“You,” Dacre said, pointing to one of the privates. “Step forward and kneel.”
The soldier obeyed.
“Hold out your right arm.”
Again, the soldier did as Dacre commanded, although Roman could see the man’s hand was shaking.
“I will break your arm, unless you confess or give up the names of your comrades who have betrayed me,” Dacre said, taking hold of the soldier’s forearm.
“M-my lord commander,” the man stammered. “I truly don’t know. I’m wholly devoted to you.”
“I will give you one more chance to reply. Confess, or give me a name.”
The soldier was silent, but urine dampened the front of his trousers.
Roman had seen enough. He was full of quiet fury, and he was tired of bending to a god who thrived on mortals’ fear and subservience. Who took delight in making wounds and then healing them halfway when it suited him.
Roman resumed his walk down the hall. But his hand drifted into his pocket; his finger traced the edge of Iris’s small book, which he had carried ever since she had left it in his room.
“Lord Commander?” he called.
Dacre’s head snapped up. His eyes gleamed as he took in Roman’s appearance, and Roman was suddenly thankful for the vomit and the blood on his clothes. The dirt and the wrinkles and the brambles. Simultaneously, he was shocked to see how unscathed Dacre was. The blood that marred his raiment was not his, as there was not a single scratch on his face or his hands.
“Roman,” Dacre said, releasing the private’s arm. “I thought you were dead.”
“No, sir.” Roman passed Shane. He could feel the cool gaze of the lieutenant, brief but chilling, as he came to a stop before Dacre.
“Why are you here?” the god asked. “How did you survive?”
“I was on the outer edges of the courtyard. When the blast happened … I didn’t know what to do, so I came home, knowing you would return here, sir.”
Dacre was silent, mulling over Roman’s reply.
In that strained moment of waiting to see how Dacre would respond, Roman realized that the other officers—Captain Landis included—and soldiers who had been with him in the Green Quarter must have died in the blast. It was their blood on the god’s face and clothes. And one of those men had been standing beside Iris.
Roman felt a prick of grief. His distress began to devour his bones, making him quiver from the weight. He almost bowed over. He almost melted to the floor.
Hold it together.
He repeated those words, a framework on which to hang his mind and his body, and bit the inside of his cheek. He laced his fingers behind his back. But there was a scream building in his chest, tearing through his lungs.
If she were dead, I would know.
“Hold out your right arm, Roman,” said Dacre.
If this was a test, then Roman couldn’t afford to fail it. And if it wasn’t, then Roman would know true breaking at the hands of a god.
He held out his arm without hesitation. But within, his mind was a dark, deep current. Spinning around and around. You will regret breaking my bones. You will regret ever taking Iris from my mind. You will release something from my marrow that you will wish you had never touched.
Dacre took hold of Roman’s arm. He drew him closer, until their breaths mingled.
“Do you know who betrayed me?” Dacre asked.
“No, sir.”
Dacre’s grip tightened. Roman could feel his hand begin to tingle; he could see his father at the corner of his eye, stepping closer, grimacing in horror.
“No, I don’t have a name,” Roman said, stronger this time. “And I don’t think anyone here is a traitor.”
“Convince me of your reasoning.”
“We have been with you, lord. We have served you below as well as above. We know your true nature, your power, your magic. If one of us attempted to kill you, do you think we would be foolish enough to use a bomb?”
Dacre released Roman’s arm. But he raked his hand through his snarled hair, and it was so human-like that it almost made Roman laugh.
A god could be killed. But they would have to be smart about it the next time.
Emboldened by Dacre’s hesitation, Roman pressed on. “Sir, this is a very precarious time. Instead of doubting us, let us strategize on the next step.”
Dacre studied him again. He sighed as if bored. “Go and change your clothes. Meet me in the war room in ten minutes.” To his officers and soldiers, he said, “To your posts.”
Roman stood in the hallway, surrounded by a sudden stream of life. Soldiers returning to their patrols or to the dining room for a meal. To the library-turned-barracks. Whatever they had been doing before Dacre had returned and marred the night.