Drawing a hand across Lor’s soft hair, he presses his nose to the boy’s cheek, satisfied he is peaceful and sleeping and not a shred of rippling has or will ever touch him.
Under his touch, Lor rolls under his blankets and puts his tiny hands to Iohmar’s cheeks.
“Daidí?” he mumbles, voice full of sleep.
“I’m here, Wisp. All is well. Go back to sleep.”
“Mmm.” After nuzzling their noses, Lor rolls back onto his stomach and burrows into the covers. Iohmar smooths his hair until his breaths are even with slumber. Strings of magic bonding them warm and soothe his frayed nerves.
Iohmar slips back out the glass ceiling, finding his way to the top of his mountain.
There is a great outcropping of stone stretching into the sky. Often, when he was a child, he sat with Ascia in the heat of noon, creating little sunlight creatures to chase them about.
He perches on the edge. The moon and her stars gaze down upon him. Perhaps the shadows do not follow him everywhere, do not hear each word he speaks, but they have been following him this day.
“Thank you,” he whispers, and the wind breathes the words back as it carries them all down across his mountains.
WINTER
21
A Human Visitor
Twelve of Iohmar’s crows fly to him one early winter.
A nip to the warm air signals the difference in seasons. Rúnda will arrive soon. There is no change to his woods, no encroaching border.
But a storm is gathering, one of the rare monster downpours Látwill experiences every few centuries. Iohmar accepts some of the shyer fae into the mountain. Woods and underground places ill protect his folk in such tempests—they are always welcome in the Halls, but most only come when they’ll be otherwise soaked.
Iohmar makes a point to wander and greet remaining stragglers. His throne room is utilized little, a smaller room within the mountain adjacent to the feasting halls. A chair of pale woven roots and emerald moss awaits him, but Iohmar remembers sitting against his father’s leg when Årelang was king beneath the earth. It lies incorrect in his chest to take the seat as his own.
Three creatures barely reaching his knee scurry in the opening to the wide doors at the base of the mountain. Putting on his best smile for small, timid fae, Iohmar bends and gives each a touch on their bark-encrusted heads.
“Welcome back,” he says and accepts the handful of acorns each presents. “I will plant them in the gardens.”
Their shimmery round eyes flicker around his shoulders, and a giggle begins behind the throne. A smile and pair of eyes emerge.
Iohmar restrains a laugh. “Lor, stop your sneaking and come down here.”
The boy bounds down the moss-carpeted roots and hides against the back of Iohmar’s shoulder. The goblins blink and shuffle at the child they’ve never seen but have likely heard of.
Grinning, Lor hugs each one of them, sending them scattering happily off to find some damp, root-bound place in the mountains to wait out the storm. Iohmar lets the laugh bubble up from his chest.
“The crows are in your room,” Lor says, tiny hands clasped behind his back, mimicking Galen’s posture. “They’re making a mess, and they don’t listen to me.”
“Let’s see what gossip they have, shall we? Ah, look who made it . . .”
Túirt appears around the edge of the great door. The hallway and throne room are mostly empty; everyone is hiding away or organizing their distractions for the storm. Food and various supplies have already been amassed, but final stock is being taken. Twitchy and uncomfortable in the open underground space among other fae, Túirt folds himself through the door, hurrying to Iohmar. A basket of woven grasses is clasped to his chest, brimming with plums, though he has already left hundreds at the base of the mountain over the past weeks.
“Thank you for arriving, Túirt. I was beginning to worry,” Iohmar says, letting the basket of fruit be thrust upon him.
“Hello, Túirt!” Lor grins up at him.
Túirt blushes at all the attention, mumbling hello and ducking away into the nearest hallway to find some place he wishes to hide. Lor waves at his retreating form.
Tucking the acorns into his pocket and grasping the basket under an arm, Iohmar follows Lor from the throne room and up the solitary walkways to his chambers. Crows are indeed making a mess of his room, scattering leaves from his ceiling and papers from his writing desk. They cackle their laughing caws when he shoos them, taking a seat at his desk.
Lor is now tall enough to stand beside Iohmar and peek over the edge at his correspondence. He learned to write in a matter of hours once Iohmar sat him down to learn and likes to copy Iohmar’s letters to better practice “sounding wise.” Iohmar smiles.
The boy boosts himself onto the moss-covered edge of the desk, biting the end of one of Iohmar’s quills between his front teeth. There are many strange human quirks he’s maintained, but all in the mountain adore him, and no one is suspicious their king brought a human boy into the lands beneath the earth.
Soon, Iohmar will need to tell the boy his origins. But not yet.
The birds hop across his bed and along the floor, cawing and pecking his fingers. One lands atop Lor’s pale head of hair, and he giggles.
“Daidí, when are you going to teach me to understand them?” In the private of Iohmar’s chambers, Lor still calls his father by the affectionate title, not the formal, respectful one Iohmar was calling his own father at his age. His heart grows warm each time the word touches his ears.
Lor’s little eyebrows are pulled into a furrow. No matter how often he is reassured, Lor is troubled by the differences in his magic. Iohmar has told him countless times that not all born to Látwill know its languages.
“It’ll come in time. I was older than you when first I learned. One day you’ll be able to understand their intentions. I’ll give you a little guidance, but most of it will come naturally.”
Not all his folk understand Iohmar’s crows. It is possible Lor will never understand, or it will take a great deal of teaching. But he was created of Iohmar’s own magic—he may not have the same specific talents, but the roots are the same. Even if he struggles in small things, Iohmar is not concerned for the boy’s ability to protect and rule when Iohmar grows too frail in the coming millennia.
Lor wrinkles his nose and plucks the crow from his head, cradling the large bird in his lap. He may be growing taller, but he hardly reaches the king’s knee.
Iohmar no longer picks him up in public, though he does often in private, and the boy still takes his hand when they walk the gardens. Iohmar will never tell him it is inappropriate of a growing prince. Formalities are for others. His father would disapprove. His mother would as well, but she would have tolerated it better.
