“Thank you,” he says, desperation in the sound.
Rúnda’s eyes render him vulnerable. It is apparent to anyone how dearly he cherishes Lor, but she must notice how deeply the boy impacts each of his thoughts and actions. He shrinks from it. She is another leader, isolated by war, powerful and wise and nearly old as he. Ruling and love for her people are familiar to her. Still, he cannot explain his feelings. As he does not expect to comprehend and understand all which has happened to her, he knows she cannot with him.
“I hope you still love him the same,” he whispers and cannot bring himself to be ashamed of the words. He wishes her to love Lor as he does, wishes it with more strength than he can speak.
She smiles a little, worry between her eyebrows. “He is still part of your heart. It is in a different way than I expected, but not important. I am from my mother’s heart and magic. She brought me from the woods, and you brought Lor from the human realm. I have no need to see those two things differently.”
He reaches for her. Without hesitation, she slips across the window to his side. Sharing closeness and warmth, her fingers tuck between his.
“If any of this becomes dangerous, particularly the . . . ripplings . . . I would wish for you to tell me.”
“I have no desire to keep such things from you,” he assures her. “Even if I didn’t wish to speak of Lor, I was going to explain the ripplings. It is as much for you to know as for me.”
He thinks of wrapping his arm about her, of drawing her to his bed. Likely, she would not be averse, but now is not the time. Not after the conversation and all the unsaid fears. Instead, he rests his temple against the top of her head, keeps his horns from cracking her skin, and relaxes into the intimacy. She sighs, a human noise sounding better on her than Iohmar believes it does on him. She presses her face to the thin skin at the base of his neck. Scars are there, not hidden fully by his robes, but he does not push her away.
“I think I should stay longer than planned,” she says. “Until you have this figured out. At least until you’re certain there is little danger.”
Something unwinds in Iohmar’s chest, and he closes his eyes, tightening his arm around her. “That may be some time. I am glad.”
“Perhaps this was your plan all along. Perhaps you did not fall into a cavern with shadows at all.”
If she’s teasing, she must not be too cross. He kisses the crown of her head.
“Iohmar,” she whispers.
“Hmm?”
“If the illness returns, I hope you will tell me. I will be at your side if you wish it.”
He closes his eyes, his throat tight. What would she think of watching me so vulnerable? Speaking the words is one thing, but letting her see the reward he has reaped from his actions feels forbidden. He wishes even Galen had not been there the first time. If it should happen again, he would despise Lor seeing him in such a way. He knows his silence and chill are troublesome to Rúnda. Always, he has attempted to speak the words in his heart and fallen short.
He opens his mouth but only says, “I will no longer keep these things from you.”
It is not a request for her presence. Certainly, he must be disappointing her, but he cannot bring himself to request his queen tend to him as an infant.
Still, she kisses his neck. “Thank you.”
I love you, he thinks, then buries his face in her shoulder.
19
A Ghost in the Trees
Rúnda leaves when her oceans and deserts and wild winds call.
Uneventful months have passed, as if explaining Lor’s history returned their world to its kilter. Both Iohmar and Rúnda tested their magic on the surrounding lands. Trees were blown sideways and flowers uprooted under Rúnda’s hand as she tried her own methods of reaching the deepest parts of the earth, but neither found traces of shadows or caverns or odd-yet-familiar magic. The deep scar remains in the earth, lost after Iohmar can trace it no farther. Silent. All is peaceful in his mountains, and Rúnda’s worry abates with it.
Even Galen agrees. Iohmar eventually explained the second illness to him and was relieved the old fae was as against the idea of telling Lor as Iohmar. Still, he dealt with a great amount of fussing from the old caretaker.
The rippling borders remain quiet.
Iohmar isn’t fool enough to believe all is well, that nothing more shall ever come of such strange events. But he has no leads. No evidence. No trails. No uncanny magic to follow or shadows to attempt conversation. After he expends his magic to near exhaustion and no illness returns, he is at a loss but relieved. Rúnda will not see him ill. Perhaps it is not so broken as he feared.
As he wanders the clearing alone, he wonders if Rúnda’s presence frightened the shadows and if they only appear to Iohmar and Lor when the two are alone. But he’s wandered the twilight woods with the boy on his shoulder countless times without their appearance.
He stands in the clearing’s center, barefoot, and toes at the earth. He casts his magic about with less emphasis than before, but it’s still strong. His forests rustle in response, content. Sitting in the tall grass, he enjoys the warm, sweet air of the twilight morning.
“Iohmar?” A whisper lays fingers of chill across his spine.
Standing, he turns and is met with an empty forest. Trees sway. Birds swarm. His crows fly for the far mountains. A badger waddles in a brush of fur, visiting from the human world, casting him an uninterested glance.
Iohmar crosses the open grassland and enters the woods, wandering farther from his mountain. The rippling lands are not far off. Those creatures do not speak—cannot speak—and so this must be different.
Lor said the voice in the caverns spoke Iohmar’s name.
The trees are cool here, so cocooned within themselves. Butterflies brush his cheeks and land in his hair, their fat bodies full of nectar. When he brushes them away, they explode in a flurry of blue-and-green wings, shimmering as stardust. They are not unusual for these parts of the woods. Glancing out the canopy, he catches the plum hue of the sky.
“Who are you?” he asks and is greeted with silence.
Taking a long, deep breath, he says, “I wish to speak with you, please. You are of my kind, and you dwell in my lands. There is nothing you need fear of me. I would love nothing more than to speak with you. Even if you cannot reveal yourself, we may still speak to each other.”
Still, silence.
“My shadows?” he asks in vain. Frustration wells in Iohmar’s chest. He wishes to shout and scolds himself for the human desire. None of these little things should overwhelm him, but he finds them unbearable. He is facing a problem he can neither see nor touch nor hear, at least not often enough to put the pieces together. He hates teetering on the edge of politeness and begging.
With purpose, he folds his fingers within his sleeves, appearing the part. “You need not fear me.”
Somehow, he doubts this is the issue. But he has no helpful approach other than to be soft and gentle. He is loath to jump to conclusions toward creatures he does not know and has hardly met.
