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But his attention was soon captivated by glimmers of pale blue light. A cluster of towns pulsed with it like small cerulean hearts, including Merrow and Hawk Shire, while others remained unlit. The map beneath, he remembered, carefully removing his hand.
“Yes,” Dacre said. “My domain. My ley lines. A realm of magic that most of your kind will never see or know or taste, even though our two worlds are connected.” “Are you rebuilding it, sir?” Roman asked. “The roads below?” Dacre was quiet. Roman wondered if he had been too blunt, and he swallowed. “I’ve noticed that there are still portions of the map that are darkened, as if they are waiting for you to return,” he explained. “A canny observation,” the god replied. “And yes.
“Why do you need to go to Hawk Shire?” Tobias asked, stepping closer. Attie only stared at Iris. When Iris tilted her chin, acquiescing, Attie handed the letter to him. And this was what Roman meant, Iris thought. His letter had been intended for her eyes only, but to prevent the devastation planned for Hawk Shire, she would have to show it to others.
oh no...
I’m standing on a ley line. The realization shivered through her. A magical place to be, as well as a dangerous one.
This house is rooted in magic, and it knows what I need.
The recognition tore through him like a bullet, and Roman knew he was awake and lucid, even as he stood face-to-face with a dream.
“Yes. I’m your wife.” Roman reeled as if she had struck him. His eyes went wide and dark, a stark contrast to his pale face, and Iris couldn’t bear to see his flicker of disbelief.
ahhhhhh
But she didn’t hesitate now; she slid the ring off and gave it to him. “Keep it,” she said. “A token to remember me by.”
Tobias’s roadster sped toward her, emerging
sus...
“I see you got the tire fixed,” she said. Tobias snorted, but Attie only groaned. “The tire iron was in the boot the whole time,” Attie said. “Under a blanket. I’m sorry, Iris. We shouldn’t have sent you into town.
okay, so is this that goddess who can do illusions?? Dacre's sister? And why? Did she want to lead Iris back to town so that Roman would see her and remember?
They were incandescent hearts, beating through pale, translucent skin. “It’s the hounds,” she said, her stomach twisting into a knot. “Dacre’s set the hounds on us.”
It was a good thing he had managed to leave when he did, Roman realized when he was halfway down the metal stairs. A twinge of pain shot down his right leg.
oh no...
My Dear Iris, Agreed. Let us dare to change the tides. Write to me and fill my empty spaces. Love, Kitt
You remember how you said that word to me in the infirmary, post-trenches? You believed I had come to the Bluff to outshine you. And I would speak this word back to you now, but only because I would love to see you burn with splendor. I would love to see your words catch fire with mine.
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.
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.
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?”
“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.”
“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.”
“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.”
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.
All he could think were two things: either Luz had already woken, or he had been killed by someone else.
“This road needs to remain clear and passable,” Verlice was saying. “And Oath is still declared neutral ground. I cannot permit you and your forces to infiltrate the city.
How annoying the journalists at the Inkridden Tribune were, writing about things he didn’t want the people to know.
“Do you still have the bird book I gave you?” Marisol asked suddenly. “Yes. It’s in my coat pocket.” “Have you read the page on the albatross?” “A few lines,” Iris replied. “I remember that they can sleep while flying.”
TTPD!
“As well as fly into the strong wind of a storm, rather than having to avoid it and head to the shore like other birds would do,” Marisol said, snapping wrinkles from a blanket she found in the crate. “It’s safer for them to fly toward the storm than away from it, as counterintuitive as that may seem to us. But they can soar for thousands of kilometers without ever touching land, and they know their strengths. They lean into them in times of trouble.”
TTPD is all over these books!!
Iris stopped upright. It was truly the last person she expected to see stepping into her flat. “Prindle?”
“Who are these people?” Iris asked. “And why are they firing warning shots?” “Not many of us know who they truly are,” Sarah said. “They keep their identities hidden. By day, they could be anyone. But by night, they patrol the streets with masks and rifles, and they fire warning shots when they find someone breaking curfew. They claim their watch is to keep us safe, but I think it’s about power.” Masks and rifles.
wow... this parallels today a lot...
“Yes, I can do that,” said Sarah. She pulled a loose thread from her cardigan.
Cardigan .. lol
There was Dacre, sleeping on the cushions, his hands laced over his chest, his eyes shut and his mouth slack.
odd... if he truly summoned him
“A true summoning this time?” Roman asked, a touch sardonic. Shane held his stare, impassive. “And what of it? Did you not write a new article for him, as is the norm every afternoon?” Roman frowned. He was about to ask if Shane had known Dacre was sleeping, or had suspected it and wanted confirmation, when the lieutenant said, “Leave the typewriter. You won’t need it.”
Dacre wasn’t alone. There was a tall, pale man standing at the god’s side, a black cloak fastened at his collar. His face was angular, like the facets of cut rock, and his eyes were narrow and cold, glittering with judgment as he studied Roman.
Enva. Dacre had dreamt of her. What did that mean for them, for the war? It felt like the tide had altered, and yet all Roman could feel was the sand shifting beneath him, uncertain of the new ebb and flow.
“I’m sending you to Oath,” Dacre announced. “I would like you to meet with this Iris E. Winnow. You said that you once worked with her and have an acquaintance. Would she be willing to speak with you?”
oh snap!
It felt strange that Dacre would now trust him blithely; the divine was sending him home, knowing the last of his memories would click into place. Something didn’t quite feel right, and Roman wondered if this was a test.
Through the curls of sulfurous steam, a huge shadow of a wyvern loomed on the ground, as if waiting for them. An eithral, Roman realized with a sharp intake of breath.
He was both exhausted and electrified, and he finally thought of the poetic justice. That an eithral would carry him and his map to the city, where Dacre was destined to lose.
Val withdrew a small flute, hanging on a chain, from beneath his shirt. He blew three long silver notes—they shimmered in the air like sunlight catching rain—and the eithral jerked its head up and began to flap its wings. Of course. Roman nearly laughed. They’re controlled by an instrument. By music. The eithral was beholden to the flute’s three notes, even after they had faded into shadows.
Dacre’s tactics were to use the eithrals to not only strike fear into the hearts of people, but bomb, then gas, then recover wounded soldiers, so that he could heal them in what felt like complete measures before scrambling their memories to make them feel beholden and subservient to him. It was a terrible and ruthless way to build an army and a following, and Roman could feel heat rise beneath his skin.
Val blew the flute again, this time two long notes followed by three short ones. The music claimed the air, spawning rings of iridescence that grew so large they faded from sight, and the eithral screeched in response. The creature tossed its head as if resisting the order, but began to angle downward, wings flapping in short but powerful bursts.
Roman hesitated, glancing at the eithral. It was watching him again, eye sparkling like a ruby. With a pang in his stomach, Roman realized it was just as captive as he was.
“How did you know when to tell the eithral to land? There were no markers, no way of knowing where we were.” “There’s always a way of knowing,” Val answered. “If one pays attention.”
He wondered how many mundane things hid magic, or perhaps it was better to think of it as how much magic liked being married to the ordinary. To simplicity and comfort and overlooked details.
Everything was just as he had left it. Everything but the vase of flowers on his desk. Frowning, Roman walked to them, touching the small but fierce blue petals. Forget-me-nots. They grew in abundance in spring,
This is a test to see if the strike bars E & R are in working condition. EREEERRRRR E She kept it brief this time, sliding the paper under the wardrobe door. She waited, but as the minutes spread into a dark hour, she settled on the edge of her bed, her hands icy. Iris slept very little that night. But when she woke in the morning, she didn’t feel any better. Her heart felt bruised when she saw there was no letter on the floor for her to read. There was no word from Roman,
She found a clean sweater in her wardrobe, a pale blush color that made her feel brave, and a brown plaid skirt. She drew on her knee-high stockings and boots and left for the Inkridden Tribune.
so Taylor coded
“Iris E. Winnow?” Iris felt the breath freeze in her lungs. Her eyes went wide as she stared at news clippings on the bulletin board, gripping the receiver until it felt like the blood had drained from her hand. Kitt.
It was only him and her. It was only the ten steps between them, distance that felt both heady and crushing. It felt too far and dangerously close,
“Ah, I forgot,” Iris continued seamlessly with a wave of her hand. “You only take honey in your tea, like all the poets did.
