Galen blinks. “That is . . . quite unusual.”
“She had innocent intentions. She loved her father; I felt it in her words. I offered her a blessing, but she didn’t accept.”
“Very unusual.”
“I took her off guard. I told her she could wish for one later and tell the crows.”
“Hmm.” Softly, he says, “You do seem quieter, Iohmar.”
With a sigh, Iohmar offers his hand, keeping his eyes on the rain. Galen’s thin, soft hands turn his over. When he finds the mark, Iohmar feels him still. Galen rubs the pad of his finger over the cut with the utmost gentleness. A wash of the healer’s magic brushes his own, a warm sensation within his fingers.
“Is there pain?” he asks, concern unhidden.
“No, I wouldn’t have noticed had I not seen.”
From the corner of his eye, he watches Galen’s eyebrows furrow. “You cannot see a connection between this and the previous instances?”
“I’ve gone over it countless times. I believed it was my strong use of magic, both when I saved Lor and when I broke the earth out of the cavern . . . There is nothing I have expended it upon. The same amount of time may have passed as did between the first two illnesses . . . I’ve never thought to count the days, so I’m unsure. It is the single correlation I can discern.”
It’s a frightening implication. What if the illness continues returning? Iohmar cannot stomach the concept of being so weakened, if only for a few days—not with the ripplings and shadows and his people to watch over.
What if Rúnda must see me this way?
What if Lor must watch his father fall ill the rest of his life because I broke my magic to save him?
He cannot let this continue. He must solve this.
Galen is silent. His disapproval is more distressing than Iohmar appreciates. Perhaps he shouldn’t be concerned with the judgment of his childhood caretaker. He was bred a king but knows he has always been far too worrying, too shy, and too frightened. Silence presses on him, helpless exhaustion weighing his limbs. If he were many, many centuries younger, he would lean against Galen for comfort.
If he were many, many centuries younger, his parents would be here for counsel.
They would’ve counseled him never to risk his magic for a human.
“Shall we call Lor?” Galen asks.
Yes, Iohmar thinks, unable to force the word past his lips. Perhaps the boy needs it explained, the magic and the shadows and the woman in the tunnels. Iohmar planned not to tell him until he was old enough to understand the situation with maturity and consider Iohmar’s decisions logically. But perhaps he will never be old enough. Galen did not approve, after all. No number of years would’ve changed it.
Iohmar took a forbidden human and damaged his magic to save him. No way around the explanation exists. And now the illness is forcing his hand. The thought is bitter. Iohmar doesn’t wish to bow to it, feeling unequal to the task.
Slowly, he shakes his head. “Take him to your rooms with you, please. When this has passed, I will think on the correct time and way to explain.”
Galen frowns. Iohmar keeps his eyes steady, the expression of a king.
“Iohmar—”
“He is so little, Galen. Telling him is not the same as telling Rúnda. Even if he isn’t frightened by the explanation, he may believe it his fault. One way or another, it will be painful. Do you have words to explain in a way which will not wound him?”
Galen swallows, glancing at the shape of the boy bouncing among the dripping trees, too far to hear their words. “No. But it will hurt to keep him from you for days without answering his questions as well. He is part of this, Iohmar. It is because of him you split your magic—”
“You cannot blame him.” Iohmar snatches his hand from Galen’s. The old fae flinches, and guilt clenches Iohmar’s chest. It isn’t fair to snap such words. Around him, the vines and roots woven into the walls twitch and curl with the outburst.
“Of course I don’t blame him,” Galen says, but Iohmar hears uncertainty in his words. “He was just a babe. You know I care for him as I do for you. But it doesn’t erase how this began with him. It began when you brought him here, when you decided to break your magic to save him. He should understand . . .”
Galen trails off at Iohmar’s sharp expression. How can I bear Lor believing my suffering is his fault? How can Galen not understand?
“I don’t believe it his fault,” Galen repeats, and Iohmar believes him, incapable as they are of lying. “Iohmar, I believe you are making a mistake.”
“I know,” he says, then amends. “I’ll take your words into consideration.”
Galen watches the rain. Determination etches into his eyes, and Iohmar braces himself for the oncoming battle.
“I realize you believe you know best—”
“He is my son. I will protect him.”
“And I have been here each day of your life. I would not insist if I didn’t believe this would help you both.”
Iohmar grinds his jaw. He doesn’t wish to be harsh.
Sighing, Galen touches Iohmar’s sleeve. “Iohmar, I will explain to the boy if you cannot bring yourself to—”
“You will do no such thing.” Iohmar yanks from him, stepping against the opposite wall. Hurt burns his eyes. “I’ve trusted you with these matters. You do not go behind my back because you do not agree with me—”
“I am trying to help. I know you, and—”
“You will not assume to know or speak for me. You are my servant.”
Galen shrinks. Guilt turns Iohmar’s stomach, but he turns his face until the silence threatens to tear a gap in the air. Tears burn his eyes. He hates them. He should not be so easily undone.
