“Of course.” Dáithí’s expression brightens.
Iohmar touches his shoulder before departing. Earthquakes rattle the Halls as he makes his way toward his chambers, following the sense of Galen’s magic. The few of his folk he passes giggle and gaze about themselves at the wildness of the earth. Not all are so plagued by past strangeness as Iohmar. His people, at least, know he has made these mountains safe for them.
Storm clouds cast the mountain in a shadowed haze, no sunlight to be found. The Halls are dim, and there’s a hazy blue gray to the air. Warm still, but tinged with energy and the outside gales, the rich scent of soaked earth finds its way even to the center of the mountain. Iohmar adores this weather even if it brings worry for the safety of his folk.
“Galen?” he asks, entering Galen’s chambers beside his own.
It’s a simple room thick with plants and flowers. There’s a bed and a small ornate wash table in the corner. It’s empty.
Iohmar tries his own chambers. The wide window displays the sight of the storm. Outside, trees dance in the wind, throwing themselves against one another, leaves whipping, rain pelting the glass. The mist over the heart of the woods is thicker—near solid—and resistant to the moving air. Crows are huddled against the sill, seeking shelter, so Iohmar eases open the glass long enough to receive a blast of frigid, damp air and for his room to be filled with flocks of inky feathers.
Galen isn’t here, but one of the panels in the ceiling window has been moved aside. Iohmar frowns. Galen has never shared Iohmar’s fascination with the tunnels and underground hiding places, but his magic is nearby.
“Galen?” He boosts himself above the glass.
The mountain trembles so violently that Iohmar is thrown to the ground.
23
A Spreading Wound
Mountain earth trembles, roaring in Iohmar’s ears, jarring his bones. He stays frozen on the leaf-strewn floor until the world falls to stillness, only the rain and wind raging. Chills roll over his skin. But he is not a child. He will not be buried.
Casting his magic outward, he finds his people unhurt, Lor and his kingsguard safe if a little shaken. Galen is still nearby, with a faint hint of pain.
“Galen?” he calls, rising with difficulty under the spreading sickness. The cut on his finger is growing. Does fear quicken its spread?
Frustrated with the both of them, he slips up the glass window and into the cool of the tunnels. He reinforced the earth here as well, as it’s over his chambers and a path he often travels. But not all of it. Not in the places where the deepest dwellers travel. The one time he tried, it frightened the inhabitants.
Maneuvering the path he took toward the tunnels beneath the mountain, Iohmar steps over fallen rocks and crushed crystals, pulling himself free of broken vines clinging to his robes. Worms and insects rip themselves from the earth to follow.
“Galen?” What is he doing down here? In the middle of a storm? He knows better.
Here the tunnel has caved. A crack allows him passage. Roots are threading themselves among the stones, slow with lazy panic, tugging at Iohmar.
There. The edge of a sleeve. A sob threatens to lodge itself in his throat.
Sickness grating at his magic, Iohmar calls the vines to lift the stone. Too slow. Fistfuls at a time, he tears at the rocks. Sharp tips of roots dig into his skin, recoiling at what they’ve done, burned by the rage and hurt in Iohmar’s magic. He slides his arms under Galen, pulling him to his chest. His breathing is light, eyes closed. Cuts and bruises from fallen stones litter his skin. What was he thinking leaving the mountain?
“Galen,” he whispers, touching his cheek.
Panic wraps itself around Iohmar’s heart, an old and familiar sensation. He presses it down, down, down where it belongs. Gathering Galen into his arms, he wraps his magic around the threads of the old creature’s soul. Eyes fluttering, Galen whimpers and turns his face into Iohmar’s shoulder.
“I found you,” Iohmar murmurs. “What were you doing? What were you thinking?”
Shaking ripples the ground. Another quake such as the last is unlikely, but it still spurs Iohmar to his feet, and he stumbles with his body heavy. The tunnel spins, a whirl of dark earth and glowing fragments of crystal. Galen, tall as he is, is not a heavy burden.
“What were you doing down here?”
Galen blinks, eyes closing. One hand clings to Iohmar’s robe, so frail and bruised that Iohmar’s throat burns fiercer.
“Heard a voice . . .” he whispers, and Iohmar nearly stops in his tracks before slipping down into his chambers.
“A voice? I’m taking you to the healer. What voice did you hear?”
“A voice . . .” he repeats. “She was speaking, but I couldn’t understand. I thought . . . she needed help. No one was there . . .”
Iohmar nods. He sensed no other presence in the tunnels until far, far down—not close enough for someone to call out. He considers the shadows but cannot dwell. He will consider it later, when Galen is tended to.
“Leihs?” he calls, returning to the healing rooms. He passes a few of his folk, who gasp and follow in concern for a few steps. Lor and Dáithí are nowhere to be seen—a small relief. Lor shouldn’t see Galen broken in his arms.
“My lord—oh!”
Leihs rises from opposite the table, where she speaks with another. Iohmar recognizes her lover. Nodding his chin, Iohmar slips into one of the small private chambers and lays Galen upon a bed. Leihs draws the door closed. Quiet covers them, the weight of the storm hidden by the mountain.
“Your hand, my lord . . .”
Turning his arm over, Iohmar finds the cut along his finger has turned to a streak of rot weaving across his palm, disappearing into his sleeve.
“It wasn’t—” He cannot lie, cannot tell her the wound is nothing of concern. “It is nothing you can assist with. I’ll . . . I’ll care for it. Galen is injured.”
Her eyes remain crinkled and unconvinced, but she touches a wound upon Galen’s shoulder, drawing her fingers across his forehead.
“What happened?”
“He went into one of the tunnels. It collapsed where there was no structure.”
She shakes her head, mumbling, “Foolish.”
