XXVI
We Must Practice
MATILDA I walked beside Vincent down the tower steps, my hand in his. I thought he would let me go once we were out of sight of Alyse and the attendants—he seemed stiff, uncomfortable—but his fingers remained laced with mine, warm as banked coals.
“We must convince them,” he said to me, a murmur I almost did not hear.
I looked sidelong at him. “Convince whom of what?”
“That I have loved you a long time. That we have history.” Vincent paused, but I watched his jaw flex. “My people here. My uncle. None of them will believe this is real if we were not already acquainted. I would never marry the first goddess who fell through my window.”
“Wouldn’t you?” I teased him, eager to lift the heaviness of the air.
He only shot a dark glance at me.
“Then perhaps this ruse will not be too onerous?” I continued. “Since we do, in fact, have history.”
“Yes, but as children. As friends. And as you mentioned earlier … I do not know much about you.”
I almost regretted speaking so candidly to him. Weight roosted in my chest like a golden-eyed hawk, and the more I prodded it, the more I realized that I had no desire to expose vulnerable pieces of myself to a friend who had become a stranger, and an irreverent one at that.
“I think,” Vincent began, a waver in his voice, “the most difficult part will be touching.”
“You are touching me now.”
“Only because I am trying to remember the feel of you.”
I was quiet, but his hand squeezed mine.
“When I reach for you, it should feel natural,” he said. “When I touch you, it should be in easy confidence, as if I have touched you many times before. As if you want me to.”
I could not disagree; we felt like two pieces that had fallen out of joint, two threads that had tangled. The space between our shoulders was chilled as we continued to walk, our strides out of tune.
“Then we must practice,” I said. “Until it becomes second nature.”
He must have thought the same, and that is why he continued to hold my hand down the winding stairwell.
Shadows played along the rough-hewn walls, dancing to the light of iron sconces as we passed. The floor was cold beneath my feet. In many ways, this place was reminiscent of the under realm, and I felt oddly comforted by the likeness.
As we left the tower behind, I soon heard echoes from the great hall.
People were speaking, some frantically, as if they were in a hurry. A child began to wail. A minstrel plucked stray notes on a lyre. There was the smell of warm bread and roasting meat, and a cacophony of sounds as tables and chairs scraped over the floor. The sounds of a clan gathering. The last- minute haste of an impromptu wedding feast.
I dreaded it almost as much as the parley on the bridge.
When we reached the rain-smeared courtyard, I gathered up the train of my dress and realized the flagstones were set as a thoroughfare. A wide road cut through the fortress, leading to the western side of the bridge, and at its edges was a market. Wooden stalls were boarded up for the night, their bright canopied roofs dripping with rain. Barrels were set off to the side, as were crates and green bottles of wine. Empty fowl cages and ale casks were stacked beside the entrance to a forge, which was tucked away from the elements; the only life it held was slowly dying embers. There was also a garden, where autumnal vegetables grew crook-necked and ripe on trellises and greens sprouted from raised beds. A perfect place to bury prayers, I thought.
Vincent led me to a narrow colonnade where the stout man Edric, who had burst into the tower keen to imprison me, stood sheltered from the rain, a torch in hand. He was waiting for us, I realized, to escort us to the bridge.
“My lord,” he said with a bow of his head. His thin, fair hair shone like spun gold in the meager light. And then to me, with a carefully guarded expression on his weathered face, “Lady.”
Lady, not Goddess, and at first I was taken aback until I realized this should be my title as Vincent’s wife, and I accepted it with a tilt of my head.
We followed him along the colonnade, where the eastern half of the bridge loomed tall and wide in the distance. Its tower was studded by firelit windows, its portcullis raised just enough to allow Vincent and me to slip beneath its iron teeth. Two warriors with torches stood in wait for us, just out of reach of the rain.
“This is the Rye Gate, milady,” Edric said, as if introducing me to a mythical structure with sensitive feelings. “It was named such because the fortress used to bake bread in this tower, to better feed the sentries on watch. It was also important in case the western side of the bridge fell; this meant we could nourish ourselves on the eastern side. On clear days, you can still smell the faint trace of warm bread. But I digress. Through it the other two eastern towers can be reached, although I am certain Vincent will properly introduce you to them both.” He then glanced at Vincent, and affection pulled through his face, like he was a father. It made me think of Bade. “This is where I leave you, lord. At your request. The parley has been set on Fury Bridge, and your uncle has already arrived. He waits for you there.”
Vincent was gazing up at the Rye Gate, wistful. A slight wind teased his dark hair. “Thank you, Edric. And yes, I want you to remain here, close to Nathaniel. You know my orders, should this meeting take a turn for the worse.”
Edric drew a breath, as if he was desperate to say more. But he merely bowed as Vincent and I stepped through the first gate. With a boom, the portcullis lowered behind us, until it felt as if we had been swallowed whole, and I studied the gloom of the bridge.
We stood in a covered portion, protected from the weather. But twenty paces ahead, the roof fell away with the tower, exposing a long stretch of open-air bridge. The floor beneath my slippers was laid with smooth wooden planks, scarred from seasons of travelers, and there were arched doorways to my right and sinister sides, carved into the moss-laden walls.
“As Edric explained, this is known as Rye Tower,” Vincent said. He had yet to let go of my hand. “We’ve been here before, in dreams. But you will soon see the eastern half of the Wyndrift Bridge is divided into three parts, which are marked by three sets of towers: Rye, Maiden, and Fury. The parley will be held at the farthermost section of bridge, which is overseen by Fury Tower. We’re going to take the sentry’s passage to reach it, to avoid the rain as much as we can.”
I nodded, faintly remembering these towers. They had often appeared distorted in his dreams. I followed Vincent through one of the doors, and I was struck by how cold the air turned. Despite what Edric had said about fair-weather days, I could taste a very faint promise of bread. A shiver danced down my spine as I kept close to Vincent, stepping in and out of pools of firelight that burned from hanging braziers.
Down we went, taking a narrow flight of stairs until we reached a long straight passage. We strode past slits of windows, walking through drafts of fresh air and mist from both river and rain. Warriors in leather armor were stationed at each partition, on guard and armed with longbows and quivers brimming with arrows. They bowed their heads as Vincent and I walked by, and I resisted the temptation to study each warrior’s face, wondering if they had been the ones to shoot me on my tower climb. If so, I would have commended them for their accurate aim.
We reached the middle tower, called Maiden.
This was the tower built upon the small rocky island, and I knew the moment my feet touched its foundation that it was enchanted. There was a door to the underworld here, hidden somewhere in her stones. And I wanted to find that threshold, soon.
I let those ambitions simmer as Vincent and I walked by the warmth of a dining hall marked with heraldic banners, an armory gleaming with steel and iron weapons, a circular stairwell that led upward to the barracks. This
tower felt far different from Rye; I knew it was the magic, rising from the under realm. I had heard of how our world below could affect the mortal one, if humans dared to build structures upon our ley lines. How enchantment could seep into ordinary things—hearth fires that burned long and bright, and doors that opened and locked of their own accord, and floors that tilted depending on the weather. Sometimes, mortals saw the enchantment as a gift. Other times, they beheld it as a curse.
All too soon, we left the vibrant hum of Maiden Tower behind. My heart gave a sudden ache, missing the firelight and noise and magic-soaked stones, and it was only the river that churned, deep and dark, beneath our feet.
“I now understand why you dreamt so often of drowning,” I said. “I did not realize your home was built in the middle of the river. I always thought you dwelled on the bank.”
Vincent snorted. “When I was a child, my uncle was determined that my brothers and I would learn how to swim, even in the darkest, coldest of currents. He would tie a rope to our waists and hurl us from the island, and time how quickly we could swim back to him. Finnian and Marcher even struggled, and they were stronger, faster than me. I could never cut through the rapids, no matter how much I tried; Grimald would have no choice but to tow me back in, disappointed in my weakness.”
Anger branched through me, brighter than lightning.
I had to swallow it down, where it felt like embers crackled through my blood, before speaking again.
“I presume Grimald himself never once attempted to swim against the current in the middle of the river with a rope tied about him?”
“No.”
A cruel man, I thought, shuddering when I recalled how his hands had felt on me, how rough and desperate they had been in Vincent’s nightmare, as if I were a prize to use and keep in a cage.
We continued onward in silence through the sentry’s corridor, passing more windows and archers and cold shadows until we arrived at Fury Tower.
A knight dressed in chainmail and armor greeted us. A long sword was sheathed at her side, its scabbard etched with silver vines. Her brown skin shone with mist from the rain, her black hair was captured in one thick braid, and her face was solemn, her ink-dark eyes inquisitive as she met my gaze. The news of Vincent taking a bride had traveled across the bridge like wildfire, then.
“Lord, lady,” she greeted us in a rich voice. “Felicitations for your union. We are surprised by the news but delighted. The parley is also ready for you. If you’ll follow me.”
“Thank you, Lady Hyacinthe,” said Vincent, but he released my hand, motioning for me to follow the knight up the curling stairs.
I did, my palm damp as I followed Hyacinthe up the stairwell and through a doorway that spilled us out into the open air of Maiden Bridge.
The rain was still falling; the clouds remained swollen and dark above us.
I did not know if I should be relieved or not—when would the clouds break?—and I startled when I felt Vincent’s hand on the small of my back, guiding me to the covered portion of Fury Tower. He must have felt me jump; his palm immediately fell away, as if I had burned him.
I sighed. We did need to practice. The truth was … I was not accustomed to this: allowing someone to touch me with such ease.
Accepting it, as natural as breathing. Trusting another hand. It was not because I did not crave touch, for I did. A desire I rarely voiced for fear of how it might swell. The avoidance was for my own survival, an effort to protect my fault line.
Hyacinthe led us to the arch of Fury Gate, where a small group of knights stood in wait for us. The portcullis they guarded was raised just high enough for Vincent and me to duck beneath again, but I soon noticed that there was another gate. One made of solid wood and fortified with latticed iron.
“Your uncle waits just beyond the outer gate, lord. He brought two men with him—an advisor and his squire—and all of them have arrived unarmed, as promised,” said one of the knights—a middle-aged man with
graying hair and a gnarled scar on his cheek. He cast a dubious glance my way, his distrust as tangible as the rain. “And the goddess…?”
“This is my wife, Matilda. She is accompanying me,” Vincent said, a warning in his tone, as if he knew some of his knights would be suspicious of my presence. “As we discussed this morning … my orders are that you do not engage in any conflict. Not even if he strikes at me. And under no circumstance will you raise that gate unless I command it.”
The knights were silent, but a few pursed their mouths and shifted their weight from foot to foot. They did not like Vincent’s order, and I could understand why. I imagined the baron might wound Vincent to force the knights to raise Fury Gate. And if the wooden gate and portcullis were lifted, then the baron could take control of a portion of the bridge.
“Are you ready, Matilda?” Vincent asked.
“Yes,” I answered.
We ducked beneath the portcullis, stood in the shadows between gates.
As the portcullis began to lower behind us, I felt Vincent’s gaze trace my
profile through the veil.
“I have a request,” I said.
“And what is that?”
I glanced at him. “We should keep my identity concealed. At least, in the beginning. Let Grimald believe I am a mortal woman.”
“Impossible. Your beauty is too telling,” Vincent said. “Edric might have overlooked your divinity earlier in my bedroom, but my uncle will
not.”
“This veil will dim my power.”
“Then you will need to remove your belt. Even if Grimald does not recognize it from that day we met on the moors, it will draw his eyes, his curiosity.”
I did not want to surrender my belt, but he was right. If I wanted to pass as a mortal woman, I had to remove it, and so I did, setting it on the ground behind me.
“All right,” Vincent said after a long beat. “We will pass you off as mortal. But if I may also make a request of you?”
I arched my brows, surprised. “Speak it.”
“If my uncle kills me here on the bridge … you will return to Nathaniel.
Help my brother defend this place and keep him alive.”
“You will not die tonight. Not with me beside you.”
“Please, Matilda.”
It was here that I learned his deepest fear; I felt it pulse through him like the throb of a fresh-cut wound. His father was dead; his mother had abandoned them. He had lost two brothers. He could not bear to lose another, to be left alone in the world, the last of his name. The last son of Beckett.
“I will do it,” I said, ignoring the twinge of resistance that came with this promise.
The portcullis had fully lowered and locked, sending a shudder through the floor. Now the wooden gate before us began to rise at a laborious rate, exposing a rain-slick Fury Bridge.
When Vincent held out his hand, mine moved to take it. This time it was a smooth meeting, as if I had touched him a hundred times. As if I could have found him in the dark.
Together, we stepped out onto Fury Bridge as bride and groom.