II
A Salt Vow
MATILDA I grew quickly, as a goddess must if she wants to survive.
My mother taught me early on that there were some divines who— despite the rare wonder of having a child in their midst—would have killed me to steal the six points of my constellation. They would have devoured my magic, however humble heralding first appeared to be, and made it their own, sending me to the eternal mists stripped of all dignity and power.
There is nothing more devastating to a god than to lose their power and immortality, for their name to be forgotten and blotted out in disgrace.
Because of this constant threat, my mother’s closest allies became my
own.
Bade, god of war.
Phelyra, goddess of revelry and coin.
And Alva, goddess of dreams and nightmares.
I remember how often the four of them gathered in my mother’s burrow at her stone table, sharing wine as they discussed and advised and plotted by the fire. With twelve winters to my name, I listened as a cupbearer, although most of what they discussed was too intricate and obscure for me to fully grasp. They would tease me, ruffle my hair like affectionate kindred. After I had filled their cups with wine—alcohol and poisonous flowers were the only two things we wanted from mortal markets—Alva would secretly slip one of her small scrolls into my hand with a wink, and then the alliance would forget I was amongst them.
I was just a herald, and a god-child with soft skin.
But I swiftly learned that Bade was entangled in a war-weary dilemma, which he never spoke of when the allied group was present. He waited until Phelyra and Alva had departed, remaining behind to solicit my mother’s advice alone.
“She is a thorn in my side,” he confessed, raking a hand through his ash- brown hair. I had never heard such gloom in his voice, and I remained sprawled on my bed in the nearby alcove, Alva’s scroll of mortal dreams in my hands. I worried that if I moved, my mother would remember my presence, and send me away.
More than anything, I was curious to know who this thorn was.
“I assume she has outwitted the mortal king yet again,” said my mother with a sigh, refilling Bade’s cup with a dry summer wine. “Tell me her name. You have never mentioned it before.”
“Adria.” Bade all but spat it out. “They call her the Poet Queen. She came from nothing, from the muck and mire of mortal society. But she was so clever with her words, moving the illiterate as well as the stoniest of lords’ hearts by rewriting our myths, that they proclaimed her their sovereign to oust the king. She is garnering prayers, devotion, as if she is immortal. She is stealing supplicants from me, and my power grows weak because of it. This war will end if I fail to do something about her. She has prevailed in the last three battles. The king and his forces grow more disorganized and chaotic by the day.”
He tossed back the wine; it dribbled through his beard, dropping like gemstones onto his scarlet robes. My mother was silent, drumming her nails on the table. A sign of her scheming.
I had visited the mortal realm just a few times with Zenia and only with the intention for me to learn where the Underling doors hid. The secret thresholds that connected our world to the one of mankind, so one day I could come and go with ease. But this war between the Ousted King and the Poet Queen had been raging for years now. I had seen evidence of it in the burnt forests my mother and I had walked through, the razed harvest fields, the freshly churned graves, the crumbling castles, and the smoke that perpetually hung in the air.
The destruction seemed to stretch from one horizon to the next, leaving scars upon the earth, and I wondered how Bade, whom I loved like a father, could find pleasure in such devastation.
“Her being a poet is the problem,” Zenia stated, “more than her being a queen.”
Mortal poets, bards, and writers were often a problem for divines. Such humans were visited by Fate’s owls and granted insight into our legends, our myths, our lives. And how easily anyone with a quill and ink could rewrite our tales, shifting them to best suit their beliefs, whether they were
truth or not.
“Then I should kill her,” Bade said.
“And create a martyr?” my mother countered.
“Her quill would be silenced, and her death could fan the flames of the war, drawing it out for a few more years.”
“Yes, but what remaining prayers that were once written in your name will then go to her. Death changes mortal hearts in ways that are difficult for us to fathom. This you should know, as you were reared by the matriarch herself.”
“Then what can be done?” Bade crossed his burly arms over his chest.
The ruby in his right earlobe flashed, reminiscent of a teardrop of mortal blood. “The king will surrender to her soon. A long peace is imminent, for this queen is young by mortal reckoning. I will grow bored, sad, and idle.”
“And we cannot have that,” my mother said.
Bade’s frown deepened. “Are you mocking me?”
“No.”
“Then tell me, Zenia. Tell me what to do. You are winter as you are fire and cunning, and I need your advice.”
I watched from the corner of my eye as my mother rose. Her black dress shimmered as she moved; the net of moonstones sparkled like fallen stars against her dark, unbound hair. She walked to the hearth mantel and took hold of a dagger that hid behind the candlesticks.
“I have heard rumors about this Poet Queen,” my mother began. “She bestows golden circlets upon her council members, and those circlets are
like crowns. They represent power and respect. They give voice and prestige to the ones who bear them, even if they are humble folk.”
“Yes, and what of them?” Bade was impatient. “What does this have to do with me?”
“You, my friend, need to earn one of those circlets.”
“She would never give one to a god. Those crowns are granted to people in her council whom she deems good and selfless and willing to die for her cause. And I am not good, or selfless. The last thing I would do is expire for
a mortal woman, Zenia.”
“Are you so certain?”
The silence became thick, tense between them.
“Regardless, I think you should meet with this Adria,” Zenia continued.
“Alone, in her war tent.”
“I thought you told me not to kill her.”
“Yes. You need to speak with her, face-to-face, and you must woo her.”
Bade’s shocked expression froze on his face, as if my mother had roused her winter magic and touched his shoulder, preserving him in ice. But then he laughed, a loud guffawing sound that was impossible to hear and not feel catch in your own chest. I had to press my lips together, but it wasn’t to swallow the mirth. It was to hold my own questions, my own wonders, which this conversation had churned up like an eclipse of moths.
“I have no desire to bed her,” Bade finally said, wiping tears from his eyes. “I have slept with enough mortal women. Ones that have been far more pleasing in looks than her.”
“This is not about bedding,” my mother replied, her cadence sharpening.
“This is about you earning her love and trust, softening her heart. If you succeed, you will have the power and influence to direct her. You can sow discord amongst her advisors. You will be a distraction to her; you can fracture her court, which will lengthen the war considerably.”
Bade became solemn. But I was staring at them now, wide-eyed, no longer trying to conceal my eavesdropping. I watched his throat bob as he swallowed.
“Look at me, Zenia,” he whispered hoarsely. “I am ugly. I am scarred. I wield swords, not words. This queen is a poet. There is no chance of me
earning her love in one night.”
“It will take longer than the span of one night,” Zenia replied, gentler.
“You must be clever.”
“That has never been my strength.”
“Then be strategic.” My mother extended the dagger to him. “I can aid you the first few times you speak with her. I will let you borrow cunning from me, for the span of three days. With it, you will know what to say to this queen. After the sun sets on the third day, if you need to borrow more magic from me, you will have to return here, and receive the mark again.”
Bade reached out to accept the dagger. I had never seen a borrowing spell performed before. Most divines refused to grant them—we are such a selfish, suspicious lot—and I sat up a little higher on my bed. But he paused, watching the light dance across the steel.
“What must I pay in order to borrow?” he asked. “I imagine your price is steep, to be so generous with your magic.”
That was when my mother’s eyes met mine.
I flushed and looked down to the ledger of dreams, which I began to roll up in white-hot guilt. My mother did not know Alva lent me her scrolls, and
Zenia called to me briskly.
“Matilda? Come here.”
I stood and hid the scroll beneath a blanket, my mouth going dry. But I walked to the table, feeling the firelight trickle across my arms. Its warmth caressed my face. Be brave, I thought, wrestling with the temptation to curve my shoulders inward, repentant.
Bade turned in the chair to look at me, brows arched until his forehead became a map of deep lines. He had forgotten my presence, tucked away at the periphery. His eyes—a shade of green that could rival the emeralds that grew in the darkest reaches of the under realm—brimmed with both affection for me and a hesitation that might have wounded me had I not already known that he was not my father.
“Zenia?” Bade said, glancing between us.
“You will make a salt vow to my daughter,” she said. “You will be her loyal ally, and will never betray her, even if you and I should become
enemies. Even if it costs you your very life, you will aid her whenever she is in peril, in need. You will teach her how to fight and defend herself.”
Bade was quiet, but his jaw flexed, as if he were grinding his teeth.
“This is much to ask,” he said after a long moment, pinning my mother
with a fiery stare.
“Is it?”
Bade heaved a sigh, turning his gaze to me. At once, the flames dimmed within him as he held out one of his hands. I took it, tentatively. I could not explain the lump in my throat, or why my eyes stung with tears. But there seemed to be a bruise within me, staining my ribs violet with each breath.
I longed for a father, even though I existed in a realm where fathers often killed their daughters and daughters their fathers, all to steal magic.
But I wished that it had been Bade, even with his warmongering ways. I wished that he had not hesitated when it came to my mother’s price.
I wanted someone to claim me.
“The truth is, Matilda,” he began, “this will be a difficult vow for me to uphold. You are young; we do not know whom you will become yet. What if you grow up to despise me? Would you still desire me as an ally? What if you become a goddess who yearns for peace and strives for it? How could I make a good ally to you then, hmm?”
“I understand,” I said, although my voice was muffled. It felt like I was speaking through a strip of cloth. “I would not want you to make a difficult vow.”
That was another thing my mother had taught me, alongside the location of Underling doors. That vows were binding. Never to offer or accept one unless I was certain it was not a snare. Wedding vows often fell prey to such danger.
Bade squeezed my hand; it was part comfort, part apology as he looked at my mother again. “She is too soft for this,” he said.
“Then make her like iron.” Zenia’s impatience clipped the words. “She will not have the long, languid childhood most of us did. She must grow up quickly.”
Bade returned his attention to me. “Is this what you want?”
I nodded, even though I was not certain what I wanted yet, and what this hardship would comprise. But then I thought, If I am strong, then I will no longer live afraid of being slain, my magic stolen. I can move through the realms, fearless. I can visit the Skyward halls, where my father dwells.
I would never have confessed this to my mother, but she was right about two things: I needed an ally of my own, and I could not afford to be soft.
“Very well,” Bade said, surrendering. He loosened his hold on my hand.
“Bring me some parchment, an inkpot, and a quill.”
I rushed to do his bidding, hurrying to the shelves hewn into the wall above my bed. By the time I delivered the materials, my mother had cleared the table, and I set everything down before Bade, curious to see what came next.
“I will write my vow twice,” he explained, dipping the quill into the ink.
“I will utter it, and then I will eat one, and you will eat the other.”
“Like a prayer?” I said.
“Yes, only it will not be as sweet, or so bitter. You would not believe
how terrible some prayers taste.”
“Then what will this vow taste like?”
Bade began to write, then paused. “You will have to wait and see.”
I did just that, watching as he wrote his vow on the scraps of parchment.
His handwriting was nearly illegible, riddled with ink blots that drew curses from him, but when I squinted, I could make out the words.
“Here, this is yours,” he said gruffly.
I took the parchment by the edge.
Mortals who worshipped Underlings wrote their prayers and buried them in the soil. Those inked prayers then found their way to us below, as if following the gnarled roots of a tree down into the darkness. The folded parchment would then bloom through the cracks in our burrows or fissures in the hall, or beside the vines that grew along corridor ceilings. I had watched my mother eat prayers before—she was a divine who attracted supplicants like a bowl of honey does flies—and her prayers always arrived through the crack beside the hearth. There were two prayers waiting there now, which she was in no hurry to devour and answer.
“As I recite, you need to follow along on your scrap,” Bade explained.
“This is to ensure I do not speak false to trick you. That I utter the vow in
entirety.”
I nodded, unable to speak.
“‘I, Bade of Underling, god of war, swear a salt vow to Matilda, the herald of the gods. I will be her loyal ally and will never betray her. I will aid her whenever she is in peril or in need. I will instruct her on how to fight and defend herself, until she becomes like iron. Should I break this vow, she has the right to end my immortality, and my name will be
disgraced.’”
He spoke the vow word for word.
When he ate his scrap of parchment, I ate mine, and the vow tasted like the brine of the sea. Like a night laden with tears. Like drops of sweat provoked by a merciless midday sun.
I scrunched my nose as the parchment melted on my tongue. Other than a slight shiver, I felt no different than I had before the vow. I tucked a wily thread of hair behind my ear, blushing with disappointment.
Bade must have read my face. He gave a wry snort and said, “I warned you it would not be sweet.”
The vow had been swallowed, and at last my mother was satisfied.
She took the dagger by its bone hilt, and I watched as she cut her palm.
Ichor, thick and brilliant as molten gold, welled across her skin. Unhurried, she dipped her finger into the blood, waiting for Bade to stretch out his own hand.
She drew nine points upon his broad palm, then connected them with lines. It was the constellation for cunning, magic she had stolen by killing a fellow divine whose name was no longer spoken, whose immortality had been snuffed out like candleflame.
Bade stared down at the drawn constellation as the blood dried. He curled his fingers inward, concealing the shimmer of gold as he bowed his head to my mother.
“The mark will last for three days,” Zenia said. The wound in her palm was knitting itself together—I knew it would not leave even a trace of a scar behind—and she set her dagger near the hot embers of the fire. “But do
not let the Poet Queen see it upon your palm, or she will know you are
wielding enchantment.”
The borrowing spell was complete.
Bade stood to leave but paused on the threshold to speak to me.
“Three days, Matilda,” he said. “I’ll return then. Be ready for me to train you.”
“I will,” I said, my heart quickening, eager for the challenge. I waited for the door to latch behind him before I turned to Zenia. “Why is it called a salt vow?”
She took her time answering, stoking the fire wordlessly with her magic.
Coppery light crept to the corners of the chamber, and the spiders winked from their gossamer, high above. Within one of the webs, a moth had been caught, and her wings were furiously pulling against her doom.
“It is called such,” my mother said, “because it demands effort, and often great sacrifice.”
That night, when my mother went to court, I curled up beside the fire and finished reading the scroll Alva had slipped to me earlier.
It was one of her many ledgers of mortal dreams, and they encompassed everything I could have ever imagined. Dreams that were ridiculous, humorous, peaceful, terrifying. For Alva used her magic to visit mortals in their sleep, watching what unfolded in their minds. Later, she wrote down the sequences in vivid detail.
It was our secret, I thought, luminous. Not even my mother was privy to the dreams, and this is when I began to see Alva as my ally, even without a salt vow.
Within that particular scroll were many dreams and many nightmares, but there was one that I read again and again as the fire began to burn low.
There was a boy with hair black as a raven’s wing, his eyes gray as the winter sea. He was tall and lean for his age. He was made of sharp angles, hollow cheeks, and tenderhearted sorrow, as if he were hungry and anxious but had grown despite the hardship, like a weed emerging through cracked
limestone. He had survived on the leather-bound books in his strange, circular room and the sunlight that was so generous in the mortal realm.
Suddenly, the walls dissipated into smoke around him, and he was standing in a courtyard, although the edges of the dream were blurred.
“Wait!” he shouted, chasing after two men on horseback. “Finnian?
Marcher, wait, let me come with you! I want to fight for the Poet Queen.”
But when he reached for the hilt at his side, the scabbard was empty.
When he glanced down, his feet were bare and bleeding. His clothes were tattered rags, and he shivered, vulnerable.
One of the men on horseback—he was young and broad with tawny hair and eyes like tarnished gold—glanced back with a laugh.
“You are too young, Vincent. Wait here. We will return soon.”
Vincent did not wait.
He chased after the horses until he was ankle-deep in a river. The water was a cold shock. The currents tugged at him like persistent hands, dragging him down to his knees, climbing up to his jaw.
“Don’t leave me!” he screamed, but his voice was gone.
Water filled his mouth, withered his lungs.
He was drowning. He tried to scream again but Finnian and Marcher never looked back, never saw him struggle, and he was sinking like a
millstone …
Alva’s record ended there.
He must have woken from his nightmare.
Vincent, I thought, tasting his name in my mind.
I set the scroll aside, but the dream had chilled me. I do not know if it was Vincent’s desperation upon being left behind, the mention of the Poet Queen, or the sensation of drowning.
But I thought of Bade and the nine points drawn in gold upon his palm.
With my eyes closed, I traced the constellation for cunning on my own hand, the stars intricate, shaped as an arrow strung tight on an archer’s bow.
I thought of the salt vow he had given me, and how it had tasted like tears. I thought about the Poet Queen he had gone to deceive and woo, and I wondered what it would feel like to have a thorn in my side.
“Vincent,” I whispered to the fire.