Page 49 of Wild Reverence

XXXIV

Let Them Be

MATILDA

By the time I emerged from the river, the sun was breaking the horizon and the fog was dissipating.

I was wiser this round, approaching not the gate but one of the towers, and it was not Vincent’s, where I feared being shot again.

I was weary of arrows, and I chose Maiden, due to the magic that hummed in her foundation.

Breathless, I scaled up her rocky face only to discover there were footholds hewn in the stone, as if others had climbed this route before me, and I followed that path to a door that was seamless with the wall.

I would have missed it had I not been half an Underling, and inherently good at locating hidden doorways.

I knocked, hanging by my fingertips and toes, preparing to argue for admittance this time.

But the sentry guarding this passage recognized me.

She opened the door without a word and assisted me up, and I found myself standing in a corridor, lit by torch fire, with the aroma of a meal wafting through the air.

We were close to the tower’s heart—its octagonal hall, where the warriors supped.

And I was terribly hungry. When had I last eaten?

I followed the sound of cutlery, the warm scent of nourishment, and conversational tones that could have lulled me to sleep, I was so weary.

But my exhaustion ebbed when I arrived at the hall, pleased to see it was a bright, cheerful place as if it wanted to defy the gloom of possible war.

The walls were clad with narrow tapestries and drying herbs.

Cloaks hung upon pegs. Round tables brimmed with life as warriors sat and broke their morning fast.

It took a few moments before one of them noticed me, and when he did, he nearly spilled his entire bowl of soup. Then silence fell, as if I had cast a charm over them, the warriors gaping up at me with eyes wide with disbelief.

Nathaniel was the first one to stand, shattering the uncomfortable ice. I had not even noticed Vincent’s brother was present, so seamlessly did he blend in amongst the warriors.

“Lady Matilda,” he said, setting his hand over his chest. He wore a burgundy wool tunic and gray trousers. A sword was belted at his side. His boots were polished to a shine, and his brown hair was plaited in a few places, bound away from his eyes. “May I escort you to the castle?”

I stepped deeper into the hall. My chemise was soaked, as was my hair. I dripped water onto the floor as I walked toward the serving ledge, where there was an interior window overlooking the small, steamy kitchen. Even the cook had frozen at the sight of me.

“I was wondering if I might share a meal with you,” I said to the warriors. “I cannot remember the last time I ate.”

“Yes. Yes, of course!” Nathaniel said, lively. But I sensed my request had disarmed him. He had not expected me to say such. “Cook, will you serve our lady a bowl of porridge?”

The cook spluttered—I could not tell if he was pleased or afraid—but he filled a wooden bowl with this food called porridge. Then he dropped some honey in the center, along with a few tender green leaves and late-summer berries that had been preserved in a jar.

“Milady,” he whispered, offering it to me. There was a tremble in his hands, and I smiled and accepted the bowl.

“It smells very good,” I told him. “I have never had this before.”

“Oats. Lady.” The cook flushed, wincing. “I meant to say… they are oats. Grown not far from here, in our fields on the western side of the river.”

“Excellent. I am keen to taste them.” When I turned to find a place to sit, several warriors instantly stood, offering their seats.

I smiled and accepted one of the chairs, and while I stirred the oats, I saw Nathaniel motion to one of the warriors at the door. A soundless command with his hand. The warrior nodded and slipped away while another brought a cloak from the wall, gently draping it over my shoulders.

Tension unspooled from me when I felt the comforting weight on my shoulders, even if the cloak was not mine.

I took my first bite of porridge; it was strange, but good, spreading its warmth through my chest when I swallowed. Someone poured me a cup of barley water, and as the sunlight began to strengthen along the floor, spilling in from the slit windows, conversations resumed.

Nathaniel sat beside me, his bowl of porridge half eaten.

“May I ask where you came from, sister?”

I was startled by the address, but then strangely pleased by it. Sister. It chased away the lingering cold I felt from the water, warming my blood like wine.

“The river,” I answered, and because I did not want to talk about the gate failing to open for me, or Warin and his price of allyship, I said, “Tell me what a day is like on the bridge. Are you here often with the sentries?”

“Yes,” Nathaniel replied, brightened by my interest. “My quarters are in Fury Tower, but we always break our fast here in Maiden. Cook can make anything taste good. But yes, it will be unusually busy today. We will carry on with the watch and our training like normal while preparing the bridge for an assault. A few knights have been asked to accompany the evacuation to Drake Hall, to depart by the ninth bell. My brother has requested I stay behind, so I will. After that, we—”

Nathaniel cut himself off. I did not understand why until I glanced up and saw Vincent standing on the hall’s threshold, gazing at me.

His expression was inscrutable, his posture rigid save for how his chest heaved, as if he had run to the tower.

And he was trying to hide it—the way his breaths flowed quickly—but his face betrayed him.

His cheeks were flushed as if he had been out in the wild.

His hair looked darker than normal, black as spilled ink, and I realized it was just as wet as mine.

Water dripped from the ends, creating constellations on the tunic he wore, and I could only marvel as to where he had been, where he had just come from.

I envisioned him in the river, but then cast that ridiculous image aside.

“Leave us, please,” he said to the room. A gruff request that had me suddenly poised for a quarrel.

The warriors obeyed at once, following Nathaniel’s lead.

They took their bowls and cups, nodding to Vincent as they filed past him.

Even Cook left, until it was only Vincent and me in the hall.

I remained where I was, seated and cloaked, and he came to me, his eyes taking in my rugged appearance.

He stopped on the other side of the table, the silence a thick, living thing between us.

“If you are going to leave and steal off into the night,” he finally said, “then at least wake and tell me.”

I merely stared up at him, surprised by how his voice was like gravel, raking over me. Surprised that he was so upset, that his emotions were churning like a storm within him.

“You forget who I am,” I replied. “As a herald, I come and go as I please. But that is no call for you to accuse me of something I did not do.”

“Am I accusing you?”

“You thought I had abandoned you.”

“I never said that word.”

Now the heat was rising in my face. “I know you are irreverent, but why do you doubt me? I am not here to deceive you or betray you. To steal off into the night. The truth is… I did not think to wake you. But only because I am often alone; I do not report my movements to others in an effort to protect myself.”

Something I said bled the fight from Vincent.

A long sigh escaped him; his shoulders curved inward. He set his hand on his stomach and turned away from me, but his wounded stance did not fool me. I sensed his pain, uncertain if it was physical or if it was radiating from somewhere else, like a memory.

“Forgive me,” he said, the words a rasp. “The sight of you here, after thinking you had drowned, has roused something in me that I have not felt in a long time.”

He had seen it, then. He had seen me go over the edge with Warin. He had heard my shouts for sanctuary and had ignored them.

This should not have meant anything to me. It should not have awakened an ache in my chest. And yet I could not hold his gaze; I looked down into the porridge.

“If you have questions about where I was last night,” I said, my voice dropping to a colder tone, “ask them. I will answer you truthfully.”

Vincent pulled out a chair. He straddled it, sitting across the table from me. He remained silent, as if sifting through his words.

“Were you in my uncle’s camp last night?” he asked.

“Yes.”

I told him the whole of it. The burning prayers that had drawn my attention, the river crossing, the invisibility of my cloak, the words I had overheard between the baron and Warin. I noticed Vincent’s expression shutter the moment I uttered that name— Warin.

“You have met him?” I said, already knowing the answer.

“I have, and he is not welcome here.”

I hesitated before saying, “I spoke with him, beneath the water. And he mentioned a toll to me. Is there any chance of you agreeing to one, even if you counter with different tithes? Ones that are not so steep?”

“No,” Vincent said. “Why would we give anything to a god who has done nothing for us? Who does not protect us or ensure our well-being? A god who is greedy, sly, and cruel, thinking he deserves the toil of our hands, the fruit of our labor? The children we bear?”

His words prodded something in me. A deep, troubling feeling. One that made me look at my fellow divines—my own past decisions—with sharper eyes.

“You disagree, Matilda?”

“No,” I said softly. “He is cruel. He is greedy. He is sly. But he is the same as any other god, above or below. He has his strengths and his powers, but he also has his weaknesses.”

“And are you one of them?” Vincent’s eyes held mine. “Does the god of rivers yearn for you?”

His question struck me in a tender place.