The lorry came to a squeaky halt. Shane’s face resumed its cold indifference, but as he rose, he said, “You’re a writer. I’m sure you can imagine it, correspondent.”
* * *
From the parked lorry, it was a short walk to Luz’s resting place. The grave was on a grassy knoll with nothing but hills, a crumbling medieval tower, and the blue haunt of northern mountains within view, and Roman shivered as a burst of wind gusted through their small party. A storm was gathering overhead; the clouds hung low and bruised, and Roman could taste rain.
Dark hair tangled over his eyes as he stood off to the side, watching Dacre speak to Captain Landis. He could hear snatches of their conversation, and he was able to glean that while the map had been slightly inaccurate, this small hill was undoubtedly where Luz rested. While he spoke, the captain wrapped his fingers around the key hanging from his neck, and it was only then that Roman realized that graves were doorways of their own.
Dacre nodded to the captain, who proceeded to take his key in hand and crouch down. Captain Landis began to draw a wide circle in the dirt with the tip of the iron. Roman could feel his bones hum, static rush over his skin. He couldn’t explain why this felt familiar, this seemingly simple drawing in the dirt, but he recognized the crackle of magic in the air.
He took a step back but froze when the captain finished drawing the full circle. The grass was parting, the dirt peeling back like old skin. All of it revealed a door forming in the ground, similar to that of a cellar, only this one was covered with intricate carvings.
Captain Landis backed away as Dacre shifted forward.
No one moved as Dacre opened it. The door looked heavy, ancient. It settled on the ground with a resounding thud, golden dust drifting upward.
A stairwell led down into the grave. Dacre, wholly transfixed, seemed to forget about the two captains, the lieutenant, and the correspondent who were watching him. He alone descended into the darkness just as the rain began to fall.
Roman shifted his weight from foot to foot, aching with worry. He glanced across the distance at the lieutenant, but Shane was staring at the grave’s doorway, a strange expression on his face.
We aren’t prepared to have a third god wake, Roman thought, shoving his trembling hands into his pockets. Why is Dacre doing this?
But then it hit Roman like an arrow.
Dacre wasn’t waking a third divine. He was killing Luz while he slept.
No sooner had this revelation stunned Roman than Dacre emerged. He hadn’t been gone but a minute, and his face was starkly pale. His eyes gleamed in the storm light as he closed the grave’s door, so roughly it made its own thunder.
“Lord Commander,” Captain Landis said. “Was it a success?”
“Close the threshold,” Dacre replied in a clipped tone.
Roman could see the fury mounting in the god’s countenance, the way his hands curled into fists. How his tongue traced the edges of his teeth.
Captain Landis hurried to draw the circle in reverse. The dirt shifted; the grass wove back together. While the doorway faded, evidence of the circle remained, soft in the loam.
The rain fell in earnest as they strode back to the lorry, tense and silent. But Roman’s thoughts were reeling. All he could think were two things: either Luz had already woken, or he had been killed by someone else.
{28}
When Home Doesn’t Smell Familiar
The return to Oath was not a triumphant processional as Iris had imagined it would be.
It was a dreary gray afternoon, the sort of day that begged for an endless cup of warm black tea and a thick book by the hearth. A persistent soft rain fell, and soon the eastern roads were like swamps, iridescent with motor oil. A few of the lorries got stuck in the mud as a result. Platoons began to walk on foot, tromping through the damp grass on the side of the road. They had to stop at one point to let a flock of sheep pass by.
When they finally reached the outskirts of the city, Chancellor Verlice was waiting for them, standing in the back of a roadster, holding an open umbrella in his white, spindly hand.
“Is that who I think it is?” Attie growled as Tobias cut the engine.
Iris only sighed, watching as Keegan jumped down from the lorry at the front of the line, walking to meet him. Even though Tobias’s roadster was only a few vehicles behind, they couldn’t hear what the chancellor was saying. Before Iris could think better of it, she slipped out of the motorcar.
“Where are you going?” Attie asked.
“We’re the press,” Iris said, her boots sinking in the mud. “We need to hear what he’s saying, right?” She began to hurry up the road, careful not to slip. A few seconds later, she could hear Attie close behind.