Divine Rivals (Letters of Enchantment #1)

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.

I’m sending you a bundle of these letters. The addresses are typed at each footer, and I wanted to see if you would you be willing to place them in envelopes, address and stamp them, and drop the letters in the post for me? I promise to repay you for the postage. If you’re unable to, please don’t worry. Just send them back over the portal to me and I’ll mail them with the next train.

P.S. Do you happen to have a typewriter that looks ordinary upon first glance but has a few quirks that makes it unique? For instance, its ribbon spools might sometimes chime like a musical note, the space bar might gleam in a certain slant of light, and there should be a silver plaque on the underside. Can you tell me what’s engraved there?

She gathered the soldiers’ letters and sent them over the portal. She paced the room while she waited for his reply, which came sooner than she anticipated:

Of course, I’m more than happy to do this for you. I’ll drop the letters in the post first thing tomorrow morning. No need to repay me for postage.

And yes, my typewriter has a few quirks. It was my nan’s. She granted it to me on my tenth birthday, in the hopes I would become an author someday, like my grandfather.

Before your letter, I never thought to check the underside. I’m shocked to find the silver plaque you described. The engraving is as follows: THE SECOND ALOUETTE / MADE ESPECIALLY FOR H.M.A. Which are my nan’s initials.

I’ll have to ask her more about this, but I take it your typewriter is also an Alouette? Do you think this is how we’re connected? Our rare typewriters?

Warmth welled in her chest, as if she had breathed in the firelight. Her theory was confirmed, and she quickly began to reply:

Yes! I just recently learned the legend of these Alouette typewriters, which I’ll tell you in a moment because I think you will find it quite intriguing. But my nan, who was a solemn woman full of poetry, gave me hers on my

The haunting wail of a siren stopped her mid-sentence.

Iris’s fingers froze above the keys, but her heart was suddenly pounding.

That was a hound siren.

She had three minutes before they reached Avalon Bluff, which was plenty of time to prepare herself, but it felt as if Dacre’s wild hounds would leap from the shadows any moment.

With a tremble in her hands, she hastily wrote:

I haver to go! Sorryy. More latwr.

She wrenched the paper from the typewriter. The bottom half of the page tore, but she managed to fold it and send it over the portal.

Quickly, she thought. Cover the window, blow out the light, go to Marisol’s room.

Iris strode to the window, the siren continuing to wail. It made gooseflesh rise on her arms, to hear the keen of it. To know what was coming. She stared through the glass panes, into the dark pitch of night. The stars continued to wink as if nothing was amiss; the moon continued to shed light with its waxing. Iris squinted and could just discern the sheen of the neighbor’s windows and roof and the field beyond them, where a gust raked over the long grass. Her bedroom faced the east, so chances were the hounds would come from the other direction.

She yanked the curtains closed and blew out her candle. Darkness flooded around her.

Should she grab anything else? She began to reach for her typewriter, fingertips tracing its cold metal in the dark. The thought of leaving it behind made her feel like the wind had been knocked from her.

Everything is going to be fine, she told herself in a firm voice, forcing her hands to leave the typewriter on her desk.

Iris took a step toward the door and proceeded to trip on the rug. She should’ve waited to blow out her candle until she was with Marisol. But she made it into the hallway and nearly collided with Attie.

“Where’s Marisol?” Iris asked.

“I’m here.”

The girls turned to see her ascend the stairs, holding a rushlight. “The downstairs is prepared. Come, to my room, the two of you. You’ll spend the night here with me.”

Attie and Iris followed her into a spacious chamber. There was a large canopied bed, a settee, a desk, and a bookshelf. Marisol set down her light and proceeded to shift the heaviest piece of furniture against the door. Attie rushed to help her, and Iris hurried to close the window curtains.

It was suddenly very quiet. Iris didn’t know what was worse: the siren, or the silence that came after it.

“Make yourselves comfortable on the bed,” Marisol said. “It might be a long night.”

The girls sat against the headboard, cross-legged. Attie finally blew out her candle, but Marisol still had her rushlight lit. She opened her wardrobe, and Iris could see her shoving aside dresses and blouses to find a flashlight and small revolver.

She loaded the gun and extended the flashlight to Iris.

“If the hounds manage to get inside, which they shouldn’t but there’s always a possibility … I want you to shine the light on them so I can see them.”

So she can shoot them, Iris realized, but she nodded and studied the flashlight, finding its switch with her thumb.

Marisol eased onto the edge of the bed, between the girls and the door, and she blew out her rushlight.

The darkness returned.

Iris began to count her breaths, to keep them deep and even. To keep her mind distracted.

One … two … three …

She heard the first hound on her fourteenth inspiration. It howled in the distance, a sound so chilling it made Iris’s jaw clench. But then the sound grew closer, joined by another. And another, until there was no telling how many of them had reached Avalon Bluff.

Twenty-four … twenty-five … twenty-six …

They were snarling in the street, just below Marisol’s window. The house seemed to shudder; it sounded like one of them was raking its claws on the front door. There was a bang.

Iris jumped.

Her breaths were frantic now, but she gripped the flashlight like a weapon, prepared for anything. She felt Attie take her other hand, and they held on to each other. And even though she couldn’t see, Iris knew Marisol was directly in front of them, sitting like a statue in the darkness, a gun resting in her lap.

The shrieks faded. They returned. The house shook again, as if they were living in a loop.

Iris was exhaling her seven hundred and fifty-second breath when the silence returned. But it was just as Marisol had foretold.

It ended up being a very long night.