Wild Reverence

I

Death and Her Horoscope

MATILDA

There was a time, long ago, when I believed the God of War was my father. Mostly because he was the first to hold me after I was born.

His robes were stained crimson from mortal combat, his cloak shredded by swords and morning stars. His skin—warm from the spring sun—smelled of salt and sweetened smoke.

He had come to visit my mother's burrow, far below where the earth lies dark and quiet, to ask her advice on a skirmish. Instead, he ended up witnessing my birth.

I arrived so suddenly he had no chance to drain his wine and depart, as he would have preferred. He was keen to return to the battlefield and avoid anything pertaining to birth.

He says I came into the world with a cry strong enough to split tree roots and thunderheads, a sound that would have made mortal kings bow.

No doubt, my voice echoed down every Underling passage.

"Hold her," my mother insisted, breathless but flushed.

And so he did, pressing me awkwardly against his bloodstained breast. He was a god whose heart was rumored to be as hard and unyielding as quartzite. He was the Goddess of Death's only son, reaping souls by the hundreds without remorse.

"What will you name her?" Bade asked, cupping my head in his palm. His hand was large enough, powerful enough, to crush me into dust, yet he held me as if I were fragile. A god-child made of damselfly wings, spider silk, and daydreams.

My mother paused, wiping the golden blood from her legs. The air smelled green and spiced, like freshly harvested sage and the sloe wine she had spilled. "I don't know."

"Her father…?"

"No. I am keeping her a secret from him. At least, for the first few decades. She should grow in her own strength before they meet."

"Wise," Bade said. Then he fell pensive, gazing down at me, still crowned in my mother's ichor. "But a little goddess cannot grow up without a name to guide her path."

There was a lull, punctuated only by the fire crackling in the hearth. This memory is not mine, but it has been told to me so many times it feels like my own.

My mother tilted her head, black hair flowing over her shoulder like a waterfall at midnight, a furrow in her brow. She suddenly seemed troubled, though he could only marvel at why.

"A name shapes a divine being as much as the stars do," she finally said, stroking the silken strands of my hair. I was quiet but scowling, blinking as I took in the haze of the new world. "Perhaps I should wait and see what the horoscope says. To name her after her magic has been defined."

"I would not wait for that, Zenia."

"Why not?"

"What if she ends up with some lackluster magic? She could be the goddess of taxes, or patience, or peace, or some other tedious thing."

"Then what would you call her, if she were your daughter?"

"Matilda," he said without hesitation. As if he had thought of what he would name a child many times, despite the absence of them in his immortal life.

"Matilda?" my mother repeated, surprised. "Why?"

"It means 'mighty in battle'."

"Of course you would name a daughter such a thing."

"Is it not fitting?"

"For a child spun from your bloodlust? Yes."

Bade offered a half-smile, softening the scars that marred his face. His shoulders relaxed as he continued to hold me close to his chest. "You know this as well as I do—I vowed to be childless unless they can be made in love. And I would rather be feared than ever be loved."

"As would we all," my mother agreed. "But have you failed to notice it, my old ally? War only makes love burn brighter. More defiant. It seems to bloom from the bloodshed you leave behind, unfurling from the most unlikely places. From the broken seams of the world. From the graves, the anguish, and the fear you inspire."

"I have not noticed," Bade said, unable to hide the brusqueness in his gravel-like voice. I became restless, crying once more, stricken by a sudden wave of hunger. "Here, take her."

I was passed to my mother, who held me for a long moment, gazing at me with unguarded fondness.

"Matilda," she said again. The name seemed to fit, even though she had yet to learn under which constellation I was born—what magic hid in my veins, or where my place was destined to fall within the divine courts.

Zenia fed me, and as I swallowed her golden milk, she resumed her advice to the God of War on his upcoming battle, as if my birth had been a minor inconvenience.

But the truth is… there has been no divine child born to the Underlings or the Skywards since.

Zenia kept me cloistered in her burrow for three days, ignoring the knocks on her door and the inquisitive voices seeping through the stone lintel.

The Underling clan was curious about my birth, my unnamed magic, my unclaimed horoscope, and—most of all—who my father was. The courts below knew he must be an enemy.

A god of the haughty, conniving Skywards.

But at last, my mother's own curiosity swelled. She emerged from her chambers and carried me through the winding, fog-laden passages of the under realm, bundled in sky-blue velvet, to Orphia, the Goddess of Death and the matriarch of the clan.

It might seem odd to take a newborn to visit Death, but the truth is that we measure life by its end, or the lack thereof for immortals.

Regardless, Orphia was one of the oldest and wisest amongst our kind, and she could read a horoscope, which my mother was now anxious to learn on my behalf.

"Put the child down, there," Orphia said with a flick of her sinewed hand.

She would not dare cradle me in her arms like the God of War had done, and my mother was grateful for that omission as she laid me down on a bolt of sheepskin, close to the hearth where the stones were warm and drenched in firelight.

But there are a few things to know about Orphia's burrow.

Her door is hard to find, and her chambers are a honeycomb of vaulted rooms and marble columns carved into terrifying beasts.

There is a hearth, where the fire never extinguishes.

There are rafters high above, draped in long, dark robes.

There is a great loom, with a never-ending tapestry caught in its jaws.

And there is a crack in the stone ceiling, which allows a pillar of celestial light to stream down to her tabletop scrying mirror.

This is where she keeps watch over the constellations and deems horoscopes; the night sky is reflected on the oval sheet of obsidian.

Zenia approached the scrying mirror, betraying her anxiety.

But Orphia called her to the fire, where she was steeping a bundle of white blooms in a copper pan of rainwater.

Steam danced upward as the liquid cooled on the hearthstone.

There was no fragrance save for a very faint hint of pepper and honey.

Orphia was making a concoction of bittertongue, boiling poisonous flowers down to their essence. Blooms harvested from the mortal realm. And my mother was about to drink it.

"Here, Zenia," said Orphia, pouring a small glass. The liquid was clear as water. "You know you must answer truthfully if I am to read the stars for your descendant."

Poison cannot kill a divine being or even make us unwell, like it does mortals. But we still bend to its power. To drink it means we can only speak truth while it courses through our veins. A lie would burn our tongue and turn our voices to smoke.

Zenia hesitated. Her face, lovely and pale as a winter dawn, was beaded with perspiration. She had secrets to keep, but she took the cup and drained the liquid, grimacing as the bitterness coated her tongue.

"My heart is open," she said, meeting Orphia's unwavering stare. "Please. I want to know where my daughter stands within the court. If she will grow up safe and unnoticed, or if I must raise her to kill in self-defense."

"You must raise her to be vigilant, regardless of which constellation she was born beneath," Orphia said, moving to the table where the scrying mirror rested. "But let us begin. You must answer every query I voice to you. Do you understand?"

Zenia nodded. Her hands trembled as she clutched the edges of her cloak.

"When was she conceived?" Orphia asked, gazing down into the mirror. There was no reflection of her angular, moon-pale face. Only black mist, and a shimmer of stars as if she were waking them at dusk.

"It was summer," Zenia replied. "The first fruits had just been gathered. The olives had just been pressed. The sheep had just been shorn. The rain had just subsided, leaving the rivers high. The sun had set and the moon was rising as a waning crescent."

"You describe the mortal realm."

"Yes, that is where our union took place."

"And who is the father?"

My mother paused, biting her lip. "I cannot speak it, Orphia. When we parted, he made me swear an oath. That should I utter his name, even far below, where the sun has never touched and he has never trod, he would hear it. And he would find me."

"To reunite with you in love, or to kill you?"

Zenia was silent. "Once, he loved me. I was a secret that he kept, but our affair did not last, and our parting was not gentle."

Orphia's eyes, blue and sharp as sapphires hewn from stone, glittered as she continued to gaze into the mirror. More stars melted through the darkness. "Then confirm to me that he is a Skyward."

"He is."

Given the hints my mother had dropped about him—summer, oaths, the moon, an Underling enemy—Orphia deduced who my father was, even without his name spoken into the shadows.

"I suppose you do not have anything of his to—"

"I do," Zenia said, producing a lock of fiery red hair from the inner pocket of her cloak. "I cut it from him when he was sleeping, the last time we were together."