The pain and discomfort of Roman’s wounds had fully returned with his memories.
He thought about what this meant when he was lying in bed, staring into the darkness and struggling to breathe. When he was nauseous at the dinner table, eating meals with the officers, forcing himself to swallow down the food. When he was at his desk, fighting a dull throb at his temples as he typed propaganda for Dacre. When he had a moment alone in the night, and he would sit at his typewriter and try to make sense of what he was experiencing.
Dacre claims he healed me that day in the Bluff. He claims that I could live forever at his side, if only I remain faithful to him. And yet my memories suggest otherwise, and what I’m feeling in my body is a testament that I’m not fully mended.
He healed me just enough to be of use to him, as if covering my wounds with a bandage, holding things together. To make me numb and to forget what brought me here. But now that I remember who I was before … it seems his magic has lost a few threads of its power.
He has deceived me, as well as so many others, by making us believe we are whole and mended when he has intentionally left pieces of us broken so we remain close to his side. Submissive and obedient to what he wants.
Roman would type his thoughts but wouldn’t let them survive on the paper. He yanked them from the typewriter and watched them catch fire with a match.
But his new reality was often at the forefront of his mind.
He wondered what this meant for him in the days to come, the years to come. If he survived this war, then how long would he truly have to live? How much damage had the gas done to him, and was it something he could manage with proper medical treatment?
Roman pushed those uncertainties aside as he ascended the metal stairs, typewriter case in hand. He was almost to Dacre’s office, ready to report for the day’s duty, and he could feel the shortness of breath again, the throb in his temples. It typically happened when he had to climb the stairwell, and he took his time, careful to hide his limp and give himself moments to take deep breaths.
At last, he reached the top floor. He wiped the perspiration from his brow and stepped into the office.
Dacre was alone, staring out the windows. But Roman could instantly tell something was off. His ears popped as he felt pressure in the air, like a storm was brewing.
“I’m here to write the next article, sir,” Roman said, pausing by the desk. “Unless you’d like me to come back later?”
Dacre was quiet, as if he hadn’t heard. Something beyond the windows must have truly captured his attention. Roman was considering easing away when the god finally spoke, his voice smooth and polished, like water rushing over stones.
“Tell me of Iris E. Winnow.”
Roman froze, his eyes widening. He was thankful that Dacre’s back was still angled to him; it gave him three beats to compose himself by the time Dacre turned. Dust motes spun in the weak sunshine between them.
“I’m sorry, sir?”
“Iris E. Winnow,” Dacre repeated, and Roman inwardly flinched. “Surely you remember her by now?”
Was this a trap? A test?
Did Dacre know of their letters? Their brief meeting in Hawk Shire? The wedding ring Roman continued to hide in his pocket?
Was this the beginning of the end?
Roman licked his lips. Calm, he told himself, even as his blood surged, hot with panic in his veins. Stay calm.
“Vaguely. She wasn’t very memorable, but I believe she and I both worked at the Oath Gazette around the same time. Why do you ask of her, sir?”
“See for yourself.” Dacre indicated the desk.
Roman stepped closer. He hadn’t noticed the newspaper when he had first entered the room, but now that he looked down, he could see the bold headline of the Inkridden Tribune.
THE MUSIC BELOW: THE DOOMED LOVE STORY BETWEEN ENVA & DACRE by IRIS E. WINNOW
Roman read the first few lines, his pulse hammering.
He recognized this myth. He had typed it to Iris and sent it to her months ago, thinking it was harmless enough at the time. Something like bread to feed her imagination. But now here it was, brazenly printed in the paper, exposing Dacre’s humiliation like split skin reveals the shine of bloodied bones.
Here was a testament that Dacre had a weakness. It was Enva. It was love he could never have. It was music played for him in his own realm. Here was the truth that a god was not as invincible and powerful as he wanted people to believe.
“I’m not familiar with this myth, sir,” Roman lied, glancing up to meet Dacre’s cold, level stare. “Is it really that important, though?”
It was the wrong thing to say. Or perhaps it was a brilliant thing. Fury rippled across Dacre’s pale countenance, curling back his lips. His teeth looked sharp; his eyes glittered darkly. But as quick as the emotion came, it was gone, and his face fell into a neutral, almost bored expression.
“Is it important if people believe a lie to be the truth, Roman?”
“Yes, my lord.” But Roman’s mind whispered, This truly happened then. This is not just a myth to entertain, like I once thought.
“So tell me of her,” Dacre said, taking a step closer. His shadow grew long and sinister on the floor. “Who is this journalist named Iris?”
“I truly don’t remember much about her, other than the fact she was a low-class girl,” Roman said with a shrug, even as the acid burned his throat. He sounded just like his father, and how he wanted to despise himself for it. “I don’t think you should be threatened by her, sir.”
“Oh, I am not threatened by her,” Dacre said. “But this is a lie that must be answered. You will write it for me, of course. The Gazette will set things right. You are telling my side of the story, and I want the denizens of Oath to know the truth.”
“Of course, sir.”
“Then sit. Let’s begin. We don’t have much time before Val comes for the article.”
Roman had still never seen Val, who was no more than a phantom in his mind, but he sat at the desk, unpacking his typewriter.
They weren’t three sentences in when the door blew open, revealing a red-faced Lieutenant Shane.
“We found the grave, sir,” he said, panting. “Captain Landis asked me to deliver the news to you at once.”
“A grave?” Roman echoed in shock. “Whose?” But a breath later, it hit him, and he inhaled sharply.
“Luz Skyward’s,” Dacre answered, glancing sidelong at Roman as if measuring his reaction. “God of harvest and rain. Magic that seems quite useless, wouldn’t you agree?”
Roman didn’t reply. Mortal kind needed harvest and rain to survive.
Dacre seemed to be weighing a thought in his mind, but then he motioned for Roman to rise.
“Come, you should see this. Leave your typewriter. We’ll resume the article when we return.”
It went completely against the grain for Roman to leave the Third Alouette. But he stood, heart laden with dread. Without another word, he followed Lieutenant Shane and Dacre out the door.
