She shifts. “When my father was old, he wished I would tell you something once he was gone. You had a conversation the last time he saw you. He said there was something that seemed to frighten you, and he wanted me to tell you that after time passed . . . the thing he was telling you about never returned. He never saw it again after last he spoke to you.”
A short quiet follows, and she continues, “I don’t know what he was speaking of, but it was important to him, and he believed you would not cause me harm.”
“I will not cause you harm,” Iohmar whispers. He looks at the pine needles crumbling between his fingers. Shadows. The human man saw shadows among his trees. After his visit, they were never seen by him again.
They followed me out?
A tremble rumbles the forest floor. Startled, the woman puts her hands to the carpet of pine needles, but she doesn’t appear alarmed. Iohmar knows the earth shakes here as it does in Látwill, but it must have been much stronger in his mountains to be felt here. Testing his magic against Lor’s bond reveals no weakness. The storm is growing.
A nick of rot marks the inside of Iohmar’s finger.
It could be mistaken for a splinter, but the papery way it flakes under his touch is unmistakable.
What triggered it? Iohmar has extended no great deal of magic. He has not so much as seen the shadows despite discussing them with this woman. It is not this journey to the human world, for he didn’t leave Látwill in the past.
His chest twists until words are a struggle.
“Thank you. I’m grateful you’ve come to speak to me. You may ask a blessing if you wish.” Iohmar hasn’t bestowed such a thing upon a human in years but wishes to do so for this gentle woman brave enough to speak to a fae king in his woods.
She blinks. “I do not wish for anything . . .”
Iohmar smiles at the response. “When you do, the crows who hop about your forest will carry it to me. If it is within my power, I will gladly grant it.”
“Jonathan,” she says, and Iohmar blinks. “My father’s name was Jonathan. He wanted you to know.”
“I see,” Iohmar says, but he doesn’t. Not quite. He isn’t certain why the human trusted him enough to wish Iohmar to know his name.
“And mine is Martha,” she says, fear flickering across her face. What an impression he must’ve had upon her as a girl, for her to come and bring him her doll. He could ensnare her now with ease, trap her in twilight lands where time does not exist and her human life would rot around her.
“And mine is Iohmar,” he says, rising. “You are welcome in these woods if you are ever in need of them.”
Once more, he bows, and backs into the sunbeams still splitting the air before the storm.
22
A Growing Storm
Rain pelts the mountainside when Iohmar retreats to the quiet warmth of his Halls. He rubs his finger against the tiny growing wound, hands hidden within the fabric of his sleeves. His kingsguard pass, but most fae have taken shelter, and they are following suit. Those still wandering offer him smiles or touch his robes as he passes.
Strange the shadows followed me from the human world, never to return. All Iohmar’s folk are drawn to his magic in small ways, as Rúnda’s are drawn to hers, but these quiet creatures are oddly attached, only ever appearing to him and Lor.
Stranger still, the illness has returned.
Iohmar sighs, following the signature of his son’s magic to the opposite side of the mountain, toward the gardens and orchards beyond. Hours have passed since he left, and Lor will have finished his letter and grown restless. Playing in a downpour isn’t an opportunity he’ll pass up. This is the first heavy storm of his lifetime. Galen is watching from within the smaller gate leading to the gardens, taking shelter from the sporadic rain under a twist of wisteria vines.
“Your child is becoming drenched,” he says as Iohmar joins him.
A rustling of the long grass is all Iohmar sees of Lor until the boy’s tuft of pale hair bounces into view, plastered every which way. He waves at them before disappearing.
The mountains tremble, a small thing unlikely to be felt in the human world.
“You did this when you were a child.” Galen’s expression is soft, eyes gentle, a small smile brightening his face.
Iohmar hates to tell him. He worries so often, and his mood is happy and unburdened at the moment. Days after Iohmar found the ripplings in the heart of the woods, he explained the incident in detail to Galen, including the presence of the shadow child leading him. He wrote Rúnda with the story and was glad for the distance. It was enough to see the grief and fear in Galen’s eyes. He was jumpy for many months, even more so than Iohmar. Several times, he caught the old fae gazing toward the deep twilight haze of the woods as if expecting the rippling border to shoot up. It twisted Iohmar’s heart.
Finally, Iohmar crept beside him as he gazed out the great window. “They are not spreading. I’ve returned often. If anything, I believe they’ve retreated farther.”
Galen started, embarrassed to be caught worrying. He smoothed his simple robes. After touching Iohmar’s shoulder, he smiled and drifted away. “I know. You have always been diligent and sharp. Since you were a little thing. I am not worried.”
He must have been worried, as Iohmar was. He wished to console him, but Iohmar knew no other way to comfort other than to offer the reassurance he had.
The illness will compound his nervous worrying.
Iohmar sighs. Telling Galen is the least of his concerns. Though still small, Lor will notice his father falling ill and will not be dissuaded if put to sleep.
If Iohmar is brave, he will send his crows through the storm to Rúnda.
“Is all well? You seem quieter than usual,” Galen says.
“I wasn’t aware such a thing was possible.”
In his light mood, Galen presses his lips into a withheld smile, stepping closer to pluck leaves off Iohmar’s shoulder. He combs his hand through his hair the way Iohmar often does with his son.
“Galen . . .”
“My apologies.” Galen straightens his own robes, still unbothered. “How was the human realm?”
“There was a woman waiting. She wanted my attention, sitting on the border of the mountains. I met her father the day I brought Lor home and visited him once after. He saw the shadows in his own woods years ago and told me of it. When he died, he wished his daughter to tell me he never saw the creatures again.”
