That was what she had done then, what she had done at every turn since.
What she was still doing now as she awaited her own death.
But death, Romie found, did not come as swiftly as she’d anticipated.
The concept of day and night did not seem to exist here in the sea of ash, where perpetual gloom reigned. Romie could only tell the passing of time by the rising and falling of daylight on the other side of the door—which was permanently open, giving them a glimpse of the mountain range beyond.
Romie and the other keys—Aspen, Tol, and Orfeyi—made a home among the dried-up fountain, which was so vast it looked more like a temple than anything. A circular base with five columns rising all around, doming over them in a trellis that joined in the middle of the fountain, where five giant statues stood, meant to represent the gods. A thick layer of ash covered their faces like dust, rendering them featureless. Unknowable. The gods all stood back-to-back against a tree emerging in the middle of the circle they formed, its branches bowing over their heads. The tree seemed made of glass, and though its crystal-like leaves were dusted with ash, Romie knew they must have once caught the light and reflected it in the most beautiful way.
As far as imprisonment at the hands of a monstrous god went, theirs wasn’t so bad. They were provided food and water and blankets to fend off the numbing cold. They were not bound orgagged or restrained in any visible way, but it was clear they were prisoners all the same. Romie suspected Clover’s magic kept them here, by the same persuasive power that had them all lulled into comfortable complacency at the thought of what awaited them.
Sacrifice. That was what Romie and the keys would face. In order to bring Atheia back to life, they needed to return the pieces of themselves that were Atheia’s—Romie’s blood and Aspen’s bones and Tol’s heart and Orfeyi’s soul. Their human deaths for the life of a deity.
“A fair trade, wouldn’t you agree?” crooned Clover.
And they did agree. Romie was no longer sure if it was because of Clover’s magic or if it was her own belief. There was, of course, a large part of her that did not wish to die, to leave the world she knew behind and abandon those she loved. But then, this was the destiny she’d been barreling toward. The song she’d answered. The fate she’d been ready to die for. And the way Clover explained why it needed to be done, the picture he painted of what he’d do once he made himself into a proper god with the combined power of Atheia and Sidraeus… it made herwantto believe in his vision. It made all of them believe that their deaths weren’t only inevitable but justified. Glorious, even.
Once Clover made himself into a god, he told them, there would be no more divide between Atheia’s creatures and Sidraeus’s. Lunar mage and Eclipse-born, witch and hellwraith, draconic and eldritch, those who sang to the Celestials and the Songless who answered to the Soulless One. They would all be on a level playing field, answering to the same god. They would, all of them, know the kind of limitless power that Tidecallers had.
And wasn’t that what Romie had always wanted? To know all the magics of the lunar cycle, to be more than just a Dreamer of House Waning Moon?
Her sacrifice meant she would never get to experience thisfor herself. But she would die a hero, and maybe that alone was worth it.
Sudden music made Romie’s ears perk up. Orfeyi was playing a melody on his lyre, and the notes reverberated within her, sharpening her focus. It was like waking from a dream, though not the kind she was used to; in fact, she could scarcely access her magic anymore, didn’t even remember sleeping, thanks to whatever sorcery Clover had them under.
But as Orfeyi played his lyre, it was like the fog around her mind cleared, and she was herself again. At her side, Aspen and Tol seemed to come out of similar stupors.
Orfeyi smiled at them. “Welcome back.”
All at once, the memories came rushing back to Romie. This wasn’t the first time Orfeyi brought them out of their trance. He did so whenever Clover left them alone in the sea of ash—which Clover did often, claiming to be searching for the final pieces needed for the ritual. He’d recently returned from one of these outings with a terribly burnt hand and a wild, furious gleam in his eyes, raging about an instrument he could not touch but needed desperately to wield. Romie remembered him saying something about Emory, how he was waiting for her to join them before he could sacrifice the keys.
This should have set off alarm bells in Romie’s mind, should have pushed her to ask questions, but this amenable lull Clover had them all under kept her quiet. Pliant.
Until Orfeyi played his lyre and made Romie and Aspen and Tol remember what Clover made them forget: that he was, in fact, the enemy.
It was a peculiarity they couldn’t explain, that Orfeyi was the only one of them not affected by Clover’s magic. He had told them before that it was because of the golden lyre he had with him, agift from the Celestials, which Clover had foolishly let him hold on to.
“The Celestials,” Orfeyi had explained—his world’s version of the Tides, and the Sculptress, and the Forger, versions of Atheia from each world, “speak to me through the lyre, making me see the truth of Clover when you three cannot.”
Romie supposed Orfeyi was calling not on the Celestials themselves, given that they were gone, but on their magic—just like lunar mages could call on the magic of the Tides, even though the Tides weren’t physically there to answer them anymore.
Magic justwas; in each world Romie had visited, it existed beyond its creator.
She caught herself marveling at the root-like scars that adorned Orfeyi’s pale skin, just as she had the first time he’d snapped them out of Clover’s spell, and every other time after. Lightning burns he’d gotten after attracting the Soulless One’s wrath, he’d explained. “The man who’s keeping us here,” he’d added at their blank stares. “Clover.”
“That’s not who you think it is,” Romie had argued. The Soulless One was his world’s equivalent of the Shadow, but Clover was neither; he was something worse.
But Orfeyi had shaken his head in protest. “I know exactly who Clover is. The Celestials whisper of him through my lyre. He is the Tidecaller who will bridge the gap between worlds, the one who will bring the Celestials back into a single form so that they will be strong enough to cast away the looming dark.” He’d leaned in to whisper his next words. “Except the dark ishim. He isn’t to be trusted. He will try to control the Celestials, controleverything. We mustn’t let him.”
He thinks we can best the drowned gods, just like the guardian in the story,Romie had thought. She’d felt a swell of fondness for him then. Even though they’d just met, it was like she’d known himforever. They were mirrors of each other, she realized. Dreamers, both. Not by the magic they wielded, but by their intrepid natures, their willingness to go to extremes to see things through, no matter the cost to themselves.
Besting gods more cunning than them hadn’t worked for the heroes ofSong of the Drowned Gods, but could it work for them? Clover was no god. Yet.
They’d been trying to find a way to stop him from achieving that goal ever since. He was never gone for long, but it gave them enough time to scheme—and get to know one another.
There was nothing like impending doom to make people bond the way they had. It was rare, Romie thought, to know a person so completely, to trust them so implicitly, after spending so little time with them. She had already begun to feel that way with Aspen and Tol, but it was even greater now that their group was complete. Four parts of a whole waiting in death’s undeniable shadow.
“How long do we have until our divine overlord comes back?” Romie asked now, glaring at the open doorway in the distance, where a few guards stood to ensure the keys wouldn’t leave.The Songless, Orfeyi had called them.
