Under the Earth, Over the Sky, page 20
“Galen?” he asks, entering Galen’s chambers beside his own.
It’s a simple room thick with plants and flowers. There’s a bed and a small ornate wash table in the corner. It’s empty.
Iohmar tries his own chambers. The wide window displays the sight of the storm. Outside, trees dance in the wind, throwing themselves against one another, leaves whipping, rain pelting the glass. The mist over the heart of the woods is thicker—near solid—and resistant to the moving air. Crows are huddled against the sill, seeking shelter, so Iohmar eases open the glass long enough to receive a blast of frigid, damp air and for his room to be filled with flocks of inky feathers.
Galen isn’t here, but one of the panels in the ceiling window has been moved aside. Iohmar frowns. Galen has never shared Iohmar’s fascination with the tunnels and underground hiding places, but his magic is nearby.
“Galen?” He boosts himself above the glass.
The mountain trembles so violently that Iohmar is thrown to the ground.
23
A Spreading Wound
Mountain earth trembles, roaring in Iohmar’s ears, jarring his bones. He stays frozen on the leaf-strewn floor until the world falls to stillness, only the rain and wind raging. Chills roll over his skin. But he is not a child. He will not be buried.
Casting his magic outward, he finds his people unhurt, Lor and his kingsguard safe if a little shaken. Galen is still nearby, with a faint hint of pain.
“Galen?” he calls, rising with difficulty under the spreading sickness. The cut on his finger is growing. Does fear quicken its spread?
Frustrated with the both of them, he slips up the glass window and into the cool of the tunnels. He reinforced the earth here as well, as it’s over his chambers and a path he often travels. But not all of it. Not in the places where the deepest dwellers travel. The one time he tried, it frightened the inhabitants.
Maneuvering the path he took toward the tunnels beneath the mountain, Iohmar steps over fallen rocks and crushed crystals, pulling himself free of broken vines clinging to his robes. Worms and insects rip themselves from the earth to follow.
“Galen?” What is he doing down here? In the middle of a storm? He knows better.
Here the tunnel has caved. A crack allows him passage. Roots are threading themselves among the stones, slow with lazy panic, tugging at Iohmar.
There. The edge of a sleeve. A sob threatens to lodge itself in his throat.
Sickness grating at his magic, Iohmar calls the vines to lift the stone. Too slow. Fistfuls at a time, he tears at the rocks. Sharp tips of roots dig into his skin, recoiling at what they’ve done, burned by the rage and hurt in Iohmar’s magic. He slides his arms under Galen, pulling him to his chest. His breathing is light, eyes closed. Cuts and bruises from fallen stones litter his skin. What was he thinking leaving the mountain?
“Galen,” he whispers, touching his cheek.
Panic wraps itself around Iohmar’s heart, an old and familiar sensation. He presses it down, down, down where it belongs. Gathering Galen into his arms, he wraps his magic around the threads of the old creature’s soul. Eyes fluttering, Galen whimpers and turns his face into Iohmar’s shoulder.
“I found you,” Iohmar murmurs. “What were you doing? What were you thinking?”
Shaking ripples the ground. Another quake such as the last is unlikely, but it still spurs Iohmar to his feet, and he stumbles with his body heavy. The tunnel spins, a whirl of dark earth and glowing fragments of crystal. Galen, tall as he is, is not a heavy burden.
“What were you doing down here?”
Galen blinks, eyes closing. One hand clings to Iohmar’s robe, so frail and bruised that Iohmar’s throat burns fiercer.
“Heard a voice . . .” he whispers, and Iohmar nearly stops in his tracks before slipping down into his chambers.
“A voice? I’m taking you to the healer. What voice did you hear?”
“A voice . . .” he repeats. “She was speaking, but I couldn’t understand. I thought . . . she needed help. No one was there . . .”
Iohmar nods. He sensed no other presence in the tunnels until far, far down—not close enough for someone to call out. He considers the shadows but cannot dwell. He will consider it later, when Galen is tended to.
“Leihs?” he calls, returning to the healing rooms. He passes a few of his folk, who gasp and follow in concern for a few steps. Lor and Dáithí are nowhere to be seen—a small relief. Lor shouldn’t see Galen broken in his arms.
“My lord—oh!”
Leihs rises from opposite the table, where she speaks with another. Iohmar recognizes her lover. Nodding his chin, Iohmar slips into one of the small private chambers and lays Galen upon a bed. Leihs draws the door closed. Quiet covers them, the weight of the storm hidden by the mountain.
“Your hand, my lord . . .”
Turning his arm over, Iohmar finds the cut along his finger has turned to a streak of rot weaving across his palm, disappearing into his sleeve.
“It wasn’t—” He cannot lie, cannot tell her the wound is nothing of concern. “It is nothing you can assist with. I’ll . . . I’ll care for it. Galen is injured.”
Her eyes remain crinkled and unconvinced, but she touches a wound upon Galen’s shoulder, drawing her fingers across his forehead.
“What happened?”
“He went into one of the tunnels. It collapsed where there was no structure.”
She shakes her head, mumbling, “Foolish.”
It was. No matter the voice, Galen should’ve known better. Iohmar supposes he cannot fault him. He has a kind heart, and Iohmar knows he would’ve done the same.
“He is very weak,” Leihs says. “He is far too ancient to be receiving such injuries.”
Iohmar knows but cannot force his tight throat to speak. He touches his hand to Galen’s, watching his sleeping eyelids and wishing he would wake.
Under his silence, Leihs continues her work. It has been a great time since Iohmar has seen the old fae in a state of little dress. He stares at the long, thin, ink-like markings Galen decorates himself with. His limbs are frail. It is not unusual for a creature of his age and experience to lose the steel in their body. They do not age as humans, and his skin is smooth and free of the signs of time, but his body is thin and brittle, as strong in appearance as soaked paper.
None of the outward injuries are grievous, but Iohmar is unsure how much magic Galen’s body expended trying to aid itself. Iohmar feels it slip close to disappearing. He presses his fingers to his eyes. The last time he shared his magic, it was broken to save Lor, tied to his little boy and weakened into illness. It is a sacred thing reserved for him alone. Him and his son.
His eyes are itchy and heavy. Expending his magic now, with the streaks of rot up his arms, would be unwise.
Stepping to the front of the bed, he slips his hands beneath the old fae’s hair. Resting his forehead against his, he allows his magic to wash into Galen’s limbs.
Leihs starts, her breath sharp. “My king . . . ?”
“Please, keep working,” he murmurs.
Floating in the strange place between his own magic and Galen’s, Iohmar doesn’t think or worry. The outside world is nonexistent. It’s a comfortable, familiar sensation. Reminds him of crawling back from the rippling lands with Galen’s soothing magic tending his wounds. He doesn’t have the presence of mind now to be grieved by the memory. Time slips. He is aware of Galen’s body mending under Leihs’s touch, his magic stabilizing enough that Iohmar could release it should he wish to. But his illness nags at his limbs and Iohmar doesn’t wish to return to conscious thought.
Still, he feels Leihs lay hesitant fingers along his shoulder. Regretfully, he withdraws his magic, being as gentle as possible, easing Galen into his own strength.
Aches grasp his limbs. His horns dip his head. The streaks of rot upon his hand have turned to many up his arms, breaking his pale skin, and he is certain Leihs must see them across his face.
Her eyes are wide when he meets them.
“Do not speak of this to anyone.”
Her eyes are so shaken and worried that Iohmar brushes against her magic and its intentions. He finds both concern and the resolve to keep his secret.
“Thank you,” he whispers. “Leave us a moment, please.”
For a breath, she doesn’t move, but then she dips into another slight bow and disappears. Iohmar leans against the bed, staring at Galen’s sleeping face, vision blurred. He brushes a finger along the old fae’s frail cheek, laying his temple against his forehead, not sharing magic, simply touch. Never has he done such a thing when Galen was awake. It is not proper. Foolish and childlike. But he is relieved, robbed of his pride. Galen will sleep for some time still, healing and returning to his strength, and Iohmar needs to lock himself away within his own chambers before his body betrays him further. Lor is with Dáithí, and it will have to be enough.
He slides a blanket soft as down from the foot of the bed and tucks it up to Galen’s chin before slipping unnoticed from the healing rooms.
Iohmar closes the door to his own chambers, and he is alone.
Staring at the peaceful room, he watches silver leaves float from the ceiling to the warm floor, the comfortable bed. Out the window, the storm rages, a mass of warm air, biting rain, and angry clouds. Droplets pelt the glass. Midnight is darkening the world with no moon to light it. Worry secures itself around Iohmar’s heart. The last thing he desires is for the illness to take him from Galen and Lor and his people for days to come.
“You are a fool,” he mutters, seating himself along the foot of the bed.
A long tear streaks the fine blue fabric of his robe, likely from a sharp rock or the panicking vines. After pushing the heavy fabric from his shoulders, he slips to the floor to unwind the ties on his boots while leaning against the bed frame. The floor is a spongy and pleasant seat.
With Rúnda delayed, Galen healing, and Lor under Dáithí’s watchful eye, he will be alone this time. No one will watch him lie helpless, claimed by grieving memories.
Cowering alone in my chambers. Iohmar is sick with himself.
His head spins. He rests his arms upon his knees, dropping his forehead into the crook of his elbow, horns pressing against his muscles.
Footsteps reach him from the hallway—light, gentle steps. His kingsguard, perhaps. He should have secured the door. A soft knock rattles him from his thoughts, but he doesn’t rise. If he does not answer, his guard will not enter his chambers without his permission.
“Daidí?” Lor’s voice calls, and Iohmar twitches.
He stares at the door, several options fighting in his scattered thoughts. Shadows and strange voices and memories invade his mind whenever the sickness takes hold. His head swims. For the first time, he considers his stomach might twist until it rebels.
But this is Lor, not some memory. Lor’s voice. His own little child.
“My lord?” Dáithí calls softly. “Are you here? Lor is looking for you.”
Dáithí will sense his presence, and Lor will as well. They know he’s here. But if he doesn’t speak, Iohmar knows his kingsguard will take the boy away, even if Lor protests.
What will Lor believe when he knows? Will he be hurt I turned him away? Or will terror enter his heart at my appearance? Will he wish he’d never been told the truth?
Iohmar may stay silent and keep this secret to himself.
He closes his eyes. “Let him in, Dáithí. You can join the others.”
The door cracks, and a very rain-drenched Lor bounces in, a grin lighting his face, hair still plastered. The fawn is cradled in his arms. He spins in a circle without seeing Iohmar, nudging the door closed with his elbow. “Bye, Dáithí!”
“Good night, Lor.” Dáithí’s voice is faded behind the door, his presence lessening as he leaves.
“Daidí, did you feel the earthquake?”
Lor freezes halfway between the door and where Iohmar is slumped on the floor. His face goes blank, smile failing.
He takes in the sight of his father and screams.
24
Some Long-Forgotten Tales
Iohmar remembers when first he realized his parents could be frightening.
Remembers his mother contorting magic to offer his father a lifeline before the rippling lands could swallow him. Remembers the moon and stars falling empty and lightless, all of Látwill devoid of time and place for the few moments she took. How her magic enveloping their world stole each of Iohmar’s senses from him, and how, for a few seconds, he was utterly helpless.
Remembers his father bringing an entire mountain to its knees when he returned, pushing the creatures back long before the last battle even began.
Iohmar didn’t fear them; he never feared them. But neither did he see them as when he was a child, innocent and misunderstanding of the nature of magic.
Lor’s scream is nothing more than a quiet noise, a sudden gasp of surprise. Dáithí, his footsteps having faded, likely doesn’t hear. It lasts not even a full breath, but Iohmar flinches nonetheless. Lor stares at him, shock in his eyes, hands frozen around the fawn, and it takes Iohmar too long to find his voice.
“It’s all right, Lor,” he whispers. It’s not enough a lie to stop his words, but his voice tastes bitter in the back of his throat.
Lor blinks, clinging to the tiny deer. Iohmar offers a hand, wanting to comfort him—to comfort them both—but the boy is out of arm’s reach. Iohmar’s vision spins when he leans forward.
“What’s wrong?” Lor’s whisper is harsh. His clothes are dripping on the leaves, and Iohmar wants to tell him to change so he’ll be warm.
“I . . .” Iohmar doesn’t know how to continue, how to tell the truth while keeping the boy unhurt. He invited him in, meaning to tell him, meaning to be braver than he feels, but words have fled his lips. “Sometimes I fall ill. You needn’t worry, Wisp.”
Lor’s eyes wander his body, following the trails of rot. Does he believe? Lor knows he cannot lie, but there is a distinct curve of distrust in his frown. Iohmar touches his finger to the flaking paper of his jaw, feeling nothing unusual but knowing the marks are present. Lor isn’t meeting his eyes.
“I will be all right, Wisp,” he says, his voice far away. He recovered the last two times, so this must be a truth. “I am merely tired.”
Lor steps forward, a small movement that doesn’t put him within Iohmar’s reach. His head cocks, tears turning his eyes to glass. Iohmar hasn’t seen the boy cry since the strange night after the cavern so long ago, and neither has he heard him scream. His breath is picking up, and Iohmar feels unequal to the task of soothing. Is my appearance truly so terrifying to my son? He expected Lor to be frightened, but not to stay out of his reach.
“Lor,” he says, forcing control into his voice, gesturing for him to step closer. “Don’t be afraid.”
Finally, Lor meets his eyes. “You look like my dreams.”
Iohmar blinks. A moment passes before he wraps his head about the words and finds himself more confused than before. Iohmar himself never dreams of falling ill. Even when the sickness began as he crawled with Lor from the caverns, Lor couldn’t have seen much of the rotting cuts in the dark, seated on his back, and certainly not in the severity of this. What put such an image into his mind?
“What?” he asks, slow and uncomprehending. Something here must be obvious but out of his grasp.
Lor hiccups, holding down sobs. “Are my dreams true?”
Iohmar tries once more to sit forward and reach him, but he catches himself against the edge of the bed before his body can take him down.
“Lor, I don’t know what you’re speaking of. What dreams? Come here.”
Still, he doesn’t move from the door. “I dream about you.”
“Yes?” Iohmar prompts when he fails to continue. “I dream of you as well. What did you dream?”
“Many things,” he whispers.
“Lor, tell me.”
He is quiet, little eyebrows pulling together. “Is this why you left me with Dáithí?”
“No, no. I was only looking for Galen.”
Lor’s frown deepens. Iohmar doesn’t understand from where this doubt has sprouted. But those words, at least, are the full truth, not a dance about it.
“What do you dream?” he asks once more.
Lor stares, then glances at the raging storm. He shifts the squirming fawn closer, and his lip trembles. Iohmar wishes so much to gain the strength to rise and snatch the boy into his arms. As it is, he’s losing the battle to keep his head upright. He shouldn’t have stayed on the floor.
“I . . .” Lor hesitates. “Dream about the caves.”
That’s not so unusual. Iohmar dreams of them himself. “Yes?”
“And . . . you come looking for me. But you never find me. Sometimes you look at me and walk by and disappear into the dark. And I’m by myself.”
Iohmar blinks, and by the time he wraps his thoughts around the words, Lor is continuing.
“Sometimes you turn to dust and float away. It looks like that”—he points skittishly to Iohmar’s face—“and I’m buried. And you don’t come back. And I wake up.”
Buried? Iohmar thinks of the caves burying him when he was a boy. Ascia lost. Why would Lor dream such things? Never has Iohmar given him reason to doubt. His heart aches. Where could my little boy have gained such fears? He thinks of the nights when Lor climbs under his covers to cuddle within the circle of his arms. Was he hiding from nightmares?
“Why didn’t you tell me you were having such awful dreams?”
Lor shrugs, turning his face.
