Page 5 of Wild Reverence

III

Fault Line Doubts

MATILDA

My magic, which I had been waiting to feel surge through me, remained dormant. It lurked like a skeleton, hiding beneath my skin, marrow brimming with untapped power. But my herald-cast stars remained something that I could not command. It was a mystery, and its elusiveness soon worried me.

As a goddess who belonged to the Middle Court—and perched upon its lowest rung at that—I knew I would be nothing like my mother, or Bade, or Phelyra, or Alva, all of whom were members of the High Court.

Either their birth constellations had been intricate and studded with points or they had acquired more power and prestige by slaying, and there was no desire within me to steal.

But I was convinced that the training Bade had promised me by salt vow would coax my magic to the forefront.

In this, I was as right as I was wrong.

Those three days of Bade’s absence passed, long as years.

Zenia had set out a woolen tunic for me to wear, as well as sandals with leather straps that crosshatched up to my knees, and a belt made from frozen cobweb.

She pierced my earlobes with three small moonstones, and the brief throe of pain made me feel like I had cracked the shell of my childhood, ready to step out of it.

With brisk fingers, my mother braided my auburn hair until it hung down my back, thick as rope.

“Do you think Bade will have a circlet from the Poet Queen?” I asked.

“I suppose we shall soon see,” Zenia replied, but she did not sound hopeful.

I greeted Bade with a smile when he arrived.

He merely stood on the threshold, a tempestuous expression skewing his face, like he had smelled something foul. No golden circlet graced his brow. My heart lurched; I thought he was still loath to train me until he looked at my mother.

“We will talk later,” he said to her, half a growl. And then, softer, to me, “Come, Matilda.”

I chased after him through the fog that swirled in the passages.

This is how we measure time below, since we have no other way to see the sky, save for Orphia’s scrying mirror.

When the corridor’s fog rests at low tide, nipping at our ankles, we know that it is night in the mortal realm.

As the fog rises, dawn is approaching, until it reaches high tide at noon, and the fog laps, cool as mist, at our shoulders.

This is why most Underlings are nocturnal, attending court and hosting revelries and carrying out tasks during mortal night, because the fog’s tide is low. We rest when it is high.

I was thankful that the fog was ankle-deep in that moment, or I would have lost Bade as he led me through a maze of passages I had never ventured into before, down curling stairwells lit by torches, and beneath arches crusted with gemstones.

The air turned bitterly cold, and then blissfully warm as we followed the distant clink of metallic pounding.

When we came to a halt, I was panting, intrigued to see that we had arrived at a forge.

“Leave us, Hem,” Bade said to the mortal who was pumping the bellows.

Hem, pale and silver-headed and nearly as tall as a god, ceased his work and bowed, departing through a side door.

I watched him go, blinking in surprise. I had seen plenty of mortals in the hall when the three courts gathered.

Their presence in the under realm was not uncommon.

They served our wine and food. They sometimes danced and joined our revelries and provided entertainment, but I had never seen them labor behind closed doors.

It was a startling reminder to me that humans were beholden to us when they were in our realm.

Some of them chose to dwell in our courts eternally after death, their souls forgoing the risk and judgment of the afterlife’s mists.

But others were vibrantly alive when they left the mortal realm for ours, serving us through vows that were everlasting unless we desired to break them.

“You have a vassal?” I asked, the words emerging like an accusation.

Brave, indeed, for me to pose such a question to the god of war, who had clearly endured a rough three days in the mortal realm.

Bade paused. He had been on his way to the wall of weapons, where swords, morning stars, axes, spears, and daggers were displayed on iron hooks. One sword caught my attention above the others: It had a golden hilt set with a ruby, and a long blade made of glittering obsidian. It was beautiful.

With a scowl, Bade stepped into my gaze, our eyes meeting. The flames from the forge cast his pale face into bronze, illuminating every haggard scar.

“That is a mortal question, Matilda. And one I would not expect of you.”

I laced my fingers behind my back, my own indignation stirring. “Why?”

“Why what ?”

“Why do you have a vassal?”

“Because I wanted one. There. Is that sufficient?”

“Is he alive?”

“Did he look like a shade to you?”

“No.” I paused, knowing dead mortals in the under realm had a soft translucence around them. But I was still learning how to discern such things by sight alone. I also had more to say. “What does Hem do for you?”

“He is a blacksmith. All of this”—Bade indicated the wall of weapons once more—“is his creation. There is no one who can equal his skill. Not even a god. And when I desire enchanted weapons, I commission him to make them.”

My gaze coasted over the steel and iron, unable to see their value until I looked at the obsidian sword again. “Does he ever leave? Does he have kin that he—”

“He has no kindred, and yes, he sometimes ventures through the mortal realm with me,” Bade interrupted. “He came below willingly and thrives here. But even if I had forced him to serve me, it would have been within my right as a god.”

Thoughts darted through me like minnows. A wrinkle formed between my brows, and I was opening my mouth to ask another question when Bade held up his palm, silencing me.

“You are thinking in a mortal vein,” he said, shaking his head in disappointment. “Where is this coming from? Surely not your mother.”

A mortal vein? I pulled my lower lip between my teeth, surprised when I imagined a haggard boy with raven hair. When I remembered how cold and hungry and desperate he had been, chasing after men who I assumed were his older brothers.

The claw of terror, scoring his chest as he had drowned.

Vincent.

I thought it must have been Alva’s mortal dreams, which I enjoyed reading and did not want to surrender.

“I was only curious,” I replied, nonchalant. “My mother has no vassals.”

“Well, you need to cast off such weak thinking.”

“Asking questions about mortals is a weakness?”

“ Feeling for them is,” he corrected.

I forced myself to fall silent, watching as he procured a shield from a rack. But I heard him mutter beneath his breath—“forge help me”—as he returned, sword in one hand, wooden buckler in the other.

“Do you want to be feared or loved?” he asked.

I was caught off guard and hesitated before replying, “Feared.”

“You do not sound convincing.”

“I want to be feared, ” I said, baring my teeth.

“Good.” Bade stared at me for a long moment. “Do you want to be forgotten, your name blotted out in disgrace by gods and mortals alike, or do you want to be remembered?”

“I want to be remembered.”

“Then you must desire to become strong and formidable above all else. Your magic and immortality should be two things no other divine dares to steal from you. Now take the shield. Once you feel confident with it, we will move on to weapons.”

I accepted the buckler, shocked by its weight. It nearly dragged me to the floor, and my thin arm went taut as I slipped my hand through the leather loops, bringing the shield up before me in what I hoped was a valiant effort.

“Hold it up, steady. Yes, there.” Bade shifted the shield slightly, so that its crest blocked my mouth, and its lower edge protected my rib cage.

“This feels strange,” I confessed.

“Since we were speaking of weak points,” he said, glossing over my statement, “there are two places you must physically defend, but only one can end your immortality. Your mind or your heart. The one that becomes your fault line depends on you. Whether you succumb to it will be due to how well your enemy knows you, and if they strike correctly.” Bade tapped the shield right over my neck, then again over my heart.

The wood shuddered in response. I was trembling, struggling to hold it upright.

“Which do you think is your weaker one, Matilda? Your mind, or your heart?”

I wanted to say mind, because it seemed like the less embarrassing of the two. But the word snagged in my throat.

I swallowed it down, where it smoldered like an ember in my chest, and replied, “My heart.”

“Hmm.” A long rumble, like thunder, but it sounded like he was agreeing. “And which do you think is mine?”

“Your mind.”

“Are you so certain?”

“Yes. You are the god of war.”

“And there is no heart in conflict? No feeling, no emotion?”

His queries muddled my convictions. I frowned, uncertain.

“If you are plotting to kill me and steal my magic,” he continued, “you had better know which one is my weakness, because you will only get the advantage of a surprise attack once. Now, ready your shield, and defend yourself from me.”

He swung the sword, and even knowing that it was coming, I was not prepared.

I lurched back, lost my balance, and hit the flagstones with a jar. The shield bruised my shins, but I kept it from slipping off my arm, huddling beneath it.

“Stand,” Bade said, offering me his hand. “Try again.”

I let him draw me up, and he swung his sword. This time, I defended myself, but he shook his head.

“You are only guarding your heart.”

“But that is the fault line,” I argued.

“Yes, and if that is all you are protecting, then I know it is your weakness. Guard both. Your throat, your chest. Make me wonder, make me doubt. Hold the shield higher. Higher, Matilda.”

I tried, but holding the shield up to the line of my lips wearied me, and Bade, while keeping his cuts gentle and easy, was relentless. Soon, the air no longer smelled like the hot iron and smoke of the forge, but sweet as ripe fruit, crushed underfoot.

I glanced down.

The skin of my knees had torn from my frequent falls. My shins were scraped. My ichor ran in slow, incandescent streams along my calves, staining my sandals. Golden footprints graced the stone floor.

“Are you done, then?” Bade said. “Is that all you have?”

I curled my right hand into a fist. My nails, which were long, pointed, and a faint shade of blue, pressed into my slick palm.

If there had been any doubt as to my fault line, there was none now. In a fit of emotion, I threw the shield down at his feet. My skin was hot, glistening. My eyes burned like fire as I turned and sprinted to the corridor, into fog that was waist-high.

Hours must have passed, then, for the tide to have risen so much. Hours of me struggling, flailing, and believing myself weak beneath a shield.

Bade shouted my name. Once, twice. First, he sounded amused, but then his voice became like the pound of a drum, chasing after me with concern.

I ran from him, up the winding stairwells.

I ran beneath gemstone archways, following the trail of rubies that soon gave way to peridot.

The jewels never lied, never shifted. Even when harvested from the earth, they would regrow, like shed milk teeth.

They marked set boundaries within the Underling clan, and while I ran through passageways that were unfamiliar, I knew the map of stones.

Peridot was a westward jewel, and it would branch off into topaz, a northwestern one, and then topaz into moonstone, which marked my home in the northern reaches of the realm.

I realized, with a billow of euphoria, that I had never been alone in the corridors before.

This freedom was like wine, intoxicating, and a wisp of laughter escaped me when I reached the door to my mother’s burrow.

The moonstones in the lintel greeted me with a slight glow, as if pleased to see me.

The enchanted lock knew my hand when I touched the iron handle, the door unbolting with a whisper.

I flew into the firelit chamber only to come to a sliding halt.

My mother was not alone.