Divine Rivals, page 13
She caught it up and read:
SIX HUNDRED KILOMETERS FROM OATH?!!! Answer me, and I’ll do my best to find the other half of the myth:
Did you go to war?
And before you ask, yes. I’m relieved to discover more paper of yours on my floor.
P.S.—Forgive my lack of manners. How are you these days?
She smiled.
She typed her reply and sent:
A war correspondent, actually. Don’t worry—I’ve seen no battle. At least not yet.
The first thing I’ve learned is to expect the unexpected, and to always be prepared for anything. But I only just arrived, and I think it’s going to take me some time to adjust to life this close to the front lines.
It’s different. Like I said earlier, it feels quieter, in a strange way. You would think it would be loud and seething, full of gunpowder and explosions. But so far it’s been shadows, and silence, and locked doors, and whispers.
As for how I’m doing these days … the grief is still heavy within me, and I think it would be dragging me into a pit if I wasn’t so distracted. Some moments, I feel okay. And then the next, I’ll be struck by a wave of sadness that makes it hard to breathe.
I’m learning how to navigate it, though. Just like you once said to me.
I should go now. I should also probably think more about conserving my paper and ink ribbons. But if you do find the myth, I’d love to read it. And you know where to find me.
He replied almost instantly:
I can’t make you any promises that I’ll be able to find the other half. I found the first portion on a whim, handwritten and tucked away in one of my grandfather’s old books. But I’ll scour the library for it. I’m certain Enva outwitted Dacre in the realm below, and men have since then read and hidden that portion of the myth with wounded pride.
In the meantime, I hope you will find your place, wherever you are. Even in the silence, I hope you will find the words you need to share.
Be safe. Be well.
I’ll write soon.
{19}
Homesick Words
The infirmary was an old, converted school building, two-storied and shaped as a U with a courtyard garden. Most of the windows were curtained, blocking out the bright midday sun. Iris studied it as she helped unload the countless loaves of bread Marisol had baked that morning. Marisol’s neighbor Peter had a rusted green lorry, and they had loaded up the back with basket after basket of bread and two massive pots of soup before driving across town to the infirmary.
Iris shivered as she carried a basket into the back of the building, where a few nurses were preparing lunch trays. Her palms were sweaty; she was nervous. She didn’t know how to prepare for this—speaking to wounded soldiers.
She was also full of anxious hope. Perhaps Forest was here.
“Did you prepare questions ahead of time?” Attie whispered as they passed each other.
“No, but I’ve been thinking about them,” Iris replied, walking the path back to the lorry to fetch another basket.
“I didn’t either,” Attie said as they passed again. “I suppose we’ll both just do what feels right?”
Iris nodded, but her mouth went dry. If she was wounded and lying in an infirmary bed, in pain, would she want some stranger interviewing her? Probably not.
Marisol remained with the nurses in the kitchen, preparing lunches, but Attie and Iris were allowed to wander the ground floor. A few rooms were off-limits, but they were told most of the soldiers were in the great assembly hall, and that should be the focus of their task.
It was a wide room, lined with windows and beds. The floors were scuffed hardwood, creaking beneath Iris’s steps as her gaze wandered. Immediately, she looked for Forest. She sought her brother in a sea of white sheets and slants of sunlight.
Some of the soldiers were missing limbs. Some of them had bandaged faces, burns, scars. Some of them were upright and talkative; some of them were lying down, sleeping.
Overcome, Iris was worried that she wouldn’t recognize her brother, even if he was here. But she drew in a deep breath, because she knew these soldiers had been through more than she could even begin to imagine. The air tasted like cherry medicine syrup and lemon floor cleaner and cold stainless steel, all cloaking a hint of sickness. She closed her eyes and envisioned Forest, exactly as he had looked the day he departed.
I would know you anywhere.
When Iris opened her eyes, her attention caught on a particular soldier. The girl was sitting upright in her bed. She looked to be Iris’s age, dealing a worn deck of playing cards on her quilt. Her hair was a soft shade of blond, like corn silk, and cut to her shoulders. Her skin was pallid, and her hands were shaking as she continued to set out cards. But her eyes were warm and brown and fierce, and the moment they met Iris’s gaze, Iris found herself walking toward her.
“You play?” the girl asked. Her voice was brittle.
“Only when I can find a good partner,” Iris replied.
“Then pull up that stool and join me.”
Iris obliged. She sat at the girl’s bedside and watched as she reshuffled the cards with her quaking hands. Her fingers were long, like a pianist’s.
“I’m Prairie,” the girl said, glancing at Iris. “Like the grass.”
“I’m Iris. Like an eyeball.”
That coaxed a small smile from Prairie. “I haven’t seen you in here before, Iris Like an Eyeball.”
“I only arrived yesterday,” Iris replied, taking the cards Prairie dealt to her.
“Reporter, hmm?”
Iris nodded, uncertain what more to say. If it would even be right for her to ask Prairie if she could—
“I don’t speak to reporters,” Prairie said, clearing her throat. Her voice remained hoarse and weak. “But I’m always looking for someone to beat me in cards. Here, you go first.”
Well, that settles that, Iris thought. At least Prairie’s candid bluntness dimmed her nerves and expectations, and Iris could merely enjoy a hand of cards.
The girls were quiet as they played. Prairie was competitive, but Iris was close to matching her. They ended up playing two more rounds, until the nurses delivered lunch.
“I suppose I should let you eat in peace,” said Iris, rising from the stool.
Prairie dipped her spoon into her bowl of soup. It helplessly clattered with her shaky movements. “You might as well stay. Those who would talk to you will be eating right now.”
Iris glanced around to find Attie, who was seated with a soldier farther down the room. A young handsome soldier who was smiling at her, and Attie had her notepad out, writing down the things he was saying.
“I do have a question for you,” Iris said, easing back down onto the stool. “If I wanted to find out where a certain soldier is stationed, who would I write to?”
“You could write to the command center in Mundy, but chances are you won’t get a reply. They don’t like to reveal where soldiers are stationed. It’s a security measure. Things are also a bit chaotic right now. The mail isn’t very reliable.”
Iris nodded, trying to hide her despair. “If a soldier is wounded, is there a way for me to find that out?”
Prairie met Iris’s gaze. “Do you know the name of their platoon or company?”
Iris shook her head.
“What about their battalion?”
“No, I don’t know any of that information. Just their first and last name.”
Prairie grimaced. “Then it’ll be very difficult to find out any information or updates. Sorry to tell you that.”
“It’s all right. I was just wondering,” Iris said with a weak smile.
Her disappointment must have been evident, because Prairie set down her spoon and said, “I don’t speak to reporters, but perhaps there is something you could do?”
“What’s that?”
“Would you write out a letter for me?”
Iris blinked.
The hope in Prairie’s eyes shuttered with the moment of awkward silence, and she looked down. “Never mind.”
“Yes,” Iris said, recovering from her moment of shock. She reached for her back pocket, where her notepad and pen were stashed. “Yes, I would love to.” She flipped it open to a fresh page, waiting, pen poised.
Prairie stared down at her half-eaten meal. “It’s for my sister.”
“Whenever you’re ready.”
It took Prairie a moment, as if she had fallen shy, but then she began to speak soft wistful words, and Iris wrote them all down.
* * *
She went soldier to soldier after that, offering to write a letter for each of them. She didn’t ask for details about the war, or why they had chosen to fight, or how they had sustained their injuries, or if they knew of a private named Forest Winnow. All of them had someone to write home to, and Iris tried not to think of her brother as she scribed letter after letter, as her notepad soon brimmed with homesick words and memories and encouragement and hope.
But a cold flicker of dread went through her.
Why hadn’t Forest ever written to her? He had made that promise, and her brother had never been one to break vows.
Iris was beginning to believe he might be dead.
To Whom It May Concern,
I am writing to you with the fervent hope that you will be able to tell me the current whereabouts or station of one private Forest Merle Winnow, who was recruited by Enva in the city of Oath, in Eastern Borough, Cambria, almost six months ago. His date of birth is the seventh day of Vyn, year 1892. His height is 182 cm, and he has chestnut brown hair and hazel eyes.
I am his only remaining blood relative and have been seeking to reach him by letter. I was never informed of his battalion or company, but neither have I received any news from a captain that he has perished in conflict. If you can assist me in obtaining this knowledge or pass on my letter to one who is able to, I would be eternally grateful.
Thank you for your time.
Sincerely,
Iris Winnow
{20}
The Music Below
That evening, Iris sat at the desk in her room, watching the sunlight fade over a distant field, and she began to type all the letters she had written down at the infirmary. She felt like a vessel, being filled up by the stories and questions and reassurances the soldiers had shared with her. Typing to people she didn’t know. Nans and paps and mums and dads and sisters and brothers and friends and lovers. People she would never see but was all the same linked to in this moment.
One after the other after the other. With each word she typed, the sun sank a little farther until the clouds bled gold. A breath later, the light surrendered to night. The stars smoldered in the darkness, and Iris took dinner in her room and continued to work by the flame of a candle.
She was drawing the final page from the typewriter when she heard the unmistakable rush of paper on the floor.
He had written her.
Iris smiled and rose, picking up the letter. She read:
I have good news, my friend. I found the latter half of the myth you want. Don’t ask me where and how I managed this great feat, but let’s just say I had to bribe someone over tea and biscuits. That someone just so happens to be my nan, who is renowned for her temper and likes to point out my flaws every time I see her. This time it was that I “slouch,” and that I “woefully” have my father’s pointed chin (as if it might have changed since the last time I saw her), and that my “hair has grown exceedingly long. You could be a rogue or a knight errant on second glance.” I will be frank with you: I do slouch from time to time, mainly when I’m in her presence, but my hair is fine. Alas, I cannot do anything about my chin.
But why am I rambling? Forgive me. Here’s the second half, picking up where we last left off. When Enva agreed to go below with Dacre on her terms:
* * *
Enva, who loved the sky and the taste of the wind, was not happy in the realm below. Even though it was made of a different sort of beauty—whirls of mica and veins of copper, and stalactites that dripped into deep, mesmerizing pools.
Dacre served her in the beginning, eager to make her happy. But he knew that she was a Skyward, and she would never truly belong in the heart of the earth. There would always be a sense of restlessness within her, and he caught it from time to time, in the sheen of her green eyes and in the line of her lips, which he could never coax a smile from.
Desperate, he said to her, “Why don’t you play and sing for me and my court?” Because he knew her music would not only give him pleasure, but her as well. He remembered how transcendent she had looked, upon playing for the fallen. And she had yet to sing beneath.
Enva agreed.
A great assembly was called in Dacre’s firelit hall. His minions, his hounds, his eithrals, his human servants, and his ugly horde of brothers. Enva brought forth her harp. She sat in the center of the cave, surrounded by Underlings. And because her heart was laden with sorrow, she sang a lament.
The music of her instruments trickled through the cold, damp air. Her voice, pure and sweet, rose and reverberated through the rock. She watched, astonished, as Dacre and his court began to weep. Even the creatures keened in sadness.
She decided to sing a joyful song next. And once again, she watched as her music influenced all who could hear. Dacre smiled, his face still shining from his previous tears. Soon, hands were clapping and feet stomping and Enva worried their boisterous merriment would bring the rock down on their heads.
Lastly, she sang a lullaby. One by one, Dacre and his court began to descend into deep sleep. Enva watched as eyes were closed, chins dipped down to chests, and creatures curled into themselves. Soon her music was woven with the sound of hundreds of snores, and she stood alone in the hall, the only one still awake. She wondered how long they would sleep. How long would her music hold them ensorcelled?
She left the hall and decided to wait and see. And while she waited, she roamed Dacre’s underground fortress, those old ley lines of magic, memorizing its twists and bends and its many secret doorways to above. Three days and three nights later, Dacre finally awoke, closely followed by his brothers, and then the remainder of his court. His mind was foggy; his hands felt numb. He lumbered to his feet, uncertain what had happened, but the fires in the hall had burned down, and it was dark.
“Enva?” he called to her. His voice carried through the rock to find her. “Enva!” He feared she had gone, but she emerged into the hall, carrying a torch. “What happened?” he demanded, but Enva was poised and calm.
“I’m not certain,” she replied with a yawn. “I only just woke, a minute before you.”
Dacre was disconcerted, but in that moment, he thought Enva beautiful, and he trusted her. Not a week passed before he was hungry for her music again, and he called another assembly in the hall, so she could entertain them.
She played for sorrow. For joy. And then for sleep. This time, she sang her lullaby twice as long, and Dacre and his court slept for six days and six nights. By the time Dacre stirred awake, cold and stiff, when he called to Enva through the stone there was no answer. He reached to feel her presence, which was like a thread of sunlight in his fortress, but there was only darkness.
Enraged, he realized she had gone above. He rallied his creatures and his servants to fight, but when they emerged through the secret doorways into the world above, Enva and a Skyward host were awaiting them. The battle was bloody and long, and many of the Underlings fled, deep into the earth. Dacre was wounded by Enva’s own arrow; she shot him in the shoulder, and he had no choice but to retreat, down into the bowels of his fortress. He blocked every passageway so no one and nothing from above could trespass below. He descended to the fire of the earth, and there he plotted his revenge.
But Dacre was never victorious. He could not best the Skywards, and so he chose to terrorize the mortals above. He never realized that Enva had learned all the passages of his realm while he slept beneath her charm. And when she decided to step into his hall again, two centuries later, she carried her harp with a vow lodged in her heart. To make him and his court sleep for a hundred years.
Some say she was successful, because there was a time of peace, and life was pleasant and golden for the mortals above. But others say she was unable to sing that long without diminishing her power, to hold Dacre and his court asleep for such a stretch of time. All of this to say—it is never wise to offend a musician. And choose your lovers wisely.
Iris fell pensive with the ending of the myth. She wondered if history was wrong; all this time, she had been taught of her kind’s victory over the five surviving gods—Dacre, Enva, Alva, Mir, and Luz—who had been fooled into drinking a poisonous draught to make them sleep beneath the loam. But perhaps it had been Enva and her harp all along, which meant there had only ever been four gods slumbering, with the fifth still roaming in secret.
The more Iris dwelled on it, the more it rang true. Enva had never been buried in an eastern grave; she must have struck a deal with the mortals long ago. She had been the one to sing the other four divines to enchanted sleep in deep, dark graves. It suddenly wasn’t so difficult to fathom why Dacre would wake with such vengeance in his blood. Why he would tear through town after town, hell-bent upon drawing Enva to him.
Iris shivered at the thought, and wrote her correspondent back:
I’m thrilled by your ability to find this second part and am eternally grateful for how you sacrificed yourself with tea and biscuits and reprimands from your nan, who sounds like someone I’d probably like.
I almost hesitate now to ask anything more of you, but there is something else …
I went to the infirmary here at Aval where I’m stationed. It gave me the chance to meet with soldiers who have been wounded. Some are recovering well, and yet some of them will die, and I find that truth difficult to swallow. They’ve been torn open and mangled, shot and stabbed and splintered. Their lives have been irrevocably altered, and yet none of them regret their choice to fight the evil that is stealing across the land. None of them are full of regrets save for one thing: they want to mail a letter home to loved ones.
