Night swaddled Syngorn as Iona crossed from one limb of the Tarn Ward to the other. Music whispered over her ears in place of the wind, inviting her to amble and meditate. She passed people lounging in boats on the lake, a perfect mirror of a cloudless sky sugared with stars, and others locked in conversation while children scampered past to play.
The manors and walled-in estates devolved into regular housing once she was free of the marketplace and she slipped by a short fence and into a small, well-loved garden. Fireflies winked against palely-lit flowers and wind chimes beckoned her forward to the front porch. It was technically her home, but still, she knocked.
Her mother answered a minute later, reading glasses perched on her nose. She removed them and tucked one of the arms into her robes—dressed down, meant for relaxing.
“Iona,” she said, sounding surprised. She examined her with a curious smile. “You’re certainly dressed up.”
Right. Iona plucked at her dress—she’d picked her orange one with the long skirt on one side and the other wrapped around her thigh. Her hair was loose and she’d thrown on a shawl and boots to keep warm on the journey over. The yearly dusting of snow may have left, but the weather was still nippy, and any skin left exposed tingled with the chill.
“I had dinner with her Ladyship,” she explained, trying to make it seem like it wasn’t special.
Imodren’s eyebrow twitched upwards, but she made no further comment and stepped aside, widening the door’s opening. “Come in, then, before you freeze your toosh off.”
Iona did, relaxing into the familiar scent of home, roses trimmed from the garden and collected in vases in each room. Her mother closed the door behind her and made a beeline for the kitchen, calling over her shoulder, “Tea?”
Iona’s default nearly sprung off her tongue but she answered, “No, thank you.”
Her mom already had the cupboards above the countertop open with each hand lassoed around a cup. She slowly withdrew and closed the doors. “Is something wrong?”
Iona waved a hand, entering after her. “No. I just can’t stay long.”
Imodren turned on the spot and reclined against the counter. “So no tea and not much time, what is it? Official business?”
“I’m going away this morning for a…” She fumbled for a word, folding her arms behind her back and pinching her fingers. To the onlooker, her posture announced her profession, formal and martial, always on-guard. It comforted her even if it looked incongruous with civilian clothing. “Well, a mission. I can’t say what it is or why, not yet. It’s a personal favour for Lady Theotae.”
“You can’t tell me the details or you don’t know them?”
“I can’t tell you. I know enough to have made a decision, though,” she added, feeling the qualification was important. “Maybe you can ask her once I've left.”
“Very well.”
Once upon a time her mother might have held her under a magnifying glass, asked whether she would have gone on less—questions meant to reveal if her loyalty was blind. She was relieved to have earned her trust, or maybe it was Lady Theotae who earned it. Maybe her mom knew better or came to a conclusion entirely disparate of hers.
She wanted to confide, wanted to express doubt. Despite her recent foray into politics early last year, she felt unsuited. Entering unknown terrain—not just to her, but the other delegates as well—wasn’t comparable to running a noble house safely from within. Her mother had centuries worth of experience with the true nature of the job, being a diplomat, but a vague answer meant she had every reason to believe it was related to the Emerald Archers.
“I don’t know how long I’ll be away,” Iona continued. “Can you let dad and the others know?”
Imodren nodded, but it looked more resigned than something she wanted to do. “I’ll send word out.”
“Thank you.”
“Are you all packed?”
“More or less. I’m sure I’ll think of something I missed after I've tranced.”
“I’m glad you took the time to see me.” Imodren pushed off the counter. “I won’t keep you, but let me grab something before you leave.” She strode from the room. Iona’s arms swung from behind to her front, hands cupped under her elbows.
Her mother returned with a miniature box, settled a hand at her back, and walked her to the entrance. She popped open the lid—inside sat two earrings, each a pearl bud draped with gold leaves and single lines. Elegant but simple, very much dovetailing with how Iona dressed.
Her mother replaced the lid with a smile once Iona had gotten an eyeful. “I can think of a few situations where you might find these useful,” she said, like maybe she had gotten wind of Iona’s mission after all. “It’s not much, but I want you to take them.”
“For good?”
“If you like them enough I don’t think I’m getting them back.”
Iona accepted the box, red-faced; it was both too late and too soon to fuss. “Thank you, mum.”
Her mother wrapped her in a firm embrace, one hand pressed against the back of her head. “Do your best, and you should be fine.” She withdrew and gripped her shoulder. “Be careful. Be vigilant.”
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Anger and poison boiled in her blood. The Feywild—or the glimmering spires of Syngorn backed by the kaleidoscope colours of the Feywild—didn’t shift into focus. They remained blurred and off-balance as the dust settled around Iona, her mother, and the infant with them.
Bickering reached her ears, adding to the din pounding in her temples, and then her baby sister began to wail on top of it, creating a shrill cacophony. Part of the arguing sounded like her dad. Chaos—utter chaos.
Three figures stood at the outskirts of a tall, circular room of a tower, outside the door that punched through its wall. Sure enough, one was her father. He tried to shove past two guards, but they blocked him, crossing their halberds and pushing in retaliation.
Faolin raised an accusatory finger at the soldiers, to no effect. The gesture was so unlike him, too hostile. He was tall, but not imposing—lean with auburn hair flowing out like the surf and golden eyes that were made to quell anger, not incite it.
“Those are my children,” he hissed. “You are in our domain, under our protection.”
“And you’re in Syngorn,” the left guard said. “Our laws are still our laws. We’re following orders; no unapproved children.”
“She’s already here,” Iona’s mother pointed out. She sounded hoarse and irritated. “We only want out of the city. Iona is sick.”
“Not without an escort,” the second guard said. “You weren’t supposed to be let in in the first place.”
“What’s a newborn going to do?” Iona spat, hoping to dispose of some the venom inside her by launching it at them. “What were we supposed to do? We were nearly ambushed. Are me and mine not adequate escorts?”
“Faolin isn’t of Syngorn,” guard one pointed out. His eyes flicked over her from over his shoulder. “And you and your mother are unfit.”
“What’s going on here?”
A fourth figure joined the mix. Iona recognized the curtain of braided gold hair, leather armour, and the swoop of two finely-crafted swords. The guards flinched and hastily bowed with a quick, “Lady Theotae.”
“These are our own,” she declared, robbing them of their authority, arms folded tightly across her chest. “You will let them out.”
The guards exchanged a panicked look from beneath their helmets. If their orders were from the High Warden, they could stand their ground, but in the face of Theotae’s unrelenting presence, Iona saw them buckle like they had their knees kicked in. They either suffered Theotae’s wrath now or someone else’s later—it was about deciding whose was worse.
“Do you want to be the ones responsible for withholding care to one of the Lady of the Redwood’s bodyguards?” Theotae pressed, stepping forward, into their space.
“No, we can grab a healer, but the child—”
“Comes with me as well,” Theotae finished for them. “I’ll escort them personally. No harm will come to Syngorn.”
They relented at last, splitting their halberds apart and opening a path. Theotae and Faolin strode in before the polearms were fully raised, Faolin rushing to her mother and sister to help calm and meet her for the very first time. Theotae appeared taller as she approached—likely because Iona was hunched over with an arm clutched around her stomach.
“Thank you,” she managed, and hazarded a step forward. The room slanted, then stopped—Theotae caught her around the middle, one hand on her stomach and the other landing on her back like a set of pinchers. The pressure made Iona want to vomit, heat flaring in her throat and head, but she held it in. She would not throw up on her or Theotae’s boots or show anymore weakness in front of the guards that belittled her family.
Theotae hefted an arm around her shoulders while a hand settled at her waist, none the wiser. The nausea settled.
“Let’s be on our way, then,” Theotae announced, helping Iona through the exit with her parents close at hand. Orla’s cried waned as they exited down a short staircase flanked by two pulsating orbs, a few of the dozen Threshold Crests that anchored Syngorn to the Feywild.
Like anything even mildly out of the ordinary, they were the subject of odd looks as they made their way through the streets. Theotae was their barrier against any rumours or any sort of escalation, though, diverting gazes and keeping lips sealed shut. The tension mounted on Iona’s malaise made her feel like she was hallucinating everything.
Faolin hovered behind them like he wanted to usher his praise and thanks, but their troupe was silent. Iona understood; her gratefulness went beyond words. They broke one of Syngorn’s laws in bringing in an unapproved child, even if the circumstances were complicated. If Iona had been able to keep her mother and sister on the material plane or found another entrance to the Feywild, she would have, but the risk of keeping them in the Verdant Expanse while dragons razed nearby settlements was too great.
A bird streaked past, close enough that feathers brushed her cheek. It circled once before her older sister abruptly landed into view and straightened before them, dusting off an emerald jacket. Theotae jerked to a stop, Iona with her.
“Hello, all,” she said, slightly winded, raising a single hand laden with rings. A few more Verdant Guard in their peripheral started, then relaxed when they saw an eladrin. Eireann reached for Iona. “I can take her from here, my lady.”
Theotae’s grip reflexively tightened. Iona gave an awkward flap of her far hand as if to pat her shoulder. “It’s my sister.”
Theotae relaxed, nodded curtly, then helped transfer Iona to her sister’s shoulder in the same position, only flipped. Eireann was taller than Theotae—it would’ve been cumbersome, but her sister bent over to accommodate.
Eireann planted a palm against her stomach. Before Iona could protest or snap, warmth radiated outwards and pulsed through her entire body. Sweet, sweet relief coursed through her, supplanting the sickness building and thrashing inside her. She sighed. From there she was able to peel away and stand on her own, swiping a bead of sweat from her forehead.
“Thanks,” she said again, with the impression she’d be repeating the sentiment a lot in her near future. Her sister only grinned and nudged her, then fell into step beside her group.
With her sickness removed, Iona was left to contend with a quiet gravity while Theotae escorted them. She knew her loyalty ran deep, but she never asked herself how deep, too afraid. She didn’t want to lose sight of the line that set professional and personal apart.
Devotion to her work was part of her molecular makeup, but now, she knew, it was also to Lady Theotae herself. She spent decades wondering how much Theotae was willing to sacrifice for her, which pieces on her board she’d move to help her in her time of need—if Iona’s problems were as important to her as Theotae’s were to her.
Like many aspects with Lady Theotae, her answer was nebulous and malleable, prone to change. Objectively, Theotae had taken control of a situation that was out of Iona’s hands, then made peace and righted it. She didn’t have to, but she did.Â
The seeds of her romantic interest were already planted. Iona had nothing but admiration and respect for her pride, her tenacity, that she would stop at nothing to achieve what she set out to do. Her help with a matter so close to Iona’s heart was the water that nourished them, coaching her feelings into something deeper.
Azariah and her mother were the only two things stopping Iona from sprinting the moment her foot emerged from the oak at Brambleview. Her compromise was to take her mother’s elbow and walk brusquely to the front door where they waited to be let in.
The way to the guest bedroom where Orla was housed was muscle memory by this point, and she made a fast clip for it as soon as they were indoors. They knew Orla was fine, she was safe, she was well; but she needed to see her. Where her sister was concerned, she loathed waiting.
The door was open. She slowed, sharing a glance with her mother, who gave a nod of encouragement. Iona rapped once with her fist to announce herself and stepped in.
Orla and Elspeth sat on the bed. Elspeth conducted harmless but practised magic; a shower of blue sparks and airy, misty rainbows that came from waterfalls in the sun. Orla looked as she had all month; wan, thin, and shaky, but there was a new glimmer to her eyes, and she didn’t flinch away from the display. Orla had never been without hope, but now she had certainty. Iona welled up.
Orla glanced up, beamed, and threw herself out of bed. Iona caught the charge in her arms, Orla’s feet momentarily sweeping off the ground. The hug distracted her mind just long enough that she was full-on crying before she could think to stop it. Her mother joined in, circling around to shelter Orla between them, her face wet. Iona couldn’t tell whose sobs belonged to who—they were all crying, a welter of relieved limbs and tears.
All month Iona had been in a state of flux. She had a new job, a new partner, and had been partially re-living the first few weeks of Orla’s life, wondering whether her baby sister would come out the other side or perish. She had been the most high-strung she had ever been, a music string stretched too taut for too long and finally snapping under the pressure.
But like the first time, and every time, Orla pulled through—and now, if they were diligent, she wouldn’t have to wonder if she would survive ever again.
