Page 12 of The Blight of Hollowmire

I don’t move to greet him—a petty triumph that will help to sustain me through what promises to be a most trying visitation. Instead, I finish walking the fence line, testing each post with my weight before crossing the field. By the time the carriage rolls into the yard and settles, the air has grown thick with anticipation.

The carriage door opens without sound and it’s all I can do to keep the bitter twist from my mouth. Not even a hinge would dare squeak out of turn for him.

Arden descends as though stepping onto a stage already arranged for him, shiny boots touching earth lightly, the faintest crease appearing at his brow when dust brushes the hem of his velvet cloak. I can tell he wants to shake it off—to return the pristine green and gold to its unblemished state, but he catches my eye and resists. He likely doesn’t want to appear as though something as small as a dusty cloak bothers him.

He’s leaner than when I last saw him at court, but not with the gauntness of famine. Rather, his thinness gives off the air of sharpness in the same way that his sleek, shining carriage does. His coat is deep green, nearly black in the shadows, cut close to his body in a way that suggests he expects to be looked at and admired. His gloves are pale doeskin and too clean despite the long, and likely uncomfortable, time on the dust-choked road.

He smiles when he sees me, but no one would ever mistake that kind of a smile for friendliness or warmth. It’s the sort of smile that encourages fear rather than familiarity.

“Renard,” he says, voice warm and carefully modulated.

“Arden.” I wouldn’t call him Regent if it would stay the ax from my neck on the chopping block.

He gaze drifts past me, surveying the fields beyond and the yard between us—the kitchen garden abundant with herbs and vegetables ripe for harvest, the apple crates stacked in waist-high towers, the steady ribbon of smoke from the kitchen chimney. He inhales, and though the pause is brief, it is all calculation.

“Your little farm thrives,” he observes.

He means it as an insult, but I’m not yet ready to rise to the bait.

“It does,” I reply. My knee begins to ache with the rain that’s certain to fall, but I resist the urge to shift my weight and appear uncomfortable—despite the fact that I am, of course, incredibly uncomfortable.

Arden’s eyes flick briefly toward the boundary stone by the river, the old Valehar sigil worn smooth by years of weather and touch. Something unreadable passes through the sour twist of his expression—irritation, perhaps, or assessment.

“You haven’t returned any of my letters. Even when I sent a group of soldiers to better see to your comfort on a journey to court, you refused to come. You’ve been disobedient to me and to Valehar. I might call that treason, if I didn’t know you better.”

Anger snaps within me and I can’t help but grind my teeth at the suggestion of treason, yet I know he is attempting to draw my ire. We both know the weight that word carries.

I snort. “We have very different ideas of what constitutes treason.”

He continues as though I hadn’t spoken. “And yet, you were generous,” he says lightly. “My men reported as much.”

“You failed to supply them properly. They were hungry. Ravenous, in fact.” If he means to peck at me like an overset rooster, I am happy to return the favor. Arden cares not for the welfare of his soldiers, so long as they point their weapons at whatever he commands.

“They are always hungry,” he replies, clearly meaning more than food.

“They are starving, Arden. If you heed a single lesson from me, trust that armies march on their stomachs and nothing will turn them against you faster than hunger will.”

I almost miss the subtle tightening at the corner of his mouth before it’s quickly smoothed away.

“Yes,” he says, teeth clenched. “So I am told.”

The yard has gone unnaturally quiet—even the chickens have retreated to their coop. The wind moves through the orchard and the leaves whisper against one another, but the sound feels distant, as though muffled by something unseen.

“May we speak privately?” he asks, lowering his voice. Looking up, I can see Millie eyeing us from the kitchen window, giving Arden a look that suggests she’s considering slipping some petaldown into whatever she serves to him and his men before sending them away.

I shake my head in warning at her and lead Arden to the barn.

Inside, the warm air smells of hay dust, manure, and horse sweat. Light filters through the wooden slats in long bands, catching drifting particles that glitter like gold. Magnar shifts in his stall, the wood creaking softly, and his ears flatten for a beat before lifting again.

“That animal has always been suspicious of me,” Arden remarks, thinking better of his move to stroke Magnar’s velvety nose.

“He has good judgment,” I say.

Arden’s sudden scowl gives away his frustration and disgust. “And yet you hitch him up to plow your muddy fields! He was born and bred for the battlefield—for true glory. The glory of Valehar! What a waste.”

“The glory of Valehar was never on a battlefield, Arden. It’s always been in its people. I wonder how you haven’t learned that yet.”

Rage bubbles to Arden’s face in blotches of red, but before he can vent his spleen at me, I continue.