Iohmar will return this infant bundle far before then.
Familiar trees extend branches in greeting as he travels the pass, stone cliffs rising on either side, leaving barely enough space for his shoulders. All manner of flowers and creeping vines wrap around his ankles and toes. Their magic, dull and sleepy, is a soothing warmth like weak sunlight. Animals brush their noses against him and scurry away. His crows have dispersed, sated by seeds and breadcrumbs he let fall from his fingers. A deer approaches in a wider section of the path, nose twitching, flowers sprouting along her pale back. Tall as she is, even her head does not reach Iohmar’s. She nuzzles his fingers before wandering away into the undergrowth and flowers from which she was born.
Streaks of shadowed trees reach much of Látwill. Iohmar steps through sunlight, avoiding them, but they are not all easy to pass. They tug at his magic. In the distance, the heart of the woods sings to him, awake, trying to draw him into its embrace.
Iohmar . . .
Come sleep, Iohmar . . .
Årelang wants you . . .
Croía is here . . .
You are safe here, sweet lord . . .
Iohmar shudders at the names of his father and mother and shakes off the trees’ heady voices, wondering if the child hears anything at all.
Owls scream overhead. He sees nothing of them but the pale light spilling from their beaks. Obsidian dragonflies drone over the grasses. Wolves circle him. They dwell far into the heart of the trees but emerge at his presence, the pads of their paws whispering along the soil, tails swishing. He glimpses one but senses the presence of the other six as embers are felt near a fire.
The pack’s leader flickers among the ferns and mossy branches. Iohmar pauses. So does the creature. Its body is gray, twisted with earth-green vines. A bruise-blue flower falls from its mouth. Its face is flat, built as a diamond in angles and patterns, snout drawn to a point, a mask of flat wood unlike the wolves of any human kingdom. Two sharp eyes with purple irises gaze out at him.
Iohmar knows better than to reach out and keeps his silence. If the creature has something to say, he will speak for himself.
“They rarely come to these trees any longer,” says a voice from behind. Iohmar knew of the fae’s presence but didn’t expect words.
As the wolf trots away, Iohmar turns slightly in the other direction. A face emerges from the dark trunks, body peeking out. It is humanoid in shape, one of Iohmar’s few folk who prefer to dwell elsewhere, away from the Fair Halls of his mountain.
Concealing the boy in his robes, Iohmar says, “Hello, Túirt.”
Túirt’s sharp dark-as-pitch eyes stay fixed on the face of his king, not on what’s bundled in his arm. “My sweet lord.”
“How are your plums?”
Shuffling from the thicket like a rabbit watching for hawks, Túirt reaches out a long blue-purple limb, shyly presenting Iohmar with a fruit. Unease takes automatic hold, but Iohmar brushes it aside, keeping his expression kind. Túirt is not his friend, but if he were in a foul mood, Iohmar would know by now. Today, he seems to want to please his king.
Taking the plum with the tips of his talons, Iohmar bites into the soft flesh. Sweet and tart flavors flood his tongue, his eyes watering.
“You grow the best fruit, Túirt.”
He is a solitary creature and does not hear the magic of his name spoken often. He shudders, and his eyes drift to Iohmar’s curled arm.
“What do you have there, my lord?” he asks, starting to sidestep closer.
“Nothing for you to worry over,” Iohmar says as gently as he can, taking a pointed step away.
Túirt’s long face scrunches. The babe shifts, but Iohmar doesn’t allow himself to tense. He doesn’t know how the fae would react but doesn’t want him spreading the information.
“I want to see what you’ve found,” Túirt whines, trying to hop closer, spreading thin lips in a smiling line of needle teeth.
“Enough, Túirt. Go back to your trees.”
Command in his voice coupled with the fae’s name halts Túirt in his tracks.
“Eeeeehhh.” Túirt gives another whine of a noise, scowling at Iohmar and turning for the dark of the trunks, spitting to himself.
Túirt is no true threat, but Iohmar still dislikes angering one of his folk, particularly when they’re curious. Sighing, he continues, tossing the pit of the plum aside. He will bring Túirt fresh bread from the Fair Halls to soothe his hurt feelings. He may be a dangerous creature, but he is petty and sated by pretty or sweet things.
Iohmar steps into the nearest sunbeam breaking the fog of trees.
The underside of the highest mountain rises. Rocks mar the lower edge, overgrown with moss, plants, and vines after many millennia. Iohmar remembers the collapse burying him in stone and shadow, a hazy dream from long ago. The storm accompanying the great quake. The sight of it casts spiderwebs of chill across his skin. He lowers his eyes to the infant asleep in the crook of his arm. It is strange to hold something so fragile, so small and helpless. All children in his Halls sit at his feet or hold his fingers, but he’s never feared breaking one of them with too careless a touch.
Iohmar’s folk dwelling within his mountain will not harm the child. They do not share his small respect for humankind, but he forbade them from bringing humans as pets into the Halls to wither and become discontent, and Iohmar cannot break a law he has so long enforced. But there are those who may steal the babe away to someplace less fair and warm. All fae lands are not so bright and lovely.
For now, the child shall be his little secret.
Lesser folk appear at the base of the mountain. Slow of thought, drunk on the magic hanging heavy within the woods, they sense him as moths discovering a lantern. Some are small and light, floating from the ground. Some waddle along the earth with many limbs and flower-size faces of bark or moss or loam.
“Hello, little things,” Iohmar murmurs, reaching to brush his fingers against them. They grab his hands and rub along his legs. None reach his knees in height.
They are not the folk dwelling within the mountain, the ones who would notice the child within his arms. These are not unintelligent, but slow and gentle, dwelling on magic and forest things and often the moon. They are as fae as he, but not the same. He is warmed by their presence, but there is no companionship. He lets them run off once they’ve made their greetings.
Usually, an outing to the human world would warrant a walk among his people upon returning, a peaceful way to breathe in the warmth and peace of the vast gardens where his folk spend much of their dreaming days.
Today, he carries the child in one of the hidden passages.
