“You cannot wish for nothing.”
“The things I wish, you cannot give to me.”
“Perhaps, but I wish to give you something.”
Her head cocks, considering. For a time, he believes she will not answer, but her tone hardens as she says, “Stay far from these tunnels. They are not your Halls, and we are not part of yours.”
He doesn’t allow himself to recoil. She has her reasons, and it isn’t a surprise those dwelling far in the earth do not welcome a creature who slips through sunbeams as well as shadow, even if he is their lord and king.
“If you wish,” he says.
“I wish you to swear it.”
Promises are sacred, meaningful things, not words thrown about as humans do. Iohmar has heard of the ways the magic of their lands will overturn should a king break a promise.
“I swear I will bother you no longer.”
It is not what she wished, but it appears to be enough. Her chin gives the slightest jerk of a nod.
Leaving nothing but his magic to her touch, Iohmar bows his head, relaxing the tension from his body. She lays one hand across the child’s head and places the other to Iohmar’s forehead. As before, her skin is cool and ethereal, magic made visible rather than flesh. He breathes around the strange sensation, leaning in to her contact.
And his world changes shape.
7
An Unkind Magic
A life as long as Iohmar’s does not lend itself to memory.
Iohmar doesn’t recall mountains of years unless they’re brought to his attention. Much of his childhood is known rather than remembered. Dreamlike to recall. Bright, ethereal, evanescent. Often, he has difficulty separating dreams from his own history. Certain folk he cannot recall if they existed before the war.
They visit him now, washing in and out of his thoughts. His magic is so deep a part of him, his memories and emotions, hates and loves, a great and colorful tapestry lengthened with years and wisdom.
This woman plucking at the threads unravels it all.
Emotions he’s kept in check have no restraints. He focuses on not drowning. He will not lash out in return. He requested this. Agreed to do this. To protect the child. And so he will not fight her. Will not fight. Will not fight. Will not fight.
As swiftly as it begins, it fades.
Iohmar drifts. Even with the woman’s presence on the edge of his mind, he finds himself dwelling on his father. Fae do not often take permanent mates, but he remembers his parents wandering the silvering trees in twilight, calling to him before he could fall from a tree branch too high; his mother’s face in a hazy light lost of details, soft and warm, a beam of sunlight rather than true memory; the scent of pomegranate on her skin when she walked beside him.
War flickers along the thoughts, unexpected and unwelcome, and he shoves it aside. No matter what has been done to him, those memories are not for the woman to access. His scars ache. Can she see them? Not under all his clothes, no.
He thinks of his father and the grandfather he cannot recall in any detail and comes near to weeping. Kings do not weep, so he swallows around a burning throat.
With a snap, he’s returned to the small room, vision dipping as waves. Disoriented, he stares at the roots between his hands, at the child cradled in his lap.
How did I come to be in such a place? I walked, didn’t I? Traveled the tunnels of my own accord to find someone who terrified me enough she could save the human?
The woman shifts before him, and he notices the lack of her touch. She does not speak. When he raises his head, heavy with the weight of his horns, her face comes close to touching his.
Her eyes are a strange color, he thinks, then remembers before her face held no features.
Her lips peel back. She grasps the largest of his horns. His hand snaps to her wrist, but his blade is hidden along his back, within the folds of his robe—
No, no, I left it in my chambers because I was not leaving my mountain to places enemies roam. His head spins. Even reaching for her leaves him disjointed. Defenseless.
“You,” she snarls, “are not little Iohmar.”
Her entire body flickers as candlelight against a wall. A roar surrounds his left ear.
She snaps the end of his horn clean off.
Iohmar makes a noise. A scream. His head pounds, flashes of light dancing in his eyes. Before he collapses, he catches sight of the woman gazing at the tip of horn, open shock in her face, before she dissolves into shadow. Iohmar droops forward, desperate not to crush the child as he curls over, waiting for the agony to pass. Breath rasps in his ears. He isn’t sure if it’s his own or some aftereffect of the magicwork. Dizziness seizes him even as he crouches, still as stone.
For a time, he does nothing but fall, no sweet or unbearable memories to soothe or haunt him.
When he surfaces, he is certain the magic has not faded, simply lulled. His insides are raw and hollowed out, magic frayed as it hasn’t been since rippling creatures dragged themselves past his borders.
The child is crying, mouth open, eyes scrunched. But there is a magic about him which did not exist before. Iohmar senses its pull, remembering the link between him and his own parents. It’s similar but stronger in a way he cannot yet identify.
They are alone in the round room.
Iohmar has not feared the dark since he was a child buried in the mountain’s depths. It presses around him, tugs at his hands and horns and clothing. He curls over the babe as if he can shrink from the shadows. Scooping the boy to his chest, he flees the tunnels the way he came.
It seems a lesser time to reach the entrance than it was to venture in. Slowing his steps, Iohmar leans against the cool earth of the wall and calms himself. Familiar crystals glow, casting dim light across the path, and the unease begins to dissipate.
