“Is this the same voice you heard in the caves?”
“I think so. I don’t remember very well. It’s strange.”
“And she calls you by my name?”
Lor nods. “Sometimes she sounds older, like you. Sometimes like me. I think it’s the same person. All she says is your name . . .”
A little girl. Iohmar stares out the window, unseeing of the raging storm. The shadows took the form of a child when they led him to the ripplings in the heart of the woods, but the voice wasn’t familiar.
And the woman in the tunnels whose involvement he dismissed because of her pure intentions was nameless and faceless, pure magic dwelling in the dark. But many dwell in shadows; Iohmar himself takes to them as he does sunlight. He felt the grip of her hand certain enough, but her heartbeat was a thin, threading thing, strange and small for a large fae.
The voice called Lor by Iohmar’s name. The woman treated Iohmar as if he were his father.
Galen heard a girl’s voice below the mountain, calling for help.
He considers Ascia, her voice and face brought to the surface by dreams.
She made creatures of shadow.
He remembers them now. It could’ve been a false dream, his ill mind playing cruel tricks, putting her together with the shadows and the woman simply because he is worrying. But all the other memories brought to the surface by the sickness have been real.
He searched for her for so long. So long. So long after he’d followed her beneath the earth, exploring below the surface, in the deepest places of Látwill, where most fae won’t venture.
Great dragon bones.
“Oh . . .” he whispers.
He raises his head from the pillows, propping himself onto his elbow. His head spins, but his body doesn’t heave the way he expected. Lor starts, gazing up at him.
“Daidí?”
Such magic isn’t possible. It isn’t possible. But these woods and mountains are forever changing, unknown magic surfacing even his parents and grandparents did not understand. Those shadows following him, their tiny life force hearts and lack of speech. The woman in the tunnels without a face disappearing once she helped him, once she expended a great deal of her magic. He put from his mind the idea of her causing the shadows. Perhaps he was correct. Perhaps she is the shadows.
He worms around Lor, tossing aside the covers. Dizziness takes momentary hold, but he’s steadier on his feet than when last he was awake.
“Daidí, what are you doing?” Lor stumbles when he drops to the floor and veers around the foot of the bed after Iohmar.
Iohmar takes from the closet a robe not torn or specked with Galen’s blood and unlatches the window where the tunnel collapsed a short time ago.
“Daidí?”
“Lor, go to the healing rooms and sit with Galen, yes? I will return shortly.”
“But where are you goin—what’s wrong with Galen?”
Oh. Iohmar forgot the boy already left the healing chambers. “He was injured a bit by one of the earthquakes. He will be perfectly fine, Wisp.”
And Lor is giving him those same eyes again, the ones when he cannot understand all languages, or when Iohmar told him of the illness. They look much older and slightly as if he realizes Iohmar isn’t telling him the full story. His doubt twists into Iohmar like a blade. How do I make the boy understand?
“Is this about the woman’s voice?” he asks.
“Yes,” Iohmar says. He means not to continue but finds himself saying, “I believe I know why she’s calling you by my name.”
“Why?” His voice is a whisper.
Iohmar doesn’t know how to explain the strange instinct fallen upon him. “I believe someone needs help.”
“I want to go with you.”
“You want to go far underground? Into all those tunnels?” After his terrible dreams, Iohmar is certain this will dissuade him.
Lor opens and closes his mouth several times, then finally says, “If I’m with you, I’m not afraid of tunnels.”
Iohmar’s resolve weakens. He does not believe a great deal of danger exists in the places below the earth. If nothing else, the trembling mountain is of no danger while Iohmar is beside him, but he is uncertain. But the woman spoke to Lor, a great deal more than Iohmar heard from the shadows. Whatever magic clings to him, it is drawn to Lor equally. If he brings him, if they search for the shadows together, perhaps Iohmar will gain greater luck.
Still, he hesitates. “Lor . . .”
“Is the girl real? If you’re going to help her, I want to help too.”
Sweet boy, Iohmar thinks. One hand still holding the pane of glass, he gestures for Lor to come closer. His son threads his hand between Iohmar’s fingers and gazes up at him with troubled little eyes. Perhaps he needs this as dearly as Iohmar.
“You must never leave my side. Some magic is very strange even to me. Do you understand?”
Lor nods, and Iohmar believes he grasps the gravity. Pushing up the glass, he lifts Lor through the opening, then slips up after him and lowers the window into place.
He has taken Lor to the mountains by these paths several times, but never into the tunnels since he was a babe. When he turns to the tunnels sloping downward, Lor’s hand finds his, but he doesn’t make a sound, skin glowing faintly as Iohmar’s once did. They pass the crumbled earth and weave down tunnels until the worms wriggling out to greet their king have gone and the shimmering crystals have faded to a handful every few hundred steps.
Iohmar is breaking a promise by returning. But, if he is correct, he doesn’t believe such a slight will be held against him.
