“You’ve been unusually quiet,” Dacre said.
Roman drew his attention away from the lorry’s dirty window. The troops had finally departed the melancholy farm, pressing eastward along a winding road. “Sorry, sir. I’ve been enjoying the change of scenery.”
Dacre was sitting on the bench beside him, regarding him with shrewd eyes. “Are your old wounds hurting?”
The inquiry was so unexpected that Roman gaped for a moment. Hadn’t Dacre healed those broken pieces of him? Why would the pain return?
“No,” Roman said, but his fingertips traced the scars around his knee, hidden beneath the jumpsuit. “I feel perfectly well, sir.”
“You can tell me if they do. Sometimes wounds run deeper than I first realized, and I have no choice but to heal them again.” Dacre paused, as if lost in thought, before asking, “Did you have a dream last night? It’s been a while since you shared one with me.”
“If I did, I don’t remember.” The lie flowed smoothly, but Roman felt his throat constrict. He kept seeing Iris Winnow, smiling up at him. Why did the gravity seem to gather around her, even hours after he had dreamt of her?
He traced his palm with his thumb—he could still feel her touch—and he sensed that Iris was more than a dream.
“If you could have any magic of the gods,” Dacre said, “what power would you choose?”
Roman was once again surprised by Dacre’s question. “I’m not sure. I’ve never thought about it, sir.”
“When I was younger, I wanted my cousin’s power. Mir’s.” Dacre’s voice was deep and warm as he remembered an era of his past with apparent fondness. “Mir was much older than me, and far more ruthless. He was born with the power of illusions and could come and go as a mere shadow, stealing from one place to another unnoticed. He gathered up family secrets like jewels in a coffer, and then wandered above to glean what he could from the Skywards. I remember when he returned below one day, looking vibrant and hale, like he had swallowed all the stars from the sky. He told me that he had acquired another power. One that enabled him to read minds should he touch someone. From then onward, I avoided him, fearful of what he might find in my own thoughts even though I had only ever envied him.”
Roman studied Dacre’s sharp profile. The sunlight limned his strange beauty.
“You can acquire more power? I thought you were born with your magic, and that is what sets you apart from us,” Roman said.
“We are born with our appointed magic, yes,” Dacre answered. “But that never stopped us from wanting more and finding ways of taking it.”
Roman wiped his palms on his thighs. He wanted to ask further questions, but the words wouldn’t come, and he thought of Mir instead. Another divine who was sleeping in a northern grave.
A few hours of stilted silence passed, Roman dozing in and out of dreamless sleep. He was relieved when they reached their destination.
The town of Merrow was similar to the Bluff but smaller, comprising thatched cottages with brightly painted shutters and overgrown gardens. A main thoroughfare was the only cobbled road. Apple orchards dotted the landscape, their white blossoms drifting from the branches when the wind blew.
As soon as the lorry came to a halt, Roman gathered his typewriter and opened the door. He stepped down carefully, minding the long line of trucks rumbling into town behind him, and he gazed up at the nearest cottage.
The windows were full of shadows, laced with gossamer. No smoke rose from the chimneys; no children raced along the streets. The market was boarded up. Even some of the doors looked to be barricaded and difficult to reach.
“Where is everyone?” he asked, not expecting an answer. But Dacre heard, as did the soldier who had been driving their lorry.
“Evacuated to the east, thanks to Enva’s forces,” Dacre replied, looking to the captain who stood at attention nearby. “Set up a watch at the perimeter. Have your company choose the best place to lodge for tonight and see what we can recover from the cellars for a meal.”
“Yes, sir.” The captain saluted and began to call out orders.
The town buzzed like a hive as the soldiers carried out their tasks, and Roman was considering wandering on his own for a moment, drawn to the quiet peace of the orchard, when gunshots cracked the air.
Not three paces ahead of him, a private went down with a scream.
Roman felt the blood splatter on his face and he froze, heart thundering in his chest. Another trio of shots—earsplitting, bone-jarring. A second and third soldier went down, and through the panicked scuffle and shouts, Roman realized the bullets were coming from a second-story window.
“Move,” Dacre hissed, grasping Roman’s arm.
A shower of bullets followed them, whizzing over their heads, nipping at their heels.
The shots were aimed at Dacre, but he dodged the assault effortlessly.
Roman tripped before he found his footing. He let Dacre propel him to the safety of a lintel, out of sight of the sniper. But his blood was coursing hot in his veins. He trembled, studying the upper windows across the street. Every shadow now felt ominous, a veil for someone to hide behind.
“How many, Commander?” It was the captain again, shadowed by Lieutenant Shane. Blood speckled their faces and uniforms, but both seemed unharmed as they crouched beside Dacre and Roman, guns in hand.
“I believe there’s only one,” Dacre replied. He sounded strangely calm, almost amused. “Upper floor of this building. Do not kill them. Wound and then bring them to me.”
The captain stood and motioned to the soldiers taking shelter behind a yard fence across the road. They returned fire at the sniper, but it seemed to only be a distraction that enabled the captain and Shane to covertly find a way into the lower level of the cottage.
Roman cowered but Dacre took hold of his arm again, keeping him upright.
“Come with me,” he said. “We need to find the door.”
Through the chaos, this seemed like a perfectly reasonable thing to say. Roman nodded, pulse hammering in his throat as he fought the urge to run and hide. He followed Dacre through the dirt-packed roads.
They eventually stopped at a house on a street corner. Lichen was growing through the roof, and the yard was larger than most, with lilac blooming on a trellis.
“Yes, it should be here,” Dacre mused, but he glanced up as if measuring the horizon.
“What should, sir?” Roman asked, his voice breaking when another volley of gunfire sounded. He glanced over his shoulder, but he couldn’t see the cottage with the sniper. He could only discern Dacre’s soldiers taking cover behind stone walls, slipping in and out of darkened houses, guns in hand.
An explosion rocked the town. Roman saw a flash of light, felt the ground quake beneath his boots. Smoke rose from a neighboring street, provoking a cascade of yells, screams.
The sound nearly drove him to his knees. He could taste blood in his mouth. Blood and salt and dirt, but when he touched his lips, he was dry as parchment. He wondered if he was remembering a fragment of his past, but the tension in the air left him no time to examine it.
“Sir?” he said. “Should we go back and help them?”
Dacre didn’t answer. He opened the yard gate and strode to the front door. It opened with a creak, exposing a dim interior.
“Commander?” The word wrenched from Roman’s chest. He was struck by the fact that he had never called Dacre by this title before. “Shouldn’t we wait? What if there’s another sniper, or a trap?”
Dacre paused on the threshold to look at him. “It will take more than a few poorly shot bullets to kill me.”
“Yes, and you are immortal. I am not.”
“But aren’t you? In case you forgot, you were a minute from death when I found you. With me, you’re safe.”
Dacre ducked inside.
Roman hesitated until the sounds of gunfire faded. The quiet that followed was eerie. It crept into his bones like winter ice, making him feel slow and clumsy, and Roman shivered as he hurried to follow Dacre into the cottage.
“Look for a room with a hearth.” Dacre’s voice came from the shadows.
“What?” Roman panted, standing in the foyer.
“My doorways like to be close to fire and stone. They swallow up ashes and embers and all the unseen magic of a hearth. Ah, here it is. The parlor.”
Roman stepped into the room. There was a rug on the floor, a dusty settee, and bookshelves built around a fireplace. But Dacre was standing before a tall wardrobe door, waiting for Roman to join him.
“I want you to open this door,” Dacre said. “Tell me what you find.”
Roman merely stared at the door, his voice like a splinter in his throat. But his palms were damp. He felt the weight of his typewriter like it was a millstone.
Did Dacre know he was exchanging letters through closets?
Roman bit the inside of his cheek as he opened the wardrobe door. “There are only coats inside, sir,” he said, seeing the outline of winter jackets. “And parcels.”
“Good. Now close it.”
Roman let the door latch, preparing to step away, but Dacre had retrieved the key from around his neck. There were two chains hanging beneath his uniform, one for the key, and one for something that looked like a small silver flute. Roman realized they were the cause of the clinks he sometimes heard when Dacre walked.
He watched as the god brought the key to the wardrobe’s brass handle, slipping it into a keyhole that hadn’t been there before. This time when the door swung open, there were no coats or boxes. There was only a stone staircase, leading down into the under realm.
“I don’t understand,” Roman said, catching the waft of cold, dank air.
“I learned a hard lesson years ago,” Dacre began. “One that made me vow that I would make it harder for those who would seek to harm me or my family again. I forged five keys in the hottest fire of my realm, and only those who I trust can carry them. Those keys can unlock the thresholds between our worlds.”
“Why five?”
“It is a sacred number. For you mortals, there are five days of the week, five boroughs, five chancellors, five remaining divines. For us gods, it is a blessing and a warning. When it comes to trusting others, pay heed to the magic of five. Having four confidants is one too few, and six is one too many.”
Before Roman could raise another question, the lights flickered on overhead. It was the captain, bloodstained and grim, his soldiers dragging in a young man dressed in coveralls. One of his legs appeared broken, and his abdomen shone with bright red blood.
“The sniper, Commander,” the captain said. “Wounded, as you requested.”
Roman studied the stranger. His hair was a dark shade of auburn, his face starkly pale, and his brown eyes glistened in agony until he caught sight of Dacre. Then his expression electrified with hatred. He spat at Dacre’s feet.
Dacre politely smiled. “I see you were left behind.”
“By my choice,” the young man rasped. Blood continued to run down his clothes, gathering in a pool beneath him. “And I will not fight for you.”
“You would rather perish?”
“Yes. Give me a clean shot and leave me here, to die where I was born.”
Dacre was quiet, but he studied the man. “You think I want to be merciful when you have harmed my soldiers?”
The sniper was silent. He looked kissed by death now. The edges of his lips were turning blue as his breaths labored.
“I will not fight for you,” he said again. “And you will not win this war. No matter how many of us you turn … we’ll abandon you, eventually. When we remember.”
Dacre held up his hand. He drew the air from the young man’s lungs with an unspoken spell that made the temperature in the room plunge and the lightbulbs flicker. Roman thought Dacre had honored the sniper’s request and killed him until Dacre said, “Take him below to one of the holding cells. Keep him stable until I can tend to his wounds.”
Roman watched as the soldiers hauled the unconscious sniper through the enchanted doorway to the world below, leaving a trail of blood behind.
“Two other privates were also wounded, sir,” the captain said. “Grenade blast. They’re four doors down, waiting for you.”
Roman was silent, but a numb feeling crept over him. He watched as Dacre followed the captain and the others out of the house, leaving him alone in the parlor.
Am I supposed to follow them? he wondered, but his thoughts slid like fog through his mind. Is this a test?
His stomach churned.
Roman strode for the front door, but he didn’t follow Dacre and the others. He hurried to the edge of town, his eyes on the orchard. The apple trees drew him in, as did the soft grass and the sunshine, spangling the ground.
He dropped his typewriter, fell to his knees, and vomited. There wasn’t much to give, but he heaved until he felt empty, his hands clinging to the roots in the ground.
He felt a tiny bit of relief and tilted his head back, blinking the tears from his eyes. That was when he realized he wasn’t alone. Lieutenant Shane was leaning against a nearby apple tree, smoking a cigarette and watching him.
“I needed a moment,” Roman said.
“Then take one,” Shane replied with a halfhearted shrug. “Although you’ve seen worse than this before, correspondent.”
The remark blistered like skin over fire. Roman was irritated by the gaps in his mind. By trying to weave together all the pieces of himself, only to find endless fragments were still lost.
“You say that as if you were there,” Roman said. “As if you know what happened to me.”
Shane was quiet as he smoked, his eyes set absently on the distance. A few of the apple blossoms drifted from above, settling like snow on his broad shoulders.
“In a manner of speaking, I was,” he finally replied. “But I can’t tell you what happened. You’ll have to remember for yourself.”
“How much longer until I do?”
“Can’t help you there either.”
“And why is that?” Roman asked, impatient. “You’ve never been wounded one time in this war? You’ve never been healed by Dacre?”
Shane stared at him. “You think everyone who is healed with his power forgets who they were?” He flicked his cigarette to the grass and crushed it beneath his boot before he turned away. “That’s the furthest thing from the truth, correspondent.”
