Last time he ventured so far, Lor in his arms, Iohmar followed the strongest taste of magic. It is gone now. Iohmar attempts to navigate by memory. The creatures he passes are familiar, and they greet him with the same hesitant respect. There is no sign of the strange monster that threatened them when last they traveled here.
“Where are we going?” Lor asks, his voice the softest whisper.
“To find the woman who helped save you. At least, to try. She seemed to disappear after, so I’m hoping to find a hint.”
“She was all the way down here? What does she have to do with the little girl talking to me?”
Iohmar is uncertain how to explain. “When I was a boy—younger than you, even—there was another child who lived in the Fair Halls.”
Lor’s eyes are upon him. Other children are not a foreign concept to the prince, but he’s had few with whom to play.
“She was a child of the heart of the woods, and we played often. She was much a younger sister to me. She was strong with her magic as I was, but she was still learning, and we were both young enough it didn’t mean much. We hadn’t much control over it, as you don’t. But we liked to play in these tunnels. She could see places in the dark even I could not, so we spent a great deal of time down here. We thought tunnels were much more adventurous than places in the sunlight.”
“What happened to her?”
“When we were still younger than you, we were exploring deep in the tunnels. We found a cavern. Sometimes the earth shifts, as it did earlier, and we were both buried very, very deep. My daidí and mhamaí and many others searched for us. They found me.”
Lor stares. Quietly, he asks, “No one found your friend?”
“No. Even her magic disappeared, and when I woke, my parents told me she was lost, though they continued searching for a time. I wandered here many decades hoping to find her, thinking her magic did something to save her, let her live under the earth. I thought if I came searching, she’d find me. I never found the caverns again. Never found a trace of her . . .” Iohmar pauses. To himself, he says, “It was so long ago.”
“Do you think the little girl . . . ?” Lor doesn’t finish, but Iohmar understands.
“Perhaps her magic left traces. I was her best friend . . .”
Perhaps she’s calling out to him. Somehow. He must find the meaning behind the shadows. He has a clue now, something which may lead him to the shadows, a method of speaking to them, perhaps. Nothing fits it all together in perfect pieces, but he learned long ago of magic’s uncanny nature. Evidence walks beside Iohmar, holding his fingers. Evidence is upon Iohmar’s skin, drifting flecks of rot, his magic turning itself inside out as it heals.
Rounding a corner, Iohmar comes to the place he is certain the woman dwelled, a cozy round home of roots burrowed into the earth. Lor bumps into the backs of his legs when he stops.
Iohmar puts his hand to the thick vines encrusting the round portion of the wall.
Extending his magic, he finds it solid and twined tight as knots. He could unwind it should he wish but would find an empty hole. Whatever strong magic once dwelled here, Iohmar finds sad traces lingering in the roots.
“Daidí?” Lor copies the touch, but Iohmar doubts his magic is developed enough to understand.
“The woman dwelled here,” Iohmar murmurs. “She has been gone some time.”
Lor drops his hand and gazes about. Only the soft glow of his skin lends light. Even the luminous crystals have disappeared. The scent of earth and cold hangs thick. A small flying creature wriggles through the air as a worm squirming in water, bumping into Lor’s cheek before passing. It continues down the tunnels, deeper than Iohmar has gone since he was a child. He watches it long after it’s disappeared.
When he was a child. If I continue far enough, will I reach the cavern?
“What are we doing now?” Lor asks, still blinking at the ceiling.
Iohmar follows his gaze but finds nothing of interest. He wanders a few steps in the direction the creature flew. Lor hurries after, the weight of his hand on Iohmar’s robes. They continue a dozen paces. A dozen more.
Deeper. Deeper.
Iohmar stops. His heart aches. He stares into the darkness.
“Are you there?” he whispers, the weight of Lor’s eyes upon him. Silence embraces them. Iohmar wishes it could be so easy as to ask.
Rocks tumble gently. Turning, he finds pebbles disturbed along the floor. He stands over them, reaching out to brace himself against the stone.
He stumbles, and his shoulder bumps against the edge of a different tunnel. Moments ago, he passed by this section of the wall and found it solid. Stretching his hand before him, he finds nothing opposing.
“Lor, come closer,” he says, and the boy’s light reveals a long stretch of tunnel leading upward. Iohmar frowns. He pictures their location beneath the mountain and what direction the tunnel leads—not toward the human land or Rúnda’s. If he is correct, it leads not quite toward the heart of the woods, but nearer to the permanent border of the rippling lands.
His skin crawls.
“This wasn’t here a moment ago,” Lor whispers.
“No.”
Iohmar casts a glance back at the chill tunnel. He gazes into this one, which leads to the surface. The shadows can manipulate earth—enough so to pull him and Lor into the caverns—as Ascia’s magic was beginning to do. Why would they lead me away?
A flicker of movement deep in the tunnel draws his eye. He knows the shape of the shadows and the terror of the ripplings enough to know them apart. These are the creatures he’s ventured to find.
“Come,” he says, scooping Lor to his chest. Lor locks his arms and legs about him in a heartbeat. Louder, he calls, “I’m following you.”
His body is stronger now, whether from Lor’s magic or these underground places, he isn’t certain, but the movement doesn’t cause him to tremble. Ducking into the tunnel, he climbs.
It is hours before starlight reaches him. Iohmar raises his head and finds the end to the tunnel, fresh air and flowers upon the breeze. Lor shifts, blinking at the pale light after so long in dark.
Iohmar climbs into a meadow, and the storm is silent.
Over his shoulder, the outline of his mountain cuts the sky, and he need not search the tree line to know the ripplings are here, so close his scars weigh against his skin. Lor clings to his shoulder, unaware of a deep mark there, but Iohmar doesn’t readjust.
