Page 47 of The Blight of Hollowmire

I close my eyes briefly, trying to breathe through the discomfort.

“You are not a monster, Vireth,” Renard says softly.

My eyes fly open at that—the first time someone has sworn as much, and he has said it when I am at my most monstrous. Gods, what I wouldn’t give for that to be the truth—for that to be my truth. The more I become the Blight Mother, the more I fear there will be no turning back from it.

“Perhaps not yet,” I reply. “But I fear I am to become one.”

He shakes his head, poking at the fire again.

“I have met my share of monsters—most of them lack your introspection. Real monsters, Vireth, are not consumed with worry about the power they wield. They simply wield it and convince themselves that the consequences are not their responsibility.”

“Perhaps. But even if there’s some chance I might… I need to find the seer.”

Renard studies me carefully. “Are you so certain she will have the answers you seek?”

“She was the one who set this all into motion. She knew things she should not have known, or suggested as much. She recited prophecy in front of half the nobility.”

Renard grunts, poking the fire with a stick to reinvigorate the quelling flames. “And half the court was drunk enough to believe it?”

A weak smile tugs briefly at my mouth. Gods help me, even now he can make me laugh.

“You should hear all of it,” I admit quietly.

His expression sharpens. “All of what?”

“The prophecy.”

Snow skitters across the cave entrance in a burst of white. I pull my cloak tighter around myself before continuing.

“Shall I recite it for you? I have it memorized word for word, and you may thank my mother’s rhetoric tutor for that,” I say, clearing my throat. “Blight Mother. Rot-Born Queen. From the rot of mercy comes the mother of endings. Crowned in hunger. Swollen with what the world casts away. The green will fail her first. Then stone. Then bone. What is buried will answer her call, and what yet lives will beg to follow. By heart of stone, she may be undone. A curse unraveled, another begun. She will love the world. And in loving it, she will unmake it. The ancient ones call her forth from slumber. The Blight Mother awakes. She heralds the end.”

Renard says nothing, and I laugh shakily to fill the ensuing silence.

“Rather dramatic, really. One does miss the days when prophecies merely warned of bad harvests or slighted battle gods who didn’t approve of their sacrifices.”

“So, this is it, then? She names you the Blight Mother and you just… turn into a goddess sent to curse the world?”

The fire pops softly. My gaze returns to the remains of the beast near the back of the cave and my fingers tremble. I wish I could stop shaking.

“She named me the Blight Mother, Renard.”

The title settles heavily into the cave, even the wind outside seems quieter afterward. Renard’s gaze fixes on me with unnerving intensity.

“And you’re certain she meant you.”

“I think antlers are generally an ominous sign.”

“Vireth.”

“I rotted an animal from the inside out!”

He sighs, scratching at the dark blonde growth of beard on his jaw.

“You were defending yourself—and me.”

“Yes, well, forgive me if that doesn’t comfort me when I wake every evening with horrifying night terrors from it.”

He exhales slowly through his nose, the expression on his face inscrutable. I feel as though I can see him trying to reconcile the woman beside the fire with whatever nightmare stories he has heard about the Blight Mother.