“This is strange magic,” she says. “And a stranger request.”
Iohmar is silenced, irritated by her honesty. If the option had been present, he never would’ve brought the child here, never would’ve sought help from anyone besides Galen and his own magic. But he is neither strong nor old nor talented enough for such tasks. Such knowledge has not appeared to him as it has appeared to this woman.
She knows as he does. Iohmar grinds his jaw.
“You have never attempted this before?”
“Never.”
“But you know it.”
“I do.”
A thousand questions spring to mind, none he would dare ask. Her life and challenges are not his concern, as his are none of hers.
“What would I do?”
Another head twitch. “Nothing. Guard your thoughts and allow me access to your magic.”
“I wish to think.”
“Yes, of course—”
“And I would know your intentions before we continue. I do not know what you wish in return.”
Her quiet lasts so long that Iohmar feels a twinge of discomfort. Will she refuse me now I’m near committed to the act?
“I don’t understand what you mean.”
Iohmar blinks. Has she never come across another fae? It seems as if she has, for there are many others dwelling beneath the mountain, but to not know thoughts and memories can be shared is a strange thing, especially when she is proposing transferring a shred of Iohmar’s magic into the child.
“I wish to know what your thoughts are toward me and the child, just as you need to access my magic to aid him.”
“Oh,” she says, and something about her tone makes Iohmar believe she’s embarrassed.
Then she offers her hand.
Iohmar walls his own thoughts and memories, wrapping them up in tight, safe little bubbles within his mind. He isolates the section of his magic bearing intentions and thought. If he will view hers, she shall have access to his. As it is, she reads him too well. Hiding his intentions would be less humiliating but pointless.
Her fingers brush his palm, maneuvering gracefully around his claws. A heartbeat tiny as a bird’s reaches him. Her skin is cool and weightless, and it feels more like running his hand through a cloud when the winds carry him than touching flesh and bone. He suspects she is not entirely a physical being. She twitches at the contact but does not pull away. Touching another creature’s magic is a bit like drowning but breathing water at once. If the concept confused her, she’s likely unused to it.
Thoughts and emotions pass him as a stream. Distrust. Rawness he did not expect. Anger, hurt, uncertainty, and a strange surprise. Something has shaken her foundations. He pushes past, moving through the stream, not wishing to intrude on anything unessential. Searching for malicious intent, he finds nothing but vague curiosity toward the child, a wondering at how he should be so interesting to a fae high king. Not surprising. Toward him there is a mess of emotion, an irritation at him existing in her home.
But no wish to see him harmed.
She may not nurture the affection toward him the rest of his kin maintain, but there is no cruel intent.
I would welcome her in my Halls, he thinks, forgetting the connection they share. She senses the sentiment, withdrawing her magic and her touch, folding her hands within her lap, posture rigid.
“I meant no offense,” he says, softer than before.
She gives a tiny jerk of her chin resembling a nod. “You gave none.”
Iohmar bows his head in thought, and she allows him his silence.
Comforted by her lack of malice, Iohmar cradles the child in his palms. This woman, strange as she is, is a beacon of strength even among fae. Had they known each other in childhood, or perhaps under less tense a situation, they may have been friends—rather powerful friends. Iohmar aches to speak to another with understanding of his magic and the power and struggle accompanying it. But he could sense in her emotions and reactions such things are not meant to be, and so he puts the sentiment from his mind.
Instead, he gazes at the child, surrounds himself in the tiny flicker of his life. It is weaker than when Iohmar stole him from his filthy human crib, weaker than even the short time ago when the boy tugged at his hair and patted little hands across his face.
Iohmar’s chest squeezes so tight it’s difficult to breathe.
He remembers his parents. He does not dwell on what they would think of the child, for they both would be sympathetic but unimpressed with the weakness convincing Iohmar to bring the child against his own laws.
But he remembers their affection toward him, the gentleness of his mother’s smile and the warmth of his father’s hands. Their companionship was an anchor even when he was past the age to be so demonstrative with his affections. He remembers the cold empty places of those creatures along his farthest borders, remembers his mother and father and kin being stolen from him, remembers the scars from cold magic, decorations along his body he never shows.
His warm Halls will be quite colder should the child leave them, though none but Iohmar and Galen even know of the creature’s existence. You are a fool, he tells himself, then sighs.
“I wish to save the child,” he murmurs.
He does not raise his eyes to her face, for skepticism and judgment would greet him. Instead, he watches the round eyes blinking with trust. If not for the woman across from him, he may have kissed the child’s forehead.
“I will need to touch you once more,” she says, and he nods, expecting as much.
A rustle of fabric brushes over roots as she slips closer. They are almost knee to knee, not touching.
“You have failed to tell me what you wish of the situation.”
“You are high king,” she says, and still, though she is close, he cannot determine the shape of her features. “I should not have to ask for anything.”
