Page 45 of Wild Reverence

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The Smoke of Burning Prayers

MATILDA

This river crossing was like the one before it—cold, dark, and mercilessly deep. But the soft bed of silt beneath my feet, the draw of the currents through my hair, and the hum of the water against my skin were becoming familiar to me.

I stepped onto the eastern bank, studying the baron’s camp.

A shiver coursed through me, not from the cold nip of night but because I could see the countless trails of smoke rising from tents and small braziers.

I could smell the fragrance of burned parchment and ink.

The hint of desperation mingled with piousness.

Grimald of Englewood and his warriors were burning prayers to a Skyward divine, and I needed to know which one.

I began my stealthy approach, hidden beneath my cloak.

The moss was soggy, the mud ankle-deep. I wandered the well-trodden pathways, taking note of my surroundings, even the smallest of details.

Warriors were either in their tents, writing on whatever scraps they could find, or gathered in glum clusters around the braziers, decked in mud-splattered armor as they fed prayers to the flames.

Grimald’s grand tent was not difficult to locate. It sat in the very center of camp and claimed the hillock’s crest, affording him flat ground and a view of the river, the Wyndrift fortress, and the valley on the other side, where the destriers grazed and makeshift forges glowed.

I paused in a shadow.

The linen door panels fluttered in the wind, exposing a view of Grimald.

He was standing at a small table, gazing down at what appeared to be a map.

Iron candelabras flickered around him, spilling light over the rugs, the plush bed in one corner, the chainmail and armor that hung from a wooden dummy.

He combed his fingers through his beard before he filled a cup with wine, drinking it down feverishly.

He was anxious, impatient as he waited for the prayers to rise.

I drew closer, keeping to the shadows. I was mindful of the warriors I passed, ensuring that I did not brush their shoulders with my own.

I kept my cloak pulled tight around my tall frame, at last finding a dark place to kneel at the back of the baron’s tent.

I gently cut a seam in the fabric with the small dagger I perpetually kept in one of my pockets, affording myself a clear view of Grimald.

I could see his face, the deep grooves in his brow, the haggard gleam of his eyes. This was him unfortified; he thought he was alone, and he let his fear shine through. My presence on the bridge had unsettled him, but I knew that desperate men took desperate measures.

Whom are you calling to?

Wind gusted through the camp, rattling the tents, feeding the brazier flames, coaxing the gash in the clouds even wider until the stars seemed to gleam with laughter.

It was only the eastern trade wind, but it felt like the prelude to a momentous arrival.

A way to make the mortals shudder and bow before divinity walked amongst them, and I gripped the hood of my cloak, ensuring it remained draped over my hair.

I held my breath, listening to the sounds of the camp. It had fallen strangely quiet.

“My lord, he’s… he’s here, ” a voice panted from the entrance of the tent. “Shall I bring more refreshments for the two of you?”

Grimald turned. His posture went rigid; his hand played with the hilt of the sword sheathed at his side.

“Yes,” he said, but his voice croaked. “ Yes, that will be fine.”

I continued to watch from my vantage point, waiting. Gooseflesh prickled down my arms when I was met by a fragrance of crushed lilies and grass. Of rusted iron and spiced wine that had been warmed over a flame.

I drew a sharp inhale of shock, just as I heard the familiar drawl.

“I hear that you have requested an audience with me?” Warin asked.

He stood at the entrance of the tent, just out of my sight, but I saw Grimald clearly. The baron lowered himself to his knees and bowed his head, letting three long beats pass before he spoke.

“Yes, god of river, iron, and spring. Thank you for answering our plight with haste.”

“Rise,” Warin said, and while he sounded bored, I knew better. He was curious to hear what the baron had to say. “And tell me what aid you seek and why you have summoned me, of all gods.”

Grimald lumbered to his feet, hunched as if his back hurt. But he gracefully motioned to one of the velvet-clad chairs, offering it to Warin.

“Please, sit, lord,” he said, just as his squire delivered a tray of refreshments. “May I pour a cup for you? This wine comes from the southern vineyards of Englewood and is one of the finest vintages amongst mortal kind.”

Warin was quiet as he sat. At last, he was within my view.

“I will take a cup,” he said, his sunset robes so vibrant they made his surroundings appear dull.

Grimald poured two cups, the wine the color of moonlight.

Warin accepted the offering, but he didn’t sip it yet. His deference was likely to make Grimald sweat more, and he watched with hooded eyes as the baron sat in the chair across from his.

“I hear your parley on the bridge did not go according to plan,” Warin said, voice warm with amusement.

“Yes, lord,” Grimald replied. “There was… an unexpected presence. She took me by surprise.”

“Mm. Yes, the herald comes and goes as she desires, but she is rather harmless. She carries love letters and news that is old by the time she delivers it. Things that have happened and poor decisions of the heart. She holds no sway over the future.”

I curled my hand into a fist, until I felt the bite of nails in my palm.

“That may be so,” the baron continued. “But she is now married to my nephew. And I—”

Warin, who had unfortunately decided to take a sip at this very moment, spewed wine into the air.

“She what ?”

Grimald startled. “I… she is wed, lord. To Vincent.”

“And you have proof of this?”

“They seemed familiar with each other. She also took an arrow for him. What goddess would do such a thing, if not for love?”

I watched Warin intently. His emotions burned through him, vivid as the sun, and I recognized that green flash of jealousy, that possessiveness.

He regained his composure. But I knew him well; I could still see how anger pulled the corners of his mouth tight, making him look centuries older than he was.

“You should not be afraid of the herald,” he said again, his cadence polished. “She is young and untried. A mere bee sting when compared to a sword’s bite.”

“But she is—”

“I do not want to talk about Matilda anymore. You are wasting my time. Tell me, now, why you have summoned me here, pulling me away from my hall in the dead of mortal night. What do you want?”

“I want the river,” Grimald said, his voice turning hoarse. “I want Wyndrift and the bridges. My ancestral home. It is mine by right.”

“Then how did you lose it?”

I listened, wearily, as the baron began to explain his predicament once more.

The same words, the same feelings. The same sentiments about the firstborn inheritance law.

How there was a suspicion Vincent was not a Beckett by blood, and gods knew we could not have that.

How Grimald had attempted to take the fortress back ten winters ago and failed.

“Interesting,” Warin said, flicking a moth that dared to swoop too low. “You want my favor, then, when it comes time for battle. But if I support your cause, what will you give me?”

“What is it that you want, lord?”

A precarious question for a human to ask a god.

Warin smiled and leaned closer. “The eastern and western bridges are quite something to behold, are they not? In fact, they disturb the currents of my river, breaking its flow and allowing anyone to pass over my waters.”

“Yes.” Grimald realized his mistake. He suddenly sounded reserved; he drank no more wine, and his spine was ramrod straight. “Although the Lord of Wyndrift can refuse passage.”

“Which is a great power.”

“Indeed.”

“One that many believe a mortal man should not have.”

Grimald was silent. I could see him swallow.

“This is what I want, baron,” Warin said. “This river is mine before it is yours, and you may care for it beneath my watch, but I want to be deemed the keeper of the bridge. Everyone who crosses must pay me a toll.”

“A t-toll, lord? What is your price?”

“For every mortal who passes, I want—” Warin cut himself off, just as a tendril of wind whispered through the torn linen. The gentle gust stirred the maps on the table, threatening to snuff out the candlelight. His eyes widened and his nostrils flared.

I stiffened in dread, realizing what had caught his attention.

The wind had carried the fragrance of my magic into the tent, flinging it like perfume into Warin’s face.

The scent of parchment, ink, cloves. Water dripping down stone, and the smoke of a burning scroll.

Something that was enticing and nameless.

And just as I had recognized him, sight unseen, he recognized me.

His gaze darted around the tent, seeking me in the shadows.

“Lord?” the baron prompted, shifting in the chair. “May I—?”

“Be silent.”

I could nearly hear Warin’s thoughts. He was tempted to call in my loan to expose me. The slippers on my feet. And I would have no choice but to answer him. To stand and enter the tent, these shoes cradled in my hands, revealing my presence.

Run.

My heart lodged in my throat. My ichor began to hum, hot with warning.

Run.

My hesitation cost me.

A second later, Warin’s eyes found the seam in the linen wall.

The sharpness in his expression eased as he snickered. He shook his head, his smile widening until his beauty looked skewed.

I recoiled, even as I knew my cloak concealed me from him. But Warin could still sense me. He knew I was lurking at the edges, watching him, gleaning his words.

“Lord?” The baron glanced around the tent, as if he had also just sensed something uncanny. “Is everything well?”

“All is fine,” Warin said, setting his wine aside with a great flourish. “But I fear we will have to finish this conversation another time.”

“Oh? I hope I have not displeased you.”

“It has nothing to do with you. No, I have been summoned for a hunt.”

Warin’s announcement stabbed me like a shard of ice. He snapped his fingers and a quiver of arrows appeared at his side, as well as his favorite yew bow. The very one he had defeated me with in our challenge, long ago.

Bade had once advised me on when it was time to fight, and when it was time to retreat. My feet ached as I stood; the river slippers felt tighter, heavier.

I broke into a run.