The skin began to swell, bulging outward as the sharpened iron pressed from underneath. It grew tauter, stressed to its limit, straining, stretching until it split and the well-whetted point burst into view, thrust powerfully through the gap. A vivid crimson stream followed the emerging iron point, forced by the skilled hands wielding the lance.
        The bearskin was rich and lustrous, of a deep cinnamon hue, accented with subtle silver highlights. With elegant understatement, the scarlet needlework provided a colorful counterpoint to the fur's soft, mottled surface.
        "What do you think, mother?" the girl asked, "How do you like it?" She held up the ornate hat and looked across the room, a hopeful expression on her face. She was fair haired: a pretty, petite child of fifteen with an expression at once whimsical and wise. As always, she gazed at her mother with a glance of affection mingled with respect and not a little awe.
        "It's beautiful, Ilse," her mother replied, smiling, "simply beautiful," Ilse's mother Katla was a prominent member of her clan, known for her insight and her wisdom. She was blonde like her daughter but taller, stately and graceful in a long, simply-patterned ivory dress. Katla was an aging beauty whose inquisitive brown eyes showed flashes of a youthful exuberance that seemed almost out of place on her delicate, dignified countenance.
        At this particular moment, no weighty care could crease her brow. Her daughter's handiwork occupied her thoughts. The ornate stitching was unlike any that she had taught her. She took up the bearskin and closely examined the elaborate band of crimson and purple that ran around the bottom. It's truly lovely, she mused, rubbing a smooth white hand across the glossy surface. I've never seen anything quite like it.
        "Ivan told me about hats like this. They wear them in Novrogod. Look here!" She took the hat and put it on her head, proudly demonstrating how the side panels folded down to protect the ears. She looked ten years old as she struck this particular pose, small and mischievous in the richly furred, oversized hat and simple earthen-hued dress, looking for all the world like a fair-skinned, green-eyed little elf waif that had materialized fully formed from the fertile imagination of a tale-telling old-mother at story time.
        "Ivan is very knowledgeable," Lady Katla said slowly, continuing her pointed inquiry, "but I don't think he taught you that style of needlework." Her daughter's work was remarkable. Ivan, whose fashion sense was limited to blacks, whites, and the occasional gray, had assuredly not taught Ilse the pattern for the hat.
        Lady Katla and her daughter appreciated Ivan, who was the oldest man in their city: a funny, sincere gentle person as well as the king's favorite counselor. He had an interesting history.
        Many years ago, the armies of King Rus the First had captured Ivan and sold into slavery. King Ingeld, father of Vigmarr, had purchased him in the Stockholm slavemarket. Years later, freed by a young King Vigmarr, Ivan had become the king's companion and his wisest advisor in all matters of statecraft and seamanship, peace and prosperity, honor, love and war.
        "Tell me, my daughter," Katla said. "Are you making the hat for your father, or do you have other plans for it?"
        "Mother!" Ilse turned away quickly, her face burning. Lady Katla knew the reason for her embarrassment. How she blushes at the very thought of him, Katla thought as she watched her daughter. I wonder if he knows that she loves him? For years, her daughter had been in love with the young prince, Gunnar-val.
        The two children had grown up together under the exacting tutelage of Ivan Redbeard, the same Ivan to whom her daughter had just referred. Yet in spite of their close relationship since childhood, Katla knew that the prince did not suspect that her daughter had feelings for him. Now, because she had an advantageous moment, Katla would have pursued the matter further, but Ilse was anxious to redirect the conversation.
        "Tell me, mother. What do you know about Ivan's family?" She held up the hat in her hand distractedly as she asked, as if she were inspecting it. A subtle change of subject, Katla thought wryly. You're very much your father's daughter.
        "There's not much I can tell you about them, darling. Even Ivan doesn't know much about them."
        "That must have been very sad, to lose them all so suddenly."
        "Yes, it was," answered a deep, gravelly voice.
        Ilse looked up quickly to see Ivan Redbeard towering in the doorway, slightly stooped, as always. He loomed over his two friends like an amiable, rail thin, moss-covered chimney bowed beneath a drift of snowy white hair. Ivan was a tall, wiry remnant of a once-mighty warrior in faded black wool clothes, with long white hair and a huge beard that was streaked, in the prime of old age, with broad slashes of gray.
        Ivan's namesake beard had faded in glory since the days of his youth. It was no longer a vivid shade of crimson, but had aged to a bland shade of cinammon-bear amber. For the moment, his bushy white eyebrows were knit together in an expression of gentle concern, providing a thatched platform from which his bony brow could overlook his long, hooked nose.
        He stared intently at the young girl, blue eyes sparkling. As she met his gaze, a wry smile crossed his aged, wrinkled face. His countenance, mottled and scarred beyond measure, was marked with a marvelously intricate patina of delicate blue veins barely discernible beneath the dark skin.
        "It was, indeed, very sad to lose track of my family," he repeated, "although the memories have faded, and disappear altogether when I see your face."
        "Oh, Ivan," Ilse answered, blushing, "You should have knocked."
        "I see that you have become old enough to tell me what I should do. Will you also begin to instruct me in the ways of our kingdom?"
        "As you heard," Katla interjected, "Ilse was asking about your kindred, Ivan. Why don't you answer her?" Katla had been friends with Ivan for so long that no subject could be off limits between them… even this issue, which touched upon so many painful memories.
        "My lady, I am at your service. But I am afraid that the poor quality of my offering will little justify the curiosity of two such worthy women." He sat down on a low stool and pulled it close to them. "Nevertheless, you both shall hear the tale of my life, if you wish. Which life, as you can see," he added, "has left me somewhat the worse for wear."
        Ilse brightened up and looked at her mother excitedly. They loved it when Ivan told them a story.
        "So, let us begin at the beginning. This," he said to Ilse, gazing piercingly with his pale blue eyes, "is the tale of my childhood."