Page 31 of The Blight of Hollowmire

“That would be a much better last meal,” I say cautiously. “Does that come from your experience or just your imagination?”

“Both,” she replies, changing the subject before I can ask her to elaborate. “So, you were here before? When? No one’s seen humans on this side of the wood—the Verge—in years. You cannot be that old, despite what your graying muzzle says.”

I snort, leaning my head back against the cold stone, and close my eyes briefly. The last expedition flashes through my mind unbidden—twenty men riding into the Verge with scholars and maps and desperate hope. Searching for a cure to a curse that makes food perfect to the eye and useless to the body.

We believed the fae might know something. Yet the journey ended with more than half of my men buried in mud and the rest fleeing Hollowmire—dead-eyed and mute from the unspeakable horrors we encountered—with more questions than answers. We never met with a single fae.

Failure tastes just as bitter now as it did then.

When I open my eyes again, Vireth is watching me.

“What were you doing out in the bog?” I ask instead. “Not that I’m ungrateful for your presence and intervention. It just seems an odd place for a woman to pass the time.”

She shrugs, turning back to remove the now empty pot from the fire. “Perhaps I am simply an odd woman.”

“Of that, I have no doubt,” I mutter.

She does not rise to the bait. Disappointing, that. I rather like sparring with her.

“I’m on my way to the fae village that lies in the mountains just to the east of the forest. It’s three—now two and a half—days from here,” she says. Then, she tilts her head at me again, that unfettered curiosity glittering in her gaze. “Why were you heading to Hollowmire? No one here has seen humans in… oh, a hundred years or more. Who were you expecting to receive you? What business do you have with the fae up at the castle?”

It’s easy to see how we’re both dancing around the truth in this increasingly dangerous conversation. What loyalty would she have to the Blight Mother if it is a goddess of her people? How would she receive me, knowing I am here with violence in my heart? Would she laugh at me, turn me out—kill me, even? I can hardly protect myself and who knows what dark gifts these fae possess.

A kingdom of starving people relies on me to spill the Blight Mother’s blood—I mustn’t forget. I cannot be swayed from my path. Yet now I am indebted to her for saving my life, and I must uphold my honor. Still, it stands to reason that she herself hails from the castle—in what capacity, I cannot say—and I’m unsure how questions about the Blight Mother would be received.

I’ve never been able to stomach lying, so I settle on half-truths.

“I’m seeking a cure, or knowledge of a cure, for a curse,” I reply.

“Whose curse?” she asks, taking care to bundle and pack her sprawled items away with precision. “Your king’s? Or your lord’s? Or perhaps your lovely lady wife?”

“My king and my lovely lady wife have already succumbed,” I snap, pain and anger warring within my feeble, broken body. The way this fae woman drops the question, so carelessly, with little more than a shrug, flays me open and lays bare my failure to save them. Choking down the shame like a tincture of bitter acceptance, I turn my ire back on my bewildered companion. “Have none of your kind wondered what’s happened beyond the forest? Do none of your people care about the faltering fates of your human neighbors? Were we not once allies?”

Vireth’s dark-blonde brows—darker than her spun-moonlight hair—lift at my outburst. Before she can answer and before I can apologize, she thrusts an apple into my mouth, lodging it firmly in my teeth.

“You must eat, Renard. As I said before, I don’t have much experience with humans but I understand you need a great deal of care for your fragile bodies. More food, more water, more rest than what is normal for us fae. I sense that your temper is down to your body struggling to repair itself and your resultant hunger.”

To keep from launching myself out of bed and shouting at her—likely reopening my wounds in the process—I take great bites from the apple and force myself to chew slowly. Satisfied, Vireth sits on the edge of the bed and places a gentle hand on my wounded shoulder.

“I am sorry for your king, and your wife,” she says. “May your gods grant them peace in the spirit realm, and may their bodies give rise to something new in this realm.”

She touches her heart, her lips, and her forehead in what I assume to be a gesture of respect. My mouth full of tart, juicy apple flesh, I merely nod my thanks and sulk.

“I must admit, in Hollowmire we don’t know much of what happens on your side of the forest. My understanding is that there was some falling out between our kind ages ago, and whatever fragile alliance existed due to curiosity or wartime necessity wore thin. Tell me of your faltering fates, of this curse you seek to undo. If I can lend aid in some way, I shall,” she says earnestly.

Morning light caresses the pale skin of her face, tripping across faint lines that wrinkle her eyes and the edges of her lips. There is a softness to her skin that is not the plumpness of youth, but the gentle wear of years. I realize she is older than I initially believed—not the winsome young maiden as she initially appeared, but a woman settled into her life and body. What that age means for fae, though, I’m ashamed to admit I do not know. Time seems to move more slowly in Hollowmire, as though the sun struggles through the sky like it is moving through a vat of honey. Regretfully, I find the years she wears make her that much more enthralling, which might prove distracting if I weren’t so set on my quest.

“I appreciate your offer, and while you’ve already aided me more than I can ever hope to repay, I will impress upon your good graces again,” I reply, inclining my head.

It is difficult to sift through my memories to find the best place to begin.

“Years ago, nearly 10 years now, Valehar experienced one of the worst winters in living memory, which bled into a thin, snow-choked spring. As such, crops across the kingdom yielded poorly and people began to starve,” I begin.

Vireth settles in at the foot of the rotten bed, tucking one leg beneath her.

“Yes, I think I remember this time… we called it the Black Spring here. But it was not so long ago for us, maybe 5 or 6 years. Interesting how time works on either side of the forest.”

“Back then, I served King Morcar as First Knight. He’d built up the treasury from seemingly endless foreign conquests, leading us—his army—all over to bring the squabbling lords and fractious tribal groups to heel under one banner. Valehar had only just begun to flower when the famine hit, and it threatened to stop us from flourishing altogether. But as severe as Morcar could be on the battlefield and in court, he was also just. He spent much of the hoarded wealth importing what food we could and distributing it to his people.”