“You frightened me in the caverns. My child was afraid, and I was angry, but I am listening now . . .” he offers, and a shadow flutters between the trees.
This time, there is shape to the twisting, wavering creature, enough so it appears as a child no larger than Lor standing between the trees.
“Where is Iohmar?” it asks in a voice so small and bright and real it knocks him back.
“Me,” he whispers, heart leaping, grasping at the thread of communication. “It’s I. I’m Iohmar.” He steps toward the shadow, offering the hand stained by them long ago.
It flees.
Iohmar runs, chasing it so deep into the woods that he loses sight of his mountains and sky. He’s traveled close to the heart before. None of his folk dwell here. It is inhabited by small magic-drunk creatures drifting among the thick trunks and under cool leaves. By wolves. By magic-heavy trees from which all of Látwill draws its power. He knows never to sleep here, for even he, king beneath the earth, would fall for centuries upon centuries under the spell of the deep woods.
He loses the shadow in a mere moment, no sound or sense or trail to follow. He halts in the bruised air, turning a sharp circle but finding no one.
Never has the voice spoken a question. Only his name. Was it a child’s voice Lor heard? Iohmar isn’t certain the boy is old enough to discern the difference.
Thinking of the oppressive, dark cold of the cavern, he shudders.
The shadows have never taken shape.
Rubbing his eyes, he wanders further, listening for noises unusual among the whisper of trees and breath of insects. Hoping something will lead him back to the shadow child.
“I’m following you,” he calls, for lack of anything more helpful. “If you tell me what you wish, I’ll be able to assist.”
Rúnda and Galen do not believe these creatures harmless. Iohmar understands, considering his disappearance into the caverns and the following sickness. But he fell ill for the first time before the shadows ever presented themselves. He has a difficult time believing their nature so malicious, even after they dragged him and Lor into the earth.
How would my parents react?Would they think me too soft? He presses the backs of his talons against his eyelids. Årelang and Croía were kind creatures but much quicker to their tempers than Iohmar. Even they would’ve known there is nothing to be gained by anger and quick judgment.
“I wish I could speak with you,” he whispers to the heavy air so softly no creature is likely to hear, his eyes still closed.
Something brushes his hand.
Iohmar starts, stumbling. Nothing but empty woods. But he felt it. Something tangible against the thin skin of his wrist, different from the little heartbeat of the shadows—solid and much more real. His skin remains pale and translucent. Nothing was threatening in the touch, which was soft and light as the butterflies where the woods are still filtered with sunlight. He holds his hands before him—like Lor learning to walk—and drifts them back and forth. Nothing comes into contact with his skin save for the insects fluttering about, pleased by the presence of their king.
Huffing, he wanders deeper. He is nearing the heart of the woods. The air is sweet, fruit and earth and flowers mixing into the softest breeze. There is a hint of rot not belonging. For a moment, Iohmar believes the fruit is beginning to turn as it drops to the soil. But the scent is incorrect. Iohmar is familiar with the overripe air drifting from the woods to the mountains as the seasons turn. It is not unpleasant. This is different.
He lopes under the low branches, searching for the source. Some of his crows have circled back from the meadow, landing on branches, squawking, crying for his attention. Like many of his folk, they are not at ease in the heart of the woods and would not venture here if not for Iohmar. He strokes the feathers of the nearest ones as he slows to a walk. They hop about his feet. They have no gossip, just desires for treats.
“Do you see shadows?” he asks, and they cock their heads at him, beaks shimmering in the low light. The nearest ones peck his fingers with affection.
Iohmar pulls up the edges of his robe as he hops a creek. The water is slow and sweet and blue as sapphires. It would put him to sleep with a sip. Sand sticks to his toes, rubbing off in the long spongy grasses.
The heart of the woods wraps around him.
Here, the trees are blue with heavy, damp flowers. Trunks press together, so thick he has little room to maneuver.
Iohmar . . . they whisper, some awakening.
Come sleep, sweet lord . . .
Branches tug at him until he breaks free, shaking off the spell. These woods offer many magics and wishes and curses. Should he choose to stay, picking a tree to let wrap around him, he could very well be gifted a child. This is where his folk believe Lor originated. He looks about the sweet, oppressive air and thinks his little wisp of sunlight could never have been born from such a place. But this is where Rúnda was created, her mother making the trip for want of a child of her own. Iohmar was too young to remember the neighboring queen passing the mountains, though his parents told him stories.
She disappeared into the heart of the trees alone, her queensguard left behind, and returned days later with Rúnda in her arms, born of the queen’s magic and force of will and the strength of the trees. He wonders what of her magic she gave up to attain the piece of her heart that is her daughter.
Iohmar lays his hand on the closest trunk, damp with nectar overflowing the flowers.
This is where Ascia came from. Deep in the heart of the woods. Alone. Perhaps someone entered to gain a child but was too weak for the trees. Fae have been consumed in such places. Iohmar was too young then to understand; he merely loved Ascia for being the sibling he’d longed for. A little sister to protect.
Tried to protect.
Iohmar circles a tree and is met with the eyes of a wolf.
Its face hovers inches from his, unrelenting in its presence, and Iohmar locks his body into stillness, pinpricks of unease along his skin. Heavy paws stand on the low twisting branch of the tree, elevating its face to his level. Others circle nearby. This one’s hot breath curdles in the air. Two eyes, plum purple and blue as the trees, latch on to his, a low growl in its throat.
“Shh . . .” he whispers, gathering enough magic to set his entire mountain to sleep, washing it over the creature.
It gives a shudder, relaxing its body enough that Iohmar is safe to step around.
The footfalls of the pack follow.
The rotting scent grows, thick and cloying and swirling about him as a living thing. He remembers the woman buried in the place where his woods met the human world. Remembers Lor’s human mother. Melancholy envelopes him, and he cups the nearest flower in the palm of his hand. Nectar drips between his fingers. The insects have thinned to almost nothing. Strange they do not land to drink from the flower.
Iohmar lets it drop to the forest floor, and particles come free in his hand. He opens his palm, staring at the bits drifting away. For a moment, he is certain they are the shadowy, papery particles that drift from his skin when he falls ill.
But no, these are not light and airy, disappearing into nothing. They crumble in his fingers with ashy weight. He shakes the branches of another tree, and more swirl to the grasses. Wolves circle, eyes on the ash, growls low in their throats. The small blue-green leaves are in the same condition. One dissolves in his gentle fist. Several branches are withered and lifeless. Carefully, Iohmar brings the handful to his face and breathes in its smell.
Rot. A familiar magic.
Or a familiar lack of magic.
