“Your hair is different,” Galen states, too surprised to sound properly emotionless. “Your horns . . . Lor visited, and he said something happened but wouldn’t explain.”
“He said you fell asleep on him.”
“Yes, well . . .” Galen huffs, eyebrows furrowed at the window. Iohmar manages not to appear too amused.
“It is all very strange and complicated. I will show you first; it will be easier. Then I will explain. We are all well now.”
Suspicion touches Galen’s eyes, and Iohmar deserves it.
“I see,” Galen says, abruptly nervous, returning to fiddling with the ties on his shirt, not meeting Iohmar’s eyes. “Iohmar . . . I realize I stepped across a boundary. I know I am not your father or mother and I have no right to speak to you how I did, and I should never have threatened to overrule you. I simply . . . I have always . . . I have been watching over you since you were a little babe yourself, and I . . . I’ve always . . . I—”
Iohmar crouches between Galen’s knees, taking the shirt strings from his fingers. After unknotting them, he weaves them into the proper pattern. He hasn’t trimmed the needle sharpness of his talons since the illness and is careful to avoid Galen’s butterfly-fragile skin.
Galen’s eyes remain downcast, fingers folding and unfolding, and Iohmar searches for words until he’s finished the ties.
“What I said was quite cruel,” he murmurs. “You were doing as you should have done. I am not my parents. Often, I believe I should more resemble them. Sometimes I am glad for the difference. You are not to me what you were to them. You have been very much a father to me. Were you to become nervous in my presence, it would break my heart. Please, do not be, not because I say foolish things when I am frightened.”
Galen blinks. His lips press into a line. Iohmar sees his reflection in his silver eyes. Once has Iohmar seen him weep, when he held him in his arms on the floor of his chambers, when the war was over and his parents were no longer with them.
Gently, he curls his finger to dry the underside of the old fae’s eyes. “I hope you might forgive me.”
“Oh, Iohmar . . .”
Iohmar finds himself drawn into an embrace. Resting his head against Galen’s shoulder, he circles his arms around his middle, rocking them, eyes closed. He has never felt competent at soothing anyone save for Lor, but Galen is content to cling to him. With hesitation, he pets his hair, combing it about his horns, and Iohmar allows him much longer than he would usually tolerate.
Leaning back, he rests their foreheads together and tests the strings of his magic, comforted by Galen’s responding with strength.
“Come to the gardens with me. The sunlight will make you stronger.”
Galen sniffs. Iohmar rubs under his own burning eyes and takes Galen by the arms to steady him on his feet.
“Are you going to explain?” Galen’s voice still shakes as he glances at the ground, but the pain has eased from his eyes.
“Yes, yes. I’m unsure how you believe I would get away with keeping secrets from you. You glare them out of me.”
Grumbling, Galen straightens his clothes and takes the robe Iohmar drapes across his shoulders. They stroll from the healing rooms through the quiet Halls with arms looped. All Iohmar’s kin are wandering the gardens and nearby woods, basking in the sun and the quiet of the mountains. Lor and Ascia he left for his kingsguard to keep watchful eyes upon, though any threats he feared are no longer worthy of concern. Ascia’s magic was calling for his help and has returned to her now that she is no longer in danger. The rippling borders are quiet, awaiting Iohmar’s visit.
They walk the Halls toward the bright gardens, and Iohmar tells Galen the tale.
Vines reach lazy tendrils around his toes and legs, and Iohmar pulls his hands away lest he become trapped. Nearby trees sway, shedding leaves that catch in his hair and the threads of his robes. Deer wander close, sprouting flowers. Badgers and foxes and things with no names, graceful of limb, pass by. Túirt appeared once, keeping his distance, before returning to his plums. Iohmar shoos away the smaller fae thoughtless enough to approach the rippling barrier and digs his magic deeper into the earth.
He presses his fingers into the soil, which is still warm from the noon sun. The air is humid and rid of the storm.
The rippling creature he spoke with rests opposite the border, shifting in a squat roundish circle, a tiny reflective puddle in the empty land. Delicately, Iohmar unweaves the threads of his magic binding the barrier until enough is left for his forest to grow past, though not enough to let the creatures’ dead lands into the lush fields. They can press their consuming bodies past, as always, with great determination, but this creature—Iohmar has yet to fit a name to it—has sworn they will keep their peace, as Iohmar has sworn to help.
The trees take some convincing but bow under the will of their king. He will let no harm befall them even in these other lands, offering leaves and flowers and fruits but nothing more. Sprouts push past the gray topsoil. Usually, Iohmar lets his woods grow at their own pace, allows flowers to bloom when they wish and animals to do as they please. Creatures of Látwill cannot pass into the rippling lands, but he encourages the shoots to grow. Saplings rise to the height of human men. Flowers bud. Grasses spread seeds.
A finger of water bubbles as diamonds from the roots of a new tree, trickling into the dead lands until Iohmar can no longer see where it travels. He spreads the growth along the rippling side of the border and lets the forest alone to grow with its own sweet time. He will return often to ensure it takes to the lands. Should the need arise, he will provide warmth with his own magic.
“You must be slow with it,” he tells the creature tugging away at individual petals of a yellow tulip. “If you consume it all at once, it will not continue to grow.”
“We will . . . take care . . .”
Iohmar nods.
A brush against fallen leaves draws him. In the shade of the trees, Rúnda folds her fingers together, eyes soft, watching. Her hair is wild from the winds, dress ruffled from travel. She’s once more taken to wearing gems in her ears, glittering things of pure silver.
Ages seem to have passed since he last drank in the sight of her. He considers how she would react to him springing upon her but feels sheepish.
“How long have you been there?”
“A short time. You were engrossed.”
Indeed he was. Bringing such magic to the surface of the dead lands was no easy task. His head spins, and his limbs burn pleasantly from the power.
“Quite the rainstorm you brought down. Sulking about something?”
Iohmar presses his lips together. The storm was Látwill’s creation, but Iohmar could cause one of his own if he chose. He has in the past. Once or twice.
“I had a splinter.”
She’s trying not to laugh, and Iohmar gestures to the mossy ground. Grasses swish about her legs. Her eyes flicker to the rippling lands, expression sharp as fine iron for a moment. Heat slides up his skin when she sits pressed to his side.
“Did you speak to Galen when you arrived?”
“Yes. He explained you were here and what you were doing. He seemed a tad overwhelmed.”
