Page 34 of The Blight of Hollowmire

If I’d been delighted at Renard’s embarrassed countenance earlier today, it is nothing in the face of his shocked revulsion. I’m utterly helpless at reining in my laughter, and he glares sharply at me before the corners of his fine lips lift in a reluctant smile. Eventually, he breaks into a low chuckle that raises goosebumps all along my skin.

It is a sound that lodges deep inside me, flowing through my veins with my long-damp ardor. Hmm. Another interesting thought best saved for later examination.

“I cannot tell if she means to insult me or honor me with her tribute,” he finally says, but his manner is light and some of the irritated tension between us has evaporated.

“I would consider it a bit of both, to be honest,” I return. “She accepts your apology and also seems to believe you are incapable of feeding yourself, though that could be due to your injuries rather than any perceived incompetence. Hence her proffered snack.”

“Gods above. Will she be offended if I do not accept her gift?”

“Most certainly.” I’m teasing him, but it stems from my curiosity to see how he will respond.

I watch Renard stare at Nibblebones’ eager little face, her shining onyx eyes tracking his every movement.

“Well, hells,” he grumbles, then picks up the bit of meat and swallows it without further preamble. A flash of green overtakes his pallor, but he forces another smile.

“A thousand thanks, Mistress Bones, ’twas delightful.”

Nibblebones chitters happily and runs back out into the forest, followed by my bark of laughter. Satisfaction nestles within my ribs, and no small amount of surprise. A large part of me expected him to fling the offending offering into the woods and glower at my furry companion.

“I cannot believe you actually ate it. You truly are a knight to behave so honorably.”

“I hate to admit it, but I’ve eaten worse,” he says. “And as I said, I am a knight no longer. Just a farmer in armor who hates to offend his hosts.”

“Well, you’ve made a friend for life, then. I wager she’s off through the woods to bring you some other tasty morsel to ensure your strength returns.”

“Oh, I cannot wait.” He grins, turning slightly to catch my gaze. The brief eye contact feels… different from before. Less suspicious and yet more charged, somehow, which is strange given our tempers seem to be easing. If the heat crawling through my body isn’t from frustration, then… no. I turn my attention back to the path ahead, confused by the tingling sensations that spark down my breasts and between my legs.

It hasn’t been that long since I’ve taken a lover—has it? Even if it has, it would take a lot more than a generous-lipped smile and a throaty chuckle to convince me to harbor more than a passing interest in the ignorant human, even if he has a figure that rivals Ulfrid’s.

It won’t matter, anyway, because as soon as we find the fortune teller and have her direct us to a curse breaker, I doubt he’ll deign to remain in Hollowmire. And that would suit me fine, of course, since I plan to buy myself a little plot of land in Moontide, assuming I can get this mess of a prophecy sorted out.

I’m reluctant to admit that entangling myself with the human—Renard, I must remember to call him by his name—has proven a welcome distraction from both my current emotional turmoil and from the dread that has hardened in my gut whispering that something inside me is different. Whether it is a world-ending harbinger of destruction, I cannot say. I certainly hope not. It would make my hopes for a cottage with a garden overlooking the sea rather pointless.

Renard’s eyes continue to find me as we navigate through the overgrown paths choked with spindly brown brambles, silvery ferns, and deep green mosses. Making our way east through these woods gives way to fewer deciduous trees and more evergreens, which signals we’re nearing the brutal range of mountains separating Hollowmire from the vast eastern deserts that live in the rain shadow. The village we’re heading for lies straight at the foot of the mountain pass in a valley set between the range’s grandest mountains, North Fang and South Fang—so named due to their gently curved peaks. I’ve hesitated to inform Renard—who, despite his bravery, already seems a bit on edge—that we’re about to enter a place called the Passage of Teeth. Mayhap it’s best to let him learn that as we go.

As the afternoon wears on and we march against waning daylight, the temperature begins to drop precipitously. During one of our rest stops, Renard pulls his wool blanket from his pack and draws it up around his neck, but I can see that he still feels the cold. With the thinning tree canopy of pine and evergreen, the gloom of the forest has given way to broader expanses of sky, but the layer of pewter clouds still obscures any hope of blue and heralds rain, sleet, or worse—snow.

“Is it always this cold here?” he asks.

“Yes and no. We’re nearing the Godmouth mountain range. Most of its peaks are covered in snow year-round, but it doesn’t usually get so cold in the valleys until after the autumnal equinox. This year has been peculiar in that way. Colder temperatures overall, meager harvests—not as bad as you’ve had in Valehar, but bad for us fae. Even those of us with nature magic have been unable to encourage the soil to provide with the same enthusiasm as before,” I explain. “It’s as if something is dampening our power.”

Renard’s glacial gaze cuts to mine. “Or perhaps our blight is spreading.”

I shake my head. “We can still eat the food that comes from our fields. There’s just less of it this year.”

He reaches up to scrub a hand over his beard, thinking. “It can’t be a coincidence. Valehar and Hollowmire are only separated by the Verge. Don’t you sense that something is wrong in the forest? What if that’s some new manifestation of the blight working its way through your lands? We know that time works differently in our realms. Why shouldn’t a curse?”

The book’s words return to me in a flash. Humanity pushing the world toward imbalance, and the Blight Mother being the hand that tips the scale. How, though? What is the Blight Mother? If she is supposed to redress imbalance with annihilation, what does that mean?

I feel renewed urgency to reach the fortune teller and pepper her with my questions. Perhaps Renard is right—what if the problems in Hollowmire are related to the curse in Valehar?

“Is that your gift, then?” he asks, drawing me from the dark swirl of my thoughts. “To make things grow?”

I pause, suddenly self-conscious. In a rush, dozens of instances of repulsed faces and disappointed sneers materialize in my mind’s eye. Every time someone learns what I can do, they turn away from me. I’d gotten so used to it that when I left the castle, coming to terms with my power felt like a new beginning. Seeing how the knight reacts to Nibblebones… I’m ashamed to admit that I don’t think I can bear Renard’s disgust. Not yet, anyway.

“Of a sort,” I say, settling on a vague truth.

I can tell Renard is about to press, but thankfully Nibblebones returns with a fat pheasant clutched in her jaws. Dutifully, she winds her way up Renard’s legs and drops the dead bird in his lap.