“I prayed for you,” Rionan said. Ingrid paused, stirring the pot over the flames. It was too early for the sun to have risen more than a sliver over the horizon, and a dim shadow infused the woods around them, but the trees were already alive with birdsong and rustling leaves. Ingrid stared, unsure what to say and curious about how this was relevant when she considered Rionan hadn’t spoken the entire night.

When they left the comfort of the lean-to, the night rang crackles from dying fires, and hissing logs where snow met coals. Ingrid and Helgi had coughed and spat large globs of soot-filled mucus throughout their rest. They treated small injuries as best they could. Rionan’s blistered fingers from pushing open their burning door, the singed fuzz on Helgi’s cheeks, and the minor burns and cuts that covered Ingrid from head to toe.

The only medicine Ingrid had with her was a salve that someone pressed into her hand before entering the great hall. She smeared the greasy yarrow-infused concoction over Rionan’s fingers before she wrapped them and went to wash herself up. The frigid water in the donkey trough had been as much of a bath as they could afford, and it did little good in the long run. 

Despite their best efforts, Helgi had black streaks framing his nose and forehead. Ingrid could gauge from the water’s reflection that her bloodshot eyes were ringed with black smudges and clumped streaks that descended into her shirt collar and ran up her arms. They were a mess, but they couldn’t stop for a bath. 

One donkey carried their possessions, one had what food and water they could scrounge, and the third carried Rionan. They walked for hours along the well-trodden path in the dark. Helgi led the way for most of it. It was only when Reykjavik disappeared in the distance that they stopped. Ingrid poured their grain supply into a pot with fresh water from a nearby creek and handed Helgi a small cake of soap to give himself a true wash. 

Just as she had for the entire journey, Rionan sat quietly. Not sure what to do or say, Ingrid didn’t try to talk to her. It almost felt like she’d returned to those days after Dubh Linn. It wasn’t until the water boiled and the watery porridge started to cook that Rionan broke the silence. 

In a jerky motion, she stood, marched over to the fire, and glared at Ingrid over the pot.

“I prayed for you,” she said. 

Ingrid wanted to sigh. As much as she accepted Rionan’s dedication to her god, her prayers would not help a ‘heathen’ like Ingrid. She met Rionan’s gaze with a confused noise. 

“I prayed for you,” Rionan said again. Tears welled in her eyes. “I prayed god would keep you safe from the Vikings. Then when they came for us, I prayed you’d save me.” She scrubbed at her eyes as the tears spilled over. The rags Ingrid had so carefully tied became smudged with dirt and water. She scooched forward and extended a hand to her friend, who had begun to tremble. 

“I came, Red,” she reminded her. “I got you. I’m sorry it took so long; I–”

“I don’t care about that!” Rionan snapped. “You didn’t join us in the woods with the rest of the women and children,” she gasped through tears. “You were one of the last to make it to the hall. Helgi said you were fighting….” She trailed off with a soft sob. 

“What’s the matter, Red?” she asked wrapping an arm around Rionan’s shoulders. As the light touched the tops of the trees, she could see the imprints of bruises on her neck and wrists. It filled her with rage but also with fear.

“I thought you were dead,” Rionan hiccuped out. She sniffled and rubbed her face some more. One rag dislodged and fell to rest on the roughage at their feet. “I thought they’d taken everything from me again. And I prayed that if it was true, that god would kill me quickly because I couldn’t bear it.” She turned and clung to Ingrid. “Thank you for not being dead. Thank you for coming back to me.” 

They sat like that until Helgi returned. As she left him to the porridge, Ingrid escorted Rionan to the creek and ran a cloth over her tear-swollen eyes. The warm tears mixed with the cold water that dripped over her hands as she worked. 

“Hush,” she admonished gently. “I’m right here.” Rionan scowled at her and snatched the cloth away. The blotchy redness of her face hid her freckles and made her eyes stand out. For the first time, Ingrid realized they weren’t all the way blue but a stormy gray, just a shade to the left of it. 

“I’m fine,” she snapped. Her voice wavered, and her lip wobbled, but she sniffed and sat up straight. She reached for Ingrid with the cloth but hesitated when it was a hairsbreadth away from her face. Ingrid waited, not wanting to startle her. Rionan gnawed on her lip before whispering, “come here.” 

She leaned in and let the younger girl run the cloth over her face and neck, cleaning the cuts that had been ignored or hastily cleaned. The swipes were rough, but she didn’t pull away. Once she was clean enough, she applied the salve. Ingrid closed her eyes and sighed as the paste soothed the burns and cuts she’d stopped noticing. When she opened them, her companion was wielding a comb at her. 

“Turn around,” she ordered. Feeling indulgent, Ingrid did. 

Her long braid clung to its shape. Matted with sweat and soot, Rionan had to pick the strands apart with the comb until the whole mess hung down to her hips. With trembling but still gentle hands, she redid the braid. 

“How do I look,” Ingrid asked. 

“Terrible.” Rionan sniffed again. “But you’ll do.” 

They polished off the porridge and kept moving. Closer and closer, they came to the border of her father’s land, and Ingrid noticed Rionan growing quieter and quieter. 

“They won’t be mad,” she tried to reassure her, but as the house loomed, so did the solemn mood. 

“Miss Ingrid,” Helgi called from the crest of the last hill. “Did Master Bo get a horse?” 

Ingrid frowned. Her father hated horses. He would never waste money on one when donkeys served their purposes much better. 

“Let me see, Helgi.” She trotted up to join him and scowled. She knew that horse. Of the handful that lived in Reykjavik, this one stuck out the most, from its chestnut coat to the delicate Arabian ankles. This was no mountain horse bred to ride the rough landscape and herd. 

“Gunnar,” she growled. The very last person she wanted to see. She made Helgi and Rionan wait outside while she stormed in to greet her parents and their most unwelcome guest. 

She opened the door to see her parents sitting opposite Gunnar. Her mother looked uncomfortable, while her father seemed downright murderous. The steaming cups of tea in front of them looked untouched while Gunnar sipped his. She stomped over and slammed her hand down on the table between them.

“Why are you here?” she demanded. Gunnar blinked at her before he set down his cup. 

“I see you made it back in one piece,” he said casually. “No thanks to your thrall, of course.” He smiled sadly, as if he was commiserating with her. Ingrid’s ears felt warm as anger bubbled up in her gut. 

“Don’t you dare–” 

“I was just telling your parents how the entire lot of them tried to ensure we were all murdered in our beds.” 

Ingrid looked at her parents. Yrsa’s face pinched with confusion, and Bo barely spared her a glance, but in the brief second his eyes caught hers, she saw he wasn’t ready to accept all of Gunnar’s claims. She nodded in acknowledgment and returned to glaring at Gunnar.

“Leave my parent’s house, or I will make you,” she hissed. Gunnar’s placid expression spelled trouble. He simply patted her clenched fist and turned back to her parents. 

“About the other issue, I expect an answer from you both soon. I’d be most grateful if it contained your blessings.” He stood and walked toward the door; Ingrid hot on his heels. 

“What did you ask them for?” she asked once the door had slammed shut behind them. 

“It’s only proper that a man ask a father for his daughter’s hand in marriage.” Gunnar smiled at her and reached for her chin. He brushed his thumb just underneath a cut. “I only want to take care of you.” The rage bubbled over, and Ingrid snapped. She slapped his hand away from her face and ignored the sting where his finger caught her cut. 

“What do you actually want?” she shouted. “Whatever it is, my answer will always be ‘no’! There’s nothing I can give you that a hundred other women can’t!” 

“My dear,” he began. He reached out again, but this time, Ingrid grabbed the offending wrist and flipped them until she had him pinned to the wall of the house with his arm yanked halfway up his back. 

“Don’t call me that,” she snarled. “Don’t waste either of our time; just tell me what you want.” Over his shoulder, she saw his eyes go dim and hard, like pieces of flint. Finally, she thought, right before he jerked from her hands and faced her. 

“Fine,” he said. “I’ll admit a marriage was ill-conceived on my part. No man wants such a violent wife.” He looked her up and down, his expression cold. 

“Then what do you want?” she demanded. She was tired, hungry, and annoyed at the thought of entertaining this idiot any longer. 

“My father said you have a map for Mikligarður,” he said finally. “One with a seal that will allow you to pass through its gates without being hounded by the king’s watchdogs.”  

Ingrid froze. A memory surfaced. A brown-skinned woman with a jeweled hair ornament and a shawl handed her a map. Her eyes crinkled with laughter. “For you, my friend. May I see you often at my father’s house?” Even now, the words were still clear in her mind.

“I have no map,” she stuttered. “He lied to you.” 

“Then how did you give him this?” He held up a bronze ring with a chunk of purple stone in the center. A name was etched into the band. Antonia. Ingrid schooled her features.

“I bought it from a man recently back from Spain,” she lied. Gunnar smirked.

“Liar,” he said. He backed away, tucking the ring into a pouch on his belt. “I’ll have that map, Ingrid. Mikligarður is filled with riches the king keeps under lock and key nowadays. Whatever loyalties you think you have to its previous owner. Forget them.” He looked out at their home, and his gaze lingered over Rionan and Helgi. “That thrall is important to you,” he said, looking her in the eye. “Just remember, I can make life much more difficult for her here. And for your parents, too.” 

With that, he strode off and mounted his horse before he wheeled it around and started trotting back the way he’d come. Ingrid stared after it, thinking of the scroll she’d kept tucked away in a box for years.

Mikligarður – A Viking name for Constantinople.