Page 38 of Wild Reverence

XXVI

We Must Practice

MATILDA

I walked beside Vincent down the tower steps, my hand in his. I thought he would let me go once we were out of sight of Alyse and the attendants—he seemed stiff, uncomfortable—but his fingers remained laced with mine, warm as banked coals.

“We must convince them,” he said to me, a murmur I almost did not hear.

I looked sidelong at him. “Convince whom of what?”

“That I have loved you a long time. That we have history.” Vincent paused, but I watched his jaw flex. “My people here. My uncle. None of them will believe this is real if we were not already acquainted. I would never marry the first goddess who fell through my window.”

“Wouldn’t you?” I teased him, eager to lift the heaviness of the air.

He only shot a dark glance at me.

“Then perhaps this ruse will not be too onerous?” I continued. “Since we do, in fact, have history.”

“Yes, but as children. As friends. And as you mentioned earlier… I do not know much about you.”

I almost regretted speaking so candidly to him. Weight roosted in my chest like a golden-eyed hawk, and the more I prodded it, the more I realized that I had no desire to expose vulnerable pieces of myself to a friend who had become a stranger, and an irreverent one at that.

“I think,” Vincent began, a waver in his voice, “the most difficult part will be touching.”

“You are touching me now.”

“Only because I am trying to remember the feel of you.”

I was quiet, but his hand squeezed mine.

“When I reach for you, it should feel natural,” he said. “When I touch you, it should be in easy confidence, as if I have touched you many times before. As if you want me to.”

I could not disagree; we felt like two pieces that had fallen out of joint, two threads that had tangled. The space between our shoulders was chilled as we continued to walk, our strides out of tune.

“Then we must practice,” I said. “Until it becomes second nature.”

He must have thought the same, and that is why he continued to hold my hand down the winding stairwell.

Shadows played along the rough-hewn walls, dancing to the light of iron sconces as we passed. The floor was cold beneath my feet. In many ways, this place was reminiscent of the under realm, and I felt oddly comforted by the likeness.

As we left the tower behind, I soon heard echoes from the great hall.

People were speaking, some frantically, as if they were in a hurry.

A child began to wail. A minstrel plucked stray notes on a lyre.

There was the smell of warm bread and roasting meat, and a cacophony of sounds as tables and chairs scraped over the floor.

The sounds of a clan gathering. The last-minute haste of an impromptu wedding feast.

I dreaded it almost as much as the parley on the bridge.

When we reached the rain-smeared courtyard, I gathered up the train of my dress and realized the flagstones were set as a thoroughfare.

A wide road cut through the fortress, leading to the western side of the bridge, and at its edges was a market.

Wooden stalls were boarded up for the night, their bright canopied roofs dripping with rain.

Barrels were set off to the side, as were crates and green bottles of wine.

Empty fowl cages and ale casks were stacked beside the entrance to a forge, which was tucked away from the elements; the only life it held was slowly dying embers.

There was also a garden, where autumnal vegetables grew crook-necked and ripe on trellises and greens sprouted from raised beds.

A perfect place to bury prayers, I thought.

Vincent led me to a narrow colonnade where the stout man Edric, who had burst into the tower keen to imprison me, stood sheltered from the rain, a torch in hand. He was waiting for us, I realized, to escort us to the bridge.

“My lord,” he said with a bow of his head. His thin, fair hair shone like spun gold in the meager light. And then to me, with a carefully guarded expression on his weathered face, “Lady.”

Lady, not Goddess, and at first I was taken aback until I realized this should be my title as Vincent’s wife, and I accepted it with a tilt of my head.

We followed him along the colonnade, where the eastern half of the bridge loomed tall and wide in the distance.

Its tower was studded by firelit windows, its portcullis raised just enough to allow Vincent and me to slip beneath its iron teeth.

Two warriors with torches stood in wait for us, just out of reach of the rain.

“This is the Rye Gate, milady,” Edric said, as if introducing me to a mythical structure with sensitive feelings.

“It was named such because the fortress used to bake bread in this tower, to better feed the sentries on watch. It was also important in case the western side of the bridge fell; this meant we could nourish ourselves on the eastern side. On clear days, you can still smell the faint trace of warm bread. But I digress. Through it the other two eastern towers can be reached, although I am certain Vincent will properly introduce you to them both.” He then glanced at Vincent, and affection pulled through his face, like he was a father.

It made me think of Bade. “This is where I leave you, lord. At your request. The parley has been set on Fury Bridge, and your uncle has already arrived. He waits for you there.”

Vincent was gazing up at the Rye Gate, wistful. A slight wind teased his dark hair. “Thank you, Edric. And yes, I want you to remain here, close to Nathaniel. You know my orders, should this meeting take a turn for the worse.”

Edric drew a breath, as if he was desperate to say more. But he merely bowed as Vincent and I stepped through the first gate. With a boom, the portcullis lowered behind us, until it felt as if we had been swallowed whole, and I studied the gloom of the bridge.

We stood in a covered portion, protected from the weather.

But twenty paces ahead, the roof fell away with the tower, exposing a long stretch of open-air bridge.

The floor beneath my slippers was laid with smooth wooden planks, scarred from seasons of travelers, and there were arched doorways to my right and sinister sides, carved into the moss-laden walls.

“As Edric explained, this is known as Rye Tower,” Vincent said.

He had yet to let go of my hand. “We’ve been here before, in dreams. But you will soon see the eastern half of the Wyndrift Bridge is divided into three parts, which are marked by three sets of towers: Rye, Maiden, and Fury.

The parley will be held at the farthermost section of bridge, which is overseen by Fury Tower.

We’re going to take the sentry’s passage to reach it, to avoid the rain as much as we can. ”

I nodded, faintly remembering these towers.

They had often appeared distorted in his dreams. I followed Vincent through one of the doors, and I was struck by how cold the air turned.

Despite what Edric had said about fair-weather days, I could taste a very faint promise of bread.

A shiver danced down my spine as I kept close to Vincent, stepping in and out of pools of firelight that burned from hanging braziers.

Down we went, taking a narrow flight of stairs until we reached a long straight passage.

We strode past slits of windows, walking through drafts of fresh air and mist from both river and rain.

Warriors in leather armor were stationed at each partition, on guard and armed with longbows and quivers brimming with arrows.

They bowed their heads as Vincent and I walked by, and I resisted the temptation to study each warrior’s face, wondering if they had been the ones to shoot me on my tower climb.

If so, I would have commended them for their accurate aim.

We reached the middle tower, called Maiden.

This was the tower built upon the small rocky island, and I knew the moment my feet touched its foundation that it was enchanted. There was a door to the underworld here, hidden somewhere in her stones. And I wanted to find that threshold, soon.

I let those ambitions simmer as Vincent and I walked by the warmth of a dining hall marked with heraldic banners, an armory gleaming with steel and iron weapons, a circular stairwell that led upward to the barracks.

This tower felt far different from Rye; I knew it was the magic, rising from the under realm.

I had heard of how our world below could affect the mortal one, if humans dared to build structures upon our ley lines.

How enchantment could seep into ordinary things—hearth fires that burned long and bright, and doors that opened and locked of their own accord, and floors that tilted depending on the weather.

Sometimes, mortals saw the enchantment as a gift. Other times, they beheld it as a curse.

All too soon, we left the vibrant hum of Maiden Tower behind. My heart gave a sudden ache, missing the firelight and noise and magic-soaked stones, and it was only the river that churned, deep and dark, beneath our feet.

“I now understand why you dreamt so often of drowning,” I said. “I did not realize your home was built in the middle of the river. I always thought you dwelled on the bank.”

Vincent snorted. “When I was a child, my uncle was determined that my brothers and I would learn how to swim, even in the darkest, coldest of currents. He would tie a rope to our waists and hurl us from the island, and time how quickly we could swim back to him. Finnian and Marcher even struggled, and they were stronger, faster than me. I could never cut through the rapids, no matter how much I tried; Grimald would have no choice but to tow me back in, disappointed in my weakness.”

Anger branched through me, brighter than lightning.

I had to swallow it down, where it felt like embers crackled through my blood, before speaking again.