The Thrall Queen
Copyright© 2026 by Megumi Kashuahara
Chapter 5: The Value
The transformation happened so gradually that Saoirse couldn’t pinpoint exactly when it occurred.
One night she simply climbed into bed without hesitation, tucked herself against Sweyn’s back, and slid her perpetually cold feet under his calves for warmth. He made a sound—half grunt, half laugh—and shifted to accommodate her, his arm coming around to pull her closer.
“Your feet are ice,” he complained in Norse.
“Your legs are warm,” she countered, wiggling her toes against his skin.
He caught her foot between his calves, trapping it. “Better?”
“Much.”
It had become routine. Natural. She no longer took the knife from under her pillow—it remained there, untouched, more symbol than necessity. And instead of lying rigid on her side of the bed, she sought him out, curling into his warmth like it was her right.
Because somehow, over three months of shared nights and patient waiting, it had become her right.
Sweyn never pushed. Never demanded. But he welcomed her closeness with a contentment that suggested this was exactly what he’d wanted all along—not a frightened slave enduring his touch, but a willing woman choosing it.
Tonight, like most nights, she burrowed against his chest, her face pressed to his collarbone, one leg hooked over his, her cold feet seeking refuge between his calves.
“You are like ice mouse,” he murmured, his Norse slow enough for her to follow easily now. “Small and cold and stealing warmth.”
“Mice are vermin,” she protested.
“Yes. But also clever. Survivor.” His hand stroked her hair—the gesture had become habitual, soothing to them both. “Like you.”
She smiled against his skin. Three months ago, she would have frozen at such a comment. Now she recognized it as a compliment.
His arm tightened around her, pulling her impossibly closer. She could feel his heartbeat, steady and strong. Could smell the scent of him—leather and steel and something indefinably Sweyn.
“Tell me something,” she said softly. “In Irish. From before.”
This had become another ritual. She would ask him to practice his Irish, and he would tell her fragments of his day, his thoughts, his observations. His accent was still terrible, but he tried.
“Today...” He switched to careful Irish. “My father speak with Christian priest. About ... changing Denmark. Make all people Christian.” He paused, searching for words. “I not know if this good.”
“Why not?”
“The old gods...” Back to Norse, the concepts too complex for his Irish. “They are our gods. Our fathers’ gods. To abandon them feels like betraying everything we are.”
“But your father converted.”
“My father is old. He thinks of death, of what comes after. He wants...” Sweyn struggled. “Insurance? He wants Christian heaven and also Valhalla. Both.”
Saoirse tilted her head to look up at him. In the firelight, his face was thoughtful, almost troubled. “What do you want?”
“I want Denmark strong. If Christianity makes us strong—if it brings trade with Christian kingdoms, if it makes us respectable to them—then I want Christianity.” He met her eyes. “But I also want our people to choose it, not have it forced.”
“That’s wise.”
“You think so?” He seemed genuinely curious about her opinion.
“Yes. Faith without choice is just obedience. And obedience without understanding is fragile.”
He was quiet for a moment, his thumb tracing circles on her shoulder. “This is what monks taught you? To think like this?”
“They taught me to question. To reason. To understand that truth often exists in complexity, not simplicity.”
“Complexity.” He repeated the Norse word slowly. “Yes. This.” His arm around her tightened. “You are complex, little Saoirse. More than anyone knows.”
She tensed slightly. “What do you mean?”
“You speak like educated woman. You think like ... like scholar, not slave. You understand ideas that most warriors never consider.” He shifted to look at her more directly. “Who were you? Before?”
“No one. Just an orphan the monks took in.”
“Monks do not take in orphan girls and teach them like this. They send girls to nunnery.” His gaze was too sharp, too knowing. “I think you are someone. Someone important. And I think you do not tell me.”
Saoirse’s heart raced. This was dangerous ground. “I am what you see. A slave you claimed at Jól.”
“No.” His voice was firm. “You are woman I claimed at Jól. Woman who would rather freeze than submit. Woman who speak three languages—”
“Three?”
“Irish, Norse, and Latin.” He said it calmly. “You think I not notice? When Christian priest come to speak with my father, I watch you. You understand every word he say. Your lips move with the Latin.”
She had been careless. Stupid. Of course he’d noticed.
“I learned some Latin at the monastery,” she admitted carefully. “The brothers taught me to help with—”
“Brothers do not teach girls. Sisters teach girls. Brothers teach boys who will be priests.” He tilted her chin up, forcing her to meet his eyes. “You lie to me, Saoirse. Not big lie, but lie of...” He searched for the word. “Omission. You hide who you are.”
“I’m no one,” she insisted.
“No.” He stroked her cheek with surprising gentleness. “You are someone. And one day, you will tell me who. But not tonight.” He pulled her back against his chest, settling them both for sleep. “Tonight, you just be my ice mouse who steal warmth.”
She lay against him, her mind racing. He knew. Not everything, but enough to be suspicious. Enough to ask questions.
“Are you angry?” she whispered.
“No. Curious.” His breath stirred her hair. “Everyone has secrets. You have yours. I have mine.” His hand found hers, laced their fingers together. “But when you are ready to trust me with yours, I will listen.”
“And if I’m never ready?”
“Then you keep secret, and I keep guessing.” She could hear the smile in his voice. “I like puzzles. You are good puzzle.”
Despite her fear, Saoirse felt warmth bloom in her chest. He knew she was hiding something, and he wasn’t forcing her to reveal it. Wasn’t threatening or demanding. Just ... waiting. Again.
“You are a strange man, Sweyn Forkbeard,” she murmured.
“You say this before.” His arm around her was steady, secure. “Sleep now, little one. Tomorrow I have thing I need your help with.”
“What thing?”
“You will see.” And he would say no more.
The next evening, when Sweyn summoned her earlier than usual, Saoirse found him at his table surrounded by parchments. His expression was frustrated, and he barely looked up when she entered.
“You can read Latin,” he said without preamble. Not a question.
She hesitated, then decided there was no point in denying what he already knew. “Yes.”
“Good.” He gestured at the parchments. “This is letter from Frankish king. My father receive it, give to priest to read. Priest read it, but...” He made a dismissive gesture. “Priest have reasons to interpret certain way. I want to know what it actually say.”
Saoirse moved closer to the table. The parchment was fine quality, the script elegant—this was official correspondence from a royal court. Her pulse quickened.
“You want me to translate it?”
“Yes. But not just words. Tell me what it mean. What he really ask.” Sweyn met her eyes. “Priest say letter is friendly, offers trade. But my father worried. He think there is more.”
Saoirse picked up the parchment carefully. The Latin was formal, courtly—exactly the style the monks had taught her to read. She scanned it quickly, then read it again more slowly, parsing the careful diplomatic language.
“Well?” Sweyn asked.
“The priest is right that it’s friendly on the surface,” she said slowly, still reading. “But there are ... layers. Here—” She pointed to a phrase. “He congratulates your father on converting to Christianity. That’s genuine. But then here—” She moved her finger down. “He mentions that Christian kings support each other against ‘pagan threats from the east.’ That’s a subtle invitation to alliance, but also a reminder that if Denmark ever returns to paganism, that alliance ends.”
Sweyn leaned over her shoulder, following her finger even though he couldn’t read the words. “What else?”
“Here he offers trade concessions, but ties them to ‘continued demonstration of Christian faith.’ That means if your father’s commitment wavers, the trade deals disappear.” She looked up at Sweyn. “This isn’t just a friendly letter. It’s a contract with conditions.”
“Conditions the priest not mention.”
“The priest probably doesn’t want to worry your father. Or...” She hesitated.
“Or?”
“Or the priest has reasons to want Denmark more firmly committed to Christianity, and presenting this as simple friendship serves that goal.”
Sweyn was quiet for a long moment, studying her face. Then he smiled—not the gentle smile she’d seen in bed, but something sharper, more calculating. “You are very valuable, little Saoirse.”
“I just read Latin.”
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