“I don’t know. They still don’t speak.”
Carefully, he steps to the place where the border reached across the sand, then bends and scoops a handful into his palm.
When Rúnda approaches his shoulder, he holds the sand to her, letting the ashy specks drain into her hand.
“Oh,” she says, voice shaky.
“They were trying to eat the sand. I suppose some of the grains blew over into the dunes.”
“Yes,” she says, still staring at the grains.
He wraps his fingers around her arm, warm and solid and safe. He is going to scream.
“Excuse me,” he whispers.
He puts his back to her and the retreating border and walks. The wind does not answer him in the same ways it does her. It would toss him about and wish to play, and he cannot bear such. But there is sunlight streaming in little spots where it breaks the twilight and billowing peaks of clouds.
Stepping into a sunbeam, he slips as far from their rippling borders as his magic will take him.
“You weren’t easy to find.”
Rúnda’s voice rouses him. He isn’t asleep, but his eyes are closed, thoughts far away. It’s dark, and the air is chilled, thousands of stars greeting him.
Rúnda wears the same dress despite the chill. The wind atop the great tower tosses her hair in every direction. Her expression is . . . sad? Calm.
“Forgive me,” he says. Acting childish is shameful, but he couldn’t be in the presence of anyone, even her.
She shakes her head. “There’s nothing to forgive, Io.”
He turns his face from her. Understanding is a strange thing, particularly when he doesn’t understand it himself. How can I be so frightened? How can I let creatures with no thoughts or lives or knowledge affect me so? And how is Rúnda so accepting? He pets Lor’s soft hair. The boy is tucked under his shirt and against his skin to keep him warm. It’s comforting.
“Do you wish me to leave you to yourself?”
He considers but extends his hand. Slipping to the stone roof, she curls into the crook of his arm, legs folded over his stomach. Her finger slips inside Lor’s little palm.
“You must come to me next,” he tells her.
“It’s been a long time since I’ve seen your great mountains. Do you still visit the humans?”
Iohmar’s heart gives a squeeze.
“Sometimes. I forget how tiny their lives are. I don’t go for a time, and suddenly I am a myth their great-great-grandparents tell them about. More and more they do not know what they’re looking at. It’s easier than ever to make them gaze straight through me as if I am nothing more than a trick of the light.”
Her eyes are on him, and his mind remains on the rippling creatures.
“Tell me when you’re ready to launch your ships,” he whispers.
A smile crinkles her nose. “It will be quite the endeavor. No one’s crossed our sea and returned.”
“You will. If not, I’ll have your winds drag you back to me for a kiss.”
She shakes once in a laugh. “They can’t reach so far, you know.”
“I know. I have my ways. I am more stubborn than your gales.”
“Hmm. I’ll keep that in mind.” She nuzzles his ear with her lips. “You should stay longer this time. I know your people get restless for their own homes, but I believe a longer stay is in order.”
His heart aches. “I believe I shall.”
She returns his smile. “And then I’ll come to you.”
Time blends in Rúnda’s court as it does in Iohmar’s. Most his folk are content with the longer stay—those who aren’t wander home through twilight woods. Iohmar is cautious since seeing the ripplings at the sea, but they are safe each time he passes his thoughts over them.
Living shadows don’t visit when he wanders the woods with Lor on his shoulder, Rúnda by his side, and Galen trailing behind with Rúnda’s warrior guard and Iohmar’s, the little group eager as baby hounds to watch over their king and queen. The rippling creatures don’t haunt their steps when they visit the shores again. He and Rúnda are formal with each other in the presence of their people. Fun is to be had with sneaking about, finding places alone, pretending to be nothing but friendly neighboring rulers as they join the feasting only to spend long twilight nights side by side.
Lor is not so sly. Two infant fists reach for the queen each time she appears, a broad grin on his tiny plump cheeks, and he shrieks for her attention. Rúnda holds him whenever Iohmar gives the boy up, and their people watch and smile.
Iohmar sits with Rúnda often in the garden room adjoined to her chambers. It stretches into the knife of cliffside the tower juts from, spilling out the cliff’s edge on the other end, where, if Iohmar searches long enough, he can find the streak of ash along the landscape where ripplings invaded long ago. Rúnda’s mother, Laoise, is as ancient as Iohmar’s parents would be and older than Galen by some time, though none are certain how long. She is a constant occupant of the garden, sitting among the leaves and sweet warmth of the plants. Her magic resembles Rúnda’s in its presence, though it’s no longer strong and vital as her daughter’s, and she knows Iohmar by name even if she does not often speak.
When Iohmar’s folk grow too ancient for even the twilight lands, they return to the trees and soils from which they were crafted. Rúnda’s folk return to the winds. Strips of colorful cloth decorate the streak of dead land below for each lost. Markings. Remembrances.
They sit with Laoise often, and Iohmar enjoys her quiet company as he encourages the garden to grow, even as she reminds him of his own mother until his chest aches. Whenever he takes her hand, it is light as nothing, near carried away by the wind. She runs fingers through his hair and over his horns and encourages him to sit close, and though he doesn’t tolerate such babying with Galen, he allows her. It pleases Rúnda, and he enjoys her happiness. Besides, no one else haunts these private gardens. His pride can bear it. Laoise smiles at Lor and heaps affection upon her daughter, and Iohmar wonders if she thinks on the ripplings and their war as often as he.
For a time, he is happy to wander Rúnda’s lands. But his mountains call to him.
