Thorunn

“This really isn’t necessary,” I mutter.

The Northman says something that I cannot make out. I cannot make out much at all, actually, over the droning chants of the three church clerics, the swishing of vestments, and the musical hum of the healing magic swirling around me. Soon, however, it seems to have done its job. My headache vanishes. The nasty scrape on my cheek is closed. Even the feverish pulse of sunburn has abated. The three clerics step back from the chapel pew. One of them, presumably some sort of bishop, takes one of my hands in hers.

“Be well, child,” she almost sings, and nods her head to the Northman. “And thank you, good sir, for such a generous donation.”

The Northman just grunts. “Yeah, that’s all that matters, huh?” Pansy grumbles. He is already heading towards the exit, where Lucienne has been waiting haplessly at the base of the stairs.

If I wasn’t still a little woozy, I would be tempted to run and catch up to him, wishing to put more distance between myself and the dark cloud of a man who looms over me. But even as I stand up, dizziness strikes me. I am only saved from collapsing again by the Northman’s quick reflexes. He catches me, and as if in a crude imitation of a gentleman, offers the crook of his arm for me to hold.

Reluctantly, I take it. I do my best, though, to not seem too cold—it would be unladylike not to thank a man, even a barbarian. And I must remind myself that I am no longer a respected young merchant, clad in silks and silver attesting to my extensive repertoire. Instead, I am little more than a child in a shabby coat and ratty dress, obviously penniless, obviously a nobody. The Northman, on the other hand, is wealthy enough to travel across the seas, to own a horse, to openly carry a fine-quality weapon, and to command other men. And to make his way into the Crown Prince’s court, seven years from now.

“Thank you, my lord,” I say stiffly.

He grunts again. I am convinced that is all he knows how to say until I vaguely overhear, “You’ve no reason to thank me, my lady.”

“Excuse me?”

At first, his gruff tone leads me to assume it is an insult, but when I look sharply over, I am shocked to see the regret upon his face.

“My careless horsemanship nearly cost you your life,” the Northman says. “To find you prompt medical attention—it is the least I could do.”

“O…oh.” Despite my unease, his confession is oddly reassuring. I am relieved that he speaks fluent Saelic, as I do not know the barbarians’ language. “Well…I am still grateful. I played my own part in the accident, making so much ado about nothing.”

He shook his head. “The fault is mine. I called to the guard to clear the road, but they did not hear. I should’ve sent a rider in advance.”

We have stopped by the doors to the church. I can see Pansy and Lucienne through the rippled glass panes, talking animatedly to each other while occasionally casting glances back to me and the Northman. As he opens the door for me, my cheeks begin to warm. Even in my past life, men my age rarely opened doors for me. Such chivalry from a barbarian is peculiar.

“In any case, I do not mean to hold you up from your travels, my lord,” I tell him, still holding fast to his arm to descend the steps. “Your mission seemed urgent, and I could not impose.”

“Not at all. I sent my men ahead; they should be able to deliver the message on their own.”

“Really. I insist.”

My face is growing redder by the minute because now, Pansy and Lucienne have gone completely silent. They are staring goggle-eyed at us.

“I am feeling much better now,” I tell him. “I trust my friends to watch over me, should anything else occur.”

Now he gets the message. With a bow, the Northman steps back. “I understand.”

As I withdraw my hand, he extends his, and I am just bewildered enough to automatically accept. Then he places in my palm a bracelet—a simple braid of leather cording and three blue ceramic beads. It is too small for someone like him to wear, but it could fit my wrist comfortably.

“I am yet indebted to you, my lady. If you’ve a need to call upon me, I will answer at once, as swift and sure as a blade.”

My eye involuntarily twitches. Oh, the irony. The Northman cannot mount his horse and ride off in the crowds fast enough, though he wastes more of my time by glancing over his shoulder, meeting my eyes, and nodding once. Then he is mercifully gone. Although I am soon out of the frying pan and into the fire, as I am immediately surrounded on both sides by grinning idiots.

“Ooooohh,” Pansy sings.

“He liiiiikes you,” Lucienne joins in.

“Stop it,” I say half-heartedly, knowing that they won’t.

“And good grief, what a specimen!” Pansy adds, fanning himself with a leaflet picked up in the church. “I thought it was supposed to be cold up north, but it is getting hot down here…”

“Next time, push me in front of the stampeding horse,” Lucienne laughs.

I let the two of them tease me for a while longer, since there is literally nothing I can do to stop them. Once they seem to have run out of breath, I roll my eyes and drop the Northman’s bracelet in my jacket pocket.

“I’m still not interested,” I tell them. “I would never court a hired blade. I don’t care how fine a ‘specimen’ he is; that same blade could end up at my neck.”

As we set out deeper into the mercantile district, Pansy saunters up and elbows my arm. “C’mon. At least show us what he gave you.”

“It’s just a bracelet,” I say.

“A bracelet?” Lucienne pipes up. “Let me see!”

I am somehow reluctant to hand it over, but I dig it out of my pocket again. To free up Lucienne’s hands while she examines the bracelet, I move behind to push her wheelchair, looking over her shoulder as she turns it over with a critical eye.

“I read about these,” she explains. “The Northern tribes have surprisingly complex courting practices, particularly the tribe of the Oberjarl—their version of a ‘capital city,’ where he’s from. I can tell by the runic carvings on that big axe of his. And the same dialect of runes is used here, on the beads.”

“What does this have to do with courtship?” I ask.

“In their culture, it’s customary to give a gift to a person that you are interested in. Usually something you can wear, always handmade, and often engraved with the name of the maker. This workmanship is clearly amateur, but I am impressed with the intricacy of these knots! Our boy Thorunn must have spent hours on this.”

“That’s his name? Thorunn?”

“Yep! ‘Jarl Thorunn, Son of Halfdan, Brieðöx of Hel’ .”

“He fit all of that on three beads?”

“Oh yes. The Nordic alphabet is quite space efficient.”

Thorunn. I have both a face and a name to the man who executed me. I had not thought much of his presence back then, besides assuming that he was paid for the job. I figured that the pampered nobles who won the war wrote off mass executions as too messy for their white-gloved hands, so they hired a Northman to do the dirty work. Now, that assumption crumbles. I have learned two things today: first, that Thorunn is no lowly hired mercenary, but a Jarl, a political leader in his own right; and second, that he and a band of his men are delivering urgent messages to the royal palace, years before the war.

These realizations unsettle me. I never knew Saol Eile was preparing for war so far in advance. While abroad, I paid little attention to the current affairs in my home country, but if civil war broke out this early, I would have certainly heard about it. The conflict must be brewing out of the public eye—perhaps within the impregnable walls of the royal palace.

If there is war, though, then there is little sign of it in the mercantile district. Commerce is bustling as usual. Through only the most valiant efforts, we avoid being distracted by the colorful market stalls and glittering window displays, and make it to the book bindery with plenty of time to spare. I had talked a big game to Lucienne and Pansy before, estimating my profits today to be one thousand obols or more, but the accident at the gate has been a harsh reality check. All the confidence in the world will not hide my shabby dress and tender age.

So, instead, I send Pansy to make the sale. I go with him, of course. But if he, a tall and handsome young man of respectable middle-class dress and fine facial features, walks ahead of me, most will assume that he is the young seller of books and I am his servant. He plays his role well. Almost too well. He seems to be enjoying himself to a ridiculous degree, even slipping the faintest hint of a posh accent into his voice. Whenever the booksellers propose some terms, he strokes his chin and pretends to reference a ledger I am holding (while I whisper instructions to him). We walk out of the book bindery an hour later, eleven hundred obols richer.

It was in a flash of sharp foresight that I requested the bulk of the payment, one thousand obols, to be delivered directly to the Rossach bank account. Usually, families of my status would not have a bank account, but I had set one up for Mama as soon as I learned of my paid internship with Master Odric. The remaining one hundred would be in gold. Despite my usual stingy nature, holding a heavy bag of a hundred obols in the city’s grandest marketplace inspires a reckless abandon akin to madness.

We have no control of what happens next. We bounce from shop to shop, trying hats and jewelry and dresses until their colors and shapes all just blur together; we gorge ourselves on food from street vendors and wash it down with mead and ale. Then we stumble back into the shops and keep playing dress-up until we are either kicked out for being too drunk or buy something just as an apology for our behavior. I set out on this shopping trip with the goal of buying only practical, professional clothing—linen shirts, wool skirts, and tweed jackets in unremarkable colors—but after enough drinks, I cannot stop myself from dropping fifteen obols on a luxurious evening dress that glitters like the starlit sky. I am so enamored with the dress that I wear it out of the store. Even after all the shops are closed, my friends and I wander the streets in childlike bliss until a night watchman shoos us towards an inn. We pay for a room and the door has barely shut behind us by the time we have already collapsed onto the bed.

The next morning I wake up feeling like garbage. I am extremely hungover. There are three of us in a bed made for two, so Lucienne is laying almost perpendicular across me, and Pansy is drooling right next to my head. I had fallen asleep in the starlight dress and only now realize how stupid a purchase it was. Where on earth would I wear such an extravagant thing? I’ll need to return it immediately. And perhaps worst of all, or at least most insulting of all, there is something on my hand. Sometime last night—I do not recall when, or how, or why—I moved Thorunn’s bracelet from my pocket to my wrist. I had tied it so tight that now I cannot get it off.

At least the rest of my problems can be fixed. I gently roll Lucienne off of me and get up for the washroom, where the tap water tastes terrible, but eases my headache. Now, just to find the receipt for this damn dress…

Where…is…the receipt?

It is lost forever. Even after we turn the inn room inside out, the receipt is nowhere to be found. There is some small comfort in knowing I am not the only one with morning-after buyer’s remorse. Lucienne had bought two dozen glass beakers for a vague idea of a chemistry project and Pansy finds himself in possession of an exotic potted plant he has no idea how to take care of. None of our items are refundable. Discouraged, defeated, and still suffering greatly from the last night’s festivities, we drag ourselves back to Lavendel Road. The whole way home, I beat myself up about my poor financial decision—fifteen obols is a whole week’s pay for a common laborer, and I just threw it away over some tacky dress. Where has this lack of self-control come from? I never acted so rashly in my past life. What was different then?

Fear.

That’s it. In my past life, I was afraid of every wrong move. I never spent a penny more than I could afford. I never wanted to be poor and tethered to Saol Eile like Mama was. I was afraid for myself, I was afraid for my mother, I was afraid for the future. But now I have seen the future. Even though I was so careful last time—handpicking my career, my purchases, and my travels to get as far away from Saol Eile as possible—none of it mattered in the end. My pursuit of “freedom” only landed me back in Saol Eile, then in a prison cell, then as a decapitated corpse on the royal palace floor. Fear led me there. And now, I have no reason to be afraid. I cannot possibly ruin this life any more than the last one.

When I get home, I carefully wrap the starlight dress in its protective paper sleeve and hang it up in the back of my closet. It will stay out of the way for now, but always within view, a reminder to myself. A reminder not to be afraid of the future. I know what it holds, and having seen the worst, I can only make it better. Perhaps , I reflect, admiring the intricately woven bracelet on my wrist, I might even take up the Northman on his offer. Just out of curiosity.

But first, I am headed to Belsie Port to make a high-risk investment.