Page 91 of The Blight of Hollowmire

With a gathering unease, I begin to suspect that perhaps I won’t have to come up with a ruse to find myself invited to the castle.

A retinue of armored soldiers marches out from the open gate, meeting me before I can fully enter the city.

“I am Lady Vireth of Hollowmire,” I say, proud when my voice does not waver or drop. “I have come to entreat with Regent Arden.”

“Wretched fae,” someone whispers in the back.

“The Blight Mother come to devour us all,” whispers another.

Ah, I think. So, my reputation precedes me, after all.

I’m about to offer up an explanation for my appearance—for my nudity and somewhat disturbing escort—when someone circles behind me and thumps me on the back of the head.

Darkness welcomes me with open arms.

When I come to, I half expect to do so in the dream world of gray mist and grasping roots, but the Blight Mother, it seems, is still waiting for me to summon her.

It might have something to do with the fact that my wrists and ankles are bound in shackles and I find myself in some sort of cell—the dungeon, perhaps. It’s cool and dark, and all I can hear at present is the soft guttering of a torch on the wall outside my cell, along with a steady drip of water echoing off the stone walls.

My head throbs insistently, sore from the knock I took at the front gate. I start to reach out with my magic to get a broader sense of my surroundings, only to be thwarted by a fresh pulse of pain at the back of my head.

From somewhere above comes the low squeak of hinges—a door creaking open—followed by soft footsteps on one—then two—flights of stone steps. The amber light of a torch filters down the adjacent hallway, bouncing off the walls until its bearer stands at the iron grate separating me from my freedom.

“I admit I expected a bit more from the Blight Mother,” the man says.

“The Blight Mother sleeps,” I snap. “I am Lady Vireth of Hollowmire—daughter of Queen Celene and King Rhainor.”

He lowers the torch from his face and I’m finally able to make it out—light brown hair, close-cropped. Dark brows set above a pair of deep blue eyes. Unblemished skin, a nondescript nose and chin, but full lips that seem horrifyingly familiar.

“And you—you must be Regent Arden,” I rasp. “And Renard’s brother.”

A muscle ticks in his temple, but otherwise there’s no indication of him hearing me at all. Suddenly, things begin to bridge together in my mind—Renard’s reluctance to discuss Arden, the weight of his guilt, his ever-constant shame, his exile… his reluctance to do what seemed so obvious to me.

“Different mothers,” he finally replies. “But yes, the same father. The fool never could keep it in his pants. A family trait, I’m afraid.”

His eyes rove over my nudity, making my skin crawl.

“So, he did find you,” he says. “But your presence here indicates he failed—again.”

“On the contrary, I’m here to help. Well, I was until you imprisoned me. Now I’m not so certain.”

Arden’s brows lift.

“Remarkably self-sacrificing of you.”

“If you’ll allow me my freedom, I can find the source of the famine and use my gifts to stop it.”

Arden’s eyes—so like Renard’s in every way but warmth—squint in confusion, or suspicion.

“What did Renard tell you about our… ah, misfortune here and your part in it?”

Until this moment, I hadn’t felt much worry beyond my location—surely it was some kind of mistake to imprison a fae courtier from Hollowmire, but of course it seemed logical given how I arrived. An army of skeletal beasts almost certainly warranted an abundance of caution. Now, however, the look on Arden’s face suggests I am missing some critical part of the matter. Deep in my belly, I feel the presence of the Blight Mother, coiled and aware, yet too distant for me to reach.

“Your famine is unnatural,” I hedge. “None of your crops nourish. Everything lasts. Your people are starving, and your blight is spreading.”

Arden nods.

“And?” he prompts.