Page 33 of Wild Reverence

XXIII

Iron and Stone and Gold

VINCENT

I should have known it was her the second she tumbled in through the window. I should have recognized her when she looked at me with those doe-brown eyes, but the truth was I had not dreamt of her in a very long time. I had not thought of her in years.

Despite this, I should have known that one day she would return to me, unexpectedly and unceremoniously, as only a divine could do. I should have known she would stumble upon me again, just like she had that day in the bracken.

The moment stretched long, tenuous between us.

My throat closed as I continued to stare at her; she had only become more beautiful, more powerful with time.

A rose that had grown thorns. It felt as if I were standing on sand.

That if I moved too quickly—if I touched her—the ground might shift beneath me.

My suspicions returned as they did with anything that concerned divinity.

The dirk gleamed on the floor; I should have held on to it.

“Why are you here?” I asked. “What do you want with me?”

She did not have a chance to answer. The door finally blew open, exposing a frantic Edric and a cadre of knights, all with swords drawn.

“Lord?” Edric stepped into the room. His gaze swung to Matilda before flickering to the blade that was within easy reach of her hand. “Reports from the bridge say an assassin has entered through the window. Shall I take her to the keep for questioning?”

I glanced back to Matilda, delaying my reply to see what she would do.

But she was no woman, no mortal; she was a goddess, and threats of the keep did not frighten her.

I also realized that she was bleeding. I could smell her ichor, a fragrance that enticed me.

It was like mist on the moors. Sweetened smoke.

There was an arrow in her back; the fletching trembled when she breathed. A second arrow had sunk into her calf. She seemed unbothered by them, almost like she had forgotten they were there.

If she had been flesh and blood and doomed to die, those shots would have wiped her clean from the tower wall. She would have drowned in the river by now.

“Lord,” she said to me in a husky voice. “May I speak privately with you?”

I was tempted to say no. No, I do not want to be alone with you. No, I do not want to hear what you have to say after all these years of silence. No, I do not want to return to childhood, when I felt safe with you.

But gods, how there was a small part of me that longed to.

I realized that I was vulnerable when it came to her. And I could not afford any other weaknesses, not with my uncle on the riverbank, keen for my blood.

“Edric?” I said, my eyes remaining on Matilda. “Tell Alyse to bring up some wine, as well as some bandages. I will handle this alone.”

“You do not wish for us to take this woman to the keep?”

“She is a goddess. This is Matilda, herald of the gods.”

Edric went very still, as did the other knights. He was reverent, as were most of the people of Wyndrift, who buried prayers in the garden for Under

lings or burned them in hearth fire for Skywards.

Who told myths to their children at night, and who lived bound by respect, keen to one day see a god.

To speak to them. To welcome them into their halls, to sup at their tables.

To sleep with them in their beds. To gain their favor in any possible way.

“Goddess,” Edric said, a bit hoarser now, pressing a palm to his breast. His rugged face, which looked perpetually windburnt from all his hours out of doors, flamed a bright scarlet.

In all my life, I had never seen the man blush.

He had been a mercenary in his younger years, before he came to Wyndrift to serve my father as the captain of his guard.

There was not much that knocked him off-balance—no sword, no woman, no treachery—but I suppose a surprise visit from a goddess was something he had never expected to experience.

“Forgive me,” he continued, “for the interruption. But may I ask why you have come?”

Matilda began to rise, gracefully. My hand twitched at my side, but I did not move to assist her. In fact, I glanced away, desperate for something else to hold my attention. To keep my eyes off her wet garments and the rosy flush of her skin.

“I have a message,” she replied. “For your lord.”

She had yet to say my name. I continued to stare at my armor, how it shined on the rack, waiting for me to don it. But I had an inkling why she was here. What kind of message she carried for me.

“Leave us,” I said to Edric.

He bowed, herding the remaining knights from the room. Once we were alone, I picked the dirk up off the floor and indicated one of the leather chairs before the hearth.

“Would you like to sit?” I asked after an awkward lull.

Matilda nodded and took the chair, perching upon its edge as if she were a bird, prepared to take flight at the slightest motion. I set the dirk down to yank a tunic from my wardrobe, pulling it quickly over my head, and I realized why she had sat in such a way—the arrows.

She drew up her white dress all the way to her knees.

Water beaded her fair skin, and her feet were clad in the strangest of shoes, a patchwork of iron and moss and pebbles and reeds.

But I did not have time to study the oddity further; her motion snagged my eyes as she yanked the arrow from her calf.

More ichor trickled down her leg, pooling on the floor. Arrow set aside, Matilda took the hem of her cloak and pressed it to the wound, and I was uncertain what to do. I felt like an intruder in my own room, standing and watching her.

“I will need your help removing the other one,” she said, glancing up at me. “It is deep, and I cannot reach it.”

“Fine,” I said, the word thick in my throat.

I moved to stand behind her, and while I had a clear view of the arrow, embedded directly below the eave of her shoulder and protruding beneath the drape of her cloak, the back of the chair was in the way.

“It would be better if you lay down. And removed your cloak.”

Wordlessly, Matilda did as I asked.

She untethered her cloak and draped it on the arm of the chair before she melted to the floor, prostrate. And if I had thought I could merely stand above her and tug it free, I was wrong. I needed to straddle her.

“In order for me to remove this, I need to… be closer to you.”

“Yes,” she said. “Go ahead.”

My boots bracketed her waist. Slowly, I eased down, until I sat on the curve of her back.

Her body gave beneath mine, heating the inside of my thighs.

This was not the first time we had touched; I inevitably reminisced on that long-ago day in the ferns, when I had held on to her, desperate to keep her close.

No eithral could tear her from me, or so I had believed.

But I was still surprised by how soft she felt.

How warm she was, as if she were spun from the same flesh, the same bone as I was.

Of course, she was not. She was forged from iron and stone and gold. From secrets I could never taste, from places I could never tread.

“Why are you hesitating?” she asked.

“I am not.”

“Are you worried about hurting me? It is just an arrow.”

“And yet you have bled all over my floor.”

She fell quiet but turned her head. I could see the proud lines of her profile, gilded in firelight. Her hair was a tangled mess around her; I felt her breathe, deep and steady pulls of air.

I cried out to you, and you never answered.

Why did I care? That solstice was a long time ago; I had been a naive boy writing to her, thinking she would be my salvation. I took hold of the wooden shaft, drawing on all the anger, the sorrow, the fears I had buried for the past thirteen winters, and I yanked the arrow free.