Page 3 of Wild Reverence

II

A Salt Vow

MATILDA

I grew quickly, as a goddess must if she wants to survive.

My mother taught me early on that there were some divines who—despite the rare wonder of having a child in their midst—would have killed me to steal the six points of my constellation.

They would have devoured my magic, however humble heralding first appeared to be, and made it their own, sending me to the eternal mists stripped of all dignity and power.

There is nothing more devastating to a god than to lose their power and immortality, for their name to be forgotten and blotted out in disgrace.

Because of this constant threat, my mother’s closest allies became my own.

Bade, god of war.

Phelyra, goddess of revelry and coin.

And Alva, goddess of dreams and nightmares.

I remember how often the four of them gathered in my mother’s burrow at her stone table, sharing wine as they discussed and advised and plotted by the fire.

With twelve winters to my name, I listened as a cupbearer, although most of what they discussed was too intricate and obscure for me to fully grasp.

They would tease me, ruffle my hair like affectionate kindred.

After I had filled their cups with wine—alcohol and poisonous flowers were the only two things we wanted from mortal markets—Alva would secretly slip one of her small scrolls into my hand with a wink, and then the alliance would forget I was amongst them.

I was just a herald, and a god-child with soft skin.

But I swiftly learned that Bade was entangled in a war-weary dilemma, which he never spoke of when the allied group was present. He waited until Phelyra and Alva had departed, remaining behind to solicit my mother’s advice alone.

“She is a thorn in my side,” he confessed, raking a hand through his ash-brown hair.

I had never heard such gloom in his voice, and I remained sprawled on my bed in the nearby alcove, Alva’s scroll of mortal dreams in my hands.

I worried that if I moved, my mother would remember my presence, and send me away.

More than anything, I was curious to know who this thorn was.

“I assume she has outwitted the mortal king yet again,” said my mother with a sigh, refilling Bade’s cup with a dry summer wine. “Tell me her name. You have never mentioned it before.”

“ Adria. ” Bade all but spat it out. “They call her the Poet Queen. She came from nothing, from the muck and mire of mortal society. But she was so clever with her words, moving the illiterate as well as the stoniest of lords’ hearts by rewriting our myths, that they proclaimed her their sovereign to oust the king.

She is garnering prayers, devotion, as if she is immortal.

She is stealing supplicants from me, and my power grows weak because of it.

This war will end if I fail to do something about her.

She has prevailed in the last three battles.

The king and his forces grow more disorganized and chaotic by the day. ”

He tossed back the wine; it dribbled through his beard, dropping like gemstones onto his scarlet robes. My mother was silent, drumming her nails on the table. A sign of her scheming.

I had visited the mortal realm just a few times with Zenia and only with the intention for me to learn where the Underling doors hid.

The secret thresholds that connected our world to the one of mankind, so one day I could come and go with ease.

But this war between the Ousted King and the Poet Queen had been raging for years now.

I had seen evidence of it in the burnt forests my mother and I had walked through, the razed harvest fields, the freshly churned graves, the crumbling castles, and the smoke that perpetually hung in the air.

The destruction seemed to stretch from one horizon to the next, leaving scars upon the earth, and I wondered how Bade, whom I loved like a father, could find pleasure in such devastation.

“Her being a poet is the problem,” Zenia stated, “more than her being a queen.”

Mortal poets, bards, and writers were often a problem for divines.

Such humans were visited by Fate’s owls and granted insight into our legends, our myths, our lives.

And how easily anyone with a quill and ink could rewrite our tales, shifting them to best suit their beliefs, whether they were truth or not.

“Then I should kill her,” Bade said.

“And create a martyr?” my mother countered.

“Her quill would be silenced, and her death could fan the flames of the war, drawing it out for a few more years.”

“Yes, but what remaining prayers that were once written in your name will then go to her. Death changes mortal hearts in ways that are difficult for us to fathom. This you should know, as you were reared by the matriarch herself.”

“Then what can be done?” Bade crossed his burly arms over his chest. The ruby in his right earlobe flashed, reminiscent of a teardrop of mortal blood. “The king will surrender to her soon. A long peace is imminent, for this queen is young by mortal reckoning. I will grow bored, sad, and idle.”

“And we cannot have that,” my mother said.

Bade’s frown deepened. “Are you mocking me?”

“No.”

“Then tell me, Zenia. Tell me what to do. You are winter as you are fire and cunning, and I need your advice.”

I watched from the corner of my eye as my mother rose. Her black dress shimmered as she moved; the net of moonstones sparkled like fallen stars against her dark, unbound hair. She walked to the hearth mantel and took hold of a dagger that hid behind the candlesticks.

“I have heard rumors about this Poet Queen,” my mother began. “She bestows golden circlets upon her council members, and those circlets are like crowns. They represent power and respect. They give voice and prestige to the ones who bear them, even if they are humble folk.”

“Yes, and what of them?” Bade was impatient. “What does this have to do with me?”

“You, my friend, need to earn one of those circlets.”

“She would never give one to a god. Those crowns are granted to people in her council whom she deems good and selfless and willing to die for her cause. And I am not good, or selfless. The last thing I would do is expire for a mortal woman, Zenia.”

“Are you so certain?”

The silence became thick, tense between them.

“Regardless, I think you should meet with this Adria,” Zenia continued. “Alone, in her war tent.”

“I thought you told me not to kill her.”

“Yes. You need to speak with her, face-to-face, and you must woo her.”

Bade’s shocked expression froze on his face, as if my mother had roused her winter magic and touched his shoulder, preserving him in ice.

But then he laughed, a loud guffawing sound that was impossible to hear and not feel catch in your own chest. I had to press my lips together, but it wasn’t to swallow the mirth.

It was to hold my own questions, my own wonders, which this conversation had churned up like an eclipse of moths.

“I have no desire to bed her,” Bade finally said, wiping tears from his eyes. “I have slept with enough mortal women. Ones that have been far more pleasing in looks than her.”

“This is not about bedding,” my mother replied, her cadence sharpening.

“This is about you earning her love and trust, softening her heart. If you succeed, you will have the power and influence to direct her. You can sow discord amongst her advisors. You will be a distraction to her; you can fracture her court, which will lengthen the war considerably.”

Bade became solemn. But I was staring at them now, wide-eyed, no longer trying to conceal my eavesdropping. I watched his throat bob as he swallowed.

“Look at me, Zenia,” he whispered hoarsely. “I am ugly. I am scarred. I wield swords, not words. This queen is a poet. There is no chance of me earning her love in one night.”

“It will take longer than the span of one night,” Zenia replied, gentler. “You must be clever.”

“That has never been my strength.”

“Then be strategic.” My mother extended the dagger to him.

“I can aid you the first few times you speak with her. I will let you borrow cunning from me, for the span of three days. With it, you will know what to say to this queen. After the sun sets on the third day, if you need to borrow more magic from me, you will have to return here, and receive the mark again.”

Bade reached out to accept the dagger. I had never seen a borrowing spell performed before. Most divines refused to grant them—we are such a selfish, suspicious lot—and I sat up a little higher on my bed. But he paused, watching the light dance across the steel.

“What must I pay in order to borrow?” he asked. “I imagine your price is steep, to be so generous with your magic.”

That was when my mother’s eyes met mine.

I flushed and looked down to the ledger of dreams, which I began to roll up in white-hot guilt. My mother did not know Alva lent me her scrolls, and Zenia called to me briskly.

“Matilda? Come here.”

I stood and hid the scroll beneath a blanket, my mouth going dry. But I walked to the table, feeling the firelight trickle across my arms. Its warmth caressed my face. Be brave, I thought, wrestling with the temptation to curve my shoulders inward, repentant.

Bade turned in the chair to look at me, brows arched until his forehead became a map of deep lines.

He had forgotten my presence, tucked away at the periphery.

His eyes—a shade of green that could rival the emeralds that grew in the darkest reaches of the under realm—brimmed with both affection for me and a hesitation that might have wounded me had I not already known that he was not my father.

“Zenia?” Bade said, glancing between us.

“You will make a salt vow to my daughter,” she said. “You will be her loyal ally, and will never betray her, even if you and I should become enemies. Even if it costs you your very life, you will aid her whenever she is in peril, in need. You will teach her how to fight and defend herself.”