The Ice Dragon King & The Slave-Queen

Taryn stood by the closed window in the longhouse, shivering, not only from fear of what was ahead for her but also from the biting cold. She was getting married that afternoon and the chaos in the longhouse was not helping her nerves at all. She looked out of the window and saw dark clouds rolling in, the atmosphere turning somber, even though it was daytime and a wedding was about to happen. The minute she opened her eyes this morning, she mechanically did what her chaperone told her to do. The ladies placed a wooden tub in front of the hearth and filled it with warm water. The fire in the hearth was hot so that she could take a good long bath that morning before the wedding. They made sure the water was always warm so that she would not catch a cold, as two ladies helped wash her body. They scrubbed her arms, legs, back, and torso. They lathered fruity scented soap into her hair and washed her scalp gently. Later, they made sure that other hairs on her body were closely trimmed. After they patted her dry, they rubbed scented oil into her hair, and into her skin, paying close attention to the sensitive parts of her body. They brushed her hair with a comb she had never seen before, one she believed was made from animal bones. They brushed her auburn tresses until they shone like burnished copper and let them fall behind her in waves. She stood in one position most obediently, not saying a thing as the ladies dolled her up and her chaperone supervised what they were doing like a hawk. Taryn came to this part of the world less than a week ago. Accompanied by only two ladies in her retinue, they arrived in this country in a large longship, one that belonged to the Varangian king — the king of this kingdom. One of the two ladies was her chaperone, a mature woman who was to be in charge of her well-being. Her chaperone's responsibility was to oversee everything that was related to her well-being before and even after she was wedded to the Varangian king. The chaperone was to live and care for Taryn until the end of her days. The other lady in her party was a much younger girl, two years younger than Taryn, to be exact. The girl was to be her handmaid in the new kingdom, to help her with the little things including getting into her clothes, helping her with the tasks in her new home, and to care for her. As she stood in that same spot, anxious and utterly distraught by her situation, she knew that she had no choice about what was happening right then, or even what might happen in the future. But, she must pull herself together. She must not allow the anxiety that was eating at her composure to show. This was something that she just had to do. For weeks now she had been told that this marriage was a marriage that would save her people, a treaty of sorts. She had been told that this marriage would keep the raids, the destruction, the thieving, and the loss of lives at bay. She had been told that this marriage would keep the barbarians away from her country and she must do it all over again if it meant she could save every single life in the kingdom. And at the end of it, she was also told to keep a very important secret deep in the crevices of her heart. For she was not whom she said she was, and neither was she whom these people believed she was. She was not the real Celtic princess. She was not the only daughter of the Celtic king, now waiting to be married to a foreign king. She may have stepped onto this foreign kingdom’s soil wearing soft slippers, as she jumped off the longship’s plank onto the pier on dainty feet, but she was not royalty. She was not the real Celtic princess even though she walked on this land in long silky dresses and thick coats made of ermine wrapped around her body to protect her from this kingdom's cold wind. She was not the real Celtic princess, even though she smiled and spoke like one. Taryn was anything but a princess. She was a pretender. She was just a lowly slave whom the Celtic king — or more precisely, his ministers — had forcefully hauled off from her home and brought to the Celtic king’s castle one fateful morning. They took her old and sickly grandmother away from her and whisked her off unwillingly from the small village where they lived. They swore that she was the spitting image of the royal princess and was the only person who could help save their kingdom from doom. But was she? Taryn stared at her half-naked self in the tall brass mirror next to her as the ladies helped lace her feet in thick animal-skin shoes that would keep her feet warm under her wedding dress. As she looked at her reflection, she wondered, could she really save her kingdom from doom? And, did she really look like the Celtic princess? Yes, it was true that both she and the princess were petite, but that was as far as she could say about their resemblance to each other. For where the princess had red hair with an orange hue, a sprinkle of freckles on her nose and cheeks, and a grating voice that wouldn’t stop whining at her father the king, Taryn had auburn-colored hair, smooth milky white skin, and every time she spoke, her voice was soft and mellifluous. Taryn may be the daughter of nobodies, but it seemed like God had made her from a very special and a very different mold altogether. Taryn recalled the day a month ago when the Celtic king’s ministers in their official attires arrived at the small hut that she shared with her grandmother. These men came in their carriages, pulled by large, black, intimidating horses. The animals breathed hard from their journey, steam coming out of their nostrils, they neighed and shook their heads as their masters came barging into Taryn’s hut while she was feeding warm porridge to her grandmother. Their unwelcomed presence surprised her, almost making her spill the food on the ground. They pursued her, persuaded her, and told her that this was her calling from God. They tried to convince her that this was the best way to save her country and the thousands of people in it from ruin — by marrying a foreign king and living in a foreign land, in replacement of the Celtic princess. They shared with her the brutality of the foreign king and what he and his men had done to other kingdoms and their people in the past. Their description of the foreign king made her quake in fear, yet they stood right in front of her, telling her that she must marry the brutal king. “Marry the Varangian king for the safety of our country, child. Help protect this country and its sovereignty. Go to the land of the Vikings in the name of our princess. Marry their king in her stead. Do it for God and country, my child, and you shall forever be blessed,” the king’s bishop said in his booming voice as he stood in front of Taryn, his large frame towering over her, making her cower in fear. “You are scaring her, bishop,” said another man, somewhat younger than the bishop, but he too wore the clergy robes, albeit in a different colour. The younger man crouched in front of her, his hands on his knees, trying to bring himself to her height as she sat on the ground, her eyes wide with fear. He said in an imploring voice, “You shall have nothing to fear, Taryn Ó’Cionga. If it is your grandmother that you worry about, fret not, dear girl, for she will be well taken care of when you are gone. She will be brought to the king's church and her daily needs will be looked after by the nuns.” As he said this, two nuns appeared near the doorframe of Taryn’s small hut, their eyes roaming her face and then they turned to look at her grandmother lying supine on the bed, unmoving. Her grandmother's withered old face looked like she was about to cry, but her eyes were alert. The two nuns bowed to the two men that were already in her small house. All of them stood very close to each other, filling up the confined space of her small hut, making her feel claustrophobic. Throughout the whole time that the men were speaking and persuading her, Taryn hadn’t said a word or replied to any of them. She was afraid, she was agitated, but one thing’s for certain, she would never even consider leaving her grandmother. She didn’t know any of these men or women. It didn’t matter to her if they were the king’s ministers, nuns from the king’s church, or even if they were the king and queen themselves. She did not trust any of them. She would never leave her grandmother alone. Her grandmother was the only family she had. When Taryn was five or six years old, her mother died suddenly. It was a tragedy because her mother was a wonderful woman, beautiful and kind, a few traits that Taryn had inherited. What’s worse, however, a few months after her mother’s death, Taryn’s father, who was so overwhelmed with grief, followed suit. The heartbreak of losing his beloved wife was too much for him to bear. So, Taryn was raised by her grandmother alone, a sweet old lady with a disposition very similar to her mother. Back then, when her grandmother was still strong, she would tell Taryn many stories — about their family, the place they lived, fairytales and legends of their people, histories, and many more. There was never a day that passed when Taryn had ever felt lonely. The stories that she loved and remembered most are those of her parents. Her grandmother would describe to Taryn her mother’s features, kindness, and determined nature. Her grandmother would also tell her of her father’s love for her mother, and the way he would protect and support his wife through thick and thin. Even though they lived in a small house at the edge of the village, both of them were so happy together. When she was conceived, they were the most joyful people in the village and how proud they were when she finally came into the world. Taryn sometimes wished that she had portraits of her parents to look at whenever she missed them. However, paintings done by artists are very rare in her small village and the price to make one is so high that most people never cared to immortalize their faces on paper. Many times when her grandmother talked about her parents, she found herself wishing she had a face to put to the stories. Painful longing often tugged at her heart. One day, however, a few weeks after Taryn turned eleven years old, something happened to her grandmother. They were walking back from the woods near their small, cozy home after picking up some wild mushrooms. Her grandmother slipped on the ground and fell on her side. At first, her grandmother laughed it off, saying she slipped on a rock and she limped back to the house with Taryn by her side, supporting her grandmother's tall frame as best she could. She told Taryn many times that there was nothing to worry about and that she was all right. But a few hours later, when Taryn came to check on her grandmother, thinking that the old woman was asleep in her bed, she found her grandmother lying on the floor instead, her face twitching in pain as she convulsed and vomited on the floor. That night, her grandmother sweated through her clothes and the mattress, her whole body twitching involuntarily. After that day, her grandmother had become paralyzed, her body frail and her words were slurred. She no longer tells Taryn stories. “She will be treated far better and will receive far more than what you are trying to provide for her in this little hut. She will be well fed, her bed sores will be treated, she will live better than she had even before the accident. You know we have the means to help her, child,” the young clergyman said as he watched Taryn closely. Taryn turned to look at her bedridden grandmother, her hand reaching out to the old woman’s pockmarked hands. Tears welled in her eyes but she tried to keep them in check, not wanting to show any emotions to the strangers standing in her small hut. The words uttered by the young clergyman cut into her heart. He was right, she knew he was right, but she hated the fact that he was. Many years since her grandmother fell ill, she had tried her best to care for the old woman. But no matter how hard she tried, she was only able to provide less and less. They first lost their small home a few months after her grandmother became paralyzed. Taryn had tried very hard to get their house back. She worked in many homes in the village, doing housework and chores. She worked on farms, with large farm animals and plantations. But in the end, she had to become a slave because there was no other way for them both to survive. But none of it mattered, did it? She struggled to survive. She knew that nothing could go back to the way it was, no matter how hard she tried. With her status as a slave and her limited abilities, she was only able to provide a small roof over her grandmother’s head and live together in the small hut, the same small hut that would flood when it rained and turn very cold at night because they could not afford firewood. The young clergyman stood up and turned his back on Taryn and her grandmother. He chatted quietly with the bishop and the two nuns, thinking that Taryn was wavering. Taryn’s grandmother caught her eyes. The old woman tried to speak but her words slurred and drool came out of her mouth. As Taryn leaned close to dab her grandmother’s mouth with a scrap of clean cloth, her grandmother slowly reached for the necklace around her neck with shaky hands, placed the necklace in Taryn’s palm, and covered it. Taryn frowned but her grandmother slowly shook her head, her alert eyes unwavering, sending a warning to Taryn to keep quiet. Taryn quickly hid the necklace in her pocket. The nuns were the first to make their move. One of the nuns went to stand beside Taryn, probably sensing that she would oppose what they were about to do next. The other nun, larger in size, pulled Taryn’s frail grandmother into a sitting position, causing the old woman to wince in pain. Taryn’s eyes widened in shock and anger as she scrambled to her feet, warning the large woman to stop what she was doing and that she was hurting her grandmother. Taryn’s warning fell on deaf ears. Taryn tried to pull the large nun’s paws from her grandmother but the nun next to her quickly pulled her back, locking her small wrists behind her as she struggled and yelled for them to stop. “Mórai. Mórai! Let me go! Let my grandmother go! Mórai!” Taryn thrashed against the nun that held her, but her small slender frame made no impact on the woman. She called out to her grandmother as she watched the large nun toss her old grandmother on her shoulder like a sack of flour and walked out of their little hut. “Mórai! No! Mórai!” Again she screamed for her grandmother but the nun that held her wouldn’t budge. The bishop narrowed his eyes, shook his head in disapproval at Taryn’s wild screaming, and left her hut too. Now there were only three of them left in the small hut. “My dear girl, I have told you before. The church will take good care of your grandmother. The nuns shall tend to her needs. You just have to follow me and my fellow men to the castle and everything will be fine,” the young clergyman smiled at her, yet his smile didn’t reach his eyes as he patiently waited for her to stop her thrashing. But Taryn didn’t stop. She kept fighting the nun that was holding her. The nun’s habit almost went askew because of Taryn. Taryn tried to twist her hands this way and that but to no avail. She fought them and screamed for her grandmother again and again, even as they pushed her out of the hut. By then, Taryn saw that there were only two carriages left, yet her old grandmother and the large nun were nowhere in sight. The nun that held her dumped her unceremoniously inside one of the carriages as the young clergyman followed her inside. Sitting opposite her and next to the clergyman was another man she had not seen before. The strange man wore regular clothes, his boots were stained with mud and he wore a hat on his head. His face was stormy as he looked at Taryn, who returned his look with a glare. The young clergyman chuckled at their hostile exchange before he hit the carriage roof. The carriage moved a few seconds later. Taryn could not sit still. Even when the carriage started moving at a faster pace, she kept looking out of the window, planning her escape. She didn’t know where her grandmother was, but she refused to sit inside the carriage and let these men in their robes dictate what her life should or should not be like. She told herself that she must flee, that it was not her fate to be separated from the only family she had, forced to do something by strangers she didn't know, and then shipped off to some foreign kingdom, like cattle for sale. “Don’t you dare,” the man with the hat warned her when he noticed that she kept peeking through the window. Taryn knew the woods like the back of her hand. She knew she could survive the woods if she managed to make a run for it and hide in some of the small grottos uphill. Taryn turned to look defiantly at the man with the hat before her hand shot out and she opened the carriage door. She fell out of the carriage and rolled onto the side of the road as the carriage whizzed by. She quickly clambered to her feet at the same time she heard someone shouting for the carriage to stop. She tried to run for it but only managed to get five steps away from where she fell before someone grabbed her hair roughly and pulled her back to the side of the road. “Listen here, you vermin. Did you think you had a choice in this matter? You are a slave and it would be very wise that you do as we tell you to do. You either take the princess’ place or we throw you and your grandmother out to the hounds. How would you like that instead, hmm?” The man with the hat tugged her hair hard as he looked down on her, spittles flying out of his mouth in a rage. He then tossed her onto the wet ground, making her roll to her side, dead leaves sticking to her already dirty and torn clothes. The man was angry that she had tried to make a run for it even though he warned her not to. His booted feet kicked her sides, her back, and her upper legs. He pulled her by the hair and slapped her across the face a few times as she whimpered and continued kicking her over and over again. The bishop and the nun who had held her earlier looked on from their carriage behind her, both their faces passive and bored. After a while, the young clergyman called out, “Stop, Bowen. We do not want to send her to the king as damaged goods. There must not be bruises on her form. Just make her come with us peacefully.” And so they took her to the castle “peacefully”, by binding her hands tightly behind her and stuffing her mouth with a dirty cloth. They warned her that if she so much as stretched her legs the wrong way, they would make sure that her grandmother was thrown out and left to die of hunger. The threat sobered her up. She looked at the man with the hat and knew he was not joking. She stayed quiet in the carriage throughout the long hours and long ride to the castle. She stayed quiet when they unbound her hands after they arrived at the castle and she continued to keep quiet even when they deposited her in front of the king, queen, and princess. “Do you think she will pass muster, father?” The princess asked in her grating voice as she stood next to her father on the throne. “Orla, my dear, nobody in this world looks like you, love. Your beauty is outstanding. How could a lowly slave girl like her ever pass muster? She’s not even a tenth of you,” the queen, sitting next to the king, waved her hand in Taryn’s direction as she replied to her daughter's question instead. The king wrinkled his nose as he watched Taryn intently, his eyes observing her from the top of her head to the tip of her toe. He took in the thin, torn, and dirty scrap of clothing she was wearing. He stared at her dirty bare feet standing in the middle of the throne room and frowned. His eyes swept back to Taryn’s face, tainted with black smudges on her nose, cheeks, and forehead. He looked at Taryn’s limp red hair, tangled on one side, making her look like a life-sized raggedy doll. “Get the servants to clean the girl. Give her fresh clothes. Then bring her back here to Us. We shall see if she will come up to par with Our daughter,” the king ordered, and without a second glance, he turned to his queen and daughter, dismissing Taryn and his ministers as the three of them went for dinner. It took a few hours after the king sent her away for her to be finally ready and meet with the royal trio once again. When Taryn stepped into the throne room wearing a plain long cotton dress with thin slippers covering her feet, she made the royal family turn to look at her at once. The king’s eyes widened in disbelief, watching the young girl who looked like a beggar only a few moments ago and right then, standing a few feet away from him, completely transformed. He tried to hide his reaction from his wife and daughter, knowing that he would be in great trouble if they noticed his sudden interest in the very pretty slave girl. “Your name, girl,” the king asked, not unkindly. “My name is Taryn Ó’Cionga,” Taryn muttered softly, her feet shaking from exhaustion and from the kicking she received earlier that day. “Speak up,” the queen barked, her eyes narrowed as they flicked from her husband to the young slave girl. Taryn repeated her name, her voice quivering, before the king interjected, “Ó’Cionga? That name means “king” in Gaelic, did you know?” The queen turned to look at her husband, her face thunderous, noting that he intentionally softened his voice and no longer scowled when he spoke to the girl. Princess Orla didn’t care about what was transpiring between her parents. She was standing beside her father on the throne and she, too, was watching Taryn intently. She walked over to Taryn, circled her, and looked at the slave girl up, down, and back up again. She narrowed her eyes at Taryn’s hair, now clean and brushed, it looked lush and thick, flowing in waves on her back. She looked into Taryn’s clear light blue eyes but quickly turned to look away as if the blue eyes were piercing her soul. Princess Orla wrinkled her nose in disgust and a great deal of jealousy as she stood next to Taryn. “So what do you think father?” Princess Orla asked, twirling and flipping her hair before she turned around to face her father and mother sitting on the throne. It took a while for the king to reply, his eyes glued on Taryn’s now clean face, noting the smoothness of her skin and how pretty her light blue eyes looked. He swallowed loudly and ran his tongue on his top lip as if watching his favorite bird perching idly in its cage that was about to be pounced on by a hungry cat. His prolonged silence made the queen clear her throat loudly and turn to look at him once more. “Yes, she would do. She would do just fine,” the king whispered in regret, his eyes traveling slowly from Taryn's feet to her face, sealing her fate for eternity. From the moment Taryn stepped foot in the Varangian kingdom, the womenfolk had gone out of their way to exclude her from almost everything. They spoke in their own language called Norse, a language she couldn’t understand. The words they uttered sounded burly and complicated, very different from her own Gaelic language. However, they understood her language, so it was easier on her part, especially when she wanted to ask for food and drinks. From the first day she arrived, she was only allowed to circle the small longhouse that they let her stay in with her governess and maid. She thought it was ironic that even in another country she was still a slave, following orders from other authorities, even though she was called "princess" and dressed in fine clothes. But none of these made her stomach clench in fear when she imagined what the Varangians would do to her and her two companions if they knew she was a pretender. For the other two ladies were also victims of the Celtic king and his ministers. Would the Varangians think that she was trying to fool their people and their king? Would the Varangian king behead her if he found out? “Your only task is to go to the Varangian lands and marry their king. Make sure you behave as a princess should. Whatever you do after the wedding is up to you. You can stab the Varangian king’s heart for all we care,” one of the king’s ministers said to her and chuckled after he spoke the last words. “Always remember to keep up with the pretense of a princess. You will be accompanied by governess Riona O’Nunan, who you shall say has been your governess since you were a child. You will also have your own handmaid, a girl called Eve, so that you will not be too homesick,” the man smirked as he pointed to the two ladies standing near the door. The lady named Riona looked at Taryn, her eyes sad and her face slightly gaunt as if she hadn’t slept much for the past few weeks. The handmaid, on the other hand, looked like she couldn’t wait to leave her home country and go far away from it. Standing next to each other, the governess and the handmaid were such a contrast with each other that Taryn found herself praying quietly that they would be able to get along fine, especially in a foreign kingdom, away from home. “The Varangian King is not known to be a patient or kind man. He does not take it easily on those who betrayed him. So beware and always remember to keep your secrets well. You have been warned,” the man’s final words before he departed almost gave her heart palpitations. “Yes, my lord,” Taryn answered shakily, her head bowed, as she listened to his receding footsteps.