Page 30 of The Blight of Hollowmire

“But why through the bog? No one uses that path. Everyone always takes the eastern road,” she presses.

“I didn’t know there was an eastern road through the Verge. I’ve been here once before. My company came this way,” I say.

“The Verge?”

“What do you call it, then? This forest?”

She tilts her head at me, a thoughtful expression on her face. “This forest has many names. I’ve never heard it called the Verge. I rather like that.”

“What do you call it?” I ask again.

“I suppose I just call it ‘the forest’ or ‘the wood.’”

“That’s a very plain name for a very strange place,” I say, warming to her sharp humor.

She lifts the pot from the fire and sets it aside to cool. The smell that rises from it is earthy and bitter—herbs, mushrooms, something medicinal.

“I’m almost certain this will speed your healing, human Renard. Or am I to call you Knight Renard? Sir Renard? What is your custom?”

“Renard is fine. I am a knight no longer, and even when I was, the title fit me ill.”

There is unguarded curiosity in her gaze, but thankfully, she does not press.

“Well, Renard,” she says, murmuring the name between those deadly fangs. “As I was saying, I’m almost certain this will speed your healing. Either that, or it will kill you faster than the bogunder ever could. It would be painful, I suspect, but fortunately very quick. I’m not as used to human forms, so I can only do my best. Are you brave enough to give it a try?”

I should say no. Every instinct in me screams to—why should I trust this terrifying woman in this equally terrifying place? Yet my leg and shoulder throb with pain at every beat of my heart, and I don’t want to linger here any longer than necessary. Is the risk worth my life? Certainly. Is the risk worth the lives of those starving souls in Valehar? That is less certain.

My eyes wander again, lingering on the strange growths pushing up along the damp beams of the walls. Pale mushrooms cluster in uneven patches, some small and delicate, others thick-stemmed and dark. The ground below Vireth’s crouched form is decked with a strange growth of bright orange that’s almost certainly toxic.

There are far too many mushrooms for comfort.

“Were all these here before?” I ask.

Her gaze flicks briefly toward the clusters, then down at the pulsing orange upon the dirt.

“Some of them were,” she says with a half shrug.

“But not all of them? Do you mean to tell me these grew overnight?”

“In a sense, yes. Everything that lives grows all the time. It only stops when we die.”

The answer is confounding, and only furthers my discomfort. I shift carefully against the wall, testing the bandages wrapped around my ribs. The pain is manageable now, though every breath reminds me just how close I came to my quest ending in the innards of the bogunder.

“You did a fine job,” I say, touching the edge of the binding.

“Of course I did,” she replies, perplexed by my bewilderment. “Now, will you take your chances with breakfast? I’ve got places to be, human, and I can’t stay here tending you for long.”

It would be absurd to imagine this creature meant me harm after going through so much trouble to care for me in the first place. I nod, reaching for the outstretched mug steaming with savory brown sludge.

“Thank you,” I finally say, testing the first sip cautiously. Despite the unappealingly thick texture of the liquid, it’s delicious—a kind of fatty, mushroomy porridge topped with bitter herbs I am unfamiliar with. “This is very good. I suppose if I am to die, it is a fine last meal.”

“It’s better than a mouthful of bog water,” she chuckles, and I catch a glimpse of her smile before it falls away.

It is exactly as I imagine being struck by lightning is like—sudden, blinding, and fatal. This fae wields a terrifying beauty and it is more frightening than a thousand bogunders or mimics.

“Mine would be poached blackfan scallops drizzled in kelp broth to start, then fire-roasted marrow with herb-crusted potatoes, an entire loaf of freshly baked yeast bread, an entire wheel of cave-aged cheese, salad of bitter greens and pomegranate seeds, and salted honey apple tart for dessert,” she says dreamily.

It takes me a moment for my mind to contend with what she’s saying, partly because it’s the most she’s spoken to me in one go, partly because the foods she’s salivating over are for more than just peasants, or even a well-off merchants’ table. Stupidly, I’m only now realizing I have no idea who this Vireth is, where she came from, or why she happened to be on the causeway when I was doomed to cross.