Ruthless Vows (Letters of Enchantment, #2)(101)

“Why have you summoned me?” Iris asked.

“You know why, Iris.” Dacre’s lackadaisical demeanor was infuriating. And yet the tension was brewing between them, pulling taut as a rope that had almost reached its limit.

“If you want my answer from your previous query,” Iris said, “it’s no.”

“No…?”

“I will not write for you.”

“But you’ll write for Enva? That’s quite the, oh, what do you mortals call it? Roman, what word am I searching for?”

Roman was quiet, a beat too long. When he spoke, his voice was a rasp. “Hypocrisy, sir.”

“Hypocrisy,” Dacre repeated with a sharp-edged smile.

“I don’t see how that’s so,” Iris said. “We mortals have the freedom to choose who or what we worship, if we worship at all.”

“So you worship her?” His eyes narrowed, taking in Iris’s garments. The dark green shirt, the pearl buttons. Clothes that Enva had left behind for her.

Iris didn’t move. Could he sense it? That she had been with Enva through the night?

“What do you know of the divines?” Dacre said, his gaze returning to hers. Even then, Iris could hardly breathe. “Do you know that all of us, even the Skywards—Enva’s self-righteous kin—seek our own gains? We are selfish by nature. We will do anything, even kill our own children, our siblings, our spouses to survive. Why do you think so few of us remain after there had once been hundreds of us, above and below?”

Dacre continued, oblivious to the thoughts cascading through Iris’s mind.

“We care not for you and your kind other than to see what you may do for us, whether that is serving as a ward or dying glorious deaths. Or entertaining us with your silly songs and your craft, or even warming our beds if we desire it. And as the war has shown me … you long to worship something greater than yourselves, and you’ll die for it if you must. You are fragile yet you are resilient. You hope even when there should be none.”

He paused, watching Iris’s face. Her mind was whirling, and he seemed to enjoy the bewildered gleam in her eyes.

“But most of all, you are fighting for a goddess who is a coward. She hides in plain sight. If war broke out in the streets of Oath, she would remain in the shadows. She will never offer you her aid, and she will gladly let you and your people die in her stead. Would you rather write for her, a goddess who has used her magic to lure me here, destroying your land in the process, or would you rather write for me, who walks shoulder to shoulder with you? Who has shown you that yes, a god can be cruel, but he can also be merciful?”

Iris broke their gaze. Her bones were humming, her doubt swarmed like a flood.

She thought back on the night before. Enva had been kind and gentle to Iris. She had aided her, sheltered her, given her knowledge like breadcrumbs to sustain her in the coming days. But Enva was still a divine. She wasn’t human and she didn’t understand the full breadth of mortality.

“I’ve never been devout,” Iris said, meeting Dacre’s stare. “And I write for no one but myself.”

“A lonely mountain to claim,” Dacre responded with a hint of derision.

“Is it? You say that I know nothing of your kind, but even after all this time walking among us, I don’t think you truly understand us either, sir.”

“Do not challenge me, Iris,” he said. “Unless you think you will win.”

His warning chilled her.

“Roman?” Dacre glanced at him. “Will you bring the typewriter to Iris?”

Iris swallowed as she felt Roman step closer. She could smell his cologne; it made her want to weep, to think of those old days when they had sparred with words and assignments. To remember how young they had seemed then, and to acknowledge where they both were now.

He moved her teacup aside, his hand pale, elegant. A hand that had touched her, explored her every line and bend. Fingertips that had once traced her lips when she gasped. Then he brought the typewriter over. He set it down carefully before her. The Third Alouette.

She studied it, blinking away the sting in her eyes. How many words had she written on this typewriter, a loyal companion through lonely nights? How many ideas had it taken of hers, turning them into eternal ink on paper? How many poems and letters had her nan typed upon it, years before Iris was born? How many hours had it comforted Roman, an anchor for him in the darkest days of his captivity?

It was immeasurable. Infinite. The magic still gathered, and it called to her.

And yet Iris refused to touch the keys.

Dacre stared at her, waiting. His patience was like ice in spring, breaking swiftly. A dark expression flickered across his face.

“Paper, Roman?”

Iris bit her lip as Roman obediently reached for a fresh page. He had to stand behind her, leaning over her shoulders, to roll the paper into the typewriter. She could feel the heat of him. She could feel his breath in her hair. He was careful not to touch her, even as his hands fell away and he straightened. He was mindful, like he knew his own limits, as well as hers.

If they touched now, it would shatter the story they had written to survive.

“Now can we discuss what I called you here to write?” Dacre asked. “I have an important article that I would—”

“I will not write for you,” Iris cut him off.