Page 92 of The Blight of Hollowmire

“Renard came to Hollowmire to find a cure—to find a way to break the curse,” I say.

“I suppose that is true, though I wouldn’t quite say it is the whole truth,” he says, examining his fingernails.

Dread snakes through my gut, easing its way outward through my limbs.

“What do you mean?” My heart skips several beats, my lungs seem to miss a few breaths. The anxiety of devastating news about to be delivered.

Arden smiles then, and in doing so looks absolutely nothing like Renard. It is cold and empty, and looks like a carnival mask.

“We have a cure,” he says. “It flows through your veins, fae.”

“Yes, that’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. My magic has the power to undo the source of this land’s corruption. I simply need to find the heart of it,” I reply, somewhat exasperated.

“Not your magic, wretched woman. Your blood. How fitting that Renard kept the worst of it from you. He always won everyone over with his soft heart, but I saw it for what it truly was—a soft head. Never thinking things through, that one. Sending him into Hollowmire was a win-win for me—either he dies and I will have fulfilled my promise to my father that it be not by my hand, or he bleeds you like a stuck pig and your prophetic blood undoes the curse and sets the land to rights again.”

“You lie—Renard despises killing. And he would never agree to kill a woman.”

Arden tsks.

“You think he wouldn’t want his exile ended? A chance at a new life—to stop playing in the dirt to feed a handful of peasants and have the opportunity to exert real power?”

“No! He loves his farm—he hated court.”

“Of course he does,” Arden sneers. “But still, the promise of it sent him into the Verge, didn’t it? Perhaps you don’t understand his motivations as well as you think.”

“If he did, it was surely to help people.”

“I find it curious that you defend his willingness to end your life.”

“He didn’t, though. We’ve been traveling together for weeks now—he’s had ample opportunities.”

“To do what—slit your throat and carry your blood back to Valehar in buckets? Now I understand your appeal to him, you’re just as stupid as he is. Naturally, his job was to lead you here and empty your veins on Valehar soil.”

Doubt is a funny thing. So small, and yet so insidious. When it creeps in, it suffocates more than a mountain of earth.

“I’m presuming you had some sort of romantic attachment,” Arden continues. “Well, allow me to divest you of any illusions you may harbor on that account. Renard was married for a time and gods, it was the match of the century. A love match, you know, so rare in our worlds. And yet politically fruitful, as well.”

“Stop,” I hiss, humiliated to feel tears pressing against my eyes.

Arden smirks. “For years they tried to have children. It was all Renard wanted out of life—to be a father, to live in peace with his beautiful wife. Of course, King Morcar allowed him some time to find his replacement as First Knight before retiring into domestic monotony. And then the famine hit.”

Nausea rolls through me as I try to summon my power—my head giving another sharp throb that prevents me from finding the stillness I need to connect.

“She was due in the spring, if I recall. The first famine would have been difficult enough for her to endure, but then this blight came upon the land and hollowed her out completely. She died giving birth to twins—they also did not survive.”

My heart fractures at the thought—at the soul-shattering sadness Renard must have felt. At his personal stake in ending the blight that took everything from him.

“He was never the same after that. We sent him into Hollowmire with a group of men to entreat with your people, but he failed there, as well. Brought back a fraction of the men he’d set out with, all too broken to be of use any more. Morcar’s death was the final nail in the proverbial coffin for him. Renard was never the same, after that. It was a mercy exiling him, you know. Couldn’t have him moping around the castle distracting the rest of us from exploring alternative solutions to our troubles,” he finishes.

Sadness punches through me, stealing my breath and making my skin burn and my bones ache. Blood rushes in my ears, drowning out the whispering sense of betrayal and the tragedy powering Renard’s actions. My antlers pulsing with pain. My gut tells me Renard’s feelings for me were real—what we shared meant something for both of us. It couldn’t have been a ruse to lure me to his kingdom. But then… why wouldn’t he be honest with me?

“Even if he cares for you now—and it’s possible that he does—Renard longs for a family. Do you think he dreams of breeding an ancient goddess of pestilence? Unlikely, don’t you think?”

A family—children. Things I never considered because it felt too cruel to hope after every broken betrothal. I became comfortable in my aloneness. I had Nibblebones, and my own company. And yet, Renard came in as someone to care for, to share things with. To argue and bicker and have a second place setting at dinner. To trade stories with, and jokes. And suddenly my aloneness didn’t feel quite so satisfying. I dreamed less and less of an isolated cottage overlooking the Moontide sea, and more of sea-colored eyes across from me at the evening campfire. My love for him sprouted up like a weed through cracks in stone. Improbable and ill-advised, perhaps blooming in a place where it shouldn’t.

“I’ve never known someone so beloved who failed quite so much as he,” Arden admits absently. “Then again, you did end up here all the same, so perhaps there was something to his method. Even a blind pig finds an acorn now and again.”

I can barely hear the regent’s words through the rushing sound in my ears. My skin suddenly feels like it’s on fire—heat building to an inferno fueled by rage, despair, and the sudden, inescapable sense of isolation.