Iohmar shakes his head. “It is out of my knowledge. Perhaps it is the shadows, but they caused no change in the forest. Perhaps it is blowing in from beyond the deserts.”
Her lips quirk. As long as Iohmar has known her, she’s wished to find the other side of both the waves of sand and of water. He believes she will, as many millennia as it might take.
“Then I shall keep observing.” She gestures at Lor. “Are you going to tell this story?”
Lor’s given up on reaching for the sand and gums at the corner of Iohmar’s tunic. Iohmar hands him to Rúnda. Much like him, she’s never had much cause to become familiar with children. Her own people bring their little ones to her for blessings, but her hands flutter over the child in uncertainty before taking him. Her eyes alight, and she smiles as she tucks him into the crook of her arm. Her magic intertwines with the child’s, becoming familiar with it as she touches each of his toes absently. Petals float from Lor’s skin at her petting, blowing out of sight across the sands.
Without looking up, she says, “His magic is . . . different.”
Iohmar winces. Rúnda is more observant than most. He doubts others will notice. Protecting his child is now top priority, even from anyone who may simply think less of him. But Rúnda is kind, and she owns a piece of his heart, just as he owns a piece of hers. She deserves truth from him.
“He is . . . from the woods. But it was an unusual circumstance. His magic is strangely bonded to mine.”
“Does this, by chance, have something to do with the change in your appearance?”
Iohmar grimaces, fingering the broken tip of his horn. He smoothed the rough edges, as he did the sharp tips of his other horns and talons for Lor’s sake, but the bumpy surface remains. Rúnda’s eyes follow his hand, but she does not reach out. Despite their toughness, he’s always been sensitive to others touching the horns. Ridiculous, but somehow ingrained. Rúnda has permission, of course, but she respects his boundaries.
“Perhaps,” he admits, hoping the word doesn’t frustrate her. “Walk with me?”
Returning the child, she loops her arm through his, leading him among the dunes. Her skin is petal soft against his. Soon, the salty tang of the sea reaches them alongside the crash of waves over the horizon.
“Iohmar?” she asks.
She will think him foolish if he explains, foolish for bringing the human to Látwill and more so for endangering his own magic to save him. She may still come to love Lor as the boy grows, but how can she view him the same as if he were a true child of the fae, born from love or the heart of the woods? Even Galen does not, and he has known the truth from the first hours the boy was in the twilight lands.
“It was simply strange,” Iohmar says. “And no longer dangerous. I promise.”
For a moment, her lips quirk down. He knows his chill and secrecy are bothersome. He is awkward with speaking affection, but she is ever patient, never forcing change on his ways. Guilt twines like a vine around his throat.
“I’ve not quite wrapped my head around it myself,” he says. “When I’m sure in full what I’ve done and the repercussions, I’ll explain it to you in full. But I swear to you, there is no more danger. I would tell you without hesitation if there were.”
She tilts her head back to gaze at him. He cannot lie, so she knows the uncomfortably heartfelt words are true.
She gives a sharp bark of a laugh, but her eyes are twinkling. “You have too much sugar in your words. But I will be patient with you. You think through things too greatly at times, you realize.”
“Yes.” Guilt still nags. But he will tell her. When the time is correct. When Lor is as beloved to her as he is to Iohmar. Truth will not change her feelings toward him then, will it? He mustn’t believe so.
He tugs her closer as they crest a final dune before the sea spreads. Gulls cry and swoop low overhead, feathers shimmering in and out of the wind. Orange-beige dunes dissolve into purple-and-pear sands so bright and ethereal his eyes ache. Ships loom in the distance, beached along the sand. Rúnda releases his arm to dance down to the water, splashing foam. Waves of blue and pearl swirl around her, greeting their queen as Iohmar’s trees greet him.
Following, he crouches and dips Lor’s feet into the water. The babe gurgles and curls his toes from the cold before dropping them in. Iohmar sets him in the waves. Today, he is large enough to sit on his own, fists gripping Iohmar’s fingers. Iohmar’s lips curl, and he feels Rúnda’s eyes on him. Joining him, she sprinkles clumps of sea foam onto Lor’s pale head of hair. He giggles.
“Come,” Rúnda says, taking his hand. “I’ve progress to show you.”
She leads him to the ships, great monsters of dark wood and pale sails. Iohmar helped with the trees during their last visit, coaxing ones from the earth that were willing to change their shape for another type of life, drenched in salt and the tug of the gales.
“You’ve made quite the progress,” he says, running his hand along the nearest plank. He also persuaded trees to sprout along the shores, roots clinging to the sand, branches holding the ships in scaffolds. Cherry blossoms sprout from leafless branches, casting soft petals onto the decks and surrounding sands.
“We’re close to testing these, I believe.” She nods to herself. “Soon.”
Past ships haven’t withstood the wildness of the waves. And no matter how Rúnda calls her winds to carry her, they won’t transport her across the sea for more than a short ways.
So she will make her own way, and Iohmar helps where he can.
He sits in the shadow of the looming craft, setting Lor back into the foam. Rúnda joins him.
“Is there any way I can assist?” he asks.
“Perhaps reinforce the beams where you can, but I believe we have it quite secure.” She takes Lor’s tiny hands. “By the time this one is older, perhaps we’ll have discovered a way across and you both can join in a journey.”
The boy will grow with Rúnda’s presence. Iohmar’s chest tightens until he can’t breathe.
“Your face is making quite the funny expression,” Rúnda says, maneuvering closer. Fingers of waves tug at her dress. “I believe I should bring you up to the tower top again. Watching you weak at the knees the first time was quite the sight.”
“Your queensguard laughed at me.”
“Well, I’ve been spreading rumors. I tell them you’re not nearly as frightening as you think you are.”
“I don’t think I’m frightening,” Iohmar says, which is a strange enough mixture of truth and lie that it doesn’t struggle to pass his lips.
“Yes, you do. And everyone is always so respectful. The great king beneath the earth . . .”
Iohmar wrinkles his nose.
She grins. “It’s fun to see someone snark at you other than Galen. Keeps you on your toes.”
“I already have you for that.”
“I need reinforcements.”
