Page 16 of The Blight of Hollowmire

When I open my eyes, he is watching me with that same quiet, coiled intensity.

“If I go,” I say slowly, “I go because I cannot watch this kingdom starve. Not because you command it.”

“Yes, of course,” he says. “And I wouldn’t look at it as a command, Renard. Think of it as more of… an entreaty.”

My fingers flex with every drop of political venom that leaves his lips. “And if I find that this… solution… is worse than the disease⁠—”

His smile is thin as a blade. “You will find a way through. You always do.”

Lightning cracks through the pewter sky, illuminating the barn in a flash of eerie white light. Thunder rolls through behind it, kicking up my pulse with a frenzy of clashing emotion.

My head seems to move without command, nodding as though this whole conversation would only ever end one way. My fingers tremble and I force myself to grip a shovel to keep Arden from noticing.

Beneath my fear of Hollowmire—beneath the body-swallowing bogs and all those screams dissipating into the fog—there is a dangerous certainty that I have survived worse, that I have always survived, that men like me are built for this. We are built to give and to serve because we have been given so much to begin with—that I am a servant to my kingdom, to my long-dead king, to my people. That I will survive this because I have survived so much before.

That thought might be the most dangerous thing in this barn. Then again, as I look over at Arden’s smug face, I think mayhap not.

“I will ride at first light,” I say.

Arden exhales—too quickly. Is that relief? Or anticipation? I don’t suppose it matters in the end. He gets what he wanted, and I get to once more test my metal against things I still see in my nightmares. Mayhap this time I’ll have the chance to banish them for good.

Outside, the river begins to swell against its banks, and for the first time since the curse began, I feel something colder than hunger moving toward us from beyond the Verge.

4

Vireth

“It’s for your own safety,” Mother says. “At least until the… concerns”—she waves a hand in the air, searching for the right word—“gossip… rumors… die down a little.”

I arch a brow, because if I open my mouth too quickly, something unpleasant is sure to spill out. The days-long thunderstorm has finally abated, but the rumble of discontent around my presence at court has only increased. Damp wind blows in from the open windows, the scent whispering more storms are on the way.

“Don’t look at me like that, Vireth,” she says, her voice all edge and no warmth. “You were the one who lied about your powers increasing. Your father and I might have been able to help you, or at the very least, prevent this.”

The this she refers to is the complete and utter chaos that the court at Hollowmire has been thrown into since Sephia’s bloomday feast. Lords and ladies demanding something be done about me—whether exiled entirely or chained in the dungeons. Mages have been sent deep into the archives to find answers, and the fear percolating is both ignorant and explosive.

It’s a lucky thing the Moontide prince took such a fancy to her and went ahead with the betrothal, but following that damned fortune teller’s silly prophecy, the Moontide delegates packed up their ocean-damp bags before they even had time to dry out. That includes, of course, Sephia, along with her trunks of clothes, jewels, and her servants. Even more regretful is that I actually miss the blessed creature. There’s something depressing about the fact that the castle is now absent of her cloying sweetness and hesitant gentility.

I had hoped that with the joy of the impending nuptials, the whole Blight Mother portent would fall by the wayside, but fate, or luck, or gods-favor, has never really been on my side. As soon as the procession of courtiers in kelp-green silk passed beyond our gates, eyes squinting in suspicion turned my way.

My mother stands next to my armoire, her mouth drawn and expression beleaguered. She watches Ulfrid as he hammers the gold lock on my bedroom door—both of them studiously avoiding my gaze. When he knocked on my door earlier, a perverse shred of hope kindled that all my youthful fantasies had come true until he looked at me with devastating, breathless sadness and murmured, “Forgive me, little toadstool.”

My trapped-bird heartbeat fluttered wildly before understanding dawned, and then it fell stone dead with the helpless betrayal of it all. Numbness swept in, followed by a flood of questions I can’t help but ruminate on—if Ulfrid gave in so easily to my mother’s demand, does that mean he, too, believes I am something to fear? Am I becoming something to fear? How can that be when all I’ve ever felt was me?

The delicate plink plink plink of his hammer against the gold reverberates through my bedchamber. The stone walls carry the sound, and the canopy above my bed trembles faintly with each strike. The twitch in my eye seems to answer in kind.

As angry as I am with Mother for locking me in my own chambers, it’s Ulfrid’s betrayal that burns hottest. Did he argue against her on my behalf, I wonder. Did anyone? He doesn’t look at me, and hasn’t since Mother summoned him here an hour ago. He doesn’t look anywhere but the lock, as if I am already something one must not meet the eyes of. Gods, the betrayal of it all.

If I were a better daughter, or perhaps a better woman, I might fall to my knees and beg forgiveness for keeping my growing powers a secret, and then dissolve into tears to impress upon everyone how little harm I meant and how I don’t deserve such cruel measures.

But I’ve only enjoyed getting on my knees for one thing, and it’s never been to apologize, let alone beg.

“I never actually lied about my powers, you know,” I say petulantly. “I always drank the leywort tea. That I didn’t come to you and tell you it wasn’t working as well is more a testament to the fractured nature of our relationship than it is to my honesty.”

“Lies of omission are still lies,” she returns, fists clenching against her sides at my words. Mayhap they are cruel, but for once I feel they are deserved rather than the result of my temper running away with me.

The wretched unfairness of this sours in my gut like spoiled food. Why will no one come to my defense? Why is it so easy to believe that I’m fated to become a world-ending creature? Why is no one even bothering to get to the heart—to the truth—of this? The questions come in dizzying succession, my distress sending a patch of velvety gray mold climbing up the side of my armoire.

“Speaking of omission, what’s been done to find the fortune teller? I cannot believe she’s just vanished. Why isn’t anyone dragging her back here to prove what she says is true? Sephia said Bronwyn invited her, and yet Bronwyn wouldn’t tell me what her name was or where she comes from. Just that she found a seer for the feast. Might we allow ourselves to be ruled by logic for once and go to the source of the trouble?” But Mother isn’t listening to my logical yet paltry defense—she’s staring out the window toward the sea.