Emotions war within me as our procession finally draws up to the gates of the stone bridge by mid-afternoon. Panic is somewhere near the top, and winning—followed closely by outrage and resentment, and the frustrated futility that my resources are so limited that I must be tossed about like this between others, forced to do their bidding.

My mind is cycling furiously through every exchange I’ve had with Brevir and that disgusting Pashan Astan. Is this my punishment for fighting back when he attacked me? Why go to such elaborate lengths to be rid of me?

Whatever checkpoints are at the gate, we seem to have passed. The procession starts up again, and slowly we rattle over the bridge. Through the dwindling light, a guard peers into our window with naked curiosity, and for a moment, we meet eyes.

I stare back at the woman, finding myself gazing into the face of a warrior. She’s tall, with strong, angular features and piercing blue-gray eyes that regard me with cool confidence. Her long hair, almost white, is tied back in intricate braids. She wears some kind of armor of pieced leather, trimmed with protective metal plates across her chest and hips.

She looks like she could murder me without a second thought, a conviction only made certain by the frowning expression on her face.

With a gulp, I quickly sit back in my seat and wrench my gaze away from the window. Sartra catches my eye and hides a smile, then exchanges a few words with Bani, who laughs.

“Strong woman,” Bani says to me with a delighted sparkle in her eyes and I nod back wanly. I am going to die, surely.

We reach the far end of the bridge. A second set of thick stone walls passes by the window, presumably another gate. We must be within the interior of this city.

I can’t help peeking nervously around the edge of the window. 

A two-story stone building lies a bit haphazardly to my left, ancient yet solid. Its slightly pitched A-frame roof is illuminated in the last rays of golden light, while the rest lies in shadow beneath the city’s skyline. Candlelight flickers through the leaded windows, and murmurs of voices and music drift from within. A tavern or an inn?

Two children are playing with a ball on the steps of the inn, bouncing it up and catching it. They stop and stare at me. The little girl, clad in an embroidered tunic dress and two blonde braids, points excitedly at me and starts forward.

A man, who’s been leaning in the doorway behind them, grabs her by the shoulder and says something repressive. Reluctantly, she drops her arm, but I hold her gaze as the carriage passes by until she’s out of sight.

We drive on, the carriage rumbling its way slowly down the uneven street, past what look like shops and houses. They’re all constructed of the same weathered stone, with the occasional face appearing in a window. Some duck away when I catch their eye, while others stare back with open hostility.

In different circumstances, I might have thought it charming and quaint, like going to some touristy, historic reproduction village. But right now, all I can see are those unfriendly faces, staring at me. As if I want to be here.

About fifteen minutes later, we finally come to a halt again. Now voices are talking outside the carriage. A rap comes at the carriage door and I shrink away from the window. A moment later, a bearded face appears, half shadowed by the fading light.

“Er pessi freyjarinn?” says the bearded man through the window. Sartra bows her head. The bearded man looks at me, gives a nod, and disappears from the window. Bani gestures for me to sit forward so she can pull my veil back over my face.

The carriage door opens and we freeze, looking at each other. Then Sartra nods, rises and carefully steps through the door. For another moment, Bani stares at my frozen face, then shrugs and carefully follows her.

And now it’s just me left in the carriage. I’m frozen to the spot, clasping my hands together in fright and feeling ridiculous in my elaborate veil and gown. I know I can’t stay in here forever. Somehow, though, the act of willingly stepping outside this carriage feels like an acquiescence to a reality that I cannot bring myself to face.

“Konungsdóttir?”

The man’s voice jolts me out of my reverie and sends another bolt of panic through me. I have no choice. I have to do this. If nothing else, it’s becoming freezing sitting here in this carriage.

Shaking slightly, I slowly pull myself up. Feeling like I’m in a weird school play, I duck my head through the carriage door and peer round the edge.

Outside, the bearded man presses a fist to his chest and bows slightly. His voice, in greeting, is pleasant but formal. “Heil og sael, konungsdóttir.” Then, he holds out his hand to me expectantly.

Beside him, Sartra and Bani nod encouragingly, while behind them stand the Verunian guards in a circle round the carriage. Behind them, a crowd of townspeople have gathered to watch, muttering and pointing at me. Beyond, I can make out that we’re standing in a large courtyard at the edge of a great castle, and within its depths rises that great tower I saw, now even more imposing in its proximity.

I halt in the doorway of the carriage and look at him through the sheer barrier of my veil. He’s younger than I first perceived, with shoulder length blonde hair and a closely cropped beard. I can’t help taking in his broad shoulders and muscled forearms beneath leather bracers, his towering height. If I thought that fair haired guard was tall…well, he must be at least a foot taller.

But his expression is mild and at least neutral rather than hostile, making him somewhat less intimidating than the guard I saw at the gate. But who is he? The keeper of unwilling concubines? Or…someone else?

Hesitantly, I put my hand in his and am startled by the rough, calloused warmth of his palm as he helps me down from the carriage.

Sartra and Bani step forward immediately and flank me on either side. Sartra bows to the man and says something that I can only catch part of, but I do hear my name—my Verunian name, that is. “Kallir ehl ishtara, Damaya Safia,” she says, gesturing towards me.

The blonde man nods and, at a word, the guards part and he steps forward. Sartra and Bani flank me and indicate that I should follow. Together, we follow the man through the courtyard, while two sets of guards carry the trunks behind us.

I take in random details with a kind of detachment, too overwhelmed and freezing to process much of what is happening. Braziers set aflame. The bark of a dog somewhere. The flutter of a great hanging banner, a flash of gold snaking tendrils against deep purple.

We reach a huge double set of doors marking the grand entrance to the castle. At a signal from one of the guards, they swing open.

We step into a great hall to be immediately swallowed by the darkness. It takes my eyes several moments to adjust to the gloom. Ahead of us, dusty beams of pale light touch the flagons beneath our feet, and my eyes follow them upwards towards windows set high into the ceiling. Even a great fire, burning in a low pit that stretches the length of the room, can’t seem to penetrate the dark that stretches into every corner.

My heart sinks within me, taking in the vast expanse of the imposing, unfriendly hall. For a moment, I flash back to the golden, rosy walls of the palace in Verunia. It was a prison, of course, but a far prettier one.

And yet. And yet. The atmosphere of the Verunian palace was languid, almost sleepy. This place is…different. Somehow it feels almost alive with an electric undercurrent of power and strength.

As we follow our guide through the hall, more details spring into view. The long fire pit is flanked on either side by wooden banquet tables groaning with fruit, cheeses and meat, and flagons. Perhaps not so unfriendly, then.

Thick carpets over the flagstone floor draw my attention as my tired feet sink into their welcome warmth. It’s hard to tell in this light, but they seem to be the same deep, rich purple with some border motif done in a worn gold. And the same colors mark the banners that hang round the ceiling and walls—a golden tree over a purple background, its branches and roots intertwined in an endless ouroboros. Against the far wall, framed by these banners, sits an elaborately carved wooden throne set on a stone dais.

We’re walking now past an open door and through it I see a sort of study or office, with a big table laid in the middle covered with maps, and another table set in a corner that looks more like a work desk. Behind it sits a leather-covered chair, a fire crackling in the fireplace giving the room a surprisingly inviting glow. I shiver, and pull my robes more tightly around me.

The blonde man is guiding us now further down the hall and off towards a doorway to the right of the great fireplace. As we pass, I’m able to look more closely at the throne. Sure enough, a great tree is carved into the head of it, branches and roots twining round the frame and down its arms, as if it were a real tree that had overgrown the throne.

My mind flashes back to the storybook in Verunia. It’s obvious that the tree is well-known up here, maybe even much more than a fairy tale to these people. I can’t help feeling a dart of hope. If they know about the tunnels…

My attention is pulled back again as the passageway makes a sharp turn. Carefully, I follow the others up a flight of stone steps to a landing. Then the passage turns again up another, until we come to the second floor and continue down another passageway and I begin to feel lost. We pass several doors until finally the blonde man stops and steps aside, gesturing in.

Bani steps beyond me and enters the room, then returns briefly and nods to Sartra. They both turn and bow to the blonde man, who nods and departs.

The warmth hits me first, courtesy of a welcoming fire roaring in the grate.

Immediately I draw towards it, then turn to look about me. The room is large, and though a bit dark, it has two windows off the far wall that must make the space more welcoming during the day. There’s a beautifully carved wooden bed set in the center of the room, wide and topped with furs and blankets. There’s even a little table and set of chairs in one corner, with a platter of food and a flagon and chalice set aside.

Sartra goes to a little door on one side of the room and beckons me over. I go to look. It’s an outhouse-style toilet, I see with some amusement, set with a comfortably carved wooden seat on a low bench. Much appreciated, of course, though not particularly noteworthy.

Then I notice what she’s pointing at and for a moment, I’m stare a bit stupidly. It’s a basin set into the wall. A basin with a drain, and above it, a faucet. I reach out to touch it in a slight daze. That can’t mean…

Disbelievingly, I move my hand to the faucet handle and twist. Behind me, Bani has come over to see, and together she and Sartra start in wonder as a splutter of water bursts from the tap. I’m almost as astonished.

Bani darts forward and thrusts a hand eagerly beneath the flowing water, than cries and whips her fingers back. “Cold,” she says indignantly, rubbing her hands together. Sartra shakes her head and turns back towards the trunks. Tentatively, I dip my fingers beneath the flow and can confirm that it is, indeed, freezing cold, but fresh and pure, too. I suppose hot running water would be a step beyond too much to ask for.

Still…running water! Even in Verunia, as far as I could see, it didn’t exist anywhere. With so many servants, they must have felt it an unnecessary technology.

For an instant, the stark contrast between the two civilizations strikes me—one so opulent yet deeply rooted in seemingly timeless customs. And this one, remote and less refined, yet more enterprising. And, weirder still, somehow more comfortable.

It’s not a one-to-one parallel, clearly, of any world I know. Or think I know? Like a classified dossier, my mind has blackened out most personal details. But impressions of the broader world remain with me. I recognize running water, clearly. Yet I do not think we had anything like Verunia in our history. I think. But this place…

There’s nothing about my situation that should feel relaxing to me. Yet there is something about this place that feels…familiar? Recognizable? I can’t really put my finger on it.

As these musings pass through my head in fleeting instants, Sartra and Bani are bustling around me, ordering the guards where to lay the trunks and opening them up for inspection. I watch them, wondering if and how I should help.

Then I wonder why I would want to help anyone do anything, when I don’t even know exactly what I’m doing here and what I’m helping them do. And no one’s yet told me if I’m going to be sacrificed in exchange for salt.

Then I feel a bit bad for having that thought, while the other two women in the room are technically waiting on me, so I pick up a random article of clothing and start folding it ineffectually.

I have no more time to think on it, however, for soon the blonde man re-enters and speaks to us. Sartra and Bani rise and bow and he departs, leaving me watching and wondering. They gesture for me to follow. Wait—are we? Oh. It seems that it’s time for something to happen.

Every moment from here on is more surreal than the last. From the reprieve of my room I’d been able to ground myself for a few minutes. Now I walk as if in a dream, through the castle and down yet another passageway in a procession led by the blonde man.

The flicker of the torches against the stone walls creates a hypnotic effect, and my vision begins to cloud. Blindly, I reach for the wall to steady myself for a moment, breathing quickly.

Everyone stops, and Sartra hastens to me, laying a hand on my arm. “Damaya Safia?”

I shake my head and wave her away. I can see the blonde man’s dubious look through my veil. If he knew the full truth of it.

I draw myself up and take a deep breath, and our little party continues down the passage. Finally it opens up to a medium-sized hall with an arched roof. Flanking the walls, run a line of men and women dressed in warrior gear, holding spears in silent attention.

As in the great hall, here a long, low fire burns in the ground down the center of the room. At the far end, I recognize a small host of Verunian guards. They stand over three large, carved wooden chests, their ornate golden corners catching the firelight.

An older man and woman stand grouped together by the fire, dressed in fine fur-trimmed robes and finely wrought silver jewelry, their almost white-gray hair no less noble and imposing for their age.

Then, to my surprise, the same warrior I saw at the gates emerges from the shadows of the room. She’s dressed this time in a wine-red apron gown and golden discs at her temples, from which two thick, blonde braids flow, interwoven with golden threads. The blonde, bearded man turns instinctively when he notices her, and they exchange a glance with each other.

My eyes travel around the room and come to a halt at the far end, where a low wooden altar lies, and atop it, a graceful stone statue of three women, set with candles.

A temple. So this must be…a ceremony? Would a concubine need a ceremony? I don’t see any sacrificial daggers on the altar, at least.

Unless…poison?

No, stop it, Sophie. Deep breaths.

But now my attention is riveted anew, for standing at the altar is a man with his back to us, dressed in a richly fur-trimmed robe. His fair brown hair, pulled back in a half ponytail, tumbles down his broad back as he bends the altar briefly.

It hits me in the gut. This is who I’m here for, I’m certain of it.

He straightens and turns around slowly.

My heart flutters wildly, taking him in, from his firm countenance to the embroidered tunic he wears beneath his robes, stretched tightly across his broad chest. At his waist is hooked a beautiful and cruel looking axe, carved all over with strange symbols. With light lines etched across his temples, and scar running down one cheek, he could be anywhere from thirty-five to forty-five. 

The blonde man approaches him and says something, his tone carefully neutral. The other man nods, then turns towards me, beckoning me forward. The blonde man, meanwhile, gestures at his friend and says, with a little inclination of his head, “Jarl Torben Volundbjorn. Jarl, pessi er konungsdóttir Verunia, Freyja Safyja.”

Jarl Tor—who? I didn’t catch the rest. But I heard the first part. I’m sure of it. The suspicion that had been growing in my mind clicks into place. I know this word—jarl. Earl. My mind wavers between incredulity and hysteria.

From the moment we arrived, I’d thought it sounded like I was hearing something vaguely Scandinavian, maybe even Old Norse—or at least, a version of it spoken in this parallel world. Instinctively I dig my fingernails into my palms and wince at the painful reassurance that whatever this is, wherever it is, it seems to be real.

I stand, frozen, as the jarl steps down from the altar and slowly closes the distance between us. He comes to a stop before me.

To my surprise, he reaches out and slowly lifts my veil, carefully folding it back over the pinnings in my hair, so that it falls behind me in a cascade of filmy silk. Behind me, I can feel Sartra and Bani stirring, but neither moves.

Swallowing nervously, my gaze flickers around the room before coming to rest on his face. My breath catches in my throat.

A strong, open face gazes back at me, with eyes like the waters of the fjord below the city, framed by a finely kept beard. And now he’s staring at me intensely. He puts a hand under my chin and lifts my face.

It strikes me that I should feel terrified, horrified. But somehow, I’m not. Something in him is strangely calming, like sheltering in the lee of a boulder. I find myself staring back and growing less agitated rather than more, until finally he smiles.

“Freyja Safyja.” He says nothing more for a moment, but something in me flutters at the sound of my name accented in his voice, resonant and somehow wild.

“Jarl Tor—Torben,” I stumble over the name as I recall it mid-sentence. He smiles again.

And then he speaks again, and something shifts. For it seems to be a question for me, and I have no idea what he’s asking. He repeats the phrase, then tries another. I see a flicker in his eyes when I look back at him in silent confusion, and he exchanges a glance with his friend.

Sartra comes forward and says something apologetic with a bow. The man regards her expressionlessly, glances at me again, then seems to make a decision.

The jarl calls out an order to the room at large, and I watch as the Verunian guards lift the heavy chests and carefully come forward. I have no idea what’s in them, or what they’re for, but Torben seems deeply interested, leaning forward slightly as a guard begins to open the first chest.

I notice how the older couple quietly move forward to have a better view, and that the blonde man is exchanging glances again with Torben. The lid is lifted, and a little frisson goes through the party.

Beneath it are two thick stacks of beautifully folded silks and velvets in rich colors. At a nod from Torben, a Verunian guard comes forward and begins to unpack them, carefully draping them in layers over the edge of the chest so that they create a rainbow of vivid color in the dusky hall.

Torben nods, finally, and says something, raising a hand. The guard pauses, and gathers everything back into the chest. He rises and steps back.

The little ceremony is repeated now with the next two chests, one revealing itself to be full of spices of some kind, which earns an appreciative murmur from the room. The other, a rather impressive-looking collection of dark bottles with what I assume are all alcohol. I wonder how I can get any of that.

Finally, another guard comes forward, who has been concealed behind the others, bearing a smaller chest in his arms. He walks past his comrades and instead approaches Torben and me directly, bowing to us. Then he lifts the lid.

There’s a collective intake of breath from everyone except Torben, who is staring silently at the gleaming contents—a tumbled, almost careless assortment of exquisitely faceted jewels in every color imaginable. My mouth drops open slightly as my eye catches sight of rich emeralds, sapphires, rubies, diamonds and amethysts.

Torben now slowly walks forward. To my surprise, he reaches his hand into the pile of wealth and begins to rummage as if the jewels are in the way of something more important.

Beside us, the blonde man snaps something in an agitated tone, but Torben waves him away. He’s now pulling out two circlets of finely wrought gold. One is set with rubies, and the other with sapphires. They’re breathtaking.

I stare, riveted, as Torben turns back towards me and smiles. I stare back at him tentatively. In another moment, he raises the sapphire-encrusted circlet and lays it carefully over my veiled head where it sits comfortably across my forehead. Then he dons the ruby circlet himself, and I can’t help staring at his handsome face, offset by the soft glow of the gold in the firelight.

And now Jarl Torben calls out another order, and a woman comes forward from the far end of the room, who I hadn’t noticed before. She’s dressed in a kind of priestly robe, with kohl across her eyes and a single pendant bearing, what I notice with a quickening in my heart, a great twisted tree.

The man’s friend seems ready to protest, but he’s silenced. Instead, Jarl Torben takes my hand and leads me towards the altar.

For a moment, I’ve been so distracted by the childish delight of wearing a pretty crown that it takes my brain a few moments to reassess the situation. I am not going to be sacrificed. Concubines don’t wear crowns and have ceremonies. This is a—it’s really a—

Oh my God.

This is my moment to say no, no thank you, in just about any language I can manage—I don’t care to participate in whatever this is with this stranger, thank you so much. Just…run away, and find a way to live off the land hunting squirrels or something.

I could do all of this. I should do this exact thing. Right now. Before this goes any further.

Except, where am I actually going to go? I’m not stupid enough to imagine that even if I could bolt out of the room I would find somewhere else to live. I don’t know how to hunt or fish. Which suddenly seems like a major deficit in my education, by the way. Also, it’s literally a snowy tundra in every direction outside of this city.

Besides all this, it’s even possible that they may know more of the tunnels I need to find. They seem to be familiar with the great tree. If there is such a thing as fate, and really I can’t think of what other force could have possibly landed me here, then maybe I need to follow this through to find my way home.

Of course, as I’m sure is pretty obvious by now, these are just the excuses I make for myself as the jarl keeps my hand in his, and the priestess or whoever begins to intone something, raising her arms to the ceiling. And I remain standing where I am, with this man beside me, his warm hand in mine, feeling like we’re playacting. Which we are. Aren’t we?

I don’t really understand a word of what’s being said, save for hearing something like “Freyja Safyja.” Surely none of this counts if I don’t have a clue what the fuck anyone is saying? Something tells me, though, that there’s no such thing as a federal court to uphold my case with such an argument.

The entire moment is surreal. An hour ago I arrived by carriage to an alien city of stone built into the side of a fjord. Ten minutes ago, I touched the hand of this strange man. And now, we stand together, our fate being bound together in ways I cannot fully understand. Somehow, I cannot walk away.

Okay. Full disclosure. No more poetic speeches about fate.

If I’m being totally honest, I would probably not find any justification compelling enough to go through with this if Jarl Torben were seventy with a gut and bad breath, instead of handsome and strong with eyes that seem to pierce the depths of my soul.

But surely—surely—after my ordeal I’ve earned whatever’s beneath that tightly stretched tunic. I mean, I can always figure the rest of this out…tomorrow.

Finally, the woman raises her arms and gives us some kind of blessing. Is that it, then? Well, that was quick. I feel strangely let down. I could say “ja!” perhaps. Not that anyone’s asked me.

But then, to my astonishment, Torben pulls me towards him, takes my face in his hands, and bends to kiss me deeply. The startling feel of his lips, the ticklish brush of his beard against my skin, sends a jolt through me.

I find myself kissing him back, till we finally pull away from each other, catching our breath. He’s looking down at me with an unreadable expression, leaving me more confused than ever.

Slightly dazed and embarrassed, I glance around the room and catch the eye of Torben’s friend, standing side by side with the fair-haired woman. For a moment, he gives me a sharp look that startles me by its unfriendliness. Then I blink and his face relaxes into a neutral smile. My eyes flicker back to Torben, and to my surprise I see him watching us, now exchanging a glance with his friend that feels heavy with meaning.

Torben takes my hand again, and speaks to the gathered group, issuing a command with a nod. The little party begins to disperse, and Torben takes the lead, guiding me back down the passageway while the others trail behind us, chatting in low voices.

We emerge once again in the great hall, and now Torben is guiding me over to the long banquet table. A servant pulls out a great carved chair set at the far end. Here, Torben sits and to my surprise, pulls me onto his lap quite unceremoniously.

The table fills with conversation as the others take their seats and begin to fill pewter plates and pass flagons of mead, while I sit perched on Torben’s knee, blushing at his boldness, and he wraps his arm around my waist securely.

Torben’s friend sits to our right, with the fair warrior beside him, while the older couple sit opposite. I glance around and find Sartra and Bani have stepped back into the shadows, hands folded in quiet dignity. At a word and a gesture from Torben, however, the two women bow slightly and join us at the table. Torben’s servant quickly moves to fill their goblets with mead.

Torben glances up at his friend and nods at the table. Pressed against his chest, his voice now rumbles into me like a motor. “Orin, sumr mjöðr fyrir minn freyja.”

The blonde man beside us gives Torben a long look. Then he grasps the flagon in front of him and pours mead into a pewter goblet. He lifts it to me and I take it with a nod of thanks.

Then Torben squeezes my thigh and I jump, spilling mead on my gown. He laughs and takes the goblet from me, taking a long draught himself. Then he tilts his head and looks down at me, holding the cup up to my lips. Hesitantly, I glance at him, then sip carefully.

Goodness, that’s some strong mead. I think I might need more of that. Just a little bit. To take the edge off.

I cough slightly, pressing a finger to my lips, then glance back at Torben. He looks at me and laughs again, then raises the goblet to me in salute and takes a deep drink.

All through the feast, there seem to be multiple undercurrents happening around the banquet table. Torben and his friend—Orin, he calls him—keep exchanging looks. Orin and his fair-haired companion keep exchanging looks with each other, then with the couple across the table from them. Even Sartra and Bani are exchanging looks. I might be the only one not involved in some intrigue.

But Torben prompts me to eat more, piling things onto our shared plate and offering me choice bits of roasted meat or pickled vegetables, pouring out more mead into my flagon. That I drink from deeply.

Gradually, I begin to relax a bit, despite everything. I find my eyes fluttering shut more than once as I lean back into Torben’s arms, which have grown quite comfortable.

Occasionally, he bends and whispers something in my ear that I cannot understand a word of. But his breath is warm and fragrant with mead, and his voice is low and soothing, and I’m so comfortable that I almost forget the wild absurdity of the situation.

I open my eyes to find Torben peering down into my face with a small smile. Then he looks up and says something to the little party. They begin to rise, and then I feel Torben gently pushing me from his lap. After a few moments my brain connects, and I rouse myself to stand.

Immediately I stagger and clutch the table. Oops. How much mead did I drink? A laugh goes through the party and then I feel Torben’s arms around me, scooping me up.

Curled up in Torben’s arms, I finally come to with a little jolt and lift my head as I realize that feasting is over and what’s next is…well..

Am I really doing this?