“How long have I been here?”
“A couple of days. You were healing.”
“From what?”
“He’ll want to tell you. Now follow me.” Shane began to walk away, and Roman had no choice but to follow before the door found its seamless lintel again.
The corridors were wide enough for two people to pass, shoulder to shoulder, and tall enough to give someone of Roman’s height ease of passage. The walls were just like the ones in his previous chamber: smooth, cold, and white with glimmering blue veins. Torches lit the way every ten steps, and it was unnaturally quiet until they passed a branching tunnel, and Roman heard distant pounding.
He slowed, squinting into the shadows of the right corridor. It sounded like a forge. A hammer hitting an anvil, laced with shouts and clinks of machinery. There was a sudden waft of warm, metallic air.
“Keep moving,” the lieutenant said sharply.
Roman resumed his pace. But he was keen to know where he was, and why he had been brought below. He noticed they passed two other corridors, one of which smelled foul like it held something rotten and dying. The other was choked with debris and cobwebs, as if the ceiling had collapsed decades ago.
Shane must have taken note of how observant Roman was being, how his strides slowed every time they passed branching pathways. The lieutenant stopped and yanked a blindfold from his pocket, fastening it around Roman’s eyes.
“Just a precaution,” he said, taking hold of Roman’s elbow. “Follow my lead.”
Roman bit down on his lip, but worry hung in his chest, turning his breath shallow. It felt like they took two more turns. His palms were clammy by the time Shane told him to reach out and touch the wall.
“We’re at the foot of a stairwell,” he said. “There are twenty-five steps in all, and they are steep. Mind yourself.”
Roman slowly followed. His legs were burning by the time he sensed the shift of temperature. He heard a door click open.
He was greeted by a flood of sunlight seeping through his blindfold. A wash of fresh air, tinged in spring warmth. It must have just rained, because Roman could taste the petrichor as he fully stepped into the upper world. The floor was wooden beneath his boots, creaking like an old house. He nearly tripped on the edge of a rug, his arms flinging out to catch his balance.
“Wait here,” Shane said, closing the door. “Don’t move.”
Roman only nodded, his mouth parched. He listened as Shane’s heavy footsteps withdrew, but he sensed the room he stood in was full of furniture. There were no lonely echoes, only the steady tick of a clock somewhere to Roman’s left.
He could hear someone speaking, the sound muffled through the walls. It was Shane’s droning cadence, and Roman dared to take a few steps forward, trying to catch the words.
“He’s awake, my lord. I’ve brought him here with me. He’s waiting in the other room if you’d like to see him.”
Silence. The voice that spoke next was one Roman had never heard before, but it was a deep baritone. Languid and rich, it sent a shiver up his spine.
“I thought I told you not to bring him here, Lieutenant.”
“It’s his memory, sir. He can’t even recall his name. I thought it would help…”
“If he saw this place?”
“Yes, my lord. I know we are short on time, and we could use his—”
“Very well. Bring him to me.”
Roman eased a step back, heart thundering in his ears. He was tempted to tear the blindfold from his face and run, somewhere far from here, but his hesitation cost him. He heard Shane return to the room, and winced when the lieutenant removed the fabric bound across his eyes.
Roman took in his surroundings. He had been waiting in a small but inviting room; an oil painting hung over a stone hearth, and cherrywood furniture with green velvet cushions held down a plush rug. Floral curtains framed tall windows, which were cracked open to welcome fresh air. A parlor of sorts, he realized, glancing at the door they had first stepped through.
It was a very unassuming door. Carved from wood, with white chipped paint and a brass doorknob with a rusted keyhole. A wardrobe for coats, Roman imagined. Only they had emerged from the underground instead.
“The Lord Commander Dacre will see you now,” said Shane. “Come with me.”
“Dacre?” Roman whispered. The name rose like fire in his throat, scalding his tongue. He saw himself dressed in leather braces and perfectly pressed trousers and a button-down shirt, standing on a street corner as he read a newspaper with that name printed in the headline.