It was. No matter the voice, Galen should’ve known better. Iohmar supposes he cannot fault him. He has a kind heart, and Iohmar knows he would’ve done the same.
“He is very weak,” Leihs says. “He is far too ancient to be receiving such injuries.”
Iohmar knows but cannot force his tight throat to speak. He touches his hand to Galen’s, watching his sleeping eyelids and wishing he would wake.
Under his silence, Leihs continues her work. It has been a great time since Iohmar has seen the old fae in a state of little dress. He stares at the long, thin, ink-like markings Galen decorates himself with. His limbs are frail. It is not unusual for a creature of his age and experience to lose the steel in their body. They do not age as humans, and his skin is smooth and free of the signs of time, but his body is thin and brittle, as strong in appearance as soaked paper.
None of the outward injuries are grievous, but Iohmar is unsure how much magic Galen’s body expended trying to aid itself. Iohmar feels it slip close to disappearing. He presses his fingers to his eyes. The last time he shared his magic, it was broken to save Lor, tied to his little boy and weakened into illness. It is a sacred thing reserved for him alone. Him and his son.
His eyes are itchy and heavy. Expending his magic now, with the streaks of rot up his arms, would be unwise.
Stepping to the front of the bed, he slips his hands beneath the old fae’s hair. Resting his forehead against his, he allows his magic to wash into Galen’s limbs.
Leihs starts, her breath sharp. “My king . . . ?”
“Please, keep working,” he murmurs.
Floating in the strange place between his own magic and Galen’s, Iohmar doesn’t think or worry. The outside world is nonexistent. It’s a comfortable, familiar sensation. Reminds him of crawling back from the rippling lands with Galen’s soothing magic tending his wounds. He doesn’t have the presence of mind now to be grieved by the memory. Time slips. He is aware of Galen’s body mending under Leihs’s touch, his magic stabilizing enough that Iohmar could release it should he wish to. But his illness nags at his limbs and Iohmar doesn’t wish to return to conscious thought.
Still, he feels Leihs lay hesitant fingers along his shoulder. Regretfully, he withdraws his magic, being as gentle as possible, easing Galen into his own strength.
Aches grasp his limbs. His horns dip his head. The streaks of rot upon his hand have turned to many up his arms, breaking his pale skin, and he is certain Leihs must see them across his face.
Her eyes are wide when he meets them.
“Do not speak of this to anyone.”
Her eyes are so shaken and worried that Iohmar brushes against her magic and its intentions. He finds both concern and the resolve to keep his secret.
“Thank you,” he whispers. “Leave us a moment, please.”
For a breath, she doesn’t move, but then she dips into another slight bow and disappears. Iohmar leans against the bed, staring at Galen’s sleeping face, vision blurred. He brushes a finger along the old fae’s frail cheek, laying his temple against his forehead, not sharing magic, simply touch. Never has he done such a thing when Galen was awake. It is not proper. Foolish and childlike. But he is relieved, robbed of his pride. Galen will sleep for some time still, healing and returning to his strength, and Iohmar needs to lock himself away within his own chambers before his body betrays him further. Lor is with Dáithí, and it will have to be enough.
He slides a blanket soft as down from the foot of the bed and tucks it up to Galen’s chin before slipping unnoticed from the healing rooms.
Iohmar closes the door to his own chambers, and he is alone.
Staring at the peaceful room, he watches silver leaves float from the ceiling to the warm floor, the comfortable bed. Out the window, the storm rages, a mass of warm air, biting rain, and angry clouds. Droplets pelt the glass. Midnight is darkening the world with no moon to light it. Worry secures itself around Iohmar’s heart. The last thing he desires is for the illness to take him from Galen and Lor and his people for days to come.
“You are a fool,” he mutters, seating himself along the foot of the bed.
A long tear streaks the fine blue fabric of his robe, likely from a sharp rock or the panicking vines. After pushing the heavy fabric from his shoulders, he slips to the floor to unwind the ties on his boots while leaning against the bed frame. The floor is a spongy and pleasant seat.
With Rúnda delayed, Galen healing, and Lor under Dáithí’s watchful eye, he will be alone this time. No one will watch him lie helpless, claimed by grieving memories.
Cowering alone in my chambers. Iohmar is sick with himself.
His head spins. He rests his arms upon his knees, dropping his forehead into the crook of his elbow, horns pressing against his muscles.
Footsteps reach him from the hallway—light, gentle steps. His kingsguard, perhaps. He should have secured the door. A soft knock rattles him from his thoughts, but he doesn’t rise. If he does not answer, his guard will not enter his chambers without his permission.
“Daidí?” Lor’s voice calls, and Iohmar twitches.
He stares at the door, several options fighting in his scattered thoughts. Shadows and strange voices and memories invade his mind whenever the sickness takes hold. His head swims. For the first time, he considers his stomach might twist until it rebels.
But this is Lor, not some memory. Lor’s voice. His own little child.
“My lord?” Dáithí calls softly. “Are you here? Lor is looking for you.”
Dáithí will sense his presence, and Lor will as well. They know he’s here. But if he doesn’t speak, Iohmar knows his kingsguard will take the boy away, even if Lor protests.
What will Lor believe when he knows? Will he be hurt I turned him away? Or will terror enter his heart at my appearance? Will he wish he’d never been told the truth?
Iohmar may stay silent and keep this secret to himself.
He closes his eyes. “Let him in, Dáithí. You can join the others.”
The door cracks, and a very rain-drenched Lor bounces in, a grin lighting his face, hair still plastered. The fawn is cradled in his arms. He spins in a circle without seeing Iohmar, nudging the door closed with his elbow. “Bye, Dáithí!”
“Good night, Lor.” Dáithí’s voice is faded behind the door, his presence lessening as he leaves.
“Daidí, did you feel the earthquake?”
Lor freezes halfway between the door and where Iohmar is slumped on the floor. His face goes blank, smile failing.
He takes in the sight of his father and screams.
24
