A lorry was waiting for them in the courtyard, engine rumbling. Puffs of smoke rose from the tailpipe as Roman settled in the back with Lieutenant Shane. Dacre, thankfully, took the cab with another officer. It was a jostling ride, Roman catching glimpses of the land through the flapping canvas. When Hawk Shire faded from sight, he could take the stilted silence no more and he looked at Shane.
“You said something to me in Merrow that I haven’t forgotten,” Roman said. “Not all the soldiers Dacre heals lose their memories. I can only assume that people like you—the ones who enlisted to fight for him from the very beginning—can hold on to their pasts, while people like me cannot.”
“A wise observation,” the lieutenant drawled. “And one that you should keep in mind in the days to come.”
“Why is that?”
Shane glanced at the lorry’s grimy rearview window, as if paranoid Dacre might overhear him. “Has he asked to heal your wounds further?”
Roman frowned. “Yes. Once.”
“He’ll no doubt ask you again. It’s his way of gauging how fast your mind is remembering. If there’s a possibility you’ll turn against him.”
“I don’t understand. I thought he healed my wounds. Why would that be—”
“There is always pain in healing,” the lieutenant interrupted. “To fully avoid it is impossible.”
Roman fell pensive, but apprehension trickled through his thoughts.
Shane must have sensed it. He said, “I’ve had a few privates in my platoon who were like you. When their memories fully returned, so did the pain in their wounds. And because they couldn’t hide their disgust, the Lord Commander took them below once more and doled out another round of healing.”
Roman swallowed. “You mean he wiped their memories again.”
The lieutenant made no response, but his eyes narrowed.
The lorry hit a pothole, jostling them both. The sideways jar was good; it reminded Roman of his position. That even though Shane was speaking to him like an equal, they didn’t stand on common ground.
“Is this why we haven’t marched onward?” Roman asked, changing the topic. “Because he was looking for a grave?”
“If you must ask such a thing, then you don’t deserve to know the answer.”
That stung, and Roman curled his tongue. He had decided he wouldn’t speak to Shane again when the lieutenant surprised him.
“Where did you go to school, correspondent?”
Roman glanced at him. “Why do you care to know?”
“I told you I’m from Oath. Thought I’d ask and see. Perhaps we ran in the same circles once.”
Not likely, Roman thought with a sigh. “Devan Hall.”
“The rich school, then. I should’ve known.”
Roman braced himself, waiting for more jabs, but Shane only leaned closer, a shadow cutting across his face as the sunlight began to wane.
“Did they teach you about divinity at Devan Hall?” the lieutenant murmured.
“The basics,” Roman replied. “Why?”
“Then I surmise you don’t know what happens when a human kills a god, versus when a god kills one of their own?”
Roman’s mind whirled. He thought back on the mythology books he had inherited from his grandfather. Even those old tomes were missing pages, just like the ones in the city library. Knowledge torn away and lost.
“When a human kills a god,” Roman said, “they simply die. Their immortality comes to an end.”
“As does their magic,” Shane added. “It fades away into the ether. Their power leaves our realm altogether with their death.”
No one had ever taught Roman such a thing. He mulled it over but didn’t have a chance to counter before Shane continued in an urgent whisper.
“Why do you think the king of Cambria wanted the last five divines buried centuries ago, rather than killed? If he had killed them all, magic would have completely vanished from our realm. And he didn’t want that. He had the gods enchanted into sleep and buried them instead, so their divine power would continue to trickle through the loam. So we could reap the benefits of it, while being free of meddling, violent gods altogether.”
If that were truth, then it was a wise move save for one ugly inevitability: what sleeps will wake at some point, brimming with vengeance.
The lorry began to downshift. Roman could feel this moment slipping away.
“And what happens when a god kills a god?” he asked, even as his memory dredged up Dacre’s words, spoken weeks ago. We are born with our appointed magic … but that never stopped us from wanting more and finding ways of taking it.
The lorry came to a squeaky halt. Shane’s face resumed its cold indifference, but as he rose, he said, “You’re a writer. I’m sure you can imagine it, correspondent.”
From the parked lorry, it was a short walk to Luz’s resting place. The grave was on a grassy knoll with nothing but hills, a crumbling medieval tower, and the blue haunt of northern mountains within view, and Roman shivered as a burst of wind gusted through their small party. A storm was gathering overhead; the clouds hung low and bruised, and Roman could taste rain.
Dark hair tangled over his eyes as he stood off to the side, watching Dacre speak to Captain Landis. He could hear snatches of their conversation, and he was able to glean that while the map had been slightly inaccurate, this small hill was undoubtedly where Luz rested. While he spoke, the captain wrapped his fingers around the key hanging from his neck, and it was only then that Roman realized that graves were doorways of their own.
Dacre nodded to the captain, who proceeded to take his key in hand and crouch down. Captain Landis began to draw a wide circle in the dirt with the tip of the iron. Roman could feel his bones hum, static rush over his skin. He couldn’t explain why this felt familiar, this seemingly simple drawing in the dirt, but he recognized the crackle of magic in the air.
He took a step back but froze when the captain finished drawing the full circle. The grass was parting, the dirt peeling back like old skin. All of it revealed a door forming in the ground, similar to that of a cellar, only this one was covered with intricate carvings.
Captain Landis backed away as Dacre shifted forward.
No one moved as Dacre opened it. The door looked heavy, ancient. It settled on the ground with a resounding thud, golden dust drifting upward.
A stairwell led down into the grave. Dacre, wholly transfixed, seemed to forget about the two captains, the lieutenant, and the correspondent who were watching him. He alone descended into the darkness just as the rain began to fall.
Roman shifted his weight from foot to foot, aching with worry. He glanced across the distance at the lieutenant, but Shane was staring at the grave’s doorway, a strange expression on his face.
We aren’t prepared to have a third god wake, Roman thought, shoving his trembling hands into his pockets. Why is Dacre doing this?
But then it hit Roman like an arrow.
Dacre wasn’t waking a third divine. He was killing Luz while he slept.
No sooner had this revelation stunned Roman than Dacre emerged. He hadn’t been gone but a minute, and his face was starkly pale. His eyes gleamed in the storm light as he closed the grave’s door, so roughly it made its own thunder.
“Lord Commander,” Captain Landis said. “Was it a success?”
“Close the threshold,” Dacre replied in a clipped tone.
Roman could see the fury mounting in the god’s countenance, the way his hands curled into fists. How his tongue traced the edges of his teeth.
Captain Landis hurried to draw the circle in reverse. The dirt shifted; the grass wove back together. While the doorway faded, evidence of the circle remained, soft in the loam.
The rain fell in earnest as they strode back to the lorry, tense and silent. But Roman’s thoughts were reeling. All he could think were two things: either Luz had already woken, or he had been killed by someone else.
