Roman had been sitting quiet as a statue for some time now, his eyes closed as the eithrals’ wings beat the air overhead, when he heard the distant note of a flute.
It startled him. He couldn’t keep his arms from jerking, the chains clanging in response.
One of the eithrals spotted the movement.
It swung down and landed directly before him with a screech, the ground shuddering beneath its clawed feet. The sulfur pools on either side of Roman began to rise, threatening to bubble over and burn him.
He couldn’t breathe past the fear, but he stared at the eithral. The creature opened its mouth, revealing bloodstained teeth and rotten breath, and let out another screech that made Roman’s heart falter. He winced, clapping his hands over his ears.
The eithral was lunging for him, ready to snap his body in two, and all Roman could think was I’m not ready for this. But the impact never came. More notes claimed the air, shimmering like rain in the sun. A spell had been cast. A command given by flute.
The creature stopped suddenly, flinging its head up in resistance. Roman fell backward, sprawling on the stone, trembling. He watched as the eithral spread its sinewy wings and took flight, following the sound of the flute as more notes were given.
Roman lay like that for a while, feeling like his bones had melted. He stared up into the drifting steam, and he listened as the notes continued to ring through the under realm. Eventually, he sat forward with a groan, and he saw something strange in the distance. A pillar of sunlight, breaking through the shadows.
It was the steam vent, he realized. It had opened, and the eithrals were flying out.
The bombing had commenced, and a surge of scalding anger overtook Roman.
He screamed, hoarse and desperate, yanking on his chains. He pulled until the shackles cut deeper wounds at his wrists and he bled again. He screamed until his strength dwindled and his lungs felt small and tight, his heart broken by anguish.
Roman slid to his knees, kneeling among the skeletons.
He stared at that pillar of light. A chill spread through him, like frost creeping over his skin, when he realized it would be the last time he saw the sun.
It was quiet as a tomb in the under realm.
Iris led the way down the stairs, remembering the words Enva had told her in the dream. Pay attention to the floor. The way it slopes. It will guide you through the many passages, taking you deeper into the realm. She also remembered what Roman had told her about the lowest level of this place, where the eithrals dwelled and could be commanded by a flute.
She still had Val’s flute in her pocket, alongside the key, the ball of wax, and now three blueberry scones. All important items to carry on a death mission below.
When the stairs at last fed into a corridor, Iris chose to take them to the right, because the floor angled downward. She left a crumb of scone on the ground every time she and Attie made a turn, so they could find their way back. But she also paid attention to the clusters of malachite, which were so beautiful they made her pause to admire them.
“What do you think these crystals are for?” Attie mused aloud, tracing their green facets.
“I wonder if they’re supposed to be a map, or road signs,” Iris said. “A way for people to know where they are?” Roman had described seeing amethyst clusters on his walk beneath Oath.
“A lovely thought.” Attie wiped the dust from her fingers. “But why have they overgrown into the passages?”
“Maybe when Dacre slept, wild things took over?”
Thoughts teeming, the girls continued onward.
“Do you think there are rats here?” Attie asked as Iris set another crumb down.
“I hope not.” If rats came along and ate her trail of scones, then they would never find their way back to the café door. But so far they had only passed thick curtains of gossamer and spiders with eyes that winked like rubies in the lantern light.
Soon, they came to an intersection, and Iris was surprised to see the firelight that burned in iron sconces on the walls. She hid her lantern behind a cluster of malachite and studied the different routes they could take.
“Wait,” Attie said when Iris began to step forward. “Do you hear that?”
Iris froze, straining her ears. Two breaths later, she heard what Attie did. It sounded like boots marching on the stone, drawing closer.
“Quick,” Iris said, moving back the way they had come. “Hide.”
The girls ducked behind an outcropping of rock and mineral. Iris held her breath as the footsteps drew closer. She dared to peer around their hiding place to see a stream of Dacre’s soldiers, marching through the intersection. Rifles were propped on their shoulders, packs fastened to their backs.
It was as Iris suspected. Dacre would wait until he had pummeled the south side and then call back the eithrals. His soldiers would then emerge through select doors to round up anyone who had survived.
It was Avalon Bluff, repeated on a larger scale.
Which meant Iris and Attie were running out of time; they couldn’t afford to have an interruption like this. Just when Iris was thinking they might need to double back and return above to find another doorway to pass through, the end of the soldiers’ line came in sight.
The girls waited a few beats before they rose and hurried to the intersection. Iris chose the passage with the steeper angle again, even though it was darker than the others.
She could hear her breath, feel her heart pound in her ears by the time they reached a door. It looked similar to the one Enva had shown her, with runes carved into the lintel. Like in the dream, it was locked.
“Is this it?” Attie whispered.
“Yes,” Iris replied, although she didn’t know for certain. But she brought out the key and watched as it fit, unlocking the door.
This time, the passage they walked was overgrown with vines and thorns. Iris had to break her way through, feeling the briars catch in her hair, drag like talons across her face. She might have stopped in discouragement had she not seen the light in the distance. A hazy yellow beacon, woven with the sharp scent of sulfur.
“We’re almost there,” she panted to Attie, hope warming her blood.
Twenty-one thorn-infested steps later, the girls arrived at the boiling heart of the under realm. Iris gazed into the steam, amazed by how vast this place felt. She noticed that the vines ran along the treacherous floor but soon faded, as if they were only there to mark where this passage was located. She turned and looked behind, to see the lintel was thick with thorns, and also noticed the malachite that had grown along it, nearly hidden.
We need to find the doorway marked by thorns and malachite when we return, she told herself before easing forward.
Iris and Attie walked around the pools, stepping over skeletons and iron chains. The sight made Iris shudder, but she continued to break up pieces of scone and leave a trail, her skin shining with perspiration.
All too soon, the melodic notes of a flute hung in the air. One second, they sounded distant, the next, close enough to touch. Iris tried to follow them, and it was impossible until she saw a pillar of light in the distance. That should be their marker, she realized, and she began to lead them toward it, using the last of her scone crumbs. That was where Dacre would be, playing the flute to command the eithrals as they flew above.
It felt like they had walked for an hour, chasing those notes and that beam of sun, although it was most likely only ten minutes, when Iris heard someone screaming in the distance. She froze, Attie halting close at her back.
“Do you think that’s real?” Iris asked, her voice thick. “Or is it just an illusion?”
“I don’t know,” Attie said.
They didn’t have time to investigate and help. Iris moved forward, ignoring the nagging guilt in her stomach. The sour taste in her mouth. The way her heart lurched when the screaming finally fell silent.
They drew closer to the light, the place where the world above touched the realm below. She finally saw Dacre, standing in the sun as he blew notes on the flute, his face and hair gilded as if he were a myth from an old tome. He was beautiful, mesmerizing. The sight made Iris both furious and sad, to see such divinity and what it could be, and to know it was nothing more than ruthless ambition.
“Ready, Attie?” Iris whispered, her fingers wrapping around the sword’s hilt.
“Yes,” Attie replied. “Don’t forget the wax!”
Iris had forgotten it amidst the wonder and terror of the under realm. She reached into her pocket and found the wax ball, quickly dividing it and then stuffing some into each ear.
It was like sinking underwater.
She could no longer hear the hiss of the pools, the ringing magic of Dacre’s flute. She could no longer hear Attie’s voice or her footsteps, or the first note her friend coaxed from the violin strings. Iris could only hear her own breath and her heart, pounding a steady rhythm in her ears.
She unsheathed the sword. It glimmered, like the steel was laughing, amused to find itself reflecting the under realm.
Iris let it bite her palm. Her blood flowed like a bright red promise, and she took the hilt again.
She felt Attie nudging her.
Iris glanced behind her, only to see Attie’s eyes were wide with terror, her fingers slowing on the strings as she backed away.
“Iris!” Attie’s mouth shaped her name.
Iris whirled just in time to see Dacre loom over them, his eyes glowing like embers, his blond hair shimmering. He reached out his hand to strike them; the girls scattered, Iris going left, Attie going right.
Iris ran a few steps along the winding stone path, minding the pools. But she turned, watching Dacre’s shadow fade through the steam. He was chasing Attie, which meant Attie had to stop playing to evade him.
Iris pursued him, sneaking up from behind. Dacre was crouched forward, preparing to lunge for Attie, who was gripping her violin by its neck, unable to play as she dodged and ducked.
With a grunt, Iris swung the tip of the sword out in a wide arc.
She knew that her cut would come up short. It only grazed Dacre’s long hair. The strands instantly broke, drifting down as a thousand golden threads.
He paused, as if he felt the sting of every broken strand. Slowly, he turned, looking at Iris with such malice that it made her heart stutter.
She stepped back. He crept forward.
He smiled, revealing the flash of his teeth, and he licked them, like he was imagining how her death would taste. And then he raised the flute to his lips and blew.
Iris didn’t know if Attie was playing again. She didn’t know how long her friend would have to play before the magic snared him, but she was rattled by the fact that Dacre wasn’t slowing. The violin didn’t seem to have any effect on him, and Iris was beginning to believe that Enva had fooled her.
All you divines do is lie, Iris’s mind cried as she ran from one bone-and-chain-littered path to the next, feeling Dacre gain on her. You care only for yourselves.
She thought he was on her heels until he emerged from the steam before her. She slid to a halt and flinched as Dacre struck her hard across the face.
She felt one of her back molars dislodge as she spun and hit the ground, only a handbreadth from a sulfur pool. She coughed up blood and her tooth. Her heart was frantic, its rhythm throbbing in her ears.
But she still held the sword in her bleeding right hand. And she was too slow as Dacre set his boot on that wrist, threatening to press hard. As he did, Iris winced, knowing he would grind every tendon to dust.
The only thing that stopped him was a sudden windstorm. Iris panted, her eyes stinging. Hair whipped across her face as she lifted her chin and saw the eithrals hovering above them, flying in circles. Dacre had called them back to aid him, and Iris didn’t know if she should weep or laugh, to realize the bombing had halted, but only because the eithrals would now pick her bones clean after Dacre was finished with her.
The sight of the beasts made her incendiary. She fought and flailed, teeth grinding as she worked to slip her way free.
Dacre pressed his foot harder on her wrist. She cried out in pain as his long, cold fingers slid into her hair, moving down to her throat.
This was the end, she realized, freezing as Dacre prepared to snap her neck.
Iris swallowed, tasting the copper of her blood. The salt of her sweat.
She closed her eyes and exhaled a shaky breath, but it was strange how fear seemed to wane, leaving behind nothing but brilliant stars in her mind. And in that lacuna of darkened time, she found herself waiting for the impossible.
For the magic to still gather.
Roman held his breath, straining to hear over the gurgle of the pools around him.
To his utter shock, a violin was playing in the distance. Its wistful lullaby claimed the underworld like myrrh-hearted perfume on the wind. He had never given much thought to how music tasted or smelled, but this song was reminiscent of the brine of the winter sea, strawberry cake on the first day of spring, the fragrance of moss-covered woods just after the rain.
It cut through the rotten air that haunted this place.
Roman inhaled, drawing the music deeper into his lungs. The song was calming. It coaxed his focus inward until he was braced by yearnings so fierce it felt like his bones had turned to iron.
He wasn’t aware of his strength fading until his limbs tingled with pins and needles. His mind turned foggy like a greenhouse window, but it was too late. Roman fought it before realizing it was better if he simply embraced the strange dream that beckoned to him.
He lay down and drifted off to that smoke-laden sleep.
Dacre’s fingers slid from Iris’s throat, his clawlike nails scoring her skin. She didn’t know what had stayed his hands until her eyes flew open.
It was Enva, standing eight paces away, a creek of sulfur bubbling between them. But through the curls of steam, Iris saw her vividly.
The goddess was radiant, dressed in a blue sleeveless dress with constellations sewn along the hem. Ruby-spun brooches gleamed at her shoulders, and a golden belt was cinched at her waist. A crown made of bloodred flowers and berries graced her brow, and her hair was long and loose, dark as midnight.
Iris was so stunned by the sight of her that she could only shiver, knowing this was how Enva had looked the night she had joined Dacre below, giving him her vows. The night they had married each other, beneath striations of minerals, far from the shine of the moon and the veil of clouds. A night that had planted the seeds for this war, centuries to come.
Dacre took a step closer to Enva. He paused, transfixed by her; she held her ground as he continued his approach, his strides becoming urgent.
Iris, heart pounding in her throat, pushed herself up to her knees. No, she wanted to shout, but it felt like she had swallowed sand. All she could hear was the roar of her pulse in her ears, making her light-headed, but she was certain Dacre was saying something to Enva. He was almost face-to-face with her, his body taking a violent stance, and Iris lurched up to her feet, grasping the sword.
The words Enva had shared with her in the museum dream burned through Iris again, propelling her forward.
If he were to kill me as he longs to do, then he would take all my magic unto himself. There would be no end to his power.
“No!” Iris felt the word rumble through her chest. We can’t let him win this battle. We’ve come too far for this.
She was about to jump over the sulfur creek when she felt someone grasp her arm, holding her back. She turned to see Attie, violin tucked under her chin and bow clenched in her right hand. Attie’s curly hair whipped in the windstorm, and her eyes were wide but keen.
“Wait,” she mouthed to Iris, resuming her playing with a seamless motion.
Iris wanted to protest, but Attie had noticed something that she hadn’t. She spun around, looking at the divines again.
The eithrals continued to circle overhead, their wings churning cold, moldering air around them. Dacre’s shorn hair tangled in the breeze, as did Iris’s and Attie’s, but the gale didn’t touch Enva. Her hair remained sleek and still, her raiment like the water of a quiet pond.
Dacre raised his hand to strike her. All the tension gathered in Iris’s bones; she couldn’t breathe as she stared at Enva. Enva, who didn’t move or speak but only beheld Dacre with a dark gleam in her eyes.
His fist never touched her.
His legs failed him first as he dropped to his knees before her. He wavered for a beat, as if fighting the spell that was pervading his bones, but even Dacre couldn’t resist the siren call to sleep. His hand dropped limp at his side as he sank to the stone, sprawling on his back.
After him, the eithrals began to fall, one by one, from above.
Iris and Attie crouched down and huddled close to each other, the rotten air stinging their noses. But Iris kept her eyes open, watching as the wyverns crashed into the pools and the stone pathways. Their bellies split open on the impact; their scales melted in the sulfurous water. The ground shook as their wings splintered.
And then the world became quiet and tranquil.
Iris pulled the wax from her ears and rose, drawing Attie with her.
The girls stared at Dacre’s supine body, Enva standing before him. The goddess gazed down at her sleeping husband before she lifted her eyes and looked at Iris and Attie.
It felt like a welcome, and the girls walked carefully along the slick stone to reach the divines.
“Enva,” Iris said, full of wonder. How had she reached them here? Why hadn’t she fallen to Attie’s enchanted lullaby? But then it occurred to Iris, standing close enough to notice the translucence on Enva’s skin. The faint shimmer of her wedding dress.
Iris stretched out her hand. Her fingers passed through Enva’s arm.
It was one of her stolen powers at work. The magic of illusions and deceptions. She was here but not truly, as if she had known her presence was a fated thread in the tapestry of Dacre’s demise.
Enva didn’t seem to be able to speak, but she indicated Dacre with a tilt of her head.
Iris stared down at him, sensing his coldness. He looked younger and softer in sleep, and Iris thought of what could have been, and what could still be now that he would be gone from the world. Extinguished like a flame. His soul and magic turned into smoke, dissolving as it rose skyward.
Teeth bared, she brought the sword down on his neck.
It was easier and harder than she had expected. Easy, because the sword cut through bone and sinew as if Dacre were nothing more than a cobweb. And hard, because another bruise formed on her heart, marked by the killing.
Dacre’s blood began to flow, a glittering gold on the stone. A sickly-sweet smell enveloped the air as Iris found herself dropping to her knees, the sword clattering from her hand. But she felt the pressure change, making her heart skip a beat.
From the corner of her eye, Iris watched as Enva’s illusion evanesced into the shadows.
