Page 40 of The Blight of Hollowmire

“Of course there are.” Burial grounds filled with all the fae and humans who probably ran afoul of the terrifying beasts of this forest.

Nibblebones squeaks impatiently, clearly waiting for my appraisal. I turn the pin over in my fingers, then incline my head toward the creature. “My thanks once again, Mistress Bones. A generous gift.”

She preens, clearly delighted, before darting off again into the trees.

I smile, uncertain why I am so pleased with this turn of events. “I am beginning to think she likes me.”

“You accepted her offering,” Vireth says. “In fact, you ate it. Of course you earned her favor.”

“I do hope it’s not a pattern of behavior. A single lump of rotting frog flesh is one thing, but I don’t know if I could stomach another.”

“Consider yourself lucky. Her gifts range from the abhorrent to the exquisite and there’s no telling which you’ll get at any given time. I will admit, she has an uncanny ability to predetermine what will be of use in your future, so I’d hold onto the pin if I were you.”

The tea is ready soon after—bitter as sin, as expected. I drink it anyway, because I am almost certain I can already feel the healing taking root in my muscles and sinews.

We pack in relative silence, the cold biting sharper now that the sun has risen only to hide itself behind a thick blanket of stubborn gray clouds. The snow from the night before has frozen into a thin crust that crunches beneath our boots and once again, I find myself longing for the comfort of my bed and the warmth of my hearth. A loaf of still-warm bread from the oven, with honey and soft cheese. Rashers of bacon, as well, if I’m idly dreaming. And of course, a soothing tisane, a good book, and a naked woman waiting for me in bed. A woman with hair like moonlight and…

Gods above.

Shaking myself from my distracting fantasies, I finish my tea and test my leg by going to check on Magnar and bring him his breakfast.

“I think I’ll try walking for a bit,” I say once we’re ready.

Vireth arches a brow. “Think that’s a good idea, do you? Well, try not to collapse. It will be embarrassing for you, and inconvenient for me.”

“You concern has been noted.”

“I am concerned for the delay,” she says. The way her eyes flick to my injured leg, I wonder if this is her truth, or if, perhaps, she is hiding some concern for my well-being. My heart trips over the next few beats.

“If we’re to meet with a fortune teller, or seer—a true seer, mind—I suspect she’ll already know you’re delayed.”

Visible tension pulls Vireth’s shoulders tight and there’s something there—a worry, or a story, that she obviously doesn’t wish to share. Just when I think she’ll snap at me for being suspect about her errand, she sighs and slings her pack over Magnar’s saddle.

We set off through the trees, and thus far the persistent aches are not terrible. Evident, yes, and the going is slow, but the discomfort radiating from my mending wounds is manageable, and that is something.

After about an hour trudging through the icy snow, the forest thins and the land begins to rise. The evergreens grow sparser, the ground more uneven. Black rock juts up through the snow in jagged outcroppings, and the air takes on that sharp, thin quality that means we’re venturing into higher altitude. Magnar carries our packs and picks his way along the narrow trail, scarcely paying attention to Nibblebones as she darts through my horse’s hooves. I get the sense Magnar finds the fae animal’s antics puerile, but he is still careful where he steps.

Every now and then, I catch Vireth smiling at her familiar—and at my horse—and something akin to envy snakes its way through my chest. An almost adolescent desire for her to turn her smile toward me begins to overtake me, but each time I tamp it down with haughty assurance and irritation. I am a former First Knight of Valehar—was very nearly its king!—and I cannot be so easily swayed by an unsettling pair of oxblood eyes and an impertinent disposition, enigmatic as it is. I have not longed for a woman’s company in years—have often thought myself above such pedestrian distractions. And then, after Elena passed away, I simply ceased to want anything beyond the memories of my grief and an end to the famine.

Yet strangely, I find my gaze drifting to my reluctant companion more often than I intend, and I’m beginning to find it inconvenient. Starving ravens, Renard, pull yourself together. I have known Vireth for scarcely more than a few days, and yet my attention returns to her with an insistence I cannot quite ignore. I don’t have the time, nor the inclination to find the key to the lockbox of my heart—to undergo all the effort to make space for another woman in my life again. I’ve had lovers as a widower—always disappointingly unsatisfying—but I’ve long abandoned any effort to be with a woman.

And this one… well. She has already begun to unwind everything in me that has been tightly wound, and I cannot believe that is a boon. It’s not just that she is striking, though she is. Nor only that she is capable, though that is evident.

I think it might be the contradiction of her. Her sharpness and her restraint, how she has so clearly locked away part of her tender heart that one wonders how long it’s been since she handed anyone the key. For all her mystery, it’s clear to me that her icy exterior is deliberately cultivated as a defense mechanism, evident in the way she speaks as though nothing touches her, and the way, on occasion, it very clearly does. What I will not deny is that something within me recognizes something alike—akin—in her.

I shake the thought away before it can settle in my mind and take residence there. This is absurd—mooning over an unlikely romantic attachment like some fumbling adolescent boy. There are more pressing concerns—the cursed plague and starving children, restoring my honor, and absolving myself of my former failures once and for all.

As we pass close to a stripped deer carcass, bones thrusting up through the snow, I consider asking Vireth about the Blight Mother. It sits poorly with me, the fact that I haven’t told her my real reason for crossing into her lands. I have never been fond of withholding truths, particularly from those who may be affected by them. It feels… dishonest. Dishonorable, even. My guts roils unpleasantly.

Vireth is such an enigma to me, however, and I do not yet know what she would do with that knowledge, or what it might mean here in her realm. Her upset about the deaths of the bogunder and lythettan caught me by surprise, and I get the feeling that she wouldn’t take kindly to me admitting my true purpose here was about setting forth to slay an ancient spirit. Despite being indebted to her many times over now, my trust is not so easily given as it once was. Still, I am here for a reason, and perhaps I can learn something if I tread carefully.

“Have you ever heard of the Blight Mother?” I ask, the casual question belying its importance.

She stills, studiously avoiding my gaze and focusing a bit too intensely on the path ahead.

“I have heard the name,” she says after a moment.

“And?”