XXIV
A Mere Fancy
MATILDA We did not speak for a few moments afterward.
I had lied; I did feel pain when the arrow came loose—a sharp sting that made me wince. I wanted to hide my response, this weakness that welled from a mere arrowhead, but I think he felt it, and Vincent surprised me by pressing down on my wound with his palm.
Beneath his hand, my pain dissipated. The torn vessels knit back together within moments, halting the flow of my blood. The ragged edges of my skin remarried into something smooth, leaving not even a hint of a scar behind.
I exhaled, deeply, and Vincent shifted away. My skin felt cold without him; I had not realized how much I had been soaking in his warmth, like a serpent does the sun’s, until he was gone.
Rising, I returned to the chair he had offered, gooseflesh dancing down my arms as I sat.
“Are you cold?” he asked, but he was not looking at me. He was washing my blood from his hands in a basin, the reflection of his face shining in an oval mirror. There was a furrow in his brow, as if he were worried, or anticipating something terrible. As if my presence here made him uneasy.
“No,” I said. Another lie, although I had been born in the coldest reaches of the earth, embraced by stone and jewels that had never known sunlight. I had dwelled in the expanse of the sky, walking through villas haunted by
snow clouds and riding trade winds that had been colder than ice. Why, then, did the mortal realm sink into me with such bite, with such teeth?
Vincent wiped his hands dry and knelt to toss another log on the fire.
His face turned brilliant in the sudden wash of sparks and light, his hair so black it boasted the blue sheen of raven feathers. I was studying him when a rap broke the silence, and he stood to answer the door.
An older woman waited on the threshold, bearing a tray. She was dressed in simple gray homespun; a cream linen mantle was draped over her head, but a few curls of white hair framed her ruddy face. And while she did not reach Vincent’s shoulder in height, her aura was one of authority, and I recognized it, instantly. She was a matriarch in some way, as Orphia
was below and Rowena was above.
I decided to take care around her.
“Wine and bandages, as you requested, lord,” she said, taking note of me sitting in the chair, drenched to my bones. The two discarded arrows and pools of ichor, glimmering on the floor. “And perhaps I may find the lady something warm and dry to wear, before she catches cold?”
The gods did not catch cold, and nor did we wear layer upon layer of clothes like mortal kind did. But I sensed how reluctant Vincent was to look at me, dressed in a sheer gown.
“That would be very kind,” I said with a bow of my head.
Vincent took the tray from her. “Thank you, Alyse.”
Shrewd, protective Alyse shut the door, and Vincent returned to the fireside, setting the tray down on a low-slung table. The bandages had come too late, but he poured us each a chalice of wine, and he at last met my eyes as he extended the offering to me.
“So,” he said, settling into the chair across from mine. “You have a message for me?”
Our gazes aligned. My heart quickened when I thought about the words I carried in my pocket, inked by Death’s hand. For some reason, I did not want to surrender them just yet, because that would mean I had fulfilled the assignment. There would be nothing else to keep me here, and I wanted to linger, if only for a little while longer.
“I do. But before I deliver it to you … may I ask why a war camp has settled on the eastern bank?”
Vincent smiled, but it was one I had never seen on his face before. Wry and jaded. It made him look far older. “Thirteen years since I last saw you, and you want to speak to me of war?”
I bit the inside of my lip. Little did he know that the god of war was my salt-sworn ally, and I was more powerful than the little goddess he had once dreamt of.
“Is that a foolish question?” I asked, keeping my voice calm despite the heat that was simmering in me. “Then let me say that I have done many foolish things as a goddess.”
One of them being him, and his dreams, which had irrevocably softened me. Because here I was, sitting with him when I should be below, preparing for Dacre and Enva’s wedding feast. Here I was, remaining behind for something that had died, long ago.
“I never claimed you were foolish,” Vincent said, his tone sharpening.
“But surely you can understand my confusion, Matilda. You were in my life until you suddenly were not, and while most of the gods deem us entertainment, a mere means to get what they want, I never thought of you
in such light.”
“What, then, did you think of me?”
“You were my friend,” he said, almost a whisper, as if it hurt to speak.
“That is the only reason why I am giving you the time of day, allowing you to sit here in my chambers. I am making an exception for you.”
“You would have imprisoned any other divine if they had tumbled in through your window?” I could not hide my shock. It rippled through me, like rings on a lake. “You would have plunged that dagger into their heart, their throat?”
“I certainly would not be sitting here, sharing my best wine with them.”
His irreverence made me feel colder, not because I wanted his worship —I had never desired it—but because I was suddenly fearful for him. He was not wrong; most gods viewed humankind in lackadaisical ways. They were fragile like milk teeth; they died with ease, and there was always
another to fill the gaps their death made. Souls were constantly in the throes of death and birth, a cycle that we watched with numb hearts.
But humans who hated us, refusing to kneel or pray or acknowledge our powers, often painted a target upon themselves. How much could a god bestow on a hardened heart before it shattered? It often became a game, an obsession, until the mortal either crumbled in surrender or died long before
their time.
I did not want that for Vincent.
Let him grow old and wise. Let him find love, and kinship, and gentleness in this dark, bleak world. Let him slip beneath immortal notice like a shadow.
I wanted those things for him. But I also could not ignore the drum of worry in my chest. Already, he had drawn the attention of Fate and Death.
Warin now reigned over rivers, and was no doubt lurking about the banks, waiting for the worst to unfold. Bade, who should also be aware of the gathering war camp, was far below. And yet here I was, tossed into the midst of a tangled weaving, uncertain what would happen when the sun rose.
Vincent did not know what to make of my silence, of how I stared at him as if I had never seen him before. He raised the chalice of wine to his lips, and I was struck by a sudden thought.
“Wait,” I said, rising in such haste I spilled my own wine. It stained my dress like mortal blood; the air was redolent with hints of currants, dark cherries, oakwood.
He froze as my fingers closed over his, grasping the stem of his cup.
“What is it?” he asked, the words clipped in irritation.
“Let me drink first.”
Vincent stared at me, his breaths shallow, and all I could think was this: The rain was still pattering on the windowsill. The darkness had gathered like silk; it felt soft and thick, shielding the moon, the stars, the distant glimmer of Skyward halls. Somewhere, deep in the clouds, thunder rumbled. Another goddess, mourning Enva’s departure for the under realm.
“You assume it’s poisoned?” he asked with a chuckle, incredulous.
“Why do you think I am here?” I whispered in reply, holding his gaze.
When the clouds break, Orphia had said. But I did not want to take any chances.
Vincent released the chalice. I lifted it to my own lips, sniffing the wine before I took a long draw. Poison would not kill me; it would only loosen my tongue to speak truth. In any other company, I would have hesitated. I would have refused to put myself in such a vulnerable position.
The wine was rich, bold. I held it in my mouth, sifting through its layers.
I could taste the season these grapes had been harvested in. The year, which had been seven summers ago. Fruit that had been harvested late beneath low gray clouds. A flood that had turned up golden silt from the river.
I drank, feeling its fire, and knew it was safe.
“Here,” I said, giving him the chalice. “There is no poison.”
“You swam through the river, climbed my tower in the rain, suffered two arrows, only to be cupbearer to me?”
Slowly, I resumed my seat, my cheeks warm. “I am only taking precautions. The message I have for you? It was written by Death’s own hand.”
“Ah, yes. Has she found my soul worthy enough to gather up now?”
I frowned at his sarcasm but recalled Orphia’s words. The hollow ring of them. He was mine to take before one dark solstice night, but I refrained, curious to see who he would become.
I had seen a scar winding its way across Vincent’s abdomen. A blow that should have killed him.
I reached into one of my moonstone pockets, my fingertip tracing the pointed edge of Orphia’s letter, which sat beside the wrinkled, blood- splattered prayer. Matilda, help me. I let that desperate plea rest—I would carry its weight forever in guilt—and retrieved the message from Death. I set it on the table beside the wine and bandages.
My delivery had been fulfilled, and the magic released me with a sigh.
Vincent glanced down at the parchment, but he made no movement to accept it.
“You have come to tell me something I already know,” he claimed, softer now. “It is my uncle who has gathered forces on the eastern bank, preparing to take this fortress from me. I’m not surprised to hear that Death
stalks close tonight, although poisoned wine? I do not think my uncle would have wanted such an end for me. He is a coward, but he needs to witness my death, to ensure it happens this time.”
“Your uncle?” I echoed, a sour tang creeping up my throat. “Grimald?”
“Yes.”
“I thought—”
“That he once lived here with us? That he fought for Adria at our side during the last war? He did. But that was before the solstice we call the Dark Winter happened. The night when Grimald betrayed us.” Vincent paused, gazing into the fire, as if he did not want to relive these memories.
“It is strange how it feels like it only happened yesterday, and yet … my father and brothers have been gone for a decade. Sometimes, it feels as if we lived in another life entirely.”
I was quiet, listening, as he began to tell me of the Dark Winter.
The people of Wyndrift had gathered in the fortress hall for the winter solstice holy day—feasting, drinking, dancing, reveling. They had soaked up fireside myths, listened to chansons, sealed their mouths with holy kisses beneath hanging greenery. Vincent’s youngest brother, Nathaniel, had gone to bed early from a stomachache, Alyse whisking him away like a hen. She was not only seneschal, I learned, but akin to a grandmother to the Beckett brothers, whose mother had vanished not long after Nathaniel’s birth. I realized now why Alyse had been protective when she had delivered the wine and bandages, but I pushed that conclusion aside as Vincent told me how he and his two elder brothers, Finnian and Marcher, and their father had sat on the dais, warmed through from spiced wine and flutes and merry songs.
That was when his uncle had stood from one of the trestle tables, lifting his goblet as if he were preparing to toast.
What followed was surprise, betrayal, and spilled blood. A third of the knights of Wyndrift broke their oaths and turned on their lord, slaying Vincent’s father and brothers. A sword had been driven into Vincent’s side, and he had collapsed on the floor, pretending to be dead.
“What happened next?” I asked.
“I waited until they were preoccupied with celebrating their victory,”
Vincent said. “When they weren’t looking, I crawled from the hall to … to the garden. It was snowing. I lay down to die and yet couldn’t. Edric found me, carried me to where they had hidden Nathaniel. The knights who had remained loyal fought and took back the fortress, driving my uncle and his allies out. I was deemed lord although I have never wanted this title—it was never supposed to be mine—and we have since waited for Grimald to one day return, keen to finish what he started.”
“Why does he want this fortress?”
“He believes it is his birthright. His inheritance. In our realm, titles and land are always inherited by the firstborn. Rarely does a second- or third- born child inherit those things while the firstborn lives. My father was a second-born son. Grimald was the eldest. And yet their sire parted with the old ways and tradition, naming my father as his heir. It has since caused contention amongst my family and the people of Wyndrift. Who is the worthy lord of the river? Some believe it is Grimald, in keeping with the old ways, and others believe that—after my father—it was supposed to be Finnian, then Marcher, and then me.”
“And where has your uncle been these past ten years?”
“Away, conquering another holding, another piece of land,” Vincent replied. “He has not been idle. He left disgraced with a handful of disowned knights and has returned a baron, with five thousand men to fight for him.”
I remembered the camp, how it had stretched as far as I could see on the riverbank. Tents, makeshift forges, a battering ram, trebuchets, knights and their destriers.
“When does the fighting begin?” I asked.
Vincent drained his wine and stood, as if he were finished with our conversation. As if the exception he had granted for me—this opportunity to sit with him in his bedroom—had reached its end.
“Daybreak. But my uncle has asked for a parley on the bridge. I am supposed to meet him there soon, to see if we can discuss a way out of armed conflict.”
“Is there a chance of that happening? A successful parley?” My hope surged as I also rose. “The letter from Orphia … she said there is a way you
may evade her hand. If you would but read her words.”
Vincent walked to the window, standing on the very ground I had gracelessly sprawled upon, his fingers laced behind his back. I knew he was gazing into the darkness where his uncle’s camp rested, its fires burning like fallen stars on the bank.
“I don’t need to read Orphia’s words,” he said. “Although I thank you for delivering the letter. For crossing great odds to reach me. But I will not make myself beholden to any god.”
“Reading a letter makes you beholden?” I could not hide how his statement irritated me, and he heard it in my voice, turning from the window to set his gaze upon me again.
“Yes,” he said. “Once I read whatever she has written to me … I will never be able to forget those words. They will divide my attention, filling me with questions that I will never know the answer to, which will make me weak. And should I survive this night, it would not be in my own power but hers, which creates a debt. And I do not desire to owe a divine anything.”
I opened my mouth to refute him and found that I could not.
He spoke with such conviction, such fervor, I felt it pull in my chest like knotted yarn.
“I understand,” I said softly. Because I did. I knew about debts and weaknesses and divided attention. How once a letter was opened and read, its words carved themselves into the mind, the heart. Matilda, help me. “If you will not accept Orphia’s aid, then will you accept mine? Not as a
goddess, but as a friend?”
Vincent stiffened.
I knew he had written that prayer. The one that was haunting me. He had once begged me to help him on the darkest night of his life, and I had not answered. I had been far away, lost in the clutches of the sky, but I was here with him now. I could aid him, atone for those years of my silence.
“Let me stay with you,” I said, walking to where he stood. “Let me help you.”
“Matilda.” Vincent sighed my name, a sound that betrayed his desperation. “You call yourself a friend to me, and yet all those nights when
we met in dreams? None of that was real. Our friendship was built on nothing more than a lonely boy’s fancy.”
His words stung like a third arrow, lodging in my ribs.
They brought me up short, paces away from him, and once more, I could not refute his statement. Dreams were not real; had I not read them in a scroll, been entertained by them as if they were myths? Had I not been passive within them save for the nightmare on the cliff, which had ended with Grimald dragging me into darkness? A moment that still hooked me with fear?
“What is it that you want most in life?” I asked, hoping there was still a kernel of truth in all those dreams, all those moments we had spent together.
Climbing towers, riding ponies over the moors, sitting side by side in the hall.
Vincent arched his brows, surprised by my question. “Why does that
matter now?”
“Are you afraid to answer me?”
“Yes,” he breathed. “Because if I voice what I want, I will be doomed to never obtain it. If I confess such to a god, would you not wield it as a
weapon against me?”
“You think very low of the gods.”
“If I think low of them, it is only because they have earned such merit.”
“And is that how you now think of me?”
Vincent was silent. A muscle feathered in his jaw. And I had thought I knew the staggering pain of losing a friend, but this one cut a wound so
deep I could not breathe for a moment.
Tell him what happened.
My heart ached, and the words nearly spilled from me. I had not ignored his prayer out of spite, but because I had not been below to receive it. I had lost my mother; I had fled to the sky.
But that would have made me far too vulnerable. And by the cold glint in his eyes … no, I could not imagine bearing my soul to him now.
“Then why are you speaking to me?” I asked, a tremor in my voice. “If dreams are not real, and our friendship is now considered a mere fancy, and all the gods are vile, then why waste your time with me? Why waste a
chalice of your best wine? Why waste your voice and your words, the last moments of your life before Death comes for you tonight? Why soil your palms with my blood?”
His breaths had quickened as if my words had cut him. But he held my gaze as I stepped closer, his face flushing as if I were fire, warming his skin.
“I do not deserve it, do I?” I whispered. “And you are right—you knew me well in your dreams, shaping me into what you needed. But the truth is this: You know nothing about me or what my life is like below or above and how I hang between the two. You did not even know my name until I finally gave it to you.”
Vincent pressed his lips into a thin line. But the dark in his eyes had blown wide, leaving only slender rings of gray.
“You told me,” he began and then swallowed, as if his voice had splintered. “You told me you were an Underling.”
“I am an Underling, but I am also a Skyward. I cannot claim one over the other. And I am the worst thing that has ever happened to the gods.”
I brushed past him. I would return the way I had come, by riverbed. But Vincent’s hand encircled my upper arm, his palm scorching against my bare skin.
“Wait,” he said, holding me close to him. Mist from the rain swarmed around us, beading in our hair. I was as tall as him; we stood eye to eye, mouth to mouth. “If I seem cold, you must forgive me, Matilda. You have taken me by surprise. I never thought I would see you again.”
Now I was the one who was silent, holding his gaze. I could see the words rising in him, words he wanted to speak but then tamped down.
Instead, he whispered, “If I ask you to stay and help me, what is your
plan?”
I had no plan.
But that had never stopped me before.
“You say the parley with your uncle will be happening soon? On the
bridge?”
Vincent nodded. “Yes.”
I thought of what was unfolding far below us, in the Underling hall, that night. An impossible merging, a wedding feast between two foes. An
alliance that would hopefully render peace.
“Then let me accompany you,” I said. “Let me be at your side. Not only as a goddess, but as your wife.”