Page 101 of The Blight of Hollowmire

The Blight Mother hums inside me.

Cruel? Nay, I would not call myself cruel, she murmurs. Not compared to fae, or to humans. Certainly not compared to the cruelty of men.

I snort a laugh, and the executioner throws me a glare. Arden pauses, too, annoyed by my derision.

“I, however,” he continues, lips twisting in a cruel smile, “bring forward the remedy. The source of our terrible blight stands before you. The gods are angry! The earth has recoiled from her unnaturalness. I, alone, can save our kingdom from what sickness she has brought upon us. But with blood—with her blood—balance may be restored.”

The servants behind him uncover the bowls with a dramatic flourish—the copper glinting even beneath the paltry morning light. I stare at them, then at Arden.

“You ridiculous little man,” I snarl.

His eyes cut toward me—is that a flicker of fear I see? Interesting. If it is, I wonder if it’s fear of the Blight Mother, or fear that this gamble will pay out.

“Be sure to collect every single drop,” he instructs the servants, voice still smooth enough for his audience. “None of it must be wasted. Her blood will undo the curse, and it will satisfy the angry gods. Our suffering will come to an end!”

Your suffering is only just beginning, the Blight Mother whispers.

Oh, starving ravens. All my life, I have been a thing people merely endured—a family embarrassment dressed up in gowns that were always the wrong color, a daughter fed bitter tea so the flowers wouldn’t wilt, a woman whose magic spoke of death while others celebrated life. Rot-tainted. Corpse-like. Ominous. Vireth—useful for the kitchen compost heap, perhaps, but not much else.

But then, Renard looked at me—not just looked but truly saw me—as though I was something else. It made me feel… beloved, mayhap. Gods. That word hurts so much I almost look down to see if I’ve already been cut open. I longed for a love that might prove the old stories wrong. I thought that, maybe, if someone saw me clearly and wanted me anyway, then mayhap I wasn’t the monster everyone feared. Maybe it would mean I was a woman with unfortunate powers, a dreadful temper, and a sweet little corpse weasel companion.

But love is a fragile argument against a lifetime of evidence, because Renard is not here. Sephia is not here. Ulfrid is far away in Hollowmire, perhaps not having thought of me a single day since I fled the castle. Nibblebones is gone, perhaps with Renard, who she might love better than me.

The people below look at me with sunken eyes and wait for my blood to save them, and I think… perhaps a monster like me was never worthy of love.

The thought should break me, but perhaps I am already too broken. So instead, something inside me opens its eyes. Strangely, it’s not the Blight Mother. It’s… me. Anger and betrayal harden my resolve, and it’s impossible not to feel the Blight Mother thrilling beneath. If they need a monster so badly, then perhaps I ought to stop disappointing them.

Arden steps closer, lowering his voice enough that only I can hear.

“For what it’s worth,” he says, “I do regret that Renard could not see reason.”

My heart lurches, the hope-creature twitching in its death throes.

“Renard,” I breathe. “What did you do to him?”

Arden’s expression does not change, which is answer enough to make panic rake claws through my ribs. Does he live? Is he here, after all?

Arden leans closer still. “Last words?”

For a moment, all I can hear is the wind moving through the courtyard. In the distance, there is a rumble of thunder, but I don’t smell the heavy petrichor that often precedes a satisfying, cleansing rain.

Suddenly, a memory of a different morning returns to me. It feels like a lifetime ago, now. It was a morning drenched in rain, slick with mud, warm from the heat of the smithy and my exuberant sparring with Ulfrid. It was a morning that ached with my ridiculous, silly hope that someone might sit beside me at a feast. In my mind, Ulfrid’s voice sounds, low and kind—it’s just the way things are.

I look at Arden.

“Things only are what they are because no one has changed them yet.”

His brow furrows, perhaps he is too dull to understand me.

“What a waste of breath,” he says.

Then he nods to the guard, who approaches cautiously to remove my shackles. Not that I really needed him to. The iron falls away from my wrists with a heavy clatter, and the marks beneath are red and raw. For a heartbeat, everyone waits for something terrible to happen.

I wait, too, but nothing does.

The executioner steps behind me. One guard grips my shoulder and forces me down to my knees before the block. I place my hands on either side of it, fingers curling against the damp wood, and lower my head.

The axe lifts—the courtyard holds its breath.