Iohmar clenches his hands. He hasn’t cut himself on his talons since he was small, but they dig into his palms now, threatening to break skin.
“Shall I explain it to you, my sweet lord?”
“I would appreciate such,” he says, though not kindly. He still doesn’t wish to anger her but bristles from her words of his father, the way she digs up his past without thought or effort. She may be powerful, but he does not wish her to forget his strength or his ancient years.
Her attention returns to the boy squirming in her grip. “I do not believe there is anything you can do for him. He is little and human and weak, and should he remain human, I am sure he will not last many days.”
“Remain human,” Iohmar echoes, testing the words.
“It is possible to shift the magic in creatures, should they be young and weak enough and their own sense of magic undeveloped. He is nothing more than a little ball of moldable life force and human magic. Even then, it’s fragile. If he were one of your kin, he could live easily as any fae. They do not weaken and crumble to disease.”
“You think to turn him fae,” Iohmar says. All anger has left his voice. A far cry this is from his mother warping a foreign forest to release its grip on his father. Skilled as Iohmar is, never has he considered the possibility of changing the life force of another creature. Supporting or healing, yes, but never something so drastic. Even the little creatures of sunlight he called often in his childhood—and sometimes still as an adult—didn’t have a true life of their own. They existed off his magic, his warmth, and his own heartbeat. Nothing but reflections. His thoughts circle with the new idea presented to him.
She wasn’t quite correct. He doesn’t appreciate the suggestion, but it intrigues him.
Perhaps his father would not approve, but neither would he approve of taking a weak and unremarkable human babe.
He notices, also, that she refers to fae as if she is not one, as if she does not dwell below his own Halls and share the connection all his folk share with their king.
“I surprise you,” she says.
“Yes.”
“You do not appear upset.”
“I am . . . considering.”
“Mmm . . .”
After a moment, he asks, “Will you explain it to me further?”
“I am not quite sure how to do so,” she says, contempt gone, near excitement taking its place at the new idea and an ear to share it with. “If I had to try, I’d say it’s a bit like plucking what little magic he was born with and replacing it with a shred of something other. Perhaps changing him fae is not the correct way to speak it. Moving some of the threads of your magic to him . . . Yes, that’s better. It should sustain him and grow with time, as that of any child born to these lands. He won’t be fae, but neither will he be human.”
“My magic,” he murmurs.
She hands the child back in a smooth movement, spinning him about and placing him in Iohmar’s waiting hands. Relief relaxes his shoulders.
There’s no such thing as magic given without worry or consequence. Even Iohmar, with his healing tendencies, cannot give life to one who has lost it. This is not so dire a situation, but neither is it a light matter.
“My magic,” he whispers, to be certain.
“It would be a shred, and not taken, just moved. Still a part of you. Your magic is so growing in nature, it shouldn’t take too great an effort. Enough to catch on, and the boy should live and sustain his own life, as you or I do. Yours should strengthen as it does at any exertion, but it will not be a pleasant experience.”
“You sound quite certain of yourself.”
Her shoulders roll again, another shrug.
“How did you learn such things?” he whispers, as if speaking soft enough will prevent her discomfort.
Her voice is not angry but distant, thoughtful. “I’m uncertain. For a long time, I did not know these things. Then I did know them. I don’t know when the knowledge came to me.”
Iohmar doesn’t push the topic, not when long swaths of years are often lost to the whim of time in Látwill. Much of his life is difficult for him to recall, and he can hardly pass judgment upon her for the same, not when she speaks without malice.
He asks, “And the child?”
“It could kill him. There is risk of such, I would think. He will die if you do nothing. With this, he has a chance to live.”
“Will it be painful for him?”
Her eyeless gaze is upon him, he is certain, and he forces his skin not to crawl. Raw and vulnerable before someone he doesn’t know and who cares not for him, he wishes to curl in upon himself. Even before Galen he is not comfortable expressing such openness. He has lost too much and borne too great of burdens to bear his soul before anyone. But he is king and will act as such even when the title fits as an ill-worn coat.
“I doubt it,” she says slowly. “He may be sick for some days, perhaps as ill as you. Human children sicken often as it is. Obviously.”
Iohmar knows this is true but is loath to cause the child unnecessary suffering.
“You see no way around such an option?”
“You see no way around such an option, else you would not have ventured down to trust a creature you have never known or met.”
Iohmar fixes his eyes on the child blinking sweetly up at him, no longer squirming, comforted by his hold. He wishes to think on the decision. He wishes Galen desired to save the child as dearly as he does so he would support his decision and ensure no harm comes to either of them should Iohmar take this strange woman up on her offer and his magic is impacted. But Galen will watch over him regardless of his unwise decisions.
The child will die soon. None in his Halls have the knowledge or ability this woman suggests. If they did, he would have gone to them, even if the secret spread that he brought a forbidden human to his lands.
“Will I immediately be weakened?”
Shadows form her features, but it seems as if she smiles. “I’d suspect minutes or hours. I cannot tell you how long it will last. Based on your strength, I suspect you’ll fight it off well.”
“You sound uncertain.”
