“Yes?”
“She wishes you and your court to visit. It wasn’t a personal note.”
A seed of worry plants itself in the back of his thoughts. He and Rúnda write to each other often, but a formal invitation—the letters Galen reads without permission—could either mean their usual celebrations or something strange and dire. He thinks of the men in his woods and that Rúnda does not need to extend a formal invitation for the usual gatherings between their two courts.
But Galen does not say the letter is urgent. Rúnda would have told him if something were amiss. And so Iohmar puts the thought from his mind. It is nothing he cannot dwell on in a day.
Exhaustion tugs at him. Even the short walk to the washroom put a tremble in his limbs. Strength is returning, but he doesn’t wish to push himself. Drifting to his bed, he attempts not to appear weakened. He isn’t sure he accomplishes it. The boy doesn’t wake when Iohmar reclines along the covers beside him but squirms in his sleep and stuffs his fingers between his lips, drooling. Magic doesn’t stop all things, it seems. Iohmar is glad.
“Are you going to tell me what you’ve done?” Anger is still present in Galen’s voice, but Iohmar hears exhaustion as well. How long has he been watching over his king? A small, much younger part of him wishes to reach out to his old friend, to hold his hand or ask him to sit close or say something sweet and soothing.
Cursing the dreams and visions he’s drowning in, he pushes the desires aside. I am a king, no longer a child. Not for centuries upon centuries.
But he owes an explanation. Galen is the only one who knows of the human babe’s existence, so he must understand what has happened.
With his back to Galen still, he explains in detail, in all aspects he has knowledge of. As he speaks, he runs the pads of his fingers over the child’s soft new skin, careful of the sharpness of his talons, which he will need to trim for some time to come, until the child is grown enough to recognize the danger. The boy will never see him as a threat, never the darkness or scars or any such uncomfortable attributes Iohmar harbors. No strangeness or fear shall touch this little life.
And the boy will need a name, for now he is fae, and more importantly, he is Iohmar’s.
Galen remains quiet and still throughout the story. When Iohmar finishes his tale, there is nothing but the rustle of trees in the soft breeze and the songs of birds now awake and dancing. Several of his crows hop across the window’s edge. A soft sigh whispers behind him, and the downy bed sinks as Galen sits along its side. Iohmar does not turn to him—this is something the old fae hasn’t done in many centuries—but neither does he shift or order the caretaker away. His presence is stable, comforting, and Iohmar cannot fault him for his unhappiness.
“So, the boy is yours now,” Galen says, no question in his voice.
“Aye, he is my child,” Iohmar whispers.
Another sigh, but Galen’s long fingers rest on Iohmar’s hair, combing softly, tucking the dark strands around his horns—another gesture he has not repeated since Iohmar was shorter than his father’s knee. Healing magic slides along his bones, a strange, drowning sense of calm accompanying the easing of pain. Galen’s magic is quite effective. Past it, the gentle petting is not how a servant should treat the king beneath the earth, but Iohmar does not shift from the touch.
He closes his eyes and listens to the beat of his son’s heart.
SUMMER
8
An Abundance of Shadows
Some weeks later, Iohmar finds the paths to Rúnda’s court. Galen is near his side, and a selection of his folk travel behind him in song and laughter. His son is tucked within the crook of his arm.
Queen Rúnda sent only one letter, and Iohmar dispatched his crows to her lands before his people departed, thanking her for her invitation and sending news they are on their way. It is not a tradition they take every summer, for years are slippery things not counted well, and even the short time since his experience in the tunnels is not knowable. Iohmar anticipates Rúnda’s presence when his skies brighten with summer and her lands turn warm with the changing seasons.
Now, there is the child in his company. Rúnda will have something sharp and grinning to say about the development, and Iohmar finds himself nervous for her judgment, though she has the same fondness for small creatures as all their folk. He glances at the wriggling thing kept in check by his hand.
Lorcan. His little boy.
Iohmar despises nicknames—with greater vigor when sent his direction, though Rúnda has plenty, and he tolerates her eccentric naming rituals—but he’s taken to calling the child Lor, a small and gentle word to match the small and gentle creature.
Galen is unimpressed. Often, Iohmar catches him staring at his horns and their changed appearance, or his hair, or into his eyes with direct disapproval. But he isn’t scowling to a severe degree. Iohmar has seen worse. The child is growing on Galen, at least to the extent the old fae views him as an individual life rather than something to trouble Iohmar.
Iohmar is not demonstrative. It is a weakness he is aware of and desires not to change. Part is the nature of a king. Part, he suspects, is the war itself and his very own magic. But Lor is in constant need of attention, and Iohmar has no qualms in lavishing it upon him. The boy giggles up at him as he squirms, and Iohmar tickles his belly with trimmed talons. A delighted squeak echoes through the grove of trees. Some of his folk turn to the noise and laugh.
Iohmar rides a great beast the name of which has been long-lost to these lands, a rare thing not seen near his Halls since before even his father was conceived. Iohmar often took to wandering the farthest mountains of Látwill in the times when he was not the fair lord of the land, merely a prince. Once the only other of his age was lost to him, he took refuge in searching the tunnels or straying as far from the mountain as possible.
It was long ago. Details blur, but he remembers the heat of the woods and the shadowy thickness of the air. He was wandering the edge of the heart of the woods, listening to the wolves stalk him, wondering if anyone had passed through the humming giants of trees. Something must be on the other side, though to this day he still knows not what.
The creature was caught among vines. It had been trying to lick the sap of one of the great trunks until it caught itself in climbing thorns. Iohmar had heard descriptions of such beings from his grandfather, of how dangerous were their hooves and teeth, and watched from a distance until the beast’s big eyes turned on him. Long and sleek and graceful of limb, it bears diamond-hard scales beneath soft fur the hue of ocean foam. Its body was twice the length of Iohmar’s were he to lie alongside it, its legs reaching his head. A long arching neck stretched a dozen hands, a small and soft-featured head resembling a horse’s set with large blue eyes.
Its magic made him feel of cool streams and wildflowers, and he remembers quite vividly wondering how it must have been to be in the presence of a dragon if such a ground-dwelling creature could overwhelm him with its sense of life.
Iohmar coaxed the thorns into turning away, though such things are more difficult in the thick, dreary magic of the heart of the woods. The creature touched its soft nose to Iohmar’s cheek and visited him often until Iohmar crawled atop its back and was promptly shaken off.
Now, it allows him the honor most any time he requests, though it’s a tad temperamental. Iohmar has a kinship with the old beast. A few times, he tried offering it names, but it always turned its head. Some creatures are silent about such matters.
He sets Lor between its shoulder blades. The boy tugs at fistfuls of fur, cooing at each passing tree. Others in Iohmar’s court mount wild horses or walk their woods, disappearing into the trees only to return. Iohmar will walk the leaf-carpeted path before the journey comes to a close. His kingsguard bring up the rear of the procession. There is little to threaten them in this time of peace, but such is their usual way, and Iohmar allows them whatever their judgment decides.
There is no set distance between the Fair Halls and Rúnda’s court. They will come upon it sometime after they think they might but sometime quite before expected. High noon has appeared and faded several times, and Iohmar is careful not to consider the passage of time too much lest it rearrange itself around his wishes.
At midday, when the sun is hot and the air thick and all manner of twilight creatures have hidden in the shade and tunnels and fallen trees, Iohmar’s procession stops. Living diamonds float about them. Names for many of Iohmar’s folk were lost to the lands long before he or his lineage was conceived. Most refer to them as gems for their bodies of glass catching and casting off light in a thousand colors. They prefer to wander the trees in soupy twilight rather than brave the treetops in the heat of midday.
It’s a sign Rúnda’s court is near. Her realm stretches to the vast sands far from here, and the little gems bask in the heat it radiates. Iohmar catches their bodies, light as dandelion tufts, against his fingers and blows them onto Lor’s cheeks as he settles them in the tall grass. Galen hovers nearby, hands clasped behind his back. Permission isn’t needed to wander where he pleases, but he won’t leave his king’s side without it. Iohmar shoos him away to do as he wishes. His guard have reclined in a loose circle under the shade of a broad oak. Dáithí, a kingsguard old enough to remember Iohmar’s parents, waves and tips into his companion, the little group dissolving into a shoving match. Iohmar finds a comfortable spot in the grass, smiling into his collar. Perhaps he should join them, but he finds himself drawn to solitude as the centuries pass. Even as a child, it was only his one friend he found himself with. His guard do not need their brooding king to dampen their fun.
And he is left alone with Lor, as private a company as he can achieve with his folk wandering, eating and drinking, and edging closer to catch their king’s attention. They all wish to be in his favor, to say something which will please or amuse him. Iohmar smiles whenever one of them catches his eye—not in the way he smiles to Rúnda, but gently nonetheless—but is distracted by Lor ripping up fistfuls of grass and watching him with round eyes.
No one is suspicious of the child or even shocked by his unexpected appearance. Well into adulthood, Iohmar hasn’t taken a mate or spoken of achieving an heir. But to be gifted a child is no impossible feat, not when deep places in the heart of the woods could provide him a true child of the fae. Children in his realm are created by magic and sacrifice near as often as they are created by lovemaking.
But he didn’t wish for a child. No one in his Halls knows this save Galen—for all any of them know he’s been planning for a century—but it is odd to him he never desired a child until he was presented with this one. Even now, he does not wish for another or for any babe different from Lor.
Still, it is a story he will allow his people to believe—their woods gifted their king so special and beautiful a child—and it is one Lor will be told until he is old enough to understand the details. He was created by magic for Iohmar and for Iohmar alone. Unique. In a way, it is true, and Iohmar has no qualms about the tale.
