Page 95 of The Blight of Hollowmire

So many memories flood my mind as I make my way through the lower floors of the castle, no single one stands out. I move with instinct and reflex, as though all my years away have been but a day or so.

Suddenly, a door opens somewhere up ahead, and I duck into a garderobe just as two guards turn down the hall. They’re roughly the same height, but one is clearly younger, moving with more energy and less care.

“I tell you, I don’t care what he says. I’m not going down there again,” the younger one mutters, shaking his head.

“You’ll go where you’re ordered,” the older one replies, though his tone is weary and there isn’t much bite to his words.

“You didn’t hear her,” the younger one says. His armor rattles with his shudder.

The older guard snorts. “I heard enough. Whole bloody castle heard enough when they brought her in.”

Vireth—they must be talking about Vireth. Blood rushes through my ears and my hand tightens around my sword.

“She doesn’t sleep,” the younger guard says, voice low like he is sharing some grand secret. “She just sits there, staring at the wall and muttering to herself, the old hag. I swear the stones near her cell are sprouting mushrooms—right out of the stone! ‘Tis unnatural, Gareth. Gavin said one grew through his boot leather.”

The older guard grunts. “Gavin says a lot of things, typically after he’s well into his cups.”

“It ain’t funny! They call her the Blight Mother. That’s what Regent Arden called her when they dragged her below and locked her up.”

Locked up—gods. I should have expected as much, but the confirmation still colors my vision red with rage.

“She killed half the men in the wheat fields,” the older guard says.

Hmm. Why would there be men in the wheat fields if the wheat is inedible? What harvesting is being done?

“I heard the bones killed them! You seen those beasts made entirely out of bones?!” the younger guard says, voice trembling.

“I heard she raised the bones.”

“Well, I heard she ate someone’s heart!”

“That’s ridiculous. You must be drinking from the same cup that Gavin is,” the older guard grumbles. “And anyway, it matters not. Whatever she is, she’s locked behind three doors, warded by temple chalk, and watched by four men who have not pissed themselves—yet.”

The younger guard shifts, his armor creaking. “Is it true the regent means to kill her in the morning?”

The older guard mumbles in assent, and my knees wobble a bit. Their torch light crawls along the floor, illuminating the inch of space between the door and the stone floor. I hold my breath until they continue down the hallway and turn down another corridor.

Kill her in the morning? Fear unlike I’ve known before slides through me like a dagger of ice. I cannot entertain the thought, or I will certainly lose focus before I can get to her. Vireth needs me to be a better man than I’ve been for her thus far, and I won’t let her down again.

As soon as the guards’ footsteps fade, I creep down the passage they’d come from, which slopes downward until it reaches the dark, dank staircase I’m well aware leads to the castle dungeons. Carved out of the bedrock beneath the castle itself, the dungeons are a heinous, unforgettable place—ironic, considering they house scores of people everyone wants to forget. Damp, frigid air drifts upward, stinking of old sweat, old blood, shit, and every other unsavory fragrance known to man. I grit my teeth, pushing against the horrible memories of this place—of my role in putting people here—and descend with my sword drawn and my dread tightly leashed.

Halfway down the stairwell, there is a landing that looks to be made of new stone—not freshly laid but more recent than my last foray into these depths. Sickly yellow light glows from beneath a door that also appears somewhat new—inset with runes and warded with sigils that I don’t understand.

Huh. I don’t remember a door there.

I know I’m short on time, but the presence of this landing—this door—gives me pause as something threads through me with gathering unease. Certainly there are reasons a new room should be built above the dungeons, yet I don’t believe any of them are good. Curiosity pulls at me, whispering that this is important and that even though Vireth is my first priority, I need to step inside. Arden has built himself a secret in the bones of Valehar.

I curse under my breath and slip through the door.

The room beyond is scarcely large enough to be called a study—curious, since Arden always wanted everything to be bigger, grander, more excessive. My unease triples, knowing that a small space probably hides expansive secrets—things that don’t deserve high ceilings and broad walls. These modest walls are lined with shelves overcrowded with jars, glittering minerals, bundles of dried herbs, cloudy vials, bones of varying sizes, and stacks of parchment. A small charcoal brazier stands in the corner, its light an unnatural dull orange.

If I didn’t know better, I’d think I stepped into a mage’s secret study.

Sprawled across the desk are notes in chaotic disarray—stacked and scattered, with some pinned beneath stones to keep the parchment from curling. The handwriting is one I recognize with a flutter of anxiety taking flight in my limbs.

Arden.

The knowledge settles into place like the pieces of a puzzle coming together. With each fragment I read, more of the picture emerges—each revelation more horrifying than the previous.