Iris trailed her, surprised when the woman stopped in front of a glass display holding a sword.
“I’ve seen this before,” Iris said, admiring the shine of tempered steel and the inlay of small gemstones in the golden hilt. “I think I looked at this sword the last time I was at the museum.”
“Indeed,” the woman replied mirthfully. “When you broke into the museum to steal the First Alouette.”
Iris should have been afraid that the guard knew of her crime. But this woman didn’t inspire fear, and Iris only smiled. “Yes. You’re right. Why did you want to show it to me now?”
The woman directed her attention back to the sword. “This is an enchanted weapon. It was forged by an Underling divine and given to King Draven centuries ago when this land was ruled by one man, and he carried it with him in a battle against the gods. This blade has killed many divines in a time nearly forgotten.”
“But the plaque says it was only used for—”
“That is a lie.” The woman’s voice was firm, but not unkind. She met Iris’s gaze, and her bewitching green eyes were both angry and sad. “Many pieces of the past have been rewritten or lost. Forgotten. Think of all the books in the library with pages torn free.”
Iris was silent, but she could feel the weight of those words. She considered the sword again and asked, “What is it enchanted to do?”
“It cuts through bone and flesh like a knife does butter, if only its wielder offers the blade and the hilt a taste of their blood first. A sacrifice, to weaken yourself and wound your own hand before striking.” The woman turned and resumed her walking. “Come, there is more to see.”
Iris followed her through the museum, surprised when the walls suddenly became narrow and rocky. The air turned dank and cold, tasting like moss and rot. Firelight danced from iron sconces.
“I didn’t realize the museum had a place like this,” Iris said, ducking beneath a cobweb.
“It doesn’t,” the woman answered. “This is my husband’s domain.”
“Are we going to meet him?”
“No. I want to show you a door. But first, pay attention to the floor. The way it slopes. It will guide you through the many passages, taking you deeper into the realm.”
“Deeper?” Iris’s pace slowed.
The walls began to waver. One color was bleeding into the next.
“Don’t think too hard about it, Iris,” the woman said, her raven hair shining blue in the strange light. “Or else this will break.”
Iris nodded, trying to relax. They finally reached the door. It was tall and arched, its lintel carved with runes.
The woman touched the iron knob and paused, as if lost to memory. “When I dwelled here, there were no locks. I could come and go anywhere in the realm, as long as I didn’t return to my life above. My husband thought he was granting me freedom, but it was a cage.”
Iris felt a flare of dismay. “Who was your husband?”
The woman looked at Iris, but she only said, “Beyond this door is the heart of the realm. A wild yet vulnerable place. It is here that my music was strongest, perhaps because of the risk. But you will need a key to unlock the door.”
“Where do I get a key?” Iris asked, her head beginning to throb.
The woman didn’t reply, but when she pushed, the door opened. Iris followed her, surprised when the dank air of the tunnel became warm and bright again.
They stood on a grassy hillside. Around them was a landscape of flower-speckled vales and bluffs that rolled into distant mountains. Clusters of pines and a river that flowed along a valley bed.
“It has been a very long time since I could stand here and soak in this view.” The woman’s voice was soft with nostalgia. The wind touched her with a sigh, gathering her long hair like a loving hand. “You asked me if I was from Oath. I am not, and I once roamed these hills with my family. Anywhere I could see the sky, any horizon I could chase. The freshly churned ground of graveyards. That was my domain, and yet I surrendered it when I exchanged a vow with Alzane, all because he feared my growing power. Since then, I have been beholden to Oath. I cannot leave the city, or else I would have met him in the west when he woke.”
“Met who?” Iris whispered.
“Dacre,” the woman said. “He can mend what he breaks but I am music and knowledge, rain and harvest. I am nightmares and dreams and illusions. And if he were to kill me as he longs to do, then he would take all my magic into himself. There would be no end to his power, and he would feast on mortal fear and service. He wants to conquer this realm. He wants you to worship him and him alone.”