I have to stamp my feet to get the damn ice out of my pants, but it’s no worse than shaking off the snow from a blizzard. My boots and swords remain inside the cocoon, since there’s no need to retrieve them yet.
I’m suddenly aware of the Oracle’s silence behind me.
I focus on the cadence of her calm breathing. The low beat of her heart. Sounds I could drown in.
My shoulders gradually slump as I remain, half-turned away from her, discerning her emotions through her breathing and heartbeats rather than her facial expressions and body language.
There is a peace between us, but soon enough, I’ll have to break it.
Now that she’s stronger, the uncertainty of her new situation must quickly become a concern to her.
I told her we are equals. She is not subservient to me, and she doesn’t have to ask my permission to speak or act.
But I’ve also warned her of the harsh future she faces.
She has glimpsed my nature. She asked for mercy for the Iron King, and I denied it. She has experienced the pain of my frost power, even if what might now be at the forefront of her consciousness is the seduction of my Lethian song.
Once we leave the Alak-Teah, she will discover that I am simply a reflection of my world.
Frozen, cold, and cruel.
Outside of this forest, everything she says and does will be observed, judged, and used against her.
Her vulnerabilities will become mortal liabilities.
That is the way of Frost.
Quietly, flatly, I ask, “What should I know about you, Thyra?”
Her heartbeats become more rapid, but it’s a slow increase, signaling that an insidious fear rises within her mind.
When she speaks, her voice is strained. “You warned me that asking for help will inevitably lead to pain.”
I consider what she could mean. “Am I to assume that what you need to tell me involves asking for my help?”
“It could.”
I fold my arms across my chest. “Then you face a dilemma, Thyra. The first of many. You must make a choice.”
The press of her lips, followed by the slide of her hand away from the waterfall, indicates how perplexed she is. Or perhaps she’s conflicted. Or saddened. Or…
But suddenly, I’m unable to read her. Her heartbeats become regular, unemotional, and her breathing is controlled.
She remains mostly submerged in the water, theliquid lapping at her shoulders, its clarity allowing me to see that she’s now kneeling within it.
Disconcertingly, she’s as blank as a field of fresh snow.
I consider her warily as her focus falls to the water, her left hand sliding beneath the surface while her right hand follows the gentle path of a silver flower floating in front of her.
“Before I decide,” she says, “I want to ask you a question.”
I consider her carefully as she scoops her palm beneath the silver bloom, at which the threads unwind and slide around her wrist, traveling a path up her arm to her shoulder before reattaching to the top of the band around her chest.
“You don’t need my permission to ask,” I reply quietly, repeating my earlier statement.
Her eyes rise to mine. “What do you want from me?”
A question that shoots ice through my body. And sudden need.
