Each time Iohmar glances down, he finds the infant’s bright eyes gazing up at him while the boy gums his blanket, never crying.
Iohmar isn’t sure for what he’s searching. Centuries have fled since he last walked these underground places. Not since he was a boy wandering these tunnels for his lost friend has he found himself so deep within the oppressive earth. Fear no longer settles in his bones, but shadows and mazes of earth hold no comfort.
Small things scurry about his feet, curious and eager to drink from his magic. He lets them crawl across his shoes and cling to the sides of his robes and hems of his pants. They take numerous forms as those above. Some resemble the lizards Iohmar sees roaming human lands, scaled and long with tails and clinging fingers. Others mirror him in miniature, with arms and legs and tiny faces. They are often unclothed and bear strange colors to their skin or scales or feathers. Some, content to exist in the dark, do not see him but smell his magic and hear the brush of his feet. He scoops one from the damp wall, letting the pale creature crawl between his fingers, gaze at him with a tiny noseless face, and flutter off on blue spiderweb wings.
Something much larger pulls itself from the wall. A dozen limbs fumble together, barely a shadow in the lack of light, but the creature casts a strong flame of magic nonetheless. Iohmar edges around it. Even here, in this buried place, nothing is strong enough to cause him true harm, but he doesn’t wish to fight with the infant in his hold.
Murmuring, he presses his magic against it, hoping to either warn it back or satisfy it with a burst of power. Tumbling over him, bumping into the opposite wall, it clicks, hissing. It may be large, but it is not as intelligent as even the wolves roaming the heart of the woods.
“Now, now,” Iohmar mumbles.
One arm with the tiniest hook of a claw snaps near his face, drawing the slightest sting from his jaw. He dabs at the spot of blood, flicking it away, considering drawing roots to secure the creature.
But it jerks away, hissing louder, frightened by the outpouring of magic at Iohmar’s drawn blood. Even this thing, aggressive as it is, will recognize its king.
With a cascade of limbs, it folds itself back into the wall, sending earth and pebbles scattering about Iohmar’s feet.
The babe gives a small surprised gurgle. Iohmar doesn’t know when the little human decided he was safe in the king’s hold. His chest grows tight, and he shoves the sensation away as he returns to his path.
A few resembling his kin living above ground—large and intelligent and drenched in magic—are not difficult to uncover. He doesn’t see them within the darkness but feels the watching of their eyes like fingers across his skin. Some appear, attracted by the scuffle, but flee once they’ve glimpsed him. Drawn to their strong magic, he allows himself to be led by the greatest pull. It is not as intimate a bond as he shares with Galen or his kingsguard—or as he shared with his parents—but he allows his magic to lead him where his eyes would fail.
Hours and hours he wanders, speaking to those who do not shy from his sight, a spare word here and there. None of their names are known to him. Most are hidden within shadow, silent as bones, and he does not draw close enough to see their shapes in the darkness. If they do not acknowledge him, he does not approach.
A room spreads before him, a widening pocket of the tunnel. To his right, Iohmar could continue deeper, far and far down where no one has ventured. He raises his hand as if he can press his palm to the space of darkness his friend was lost to so long ago. He doesn’t know if it was even near this place. The air remains chill and light and empty. Iohmar looks at the continuing tunnel until the darkness distorts to his eyes, then turns away.
The little pocket of space he’s found has the air of a home. As he navigates tree roots more stone than living thing, touches of life appear along the walls: Braids of roots. A perfect curve to the ceiling.
Cool magic hangs within the small round space. It’s not his sun-soaked halls and bright chambers, but it is familiar nonetheless. He cannot determine why it speaks to him so, but it is strong, stronger than any he’s come across in a great long time, either above the earth or below.
He sits within the roots and waits.
Eyes closed, he lets his magic seep down, farther and farther than even these dark tunnels. Signs of life fade, left to nothing but rock and precious crystals any human would treasure. Any fae would adore them, for decorating their bodies is a favorite pastime. Iohmar would love to have a mere few between his fingers, to present them to Rúnda, but even his magic could not access them so far in the earth. Instead, he basks in their glow.
Farther down, there is something else, a large presence with some flicker of magic but no life. A great cavern? Or some underground river destined never to see sunlight? He allows his thoughts to wander in the cold.
Some hours later, he becomes aware of her magic.
5
A Woman in the Earth
She is ancient, perhaps older than Iohmar himself.
How is she possible? He blinks, squinting to catch her features. Against the opposite wall, her form is withheld in shadows, part of the darkness itself. With a step, she solidifies, still featureless. Wrapped in shadows, she is no more than ancient magic taking a form matching his. How would she appear if I were not here?
Different fae live different life spans. Usually, the larger in form, the less the effects of time. Giant trees of the heart of the woods have lived lives even Iohmar and Galen cannot comprehend. Iohmar may live several more millennia—as his parents would have, as Galen is approaching. Iohmar cannot name this creature’s exact years, but as her magic intertwines with his in greeting, he is given an eternity of hazy consciousness.
Silence fills the space. Iohmar is grateful for the babe’s calm; it would be wrong of him to first break the quiet of her home.
“My sweet lord,” she says, her voice like the long travel of a stream. Such a strange and soft sound for a dark and earthy space.
“My sweet lady,” he says with respect.
She steps closer. Magic washes across his senses, prickling his skin. It’s very strong to be so tangible. Strange and familiar. For a moment, he is a child exploring his woods and the caverns below, small and unassuming and learning to slip between sunlight and shadow.
“No high lord has ventured so far under the Fair Halls since before my time.”
Her words are untrue. Iohmar’s own father wandered these dark places searching for his son and the forest friend with whom he played.
“You have the strongest magic I’ve sensed. How long have you lived beneath the Halls?”
“A long while,” she says, stepping once back, then closer. “I’ve heard you don’t allow your people to bring humans to your lands . . .” She pauses. “If I may be so bold.”
He doesn’t allow himself to tense. “I decided on an exception.”
“The king can make any decision he wishes.”
Iohmar’s kin would not speak to him in such a way. He would not tolerate the disrespect. But he is in her home, her sanctuary, and nearly smiles.
“Indeed I can.”
She brushes her hands against her dress. It is a dark thing matching his own, woven in shadow and mist but flecked with earthen green.
Did my childhood friend dress as such? It seems she must have for the way she loved exploring these underground halls.
These tunnels are unearthing painful memories.
Crouching, she leans near, elbows draped over knees. Her body interacts strangely with itself, skin disappearing within itself only to solidify, the dress often becoming indiscernible from her body. She is not within arm’s reach but is close enough he smells her skin, matching the stale air and chill earth and stone. The warmth of magic accompanying intelligence is lost to him. Tension knots his shoulders, skin tingling. He sits vulnerable and unarmed, and she is . . . strange.
