Page 82 of Wild Reverence

LXII

Supper and Obsidian

VINCENT

I had always suspected there was a door to the under realm hiding somewhere in Maiden Tower, given how magic seemed to sprout like weeds from its cracks.

It was within this tower that food never went cold, wet garments dried themselves as soon as they were peeled away, and fire burned faithfully from the torches, extinguishing only when darkness was desired.

It was why I found myself here on the last day of the mourning sennight, preparing for the worst to come at dawn.

I stood in the armory, taking inventory of our remaining weapons.

Long swords, axes, morning stars, pikes, crossbows.

A few had gone dusty and dull with disuse.

I set aside the ones that needed to visit the forge for sharpening and repair, my mind distant until I felt a cold prickle at the back of my neck.

Someone was in the doorway, watching me.

I had come to recognize the way air shifted around divinity. It was like an owl in flight, cutting through space without sound.

I braced myself and turned to see the god of war, framed by the humble lintel, half of his face in shadow. He wore freshly polished armor and a red cloak. A sword with a ruby hilt was sheathed at his side, and he smelled like spiced wine and smoke and something else that I could not name.

I should have been surprised to have yet another god within my fortress, unannounced. They were like cats, I thought, drawn to the people who liked them least. But I was too weary for it, and I sighed, thinking this tower had done it. That secret Underling door.

“Forgive me for disturbing you,” Bade said after a tense moment. “But I am here to see Matilda.”

I stared at him a beat too long. He shifted his weight, glancing over the weapons I had set aside.

“Is she here?” he added, a touch impatient.

“No, she is not,” I replied.

His frown deepened. “Where is she?”

“Skyward. Her father summoned her to court, four days ago.”

“Four days ago…” He mulled over that, but I could sense his worry. “When do you expect her to return?”

I dropped my gaze. “By this evening.” She had told me she would return before the mourning ended, and so I continued to hope. I continued to watch the wasted door of Fury Tower. The currents of the river. My own tower window.

Bade sighed. I expected him to leave and so I returned to my task, selecting another great sword whose edge needed to be whetted. The god of war remained where he was, stubborn as a shadow, and I felt my own worry begin to unfold, crowding my chest like too many crows perched upon a branch.

What does a lord do when an impatient god unexpectedly arrives at his hall and hovers?

You invite him for supper and hope he will decline.

To my distress, Bade accepted.

Cook had outdone himself with the battle-eve meal, roasting fresh trout from the river with cloves of garlic, stewed yams, chard, and bread that was pitted with soft cheeses and herbs.

We ate in the hall of Maiden Tower, and Bade was reminiscent of a mountain, taking up the space of two chairs.

My warriors gave him a wide but respectful berth, their eyes helplessly drawn to him as he ate.

Some of them remembered Bade from Adria’s war, and I could see a mix of emotions in their faces—anger and distrust as well as hope and excitement.

I had no choice but to sit across from the guest I had invited, despite my meager appetite.

We were eating an early meal, and sunset was still a good bell away.

Amber light streamed in through the window at an angle, catching armor and sword hilts and rings on fingers.

I could smell the musk of the river mingling with fish and sweat and burning leaves.

The room felt cramped but whole, as if we grew in strength by brushing elbows.

“This is good,” Bade said, but his scowl only deepened, as if our food being delicious was a terrible disappointment.

“Yes. Cook is skilled.” I refilled his goblet with honeyed ale. “You are welcome to as much as you want.”

Another round of uncomfortable silence. I did not know what to say to Matilda’s ally.

As a boy, I had loathed him for stealing Adria away from us, although the older I grew the more I understood why.

She would have died if he had not ushered her below.

We were destined to lose our queen, no matter which way the war ended.

“You have known Matilda since you were children?” Bade glanced up at me.

I blinked away my shock. That was when I realized… he was not only here to see Matilda, he was striving to know me as well. He was sitting at our table, eating our mortal food, suffering great discomfort in hopes of finding some common ground with me.

“I have,” I replied. “Although I dreamt of her before I ever met her in person.”

“You dreamt of her?”

I nodded. “Years ago, I suffered from nightmares. I would find myself drowning in this river almost nightly until she appeared and pulled me out of it.”

Whatever I had said gave Bade pause.

I told myself to be polite, and continued, “I heard that you trained her how to fight.”

“Yes.” Bade’s voice was distant. He broke another piece of bread, but he did not eat it. “She tested me, quite a few times.”

I smiled in spite of myself. “I can imagine.”

He began to regale me with one such story. Of their very first training session, when Matilda had grown annoyed with him and had hurled her shield at his feet and run through the under realm.

“I learned that day she is swift,” he mused fondly. “Not even I could catch up to her.”

I knew of that swiftness—how she had run over the moors, evading my brothers and their horses—and my own story was on the tip of my tongue. I was about to tell Bade of it, that first time I had seen her face-to-face, when the tower bell began to ring.

Instantly, the mood in the hall became solemn. We froze, holding our breaths, listening to the bell and the distant shouts from the bridge.

“What is that?” Bade asked. “Has the battle started?”

“No,” I replied, standing. “An eithral has been spotted.”

Bade followed me to the open air of Rye Bridge.

The light was faltering. We stood in a world that was painted in shades of gray, and the air had gone so cold that frost began to gleam over the wooden planks.

“There she comes,” Bade said, spotting the wyvern first. He pointed to the northern sky, where the eithral was nearly seamless with the low-hanging clouds. It was her wings, catching the fading sun like a prism, that gave her away. “Your warriors should take cover.”

Most of them had; they knew what to do without my command. All of us had grown up beneath the threat of eithrals, and to remain still and quiet had been ingrained within us.

But then a shout broke the heavy silence.

It came from Rye Tower, and I glanced up, seeing movement on the battlements.

I had nearly forgotten about Hugh and the ballistas and the five bolts of obsidian.

His warriors were preparing the ballista on Rye, which meant they were likewise setting the bolts to fire from the three western towers.

And while I had agreed to this… I could not deny that my stomach gave a lurch in response.

It was one thing to imagine shooting a wyvern from the sky. It would be another thing to see it happen.

“What is this?” Bade asked, glaring at the motion on Rye. “You should command them to be still. They will draw her to us.”

I did not answer him. My eyes were set upon the eithral, coming ever closer, her wings stirring up a stinging gale. But then I came to realize two things: the air was clean and crisp, like the first snowfall, and someone was riding upon the wyvern’s back.

Matilda.

My world narrowed to that one vibrant point. Her cloak, her hair were like flame against the wash of white and gray. I tried to breathe but could not. My heart was in my throat.

“Hold your fire!” I shouted.

My command sliced through the air, and yet the warriors on Rye did not heed me. They were aiming, overcome with excitement. Their shouts were frantic as the eithral came into range, moments away from gliding over us.

“Hold!” I screamed at them. “ Hold! ”

But it was like I stood in a nightmare. My voice felt ripped up by the roots, my feet were too heavy to move. Bade took hold of my shoulder; his nails bit into my skin as he, too, recognized Matilda on the eithral’s back.

The ballista fired.

The obsidian bolt whirred through the air, cutting the wind with a hiss.

I was screaming, but I could not hear my own voice. It was like ash in my mouth. I could only hear my pulse, throbbing in my ears, filling my chest with a roar.

The bolt struck the eithral’s broad chest.

She jerked and released a cry that made the world tremble. Colors bled away like rain. The bridge shuddered. I fell to my knees, but I was not watching her wings or her body, careening in pain through the air. I was watching Matilda, how she struggled not to fall.

Bade was shouting at me, but his voice was distorted, like we were underwater.

He was shaking me, but I could do nothing. I could do nothing but gasp as the eithral carried Matilda over the water, losing height as her wings struggled to beat.

Together they plummeted, fog swirling in their wake.

They went down on Grimald’s side of the river.