Page 63 of Alien Viking's Passion

“I think maybe they like it,” Aretha said through the corner of her mouth.

Craxon chuckled. “I think you may be right.”

There was all kinds of handshaking and forehand squeezing and happy congratulations in a whirlwind of Viking faces.

Finally they got into an open wooden wagon drawn by ten eight-leggedestrthat were about as tall as Earth horses, but longer and more packed with muscle.

They traveled across the island, one of thousands that made up the Principality of Ragnhildros. The whole way was lined withRagnhildroses, who looked a lot like the people of Hjalmarheim but wore subtly different clothing.

To Aretha’s eyes the country was immensely beautiful, like pictures she had seen from Lake Como in Italy, but even more colorful and with red, blue, and purple flowers filling every bush and every tree. Here and there sharp-edged, blindingly white cliffs stuck up out of the ground, some reaching a thousand feet.

It was warmer here than in Hjalmarheim, and Aretha’s white dress had an ingenious design that would cool her down despite offering complete coverage. The Ragnhildroses were indeed more conservative than people were in Hjalmarheim.

The wagon stopped and Craxon helped her out. They boarded a small, gilt ship that was clearly ceremonial and too delicate for any real voyage. Many other ships followed in their wake.

“I see you have a new scabbard for Fjernstjerna,” Craxon observed as eight rowers took them across the turquoise strait to the hilly island where he had a summer palace. A summer breeze carried the scent of many flowers from both sides of the straits.

“I had some help in making it,” Aretha admitted, taking hold of the sword’s hilt. Wearing a wide belt with her wedding dress seemed natural. “Leather work was never my thing.”

“Oh? A warrior helped you?”

“A shieldmaiden called Tyra. The former Royal Chaperone. You have some really good people working for you, Craxon.”

“She is a good one,” he agreed. “But then, most of them are.”

“Forged by frost in dead of night,” Aretha said softly, pulling the blade halfway out,

“Fjernstjerna turns the dark to light!”

Craxon stared at her. “A battle chant for your sword. And it rhymes! Did Tyra help with that, too?”

“No, I’ve been thinking about it for a while.”

“It reminds me of my Krakhogg’s,” Craxon said, voice suddenly gruff.

Aretha grinned. “You noticed the ‘frost’ part? I thought you should be in there somewhere.”

“I’m not as frosty as I used to be, my love.” He took hold of her arm, where the white Marks shone, and laid his own arm along it, perfectly matching. “Thanks to you.”

“I don’t think you ever were that frosty. That was forced on you, as all your subjects keep telling me.”

Another carriage waited on the other side, taking them through immaculate gardens to the summer palace’s gildeskal, the hall of feasts.

“We have a tedious few hours ahead of us,” he growled as he helped her down from the carriage. “There will be speeches and toasts. And eight courses. Simply smile and pretend to enjoy it.”

They walked into the wooden building through two rows of honor guards, their swords held ready.

“So here’s the difference between us,” Aretha said as they entered the dark gildeskal. “You hate this kind of thing. But I may actually like it.”

“Well, you are a princess. So you probably should.”

- - -

It was early evening when they were able to leave the increasingly lively reception. Aretha already knew that Vikings celebrating a wedding could be a rowdy crowd, and the Ragnhildroses were no exception.

The air outside was silky and fragrant with the great mass of flowers in the garden. Above them, the insane mass of stars sparkled.

Aretha stretched her arms out and did a quick spin, tipsy from all the toasting. “I can learn to like this planet.”

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