At her name, Galen twitches, blinking at the long-forgotten sound. It has been so long. So long since Iohmar spoke her name to anyone. The last time it left his lips, he stood alone with Lor in Rúnda’s tower, whispering it for the wild winds to snatch away. His throat burns. Childish.
“No. She played in the tunnels with you. Her magic was quite undeveloped. I’m not sure it had presented itself.”
Iohmar nods.
“Might I ask what you’re planning to do?”
“I haven’t decided . . . They disappeared for quite some time. I’m not sure when I’ll encounter them next. And I don’t know how to communicate. I need time to think on it. I will not jump to violence.”
The rippling creatures slither into his thoughts. Iohmar forces them from his mind. He considers the voice he heard first in the woods on his journey to Rúnda’s court, just before discovering the shadows for the first time. Time may blur to him with ease, but the voice remains sharp and clear. He isn’t certain the two instances are related.
“Have you . . .” Galen hesitates, and Iohmar turns his eyes back to him. “Have you explained to Rúnda? About . . .” He nods his head toward the sleeping Lor.
Iohmar sighs. “No.”
He’s accustomed to the frown sent his direction. Rúnda must be sour with him for disappearing as he did, for much longer than the winds would’ve taken her. He worries she’ll think him foolish for his sacrifice. Tampering with one’s own magic is a foolish act unbecoming of a leader. Iohmar rubs his eyes. They itch still from the illness, and his skin sits frail and older than his years. His horns are no longer heavy, but his head is filled with mist. He needs to tell Galen of this as well. And he will not test Rúnda’s patience and love any longer—not over his petty fears. It is unkind.
“I will talk to her of it before she returns to her tower. I was meaning to before the winds came down from the seas.”
Galen nods, the frown smoothing.
A soft whisper reaches Iohmar, Lor stirring on the covers. Glancing over his shoulder, he watches the boy roll until his back is to them. He sighs, a baby bird in the nest of Iohmar’s airy blankets.
Lor screams.
It’s such a foreign noise that Iohmar doesn’t recognize what’s happening for a horrid moment. Galen starts, tipping into the window as he loses his balance.
“Lor,” Iohmar says, leaping to the foot of the bed. “Lor!”
He turns the boy over, taking his wrists. Lor’s eyes don’t focus—not until Iohmar gives him a soft shake. Lor blinks, his shrieks cutting off with an echoing abruptness.
“Lor, it’s well. All is well.” Iohmar drops his wrists in favor of cradling the boy’s cheeks, smoothing his hair.
Lor hiccups. Upset, his skin sheds leaves, flower petals drooping and falling. His eyes are glass with tears, lower lip trembling. He stares up at Iohmar as if he doesn’t understand him. Iohmar swallows. What do I do? The boy has not cried since he was an infant first brought from the human world, and earlier in the dark of the caverns, but such was a simple thing to understand and soothe.
“What’s wrong, hmm?” he asks, attempting a calm and unworried voice.
Lor’s breath hitches, but he says, “Where . . . where did you go?”
Though he hasn’t left the boy’s side, Iohmar’s stomach twists. “I’m right here.”
“I didn’t see you,” Lor whispers, glancing over his hand at Galen. The old fae is as shaken and confused as Iohmar, frowning at the child. He softens his eyes when Lor looks to him.
Slowly and calmly, Iohmar scoops the boy to his chest. Lor hugs him in return, but Iohmar isn’t soothed. Something is wrong. He hates Lor’s easy fear. Iohmar isn’t certain why the caverns frightened rather than fascinated him. He has always been interested in the tunnels beneath the mountain with their shadows and gems, running ahead of Iohmar into the darkness.
This was different. And the boy knows it.
“Lor . . .” Iohmar starts, unsure. “Did anything happen in the cavern before I found you?”
Mere minutes must’ve passed before Iohmar found him. It felt an eternity, but Iohmar knows it wasn’t.
Lor shakes his head, but Iohmar is not satisfied. “You can tell me if something frightens you, Wisp.”
Galen creeps closer, standing in the corner of Iohmar’s sight. What does he think of my softness? Of the way I speak to the boy? It matters little.
Lor doesn’t respond, and Iohmar feels his face twisting into a frown. He shifts the boy until his face is no longer hidden by his shoulder, cradling him as if he were an infant. Lor rubs his eyes and blinks.
Iohmar searches his expression until Lor, unwillingly, says, “I heard a voice.”
“A voice?”
Lor hiccups, fiddling with Iohmar’s soft tunic. “It was calling for you.”
“For me,” Iohmar repeats, considering at once the soft voice that spoke his name before he met the shadows. He turns to Galen, but his confusion matches Iohmar’s.
“Was the voice familiar?”
Lor shakes his head.
“Is that all it said?”
Lor nods.
“Are you certain?”
Another nod, and Iohmar believes him. It’s strange no one addressed him in the oppressive darkness. Perhaps they are linked—the shadows and the voice. He can’t imagine why they appear to him but refuse to speak.
“What did the voice want?” Lor asks, putting one of the tie strings from the tunic between his little teeth. Unconsciously, Iohmar rocks him.
