Page 94 of The Blight of Hollowmire

I lift the hood of my cloak over my hair and start forward.

After what feels like endless hours of plodding progress, the tunnel forks ahead—the right path narrowing into an even smaller black tunnel that reeks of stagnant water. The left slopes upward, likely heading toward the castle, since I imagine the waste would run downhill away from it.

It’s not long before my left knee begins to throb—the worst it’s ached since my crossing through the Verge. I stop beneath a drip of water and drink sparingly from my skin, then tear a strip from the hem of my shirt and bind my knee tight enough to bite. I grunt with the pain of it—likely the first of much suffering if I’m here to truly atone for all my sins.

No sewer is a paradise, but I recognize signs of the city’s decline even down here. Bricks fallen from neglected arches, slow channels clogged with grease and ash. Rats scatter at my approach, but—while I’m grateful for it—there aren’t as many as there should be. Even the vermin are thin, with patchy fur stretched over bony bodies. Dread—my constant companion since Vireth left—kicks up into a flurry.

Faint blue light seeps through a narrow grate just ahead of me, so with an abundance of caution, I lift my head just enough to peer out.

The lower city lies beyond.

In the time that I’ve tramped through the sewer, night has fallen. It looks darker than I ever remember, since the city used to keep its lamps burning well past midnight, and now it looks like a ruin that has been carved from rotting shadows. Only a few lanterns glow in the streets of the upper city, and here there are but a few lamps burning behind shuttered windows.

The old fountain at the center of the lower market stands dry, its carved lions chipped, their open mouths holding nothing but greasy black soot and dead leaves. Grand houses along the avenue have gone gray with neglect. Paint peels from shutters. Banners hang in limp rags. A statue of King Morcar has lost half its face and much of its dignity to a staggering amount of bird shit. I wince at the sight, feeling a hot wash of shame anew for abandoning my kingdom to its worst.

It is, however, nothing compared to the devastation of its people. My people.

There are few about now, and not even the taverns echo with merriment. Most of them have been shuttered. A woman crosses the main square, clutching at the arm of a man who might be thirty or eighty. His cheeks have hollowed out so much that beneath the scant lanternlight, his head looks like a skull topped with dirty hair. Two soldiers pass them by, mail dulled with poor care, and I think of the group of boys Arden sent to retrieve me.

Gods, what has happened to my city? To my people?

I have thought of Valehar every day of my exile. I have cursed it, grieved it, resented it, missed it, feared for it. I have fed the ones who came to my door and told myself I was doing what I could. I have poured seed into earth and sweat into furrows and coin into every hand desperate enough to accept charity from the likes of a disgraced exile.

It was never enough. Gods above, it was never enough because I should have done more to begin with.

The grief comes so suddenly that it nearly takes my legs out from under me—visions of Millie counting oatcakes to children who never should have had to beg for food. I think of Magnar, still as a statue as I hitched him up to a plow because it was simply necessary and never beneath him. I think of Elena, who loved this city when it was bright and beautiful. I think of my sons, who should have grown to inherit a kingdom better than this.

Then I think of Vireth beneath the castle, alone in Arden’s grasp—and my grief hardens into anger and purpose.

“I will make this right,” I swear. “Or I will die attempting it.”

Getting from the drainage channel to the castle proper requires no small amount of luck for an old knight who’s already used up more than his fair share. The tunnel beneath the market runs toward the west retaining wall and spills out near the lower courtyard, close to the laundry and scullery steps. The passage was used by kitchen boys, lamp lighters, rat catchers, and once by a much younger version of myself, stealing away to pepper his childhood sweetheart with kisses and pilfered treats from the kitchens.

I’m cautious as I make my way through the end of the tunnel, pausing every few feet to ensure the skittering stones beneath me aren’t heard by the guard above. By the time I find the service passage, my shoulders burn from crawling, my knee is pulsing with a sick rhythm, and my patience has thinned to the width of a knife’s edge. Another rusted grate bars this exit as well, but it opens inward on hinges that were kept greased for generations before neglect claimed them. Now one hinge has seized and the other screams softly when I push.

I wince, waiting for boots above—nothing.

Perhaps the gods are watching, after all. I frown at that, especially after what the Blight Mother said. I doubt the gods care for much beyond ensuring my suffering as penance. The most likely answer is that Arden has dismissed so many servants, no one remains to keep the castle from falling apart around him.

Slipping through the stone shaft, I groan inwardly at the iron ladder hanging in front of me. My knee seems to answer with another throb of pain, but I climb it, anyway, finally easing open the wooden hatch at the top.

Cold night air washes over my face and for one blessed instant, I simply breathe in the scent of the night, stale with dusty stone but still leagues better than everything festering in the sewers below.

The courtyard here is quiet for the night, though I suspect it’s still quiet during the day even when it should be a buzzing hive of activity. To one side sits the laundry house and the scullery, windows glowing faintly amber, and even with that poor light it’s easy to see that this is not the castle I left all those years ago.

Valehar wasn’t considered a jewel of a kingdom because of its beauty—at least, it was never as beautiful as most of the other courts. Even the imposing grandeur of Hollowmire nestled in its swamp of horrors might be more striking to some. But Valehar stood out because of its strong foundations, the way it thrived—foremost because of its people. They were safe here because Valehar was built first as a fortress. When King Morcar wished to unite people under his banner, he wanted to be seen as a protector first, and a king second. In hindsight, I’ve accepted that were I in his shoes, there were plenty of things I would’ve done differently, but I suppose every man feels that way when he looks back on a life shot through with violence.

Valehar is a fortress no longer. Banners that once flew smart and clean now sag in the breeze, dingy and threadbare. If stonework and statuary chipped, they would have been repaired—yet no longer. The courtyard stones were swept every morning, and sanded in the winter, but it looks like they haven’t seen a broom in an age. Moss that would’ve been banished from the porticos now grows thick.

This castle has become as run down as its people.

I stick to the shadows as I cross the courtyard toward the servants’ entrance. The door is barred, which is fortunate for them—at least there is some care—and unfortunate for me. The attached woodshed boasts a low roof, though, and I climb atop it to reach the small pantry window above—carelessly left ajar to the chill of night.

My plans for stealth are nearly ruined when I tumble in through the window and drop gracelessly on top of a sack of onions, which give way with a dry, papery crackle.

Relief initially washes through me when I consider that Vireth was not privy to this rather embarrassing entrance, but then my heart sinks when I remember why she isn’t. I’d much rather have her here laughing at me than anywhere else. I get to my feet and the onions spill out onto the floor, rolling around with every intention of giving up my position.

“Former First Knight of Valehar,” I hiss, chiding myself. “Terror of the northern campaigns! Survivor of the terrors of the Verge! Escaped the clutches of a bogunder and a lythettan. Certainly not devoured by a wyreboar—now defeated by onions.”