Page 34 of Greed of Giants
“Yes, I thought you might say two hundred and thirty-six, a number I couldn’t imagine. Rumors claim that giants lived a long time.”
I nodded, though she couldn’t see my head move in the dark. That part the mortals had gotten right. “My people lived hundreds of years, on average, five hundred. The record for the longest anyone lived was nine hundred and eighty-six years. That was the devastation of it all: every generation had something to prove, had to work twice as hard to make a name, to be effective. That’s why I workedso hard and dug so deep. That’s why it was easy for me to be the scapegoat.” I paused, the pressure building. “How long do mortals. . . humans live?”
“On average, a hundred years, I think the longest living human died at a hundred and twenty-seven.”
“Such short lives,” I mused. “It gives you urgency, to make every moment count.”
“I haven’t thought about it that way.”
I shifted toward her, turning onto my side. There was something intimate about lying in the dark together, speaking of the past, of mortality, of life and death. I felt that string between us pull taut and that longing to close the distance.
“In case you wondered,” Ilaris said. “I turned thirty a few months ago.”
That surprised me. “I thought you might be younger. You spoke of trying to become a scholar.”
“You thought that by thirty, I would have achieved that goal, that I’d no longer be an apprentice. I thought so too. I’ve been a disappointment to many.”
I tasted the bitterness in her words, and it drove me to rise on one elbow. “You’re not a disappointment to me. I was surprised, not upset.”
“All the same.”
The sadness in her voice was soft and precise. I didn’t know what to say. It felt important—like she needed to remain in that sorrow for a moment, unhurried, without anyone trying to lift it from her before she was ready.
“Were you married?”
Her question caught me off guard. Such an abrupt shift in the conversation, yet I wondered if that had been hergoal all along—the question about age only leading up to what she truly wanted to know. I, too, shared in that hunger, that need for something more than companionship. “No, I wasn’t married, but I was engaged to Princess Mischa of the Frost Giants. I had yet to meet her, as an adult, even though I believe we played together when we were children. I pretended it wasn’t happening because I didn’t want to think about what it meant.”
“What did it mean?”
“Leaving home, right when I was on the cusp of finding the ultimate treasure. Which just ended in disaster and death, so perhaps it would have been better if I had gone.” I stared at the ceiling. My eyes were adjusting to the darkness, enough to let me see the wooden beams arching above. “It was tradition for the princes to travel, to spend decades in each of the five kingdoms. My father pampered me. I was supposed to leave when I was thirty, but he humored me. I wonder how differently it would have turned out if I had done my duty. Though someone else would have discovered the door. We were hellbent on destructive tendencies. There was a panic, a mania I see now that drove every action. The desire to outdo each other. I try not to dwell on the choices that led me here, but it’s impossible not to.”
“Everything you loved, everything you knew and fought for is gone,” Ilaris said, her gentle voice trembling. “Grief is only natural. I do it too—I often think of what I could have done differently, to avoid mistakes, to fix the wrongs, to go back and make a better choice.”
“It’s life, isn’t it?” I said. “It’s tempting to look back, to scold ourselves, but we can’t change the past. It’s set instone, as effortless as trying to unmake sunlight. Those regrets won’t be erased or forgotten. But there’s a lesson to be learned, an opportunity to make a better choice the next time. Now that I’m back, it means I have that opportunity and I can’t waste time in regret.”
“Grief doesn’t mean regret,” Ilaris objected. “You’re enduring under the weight of what you’ve lost. The more you share with me, the more I feel the enormity of it.”
It should have hurt, thinking of everything I’d lost, but as she spoke, the pressure in my chest lifted ever so slightly. Talking about the past closed around me like deep water, depths I could not fathom, things I didn’t want to unravel. I had to hold it together. But even that felt slightly less impossible with her.
I lay back, and the dark held us. We did not speak again, but I lay awake a long time, listening to her breathe. There was something terrible and tantalizing about being bound to someone by oath and necessity, and wanting, despite it all, to be bound to her by something more.
17
Ilaris
Killian was still asleep when I woke, one arm tucked behind his head, bare chest rising and falling with an even rhythm. I felt a kinship to him now, a closeness born from our conversations that did nothing to fizzle out the want humming beneath my skin.
The cruelest of all was not being able to touch him, to feel the heat of his skin against my fingertips, to know the taste of his mouth, his fire, consuming me whole.
Desire coiled low and persistent. The strength of it made me wonder if I should be concerned. Was there more at play beyond the blood oath? Loneliness? Fascination? After all, I was a scholar, and anyone else would murder for this opportunity—to walk with one from an ancient age, to hear a firsthand account of a world swallowed whole.
Naturally, my fingers went to my sketchbook. Settling back against the pillow, I drew him lying there. Unsuspecting. Part of it felt like an intrusion, a breaking of privacy Icouldn’t entirely justify. Below the sketch I wrote the facts he’d shared with me. None of the emotion, just the truth as it would be shared when I completed my manuscript. What would I call it?Cultures and Traditions of the Ancient Giants before the Great Sundering?Lengthy, but it would get my point across and cause many people to debate the book. I didn’t expect to be believed outright, but the details I’d be able to share would cause a stir in the scholarly community and expand beyond it. I’d rise to some level of notoriety, be it good or bad. I’d likely be labeled as the scholar who always started a conversation and watched closely because of it.
He still hadn’t woken by the time I finished, so I stretched, dressed, and tested out my leg. It felt much better, walkable, giving me only a slight twitch of pain when I put my full weight on it. I’d be able to limp on it out of the village and toward the train station.
The train station. I pulled out the sack of coins, only a few left now. I wasn’t supposed to need money for this trip. The House of Scholars had provided for all my needs. But now?
A glint of gold met my eye, and I lifted my armor free, thoughts forming, my throat tightening. I stole a glance at Killian’s sleeping form. If I were to do this, and sacrifice everything, what would I gain? A seat at the House of Scholars, to finally ascend to academic glory, which, in turn, would give me security. But everything cost something. My mother had sacrificed for me, was I willing to sacrifice for my future? There was only one way I’d make it through a journey to four sacred locations with Killian at my side. When we were done, when we completed what heneeded to finish, I’d have a story. The truth—whether any believed me—would be worth more than a suit of armor.
