Inspecting his fingertips, Rúnda eyes him with an expression somewhere between suspicion and amusement. Her own eyes are black as they have always been, a natural kind, glossy and reflective as gems, never too wide to look innocent or too narrow to appear calculating. They have always seen a great deal of him—more than he’s appreciated—since when they first met before the war. He untangles his hands from hers, takes her by the waist, and pulls her down. She lies atop him, chest to chest, her forehead against his, and they soak in each other’s warmth.
“You have something you wish to tell me?” His voice is heavy. They haven’t seen each other in too long, but he feels himself drawn toward sleep. Rúnda’s breath is likewise calm and measured, hardly awake.
“I’ll show you in the morning. It is strange, not urgent.”
“Hmm,” he replies, enjoying the soothing texture of her familiar voice. It must be a strange thing indeed if Rúnda finds it so. He doesn’t allow himself to worry. Worry is for the morning.
“You seem to have some things to tell me as well,” she says, but he can tell she’s asleep once the words leave her lips. He smiles. Lor will be quite the story.
He drapes one arm around her, placing the other hand protectively on Lor’s chest, and lets the deep night breeze lull him to sleep.
10
Queen over the Sky
Dry heat reaches them before the forest breaks to desert. Iohmar sheds his heavy robe and tugs loose the tight sleeves and neckline of his tunic. Rúnda is dressed wisely in an autumn-orange dress cut up to her hips and wrapping around her shoulders and neck by mere threads. It isn’t much thicker than the shimmering thing she wore the night before, but he can’t see as much of her skin. It flatters her sweetly.
“You didn’t warn me we’re going to the sands.”
She smiles over her shoulder. The woods don’t sparkle as much in comparison. “Poor king. Too hot for your delicate body?”
He scowls while she laughs. Lor appears unaffected by the warmth. He’s draped over Iohmar’s shoulder, small enough to be held by his feet so he’s balanced against Iohmar’s neck. As far as he can tell, the boy has fallen asleep, though it’s still early, his belly full of milk.
“You could relieve yourself of those clothes,” Rúnda suggests deadpan, and Iohmar tosses his robe over her head as the forest breaks for the great sands.
Chuckling, she dumps the fabric at her feet and walks into the blistering heat. She wears no shoes, and Iohmar left his own thin boots in his chambers. Burning heat presses against his soles, the roughness of sand so different from soft mountain peat. He digs his toes in. Lor squeaks, awake and curious, and Iohmar lowers him. The boy does not pull away when he touches the dunes, so Iohmar lets him sit. His skin is near blue against the golden sands. Iohmar’s own transparent hands appear a shade cooler. Crouching, he buries his claws in the dune. Lor tries to stuff a fistful of sand into his gums, and Iohmar swats his hand away with a gentle finger.
“Io,” Rúnda calls, waving her arms for his attention from the top of the nearest dune, her shape silhouetted against the sandy blue sky. A soft, warm breeze whips her dress around her legs, lifting and depositing her back to the earth as she wanders.
He joins her, Lor returned to his shoulder, robe abandoned. Breezes whip his unadorned hair, tangling it about his horns. Lor tugs on it.
An infinite reach of sand stretches before them. Iohmar has seen Rúnda’s desert many times, but it never ceases to strike him as if for the first time. His eyes, so accustomed to greenery and mountains, streams and waterfalls, and caverns of shimmering gems, do not accept a vast eternity of sand. There is no variation in color save for the shade cast by one dune upon another and the moment the land reaches the sky. Even the purplish twilight only tints the desert’s hue. Night does not keep the heat from rising in long fingers. Though he has no proof, Iohmar is certain the dunes create their own heat.
And forever on they stretch. No one has reached the other side, or done so and returned, even in the age of dragons far gone. It is of strange amusement to him that a land as confined to boundaries of magic as theirs can stretch so far that their own kind cannot traverse it. Then again, the rules are often broken. To the right of where they stand, the desert breaks against the ocean, and it is so vast in every direction it reaches that all have failed in its crossing as well. Iohmar glimpses its thin haze from the peak of their dune.
The immensity of the place—and Rúnda’s presence beside him, Lor fidgeting on his shoulder—expands Iohmar’s chest with a warmth other than the desert heat.
He folds his fingers between the queen’s. She hums.
As she leads him over the next dune and the next, the forest behind becomes a green sliver. He has no fear of losing his way with her lead. Even without her, it is likely the wind would answer his call. She stops at the bottom of a dune, where the bruised color of the air sends shadows between the waves of sand, and releases his hand. A dozen steps away, she turns to face him, magic building with the feathers of blue traveling up her skin.
She smiles at him, turning her palms to the sky.
Wind rises to her calling—a bitter cold northern gale. It clashes with the heat of the desert as a warm mountain stream meeting the sea. Sand swirls. Rough grains caress his skin. Lor shrieks once, falling quiet when Iohmar shields his face with a hand. She won’t let the sand smother them, but the boy may be frightened by the sight. The sound of it is a roar, a thousand insect wings surrounding them. He gazes upward at the pattern the wind creates with sand against the sky, admiring the ease with which Rúnda wields her magic.
The sand separates into Rúnda’s fingers, settling in her palms, and the storm quiets. She holds the handful to him, and Iohmar approaches. It’s ashy. Small speckles of gray remind him at once of the rotting sickness, though it wasn’t the same color. A strange woman dwelling in the caverns far below enters his thoughts. Dreams of his parents and Ascia and battles and scars. Flecks of shadow drifting from his skin. Lor’s frail human body asleep on the bed beside him.
He pinches the sand between his fingers, watching it crumble, and kneels to pick at the odd-colored grains he now notices between his feet.
“It seems to gather at the bottoms of the dunes,” Rúnda says, her voice carried away by the wind. “I believe it blows off the dunes and collects at the bottom. It has no magic to it, but . . .”
Iohmar knows why she hesitates. Rippling creatures have no magic—it doesn’t mean they aren’t dangerous.
“When did you notice?” he asks. Lor is reaching for the ground, but Iohmar doesn’t want him sitting now.
“Not long ago,” she says, contemplation in her voice. “Months. Not many of them.”
He understands. Time is tricky. Because Rúnda is younger doesn’t mean it doesn’t slip through her mind as it does for Iohmar, just as these handfuls of sand slip through his fingers. It isn’t worrying on its own—the world changes its color and shape every now and again—but it reminds Iohmar of his sickness. Reminds him of twisting shadows he encountered in the woods. Reminds him of ripplings.
He sits, maneuvering Lor under his chin. Rúnda settles beside him, a great deal of silence between them. He thinks of his parents and Rúnda’s mother, of their first evening together, of all the discussions they’ve sat and considered. He rests his hand on her soft skin, and she covers his fingers with her palm.
“Tell me your thoughts,” she whispers.
“Are there new creatures in your lands?”
Rúnda rests her head against his shoulder and considers the sky. “None I am aware of. It must be something strange if you’re asking. Has the great king come across a creature he doesn’t know?”
“There are just as many I don’t know as you.”
“Hmm.”
“Some ways into your border, my party stopped to rest from the sun. I walked the woods. There were shadows I have never seen before. They were unusual. They moved and lived and gave off a feeling of life all their own. I spoke to them, and I don’t know if they didn’t understand me or didn’t wish to answer.”
Rúnda’s eyebrows form a furrow along her forehead. “Were they hostile?”
“I sensed nothing. But it is strange to come across creatures in the woods I have never seen or heard or even sensed. I thought they might be yours.”
“No, not mine,” she whispers. She flicks her fingers, and a handful of sand shifts. “You have no thoughts about what’s causing the change?”
