongst your council, Dizean, but there have been some developments in Dunival that I think may prove a temptation to the explorers hiding among you. Also…”

He paused, his entire body held in tense restraint as he waited for the murmur of voices to die down. There he is, she thought, seeing the way Magnor ground his teeth together and the stark tilt of his head. Rijek, minus the mirth.

But what did that leave?

Pure stubbornness, she answered herself.

“Also, I know that talk of the exchange of support in the event of war has never been tolerated, but---”

The reaction from the Ilvanian side of the table was immediate and volatile. While Magnor’s men remained seated and calm, Jarls popped up all around the room, shouting their dissent.

“No! Never!”

“One day, and he is already talking about war!”

“---given the precarious position that Dunival finds itself after the death of my father---”

“We are not weapons suppliers!”

“---I am justified in asking for a discussion! Only a discussion!”

“Be silent!” Lyssia’s father exclaimed. The Jarls melted back into their chairs under his glare, but Magnor did not fall back.

“Dizean, please. I know Dunival’s reputation of old, but you know us. You knew my father---”

“Magnor, that is enough! This is a matter to be discussed in private first. You should have known that. Do not make me scold you as if you were a fool and not a Kongr.”

“You’re right. It is enough! I have spent all day listening to your men go on and on, while I ask for only a moment of your time. You say that you will listen to me, and yet you do not. Lyssia…”

It took a moment for Lyssia to recognize her name. She shifted uncertainly under the weight of the gazes that settled all at once on her.

Magnor’s voice softened as he entreated her. “Drottine, you know the situation I am in. You know my intentions. What would you suggest I do? Would you have me sign this treaty today?”

“I...Magnor...my opinion does not…”...........

**********

Lyssia squeezed her lips shut. A warm feeling prickled at the base of her throat, urging her to speak. She swallowed it down, and the pendant resting against her skin beneath the collar of her dress jumped and pressed harder against her throat. Its touch...