Chapter 14—The Young Giant

The gods had given her looks of dismay when she had told them her desire. She had expected their attempts to persuade her otherwise, but her heart had been rife with fire and fury, so she had paid them no heed. Words such as ‘damnation’ and ‘suffering’ and ‘worse than death’ meant nothing.

That is, until she had offered that lie to the besotted lost fool. Even with her power she could give him no such thing as children, being dead. But that wasn’t what brought about her awareness to her own woeful state.

It was the realization that she couldn’t, and never would, have a family herself.

***

After the meeting, reports from the desert arrived and her father took Einar to review them. Supper came and went without sight of him, but then, Kyanna hadn’t expected him to return. A set of well-trained royal guards had been slaughtered and the life of the royal family threatened. This would be a week-long event of gathering information and back and forth debates running in circles like chickens with their heads cut off. Just because she had never been allowed into the meetings didn’t mean she didn’t know what went on. That’s what trees and open windows were for. She didn’t just climb trees for fun growing up.

Thus, Kyanna spent the day preoccupying herself in the kitchen making apple pie while listening to Hope chatter up and down about her latest brush with death. The princess was as much there for herself as for the cook and her unofficial mother figure. She’d lost count of how many times the cook had patted the top of her head and said how grateful she was for her welfare by the time she left the kitchen, a perfectly golden pie tucked safely away in a basket. A day near the cooking fires left her ready for a good long bath.

As luck would have it, Einar met her at the door to their apartments, his expression bedraggled. When his eyes found the basket, however, he perked up with renewed vigor.

“Pie?”

She smiled, fondness welling up within her. “Pie.”

The guards next to the doors perked as well.

“Pardon, Your Highness,” spoke one on the right, an older gentleman she’d known since her youth. “There wouldn’t happen to be extras…”

She laughed. “Back in the kitchen, when your shift is over. Don’t think I’d ever forget about you, Bartra. I know where my debts are due. It’s good to see you back, by the way.”

He bowed his head.

The door closed behind them, and Einar made a beeline for the sofa, which received him face first. He gave a long groan. Kyanna set the basket on the table and moved to close the drapes over the dying day. Summer was well underway, and the days were long, meaning it was very late indeed.

When she turned about, Einar already had the pie unloaded from the cloth and set on the coffee table. She reached him just in time to stop him from cutting into it with a knife tugged out from his boot.

“I have a pie cutter, you brute.”

“But I can smell it,” he whined. “Wife apple pie. No, the Apple Queen’s pie.”

She rolled her eyes. “It’s probably no better than what you get at the bakery, so calm down. You keep on like that and I’ll be too embarrassed to make you another.”

Once he had a slice, he didn’t bother pulling out a plate or fork, eating it from his hand. Her scolding was lost in his loud, closed-eyed moan.

She all but slapped the plate next to the pie, face hot. “It’s just pie.”

“Whatever you say, Princess.” He sighed around a mouthful, blowing flecks of crust into the air.

“Close your mouth!”

He swallowed. “Sorry! Lost my brain a bit there.”

“Obviously.” She took up the pie cutter and primly went to work cutting herself out a piece. “You can talk while we eat. What have you gathered so far about our current situation?”

He was sure to keep his mouth closed until he was finished chewing this time. “All the reports sort of support what I figured. The heavy reparations inflicted on the Desert Kingdom from instigating and then losing the war has dragged their economy into a depression. It’s bad over there, and it seems a faction of the people blame it on us, never mind the fact it was their king, who they put into power, who was the one who slaughtered not only our people but destroy their economy in the first place. The pensions just don’t help.” He took a large bite of pie, eliciting another groan, though thankfully quieter this time. “A more extremist group in particular don’t just blame Karpathia. They blame me specifically, claiming that everything had been, if not perfect, much better under Syan, which I guess is true, but killing me and you isn’t going to fix that. But, you know,” he took another bite. “Divine retribution. Or just retribution. We can’t really blame the country as a whole for the actions of the extremists, and even if we did, there’s not much more we could do to them. They’re already pretty bad off as it is.”

Kyanna chewed slowly, letting the tart, spices, and sweetness take a back seat to her jumping mind.

“Even if they were extremists, the actions of a few are enough to start wars. Syan, for one.” She sighed. “Ugly things come out of people who are desperate.”

“Not to mention that most of the people who were at fault for all this are already dead. Now it’s just mostly widows and children who are suffering, with the elderly and a spattering of jaded war veterans.” He took another bite, this one slower.

“Did you suggest we lift the reparations?”

“Yeah. And that we offer aid instead. Carrot instead of the stick and all that. Pushing people to that will only make them hate us in the long run.”

“But charity doesn’t exactly ingratiate you to people either. I’ve seen those dependent on another’s money turn around and attack the hand that fed them. Human pride and dignity suffer in the same room as entitlement and lack of self-sufficiency.”

He paused mid chew in surprise.

She frowned. “What?”

“That sounded almost poetic, Princess. And very wise.”

“You would sound so too if you had proper political training.”

He shook his head. “I just listened to a room full of men with ‘proper political training’ and not once did they come near sounding like you just did.” His lips, shiny with apple filling and dusted with crumbs, curved upward. “Damn, this kingdom’s lucky to have you.”

She rolled her eyes. “Your flattery is getting you nowhere.”

“Only speaking the truth, my Kyanna.” He finished the last of his slice in one big gulp. “That being said, your father did hold himself to a higher standard, mostly because he just listened and only spoke when everyone else refused to state the obvious.”

“It may have been obvious to you, but that doesn’t mean it was to them.”

“Then they’re stupid.”

“You thought all the other men in the army were stupid too.”

“Um, not stupid, per se, just not wanting to use their brains.”

“Same thing.” She finished the last bites of her pie as well. Besides them, the fire crackled merrily. “Excuse me, I’m going to order a bath.”

Just as he had with the pie, he perked up. Fortunately, he had the intelligence not to say anything.

When she returned, he had another piece of pie, this time properly placed on a plate.

“There’s not much more to say besides that,” he said. “You probably already know that the lot of them hemmed and hawed and got all angry when I mentioned the idea of mercy, going on about justice for the dead and the cities and teaching other countries what happens to those who attack us, yadda yadda. I’m so sick and tired of it I could vomit, so how about a story?”

Kyanna didn’t think it all as simple as that, and she still wanted to know what their ideas of response should be to the assassination attempt, but she ached all over. She was tired, and it wasn’t like today would be the last day.

And she couldn’t ignore her eagerness to hear yet another of his tales.

“Alright,” she slipped her empty plate away into the basket. “Until the bath arrives.”

Once he finished the last of his second slice, he began.

“There was once a farmer and his wife who had a son they say was no bigger than your thumb, and he did not become any bigger, to the couple’s dismay. Even so, when the young man was ten, he accosted his father on his way out to the field, saying, ‘Father, I’m coming with you to help.’ The farmer might have found this amusing if he wasn’t already frustrated and saddened by his son’s continuing efforts to make himself useful when it was blatantly obvious he could be useful for nothing other than threading a needle.

“‘Stay here,’ he said. ‘You know very well you’ll be of no use. Besides, you might get lost.’

“As was often his resort when denied, the young lad began to cry in his high, squeaky, ear-drilling voice. So to keep the peace (and quiet), the farmer put his tiny son into his pocket and took him with him. Once to the field he took him out and set him on the top rung of the fence, not trusting the boy to not jump out and attempt to help push the plough. The farmer had only gotten underway with plowing when a giant loomed over the nearby hill, traveling to who knows where.

“‘See that monster there?” said his father, wanting to frighten his son in return for yet again pulling the screech to get what he wanted. ‘He’s coming to get a tiny, useless thing like you to pepper his sausage.’

“Perhaps it was the feeling of eyes on him, or perhaps the giant had heard the father’s words, for he turned his great gaze on them and in two strides he was in the field and before the fence where the tiny boy sat. His father had frozen up in terror and made not a move to stop the giant from plucking up his only child by the back of his shirt and slipping him into his pocket. His little son wailed for help, but the father could no more move than he could speak. Without a word, the giant walked off. The farmer then walked home in a tragic daze, believing he’d never set eyes on his son again.”

Kyanna, who had sprawled out on the sofa to rest her chin on her fist, much as she had in the carriage on their honeymoon night, pushed out her lower lip.

“This is not the thumb-sized boy story I remember.”

Einar gave what she could only call a cocky, one-eyed gaze. “Do you really think I’d seek to entertain the royal princess of the land with overused stories?”

“Yes, yes, go on. Tell me how he doesn’t get used as sausage seasoning—or does he?”

He smiled and lifted up her legs to straighten them over his lap, where he proceeded to take off her shoes and stockings. “Quite the opposite. The giant gave the tiny boy to his wife to suckle.”

Kyanna wrinkled her nose. “Suckle? As in…?”

“Like a babe.” He snickered at her expression. “I’d imagine giant babies are bigger than him, but, you know, the version I was told wasn’t too specific. They just said ‘suckled’ and ended it there. And, just like a babe, the boy grew tall and strong after the manner of giants.”

“So now we know,” said Kyanna, smirking. “The secret to giant size is breasts.”

Einar gave a mock scandalized look. “Princess.”

“What?”

“Is that a lewd joke?”

While she had meant it as a joke, she didn’t know how he had found it to be lewd. At her confusion, he laughed, low and bawdy.

“I like you.” He played his fingers up her shins and feet, smiling all the while. “The time it took him to get this size was two years—“

Then she got it. “Uck! No! I didn’t mean it like that.”

He just laughed.

Once he’d calmed and picked off a chunk of crust from the pie, he finally continued. “When two years had passed, the giant husband took his adopted son to the forest, wanting to try his strength, probably to make sure he was growing well and healthy. His wife and he had lost their newborn at the time the husband had found the tiny Thumbling, and hearing his father not appreciate him, the giant hadn’t been able to resist swiping up the boy and taking him home for his own. Little late to mention that, methinks, but thus we see his caring concern in asking “Hey, go pull up a stick for yourself,” though he pointed at a young tree as he said so. The boy was already so strong that he tore up the tree from the earth, roots and all. But the giant said, ‘We must do better than that’ and took him back to his wife to be suckled for two years longer, as well as fed the diet of giants. Another thing which the version I was told didn’t mention.”

“Bones and bread,” said Kyanna.

“And pretty princess toes.” He tugged on her toes.

It tickled, and she squirmed to get out of his reach, but he wouldn’t let go.

“I’m not three!”

“Definitely not,” said Einar. “After the two years, the boy’s strength had increased so he could tear an old tree from the ground. But that was still not good enough for the giant, so he was suckled for two more years.

Kyanna stuck her tongue out. “Wouldn’t that make him sixteen?”

“Ripe old sixteen.”

“Stop sounding so amused, what kind of weird stories are you telling me?”

“If you’d let me tell the whole thing, you’d be able to answer that yourself. Thus, at this ripe age of sixteen, the boy was able to tear the strongest oak of the forest from the earth, so much so that it split in two, and even then, it was a mere trifle. ‘That will do,’ said the giant. ‘You’re perfect.’ And with his chest puffed up in pride, he took the boy back to the farmer’s field where he had found him.

“As they had hoped, the farmer was there following his plough. The young giant went up to him and asked, ‘Father, look at what a fine man I have become.’

“’Course, the poor farmer was too caught up in his terror at being approached by a giant to really consider the boy’s words. ‘You are not my son! I don’t even want you—go away!’

“The young giant had expected his lack of recognition. ‘No, truly, I am your son. See, my mother’s eyes and the bird-shaped birthmark on my arm. The giant took me, as you said, but nourished me into what you see now, so I may be of use to you. I can do your work better than you. Hand over the plough.’

“The farmer shrieked as the big hand came toward him. ‘Not my son! Not mine—you can’t plough, you’ll destroy the field—back! Back!’ But he was so afraid he fled the plough and back to his house, where he watched out the window as the youth picked up the plough and, without need of horse or bull, and with only one hand, pressed the plough so deep it was nearly lost. This brought the farmer to himself enough to yell out the door, ‘Stop! You’ll break it! And make bad work of the field, how am I to plant seeds in ravines a mile deep, you giant imbecile?’ But the youth just unharnessed the horses and, with his booming voice, told his father to settle down and be sure to tell his mother to ready a large dish of food for her long-lost son when she was done.

“His mother, who leaned over his father’s shoulder to peer out the window, didn’t recognize the young giant any more than the farmer.

‘Who is that horribly tall man?’ she asked.

‘That’s our son,’ he said.

‘You’re daft. Ours was a tiny little thing.’ Then she shouted out the window. ‘Go away! We don’t want you!’

“The young giant said nothing but finished plowing and returned the horses to the stable, where he gave them oats, hay, and watered them. When he had done so, he went and somehow managed to squeeze himself into the parlor, having waited too long to be back home, even if it was much, much, much smaller than he remembered.

‘Mother…’ he hesitated. It had been one thing to hear it from his father, but his mother was an entirely different story. She had been his steadfast ally in all the strife that had come because of his size. But giants are not raised to be tender sorts, or to easily show emotions, being taught to be strong in all ways. Thus, he hardened his heart and stiffened the weakness that had tried to bleed out onto his face. ‘Mother, look at my birth mark and look at my face. Whether you want me or not, I am your son and have finished a few days’ work for you in an hour. I deserve a meal, so when will it be ready?’

“And, indeed, seeing her son up close and in the light of the lamps and fire, the woman couldn’t deny that she saw her babe and was shaken to the core with the knowledge. But, at his size, ferocious appearance, and brutish manner, her tender heart could not accept it. Instead of love, all she felt was fear.

‘Yes, it will be right out,’ she said, and within moments she brought out two immense dishes full of food which would have been enough to satisfy herself and husband for a week. The youth, however, finished it within moments and asked for more. She tried to protest that it was all they had, but he insisted. She didn’t dare to oppose him, so she pulled out a huge cauldron and finished cooking whatever she could find. By then, it was more than apparent to the young giant that he could not stay with his parents as he had hoped. His father just lurked in the corner, snarling like a frightening dog, and his mother had yet to look at him like anything other than waiting death. Thus, the boy sighed, and said, ‘I can see yet that you’ll never have food enough,’ but, true to his giant upbringing, added, ‘if you can bring me a staff that I can’t break against my knees, I’ll go out into the world.’”

A light tapping at the door announced the arrival of the bath. Maids came in with buckets of hot water, which they took to the washroom on the other side of the wall with the fireplace. The stones on the other side would already be warmed by the fire. They all politely averted their eyes from the scene of Kyanna with her skirts up to her knees and her bare feet and ankles in her husband’s lap.

“I doubt that little farm had anything he couldn’t break,” said Kyanna, wiggling her toes.

“Quite so. He ended up inflicting his enormous burden on the horses that had to pull the monstrosity and a local blacksmith. Mind you, he could have just terrified every ounce of iron out of the fellow, but since he didn’t know one whit of how to mold metal, nor could the blacksmith ever hope to make a staff large enough to fit him, the young giant instead offered himself as an apprentice. The blacksmith was a greedy man and knew very well how much the bones and skin of giants went for in the weapon and armor industry. He, himself, had used such materials in his time and thought that was enough to know how to slay a giant as well. After all, their anatomy couldn’t be all that different from a human’s. A clean slice to the jugular would do, or a spear to the heart. So, thinking himself quite witty, he said, ‘No one has ever taught someone of your size. Your twice my height; how do you plan on fitting into the smithy? No. If I am to teach you, you must wait to be paid after all the other journeymen, and only after I am allowed to give you three blows, and you must bear them.’

The giant blinked. ‘What do you gain from hitting me?’

‘Satisfaction,’ said the smith. ‘I have to hold myself back every day from beating my wife for all her nagging, and I think my marriage would improve if I had something alive to take it out on. But with these arms, I’d kill anyone else, but it’d be nothing to you.’

“The giant thought little of it and accepted the deal. But on the first day, the young giant sank the anvil into the earth with his first blow and sent the iron bar flying over the house. The blacksmith instantly saw his error and, apoplectic with the waste of iron, fired the boy, and sent him on his way. But the young giant was at least able to fetch out the iron bar that the blacksmith had given for lost and took it with him on his journey.’”

“The bath is ready, Your Highness,” said a maid from a curtsy. “Will you be needing assistance?”

Heat crawled to Kyanna’s face. “I’m fine, thank you.”

The rest curtsied as they passed, heading out in a single file till the last closed the door behind her.

Even so, Kyanna lay there, reluctant to leave the sensation of his rough fingers lightly rubbing up and down her legs and occasionally pulling her toes. When he didn’t continue, however, she lifted her head to peer at him.

“Is that it?” she asked.

“No. You said until the bath was ready. Unless you’re alright with me joining you.” A shadow of his new un-puppy smile—as she had come to call it, since it sounded better than ‘the pervert smile’—crossing his lips.

She glared at him, but even so it hadn’t the strength as it had used to.

“I don’t see how you could focus on telling a story with a naked woman,” she said dryly.

To her delicious delight, his face flushed bright.

“Um, well, I…I hadn’t actually…”

“You weren’t actually planning on finishing the story.”

“That sort of thing isn’t exactly planned, I was hoping for some spontaneity, maybe, not that I was thinking that—I mean, it is going to happen someday…right? I mean, I want it to happen, but I know you don’t, though I was hoping…” He put a hand to his face. “Fivar, is it so wrong to want to?”

She just smiled and preened, pulling her legs from his lap. “I am your wife. I’d imagine it’s healthy.”

“Yes, but…”

His hand moved to the back of his neck, his face turned away.

“I’m sorry, Princess, after last night I’ve gotten too comfortable and may have gotten ahead of myself.”

Yes, she thought. He had.

But looking at him with his shoulders hunched and face turned, voice quiet and barely trembling on the corners with what could have been desire, she found herself warmed with a rush of fondness not unlike what she had felt that morning.

He was cute.

And…and it wasn’t like anyone would know or like anyone didn’t already expect it of them. Even Jeremy probably assumed it of her, though he would always hope, as his letters portrayed…

And…and Einar…wasn’t bad. He did not light desperation and fire in her like Jeremy. But she found she didn’t miss that painful yearning. Rather, he was warm leather and morning dew musk in clean sheets. He was the security of hearing the wind and rain but not feeling it. He was beautiful, pink and gold apples that filled two palms. He was the crackle of the fire and the hum of a low voice, carving love between mortals and the children of the sun, women of snow, girls of freedom, and a renewed hope that perhaps a wish won’t destroy you.

Kyanna found herself on her hands and knees, crawling across the couch to him. Gathering her courage, she held her breath and leaned in to nuzzle her nose against his ear.

She heard his sharp intake of breath. He didn’t move, probably still wary of how he’d put his own foot in his mouth.

“I…I am not, or at least I don’t want to be, a woman who changes her heart so easily,” she murmured, the words dredged up from the most secret part of her heart. “But I find it so easy to be comfortable with you. You’ve been so patient and kind with me, despite my misgivings. I haven’t exactly been charming.” She pecked his cheek, smiling at the heat still radiating off him. “So…if you want it…I’m not opposed to it.”

He shivered against the second brush of her lips.

In his hesitation, she sat against his side, curling her legs underneath herself as she continued to brush her lips across his cheekbones. Soft things they were, those cheekbones. Not the high, proud things of a harsher face, a face like Jeremy’s.

And, somehow, she found herself preferring the softness.

But Einar shook his head and gently pushed her off with a hand at her shoulder. The color had left his face, but the look in his eyes wasn’t happy.

“But you don’t love me,” he said, just as gentle as those same cheekbones she had been kissing. “You deserve someone you love.”

For the first time, and sad that it was, she felt her heart break for him.

“Don’t you deserve to be loved too?” she asked.

She didn’t expect the short, dry laugh he gave.

“After the part I’ve played in the destruction of another country? After everything I’ve done? The people I’ve killed? The fathers and brothers and husbands I’ve taken away? The children who now suffer and starve because of me?” His eyes, their light blue cold like steel, held to hers. “After acquiring your hand without even asking if it was what you wanted? No. I was just being thoughtless. Gods, I’m a thoughtless idiot. I can’t believe myself, teasing you like that.”

He stood up, aiming for the door.

“Wait, Einar!”

But he was already gone, the sounds of his boots upon the polished stones falling away into silence.