Page 60 of Wild Reverence

XLII

The Woes of First Love and Smoke

MATILDA

I remained close to Nathaniel’s side that last day of peace. He was confident as he oversaw the preparations, and the air thrummed with activity as warriors hauled crates of stone, quivers of arrows, and casks of oil to all three towers—Fury, Maiden, Rye—readying the bridge to be stormed.

It was not only that, I soon learned, but we also needed to prepare for the river to rise.

The warriors laid down sack after sack of sand, and collected every spare bucket to bail out water should we need to.

It had happened a few times before, Nathaniel told me grimly.

The river had swelled high enough to flood the dungeons and the lowest levels of the bridge’s towers.

“I would not think Warin would flood it too high,” I said. “Given it would drown the baron’s men on the banks?”

Nathaniel nodded, but he prepared for it all the same.

I was suddenly very thankful Vincent had heeded my advice to evacuate most of his people.

Hyacinthe found me some armor, at Nathaniel’s behest. I had never worn armor before—a steel breastplate with intricate filigree, gauntlets, leg greaves, a helm with a plume of golden horsehair, and chainmail that was cold and heavy, glittering when I moved.

It seemed more of a burden than protection for me; the breastplate would prevent me from wearing my belt. I had decided to only wear the mail, greaves, and gauntlets, keeping the helm in the crook of my arm—more than enough, in my mind—when I approached Nathaniel.

“Did the armor fit poorly? My brother will have my head if he finds something as small as a scratch on you.” His eyes shifted to my feet, which were still clad in Warin’s river slippers. “And where are the boots? Too large, were they? Hyacinthe thought so. I can find you another pair.”

“I prefer to wear these shoes. The breastplate will only slow me down.”

“And the sword and shield?”

“I have my own.”

Nathaniel sighed, as if he wanted to argue.

But his attention was called away, and I persisted in trailing him, keeping him within my sight, always, save for only a handful of private moments.

I continued to trace Vincent’s request like it had been carved into my arm: Remain at my brother’s side.

Those words kept me tethered, and I did not attempt another venture into the realm below to see if the Underlings still slumbered. To try to rouse Bade, one final time.

As the day wore on, Vincent had yet to return.

He and Hugh’s warriors could not even be spotted from the tallest parapet of the castle, and I tried to quench my wondering.

I resisted the temptation to use the Skyward sight and fly with one of the birds to locate them, knowing it would split my attention, and I needed my focus to be here, where I stood.

But my worries began to gather weight. Where was he? If something happened to him, would I know it? Would I feel it? If he died, would the words I still held of his melt away like blood from a wound? Would I always bear the scar of them—a request that I could not answer?

The last of the sunlight vanished.

No fires were lit in the towers as night descended; everyone’s eyes needed to remain sharp in the darkness, untouched by the light.

I sat beside Nathaniel in the shadows, listening to the far-off susurration of the river.

Edric had been appointed to lead command at Rye Tower, and Hyacinthe at Maiden.

We were ready, and yet I felt as if I had failed them in some way.

I had no allies to bolster us; it was simply me, a herald.

A goddess as green as summer grass who carried words.

What good would I be to them once the fighting began?

I traced the lines on my palm with my thumbnail, pressing down until my fingers curled inward.

“Of all the dreams,” Nathaniel said to me in a quiet voice, “why Vincent’s?”

I was pensive, thinking of how to answer. Nathaniel was patient. The silence between us did not feel strained.

“He chose me first,” I replied. “He dreamt of me before I knew of him. His soul found mine before I even knew how to look for his.”

“Perhaps they will one day sing a ballad of the two of you. If so, remember that I said it first here.”

I smiled, but it felt heavy. Nathaniel must have seen the worry on my face.

“He will be here, soon,” he said. “I’m sure it is just a minor delay.”

“Yes. You are probably right.”

There was another beat of silence. I was content within it; I did not need to fill the space with my voice, but then Nathaniel leaned close, our shoulders brushing, and asked, “What is it that you love most about my brother?”

I shot him a curious glance. He was etched in the moonlight that spilled in through the window; half of his face was shadowed. In this way, he looked more like Vincent. I could see very fine resemblances between them.

“Are you testing me?” I asked.

“No. Not at all. I am simply protective over him, I suppose I would say. I… do not want him to get hurt again.”

“Again?” My heart surprised me by quickening. I felt like I was running down a hillside. “Was there another? His first love?”

“There has been another, yes. One other woman, but he did not love her.”

Nathaniel continued to stare at me, as if willing me to read his mind.

I found that I could not; I did not know what he was trying to convey to me, or why my skin felt hot.

Why was mortal reasoning so baffling? Their view of the world was different from mine; they prided themselves on details that I seemed doomed to overlook.

“I think, Matilda,” he finally said, his gaze drifting back to the window, “that he would call you his first love. When he could no longer find you in his dreams… he was broken for a while. He began drinking those tonics, so he would not remember them anymore—the good dreams, as well as the terrible ones. He ceased speaking of you, but I knew that he missed you. That he still thought of you, often.”

I could not reach him, I wanted to insist, but the words were thick in my throat. Guilt unfurled in my chest.

“I know you are a goddess,” he continued. “You are the herald of all three realms, and you have homes and kin elsewhere. I know after this battle is over you will leave again for a little while. Maybe for a long while. But I am worried for my brother.”

“It would never be my intention to hurt him,” I said.

“I know, I know, ” Nathaniel agreed, a hearty murmur. But a deep furrow pulled between his brows. “And yet… if you could promise me one thing, I would ask you to be gentle with him. To not steal his heart again if you plan to leave us.”

I was not certain how to answer. I did plan to leave, and I did not foresee myself returning here, at least not to dwell beneath this roof.

“I will not steal anything,” I said after a long moment, when my heart finally returned to its slow, dependable pace. “I am here to protect him. To protect you. Your people, your ancestral home.”

Nathaniel only nodded, but his eyes seemed troubled, clouded by worry, when he looked away from me.

The hours dragged by, silent, unmarked by the fortress bells, as if time had completely stalled that night. When I shifted to one of the windows, gazing out onto Fury’s empty bridge, I saw that the moon was setting.

It was that raw, bone-aching stretch before sunrise.

When I exhaled, I could see my breath.

And on the other side of the riverbank, the baron’s darkened camp began to flicker with motion. Steel reflecting starlight, chainmail illumined by the moon. They were beginning to gather, to organize, and I felt like I had seen this all before. An illustration in one of Bade’s war tomes.

I knew this story, and how it ended.

I prepared myself for blood.

When Nathaniel rose from his seat, I followed. We slid our helms over our faces; I recalled my old scarred shield upon my arm. Torches were lit at his command, archers finding their places. We left the common room behind and took the stairwell up to the top of the tower.

The eastern horizon blushed with dawn, and with the light came Grimald and his men, marching onto the bridge.

I spotted the baron swiftly. He wore his best armor, sitting astride a dapple-gray horse at the front of the line.

Behind him was a row of knights on their destriers, multiple pages bearing the banner of Englewood, and then came the lines of foot soldiers with a shield wall, protecting the men who were pushing a massive battering ram.

They stopped when they were halfway across Fury Bridge, and Grimald walked his horse forward. He gazed up at Nathaniel on the parapet.

“Yield this bridge and this fortress to me,” he called to us. “Or else your lives are forfeit.”

Nathaniel was quiet.

The wind roused, blowing from the east. Clouds scrolled overhead, as if they were keen to witness the skirmish.

The sun had fully broken the horizon, the same bloodred it had been upon setting, spreading rosy fingers across the sky.

And the river flowed onward, oblivious and babbling, as if the world was not about to quake around it.

“Wyndrift is not yours to claim,” Nathaniel replied. “We do not yield to you.”

Grimald expected this answer, perhaps he even craved it, and he raised his hand with a flourish. His knights parted behind him, letting the battering ram through. As the shield wall moved with it, Nathaniel called out the first command.

I remained where I was at the parapet, close behind him.

The air stirred around us as warriors moved, taking up rocks, hurling them below.

I watched as the stones dented bucklers, knocked men off their feet, drew blood.

But the battering ram did not waver. It continued its forward procession until it came to a halt, right before the portcullis.

Nathaniel called out another order.

His archers shot a cascade of fiery arrows, and while most lodged into the shield wall, some snuck through the gaps.

There was a chorus of painful screams; I could see a shudder run through the baron’s men, but they still held firm, unflappable, waiting for the order to heave the battering ram into the gate.

Why is he delaying? I thought, the helm cold against my cheeks.

Grimald’s men were in position, the battering ram was ready. And yet there was a span of eerie silence, as if the Englewood forces had been overcome with ice, freezing in place.

Nathaniel ordered another round of arrows. They whizzed through the air, thudding into wood, bodies, the bridge. Again, the shield wall shuddered but did not panic.

Rocks were hurled.

Then came the order for the oil to be spilled, to be followed by fire.

My eyes remained on Grimald. The baron lifted his hand again, but nothing happened.

Nathaniel leaned forward. I was close behind, as if I felt the pull of a rope. My heart skipped when I tasted a hint of magic. Magic that was not mine but was all too familiar. Rusted metal and spring moss and violets, wild on a vine.

Warin.

I had not noticed him until then, had not seen how he blended in with the row of knights. He sat upon a bay horse, resplendent and observant, his face partly hidden beneath his own helm.

My body went tense.

I waited for the flood, for the waters to rise, as all of us had feared and prepared for.

But the river did not swell. Instead, white smoke surged upward from the gate.

There was a hiss and a crackle of magic, which made the archers and rock hurlers stumble back, coughing into their sleeves.

I remained rooted, even as the smoke danced around me, burning my eyes.

When the air cleared, I realized the smoke was all that remained of the portcullis.

The iron had melted away beneath Warin’s command, exposing Fury’s wooden gate.

That gate was formidable; it was made from the strongest of oakwood, but it was also fortified by iron, held in place by iron hinges and chains…

A call to heave, to push broke the ice on the bridge.

The baron’s men began to swing the battering ram. Reeling it back, swinging it forward with mesmerizing rhythm. There was no portcullis to deter them. And when the ram met the wooden gate, I closed my eyes.

Shale! I called to him, knowing he was close. I had felt him in the eastern wind, blowing over us. Shale, come! Aid me.

But the air had gone thick and heavy. There was no wind, not even a promise of a gale. Nothing that could meet the baron’s men with force, pushing them back.

I felt the gate fall, thunderous, without a fight, stripped bare of its iron.

Fury Tower trembled as the baron’s men spilled into its shadows.