LXXVIII
Phantoms We Create
MATILDA The wasteland was more beautiful than I remembered. Undulating pink hills, a sunset sky teeming with stars and moons and suns, an iridescent stream that flowed like a song. It took me a moment to gain my bearings, to realize that I had not entered this realm through a wasted doorway but by soul alone.
I could draw breath, but I did not need to. There was no pulse to feel in my wrists, my throat.
A deep wound in my chest was damp with blood.
I was dead.
My body was still solid and familiar, although it felt untethered in a way I could not explain. I felt an immense thirst, which prompted me to walk along the road I had traveled before, knowing it would lead me to the gate.
That is when I started to remember my final moments. Bade’s death had come first. Then Warin’s, by my hand. Then my own ending, embraced in Vincent’s arms.
It had been gentle, this passing unto death. It had been like falling
asleep.
Bade.
I began to run, eager to see him. There was no weight to hold me down; I flew over the hills as if I had grown wings, slowing only when I reached the last summit that overlooked the gate. Bade was still on the road, cresting the hill, walking slowly. But he must have heard me coming. He paused and turned.
“Matilda,” he said, his face taut. “You should not be here.” But then he saw the blood that dribbled down my tunic, a wound that matched his own, and his shoulders stooped. “Was it him?”
I glanced down the remaining stretch of road to see Warin was standing at the mist’s entrance. He must have cut in front of Bade, which did not surprise me. The Gatekeeper had brought out her measuring scales and was currently listening to him, weighing his life. He did not have many bones in his favor yet; he had come to her disgraced, stripped of all his magic. Magic that was now mine, and I could feel it, woven into my very essence.
Warin waved his hands. I could hear his voice rising, although I could not catch the words. He sounded impatient, angry. The Gatekeeper merely cocked an eyebrow at him.
“Yes,” I replied, returning my gaze to Bade. “I now have spring, iron, and rivers to my name, but I am not war. Do you know why?”
“This is Adria’s doing.”
“And the two stars she gave you?”
Bade was quiet for a moment, as if thinking of her pained him. “Yes. As
she also gave to you.”
“I still do not understand.”
“She is more than the goddess of peace. She is the matriarch of the mortal realm and can weave constellations into crowns, bestowing them upon any divine of her choosing. Such a crown can never be stolen once it is granted, which means the magic that divine possesses cannot be stolen either. Warin might have slayed me, but my magic was protected by the crown Adria gave to me. It is mine and will always be mine.”
I pondered on this for a moment, wistful.
Warin had killed me, but souls and words were still my own. The stars I had been born with had been the ones I had died beneath. All because Adria had woven them together into a crown and had given that endless ring back to me.
“If you have a crown of stars … why can’t I see it?” I asked.
“Because the crowns can only be seen by the one who knows your soul.
Adria can see mine. Vincent, I suspect, can see yours.”
I swallowed and looked down at my palms. My mother’s constellations also still gleamed upon my hands. In a way, she felt close to us, and I wondered if she waited just within the mist to welcome Bade. To welcome me.
“Shall we walk together?” Bade asked, inclining his head to the gate.
I let my hands fall back to my sides as I gazed up at him. My heart, which was an icy, quiet vessel in my chest, suddenly felt warm, as if my magic was stirring.
“Do you want to return to her?” I asked him. “Do you want to return to Adria?”
Pain flashed across Bade’s face. “Of course I do.”
“Then take my hand.”
He stared at it—my right hand outstretched in the space between us.
“What is this, Matilda?”
“Take my hand,” I said to him again. “But you must promise that you will not let go of me. No matter what comes, you must hold on to me.”
Bade hesitated. But then his large hand encircled my own, cold as the winter snow that had soaked our spilled blood, just moments ago.
“I promise,” he said.
I drew him with me the way we had come, away from the misty gate and the scales and clatter of bones and the Gatekeeper’s shrewd eye. We claimed one hill and its corresponding valley before cresting the next, our souls in stride with each other. The only thing that slowed our pace was our thirst. It was harder to ignore the farther we traveled from the mists. I was beginning to fear that I could not bear a soul if I was dead, that I was merely dragging us through the wastes aimlessly, when an obsidian gate bloomed before us on the road. An impasse that we could not go around but required we enter to reach the wasted doorway.
“What is this?” Bade asked.
“Remember what I told you,” I said, tightening my grip on his fingers.
“Do not let go of me, no matter what you see or feel.”
I waited until he nodded. Only then did I pull him through the gate.
I had once wondered what haunted the god of war’s sleep. When he gave himself over to rare slumber, what nightmares arose in his mind? Where did his soul wander when he slept?
It was a place of guilt and remorse. Blood-soaked dreams that were knee-deep in skulls and anguish.
I stepped into the landscape of his nightmares—a dimly lit world of charred trees and dying grass and smoke—and instantly wished to be away from there. I was already cold as Death herself, and yet the chill of this dream sank deep within me. It was oppressive; I realized there was no hope
in this place, only bleakness.
Bade stopped, yanking on my hand.
When I looked back at him, I saw fear creasing his face. Fear and dread and guilt. He closed his eyes.
“No,” he whispered. “No. I do not want to be here.”
“This is just a dream,” I said to him. “But we must go through it to reach Adria. She is waiting for you on the other side.”
Bade trembled. His eyes remained shut as if he could not bear to confront his past, elements that still haunted him. His skin was waxy, gleaming. I had a startling vision, as if I were seeing a shade of his younger self. When he had been a god-child, struggling to understand the full breadth of his magic. When he was coming into his power and realizing what he could do to the world. The scars he could carve upon it.
“Come,” I said, stepping forward. “I am here with you, Bade.”
To my relief, he followed. He was strong enough to drag me anywhere, and I worried he might bolt back to the gate. That he would pull so hard his fingers would slip free of mine, and I would lose him eternally in the fog of
his own nightmare.
I did not want to imagine it.
I set my focus on the path we needed to take, my eyes seeking the gleam of the exit gate. It would appear like a beacon, and I was keen to locate it, when we came across the sea of bodies. I paused, stricken. There were hundreds of them. Thousands of corpses, slain in battle. Their faces were gaunt, their mouths were open, maggots writhing between their teeth. Their
blood was dark red, almost black, after it had dried upon armor and raiment.
Mortals, then, and I shuddered as I began to pull Bade through the
battleground.
He yanked on my hand, resistant.
But he knew, as I did, that there was no way around. We had to pick a path through, and we began to step on the bodies. I felt bloated flesh give beneath my feet, bones snap, wounds reopen as my heels pressed down on them. These were sons, daughters, brothers, sisters. Lovers, spouses.
Fathers and mothers. Kindred. They were mortals with names, their lives had once been woven into a tapestry with countless threads. They were each beloved to someone, and they were dead long before they should be, harvested by war’s scythe.
“We should turn around,” Bade panted. “There is nothing … nothing good ahead.”
I did not respond but continued to pull him in my wake.
Soon, the sea of bodies began to thin.
We walked through skeletons now, picked clean by the buzzards. Armor that had been abandoned, shining through the smoke. Skulls with broken teeth. Pennants that were staked into the ground, torn by relentless wind.
A tent loomed before us. A war tent, I realized, and my mouth went dry as I pulled us into its shadows and firelight.
Adria stood within, gazing down at a map.
I heard Bade inhale. He stopped abruptly and I halted with him gazing at the memory of her.
She had not yet ascended as a goddess. She was still a mortal queen, dressed in armor, her face weary, her eyes bloodshot. A golden crown inlaid with pearls gleamed across her brow.
She heard us enter, or perhaps she felt a draft of cold. Adria glanced up.
I was invisible, but her gaze was riveted onto Bade. His grip tightened on my hand as if he were in agony.
“I told you I did not want to see you again,” Adria said to him sharply.
“I told you to never step foot in my camp again, god of war. You are not
welcome here. Get out.”
“Adria,” he pleaded. “Wait.”
He tried to take a step closer to her. He was about to fall to his knees and I yanked him away, keeping him close to me. Quickly, I thought, before his own nightmare fooled him. Both of us could lose our sense of what was real and what was false. I dragged him out of the tent and through another. She was there again, and again. Mortal and beautiful and full of fire. Each time she looked upon him, it was with disgust and disapproval, as if he was the worst thing she had ever crossed paths with.
“I never want to see you again,” she said to him through her teeth.
“Leave.”
Was this a memory, or was it distorted by his sense of remorse and dread? I was not certain, but it was brutal to witness.
I trembled with relief when we cleared the last tent. My steps were light, Bade’s heavy and trudging, as if he wanted to lie down and die again. But up ahead, in the distance, was an archway of light. The way out, I realized, and my determination surged.
“We are almost there,” I said to him. Thirst pounded through me; what I would have given for a sip of nectar, a swallow of rainwater. To dive into the river at Wyndrift. “Look, Bade. See the light ahead? We are—”
“Bade!”
The cry went through me like a clap of thunder. It was my own voice, interrupting me. A younger mold of myself, and I saw her—twelve winters to my name, knees bleeding gold, hair caught in a long braid. I looked so young and afraid. Soft and uncertain of who I was.
Even I wavered, gazing at her.
I wanted to protect her, wrap her within my arms.
“Bade!” my younger self shouted at him again, and he responded like he had been slapped.
“Matilda,” he said, hauling me after her. “Wait. Wait for me.”
Young Matilda turned and darted away, into the darkness. I dug my heels into the loam of the dream like I was an anchor, resisting the pull she created. I gritted my teeth and defied Bade’s strength, desperate to keep him on the path forward.
“Bade!” I hissed. “Bade, I am here. This is just a dream. I am holding your hand, and we are—”
He ran after the memory of me, his fear like the blue heart of a flame,
blazing through his eyes.
“Where are you?” he shouted.
“I am here!” I cried, but Young Matilda said the exact same words in the darkness, drowning out my voice.
I held on to his hand with an iron grip, afraid he would tear loose from me. He dragged me after my own phantom, and I could do nothing to break his pace. We were plunging headlong into utter blackness. If my heart had been able to beat, it would have been racing. Soon, hounds began to bay in
the distance. I felt Bade shudder.
“Matilda!” he bellowed.
Once more, I tried to reply, but Young Matilda stole the words from my mouth. Her voice was pitched high, ringing like a chime.
“Over here, Bade! Help me.”
He yanked us to the right, chasing the sound. His fear of something terrible happening to me was suffocating. I felt the ground begin to shift.
There were loose pebbles beneath us. I slipped, but Bade did not seem to notice. He continued to drag me, desperate to reach Young Matilda as the howls grew louder.
I could only think of one way to break his focus. To bring his eyes back to mine. To call him by a name Young Matilda never had.
“Father,” I said, my voice hitching. “Father!”
That brought Bade to a sliding halt. At once, the howls vanished. The darkness did not feel so heavy. Young Matilda vanished into mist.
He turned and looked at me, still clinging to his hand, my eyes wide and desperate.
I had never called him that, but it was what he was to me. No blood tethered us, but without him, I would not have been who I was.
I was the daughter he would never have. The child he had secretly
wanted.
“Matilda?” he whispered.
“Yes.” Relief brought me to my knees, a sour tang in my mouth. Still, I did not let go of his hand, and his fingers tightened on mine. “Yes, we were almost to the gate. To the light.”
He helped me stand.
This time we walked together, in stride. If there were hounds in the distance, we did not run from them. We did not fear them. We left behind the phantoms, the guilt, the ache of remorse.
The light became brighter, filling my eyes until it was all I could see.
I breathed, although I did not need the air. Still, I drew it in deep, remembering what it felt like to be alive.
And I pulled Bade through the dream’s gate.
Souls grow just as weary as flesh and bone and blood. They become thin, like old veils and parchment. Light shines through them until it feels like they will become nothing more than a vapor.
That is how I felt as Bade and I found the road again. My weariness stung my skin; it seemed like we had been wandering through his nightmare for decades. We were both battered and thirsty and sad. We both trembled with relief. He still held my hand, as I held his.
“Do not let go,” I said. “Not yet. There, up ahead, is the wasted door.”
I could see it and felt warmed by the familiarity—an arched plank of cedar wood with a cast-iron handle and a stone lintel. A door that seemed to sprout from the wasteland, leading to nowhere.
“Wasted door?” Bade echoed. “Where does it open to?”
“Come and see,” I said.
We approached the threshold, and I willed my sorrow to melt. I tamped it down, like embers. And still my hope roused itself, defiantly, sending heat through my cold, dead veins.
I wondered if I could bear my own soul and return to the living realm.
“This door leads to the mortal world,” I said as we paused before it. “I will open it for you, and you must step through it without looking back.”
Bade frowned. “And what of you? You are coming with me.”
“I … am not certain if I can.”
“What do you mean?”
“Souls are like words,” I said. “I carry them for everyone but myself. I have never tried to bear my own.”
“Then you must try this time,” Bade said gently, squeezing my fingers.
“For me, and Adria. For Vincent.”
I glanced over the wasteland, eager to dull the pain that welled in my soul. My wound had ceased bleeding, as had Bade’s. Our ichor was golden dust on our clothes, our skin. But there was still a hole in my chest. A place that could not be mended.
“Of course I will,” I said, attempting a smile. “Now, let me open the door for you. I will let go of your hand so you may pass over the threshold, but remember, you must not look behind. Do you hear me, Bade?”
He grunted. But it was only to hide the concern that I saw, glimmering in his eyes, as he continued to gaze down at me.
“I hear you,” he said at last. “Daughter.”
The threshold came to life when I touched the iron handle. With my sinister hand, I opened the door, and with my right, I let Bade go.
He stepped forward as I hoped he would, limned in sunlight, but then he paused.
Do not look behind, I thought, but I held my voice captive. If I spoke, I knew it would only tempt him to glance at me. Keep moving toward Adria.
I think he was waiting to feel my soul, close behind his. To ensure that I was following him. And so I stepped onto the threshold, the air stirring around me.
Bade’s shoulders relaxed. He continued forward. He vanished into the light, returning to the world of the living. When I tried to follow, I found that I could not. I was captive to the wastes. This threshold, while brilliant with magic, was barred to me.
I had no choice but to stumble backward into the vast sprawl of the wasteland.
I did not think I would weep; I did not think I could. But I sank to my knees and pressed my face into my palms, and I wept. There were no tears, only the salt of them, the sound of them. I wanted to curl into stone, to lie down and forget what I had lost until I was numb, but then came a voice, rolling over the hills to find me.
Matilda.
It was the Gatekeeper, calling to me.
I fell silent, breathing into my palms.
Matilda, your seven years have now begun.