The shadows swarm the pocket created from the collapsed mountain, still partially concealed. Iohmar sheds his cumbersome robes and slides beneath the dark crack, the light from his skin unable to break the dense swarm of shadows. His hand finds first the giant bone embedded in the stone, then fingers little enough to be Lor’s, warm and soft. He holds his breath; there’s not enough room among the clay to cry. Wrapping an arm about the tiny form, he slides the two of them out into the vast cavern, his and Lor’s light cutting the dark enough to see.
“It’s a girl?” Lor asks, voice rising in surprise. “A real girl?”
Iohmar sits, cradling the child’s head, peering at her small face.
It isn’t possible, he thinks, extending his magic so far that he touches the orchard above, the presence of his parents slow and unaware. They searched for her. I searched for her. This isn’t possible. Isn’t possible . . .
A sob cracks his chest, and he swallows it down.
“Ascia?” he asks, taking her face between his hands. She fits in his grasp as Lor does. She is so young. They were both so young.
“Is she your friend?” Lor asks. “But she’s little like me . . .”
Iohmar can’t respond. He brushes his magic across hers, worried to wake her but frightened to allow her to sleep. Her eyelids flutter. She blinks at him. For the life of him, Iohmar tries to remember the color of her eyes but can’t picture it. They’re green when she stares up at him, and he wishes he weren’t dirty and disheveled and weeping over her, frightening.
As soon as she wakes, her shadows return to her, some dissolving into her skin, some swirling close. Her face scrunches. She glances around, turns her eyes to him, and asks, “Årelang?”
Iohmar blinks tears. He doesn’t remember when last someone spoke his father’s name.
“No,” he whispers as gently as he can manage. “It’s me, Ascia. I’m Iohmar.”
Almost smiling, she says, “You’re not Io—”
Her eyes find his horns among his hair, a feature neither his father nor his mother had. He raises a hand to them, then shows her his long talons.
“It’s me,” he repeats. “I’m Iohmar. It’s me.”
She sits, still grasping one horn. Eyes far away, she puts a hand in the pocket of her moss-green dress and pulls out a small stone.
Not a stone, he realizes as she holds it to eye level. It’s the tip of horn that was broken off him so long ago when he brought Lor to the strange woman of shadow.
The form Ascia’s magic took on as it wandered the tunnels, lost.
Didn’t the woman shatter into a thousand shadows before I lost consciousness? Iohmar’s own magic has a life of its own, tethered to him. Ascia’s does as well, and hers was trapped here, a child even when taking the form of someone as ancient as he.
Following him about his woods, trying to lead him back.
Ascia seems confused by the presence of the broken horn, a deep pinch to her eyebrows as she stares between it and Iohmar.
“You aren’t Iohmar,” she says, but she’s looking at Lor.
The boy shakes his head, and Iohmar says, “He’s my son. Lor. He’s my little boy.”
That is why she called Lor by my name. He is near the same age Iohmar was when they were buried. And though he doesn’t share Iohmar’s features, there is a significant slope to his face matching Iohmar’s, and their magic, now bonded, carries the same presence and feel.
“You’re grown up,” Ascia whispers, her eyes finding Iohmar’s.
“Yes,” he says, then gathers her into his arms so she doesn’t see him weep.
She weaves her arms about his neck much as Lor does, and there is a crack of tears in her voice. “Why are you grown?”
“I don’t know,” Iohmar says, though his age is not the strange magic that has been working all these centuries. He puts his hand to the crown of her head and gives her the emotions of how greatly he missed her.
Lor stares at them, lip trembling. Iohmar offers his arm and holds each of them tight.
“I’m sorry,” he tells Ascia. “I thought I lost you. I searched for so long. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
29
A Burst of Light
When Iohmar rises, he calls to his magic.
Ascia’s shadows swarm, tucking into her skin. Some remain, weaving between Iohmar’s legs and arms, swirling about his neck. Lor grips Iohmar’s hand with both of his, and Iohmar cradles Ascia in his other arm.
His magic floods each and every place he can reach, a circle of warmth and growth spreading out and up to the world above. His forests are calm and exhausted from the storm, basking in twilight. A crack spreads in the earth, so vast and deep Iohmar’s skin warms in the soft glow.
The cavern cracks. Branches and vines and all manner of living greenery wrap around them, and they leave the sunlight to touch the dragon bones for the first time in millennia.
SPRING
30
Atop Mountains, Among Orchards
Iohmar rests in the willow chair alongside his bed—the one Galen frequents—and watches the children sleep. Nothing exists to guard them from, not here in the sanctuary of his chambers, but he cannot tear his eyes away.
