Ruthless Vows (Letters of Enchantment, #2)(68)

This was indeed a test, then. If he failed to convince Dacre of his dedication and allegiance, post memory repair, then Roman might find himself waking in another cold chamber below, unable to recall his name. Unable to remember Iris.

The thought was agonizing. A sting between his ribs.

“Thank you, sir,” Roman managed to say.

He was ready to leave, even without his typewriter, but Dacre drew close to murmur, “It’s always best to say less, to let others wonder where you’ve been and what you’ve seen and what you think. Let them imagine what could be. There’s great power in a mystery. Don’t spoil yours.”

A sharp response gathered in Roman’s lungs, but he only cleared his throat. Be submissive. Convince him of your loyalty. He felt the ache in his chest as he said, “Yes, my lord. I’ll keep that in mind.”

Dismissed, he followed Val past Lieutenant Shane, who stood quiet as a statue, taking account of everything with shrewd eyes. Roman left the office, descending the long, circling stairwell.

I’m going home, he thought, and the excitement carried him through the pain in his stride, the shortness of his breaths. Iris, I’m coming to you.

But just before he and Val slipped through a door to the under realm, the warning came again like a whisper.

Don’t let this freedom fool you.





{31}

Gravity in a Different World




Roman followed Val through the under realm’s passages.

They walked routes that led downward, as if they were descending into yet another world below. One that was darker and older. When they reached a door carved with runes, Val brought out a key, hung from a chain around his neck. Another one of the five magical keys, Roman thought, watching as the door unlocked.

They continued onward. The air felt heavy and thick, almost reverent, and soon carried hints of sulfur and rotting flesh.

Roman reached out to steady himself on the wall and felt briars growing along the stone. He swallowed his gorge and wondered if Dacre’s permission had all been a ruse, and Val was taking Roman levels below to dispatch him.

Was it sweeter to kill someone after you had given them hope?

Roman shivered as the thorny passage at last opened to a wide, vast landscape. Yellow, gurgling pools emitted light from the stone floor, as well as releasing wisps of steam, and the ceiling was so high it was impossible to see. It almost felt as if Roman was standing beneath the night sky culled of stars, and he stared upward into those shadows, feeling small and homesick.

“Watch where you step,” Val said as he began to weave around the yellow pools, stirring the steam with his long strides and the flap of his cloak.

Roman hurried to keep up. The putridness of the air finally coaxed him to cough into his sleeve. He began to breathe through his mouth, his stomach churning with fear and nausea.

He wanted clean air. A cup of scalding hot coffee. Something to smooth away the discomfort in his chest and throat.

“No sudden movements,” Val said, his pace slowing.

“All right.” Roman stifled another cough.

Half a minute later, he understood why. 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. Its pronged wings were outstretched and soaking in the heat from the pools, its white-scaled body shining with iridescence. Its maw was closed, but long, needlelike teeth still protruded and gleamed like ice, and its uncanny red eyes were the size of Roman’s palm, one of them fixed upon him and his abrupt halt.

“Keep walking,” Val said in a low voice. “Slow and steady. Follow my approach to its left side.”

Approach? Roman wanted to protest, but he did as Val instructed. He eased into a walk and kept to Val’s shadow, and that was when he saw the saddle buckled to the eithral, nestled on its horn-ridged back between its wings.

“Are you bloody serious?” Roman said, his teeth clicking together as a shudder rippled through him. “How will you control it? There’s no bridle.”

Val began to haul himself up into the saddle with practiced ease. “Do you want to walk to Oath, or do you want to fly?”

A protest melted on Roman’s tongue. He didn’t know if he had the strength to pull himself up, to sit on the back of the very creature that had played a part in his wounds. But his legs were trembling—I can’t walk to Oath—and his heart was striking his chest like a hammer. 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.

An eithral was about to fly him to Iris.

Roman followed Val’s path, pulling himself up the eithral’s side to the slope of the saddle. He settled on what felt like impossibility incarnate.

“Don’t let go,” Val said gruffly. “It’s always a bumpy takeoff.”

Roman grasped the edge of the leather saddle with a white-knuckled grip, pressing his knees inward until they ached. He felt in no way secure enough to be lifting off the ground astride one of Dacre’s not-so-mythical creatures. A creature that had caused fathomless devastation and pain and death.

He clenched his eyes shut. He struggled to hold his last meal down. Cold sweat was breaking out over his skin, but then he firmly told himself, Open your eyes.

Roman did, taking in his surroundings again. He would have never believed he would be here, in this moment, months ago. Weeks ago, even. And he wanted to soak it all in. He would have never believed that he would be in the realm below, beneath layer after layer of earth, in a world made of starless night and languid smoke, about to ride an eithral.