VI
The Poet Queen and the God of War
MATILDA The water in the rill began to warm, effervescent. Winter was ebbing, and I could see it in my mother as her season of power gave way to a stormy, mud-riddled spring. Zenia slept more to regain her strength—divines rarely indulged in sleep due to the danger slumber posed for us, but she trusted me. She did not fear that I would sneak upon her while she slept in our burrow. It had never crossed her mind that I might cut her neck down to the bone, severing her mind from her body, stealing her magic for my own.
I was pleased by such trust, and yet I slept with my shield hooked upon my arm, the bolt of wood guarding my chest, just as Bade had instructed me.
And as for the god of war … he was gone more than he was present, though when he did grant me lessons, they were good, albeit short, ones. He was either in a jovial mood, teasing me one breath while barking out corrections the next, or he was distracted enough that I beat him at spars.
I wondered about that winter day when I had followed him, and what had caused him so much turmoil. But I was never brave enough to ask, and we never spoke of Adria or thorny sides again.
My thirteenth birthday was only nights away when everything fell apart.
The fog was at high tide in the corridors, betraying a mortal noon. My mother was sleeping in the back room of the burrow and I was reading a new scroll of Alva’s when I felt a reverberation in the stone floor. Eithrals were screaming far beneath my feet, and I froze, listening. The sound faded,
and then roused again, sending a shudder down my spine until the air finally went silent.
Dacre must have set the wyverns loose to hunt above.
I returned my attention to the scroll.
Time seemed to halt when I sank into the inked dreams, but my trance broke when I heard the distant pounding of the drums. It was a summoning to the hall, and all three courts—high, middle, and low—were ordered to come at once.
Cursing, I tucked the scroll into one of the moonstone pockets along with my shield and hurried to wake my mother. She was lying on her bed, black hair fanned across the pillow, her chest rising and falling with deep slumber. She always seemed softer, younger when she slept.
“Mother,” I said, shaking her shoulder.
Zenia’s hand took me roughly by the neck, her eyes flying open, her teeth bared.
“It’s only me,” I whispered. “The drums … Dacre is calling everyone to court.”
She released me and sat forward, her breath skipping as if she had been trapped in a nightmare. Without a word, she rose, smoothing the wrinkles from her white silk gown.
She does not trust me as much as I once thought, I realized with a chill, rubbing my bruised throat.
“We just had court,” my mother said, irritated. I watched as she draped her net of moonstones over her hair, sliding her feet into a pair of golden sandals. “Why does he call us again?”
I did not answer, but a strange feeling was creeping over me. I hated court as well, but I sensed that something terrible had happened.
We followed a group of Underlings to the hall, which was an immense firelit chamber, upheld by pillars crusted with gemstones of every color.
The floor was black-and-white marble, polished so fine I could see my reflection, as if I stood on ice. The hearths were roaring with blue-hearted flames, and richly embroidered banners hung from the walls, depicting Underling myths and victories.
The painting of the eithrals haunted the west wall, and I gazed at them— powerful bodies layered with white, iridescent scales, long pronged wings, red eyes set with sparkling rubies, teeth and talons darkened by blood—as I made my way to where the Middle Court sat in the thick of the hall. I had never been allowed to accompany my mother to the forefront of the chamber, where the High Court gathered at the dais’s footstool, despite her fear of leaving me alone.
I sat at one of the trestle tables, overlooked by the Underlings around me. I was still a child in their minds, and below their acknowledgment, although a few of them eyed the brilliance of my belt. I ignored them in turn, noticing that no wine was being served, as was custom for court dealings. Instead of circling tables with pitchers of refreshment, the human vassals stood along the walls like a row of statues, blending with the banners and the paintings of beasts.
I swallowed, but dread sat like a rock in my chest, and my eyes drifted to the front of the room.
I caught sight of my mother, sitting beside Phelyra. And Alva, who stood on the dais where her brother Dacre lounged upon a throne. She was bent low, whispering something into his ear. My gaze continued to roam, but I could not find Bade. He always sat with my mother and Phelyra. He was not difficult to find with his broad shoulders, his rough-hewn face, his
booming voice.
Where are you, Bade?
As if he had heard my inner cry, he arrived.
He blew in through the western doors, just beneath the arched flight of a painted eithral. The human vassals scattered from their posts, and the firelight flickered darkly, as if the flames wanted to extinguish.
The drums ceased beating.
Silence rang through the air, punctured only by Bade’s heavy tread.
Every eye was drawn to him as he limped into the hall. My heart froze when I saw he wore a golden circlet at his brow. At last, he had earned one of Adria’s crowns, but this was quickly forgotten when I realized he was not alone. He was carrying someone wrapped in a tattered cloak. Tenderly, he held them to his breast, and it was undeniable that they were mortal; their
blood was crimson. It was splattered across the side of Bade’s face. It dripped down his forearms. It was seeping through the purple cloak, gradually turning the wool a midnight hue.
“Why, welcome, god of war,” Dacre said, arms thrown wide in mockery.
“We have been waiting for you to join us.”
Excitement coursed through the hall. This was why Dacre had called the clan. He wanted us to bear witness to his altercation with Bade.
The Underlings around me hummed with anticipation and theories. It had been a long while since we had witnessed a fight amongst ourselves.
“At last,” a god drawled behind me. “Something worth coming to court for.” And then another one called, “Where is the wine?”
The ichor went cold in my veins. When I breathed, my lungs became frost.
I could no longer see Bade. I leapt to stand on the table, an unspeakable ache spreading through me, as if I had been pierced. I pressed my palm to my ribs, watching Bade approach Dacre.
“You must heal her,” Bade said, dauntless. His behest resonated through the hall. “You must mend what you have broken.”
“I would do so gladly, had you not slayed a pet of mine,” Dacre countered.
I blinked, my mind swarming with the sudden vision of Bade killing an eithral. Impossible, I thought. Had one ever been conquered?
“You should have never released them,” Bade replied, his voice laced with wrath. “You knew it would end in bloodshed.”
“These are strange days, indeed.” Dacre stood from his throne. His robe was spun from the finest white silk, studded with tiny sapphires. His blond hair could rival the gold of my belt, striking in every slant of light, and his pale face was perfectly honed, bewitching to gaze upon. “Once, you did not care if I sent my eithrals to feed in the mortal realm. Once, not so long ago, you encouraged it. What has changed your mind, god of war?”
This query seemed to break Bade.
He dropped to his knees; his desperation stung the air like smoke.
Again, my sight of him was interrupted, and I no longer cared for court boundaries. I jumped down and wove my way closer, around tables and
other divines who had stood to get a better glimpse of Bade and the bleeding bundle he cradled. For once, I was glad to be overlooked. No one cared when I jostled their elbows. No one stopped me from ascending another tabletop, and I had a perfect view of Bade as he began to unwrap
the purple cloak.
He held a mortal woman.
It was my first time looking upon her, but I knew she was the Poet Queen.
Her hair, shorn to her jawline, was the shade of willow wood. A golden crown set with pearls flashed across her brow. Her face was heart shaped with a constellation of freckles that spilled across her nose, and her skin, which I imagined had once been tanned from the sun, was blanched and pallid. Her eyes were closed; her head lolled against Bade until he pillowed it within his palm. There was blood dribbling from the corners of her
mouth.
My gaze tracked downward.
She wore armor, as mortals were prone to do when they encountered us or were engaged in battle, but I saw that her steel breastplate had been torn open, as easily as if it were spun linen. Two deep, jagged lines, in tune with an eithral’s talons. One of the beasts must have picked her up, scored her from shoulder down to hip bone. A painful, seething wound that could not be healed unless divinity intervened.
My breath snagged in my throat when Adria opened her eyes.
She was still alive, although I watched, alarmed, as her shadow began to fade beneath her. I had never seen this before—a shadow separating from its appointed body. None of the divines around me seemed to take note of it.
Not even Bade and Dacre, or Alva, who lingered on the dais, face smooth and devoid of emotion, although her hand flexed at her side. All their shadows held steady in contrast.
One of the moonstones in my belt flared hot, drawing a hiss from me. I glanced down, shocked to see that the stone with the uncanny streak had changed again. It no longer mimicked a closed eye with long lashes. It was opening, exposing a half-moon blue iris and a pupil dark as obsidian.
I covered it with my palm.
“Heal her,” Bade was now begging, his pride disintegrating. His desperation made it seem as if he had disrobed, and I struggled to look at him. “You are the god of healing. Have mercy, lord.”
Dacre was quiet, relishing his power; he was the only divine who could mend such terrible wounds. And he had brought none other than the fearsome god of war to his knees.
“What is this?” Dacre asked, descending the dais stairs. “Some mark of mortal favor?” He yanked the golden circlet away from Bade’s brow, hurling it into the shadows. “I will heal this pitiful mortal woman if you give me your forge. Your collection of enchanted weapons. Your vassal whom you guard and withhold from me.”
No, Bade, I wanted to shout at him. I wanted to pound him with my fists and bring him back to his senses. My chest suddenly constricted; I bit back tears, to see his disgrace unfold.
Do you want to be feared or loved? he had once asked me.
Feared, I had said because I knew it was safest. I had set myself upon such a path and he had approved. But now my heart felt twisted, confused, as I watched him gaze down at Adria. I had never seen such a delicate expression on his angular, ugly face before. As if he was made of feathers,
thistledown, sun-warmed sand.
Soft.
“Don’t,” Adria said, her voice frayed and weak. “Don’t give … those up for … me.”
She closed her eyes again as he caressed her hair. She was struggling to breathe; it was painful to listen to the wet saw of her inhales, exhales.
Bade’s face crumpled.
In that moment, I realized I had been wrong about his fault line. He had once made me doubt, but now there was no question. It was his heart, and he had just revealed it to the entire clan. All because of her, a mortal woman he had once plotted to deceive. A mortal woman who had somehow gotten the best of him.
Dacre now loomed over them, waiting for Bade to decide.
This moment felt like an iron prong, boring into my side.
Everything was about to change. There was no redemption beyond this reckoning; whatever Bade chose, it would alter the stars. It would shake our foundations, forming new cracks in our world that would admit a flood of unknown darkness.
I could feel it flaming in the moonstone, still hidden beneath my palm.
A question that had no answer.
“All that you ask for,” Bade said at last, lifting his gaze to meet Dacre’s.
“I will give it to you, if you will heal her.”
Dacre smiled, crooked and close-lipped, and held out his arms. “Give
her to me.”
“Do not let go of her, Bade.”
Orphia’s command rang through the air, drawing our attention to the eastern doorway, where she stood on the threshold, tall and dark as a thundercloud in her black robes.
Dacre stiffened. His eyes cut to the goddess of death, his mouth settling into a displeased pout.
“Orphia,” he said in a tense voice. “How magnanimous of you to join us.”
She stepped into the hall. Underlings parted for her like water. It had been a long while since Orphia had attended court. She was the matriarch, the oldest of the Underlings. And she was the only one who did not bow to Dacre’s power.
“Mother,” Bade said, relief and fear warring in his face, in his voice. “If I don’t, she will die.”
“Perhaps.” Orphia came to a gradual halt beside them. I noticed Adria’s shadow shrank even more, as if folding itself up for Death to claim. “But if you let Dacre heal her, she will be beholden to him. She will bend herself to his will, and his alone.”
“I do not want her beholden to any of us,” Bade replied. “Not to him, not to me. She belongs to herself.”
“Then how do you expect her to live here amongst us with such will intact?” Dacre interjected, but color had risen in his face. His anger burned like stars in his eyes. “You know our laws. This mortal woman must be a
vassal if she is to live in our realm. Even if she decides to dwell eternally with us as a shade, she is required to serve.”
Adria could return to the under realm after dying. Her soul would become a shade if she chose that route. But it was just as Dacre said—she would be bound to everlasting service. She would forfeit her chance of reaching paradise in the mists. And I did not think Bade would want that for her. To see her but never be able to touch her again. To watch her bend herself to us and our whims, day after day, night after night.
“If you refuse my generosity to heal her,” Dacre said, quieter, “then you must carry her back to her realm to die.”
Bade turned to stare at his mother, continuing to hold Adria close.
“If you take her soul now,” he whispered to Orphia, “I will follow her to the mists. I will gladly let a divine strike me down when she breathes her last.”
Orphia was silent, but her displeasure plunged the hall into coldness, as if a flood had risen around us. The shadows grew long and twisted across the floor. The moonstone continued to smolder like a coal against my hand.
“There is another way,” Orphia said at last, the words coming slow, reluctant. “I cannot heal her wounds, but I will delay in taking her soul as long as I can. I will surrender four stars from my constellation and grant them to her. I can make her immortal, but only by half.”
Murmurs erupted through the hall; wonder entwined with disgust.
Dacre threw up his hand for silence.
“Do you mean to say you will make this mortal woman into one of us?” he asked.
“Yes,” Orphia responded. “But she will need four more stars in order to complete her divinity.”
“Impossible! This has never been done,” Dacre scoffed, just as Bade murmured, “Take mine. Take four of my stars and give them to her.”
Orphia shook her head. “They cannot come from you, my son.”
“Then where? Where can they be found?”
“The stars must be granted by my other half. By my sister.”
All of us knew of Orphia’s sister. She was Rowena, the goddess of fate, and she was the Skyward matriarch. The two of them had not spoken, face-
to-face, in centuries. Their falling-out was legendary, the beginning of our divine woes.
“This is tragic,” sighed Dacre, sounding not at all sad. He looked down at Bade. “None of us can tread the Skyward realm. You must decide if I should heal your mortal lover now, or if she should die.”
Bade was not listening.
He had glanced up, eager, as if looking for someone in the crowd.
Within moments his gaze found mine and there it remained, fixed upon me.
He was my salt-sworn ally, my soul-forged father. And I knew what he needed before he could utter the words.
“Matilda,” he breathed. “Matilda, you are Skyward as you are Underling. You are the only one amongst us who can tread all three realms.
Will you go on my behalf? Will you carry a message to the goddess of fate?”
“No.” My mother’s protest came swiftly, like a sword whirring through air. “Bade, she is too young. She is not ready—”
“I will do it,” I said, my voice trembling.
I was not afraid, but nor did I feel courageous. I was hungry. I felt a door opening for me, and I wanted to step through it.
“Are you certain, child?” Orphia asked, the kindest she had ever sounded, as if she knew she was sending me to the den of a lion.
“I will do it,” I said again, louder, and stepped off the table.
This time, the Underlings parted for me, moving aside as if I had grown wings, or two heads, or dragged a dead divine behind me.
I reached Orphia’s side, uncertain what came next. But my magic was swelling within me, almost painful, as if I had outgrown my bones, my skin.
The goddess of death held out a letter, sealed with a drop of red wax. It was like she had known this would happen and had come prepared, a request drawn and ready to be handed over. Her sister’s name was scrawled in spiderweb handwriting on the parchment.
“Deliver this to Rowena,” said Orphia. “She will be in her Skyward villa.”
My mouth went dry. My tongue stuck to my teeth as I asked, “And how do I find her villa?”
“I do not know, child. I have never been in the uppermost realm.”
And this is when I realized the challenge I had impulsively accepted.
I likewise had never been to the Skyward realm. I did not know how to enter its gate. I did not know how to safely navigate it.
What if I stumbled across my father? Would I know it was him?
I could feel my mother’s eyes on me. She had never been Skyward, either. All her trysts with my father had occurred in the mortal landscape, beneath tree boughs and tangled in valley grass, sheltered in the shadow of caves. But I refused to meet her gaze, knowing it would only hinder me.
I took the letter from Orphia.
At once, I could feel the humming of beehives. I could smell the sweet air of an orchard and warm, freshly tilled soil. I could hear something clacking, like a shuttle on a loom.
My heart was in my throat, tugging me sharply heavenward. I took a step forward and felt as if I could rise. As if I had truly sprouted wings
between the eaves of my shoulders.
It was my magic, leading me to Rowena.
I tucked the letter into one of my moonstone pockets. No one spoke. No one moved. Every eye was hooked upon me as I ran from the hall.