Page 51 of Wild Reverence

XXXV

Threads of Crimson Hair

MATILDA

I found the door, tracing it by the cold scent of the under realm. It was not tucked away in a cellar, as I had expected, but located in a small private bedchamber high up Maiden Tower.

No one was here. It looked to be a spare room, perhaps belonging to a sentry who had died, given the dust and cobwebs. There were twin windows carved into the walls and rosy light spilled in with the view, which overlooked Fury Tower and the baron’s camp on the eastern riverbank.

A narrow bed was pushed against one wall, blankets and a wolf pelt draped at the foot of the palliasse. There was a table with beeswax tapers, a small book of ballads, and an empty ewer for washing. A sad wardrobe claimed the other wall, hanging open with a broken hinge.

The door to below had not been used in some time.

I could tell, because it was slow to wake as I walked around the room, my fingers dragging over the ragstone and mortar, seeking a lintel, following that damp, sweet taste of the under realm’s air.

But once the door sensed my magic, it flared to life.

A small, arched doorway, with a handle that was cleverly hidden beneath a loose stone.

I lit one of the tapers, carrying its flame with me, and passed over the threshold.

The door closed with a scrape, enclosing me in shadows, and I found myself standing at the top of a narrow stairwell that wound into deep darkness.

The steps were steep and rough-hewn, the walls studded with small opals that gleamed like teeth as my firelight touched them.

Gossamer hung in thick swaths, their spiders glaring at me as I attempted to pass without breaking their webs.

I took my time descending, my legs burning by the time I reached the bottom.

It was no wonder this enchanted doorway and its stairs had been abandoned. They spilled into a perfectly round den. It was impossible to see the floor; it was ankle-deep in bones and rotting flesh, save for the space in the very center, where a hound was curled up, sleeping.

I paused, staring at the beast.

This hound was on the smaller side, betraying his age as a pup.

But he was still large enough to give me a good fight should I wake him, and I studied his translucent skin, pulled tight over his own bones, and his luminous heart, beating fast within his broad chest. His long limbs and massive claws.

He twitched, dreaming, and his bloodstained mouth curled, exposing a glittering row of canines.

I reached for my cloak draws, which were not there, and found the chain with the blythe flower instead.

I wondered if I should try to poison the beast, knowing it would not kill him but perhaps slow him down should he wake and chase me.

But I let the vial go, feeling it settle against my chest. Something told me I might need the poison for another day, and I began to quietly pick my way through the bones, skirting the hound.

Wax dripped from the taper, burning my fingers as it hardened over my knuckles. But I remained silent and tense, and that is when I inadvertently stepped on a clavicle. It rose upward, provoking a loud cascade of bones.

I froze, my eyes on the hound.

All I could think of were Bade’s scars, the ones created on the day he had stood between me and the hounds. The pain he must have felt, taking those wounds for me.

The sleeping pup drew a deep breath, inflating his sides like a wine flask, but he did not wake. He continued to sleep, to my shock, and I resumed my stealthy walk, making it to the den’s entrance.

I blew out my candle when I stepped into the corridor, gaining my bearings.

I was not far from my own burrow, but as I headed to Bade’s forge, I noticed the fog was gone.

The air hung thick with dust motes and silence.

The only sound came from the fire burning in sconces along the wall, and even it danced low, as if ensorcelled.

The last time I had seen the fog vanish had been when Dacre had been pursuing me with his hounds.

I stopped walking, holding my breath, straining my ears. But there were no howls in the distance. There was not even a rumble beneath my feet, inspired by the eithrals. This realm felt like a tomb, and my heart lodged in my throat as I began to run.

I passed no one—I felt like the only god living—and by the time I reached Bade’s forge, my breaths were quick as the rapids, my sweat was like dew.

What struck me first was that the fire had extinguished.

I was so accustomed to seeing Hem in the forge, illuminated by the never-dying light, pumping the bellows, striking his hammer upon the anvil, the scent of hot metal drying the back of my throat.

The scene before me was quiet; Hem was not here.

Only embers crackled in the fire pit, and I rushed to Bade’s door, relieved to find it was ajar, admitting me with no trouble.

“Bade!” I shouted, flying down the corridor. My voiced refracted around me, or perhaps it was simply the way my pulse sounded in my ears. “Adria?”

I entered their common chamber, my eyes flitting from one wall to the next.

It had been a long while since I had been here, and it had changed.

It was tidy, organized, clean. Books were arranged by the colors of their spines on ledges, tapestries of the mortal world hung brilliant on rods.

Armor and swords likewise adorned the walls, held by iron hooks.

Vines bearing small blue flowers grew across the ceiling, snaking their way in through a crack.

There were mauve rugs along the floor, and two chairs angled before the hearth.

This is where I found Bade, lying prone.

I crossed the room and knelt at his side.

“ Bade? ” My voice flared hoarse as I gripped his shoulder.

It took all my strength to turn him. He was dead weight and heavy as a millstone; a chalice clattered from his limp fingers.

He must have been holding it when he had fallen—the wine was a scarlet pool, staining the floor beside us—and I was fully prepared to see his fault line breached, his heart cut open.

But there was no wound upon him. He was not dead but sleeping. His face was smooth, as if he dreamt of good things. His breaths followed a rhythm that was measured and deep.

I remained on my knees at his side, gazing down at him, incredulous.

“Wake up,” I ordered, shaking him again. “Bade? Open your eyes!”

I smacked his face until my hand stung, until my fingers left a blush behind on his cheeks.

I shook his shoulders, harder, as if we were on storm- tossed waves.

I brought my lips to his ear, to speak insults directly to him— wake up, you old, grouchy, ugly, did you hear me say old, god —but nothing could rouse him.

Fear sawed through me like a rusted blade.

My ally was slumbering, captive to enchanted sleep. And I did not know how to wake him.

I rose, my feet tingling with needles, and walked into their adjoining room.

Their bedchamber, which had become a cozy resting place.

Here I found Adria, also beholden to sleep, sitting at a desk.

She had been writing when the slumber had caught her; loose parchment was spread around her, and a quill was in her ink-stained hand.

Her cheek was pressed to the page of an open book.

Candles burned faithfully around her, gilding her face as I approached.

“Adria?” I said.

I dared to touch her shoulder, to give her a gentle shake. But she was just as Bade had been—lost to dreams. My first piercing thought was Alva , and I gritted my teeth, preparing to fly to her burrow to interrogate her, when two things caught my eye.

The first was elegant writing on a scrap of parchment, wrinkled as if it had been read many times, or tucked away in a pocket. I leaned closer to read.

I pray that my days will be long at your side. Let me fill and satisfy every longing in your soul. May your hand be in mine, by sun and by night. Let our breaths twine and our blood become one, until our bones return to dust. Even then, may I find your soul still sworn to mine.

I swallowed when I realized Adria had written this passage, perhaps when she was still mortal. When she had been the Poet Queen, falling for the god of war. I wondered if these were the vows she had exchanged with Bade.

I was about to turn away when the second thing caught my eye.

It was my name, also written by Adria’s hand.

Matilda of Underling

Matilda of Skyward

Beneath it, she had drawn my six-point constellation.

The stars of a herald, the flight of a kestrel.

I would not have thought this odd, but she had inked another six-point constellation directly beneath it.

Upon first glance, it looked like a random collection of stars, but as I leaned in closer, I saw that they were a perfect reflection of my stars, as if two parts had come together to make a whole.

Twelve points, she had written beneath them, counting the stars above as well as the ones below. And then, soul-bearer.

I stepped away, my mouth dry.

What did this mean? I remembered the story my mother had once told me of Orphia.

The goddess of death had seen something odd in her scrying mirror the day she had first read my horoscope.

But I had not thought of that bedtime tale in years.

I did not have time to question it now, and I left Bade and Adria’s burrow, my fear like heated oil, pouring over me.

I followed the roaring silence to the great hall, gooseflesh prickling my skin when I found the entire court gathered, slumbering at the trestle tables.

Awed, I wove through them, gazing at my fellow Underlings dressed in their finest raiment, their hair adorned with ribbons and gemstones.

I studied the feast set along the table spines, half eaten and now cold, and the candles that had burned down to stubs, drawing moths from the shadows.