Those in the wider lands of Látwill will find no suspicion in the story.
His mind circles about the woman in the tunnels. He extended his magic once it returned to him in fullness and found not even the threads of her dwelling. It should’ve been easy to sense her once he’d spent time in her presence, but nothing remained. Even if he wished to break his promise, to venture down, she would be long gone. Iohmar hopes his presence did not drive her from a place she cherished, but he cannot help it now. He promised her never to return, after all.
The gems are enamored with Lor, fluttering over his skin as the boy stares in calm interest. Not since the night in the caves has he uttered a cry. Iohmar is near him at all times, and the boy has taken to flapping his tiny fists whenever he is in need of something, even if it is only to be held. Iohmar has not spent any extended time with other fae children and so does not know if this is to be expected. But he sets aside those worries, as the boy is content and the magic tethering them is strong and bright.
“Iohmar . . .” A soft voice draws his attention, and his eyes drift from Lor.
No one approaches his seat near the trees. His folk are gathered in groups, their noise a soft music among the breeze and chiming gems. One fae yelps, his hair turning into a burst of butterflies as he scrambles to his feet, taking off after the culprit. Behind Iohmar lie miles upon miles of forest, nothing but the gentle lumbering creature grazing the long grasses. Extending his magic, he finds nothing unexpected.
Iohmar frowns.
A young fae—young, at least, to him—catches his gazing about and separates from her party, a child of her own tucked within the sleeves of her dress. As she approaches, head lowered in respect, he smiles to welcome her to sit close by. She isn’t the one who spoke moments before. Iohmar digs his trimmed talons into the backs of his hands until he catches the gesture and folds his fingers, trying to attain some semblance of elegance.
“Hello, Airgid,” he says.
She holds out her child, a hopeful smile on her lips, and the babe wriggles its face out of a cream blanket to gaze at him. He blesses the children who come to his Halls, more a custom than true protection. Blessings are specific, and Iohmar can only give them to those he knows the strengths and weaknesses of, those he knows with intimacy. He gave one to Galen in the past, trying to secure a web of his own magic about the old fae to protect him from dark magics unknown. Galen has no idea the blessing exists and would likely be offended at the idea of needing protection.
But Iohmar takes the girl into his arms and presses a kiss to her forehead. Her features are long and dark and sweet to gaze upon, her eyes like summer lilies. Soft stubs of flesh poke her blanket where wings will one day grow. A loose feather catches in her swaddle. She will fly far and high, and Iohmar’s lips tug into the beginnings of a genuine smile when she grins up at him.
“She is quite lovely,” he says, passing her back. “Have you chosen her name?”
“Siath.”
“A sweet name to match. I am assured your kin are proud.”
“We are joyful. It is so rare to have a little babe here with us.” She preens her silver hair and casts a cheerful eye at Lor as she speaks—she won’t touch Iohmar’s child without his permission. Not as flamboyant as some of Iohmar’s kin, she stands out nonetheless. “Are you excited for the summer celebration, my lord?”
“It is indeed a time to look forward to.”
Iohmar is not so excited as some of the younger fae, who’ve hardly left the safety of his Halls. They roam the nearby woods and believe themselves adventurous for traveling to the queen’s court. But he is eager for Rúnda’s company, and traversing her lands puts him no closer to the rippling borders than his own Halls. Sometimes dangerous creatures drag themselves from the darker parts of the woods, but most have learned they’ve nothing to gain from bothering the king beneath the earth and his folk. It is a pleasant journey.
He listens to the new mother for a time before she returns to her own party. Did she sense my distraction? His thoughts dwell still on his parents, those he knew in childhood, and the strange illness, which is taking its time to leave his bones, still there but fading. Iohmar stretches his magic often to chase it away and assure himself of his own strength.
Again, he considers the voice. It was clear as day and just as strange.
Scooping Lor to his chest, Iohmar searches for Galen and finds him distracted with some of the younger fae. Galen has never taken a mate and does not speak of past lovers to Iohmar. He is the oldest by far in the Halls and takes to being fatherly to anyone he can. Those in the little group he’s speaking to grin and tug at his arms to join them.
Smiling, Iohmar takes his chance to slip among the trees. Shade cools the grass beneath his feet. The nameless creature wanders after him before turning aside in favor of a bush plump with bloodred berries. Iohmar left his boots and outermost robe in the clearing, but there is still an overwhelming flow of fabric about him, light as clouds, and a small sword presses against the base of his spine. Blades of grass tickle his feet. Warm patches of earth appear where sunlight reaches the forest floor, the soil cool. Here, it doesn’t smell too different from any human forest—warmth on the grass and leaves and flowers, rich earth mixed with damp. The human woods do not smell of magic as these do. Gems wander after him, the soft chime of their bodies adding to the rustle of the forest.
Iohmar closes his eyes. They’re heavy, his heartbeat slow. A tendril of discomfort twines up his chest.
When he opens them, there are a great many shadows among the trees. They do not approach, and Iohmar doesn’t believe he is being threatened, but they remind him enough of the rippling creatures that he does not sit in the grass as he would with a friend or ally.
“Hello, my shadows,” he says.
Many of Látwill’s creatures are known to him by name, and many just by their magic, but he is not arrogant enough to believe he knows all. King he may be, but he is a servant and as helpless to these lands as any. He has no name for these creatures, but calling them something, even such a little thing as shadows, gives him security. He sees them, names them to an extent; therefore, they are his friends. He hopes.
They do not approach but slither between the trees and under the bushes and bunches of grass, where they are too dark for the bright sunlight and the slightest bit too large to fit in their own spaces. Iohmar is fascinated. His heart presses to the inside of his rib cage. No hostility emanates from them. Will they allow me to touch them?
He shifts and steps forward. The shadows move, neither retreating nor advancing, taking on a thousand new shapes.
“Hmm,” he says aloud, hoping they understand his tongue. “I wonder how I have not seen you before . . . Do you dwell here often?”
Perhaps they have no language he can perceive, which would be a strange thing in and of itself in the twilight lands. Perhaps they have no language at all. Or they refuse to answer. Iohmar stretches his magic. Their presence lingers in the air, a disturbance in the otherwise empty breeze, but they have no discernible intentions.
“We come from my Halls across these woods,” he says. “They are far under the mountains and above them. I’m sure you’ve been there. There is shadow as much as sunlight . . . We are traveling past those mountains there; at least, that is the direction we’re headed. At some time, we’ll come to sweet Queen Rúnda’s court on a visit for the warmest weeks.”
He speaks to show his harmless intentions should they understand his language. Slithering and sliding as he speaks, the shadows fall into jittery stillness once he quiets. Lor gives a soft gurgle, and they retreat a small space.
“None in my Halls or the next court over wish you any harm,” Iohmar continues, setting a finger on Lor’s forehead to calm him. “Is there anything you wish of me?”
These creatures must know him. Born in all who inhabit these lands is innate knowledge, if not love, for their king under the earth. Even those Iohmar does not recognize will understand his heritage. It’s strange he was never aware of them in the past.
Taking another step, Iohmar shifts Lor into one arm, reaching out with his free hand, hoping to better understand their form. With the movement, they are gone, leaving nothing but natural shade in their wake. Iohmar wanders another dozen yards into the trees, but neither do they reappear or make noise.
He doesn’t believe they could understand his tongue, much less mimic a language. Wondering at the soft voice he heard before, Iohmar turns for his folk resting in the clearing.
“Iohmar . . .”
Iohmar stiffens. There is no sound save for the murmuring of the woods, no one around him for some ways until his magic reaches those in his party eating and drinking. Something—or someone—is playing with him. He will not flounder in confusion for their amusement.
Evening his voice, the voice of a king, he says, “If you wish to speak to me, you will step into the light and do so. I will not answer to such slinking about.”
He anticipates an answer. A laugh. A taunt. A response of any kind. He receives none.
In a less pleasurable mood, he returns to his folk, refusing to turn, to gaze about in suspicion for watching eyes. He shall not be trifled with, nor shall anyone make him look a fool. Gazing toward the bright canopy, he calms himself, and his expression is perfectly reasonable as he reunites with his folk.
Oisín approaches, hands folded, eyes soft with concern. Like his brethren, he wears no armor, and Iohmar is relieved they are beginning to feel safe once more in their own lands. There is no need to worry them with his grumpiness over strange shadows.
