XXXVII
The Daughter of Dusk
VINCENT The first day of the evacuation had gone according to plan, although I was waiting for something to go awry.
The morning we departed for Drake Hall began crisp and cool but descended into a warm afternoon that saw us shedding our cloaks. Autumn had coaxed her magic from even the most stubborn trees, turning them gold and crimson. Leaves spun in the breeze, and goldenrod grew in thick clumps along the wayside. We left the river behind, setting our eyes on the northern mountains before us, looming indigo against the sky.
I savored it as a man who had gone days without eating. I drew the air deep into my lungs, holding the earth, the forests, the moss, the soil within me like it was sustenance. So rarely did I leave the fortress on the river, I could not resist the temptation to dismount from my horse and walk, if only to feel the loam beneath me, steady and firm. I could not resist bending down and taking the earth in my hand, watching it spill through my fingers.
I held more acres on the western side of the river than the east, and while most of it was floodplains and crop fields that my farmers tended, there were some quieter patches that never failed to draw my eyes. Cottages that were tucked away between trees, and knolls that rose, undulating, into the mountains.
My land eventually gave way to Hugh’s—the border between our provinces was marked by a creek that obstinately flowed north—but even without the water to etch that divide, I would know when we passed into Delavoy land. Hugh’s demesne was marked by rocky terrain in the foothills.
Ragstone, limestone, and basalt. All of which his people harvested and sent to the south and the west of Cambria and as far east as the king in the city of Oath, and to all the lords across the land who were keen to build castles and walls. That was why Hugh needed my bridge; it was the fastest way for him to transport materials over the river.
The procession was moving at a steady pace; most walked on foot, but we had packed five wagons of provisions, and this is where the elderly and the youngest and those from the infirmary rode, amongst the sacks of grains and wheels of cheese and baskets of apples and other greens harvested from the garden.
We would reach Drake Hall by sunset tomorrow, and I was riddled with misgivings.
It had been years since I had last seen Hugh, and he had not answered my missive. He had always been friendly to me, was someone I had admired as a boy, but there was a chance that I would show up at his fortress with a trail of people seeking shelter only for him to send us away.
Soon, the sun set, and the shadows grew long and monstrous. We were close to Hugh’s lands, and we chose a campsite for the night—a meadow shaped as a half-moon, bordered by thicket. There was a dilapidated cottage amongst the trees, tucked away like a secret. The last tenants had left years ago, and no one had claimed it since. It was here the elderly and those who had traveled from the infirmary slept, protected by stone walls, while the rest of us made camp in the grass. The wind had died down to a whisper, but the first inkling of stars invoked a chill that drove the knights to build small campfires.
I untacked my horse beneath a twisted hawthorn branch, watching as people gathered around the flames to eat their bread and to arrange their bedrolls. A few children chased each other through the circles of light, their laughter a sweet sound as the moon rose.
It will be a long, cold night, I thought, setting my saddle pack aside.
That was when the commotion broke out.
I strode for the clearing, my hand straying to the hilt of my sword. If it was an eithral, we only needed to freeze until the last of the sunlight melted, and if it was—
I stopped up short.
There, walking through the center of our camp, was Matilda.
She wore a gown the color of the clouds, its fabric soft and pleated, flowing like water as she moved. Her hair fell around her in gentle waves, a dark red in the dwindling light. The children of Wyndrift, who were now sunburned, dust streaked, and weary from travel, danced around her with renewed joy. Some of them even clung to her hands, desperate for her attention.
“Lady Matilda,” they chanted. “Lady Matilda!”
She paused in the thick of the camp, smiling at the children.
Her presence here was a surprise; she had told me we would reunite at the fortress, and I had been relieved at the thought—to know she would be there before I returned, to help Nathaniel should he need it.
Matilda finally sensed my stare. She glanced up and saw me, our gazes locking over the sway of meadow grass. She had an uncanny way of making one feel like he was the only one in the world, as if she saw the deeper layers of a soul that no one else could see.
I shivered—it was simply me and her and the encroaching night—until I looked away, remembering we had an audience. I stifled a groan. The people of Wyndrift were watching, hands clasped and eyes bright with hope. Even the children sensed the invisible current, relinquishing Matilda, stepping back when their parents called to them.
I hesitated, feeling like a bone had come out of socket.
This was a moment to reassure and bolster my people. They were hungry, tired, and laden with worry. I had asked them to leave their home, granting them one uncertainty after another. The threat of a siege simmered in our blood; the assurance of battle bruised us. But there was a goddess in our midst. A goddess who had chosen to fight for us, a goddess who my people believed was entwined with me, bound to me.
I had little faith, but in that moment, looking at her … I believed we would be victorious.
My blood warmed; I closed the distance between us, walking the path that the children had beaten down in the grass. The stars were beginning to burn; darkness bloomed across the sky. But I saw Matilda clearly, vividly.
The twilight suited her as she stood alone, waiting for me. But she was the daughter of dusk, wasn’t she?
And I let my hesitation fall away when I reached her.
I did not give myself time to second-guess or doubt. I let my body lead, not my mind. My hands framed her face and I kissed her on the mouth.
If Matilda was surprised, she hid it well.
She responded as if this had always been our plan, as if we had schemed this very moment days ago. Her hands trailed up my spine, taking hold of my tunic. Her lips parted beneath mine, languid yet attentive.
I reveled in the taste of her.
I pulled her closer, until I felt her body press against mine. There was only the wind, blowing through our hair, and the grass, whisking at our knees. There were only the stars, flickering above us, and our mouths, each exploring the other with a swelling hunger.
This is pretense.
The words were dull, clipping the back of my mind like a sword sparking over stone. And yet my blood was coursing through me, awakening an ache in my chest.
She broke our kiss first, but it was only to breathe as if I had stolen all her air. Matilda’s eyes were dark and lucid when she looked at me. Her cheeks were rosy, her lips reddened from mine. The small moonstones that pierced her ears gleamed in the fading light. And yet there was a slight arch of her brow, like she was asking me a silent question. One I did not know how to answer.
A few children cheered, followed by groans from a group of boys.
The sound was jarring, bringing me back into the present. Our kiss was more than enough when it came to performance, but still I took Matilda’s hand in my own, weaving our fingers together. I led her back to the trees.
One of the knights had finished tending to my horse, hobbling the gelding in the meadow so he could graze with the herd. My saddle packs rested on the ground beside my water flask and bedroll, and it was dark save for the lantern that hung from the bough above, spilling light over our faces.
“I thought we were to meet again at the fortress,” I said, sensing something was wrong. “Did you speak with Bade?”
Matilda glanced away from me. The confidence I had felt only moments ago began to wane.
“I was not able to,” she answered. “So I went above and spoke with
Shale.”
“The god of wind?”
“Yes. He gave me no affirmation, but I believe he will come should I call upon him. His presence is powerful; it will be good to have his aid.”
I wanted to believe her, but her voice had hitched. She was troubled, and that made my knees feel weak.
“Is there anything to drink here?” Matilda asked.
“Yes. My water flask, there on the ground. And there is some food in the packs, if you are hungry.”
She knelt by the saddlebags, reaching for the flask first. I was quiet, drowning in my own questions and fears until my attention sharpened on her. I watched as she tilted her head back and drank. In her haste, the water spilled over the sides of her mouth, trailing down her neck like beads of rain.
She swallowed, content, and then reached into the leather pack, going
unnaturally still.
“Matilda?” I said, frowning.
“My cloak.” Her voice was vibrant with surprise. She drew it from my pack, where I had folded it, carrying it with me. The fabric spilled over her knees, a scarlet so rich it seemed to breathe, and her gaze rose to mine. “I thought it was lost. Where did you find it?”
“The river.”
She held my gaze, expectant, almost mirthful.
“And yes,” I said. “I came after you.”
I followed you, but I could not reach you.
My thoughts spun darkly.
Matilda gazed down at the cloak, stroking it with her fingers. “Thank you.”
“I have a request,” I said, before I lost my courage.
“What is it?”
“I am taking the second watch tonight. For now, I am to rest, and I would ask you to lie down beside me. I know you don’t sleep. We don’t even need to touch, but I think it would be important for the people to see you close to me. The sight of you earlier lifted their spirits in a way I have not seen in a long while.”
Matilda’s eyes widened in surprise, but she nodded. “Yes. I can do that.
Is there another blanket for me?”
“Let me find one.”
I strode from the thicket, Matilda following, her cloak knotted at her collar. I found a spare bedroll in a nearby wagon bed and handed it to her, and together we chose a place on the edge of camp to spread our blankets, side by side. We were close enough to be seen and appreciated by the others, who were beginning to settle for the night. A few mothers were spinning stories for their children, and somewhere at the heart of the group came the notes of a reed flute, spilling a dreamlike lullaby through the darkness. The first watch of knights guarded our perimeter, silent in the starlight.
I lay down first, on my side. The ground was uneven beneath me. But the rock at my ribs was soon forgotten as Matilda lay down beside me.
She was on her back, her arms tucked behind her head, and she was gazing up at the sky, her expression wistful.
“Do you ever study the stars?” she asked.
“I had no choice but to when I was younger,” I replied, thinking of all the lessons I had sat through, all the constellation charts I had memorized.
“It is required learning for us.”
“Is it? I did not know that.”
“Yes. Your constellation appeared in the sky not long after I was born. I remember my mother thought it was a good omen. Although the newest stars to find their place in the sky were not yours, but Adria’s.”
“When did you realize they belonged to her?” Matilda asked.
“Nearly a year after she died.” I did not like to think back on that time.
Our world had plunged into chaos without Adria to guide us. It had taken a while for skirmishes to settle down, for the king to regain control. For the
land to no longer look charred and broken. “I suppose, in a way, Adria won after all, although not how we expected her to. When she announced herself to us as a goddess, that is when peace finally returned to the realm. She came and supped in our halls, and touched our wounds, and listened to our woes. She was gentle and kind, even as a divine. Which made me begin to think that maybe not all immortals are cruel and heartless.”
Matilda was quiet, her eyes still trained upon the sky while mine returned to the earth, to rest on her.
“Then there is hope after all,” she said.
“For what?”
“That one day, you will not think so low of all divinity.”
She was alluding to the other night. Our conversation in my bedchamber, which still brought color to my face when I remembered the flash of hurt in her eyes. How I had not spoken up when she asked if I thought low of her, as I did of all the other gods, save for Adria.
But before I could atone for it, Matilda asked, “Have you ever desired to
extinguish a constellation?”
“You mean kill a divine? No. Never.”
It did not happen often, for it was an extraordinary feat to slay an immortal. But it had occurred, often when those who had access to enchanted weapons used their wits to fool gods. Many ballads about such glory were sung in irreverent halls.
My father, while not the most devout of men, had not liked those bloody tales to be told at Wyndrift. I think this was due to the fact that he had four sons, and the last thing he desired was to stir up a foolish bloodlust in us. To witness our untimely deaths, or for us to think we were strong enough, clever enough to slay a god when we most certainly were not.
Instead, we watched the stars for signs and omens, to keep track of the gods. And while constellations revealed some news, they could not tell us when a divine killed their own, which happened far more frequently. Then, the dead god’s magic remained, glittering in the sky, despite the change of hands. We had to wait for that news to trickle from one realm to the next, or for Fate’s owls to visit us in mythical dreams.
“Do you want to know what I desire?” I said, eager to chase away the heavy air that had settled upon us. “You asked me just the night before, and
I refused to answer.”
“Yes, I remember.”
“I have never told anyone this, but I have always wanted to care for the land. To have a small farm somewhere, tucked away from the world. To live in solitude, to live simply, where there is no war and no bloodshed and no violence. To live in a dream, I suppose.”
Matilda turned on her side to face me, the sky forgotten. “A farm such as this one?”
“Perhaps. The cottage is in dire need of repair. It has been abandoned for a while.”
“It only needs new thatching on the roof. The walls are still sound.”
“And I do not think these fields have been tended to in a long while.” I reached out to snag a few seed heads from the grass, letting them slip through my fingers.
“It is good to let fields rest,” Matilda said. “You could plant barley
here.”
“And oats,” I added.
“And have a flock of sheep.”
“I know nothing of husbandry.”
“Then you will have to learn.” She held my stare, a smile curving the edges of her mouth. I liked how we were both dreaming side by side, this time with our eyes open. She made the impossible seem like it was within reach. But then she asked, “You would live alone? You would not grow lonely?”
I would indeed grow lonely, but I said, “If I found someone else who had the same desire, I would ask her to stay with me. And we could grow old together. They could bury me at her side when I die, and I would be content in the afterlife.”
“Then I hope that happens for you,” Matilda whispered. “I hope that you find her.”
I swallowed, uncertain what to say, and why her words made my chest feel small, like a cage that was collapsing. She shivered beneath her cloak,
and I frowned.
“You are cold?”
“Yes,” she confessed. “I do not know why the cold here affects me. I do not feel it in the sky, or far below.”
My arm reached out, sliding beneath her ribs. I drew her closer to me until my warmth could seep into her, our bodies aligned, our legs tangled together. It reminded me of a day long ago, when I had held her fiercely to me, afraid to let her go beneath the churning of wings.
I felt that heady tug between us, that cord I could not see but feel.
“May I ask you something?” I said.
“Hmm.”
“If you rarely sleep, how did you find me in my dreams? I always thought you were sleeping when I was, that our minds were drifting together.”
Matilda stiffened in my arms. I regretted the question when she pulled back slightly, but it was only so she could look at me.
“I read your dreams after they happened,” she answered. “Only once was I ever truly there with you in the moment.”
She told me of Alva’s scrolls, of her surprise to discover herself in my dreams. How she had found a way to step into one of my nightmares eventually, although she would not explain how.
“Which dream?” I asked.
“When we climbed the cliff to the eithral. When we returned to your room and burned Skyward coins.”
My throat narrowed. She spoke of the dream when my uncle had dragged her away and I had stood, frozen and useless, unable to help her.
When I had woken only after I had hurled myself from the window. The dream when I had first learned her name.
“Forgive me,” I said.
“For what?” She eased close to me again, until I could feel her breaths against my own. She laid her hand upon my chest, tracing the embroidery of my tunic with a light finger. I felt that touch echo across my bones.
“That I could not help you.”
“But you did. You woke and released me. And I learned an important
lesson about mortals that day.”
“And what did you learn?”
She rested her head on my shoulder, her long hair spread around us.
“That I cannot fully trust them. I cannot let them catch me, hold me.”
“What am I doing, then?” I asked, my voice ragged. “Why are you letting me hold you?” I spoke of my arm, which was still wound about her, protectively. My hand, which was splayed over her hip, as if the curve of her bone fit perfectly in my palm. I spoke of our arrangement, our ruse of a marriage. Of how we were making everyone believe she was mine, as I was hers, all to save my home. “Why are you risking so much for me? Am I not a stranger to you now? What could you ever gain from aiding me and my people?”
I waited for my questions to drive her away from my arms. I waited, coiled tight and tense, to feel her untwine herself from me. I hated myself for encouraging it when I wanted her to remain close. But it was like treading deep rapids that were hungry to close over my head.
And I had always been afraid to drown.
“You are no stranger to me,” she said, her caresses easing as she laid her hand over my chest. “And I know that you would let me go, should I want it.”
We fell silent, but my heart was like a wild creature. I knew she could feel it, pounding beneath her palm. I willed it to calm, for my blood to thicken and slow, so that I would not feel so alive beside her, incandescent with longing.
I stared up at the sky, naming the constellations, until I found hers—a bright six points. Herald of the gods. A kestrel in flight.
I willed those stars to burn always, because I could not bear to imagine them ever going dark.