Page 10 of Wild Reverence

VI

The Poet Queen and the God of War

MATILDA

The water in the rill began to warm, effervescent.

Winter was ebbing, and I could see it in my mother as her season of power gave way to a stormy, mud-riddled spring.

Zenia slept more to regain her strength—divines rarely indulged in sleep due to the danger slumber posed for us, but she trusted me.

She did not fear that I would sneak upon her while she slept in our burrow.

It had never crossed her mind that I might cut her neck down to the bone, severing her mind from her body, stealing her magic for my own.

I was pleased by such trust, and yet I slept with my shield hooked upon my arm, the bolt of wood guarding my chest, just as Bade had instructed me.

And as for the god of war… he was gone more than he was present, though when he did grant me lessons, they were good, albeit short, ones. He was either in a jovial mood, teasing me one breath while barking out corrections the next, or he was distracted enough that I beat him at spars.

I wondered about that winter day when I had followed him, and what had caused him so much turmoil. But I was never brave enough to ask, and we never spoke of Adria or thorny sides again.

My thirteenth birthday was only nights away when everything fell apart.

The fog was at high tide in the corridors, betraying a mortal noon.

My mother was sleeping in the back room of the burrow and I was reading a new scroll of Alva’s when I felt a reverberation in the stone floor.

Eithrals were screaming far beneath my feet, and I froze, listening.

The sound faded, and then roused again, sending a shudder down my spine until the air finally went silent.

Dacre must have set the wyverns loose to hunt above.

I returned my attention to the scroll.

Time seemed to halt when I sank into the inked dreams, but my trance broke when I heard the distant pounding of the drums. It was a summoning to the hall, and all three courts—high, middle, and low—were ordered to come at once.

Cursing, I tucked the scroll into one of the moonstone pockets along with my shield and hurried to wake my mother. She was lying on her bed, black hair fanned across the pillow, her chest rising and falling with deep slumber. She always seemed softer, younger when she slept.

“Mother,” I said, shaking her shoulder.

Zenia’s hand took me roughly by the neck, her eyes flying open, her teeth bared.

“It’s only me,” I whispered. “The drums… Dacre is calling everyone to court.”

She released me and sat forward, her breath skipping as if she had been trapped in a nightmare. Without a word, she rose, smoothing the wrinkles from her white silk gown.

She does not trust me as much as I once thought, I realized with a chill, rubbing my bruised throat.

“We just had court,” my mother said, irritated. I watched as she draped her net of moonstones over her hair, sliding her feet into a pair of golden sandals. “Why does he call us again?”

I did not answer, but a strange feeling was creeping over me. I hated court as well, but I sensed that something terrible had happened.

We followed a group of Underlings to the hall, which was an immense firelit chamber, upheld by pillars crusted with gemstones of every color.

The floor was black-and-white marble, polished so fine I could see my reflection, as if I stood on ice.

The hearths were roaring with blue-hearted flames, and richly embroidered banners hung from the walls, depicting Underling myths and victories.

The painting of the eithrals haunted the west wall, and I gazed at them—powerful bodies layered with white, iridescent scales, long pronged wings, red eyes set with sparkling rubies, teeth and talons darkened by blood—as I made my way to where the Middle Court sat in the thick of the hall.

I had never been allowed to accompany my mother to the forefront of the chamber, where the High Court gathered at the dais’s footstool, despite her fear of leaving me alone.

I sat at one of the trestle tables, overlooked by the Underlings around me.

I was still a child in their minds, and below their acknowledgment, although a few of them eyed the brilliance of my belt.

I ignored them in turn, noticing that no wine was being served, as was custom for court dealings.

Instead of circling tables with pitchers of refreshment, the human vassals stood along the walls like a row of statues, blending with the banners and the paintings of beasts.

I swallowed, but dread sat like a rock in my chest, and my eyes drifted to the front of the room.

I caught sight of my mother, sitting beside Phelyra.

And Alva, who stood on the dais where her brother Dacre lounged upon a throne.

She was bent low, whispering something into his ear.

My gaze continued to roam, but I could not find Bade.

He always sat with my mother and Phelyra.

He was not difficult to find with his broad shoulders, his rough-hewn face, his booming voice.

Where are you, Bade?

As if he had heard my inner cry, he arrived.

He blew in through the western doors, just beneath the arched flight of a painted eithral. The human vassals scattered from their posts, and the firelight flickered darkly, as if the flames wanted to extinguish.

The drums ceased beating.

Silence rang through the air, punctured only by Bade’s heavy tread.

Every eye was drawn to him as he limped into the hall.

My heart froze when I saw he wore a golden circlet at his brow.

At last, he had earned one of Adria’s crowns, but this was quickly forgotten when I realized he was not alone.

He was carrying someone wrapped in a tattered cloak.

Tenderly, he held them to his breast, and it was undeniable that they were mortal; their blood was crimson.

It was splattered across the side of Bade’s face.

It dripped down his forearms. It was seeping through the purple cloak, gradually turning the wool a midnight hue.

“Why, welcome, god of war,” Dacre said, arms thrown wide in mockery. “We have been waiting for you to join us.”

Excitement coursed through the hall. This was why Dacre had called the clan. He wanted us to bear witness to his altercation with Bade.

The Underlings around me hummed with anticipation and theories. It had been a long while since we had witnessed a fight amongst ourselves. “ At last, ” a god drawled behind me. “Something worth coming to court for.” And then another one called, “Where is the wine?”

The ichor went cold in my veins. When I breathed, my lungs became frost.

I could no longer see Bade. I leapt to stand on the table, an unspeakable ache spreading through me, as if I had been pierced. I pressed my palm to my ribs, watching Bade approach Dacre.

“You must heal her,” Bade said, dauntless. His behest resonated through the hall. “You must mend what you have broken.”

“I would do so gladly, had you not slayed a pet of mine,” Dacre countered.

I blinked, my mind swarming with the sudden vision of Bade killing an eithral. Impossible, I thought. Had one ever been conquered?

“You should have never released them,” Bade replied, his voice laced with wrath. “You knew it would end in bloodshed.”

“These are strange days, indeed.” Dacre stood from his throne.

His robe was spun from the finest white silk, studded with tiny sapphires.

His blond hair could rival the gold of my belt, striking in every slant of light, and his pale face was perfectly honed, bewitching to gaze upon.

“Once, you did not care if I sent my eithrals to feed in the mortal realm. Once, not so long ago, you encouraged it. What has changed your mind, god of war?”

This query seemed to break Bade.

He dropped to his knees; his desperation stung the air like smoke.

Again, my sight of him was interrupted, and I no longer cared for court boundaries.

I jumped down and wove my way closer, around tables and other divines who had stood to get a better glimpse of Bade and the bleeding bundle he cradled.

For once, I was glad to be overlooked. No one cared when I jostled their elbows.

No one stopped me from ascending another tabletop, and I had a perfect view of Bade as he began to unwrap the purple cloak.

He held a mortal woman.

It was my first time looking upon her, but I knew she was the Poet Queen.

Her hair, shorn to her jawline, was the shade of willow wood.

A golden crown set with pearls flashed across her brow.

Her face was heart shaped with a constellation of freckles that spilled across her nose, and her skin, which I imagined had once been tanned from the sun, was blanched and pallid.

Her eyes were closed; her head lolled against Bade until he pillowed it within his palm.

There was blood dribbling from the corners of her mouth.

My gaze tracked downward.

She wore armor, as mortals were prone to do when they encountered us or were engaged in battle, but I saw that her steel breastplate had been torn open, as easily as if it were spun linen.

Two deep, jagged lines, in tune with an eithral’s talons.

One of the beasts must have picked her up, scored her from shoulder down to hip bone.

A painful, seething wound that could not be healed unless divinity intervened.

My breath snagged in my throat when Adria opened her eyes.

She was still alive, although I watched, alarmed, as her shadow began to fade beneath her.

I had never seen this before—a shadow separating from its appointed body.

None of the divines around me seemed to take note of it.

Not even Bade and Dacre, or Alva, who lingered on the dais, face smooth and devoid of emotion, although her hand flexed at her side.

All their shadows held steady in contrast.