Page 24 of Wild Reverence

XVI

Cut from the Same Cloth

MATILDA

The light was scorching, stealing my breath.

I limped, exhausted, to the water’s edge.

The glittering reflection of the Dark Lake greeted me, a quiet, peaceful place in the mortal world, where the water ran so deep it was always indigo.

The bank was made of slate; the pieces were loose under my feet, steaming from the low-hanging sun.

There was no wind, only thick, humid air, and the northern mountains were a mere haze in the distance, as if they were more mirage than rock.

I had emerged from a door hidden in a boulder, and the slate shifted clumsily as Alva followed me.

“Matilda,” she said, but her voice was a croak.

Glancing over my shoulder, I saw her fall to her knees, covering her eyes with her hands. It was too bright for her; she had no choice but to retreat to the under realm, closing the door behind her so that it appeared once more as a simple crag and not a threshold to below.

I was no longer afraid of her, and the lake called to me.

Sighing, I stepped into the warm water, letting it close over my head.

If I swam deep enough, I could have chased the cold hint of darkness and let the water hide my weeping.

But I refrained, swallowing the tears and breaking the surface with a gasp.

Slowly, I washed away my mother’s blood, until my skin was raw and the last trace of her remained like an oil ring on the water.

Then I floated, conflicted over what I should do next. Could I halt time and remain here, healing my wounds? Could I slip through a crack between worlds, free of gods and men, and let myself sleep away my sorrow?

I held no such power. And time does not stop, not even for a goddess.

Slowly, I glided to the bank, into a patch of lily pads. I stopped when movement caught my eye.

Someone was striding through the trees, approaching the lake. Light and shadows danced over him as he came closer. A Skyward god. And my heart seized; I sank deeper into the water, the long strands of my hair floating on the surface, tangling like a fisherman’s net.

Once I had wondered how I would know him when I finally beheld him.

Those worries were instantly laid to rest when he stepped into the open.

I could not breathe for a moment, revelations singing through me.

Now, I understood why Shale had assisted me when I was fleeing Vincent’s brothers, gathering me up in his wind-streaked hand.

I understood what Rowena had seen when she had first gazed upon my face in her orchard, and what Warin had failed to notice.

I was a striking reflection of my father.

I had stolen the auburn hue of his hair, the fair shade of his skin. His dark brown eyes, the angular cut of his face. His way of moving, which was soundless, graceful.

My breath rippled the water; I continued to study him.

He wore robes that looked dark blue one instant, and violet the next, as if the very dusk had been woven into them.

The edge of his raiment was embroidered with silver thread, dipped in starlight.

A vermillion cloak fluttered in his wake, knotted at his collar, and a crown of golden vines graced his brow.

He had not seen me yet, and I watched as he continued to walk the banks with a frown. It was like he knew there was an Underling door here, and that sent a pang of apprehension through me. Surely, my mother had never exposed a threshold to him…

“Zenia?” he called, his voice pitched deep, polished. “Enough of this game. Why do you hide from me? Why have you summoned me?”

Thile walked past the door in the rock, ignorant.

I relaxed. No, of course my mother would not betray her own clan, exposing an Underling doorway. But then I thought that perhaps she had once met my father here, mingling beneath the shade of the trees, swimming in these indigo waters at his side.

My musings shattered when a frog betrayed me, leaping from a lily pad into the water by my shoulder. Its splash could have been made by a millstone for how loud it was, and I tensed as Thile’s gaze coasted over the lake, his eyes finding me instantly.

Anger marred his countenance. His nostrils flared; his right hand curled into a fist as he lunged my way.

When he splashed into the shallow edge of the water, completely heedless, I bolted away from him to the far side of the bank, tearing through the lilies.

I needed to meet him on equal ground, where I could properly defend myself, and as soon as my feet hit the slate, I called my buckler to my arm and turned to face him.

Shield up and strong, protecting both my fault line and my throat, the curved edge of the wood covering my nose, my lips, all the way down my ribs.

It was just my eyes, wide with fear I could not quell, my hair, dripping lake water, and my sandaled feet that he could see as he followed me.

I was tempted to keep backtracking—I wanted a good distance between us—but I heard Bade say hold your ground and I stopped, rooting myself to the spot, preparing for a blow.

Thile halted in response.

He stared at me with all the fire in the sky, but he drew no sword. No weapon. He was quiet for a long beat, one that made me want to collapse and turn myself into something as unfeeling and insignificant as a shard of slate. For all my defensive stance, I was trembling.

“Who are you?” he finally asked.

“Matilda.” How odd my name tasted in that moment, as if I had never spoken it before.

“Of Underling?”

I bit my lip until it stung.

He must have taken my silence as affirmation, but then his frown furrowed deeper. He was finally seeing it, as if he had just caught a glimpse of his face in a mirror. Wariness shone in his eyes, as well as disbelief.

“Lower your shield,” he said.

Reluctantly, I did, unable to hold his gaze. I stared at the ground, listening to him draw a deep breath.

Thile turned and strode away.

His retreat gave me the strength to look up again. I watched as he vanished amongst the trees, and I winced, uncertain. Dare I follow him?

I stayed where I was, a terrible chasm splitting my chest. Bade had been wrong; I needed an alternative place of sanctuary. And I had begun to envision the river that would guide me to Vincent, thinking I should take my chances with mortal men, when Thile returned.

He was composed when he looked at me this time, stopping in the same place as before.

Coldly, he asked, “Where is your mother?”

“Gone,” I replied. “To the mists.”

Again, I caught him off guard. There was a moment when the sun flared so bright that I thought it would blind me, and the heat grew so intense that it was painful to breathe.

“Who?” Thile said. “Who killed her?”

“Phelyra.”

He fell pensive, as did I. But the light and heat diminished like a knot coming undone, until it no longer bore down on us. His response piqued my interest, and I wondered if he knew Phelyra. Perhaps he was familiar with her, and I imagined he might be the one who indulged in the black market.

“What do you want from me?” he eventually asked, still wary, mistrustful, as if he expected me to demand riches, or power, or a title.

“I would like to go Skyward with you,” I answered. “I ask for sanctuary in your hall. For your protection, as your daughter who has only just learned your name.”

Another lull stretched between us, and I thought he would deny me. There was such a strange gleam in his eyes, like he did not know what to do with me, what to feel when it came to my existence. If I was a boon or a curse.

But truth is often cruel.

Time had been lost to us; I could only wonder who I might have been if the currents had flowed differently. If he had been the one to rear me in the shelter of the sky, and the Underlings had been the mystery.

A cool wind began to blow.

My heart leapt when I recognized it as the eastern trade wind.

“Then come,” Thile said, holding out his hand. “There is a place for you in my hall.”

I stored my shield and took a step closer to him, only to realize the eye was wide open in my moonstone belt.

The Gatekeeper’s eye, which opened when a soul entered the wasteland, heading to the mists.

And I realized, far too late, that I could have chased after my mother’s soul.

I could have walked with her, spoken with her one last time, as she journeyed to the misty gate for eternal rest.

It is a regret I still have.

A bruise that has never healed.

Thile began to fade; dust motes teemed about him, some of them flaring to life as fireflies. I took his hand and held it, white-knuckled, afraid he would let go of me. That he would change his mind and drop me somewhere unfamiliar, abandoning me to the clouds.

I shouldn’t have worried.

His grip was like a vise, unbreakable. And he drew me up with him, into the eastern wind.