Ice Maiden. Debra Lee Brown

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      Rika poured a thin stream of seal oil onto a rag and worked it into the chain mail of her brother’s hauberk. The armory had been quiet since Brodir went a-Viking last summer. Rika enjoyed the solitude, the smells of leather and burnt metal, the icy kiss of the mail where it rested against her knee.

      Ottar worked beside her, carving an ancient design into a shield he had fashioned from a timber hatch that had washed ashore after a shipwreck last year.

      The day was clear and cold, and Ottar had built a small fire in the smith’s brazier in the corner of the small hut. Rika set the hauberk aside and warmed her hands.

      “Why do you marry the Scot?” Ottar said abruptly.

      She turned to him, prepared with an answer, knowing he’d ask her sooner or later. “There are things I must—”

      “If you’ve need of a husband, why not me?” He paused and met her eyes, which widened before she could disguise her shock.

      “Ottar, you don’t understand.”

      “I do. You need protection—from Brodir.” He gouged a knot in the wood, abandoning the delicate skill required for such art. “I will safeguard you. You think of me as a child, I know. But I’m not.”

      Rika smiled and placed a hand over his to quell his attack on the ruined shield. “Nay. I have eyes, and I see you are a man.”

      He smiled, and in that moment she thought he looked more boyish than ever. One day the dark down on his chin would sprout into a man’s beard, but not this year.

      “Then marry me, instead,” Ottar said, and set the shield and the awl aside. “We’re well suited to each other. You cannot argue that.”

      Nay, she could not, for they spent a good part of every day together and had been naught but the best of friends for as long as she could remember.

      “It’s what Gunnar would have wanted were he here.”

      Rika arched a brow at him. Gunnar would not have wanted it, nor would he have condoned the scheme she was about to launch in order to buy his freedom.

      No one knew of her plan, save Lawmaker and two of Gunnar’s closest friends. All thought she was merely after her dowry as a way to thwart Brodir. She’d been careful never to speak of her plans for the silver in front of Ottar and the others. Regardless of his loyalty to her brother, Ottar’s tongue was far too loose. She’d tell him when the time was right.

      Ottar had worshiped Gunnar until the day her brother was taken from them—carried off in the night and sold into slavery on a ship bound for the mainland. Few believed Brodir was to blame, but Rika knew the truth each time the huge warrior looked into her eyes and grinned. The memory of him evoked a shudder.

      Ottar continued to look at her, waiting for her answer. She must think of a way to crush this foolish idea without harming the youth’s feelings. Lawmaker had been right, after all.

      “I’m not a suitable bride for you,” she said finally.

      “I’m not—” How could she tell him? “Brodir has already—” She fisted her hands in her lap and searched for the right words.

      “I know what he’s done, and had I known sooner I’d have killed him.” Ottar knelt before her. “I would…marry you anyway.”

      A bittersweet chord tugged at her heart. “I know you would, and I’m grateful to you for the offer.” But were Ottar her only choice, she would never allow such a thing. It was unthinkable. Brodir would kill him, as he would any man of her clan who dared such a bold move in his absence.

      As for the Scot, who cared what happened to him? Besides, if they moved quickly, both she and Grant would be long gone by the time Brodir returned.

      “Come,” she said, and rose from her stool. “We’ve worked long enough this day. Let us take our evening meal with the others.” Ottar opened his mouth to speak, and she put a finger to his lips to quiet him.

      “We will speak no more of this,” she said, and stepped outside into what promised to be a brilliant sunset.

      Ottar followed, dragging his feet in the crusty snow. Rika smiled inwardly. Honor and chivalry were rare among her folk. One day, Ottar would make a woman a happy wife. But not this year, and not this woman.

      “Ho!” a voice boomed behind them.

      Rika turned to see Lawmaker jogging toward them from the bathhouse, his breath frosting his peppered beard.

      “I’ll see you inside,” Ottar said to her, and continued toward the longhouse.

      She nodded, then smiled at Lawmaker.