Don’t let this freedom fool you. The warning shivered through him. At once, Roman sobered.
“I’m ready, my lord,” he said. “But my clothes … should I go to the city like this?” He looked down at the dark red jumpsuit that boldly proclaimed he was an UNDERLING CORRESPONDENT.
“You’ll have the chance to change your clothes upon arrival.” Dacre cast a glance at Val, who only arched a brow in response. “And I want you to deliver a second message for me while you’re in Oath.”
“Of course, sir. What is it?”
Dacre extended another envelope, the same color as the first. The addressee was different but just as meaningful, and Roman merely stared at it for a beat.
Mr. Ronald M. Kitt.
“A letter for my father?” Roman asked in a wavering tone.
“Indeed,” Dacre replied, amused. “You’ll be seeing him.”
Without another word, Roman took the envelope. He felt stiff, like he was covered in frost, when he imagined seeing his father. The last words they had shared had not been kind, gentle ones. Roman didn’t like to remember them, to retrace the day he had left his father angry and his mother weeping. The day he had struck out to follow Iris westward. He had quit his job at the Gazette. He had broken his engagement to Elinor Little, whom his father had arranged for him to marry in order to keep the Kitts in Dacre’s good graces as the war progressed.
Roman had left it all behind without a backward glance.
It felt strange that Dacre would now trust him blithely; the divine was sending him home, knowing the last of his memories would click into place. Something didn’t quite feel right, and Roman wondered if this was a test. Dacre knew someone amongst his forces had betrayed him. Perhaps this was his way of proving Roman’s innocence or, at the very worst, seeing if Roman was that treacherous link.
If so, then Roman couldn’t afford to let the truth rise to the surface.
And yet he dared to look Dacre in the eye and make one final request. “May I spend a night with my family? It’s been so long since I’ve seen my parents and I’d like to have more time with them before I return to you, sir.”
Dacre was silent. It felt tenuous—the way air crackled before lightning struck. Roman inwardly braced himself, waiting for the lash.
“Yes,” Dacre said at last with a smile. “I don’t see why not. Spend a night with your family. Remember what is true, and what is false, and all that I have done for you. Val will be waiting the following sunrise to bring you back to me.”
This was indeed a test, then. If he failed to convince Dacre of his dedication and allegiance, post memory repair, then Roman might find himself waking in another cold chamber below, unable to recall his name. Unable to remember Iris.
The thought was agonizing. A sting between his ribs.
“Thank you, sir,” Roman managed to say.
He was ready to leave, even without his typewriter, but Dacre drew close to murmur, “It’s always best to say less, to let others wonder where you’ve been and what you’ve seen and what you think. Let them imagine what could be. There’s great power in a mystery. Don’t spoil yours.”
A sharp response gathered in Roman’s lungs, but he only cleared his throat. Be submissive. Convince him of your loyalty. He felt the ache in his chest as he said, “Yes, my lord. I’ll keep that in mind.”
Dismissed, he followed Val past Lieutenant Shane, who stood quiet as a statue, taking account of everything with shrewd eyes. Roman left the office, descending the long, circling stairwell.
I’m going home, he thought, and the excitement carried him through the pain in his stride, the shortness of his breaths. Iris, I’m coming to you.
But just before he and Val slipped through a door to the under realm, the warning came again like a whisper.
Don’t let this freedom fool you.
{31}
Gravity in a Different World
Roman followed Val through the under realm’s passages.
They walked routes that led downward, as if they were descending into yet another world below. One that was darker and older. When they reached a door carved with runes, Val brought out a key, hung from a chain around his neck. Another one of the five magical keys, Roman thought, watching as the door unlocked.
They continued onward. The air felt heavy and thick, almost reverent, and soon carried hints of sulfur and rotting flesh.
Roman reached out to steady himself on the wall and felt briars growing along the stone. He swallowed his gorge and wondered if Dacre’s permission had all been a ruse, and Val was taking Roman levels below to dispatch him.
Was it sweeter to kill someone after you had given them hope?
Roman shivered as the thorny passage at last opened to a wide, vast landscape. Yellow, gurgling pools emitted light from the stone floor, as well as releasing wisps of steam, and the ceiling was so high it was impossible to see. It almost felt as if Roman was standing beneath the night sky culled of stars, and he stared upward into those shadows, feeling small and homesick.
“Watch where you step,” Val said as he began to weave around the yellow pools, stirring the steam with his long strides and the flap of his cloak.
Roman hurried to keep up. The putridness of the air finally coaxed him to cough into his sleeve. He began to breathe through his mouth, his stomach churning with fear and nausea.
He wanted clean air. A cup of scalding hot coffee. Something to smooth away the discomfort in his chest and throat.
“No sudden movements,” Val said, his pace slowing.
“All right.” Roman stifled another cough.
Half a minute later, he understood why. Through the curls of sulfurous steam, a huge shadow of a wyvern loomed on the ground, as if waiting for them. An eithral, Roman realized with a sharp intake of breath. Its pronged wings were outstretched and soaking in the heat from the pools, its white-scaled body shining with iridescence. Its maw was closed, but long, needlelike teeth still protruded and gleamed like ice, and its uncanny red eyes were the size of Roman’s palm, one of them fixed upon him and his abrupt halt.
“Keep walking,” Val said in a low voice. “Slow and steady. Follow my approach to its left side.”
Approach? Roman wanted to protest, but he did as Val instructed. He eased into a walk and kept to Val’s shadow, and that was when he saw the saddle buckled to the eithral, nestled on its horn-ridged back between its wings.
“Are you bloody serious?” Roman said, his teeth clicking together as a shudder rippled through him. “How will you control it? There’s no bridle.”
Val began to haul himself up into the saddle with practiced ease. “Do you want to walk to Oath, or do you want to fly?”