“Because you cannot.” Her eyes burn with defiance at my words. “It is not in your destiny to kill him—at least not with your own hands. But your choices today will one day bring about his death, and set in motion the defeat of Grinndoar, the stone dragon.”
“We’ll see,” she snaps. In one swift move, she crosses the swords behind her back and thrusts them into their sheaths. Without a backward glance, she strides from my room.
“Such a high price,” I whisper.
I blink, and no time has passed. Golmarr still sits on the bed beside me with Nayadi’s wrist in his hand, and she is still staring at me with her clouded eyes. “You tried to kill Zhun, didn’t you?” I ask.
The old woman nods. “When I took his scale, I stabbed him.” She touches her face. “His blood burned my eyes and gifted me with a tiny piece of his magic, but stole my sight.”
I see her through Zhun’s eyes, as she tears the scale free with one sword, and then thrusts the other deep into his chest. I see the blood rain down on her as the fire dragon takes flight in his columned, underground prison.
“Was it worth it?” I ask.
“It will be when the time is right,” she says, studying me with hungry eyes.
“But you can still see.”
She shakes her head. “Not in the way you do. I see energy, not flesh.”
“Nayadi, what’s wrong with Sorrowlynn?” Golmarr asks, releasing her wrist. “She healed me, and now she can’t warm up.”
“She needs to feed on what Zhun fed on,” the crone says.
“Fire,” I whisper. That has always been the answer.
“Yes, fire,” she says. “But you don’t know how to feed on fire, do you?”
I shake my head.
Nayadi smiles, and my skin crawls. “Then you might die.”
Golmarr’s hands close into tight fists, and his breathing accelerates. “There must be something you can do,” he growls. “If she dies because she saved my life—”
“I can’t,” Nayadi snarls. “She has to do it herself.” The crone leans toward me again and closes her eyes, as if basking in the golden aura she spoke of. Golmarr grabs her frail arm and drags her toward the door.
“Out. Go!” he orders, pushing her into the hall. He slams the door shut and looks at me. “You stay there. I will have Enzio stand watch at your door while I get you some food.”
I nod and curl my knees up against my chest. The sound of Golmarr’s boots echoes on the wooden floor as he leaves the room and strides down the hall. Before he has gone down three stairs, I am drifting to sleep.
It is the smell of bacon that wakes me, and I open my eyes to bright morning sunlight. I am still in Golmarr’s bed, and the last thing I remember is him leaving the room to get me some food. On the bedside table is a bowl of cold stew and a piece of dry bread.
I pull the covers back, and my Satari clothes are creased with wrinkles. Standing, I try to smooth my blouse but give up when the wrinkles refuse to straighten out. My stomach growls, and I forget the wrinkled clothes as I quietly pad across Golmarr’s bedroom on bare feet.
When I open the door, the smell of bacon and the sound of distant laughter swirl around me. The laughter dies down and is replaced with a deep, muffled voice. As I descend the wooden stairs, the voice becomes clearer. It is Golmarr’s. He is telling the story of how the fire dragon burned his hair, and how he knelt at my feet and had me hack his hair off with the hunting knife his father gave me. And people are laughing.
“It is a good thing northern princesses prefer men with short hair,” a woman says. “Otherwise, I don’t think she would agree to marry you. You are a disgrace!”
Laughter spills out of a partially open door, along with the maddening scent of bacon. It is my overwhelming desire for food that gives me the courage to push the door open and step inside—barefoot, with rumpled and slept-in clothes, and unbrushed hair.
The kitchen is huge—more of a great hall, really—with a wide hearth, iron stove, and water pump for the food preparation, and a table big enough to seat Enzio, Golmarr, Golmarr’s father, his eight brothers, and their wives. Those who don’t have room at the table—mainly children—are sitting on benches pushed up against the wall, and everyone is eating.
Golmarr’s eyes are on the door, like he’s been watching for me, so the moment I step inside, he stops laughing and stands. “Speaking of knife-wielding, hair-chopping, skirt-hacking northern princesses,” he says, “it is my pleasure to formally introduce you, once again, to Princess Sorrowlynn of Faodara.”
My eyes grow round with horror, and I shake my head and point to my slept-in clothing. I am most definitely not attired properly to be presented to his entire family. But Golmarr simply smiles.
At my hesitation, King Marrkul hastily stands from the head of the table and motions to his chair, which is beside Golmarr’s. “Please, have a seat and fill your belly, Princess Sorrowlynn,” he says.