9. Ilaris #2
“I grew up poor.”
“Poor? That is subjective. What does it mean in this age?”
I shrugged. “As compared to yours, I don’t know.
To me, it meant we had enough, but nothing extra.
It was just my mother and me, and she worked very hard to provide food and shelter.
We lived near the poppy fields, and when things were dire, my mother would go work them.
Her mother before her worked the fields, and hers before hers.
It’s. . .always what my family line has done. It’s addicting.”
“The poppies,” Killian confirmed.
My throat went thick. “You know about poppies?”
He ceased cutting and set the knife down.
Shifting, he opened the icebox—that I’d overlooked—and took out some meat, sniffing it before adding it to the pan.
The crackle and sizzle filled the hut, first with sound, then with the rich scent of meat.
He turned back to me. “A drug? Yes. The powder was coveted for a while, a form of currency until it wasn’t enough.
” His eyes grew distant. “We had other vices then. Different poisons.”
Curious. What were those other vices? But I knew better than to chase that thread of thought.
“Ah, then you understand it was never the life my mother wanted for me. She kept me away from the fields, even though my help could have improved our situation. She taught me other skills, forced me to learn to read, to write, to hold myself tall. When the time and opportunity arose, she smuggled me into the city. There I went to school and chose to be a scholar as my profession.”
“Did you ever go back? Does your mother still live?”
A heaviness came over me, that slow yearning to get back what time had lost. “I never went back, she wouldn’t let me.
She. . .she died shortly after I left, because she was addicted.
That’s why she wanted me to leave, she didn’t want me to see her like that.
I still remember her as she would have wanted me to remember her—young, vibrant, beautiful. Standing in a field of red.”
Opportunities to talk about her and what she meant to me were rare, but they were like a balm.
Letting the hurt out, letting myself speak about her was more helpful than anything else.
I still had things she’d given me, my grandmother’s armor, the tales she’d told me, and pictures she’d drawn.
After all, she was the one who taught me.
Telling the story to a giant, a man I’d just met should have felt odd.
He was so distant from my life and culture, why should he care?
I wasn’t looking for empathy, so his next words surprised me.
“You’ve come to terms with her death.”
“I. . .I suppose I have. Her memory is bittersweet, and I miss her. I wish she were still there so I could go back. I wish I could shut down operations and destroy the families that still benefit from the poppy fields. I tried. I did my research and published an article. But it embarrassed the House of Scholars, so they sent me here.”
“Circumstance. But you won’t let that get in the way of what you want.” He flipped the meat, and when he turned back, his eyes found mine. “I want to see those poppy fields.”
Something in his tone made my breath catch. Recognition, perhaps. Understanding. I didn’t need to ask, but I did anyway. “Why?”
He shifted, adding the chopped vegetables to the pan.
The aroma changed as he stirred the food, then snapped his fingers together, flame springing to life on his fingertips.
“Because she deserved more, and those who own those poppy fields should be made to face the evil they have brought to life. Life that is more precious than money. I would like to be the one to burn down those fields.”
A zing went through my body, and my pencil fell out of my fingers.
He saw me. More than that, he understood me and he’d given me more, much more than the mere words: I’m sorry for your loss could have given me.
I wasn’t sure how to react, to thank him for what he’d given me. Did he know the impact of his words?
Killian set two plates on the table, filled them, and pulled out a chair, glancing at me expectantly.
It was enough to get me moving. I joined him, aware of his presence and the mouth-watering aroma of the food.
It wasn’t heaped on the plate either, but arranged in an artful decoration, with a sauce dripping over it.
It occurred to me that perhaps giants were superior in every way, even with their culinary expertise.
We ate in silence before I broached the question I’d been meaning to ask, especially now that he was back. “Where are we going? You mentioned waking the other giants, but the ruins are behind us.”
He finished his food and leaned back. There was something less ethereal about him and more settled, except for the occasional glow of his skin where the fire seemed intent on leaking through.
He gestured to my bag. It took me a moment to understand what he wanted.
I retrieved a pencil and parchment and handed them to him.
He started sketching. Under his skillful fingers, a map of the world evolved, not the world I knew, but the world he had known, back before the Great Sundering.
“Giants ruled the entire world back then, but we were all linked together by what happened here. We must wake the princes, those responsible for watching the gates. Nero in the north is buried beneath ice and stone, where mountains touch the sky and wolves run beneath the moon. Theron in the south is hidden in the lush lands where the vines twist around stone and the trees grow so tall they pierce the clouds. Castor, to the east, high in the places where the wind never stops and winged creatures circle the peaks. And Numen, sleeping in the depths, where water forgets the taste of light. Like my home, theirs will look different. But you have knowledge about this world. You study the hidden things.”
“Why were they put to sleep?”
“Same reason I was.”
I felt nervous about this, about him. How would the world react? “And you need me to wake them, by reading the scroll?”
“Yes.”
The weight of it settled around me, and I could almost swear I felt the blood oath, pulsing under my skin. He moved his hands, letting me take the map and study it, uncertainties warring within.
Outside, the music started again, so faint I almost missed it beneath the crackle of the fire. But I felt certain it was destiny, a call, a lure.
I became aware of the time, the lateness of the hour, and the tiredness that dragged through me.
It had been a rough day, surprising and draining.
I eyed the bed and stood. He rose, standing too close, looking at me with that intensity that made me want to do something dangerous.
A wave of longing came over me. Perhaps it was the exhaustion.
I didn’t know what to blame. My impulsiveness? My need for closeness?
Holding his gaze, I rose on my tiptoes and moved forward. A spark passed between us, hot and sudden, yet I still leaned forward and brushed my lips against his.