Page 16 of Wild Reverence

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We Are All Doomed

MATILDA

I rode the western trade wind back to the mortal realm, just as Rowena had advised.

It was like stepping into a current of warm water, letting it carry me to my destination.

A quick, breathless way to travel, and one that challenged my sense of control—I disliked trusting something that I could not see or command—and I staggered, weak-kneed, when my feet landed on mortal soil.

Thankfully, I held the meager contents of my stomach down this time.

The wind soughed around me, spreading dark gray clouds overhead. Somewhere, Shale was laughing, amused and perhaps proud of my first ride on the trade winds.

I did not have the luxury to savor my small victory. It was eventide, and more time had passed than I realized.

My mouth was parched and I swallowed, tasting the sting of bile.

I stomped my feet until the blood returned like needles, and I sprinted across the sprawl of land to the closest Underling door I could locate.

A door that was convenient but risky to access, due to it being hidden in the ruins of an abandoned castle.

Sometimes, brigands and criminals took shelter in the crumbling remains.

Sometimes, even mischievous gods lurked here, waiting for an unsuspecting mortal to come by.

I hid behind the stone-stacked wall, studying the eldritch fortress as night stained the air.

I drew one breath, then another, waiting.

But there were no remnants of life, no movement, no light.

Quietly, I crept forward into the weed-tangled courtyard, broken flagstones shifting beneath my feet.

I was approaching the cellar door that led down to our underworld when a different door caught my eye.

Another wall must have crumbled since I had last visited this place, leaving behind a lintel with an oakwood door, standing alone and intact. A wasted doorway.

It had most likely been a bedchamber door before the walls had collapsed, and I was inexplicably drawn to it. My heart pounded when I set my hand upon the iron handle. My magic stirred as I pushed on the rusty hinges.

I was not met by the same dull landscape of a ruined fortress at night.

I had opened a doorway to another world.

The ground was pink clay, rolling into hillocks and vales, cracked with tiny lavender veins.

Strange trees grew long crooked boughs that touched the ground before reaching for the sky, their cream bark peeling like parchment, their branches studded with translucent leaves that blinked with fireflies.

There was an iridescent creek that flowed, its water streaked with starlight.

But perhaps the oddest thing of all was the sky.

It was many colors, like sunset after a tempest, and it hosted two suns—one greater, one smaller—and four different moons, all trapped in different phases.

There was also an endless array of stars, and I recognized the constellations that hung, glittering like spilled salt.

There was my mother’s cunning, her winter, her fire.

There was Bade’s war. There was Phelyra’s revelry and coin, one shining in the east, the other in the south.

Alva’s dreams and nightmares. And there was my own constellation, the stars of a herald, six bright points shaped as a kestrel in flight.

I took a few steps forward, stopping when an arch of obsidian bloomed from the road before me.

When I leaned closer to study it, I could feel the heady pull of magic.

This was a gateway, leading to another mystery, and I stared into its swirl of colors.

Just as I began to make sense of the scene before me, I was greeted by something unexpected.

“Red!” Vincent’s voice spilled through the gate, an echo that made my heart leap into my throat. “Where have you been? How did you find me?”

I strained my sight, trying to catch a glimpse of him in the wavering illusion of the gate. I could sense him, but I could not see him. And if I stepped through this gate, who knew where I would be, how far I would wander. I feared I would lose myself.

Trembling, I stepped back through the door into the cold remains of the castle. The odd moonstone in my belt flared, as if warning me. I glanced down to see the eye was almost fully open, and somehow I knew this was not a good thing. Whatever this stone enabled me to see, I would regret it.

I shut the wasted door.

Down I ran through the under realm, the fog nipping at my ankles.

I ran through the hall, which was surprisingly empty save for vassals who were scrubbing Adria’s blood from the floor.

I ran through corridors that were so familiar to me I could have moved through them with my eyes shut.

I ran, ignoring the shouts of curious gods that I passed, until all I heard was my own heart, beating like a drum in my ears.

When I reached the forge, I saw Hem standing quietly by the bellows, his sorrow tangible as the smoke that rose from the dying embers.

“Hem?” I rasped, my weariness and relief so keen I could have sobbed. “Am I too late?”

“Matilda,” Hem said, hope overtaking his face like I was the sun, breaking a storm. He motioned me closer, pulling open the door that led to Bade’s burrow. “ Come. They are waiting for you.”

I hurried through the doorway and walked along a darkened corridor. My fingertips brushed the cool wall and facets of embedded rubies. But I could see light in the distance, marking Bade’s burrow. For all the times I had trained with him at the forge, I had never set foot in his home.

The tunnel spilled me into a cavernous chamber.

Anchoring the room was a long table burdened with armor, a great sword, a pot of oil, leather-bound books, a loaf of bread, a wheel of cheese, and several goblets of half-drunk wine.

Chainmail hung from the rafters, glimmering like starlit shrouds.

Sheepskin was spread over the floor, leading my eyes to the hearth, where Bade sat in a chair, holding Adria on his lap.

He had removed her armor; it sat at their feet, mangled. Adria now wore one of Bade’s tunics. The soft wool swallowed her slender frame, and her wounds continued to bleed. Her blood seeped through the fabric, dripping in rivulets down her bare legs.

She rested in his arms but continued to breathe, defiant. Eyes closed, she drew shallow sips of air. Even with the goddess of death standing nearby, waiting to collect her soul, the Poet Queen fought to remain alive.

“ Matilda, ” Bade whispered.

Many gods had been skeptical that I would find my way Skyward and convince Fate to surrender her stars.

Later, I would discover they had cast bets in the hall after I had dashed off, and only a few goddesses—Alva being one of them—had believed I would succeed.

Not even my mother thought I could do it, but I think it was due to her hope that I wouldn’t find myself on a path that would intersect with my father.

Even blessed Orphia, who had appointed me on this mission, did not think I would return victorious, and she glanced at me now with a rare display of compassion, as if preparing for me to announce my failure.

I stepped forward, the firelight spilling over me, warm and golden. I held Bade’s tortured gaze—he was dying with her, breathing with her—and I reached for the moonstone’s pocket. I called forth Rowena’s letter and held it in the space between us.

“I have a message,” I said. “For Adria.”

The room went very quiet, save for the crackle of the flames and Adria’s sawing breaths. But then she roused the last of her strength and looked at me, and there was such gentleness in her eyes, such gratitude, that I understood why mortal kind had bowed to her.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “Bade…”

I realized she could not move her arm. It sat at an odd angle, broken, and Bade was carefully shifting her so that he could accept the letter, when Orphia swooped in and snatched the parchment from me.

“Mother,” Bade said, displeased.

But the goddess of death was not listening. She tore open the parchment and gazed at the five stars Fate had surrendered, the ichor still wet on the page.

“Of course my sister will give five to my four,” Orphia huffed. “But this is enough. Bade, hold out Adria’s right palm.”

That was her broken arm, and he moved her carefully. Even so, Adria winced, her head lolling back in pain. But once her right hand was upturned, Orphia dipped her nail in her sister’s ichor and drew the five stars Rowena had given on Adria’s palm.

Five stars of Fate on her right, and four stars of Death on her sinister hand.

Adria would be a divine of the High Court. And as Rowena had foretold, she would become the Underling goddess of peace.

Once the constellations were drawn, they melted into Adria’s skin.

She heaved a great sigh and Bade tensed, staring at her face, like he believed she was about to slip away.

But she only fell unconscious. The pallor of her skin began to recede; rosiness bloomed across her cheeks.

Her shadow on the floor grew dark, no longer wavering.

I glanced down and saw the eye in the moonstone had shut again.

“Adria?” Bade rasped.

“Let her sleep.” Orphia folded the parchment and tucked it away into her black robes. “It will take a while for the magic to settle within her. And her wounds are deep.”

The goddess of death soon departed. I imagined she was eager to look at her scrying mirror, to watch the four stars shift from her constellation, and the five stars fall from Fate’s, to meet in a new configuration, igniting a dark patch of sky.

I would have liked to witness this miracle myself, but my desire to remain close to Bade and Adria held me back.

Quiet, peaceful air filled the chamber. I watched, feeling like I was a moth on the wall, as Bade brushed the hair from Adria’s brow.

A touch that was familiar, confident, as if he had caressed her this way many times before.

A strange emotion welled in my throat and hung there as he carried Adria to the back room, to lie her down on his bed.

I wanted to resist my feelings, how they crept over me like moss.

But I bowed to them.

And I wondered how it was possible for my heart to miss something that I had never experienced.

Alone, I sat at the table and began to sift through one of the books, surprised to find its pages brimming with drawings.

Bade’s illustrations, I realized, which were impressive and detailed, depicting an array of weapons.

One in particular caught my attention. It looked like a tall triangle, with a long pole.

Trebuchet was scrawled beneath it in Bade’s horrible handwriting, along with the distance it could catapult rocks.

I studied the trebuchet, reaching for the bread. I broke off a generous hunk and ate as I read about siege weapons and Bade’s insights from battle, my legs pulled close to my chest.

I did not expect him to return to the common chamber. No, I imagined that he had forgotten that I existed. He would want to sit close to Adria’s side, waiting for her to wake, fully transformed. So when he reemerged moments later, I was surprised, rye still in hand.

“Matilda,” Bade said, and I rose, setting the bread aside.

“Is she sleeping?” I asked.

He nodded, and now that his arms were empty and he no longer needed to be her strength, I saw how exhausted he was. How he sagged, like wet rags on a line.

“Here, sit,” I said, pulling out my chair. “I can pour you some wine, and fetch some fresh bread, and—”

“No.”

His command made me pause.

“Come here,” he said, gentler.

I walked to him, and he surprised me yet again when he opened his arms and drew me into them, embracing me tightly. I laid my ear upon his chest, where I could hear the steady thrum of his heart—his fault line, the weak point in his armor—and I closed my eyes.

He held me like a mortal father embraces his daughter, like nothing could tear me from him. It was the familial love I had often seen in dreams and marveled over, because it was absent—or very well hidden—in the immortal world.

“Thank you,” he said, the words rumbling through me.

My throat was too narrow to speak; I only held on to him tighter in response. But my mind was reeling, full of sharp-toothed wonderings.

This is the beginning of the end, I thought . If heartless gods can be made soft by such love, we are all doomed.