“I believe she should know the extent of it,” Galen says.
“If you have a point you wish to make, Galen, I humbly request you make it.”
His expression remains neat, but Iohmar sees his eye twitch. “It is simply that I believe you may not be telling me the whole story and someone should know . . . in case it becomes greater than you bargained for.”
Iohmar stares at a joint of wood in the ceiling. Have I confessed to Galen the entire story? The shadows in the woods pick at his thoughts. It is a recent development, unlikely to be related, but with his kingdom and Rúnda’s bordering that of the rippling creatures who so upturned their lives, Iohmar is never certain what is relevant. Magic has ways of twisting his mind into knots.
Perhaps he hasn’t mentioned all the details, but Lor is healthy, the rippling lands are quiet as they’ve been since the end of the war, and Iohmar has recovered from his illness. We are safe. He shouldn’t feel guilty for not dumping his numerous obsessions and worries upon his caretaker, nor upon the woman with whom he has found himself in love.
“Thank you for the input. I will consider it.”
When Galen bows his head and turns for the door, Iohmar buries the irritation. The old fae bears many of the same scars, after all.
“Galen, I appreciate the concern.”
He doesn’t see his expression, but there is a softness to Galen’s tone when he says, “I’ll join you at the feasting, my sweet lord.”
He rolls onto his stomach, one leg draped off the edge of the bed in a much less dignified position. If Rúnda were to walk in, she’d never stop laughing. Lor has no such concepts. The babe disentangles himself from his blanket and, with a joyful squeal, launches onto his belly to wriggle toward Iohmar’s face. He may be walking soon. Fae have no set growth for the first years of life. For a time they may grow smaller and larger, older and younger day by day. Already, Lor’s limbs are beginning to thin and lengthen, resembling more and more a young fae babe than a human infant. But he may wake smaller tomorrow, or older. His growth will settle into linear progression one day. With the tether of their magic, Iohmar no longer worries when the child wakes smaller.
Lor’s skin is pale and a mix of white, blue, and gray, shedding leaves and flowers and papery bark when he’s joyful or sad. Iohmar brushes the wisps of greenery from the boy’s arms and legs, pleased with how his inherited magic is so similar in affinity to Iohmar’s, another thread bonding them. It will be a great pleasure to teach the boy to grasp his magic once he is of age. Iohmar remembers lessons with his mother. His father was as skilled as she was but preferred to teach him swordsmanship and politics. They balanced each other as the mountains and rivers.
Twilight casts purple light across the lands beyond his window. Iohmar slides from the bed before dressing for the feasting. He never carried up the bundle of provisions strapped to the creature’s back, but his clothing always manages to find its way to his chambers before he does. It may be Rúnda, or it may be the children who coax the creature away with their treats. It may be the smaller fae who take pleasure in rooting among other folk’s items and causing harmless mischief. Iohmar shakes his clothing lest he find his armpits full of mud balls.
The robe that is black as night, Rúnda’s gift, was the first he packed, but he selects something lighter for the occasion, a silver thing shimmering like dragonfly wings. He will appear calm and bright as his people, not intense and drawn with shadows. Lor is performing his flailing wriggle toward the edge of the bed. No matter where Iohmar is, the child never wishes to be away from his hold.
Iohmar watches him. The unusual warm sensation in his chest happens regularly these past weeks. Iohmar melts under it.
“Come, little Wisp,” he says, scooping the boy from the bed in a flourish. Lor squeals, giggling.
Galen is not hovering outside the door, and his kingsguard are long lost to merriment, so Iohmar walks slowly to the feasting halls with no one watching his every move. Alongside his parents, his old friend lingers in his thoughts, an ever-present weight in the back of his mind since the woman in the caves. Her presence is strange to him, a soft memory nagging under his skin, the sweet girl with whom he used to play, a sister gifted to him by the woods. Never has he forgotten her, but millennia have passed since she existed in his every thought, in every sunbeam he catches upon his skin.
Pausing at one of the many windows overlooking the sea, he murmurs, “Ascia.”
Her name is foreign on his tongue, not spoken of since he was a boy, and the wind carries the word away. Lor fusses and looks at him restlessly.
“Hmm,” Iohmar hums and continues down the winding stairs. Sounds of celebration reach him.
Eager to see Rúnda, even if they will not touch until the hour is late and quiet, he bounds down the stairs, the wind rushing his friend’s name back to him.
Rúnda watches him from across the feasting halls, and Iohmar dips between pretending he doesn’t notice and staring back with fervor. Wine makes his head heavy. Fae affect one another easily. On the journey, his people’s joyful singing brightened his mood. Here, if the wine weren’t enough to make him drunk, the warmth and companionship of the gathering tip him over the edge. He rests the weight of his horns against the chair, bracing his feet along the leg of the table to find a comfortable position. No one seems to notice the undignified posture. Is Rúnda smiling at me? It’s difficult to tell. His eyes pick up the details of her dark face, the stray hair from her braided curls catching firelight. But so many bodies ripple between them that he can’t recognize what she’s chosen to wear. The taste of her magic, however, cuts the heavy mess of celebration, hanging over them as the salty air of the ocean shore.
Such is their routine—wait out the celebration and join each other in the evening—but Iohmar finds himself impatient, eager to see her, discontent with the feasting and the cheer. He wishes for her quiet and her company. She’ll interrogate him about Lor. Her eyes went to the child the moment she first found him among the crowd, and he saw her eyebrows rise before her people swallowed her up with singing and touch.
Where Iohmar’s feasting halls are broad and reach into the mountain’s core, Rúnda’s are smaller, the ceiling opened into the tower for dozens of stories. Her folk tightrope across walkways spilling up and vines stretching fingers across the space. A chill wild breeze swirls in the upper levels, sometimes dipping and tossing the hair of some unfortunate victim. Colorful paper streams and kites float of their own will in the updrafts. Tables of stone carved with intricate waves and dunes circle the space, a fountain of sweet, clear water bubbling in the center. Children jump in and out while the adults feast, swimming to depths deeper than Iohmar would find appealing. Bodies bustle around the tables, excited feet rarely sitting still. The folk dance and sing and often try to catch the eye of either their queen or the neighboring king come to visit.
Yes, I would much rather be alone with Rúnda.
Ascia drifts into Iohmar’s thoughts. It could be the wine, or perhaps it’s the strange haze that’s been sitting over him since the illness. Rare is it for fae children to grow with others of their age. She would be Iohmar’s age by now, a constant companion and friend. She would’ve befriended Rúnda and been another for Galen to fuss over. She wouldn’t have been his peer, for no one is Iohmar’s peer, but a happy shadow balancing him out. Or war could have cut her from him, as it did many others.
Iohmar presses his knuckles to his eyes and tries to think of other things.
What does Rúnda wish to speak to me about? The shadows he met in the woodland meadow were closer to her lands than his, so perhaps she has come across them.
Lor squeaks. Those sitting closest blink and giggle and wave at the child. He’s been well-behaved all evening, sitting on Iohmar’s knee. Oblivious to Iohmar’s dipping mood, he smashes his fingers into the bowl of pudding Iohmar provided. He licks his fingers, dips them back in, and tries to reach for Iohmar’s face. The laughter around them grows as he maneuvers Lor’s arms out of range. It is all companionable amusement, but Iohmar feels exposed, far too watched for comfort. He slides his boots to the ground, lifts his head from the back of the wooden throne, and scoops Lor into his arms. He needs to leave. Silence will be a welcome companion. Perhaps it’s leftover sickness or the child in his arms, but he is uneasy in a way he’s never been in the past.
Galen is watching him, and likely Rúnda, but he doesn’t search for them. He keeps his head high, his steps slow and carefree, and reaches the cool of the hallway.
There are shadows in the twilight staircase, but they do not move or live.
When the dark hours of night have swept the tower, Rúnda slips into his chambers.
Iohmar is draped along his side, facing the cool of the glassless window, Lor asleep on the furs before him, shedding happy leaves as he dreams. Fire crackles in the hearth to Iohmar’s back. He has no particular fondness for fires, his own Halls warm and balmy, but the warmth is welcome against his back as bitter chills drift past the window. A comforting glow flickers its fingers into the corners of the room.
Rúnda is silent as she sweeps to his bedside. She’s clothed in evening dress, a pale gossamer thing shimmering in the firelight and falling about her legs in waves. She bends over him, inspecting Lor, squinting at Iohmar. His eyes are likely difficult to see in the shadows, particularly the one newly dark. She must think him asleep. When her fingers approach his cheek, he snatches her wrists in either hand. His head has cleared, and it doesn’t make him dizzy to flip her delicately over Lor and onto his chest. She gasps, and her teeth sparkle in the darkness. Blue blossoms across her dark skin where he touches her, a conscious magic she was born with. She likes to decorate her skin where he touches her, even if it fades soon after his contact is gone.
“Sneak,” she hisses, grabbing his wrists in return. Her long fingers are lovely intertwined with his, a contrast against his milky paleness. She braces her thighs around his waist, and now he’s the one trapped. She’s at least a century younger than him and considerably lighter, though almost as tall, but she holds her own whenever they spar. He could throw her off if he so desired, but he desires nothing less.
She leans her face over his, eyes sweeping across his appearance. She smells sweet, like crushed pine needles and moss.
“What did you do to your horns?” she murmurs. “Your hair as well. Oh, your eye. I don’t like your eye such a color at all.”
Fae can change great amounts of their appearance, but Iohmar has not since before their first meeting, and neither can he change these strange things back. He holds up their interlocked hands so she can see how his claws—still dulled for Lor—have turned to shadow.
Turned to shadow. Iohmar shakes off the thought. He will not let his worries sour the calm and warmth of the reunion.
