“I’m not certain yet,” he says. Then, to comfort the boy, adds, “This is a mystery we’ll have to figure out, isn’t it?”
He searches for a smile, but Lor nuzzles his face into Iohmar’s shoulder. Galen’s eyes are still confused. Iohmar cannot help him and knows where he wishes to be.
“I am going to take him for a walk,” he murmurs, and Galen takes the dismissal, drifting to the door.
As some sort of thank-you, Iohmar says, “You should join us for supper tomorrow—me, Rúnda, and Lor. I need to speak with her tonight.”
Galen pauses. It seems to soften him. His eyes gentle, and he bows his head, running his fingers over Lor’s temple and Iohmar’s shoulder before disappearing.
Iohmar closes his eyes. He needs to visit the quiet of the orchard.
Lor dozes as Iohmar bathes and dresses him. Iohmar daydreams of the crack in the ground. Worry nags. Perhaps he should have told Galen of his encounter with the ripplings. He will tell Rúnda, as always, but the idea doesn’t comfort him.
He chooses clothes that are soft against his still-sensitive skin—a weightless pair of trousers, a long loosely spun tunic which catches light in its small filaments, and the heavy black robe Rúnda gifted him. It’s stable across his shoulders, and he hopes she will be pleased by the display of her gift. Certainly, she will be cross with him after his disappearance, and he needs to approach the subject gently. One of his lightest crowns of twisted vines he selects to wear when he is out among his folk. Wearing a crown isn’t easy around his horns, but this one is open in the back and simpler to slip through his hair. It rests around his temples.
Lor in his arms, he leaves the security of his chambers.
Noon is rising. Sunlight bathes the garden in speckles of light. The grass releases fragrance in the heat, and Iohmar drags his toes through it as he wanders the garden. Rúnda’s voice is the first he picks out from among the birdsong. She’s sitting with her queensguard, circled under the shade of flowering trees, each of them plucking fruit from the heavy branches. Iohmar idles in the cool of the shadows, not out of sight but unnoticed for the moment. Several of Rúnda’s queensguard are older than her, but not Iohmar. They will exist by her side until they are no longer part of these lands. Rúnda feels much the same for them as Iohmar does for his own kingsguard, and so he has affection for them despite having shared few experiences.
They, of so few between the two lands, know the true relationship he and Rúnda share. As far as Iohmar can discern—and he’s paid great attention—they appear to approve of their match.
The youngest among them, Fainne, notices him first and smiles with a bow of her head. Her moss-green skin is peppered with light blue freckles, and a dusting of soft feathers fades into her scalp. She joined Rúnda’s side within the last few decades. Such practice is not usual. Many of Rúnda’s guard have been with her since childhood, but there are exceptions. Fainne can disappear into breezes and pop up miles away, and Rúnda welcomes the opportunity to foster someone young with such a gift. Fainne has never known a time Iohmar did not exist in her queen’s life and is always enthusiastic to greet him.
Bowing his head, he steps from the shadows and closer to Rúnda, touching the tip of her ear. Her head lolls back, and she gazes at him with cool eyes. What does she think of my sudden reappearance? He smiles and feels it crack his face.
“How are you enjoying the sunlight?” he asks. He dislikes how disingenuous it sounds and assures himself he shall speak with her.
“It’s lovely,” she says. “It’s always quiet here.”
There are no wild winds to drag them away. “The gardens are peaceful. I’m visiting the orchard. Shall I join you later?”
She nods, her eyes on Lor asleep on his shoulder. There is curiosity there, and he touches her ear again before he slips from the judgement in her gaze.
The orchards are a swath of rolling trees for miles within Iohmar’s Halls. Soaking in limited sunlight and dwelling happily in twilight, the leaves grow in shades of dull color and bear fruit no one in the Fair Halls touches. Iohmar’s kind do not decay in the way of the human world, and the winds do not tug their bodies into the skies as with Rúnda’s folk. Here, they leave permanent remembrances.
Lor stirs not far into the trees. Iohmar has never brought him here nor explained the significance, though the child has seen the trees from the gardens. Setting him in the grasses, Iohmar watches Lor rub sleep from his eyes and circle the purplish trunks, plucking flowers from their bases, twisting them into little wreaths. Each circlet—sloppy and falling apart in his hands—he hangs on the lowest branch before skipping to the next tree.
“Daidí, I’m sleepy.” He waddles through the bluish grasses until he bumps into Iohmar’s leg. Iohmar slides his hands under his arms and swoops him up without struggle—the fresh air is sweet and calms the remnants of unsteadiness in his limbs.
“We were asleep a long time, Wisp.”
“Why?”
Iohmar’s head is weighed by the boy hanging on his horns. Once he grows larger, Iohmar will need to dissuade him from pulling his head down. For now, he cherishes the gesture.
“Well, we had quite the adventure, didn’t we?” It isn’t a lie, just a dance about the truth. Everyone tires, and Iohmar expended a great deal of magic pulling them from the earth. For all Lor knows, long sleep is needed after such an experience.
He’ll realize soon enough. Never did Iohmar plan to explain to the boy he grew sick when he was an infant. But if it happens in the future, an older Lor won’t be so easily dissuaded. It overtook Iohmar with such ease, and so close to the rippling lands, in the densest parts of the woods. His mother’s magic never failed her once it recovered from saving his father, but it is not so similar a situation as he believed, and he cannot rely on hers to guide his expectations. The corners of his mouth turn down, but he makes his expression neutral before Lor notices.
“Are you still sleepy?” Lor reaches for the leaves of the nearest tree.
“A little. We will be much better in a while. Do you like the trees here?”
Lor folds a leaf several ways between his fingers. It’s spongy and light and bounces back under his touch. “They’re strange.”
“Yes, they are indeed. Would you like to go for a little walk with me?”
“Yes.” Lor drops the leaf at the base of the tree.
Iohmar sets the boy back in the grass, keeping gentle hold of his hand, and wanders toward the center of the orchard. Distance here is as strange a thing as time. Many trees stand between here and the true center, but Iohmar wishes to reach it, and so the lands obey their king. Within a hundred steps, they cross the stream circling the center, reaching two trees twining together toward the twilight sky.
They are large beasts—greener and bluer in hue than the limbs and shaded greens speckling most of the orchard. Intricate designs in no particular pattern sweep their trunks and branches until the thick round leaves flutter in the stillness.
Iohmar lets Lor splash in the creek. Deer blink lazy eyes at the child disturbing their quiet as they graze blue-green grasses. Flowers and branches sprout from their backs, darker foliage to match the shades of the orchard. Large, heavy blooms drift pollen as they walk. Iohmar’s crows fly overhead, patterns of noise against the sky. They do not land. Iohmar rests his forehead against the closest trunk and listens to the shiver of life within. The bark is warm against his skin. He does the same with the other. Visits here are rare, and the trees do not notice the difference, but he settles into a nest between the roots, where he feels the dull, slow threads of life—all that remain of his mother and father.
Lor has no concept of this place, and Iohmar does not wish to explain. He would rather the boy see his scars and believe his father born with them. With age, Lor will realize. The memories are here, fresh in his mind, and he believes he cannot form words to explain. Even if he could, they would never pass his lips.
He lays a hand on the nearest root. Poppies spread bright crimson against the trunks and across the grasses and roots. A petal curls around his finger.
Eventually, Lor tires of the stream and shuffles to Iohmar, crawling into his lap with a bundle of grass he’s plucked. He does not ask questions, and so Iohmar rests his head against the bark and watches the boy. None of his people wander these trees. It is often silent, left to animals and memory.
Lor pulls the twisted crown from Iohmar’s horns, dropping it to the soil before replacing it with the circle of grass and flowers he’s created. Iohmar smiles.
“Are you still sleepy?”
“Nope,” Lor says in a voice revealing he isn’t paying attention.
