The Virgin of Valkarion

by Poul Anderson

"It will pass. Victory was dearly bought, but now it is ours. And you, Alfric, are ruler of Valkarion."

"I—a heathen outlander?"

"After last night, the Household and the guards will follow you to hell and back. And the rest—" she smiled shyly—"will follow me, who follow you myself."

"A big task. Too big, perhaps, for the son of an Aslakan peasant." Alfric smiled crookedly down at Hildaborg. "Tis more for you, who are born a queen. Best I continue my travels."

"The queen," she said firmly, "needs a king. You have come to the end of your wandering, Alfric." She laughed, a clear beautiful sound in the quiet morning. "You have no choice, my dear. The Sibyl grudgingly admits that the Fortieth Dynasty, 'sons of the heathen,' will be among the greatest. But how can you have sons without—"

Alfric grinned. "I surrender," he said. "Who am I to challenge the Fates?"

Down in the street a hengist, escaped from his owner in the rioting, whinnied his greeting to the early sun.