I wake and the first things I see are my scabbed knees looped over Golmarr’s arm. And then I see my skirt, piled at the tops of my thighs, with my lacy bloomers hanging out, and have to fight the urge to jump out of his arms and yank it down. Carefully, I lift my head from his shoulder and peer at him. He is sleeping sitting up, his head tilted back against the cave wall, and he is snoring. Dark stubble that matches his eyebrows has grown on his face, giving him a very short beard that makes him look older than he is.
I ease my body out of his lap and he doesn’t stir, so I creep out of the cave into radiant, stunning sunlight. I close my eyes and turn my face up to the sky and pull fresh air into my lungs. My arms come away from my sides, and I hold them out wide. I know how it feels to fly, how it feels to open my wings and have the wind snap into them. My heart aches with the knowledge that I will never fly. With a start, I force the thought out of my head and lower my arms. “Please get out of my head,” I whisper. There is no response.
I am standing in a thick copse of dark green pines growing halfway up the side of a steep mountain. They are still wet from last night’s rain, and every drop of water that is touched by sunlight glows like a diamond. I walk to the trunk of one of the pines and squat down, picking up a prickly cone it has shed. Tapping the cone against my hand, three nuts come out. I put one pitch-covered seed into my mouth and break the shell with my teeth. Inside is a soft, sweet nut. I smile as I chew it and start humming.
Holding out the voluminous fabric of my shirt, I begin filling it with pine nuts until I have gathered enough for a meager meal. Next, I crouch and run my hands over the wet vegetation and wildflowers. A small green plant catches my eye, and I know it is edible. I pick several handfuls and take them to the cave.
While Golmarr sleeps, I sit in the cave’s entrance and shell the nuts. When I have nearly finished, I hear Golmarr stir. He steps behind me and rests his hand on my shoulder. I reach up to touch him and he gently squeezes my fingers. “What’s this?” he asks, voice deep and rumbly with sleep. I peer up at him and can’t help but smile. He can barely open his eyes to the sunlight, his sleeveless, burned clothing is a disgrace, and his dark hair is messier than a bird’s nest.
“This is breakfast, lunch, and dinner,” I say. He sits down beside me, and we eat our paltry meal in silence.
“Being an Anthar prince, I have eaten the best steak that my kingdom has to offer,” Golmarr says, popping a green plant into his mouth. “No steak has ever tasted this good. Is this”—he motions to the remainder of our food—“something you were taught growing up in your cliffside castle, or is it part of the fire dragon’s treasure?”
“I was taught only important things,” I say with sarcasm in my voice, “like how to dance, how to walk with my shoulders squared, and how to smile without showing my teeth. When I wasn’t being taught, I would read a lot—sometimes two books a day, but those were books about knights and silly princesses who could never save themselves. Nothing about how to survive in the wild. This food, and the knowledge of how to get it, is part of the fire dragon’s treasure.”
“Just think. If his treasure had been gold or jewels, we would still be starving right now. I know how to forage and hunt for food in the grasslands, but I have never learned how to do it in the mountainous terrain of your lands.” Golmarr runs his hands through his hair, but they get stuck halfway. He winces. “Do you know anything about cutting hair?”
“I don’t think so, but I can try to cut yours.” I stand and pull my knife from its sheath, and Golmarr gets to his knees. I slide my hand between his neck and his hair, and he shudders.
“Why are you so cold?” he asks, clutching my icy fingers in his.
“I don’t know,” I say, and lift the fragile, burned strands of his hair. Placing my knife at the nape of his neck, I slice. Strands of hair fall over his bare shoulders and arms, and Golmarr groans.
I pause. “Does that hurt?”
“In Anthar, a man’s strength is said to be tied to his hair. Faodarian men and Trevonan men have short hair. If I return home with short hair, I will be the laughingstock of the family. It hurts my pride to have it cut.”
I stand in front of him and run my fingers through his hair. “If it makes you feel any better, I think you look nice like this.”
“Nice?” he asks. “Not handsome? Or dashing? Or—didn’t you call me beautiful once? But now I just look nice?”