“Are you afraid?” she asks.
“Yes,” I reply, surprised I’m answering her at all, that we’re having any stretch of conversation that doesn’t include scowling. “But not for me,” I admit, realizing I’m not just admitting the truth; I’m discovering these feelings for the first time. No one’s ever asked. Everyone, even my friends, avoids the topic of my death.
“I don’t fear death for myself. I fear it for everyone tied to my life. My people. My land.” I run a hand across the soil, and it’s cold. Colder than it’s felt in centuries.
She nods. “I—I hope it’s not like that for everyone,” she says. “I hope, for some, death is quiet and quick.”
Quiet and quick.
“A quiet and quick death is a gift,” I say, not meaning to say anything at all. This is what she does. She reaches into me, somehow, drawing out thoughts I would normally keep to myself. She’s collecting my truths. I wonder what she’s planning on doing with them.
“It is,” she agrees, gazing at the forest without seeming to see it. No, she’s lost in her thoughts, and I feel the urge to know what she’s thinking. To implore her to share truths, the same way I have. To determine whether she’s capable of saying anything to me that isn’t a lie.
“What are you thinking about?” I ask, then immediately regret it. I shouldn’t ask.
I shouldn’t care.
But I do.
She blinks. Turns to me. “My parents,” she says, appearing surprised by the admission.
Sweetness. Truth.
“What were they like?” Her truths are like a struck ore, something valuable that must be mined.
“I don’t know,” she says. Another truth. She frowns, and I can see her mind working. She’s trying to see if she’s giving too much away.
“They died before I knew them,” is what she offers me.
I wonder how they died. I wonder why both did. Did her mother kill her father, as the Wildling curse goes?
It’s something we have in common. Neither of us can love anyone. For her, it means death. For me ... as king ... it’s a risk that could destroy Lightlark, if my power should end up in the wrong hands.
“What were your parents like?” she asks.
I stiffen.
I shouldn’t have asked a question I wouldn’t have readily answered. It’s a rule I’ve lived by for centuries. But I’m breaking so many rules when it comes to Isla. I should stand up. I should ignore her. I’ve done both things dozens of times since we’ve worked together.
But I know her now. I can tell when she’s trying to be sly, when she’s digging for information for strategic reasons. This time ... she’s not. She’s genuinely curious.
Aboutme.
How long has it been since anyone other than my friends has asked me about myself, Oro, and not about theking?
“My father was cold,” I say. “And my mother ...” My voice breaks off. It’s been so long since I’ve allowed myself to think about her. There are so many words, so many memories. “She was warm,” is all I say. It’s not enough, but it’s everything, at the same time.
She seems to think so too, because she nods. She doesn’t press further.
We stare at each other for a moment, before we both look away. We stand.
We return to not looking and not asking, as we search for the heart.
A scream cuts through the forest, and I freeze.
Isla.
I’m in the air without question, without hesitation. Fire surges in my palm, ready to turn the entire forest to ash if needed.
