Page 75 of The Blight of Hollowmire

He heaves a great sigh, then sits across from me, ducking the persistent column of smoke rising from my paltry fire. With a few strategic pokes and the addition of a new log, the fire ceases to smoke so aggressively and brightens with orange flame.

“No, I am the one who must apologize,” he says, scrubbing a hand down his face. “I am sore and overtired, worried about our path ahead and what awaits for me—for us—in Valehar. You do not deserve my ire. Forgive me, Lady Fae.”

I nod, then toss the rabbit carcass into the kettle for our evening stew. For a few brief moments, we sit in companionable silence. Across the fire, Renard stares into the flames with that distant look he's been wearing for most of the afternoon—the one that suggests he's somewhere in the past rather than sitting beside a stream with a fae woman, a corpse weasel, and a haughty black destrier for a traveling party.

I study him for a moment, then decide to ask him about something that has been weighing on my mind for the last several days.

“Tell me about Arden.”

The name has been on my mind for most of the day, more insistent the closer we draw to Valehar. Renard has mentioned him in passing, but it’s always in fragments and half-stories that end abruptly. I know there’s more to his relationship with the regent than he’s letting on and now feels as good a time as any to get a better understanding.

His gaze lifts, something unreadable crossing his face. “What about him?”

I shrug. “Everything you know. Anything that might give me a sense of what we’re dealing with. Whatever you’ve been avoiding telling me thus far.”

One eyebrow rises.

“Everything is a considerable amount,” he hedges.

“Well, fortunately we have several days before we reach Valehar.”

His expression suggests he finds this argument difficult to refute. Good. I settle more comfortably into my seat, still minding the stew, and wait.

15

Renard

Now that I have the chance to tell Vireth about everything that’s been plaguing me for the last couple of weeks, I can scarcely conjure the words to do so. Simply tell her, Renard. Tell her the truth. Tell her everything. Was I not just berating her—like a fool—for electing to keep some of her past with me? And did she not have a very simple, rational, heartbreaking reason for doing so?

My guts sour the more I reflect on my own untruths.

What is my excuse for hiding things from her? Because I am a coward. Because I cannot bear the possibility that she will look on me with anger, or worse—disappointment. It’s hardly the same thing. What if I tell her all and she leaves? My pulse begins to race, and I start to feel lightheaded.

Worse—what if she doesn’t?

Despair and fatigue make my joints ache, even as my injuries are all but healed thanks to her dedicated nursing and, I suspect, something to do with her magical gifts. Even more of a reason for me to be honest with her.

With the perch skewered and smoking high above the flames, and the rabbit stew bubbling away, there’s little for me to do with my hands to soothe my nerves. Out of habit, I pull out my whetstone to sharpen my sword, comforted somewhat by the low metallic scrape of stone against metal.

“We have known each other since we were children,” I begin, fearing if I don’t, I shall lose my nerve.

“Were you both born to privilege?” she asks.

I nod, but do not explain further. That is a tale for another day.

“The first time I met him, I remember being disappointed. I’d heard so many things about him, you see, I expected him to be ten feet tall, or bear some mark of gods-favor. Everyone at court adored him.”

Vireth’s smirk sets my heart racing.

“That sounds like childhood jealousy to me,” she chuckles.

“Aye, it certainly was—at first. I was a young lad then, maybe seven or eight years old. He was two years younger than me, but sharp as a needle and cunning.”

“Cunning? At six?”

The fire shifts suddenly, sending up a bloom of sparks into the purple twilight sky. Vireth repositions the kettle to keep the embers from falling into the stew.

“There was a stableboy—Bertram, I think his name was. A good lad, but ran with a hot temper at times. One afternoon, I came down to the yard and found him trouncing one of the kitchen boys, Owen—pummeling him over and over with his young fists. Gave the kitchen boy two black eyes, a bloody nose, and knocked out two of his teeth. Off to the side, Arden was—watching the whole thing with a strange, peaceful expression on his face. ‘What’s this all about?’ I’d asked him when the stable master finally broke up the tussle. ‘I told Bertram that Owen had been stealing from him,’ he says to me. ‘What did he steal?’ I asked. Then he looked at me, grinning, and says, ‘Nothing.’”