The Dragon's Price (Transference #1)(34)

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?”

I roll my eyes. “Cutting your hair does not change who you are in your heart. And, yes, you are very beautiful. No need to worry about that, but it is still brittle around your face,” I add, hoping he can’t tell that admitting he is beautiful brings heat to my cheeks. “Do you want me to cut it shorter?”

He cringes but nods, and I take my knife to it, carefully trimming the worst of the burned parts off. “What baffles me,” Golmarr says, peering up at me as I work, “is how my hair is so burned if the rest of me isn’t.” He pats his chest. “And my clothes. How am I not charred nearly to…death?” Reaching up, he wraps his hand around my wrist, stopping the knife, and stands. “Sorrowlynn?”

I gulp. “Yes?”

With his hand still around my wrist, he narrows his eyes. “You said that before you killed the fire dragon, I was too injured to get out of the cave. Even with help. How injured was I? What exactly did the fire dragon do to me?”

“He flew at you. Do you remember that?”

Golmarr nods. “You screamed a warning. When I turned, the beast was nearly upon me.”

“Do you recall anything after that?”

His brow furrows. “I remember a burst of light, and then I woke up and the fire dragon was dead.”

“Did the burst of light hurt?”

Golmarr shakes his head, and his short hair swishes around his ears. “I don’t remember it hurting. What was the light?”