Iohmar is king. He could force the subject upon her, and comes close to doing so. Questions catch in the back of his throat. But he is here in her home to beg for assistance. Angering her may cost the child’s life. In comparison, the possibility of having met her sometime in the past is small and feeble.
Besides, they must have been near infants for her to mistake him for his father. Though his magic resembles his parents’, has the same feel in the air, neither his father nor his mother were adorned with such drastic features as his horns and talons. They were beautiful, both of them, in ways which drew each and every creature, but they were not easy to mistake for their son. If Iohmar has brushed paths with this woman, it mustn’t have been of much significance to either of them.
And her question gives him hope. “You know a way? I wasn’t certain any would.”
“I am unsure. I wonder, what are you willing to sacrifice to make it so?”
It is not a threat. Magic so powerful as theirs does not give life without repercussions. For something so strong even he cannot attempt it . . . the price may be high.
“I wonder what it is I will have to give up.”
She makes a noise somewhere between a hum and a chuckle. “Shrewd.”
She holds out her hand. Burying his desire to pull the child closer, he removes the remaining fabric hiding him. From the moment he ventured down these tunnels, he knew touch would be necessary. Though this female sets him off-kilter, he senses nothing malicious. Her bond with him is the same as Iohmar maintains with any of his kin. Her magic may not be warm, may remind him of other creatures maleficent and terrifying, but he is aware of the spark of life within her, the strange little beat of her heart, so soft and quick for a creature so large and alive. He knows what it is to meet monsters full of intent to harm, and there is no such thing in this nameless, faceless fae.
And so he maneuvers the child into her hands.
Her skin does not contact his, but he ensures his talons are visible, trimmed smooth but unique, another tell he is not his father. If it registers, she does not show it. She props the child upright, one hand under his bottom, the other cradling his head and shoulders. Her featureless face, sharp and swirled in darkness, looms close to the boy’s. Still, he does not cry.
“Quite small for a human child, isn’t he? How old is he?”
“I’m not certain,” he admits. “Newborn when I found him. Human children are small.”
“Yes.” She doesn’t sound convinced.
Setting the boy on her knees, she bows her head. Iohmar tastes magic in the air, different from his mountains and sharp as everything about her. It presses around him as a calm bubble of air. Silence falls over the little home, and Iohmar settles in for waiting. He doesn’t allow the babe to slip from his sight, but his eyelids droop in the quiet of the room. If he wished, he could press his magic to hers, read her emotions and intent and the details of her talents in the threads of life Látwill has bestowed. But to do so would be invasive and unkind. It isn’t a technique he employs unless permission has been given or an advantage needs to be gained to protect.
When she raises her head, Iohmar is comfortable and quiet, tapping his fingers together in his lap. She does not return the child. His hands twitch to retrieve him, but he forces himself still, patient. Waiting. A king controlling his emotions and desires with ease. A king who has seen many millennia and many things worse than someone holding a child he stole from the human lands.
“I find nothing malicious in him, magic or otherwise,” she says, inspecting the babe’s face as if the soft skin holds answers. “But I suspect you knew such things.”
“Yes.”
“I cannot tell you for certain what ails him,” she says. Iohmar keeps the twist in his heart from showing on his features. “But if I must advise you what instinct tells me, he is too small and frail and young to bear the magic of these lands.”
Iohmar blinks.
“He would not have lived in his world, as you discovered—I do not understand human illnesses, so I can’t rightfully say why—but he is not faring much better here. I believe your magic may be prolonging his life, but at the same time, he doesn’t have the strength to stand up to it.”
“My magic does not take strength.” Iohmar doesn’t enjoy speaking about his life force or the ways in which his magic operates, but this is a known truth.
She shrugs, a roll of each shoulder at separate times. “I cannot tell you why, merely what I believe to be happening. It is as unusual to me as it is to you.”
With two fingers, she curls the child’s wisps of hair into a pointed twirl. Iohmar waits until he can no longer bear her silence or casual handling of the boy.
“You can think of no way to help?”
“I can think of something. It isn’t healing, and you may not appreciate the suggestion. Or the knowledge.”
Iohmar knows of darker magics, knows not all power is giving and bright. But it is not something often spoken of—less so since the wars—and none in his Halls bear such gifts. Látwill is a strange land, full of magic straining at its own boundaries, changing as often as it remains rigid, new creatures and magics presenting themselves, even to the king beneath the earth. Iohmar is never surprised to learn of knowledge nonexistent to him. This woman is correct: he may not appreciate the suggestion or the comprehension, but he knows of darkness and death and scars and fear in ways she would be shocked to learn, and it is from these things that such dark magic springs.
No, he may not appreciate it, but it will not shock or disturb him.
He spreads both hands, nodding, encouraging her to speak. Her head cocks, and she leans close to him over the child. Iohmar doesn’t allow himself to feel threatened.
“Your father would disapprove,” she says, and Iohmar’s heart gives so harsh and unexpected a twist that he bares his teeth at her, an unintended snarl of a noise passing his lips before he presses them into a tight line. She should not speak of his parents in ways she does not understand.
But what a strange comment, he thinks a moment later. She still does not recognize him as Iohmar, but as his own father. “Why do you believe I am my father?”
She goes still. Iohmar suspects he has caught her by surprise, or at least caught her speaking words she did not wish to speak. This bout of silence is not comfortable but thick with anger. He leans toward her, ready to demand the return of the child, but she straightens, her shoulders making a show of relaxing.
“I believe you are exactly who you are.”
Iohmar is moved once more by a soft wave of recognition, something familiar in the way she speaks or moves, gone before he has time to analyze. She should not be able to unnerve him so.
“I do not know how long you have dwelled here,” he says, “but my father and mother have long passed. I am Iohmar—”
“Do you wish for me to explain?”
He pauses, cut short by the sharpness of the words. Usually, he would not allow one of his kind to interrupt, but he suspects she does not understand or does not believe him, so he nods. She rolls one shoulder in a shrug, looking away and losing all interest in gazing at the child.
“You give your magic away and discard the human part of him.”
6
Strange Proposal
When Iohmar was a boy, his mother changed the shape of her magic. Gifted were her powers, but in strange and subtle ways not easily called to the surface. Iohmar cannot always recall the exact ways in which they worked, but he remembers his father lost, caught once in the strange void of time of the lands beyond their borders. Time passed. She gave him a lifeline back to their mountain and sunlit Halls, distorting the world to aid him, and her magic took a great deal of time to return in strength.
