The boy has woken, wide-eyed and quiet for a human child, fisting and tugging at his swaddling rags. Those are the first to go. Iohmar twines his finger into the filthy garments, dropping the useless things along the forest floor to rot. Insect-tiny fingers pull at his robe when he covers the boy with the excess fabric of his soft sleeves.
Iohmar weaves among the ferns and mushrooms and tree trunks cloaking the mountainside. The fair lands are both above the world and below the mountains, breathtaking in height and deep in seclusion, a concept mortals don’t grasp. Should he stand at the highest peak, he would glimpse the tower of the neighboring kingdom and her queen. Iohmar knows by heart the path he found when he was naught a few decades old, still no more than a child himself. By his side walked his friend, the only other of his age running the gardens of the Fair Halls, now long-lost to him. He shakes away the thought of her, the ache of the old wound sewn into his heart.
Here, in a space carpeted by leaves and hidden by ferns, Iohmar can gaze upon the human woods for miles upon miles. Sunlight breaks across the tree-lined horizon—shades of orange and yellow perfect for slipping in and out. Closer to the mountain, they blend into the purple-and-silver twilight of Iohmar’s world. Only at high noon do his fair lands bask in sunlight, and only at the peak of midnight do they gaze upon the moon and her stars. Mist hangs where the two realms meet. Darker places mark the densest streaks of trees and the heart of the woods beyond.
Pressing through undergrowth, Iohmar maneuvers roots until the vegetation reveals a tunnel. The scent of cool soil fills his nose, sharp and calming, the distinct cold of rock never seen by the sky. The mountain trembles, as it often does. A shiver. Crystals threaten to cut his bare feet, but he’s found his way along the dim of this path enough to know his way. No fae will follow him here.
Time was needed to be comfortable underground once again. Millennia have passed, and he takes strange comfort in the shadows, as he did as a child.
After some wandering, he lifts a pane of glass, swirled as water and milk at the corners and invaded by armies of moss and vines. He drops to the leaf-strewn floor, wriggling his toes in the familiar softness. The dozen clear squares of glass create a section of ceiling, light filtering down. The rest of the ceiling is part of the mountain, woven roots and autumn-hued wood beams nearing the shade of Iohmar’s hair. An occasional branch sprouts in, rich with spring buds. Fallen leaves carpet the floor, browning from last autumn, orange and rich with warmth.
The far wall is also paned with glass, revealing another sight of the twilight woods.
My woods. They were his father’s and grandfather’s and great-grandfather’s, many generations before men walked the lands above, rippling a thousand hues of green and auburn and silver. He often watches his people mingle among the trees from his perch far above, never straying too close to the heart of the woods and the slumbering trees and beckoning songs.
Settling the infant in the center of his bed, Iohmar cradles him among the folds of wrinkled covers, and the boy wails.
With a finger to his lips, he leans over and whispers, “Shh . . .”
Quiet. Birdsong filters in. Iohmar opens the nearest pane of glass, letting the birds in to sing. He regards the human creature. He will not tell of its existence until he’s decided how to proceed. But for all his years and time spent among the children of his own folk, he’s unsure what to do with the babe now it’s here, gurgling at the birds along the bedspread.
For a moment, he hesitates. He can tell no one of his bringing the child to Látwill.
Save perhaps one.
This decision may be unwise. He steps from his room, sending Oisín, one of his kingsguard, to fetch Galen. The healer has been a constant part of his existence since childhood. He served Iohmar’s own father, and Iohmar struggles to fathom the years the old fae has amassed. Even he cannot imagine existing so long. And the old caretaker is quiet. If Iohmar wishes him to keep this secret, Galen will do so.
Even if he may lecture Iohmar first.
Folding his legs beneath him at the end of the bed, Iohmar rests his chin on the foot of the covers and watches the infant tug at the blankets and crunch leaves between ungraceful fingers. Brown eyes follow the finches and sparrows and chattering songbirds. He seems content, and Iohmar sits so long he’s startled when Galen makes a soft noise in the back of his throat.
“I felt when you returned. I wondered why you didn’t enter the gardens. What trinket have you found?”
The old creature leans over Iohmar, hands clasped behind his back, silver eyebrows pulled together. Edging around the bed, he plucks the covering from the child and slips a long thin hand beneath, lifting him from the covers. He is less flamboyant than many of their kind. His skin is milk pale, eyes and hair silvery. Black designs streak like ink across his skin, decorating his shoulders and wrists and behind his ears. Iohmar is certain they continue along his body but has never seen the old fae in anything less than his long robes.
He is unassuming and gentle, comforting if not a little severe. The babe gurgles at him.
“Silly boy,” Galen grumbles, and Iohmar bristles at the admonishment. Had anyone else spoken to him so, he’d allow himself to be angry. As it is, he lowers his head without lowering his eyes, expression chill. He is not ashamed. “Why?”
“There was a group of men, off to catch one of their kin. He’d killed his mate and buried her in the woods. The child’s mother. I do not understand such human things.”
“Hmm . . .” Galen returns the child to the bed. There is a downturn to his lips at Iohmar’s story. “It should not be with the man, but it shouldn’t be here. You know this.”
“Perhaps.”
“What will you do with it?”
“Keep it here for now. It has no other kin, and I hope to find some humans appropriate to return it to.”
Iohmar has no other idea of what to do with the grub now it’s under his protection. It needs to be returned but may have no suitable caretakers. Iohmar was foolish to bring it here. Galen knows as well, a weight to the silence between them, but the old creature has the decency not to say.
Centuries have passed since war shook the foundations of his people, but the babe is a welcome sight to Iohmar, unremarkable as it is, somehow sweeter than the vast beauty of his Halls, simple for him to care for and protect.
Galen makes a soft sound—not displeased nor approving—and brushes his robes as if the child dirtied them. “I can’t imagine one of your people would harm it, but news will spread you’ve broken your own law. I would keep it in your chambers.”
“Yes.”
Galen opens his mouth, but it takes an extra moment for the words to come out. “And if you need me for anything . . .”
Iohmar draws his eyes from the child to the older face. He didn’t have to offer. “I will ask. I thought it appropriate you know it’s here. This does not leave these chambers, even to my kingsguard.”
Galen bows, the barest tilt of his shoulders, brushing his fingers over Iohmar’s arm in respect before he leaves.
Quiet falls, only the shiest whisper of a breeze against the window and flutter of wings. Most of the songbirds have flown back the way they came, those remaining hopping along the bed, interest in the human already lost. He lacks anything shimmering or magic to capture their attention.
Iohmar’s own interest intrigues him. His kind are known for stealing humans, selecting someone grown or young with propensity for beauty. An artist, a singer, a chef, beautiful in the face or body, or for any other reason they might find appealing. Humans caught and released without thought were somewhat remarkable for their kind. Even changeling children held some sparkle of beauty to come and therefore drifted into their world without thought or hesitation.
Nothing is remarkable about the tiny thing wiggling on Iohmar’s bed.
Even its face, endearing as any newborn’s, is rather ugly for a human babe, skin and wisps of hair dull, features set in an unpleasant manner. Iohmar senses no talent beneath the surface ready to break free with age and nurturing.
Still, he is drawn to the creature. Protective. If nothing else, the boy’s eyes sparkle when they gaze at him.
Iohmar closes his eyes and turns from the strange thing with a sigh.
His visit to the human world sparked intrigue in Iohmar’s heart, a shiver of suspicion.
