“So you . . . didn’t come here . . . for anything?”
Again, Iohmar sees the girl sneaking peeks out the window. He makes eye contact and smiles. It’s returned.
“I mean you no harm.” He hopes the sincerity in his voice is not mistaken for a well-tended lie, though humans must know such things are not in fae nature.
“Just curious,” the man echoes, beginning to relax in the face. He almost smiles—not comfortable, but reassured.
When Iohmar smiles, the man does not lean away. “I have a fondness for humans that many of my kin do not share. It is an eccentricity of mine, you might say. So, you wish to tell me your name now?”
Hesitating, the man twists the hem of his rough tunic between two fingers. “Would it be horribly offensive if I said no?”
“Not at all. Eventually, I will know.”
His mouth bobs open and shut with a click, but he looks confused rather than threatened. Iohmar returns the doll the daughter offered. Hesitating, the human puts his hand near enough to Iohmar’s to take the toy.
“Is he your child?” he asks, nodding toward Lor without making eye contact. When Iohmar nods, he blurts, “Is he going to have horns too?”
Iohmar almost laughs. Even if Lor had been born of a physical bond, the boy wouldn’t necessarily resemble him. Magic is passed in greater detail and strength than appearance. There is a chance Lor would appear as he does even if he were born of Iohmar’s blood, or even if the heart of the woods gave Iohmar the boy.
“No, we don’t pass on appearances as your kind does.”
“Aaaaaa!” Lor cries, grinning at Iohmar.
The young man starts at the noise. “Oh . . . And you’re really not here for anything?”
“You don’t believe me?”
“I might if you stopped looking at me like I’m food,” he says, then appears startled that the words passed his lips. He takes a step back then forward, staring at the pile of hay as if ignoring Iohmar will make him disappear.
Do I look such a way? Iohmar is taller than the human, a full three heads at least, which can’t be comforting. Iohmar considers his expression. He’s kept his eyes soft and large and the smile in place much of the time, but his intensity paired with his appearance might be rather worrying for a human, particularly for one who can’t understand the motives of the king of Faeryland.
Truly, Iohmar doesn’t know what he intended to gain from the interaction. Now he knows how time has passed in the human realm, but such was not necessary information. He finds himself face-to-face with a human as unremarkable as Lor was. The man was brave enough to speak to the fae king along the road, but there’s nothing else of note.
“I have no taste for meat,” he tells the man, realizing the next moment such words may not be as reassuring as intended. But the human blinks, and Iohmar considers this a worthwhile distraction.
“Ever?”
“Personally, no.”
“Oh,” he says, watching Lor reach for Iohmar’s horns. “This is the first time you’ve been here?”
An odd question. “I have visited your world countless times. I am usually not so openly seen.”
“No, I meant”—he gestures around— “you’ve never been here before? Right here?”
Iohmar tilts his head, confused. “I have never had cause to.”
“But . . .” The human leans forward as if they’re conspiring. “The shadows in the woods? The ones climbing around the trees? Those aren’t you?”
For a moment, Iohmar loses concentration on his expression. The man backs away, glancing over his shoulder, holding up his hands as if he’s frightened.
Shadows?The human is seeing strange shadows on his side of the woods? Iohmar knows humans exaggerate and lie and dream up nonexistent monsters. Iohmar would not be surprised if encountering the man along the path caused him to believe he sees monsters among the trees at all times. But the idea sticks with him, a nagging thought adding to the small things forming a weight in his mind. If it’s real, not a figment of the man’s imagination, then it’s a concern Iohmar may need to address. His lands are the ones bordering the human world. Not often does anything pass from one realm to another, but it is his duty to ensure nothing harmful slips back and forth, even if the living shadows in the meadow were no threat.
“No,” Iohmar says gently, aware of how far the man has backed away. “Those weren’t me. How often do you see them?”
“Every few months . . . I suppose. Are they dangerous?” He glances at his cottage, at his daughter peeking around the doorframe. Iohmar understands. His first thoughts would go to Lor.
Taking a breath, he thinks of the ripplings sharing his border. His scars rub against the inside of his soft clothes, but he knows the sensation is nothing more than the small and frightened sliver of his mind still caught in an ancient war.
“I do not believe so,” he answers. “I am still beginning to know them myself.”
Could the shadows have come from the rippling lands?
Frowning, the man looks to his daughter. Iohmar follows his gaze as he melts into the sunbeams between the trees, there one minute and gone the next, and doesn’t turn back to see the human’s reaction to his sudden disappearance.
13
A Shred of Shadow
Iohmar takes the shadowed way between the human trees.
He doesn’t expect to find much. The shadows are unlikely to reveal themselves should he search—secretive beings rarely make themselves known when one is searching—but he patrols the empty woods on his return to his mountains, a sense of duty about the process. He lifts Lor to grip his horns. The weight of the child on his shoulders has become a familiar routine, comforting as nothing else. The boy’s bright warmth outshines Iohmar’s concerns.
Sunlight sets and rises before Iohmar steps foot on the path between the mountains. Lor is asleep, and Iohmar finds a spot in the greenery to settle, not ready to return to his Halls and their feasts and smiling. He will speak with Galen on the day’s events but is unsure of the words. Rúnda will not be there to greet him until the next season, and though he left only days before, it feels a great time. The human grave is close yet unseen. Near as he is to his mountains, he can sit and enjoy their presence.
“Do you know of shadows, little Wisp?” he murmurs, setting the boy in the cross of his legs. Lor wakes with a yawn and grins up at the king. His gums have not yet grown teeth, and Iohmar has no sense of when they will. Milk and soft things will be fed until then. In truth, Iohmar wouldn’t mind him staying small and sweet for an eternity.
“Aaaa,” Lor coos. Iohmar believes he may be trying to speak these last few days. It wouldn’t be too early for a child growing at different stages. Today, he is smaller. He will be bigger and smaller. Iohmar hasn’t gone out of his way to teach the boy words, though he might recognize wisp before he recognizes his own name.
