Page 44 of The Blight of Hollowmire

I stagger back, bile rising in my throat. Vireth crouches in the center of it, her fingers sunk into the mud of the cave floor, her expression tight with something that looks like sadness. Tendrils of pulsing, glowing white emanate from her muddy fingertips. The mushrooms and the slick, sickening rot are coming from her.

The beast collapses fully, dissolving into a wet, stinking pile of something unrecognizable. An unnatural quiet follows—heavy and thick with tension.

Neither of us speaks for a very long time.

“What was that?” I ask eventually. “What… what just happened? Is that your magic?”

Vireth winces and turns her back to me.

“It is done,” she says. “I do not sense any other creatures in the cave, so we should make camp before something else wanders in and steals the vacancy.”

“But—”

“Just do it, Renard!” she shouts, whirling away and storming back toward the cave entrance.

I lead Magnar into the cave as, wordlessly, we go through the motions of making camp for the night and the duration of the blizzard. Finding a dry spot to lay out the bedrolls. Bringing in firewood from the trees outside. Building the fire, filling our waterskins with snow, brewing herbal tea and trading some of our preserved rations. The air between us is ready to crack apart from the building tension and unsaid words.

Eventually, I cannot stand the silence anymore. I clear my throat, and her oxblood gaze snaps to mine—warning evident in her eyes. I cannot help myself, I must ask her about it. Is she… toxic? Poisonous? How has she been able to heal my wounds so thoroughly when she harbors such destruction in her fingertips?

“Your magic,” I say. “That was⁠—”

“Don’t,” she snaps.

“I simply would like to understand what I’m traveling with,” I say, then silently curse my phrasing when she flinches. “Who I’m traveling with.”

Her jaw tightens and for a moment, I think she will refuse to say anything. An uneasy worry gathers in my gut—fear that she will simply get up and leave me here in this cave, alone, and strike off on her own again. The thought makes it difficult to draw breath.

Then she exhales sharply and crouches near the cave wall.

“Fine,” she mutters.

She presses her fingers to the damp stone walls, and again, I watch as small, pale shapes begin to push through the cracks. They’re like the mushrooms from before, but larger, lining the ceiling of the cave and glowing with a friendlier sort of light. Softly at first, then brighter, casting everything in a warm, golden-green glow.

I cannot help but stare. The growths are… lovely, if a little unconventional. Definitely unsettling, but undoubtedly beautiful.

“I must admit, that’s not what I expected.”

She sighs. “It rarely is. Then again, I fear to ask what it was you expected from me.”

“Perhaps that is incorrect of me… I mean to say that I wasn’t sure what magical gifts you had at your behest. I wondered if it was some sort of healing or cooking magic. You make a fine campfire stew, and my wounds have been healing faster than ever before.” I cough to clear some of the awkwardness from my throat, almost choking on sudden dry heaviness of my tongue. “But… I am beginning to think I have underestimated you.”

She huffs softly. “You wouldn’t be the first.”

“No,” I agree. “So, this is your gift, then? Mushrooms? Fungal magic?”

“Decay magic,” she corrects, expression grim. “That is what you travel with. As to whom you’re traveling with, Renard…”

She pulls the braid from the top of her hair, and beneath it I see two small protrusions of bone—antlers!—sprouting from her head.

“I hope you do not mind making camp with the Blight Mother.”

10

Vireth

Renard’s eyebrows lift in surprise then furrow in confusion, his mouth gaping and snapping close in sharp succession. It was a risk to admit as much to him, but with my powers, and these antlers growing, I knew I’d have to tell him the truth sooner or later. Sadness blooms like a frost-damaged rose in my chest, because now, inevitably, comes the rejection I’ve been desperate to avoid.

“No,” he breathes, disbelieving. “The Blight Mother? How?”