Night has spread across the mountains when a breeze brushes Iohmar’s face.
He sucks in the chill as the first breath after sinking to the bottom of the sea, crawling out of the small fissure. Arms aching, legs wobbling, he sits in a meadow and curls Lor against him. The boy relaxes but doesn’t relinquish his grip.
Moonlight illuminates the grasses, a brush of lace across the landscape. Not far from the clearing where they feasted, Iohmar finds himself in one of the many grasslands separating his woods. Taking a fistful of fragrant grass, he tucks it into a pocket.
“We’re safe, Wisp,” he says but doesn’t try to peel Lor from his chest.
Rippling lands. Iohmar’s skin absorbs the chill of the border, a separate cold from the fresh night air. Straining to see over the trees, the shimmering dead barrier rises into the night. They are close—so very, very close—and Iohmar feels weak.
Standing, he walks not to his mountains but toward the rippling lands, steps and steps closer until he is along the border of the trees where the moonlit meadow ends, and he glimpses the creatures past the trees.
They are there. Inside their border. Not touching his lands, but close. A whisper of breath from entering his world. Faceless and noiseless, mirrors convulsing within themselves. Iohmar does not need eyes and faces to know they are staring into his own.
“What do you want?” he hisses.
Lor starts, turning in Iohmar’s arms to gaze at the ripplings.
“Daidí, what are those?” he asks. Never has Iohmar taken him close or even spoken of the existence of these lands and their creatures. Lor knows nothing of the wars. Iohmar doesn’t believe it has yet occurred to the child that his father does not have a father and mother of his own.
“They will not hurt you,” Iohmar says, because he will not allow it. Monsters shall never touch his child. They shall never again step into his lands and cause his folk harm.
“Da?” Lor asks as the ripples slither close to their border. They do not travel at all like shadows, jerking and uneven in movement. Unnatural.
Iohmar steps against the wall, twining Lor around to his back, the tips of his horns piercing the barrier. It resists him. He could press past if he wished, but he snarls, ready to unleash every scrap of his magic. The sunlight is gone, but his trees are behind him, and he is a creature of shadow as much as of light. They will regret pressing his borders—
A dull twinkle of noise punctures the night as they scatter, disappearing into the corpses of trees on their side of the land. Iohmar feels the lack of their presence, and his legs tremble. He yanks back, staring at shards of moonlight cast off the border. Lor is clinging to his horns, and Iohmar is grateful to absorb confusion rather than fear from the tether of their magic.
He should not have acted in such a way before his son. Not when the threat was not immediate. Tears burn his eyes. He presses his knuckles against them, mortified.
He is stronger than this.
How can he not be stronger than this?
Lor pets his cheek. The boy cannot see his face even if he senses his distress. It’s a small comfort.
When he reaches for his magic, it crumbles from his grasp. No sunlight shines in the hours of midnight, but he has stepped into moonlight without difficulty. Even after he climbed from the earth, it should be within his grasp. It flees, and Iohmar notices for the first time his body’s frailness. His horns weigh heavy against his head, limbs aching to lie down and sleep.
“Daidí, what’s wrong?” Lor whispers.
Holding his hands before him, even in the slight light of the moon, Iohmar sees rot drifting from his skin.
16
Across the Rippling Lands
Iohmar flees the rippling borders.
He passes the cracked earth without attempting to close it; he will return in time. The ripplings won’t break the barrier—not when such a small show of hostility sent them scattering—but Iohmar wishes to be far from them before his body fails.
Was it his use of magic? Stretching his power to its limits never causes weakness. Has the strange rotting sickness been lingering in him all these years? Did saving his little boy do permanent damage? He’s felt strong and whole until this moment.
Pulling Lor from his back to his arms, he stretches his magic around him. Testing the bonds between them, he finds bright strings of life and warmth in the back of his thoughts, strong as ever. It grinds at Iohmar to find the bonds. His head spins.
“Daidí?” Lor asks. Iohmar keeps him pressed to his shoulder so he cannot see the sickness drifting from his skin.
“Shh, all is well, dearheart. We’ll be home soon.” Murmuring and pressing his fingers to Lor’s neck, he gathers some semblance of calm, letting it wash the boy into sleep. Lor’s limbs relax, a warm, limp weight in his arms. Iohmar grips him closer. If Lor were to wake and see him, he would be terrified. After caverns and dragon bones and ripplings, Iohmar wishes the boy to be comforted. His sleep will be long and deep and comfortable, for Iohmar doesn’t believe he will make it to his mountains. Rot and weakness drag him down.
He finds a place in the undergrowth to settle. Warm and soft and cushioned with ferns, the woods here are oppressive, but he is far from the heart of the woods, concealed from prying eyes by trees and flowers and grasses. Creatures of all shapes float about, drawn by his presence, weak as it is, hanging on heavy branches, eager to cling to their king’s magic. His folk don’t often wander so far. Not even Galen will find him.
Sitting with his back to the tree, he cannot see the rising border. Their presence exists, far off, no longer pushing against or even nearing his lands.
He closes his eyes. Feels strangely hot against the chill air.
Curls in the vegetation.
Maneuvers Lor into the circle of his arms on the mossy ground, held tight to his chest.
Sleeps.
Iohmar is not aware of the hours or days enough to count. Every so often, he awakens and is reassured Lor remains sleeping, expression calm. Flecks of papery rot drift from his skin. An owl with large eyes and a bright mouth watches from the branch of a green-black tree trunk. The rest is unclear, and during one of his lucid moments, he is grateful he’s not often awake enough to worry over the severity of the illness.
He dreams of his parents.
Of the warmth and sunlight of his childhood in the Halls beneath the mountain. Ascia laughing and chasing him about. She is nothing but a blur to his dreams. He cannot recall her face or the talents of her magic. Was it similar to his? His mother taking him to the tips of the mountains. His father wandering the orchard. Magic. Swordsmanship. Politics. War. Galen ever present, hovering inside each memory as he does in Iohmar’s waking days.
