Page 42 of Wild Reverence

These were gentle, peaceful folk. Men and women and their offspring. Mortals who were skilled with their hands and their minds who wanted to live quiet lives, enjoying each season as it came, savoring time with their kindred. When I looked at them, I did not see warriors.

Three days.

Grimald was not going to retreat. Despite the fear I had seen in his eyes when he realized who and what I was, I sensed he would hold to the bank.

He would be scheming as the next three sunrises and sunsets passed, just as I would be pulling my own strings.

And if he did attack this fortress, as I suspected he would, Vincent’s people would be at terrible risk.

With the trebuchets, there would be no safe place for them to shelter.

Walls would crumble into the river. If both bridges fell, they would be stranded on this island, forced to either swim or drown.

I realized I was responsible when it came to keeping not only Vincent and Nathaniel alive, but these people as well.

They need to leave. They are not safe here.

The words shot through me just as Vincent began to speak, his deep voice filling the hall, resonant as thunder.

“Thank you for gathering and waiting, for preparing such a feast,” he began.

“As you well know, the betrayer and I met on the bridge tonight for a parley. I fear peace is a distant dream, and we will encounter the worst before our lives return to what they should be. But to my own surprise, I was met by more than a traitor who comes to destroy us. An old friend has returned to me, offering to aid us in our time of need.” Here he paused, to glance at me.

His eyes were dark, uncertain, as if he still expected me to sprout wings and fly away. To slip through his fingers like wind.

I decided in that moment that I would prove him wrong.

He was irreverent, expecting only the worst from the gods.

But I would stay and aid him and his people.

I would see them through their darkest era until my guilt was washed away by good deeds like blood from cloth.

Until he realized that he could not cast me in the same mold as Thile, the same mold as Dacre and all the other gods who considered mortals as entertainment.

“This is Matilda of Underling and Skyward,” he continued, “the herald of the gods. She and I… we have stirred up affection from the past and exchanged a vow in my chambers, becoming man and wife. Already, she has saved my life tonight, as her bloodstained dress reveals. She took an arrow that was supposed to be mine, and I only breathe and stand before you tonight because of her. She is your Lady of Wyndrift, and I would ask you to welcome her, to honor and love her as you do me.”

I did not know what I was expecting. But Vincent’s people rose to their feet and began to clap, until the hall was full of the sound of hundreds of beating palms. I could feel the thrum in my chest.

This is not real, I reminded myself, even as Nathaniel brought a gilded chalice of honey mead to us, the broadest of smiles upon his face. This is just a performance. There are no vows binding us.

My mother had warned me that vows could swiftly become shackles. Our myths were tangled and punctured by divines who wooed and then killed their spouses, all to devour magic. That would not happen to me, I had once thought as a child; that would not be the fate Rowena wove upon her loom.

“Drink, lady,” Nathaniel said, handing me the chalice. “Drink, sister. And let the river claim you as its own.”

I took a hesitant sip. The liquid went down, sweet and sharp enough to clear my nose. I felt no different after drinking, and Vincent took the chalice from me next, setting his lips on the gold-chased rim, the very place I had sipped, and he swallowed down the sweetness, his eyes fixed on mine.

Nathaniel took back the chalice, bowing his head and stepping away.

The silence that overcame the hall was heavy enough to crack stone.

It roared through me as Vincent framed my face with his hands.

My heart leapt, half from shock, half from the unexpected touch.

He leaned close to whisper in my ear, “Forgive me, but I must kiss you now. They are waiting to witness it.”

I could not hide my shiver. But nor did I pull away.

We had kissed once, that day long ago in the bracken. How innocent and young we had been, not knowing what awaited us.

This time, Vincent did not miss.

His mouth met mine, chaste and gentle. It was a polite meeting of our lips, but his hands continued to frame my face. His thumbs caressed my cheekbones, as if he was learning the way I felt beneath his touch.

I could taste the faintest trace of honey slipping from his tongue.

He stiffened, his breath catching, when I took hold of his sleeve of chainmail to keep him close as a lover would.

His armor was cold against me, but as his mouth warmed to mine, we seemed to meld together; my softness met the hard planes of his steel.

He wove his fingers into my hair, and it felt familiar, as if we had spent countless hours exploring the other.

It was, of course, all an act.

We drifted apart.

His hands fell away from me, his fingers flexing when they reached his sides.

I did not feel so cold anymore. The shadows did not feel so deep and twisted, the night did not seem so long and strange. The three days to come did not feel so dire.

It must have been something in the honey mead.

The people of Wyndrift became vibrant, alive, cheering over the simplest of kisses, and I reminded myself that I was giving them a performance. Soon, this would end, and I would return to my life, uprooted, wandering the realms with words in my hands.

But I would honor that old blood-smeared prayer of Vincent’s, that weight in my pocket. And I could only hope I did not fail him again.