Roman was once again surprised by Dacre’s question. “I’m not sure. I’ve never thought about it, sir.”
“When I was younger, I wanted my cousin’s power. Mir’s.” Dacre’s voice was deep and warm as he remembered an era of his past with apparent fondness. “Mir was much older than me, and far more ruthless. He was born with the power of illusions and could come and go as a mere shadow, stealing from one place to another unnoticed. He gathered up family secrets like jewels in a coffer, and then wandered above to glean what he could from the Skywards. I remember when he returned below one day, looking vibrant and hale, like he had swallowed all the stars from the sky. He told me that he had acquired another power. One that enabled him to read minds should he touch someone. From then onward, I avoided him, fearful of what he might find in my own thoughts even though I had only ever envied him.”
Roman studied Dacre’s sharp profile. The sunlight limned his strange beauty.
“You can acquire more power? I thought you were born with your magic, and that is what sets you apart from us,” Roman said.
“We are born with our appointed magic, yes,” Dacre answered. “But that never stopped us from wanting more and finding ways of taking it.”
Roman wiped his palms on his thighs. He wanted to ask further questions, but the words wouldn’t come, and he thought of Mir instead. Another divine who was sleeping in a northern grave.
A few hours of stilted silence passed, Roman dozing in and out of dreamless sleep. He was relieved when they reached their destination.
The town of Merrow was similar to the Bluff but smaller, comprising thatched cottages with brightly painted shutters and overgrown gardens. A main thoroughfare was the only cobbled road. Apple orchards dotted the landscape, their white blossoms drifting from the branches when the wind blew.
As soon as the lorry came to a halt, Roman gathered his typewriter and opened the door. He stepped down carefully, minding the long line of trucks rumbling into town behind him, and he gazed up at the nearest cottage.
The windows were full of shadows, laced with gossamer. No smoke rose from the chimneys; no children raced along the streets. The market was boarded up. Even some of the doors looked to be barricaded and difficult to reach.
“Where is everyone?” he asked, not expecting an answer. But Dacre heard, as did the soldier who had been driving their lorry.
“Evacuated to the east, thanks to Enva’s forces,” Dacre replied, looking to the captain who stood at attention nearby. “Set up a watch at the perimeter. Have your company choose the best place to lodge for tonight and see what we can recover from the cellars for a meal.”
“Yes, sir.” The captain saluted and began to call out orders.
The town buzzed like a hive as the soldiers carried out their tasks, and Roman was considering wandering on his own for a moment, drawn to the quiet peace of the orchard, when gunshots cracked the air.
Not three paces ahead of him, a private went down with a scream.
Roman felt the blood splatter on his face and he froze, heart thundering in his chest. Another trio of shots—earsplitting, bone-jarring. A second and third soldier went down, and through the panicked scuffle and shouts, Roman realized the bullets were coming from a second-story window.
“Move,” Dacre hissed, grasping Roman’s arm.
A shower of bullets followed them, whizzing over their heads, nipping at their heels.
The shots were aimed at Dacre, but he dodged the assault effortlessly.
Roman tripped before he found his footing. He let Dacre propel him to the safety of a lintel, out of sight of the sniper. But his blood was coursing hot in his veins. He trembled, studying the upper windows across the street. Every shadow now felt ominous, a veil for someone to hide behind.
“How many, Commander?” It was the captain again, shadowed by Lieutenant Shane. Blood speckled their faces and uniforms, but both seemed unharmed as they crouched beside Dacre and Roman, guns in hand.
“I believe there’s only one,” Dacre replied. He sounded strangely calm, almost amused. “Upper floor of this building. Do not kill them. Wound and then bring them to me.”
The captain stood and motioned to the soldiers taking shelter behind a yard fence across the road. They returned fire at the sniper, but it seemed to only be a distraction that enabled the captain and Shane to covertly find a way into the lower level of the cottage.
Roman cowered but Dacre took hold of his arm again, keeping him upright.
“Come with me,” he said. “We need to find the door.”