Page 25 of Wild Reverence

XVII

Buried Prayers

VINCENT

I thought of her, often.

I thought of her when I sat in the hall with my father and brothers, and when I practiced sparring in the courtyard.

When I stood on the parapets and watched the river flow, and when I passed my uncle in the corridors, wincing when he clapped me on the shoulder with a wink of his beady eye.

When I was supposed to be listening to my lectures on geography, arithmetic, poetry, warfare, alchemy.

Astronomy. I thought of her when I lay down at night.

Matilda, however, had vanished.

She no longer met me in dreams, despite my longing to see her again.

The white owl likewise ceased visiting my windowsill, and I realized Matilda must have been connected to the bird in some way.

I did not know yet that the creature was one of Fate’s pets.

I was no poet, no bard, and yet the owl had still chosen to bring me a gift.

It had seen our fates, entwined on the divine loom, and had introduced Matilda to me long before I was destined to meet her.

And with Matilda’s absence—her threads unraveling from mine—the nightmares returned.

They were so frequent that Finnian told me to pray to Alva for relief.

We were not a devout family, having shed whatever esteem we had once harbored for the gods when my mother had abandoned us to become a Skyward vassal.

But it had not occurred to me until my brother’s half-hearted suggestion: I now knew Red’s true name— Matilda of Underling —which meant my words could reach her despite the distance between us.

I began to write to her.

Dear Matilda.

I buried my prayers in the garden, letting the soil cover my inked words.

Dear Matilda.

The parchment disappeared, and I imagined it reaching her somewhere far beneath my feet, in a world I could marvel over but never fully know, never fully see.

Dear Matilda.

I wrote to her, again and again, but she remained absent and quiet.

Soon, spring gave way to summer, and summer to autumn. Autumn to winter, and I became another year older. And then another year, and another, until I hardly remembered that boy who had once embraced her in the bracken. Who had once dared to kiss her lips.

I wrote my last letter to her when I was sixteen.

It was the winter solstice, a bitterly cold night.

I crawled through the blood-soaked hall, one hand pressed to the gaping wound in my side, holding myself together.

I crawled past Finnian’s corpse, his eyes open and blank, and then Marcher, his body prostrate.

I crawled past my father, his neck shorn to the bone, and then down the corridor, knowing that if my uncle or any of his men saw me, they would realize I had lived and would grant me a proper blow.

But Death seemed to overlook me that dark night.

I made it to the seneschal’s empty chamber. Parchment, quill, ink, all on her desk. I could hardly breathe as I reached for them. My insides felt irrevocably torn; my pain was unbearable. Why was I still alive? I should be dead, beside my brothers.

Trembling, I wrote: Matilda, help me.

I used the last of my strength to crawl to the garden, leaving a smear of blood in my wake.

I could hear my uncle and his men celebrating—ale tankards pounding on tables and women who were weeping and a drunken, bawdy song.

The sounds pierced me like arrows. Outside, it was quiet, snowing; the ground was frozen.

I dug a small trench and buried the words, and there I remained, lying on my stomach, the numbness creeping over me.

Despite her absence the past three years, I still had faith she would come for me.

“Matilda,” I whispered. And then, “ Red. ”

I need you.

She had always found me when I needed her in the past, melting through nightmares. But that had only been in my mind. All the time I had spent with her? It had not been real, and the truth met me like another sword in my side.

This solstice was not a dream, as much as I wished it were. My uncle’s betrayal was not a feverish imagining. It was a moment that had cleaved my world in two.

I waited for her, but there was nothing but the drifting snow to answer me. Snow and darkness and heartache, and one of my father’s men who had survived the assault.

Edric pulled me up.

When I cried out, he covered my mouth with his hand.

“ Quiet, ” he whispered, haggard.

He carried me from shadow to shadow, all the way to Maiden Tower on the bridge, which was the only part of our fortress that was imbued with magic.

It was here that Alyse had escaped with my youngest brother as soon as the betrayal had unfolded.

It was here my father’s remaining knights and warriors had found shelter, preparing to take back the castle from my uncle.

It was here that the craftspeople had found refuge, escaping the worst of the killing.

It was here, sprawled on a plaid blanket, that the last of my faith died.

The gods did not care what happened to us. They did not answer when we called upon them.

“Let me die,” I whispered to Alyse.

She held a cloth to my stomach, staunching the blood. But her eyes were like flint when she looked at me.

“No,” she said. “You must live for your little brother. You must become Lord of Wyndrift now.”

I breathed.

I exhaled.

I survived that treacherous night.

And I did not think of Matilda again. At least, not for a very long time.