Page 33 of The Blight of Hollowmire

Anger burns through me like a lit wick. Every argument that springs to my lips dies swiftly, however, because I cannot help but recognize the truth in the fae wench’s words. She dispatched the bogunder with speed and efficiency, knows these woods well enough to find safe harbor and passage through, and—being fae—is plainly well-versed in the land and its people. Still, acid churns in my belly at looking the fool. I crossed into the Verge with a sword and a vague direction to aim it at—a mythical monster whose blood might break the bonds of the curse… and little else. A lifetime of experience prepared me for all but this foreign land that has almost chewed me up and spat me back out twice now.

“I have no time for villages,” I hear myself arguing. “As soon as I can ride, I make for the castle.”

“There’s no one at the castle who will help you,” she says stubbornly. “They will not care for your human kingdom. The old alliances are dead, and humans are a laughingstock among the wild-folk. If you wish to end the mortal torment of your people, you’ll suffer my company a bit longer and accompany me to the village.”

Again with the village! Can it be that this woman knows someone who can truly help me? Is there a chance that I will find the answers I sought the first time I came here—an end to the famine—without having to spill the Blight Mother’s blood?

“Do you know of someone who can help me? What’s in this village that commands your attention so?” I ask warily.

She grins at me, showing far too much of her fangs for my liking.

“Of course. I have a prior engagement with a fortune teller.”

8

Vireth

It’s been less than a day since we packed up our meager supplies and left the cottage, and I’m already regretting my decision to help the ignorant human. Renard. All morning he tried to direct me in every manner of way, from how best to pack my satchel, to the right way to ensure the hearth fire was banked, to the correct way to prepare food for travel. He is trying desperately to lead us through the forest—the Verge, he calls it—despite having no idea where he is or where he’s going.

Stubby red toadstools sprout up from the soil in our wake thanks to my ire. So far, he has not asked, or even noticed my decay magic pulsing around us. He was suspicious and unsettled by the overlarge mushrooms plugging our roof, but I don’t believe he knew they were there at my behest.

Mayhap I should have let him get soaked and chilled from the rain.

Nibblebones rides atop my shoulder, scampering down to the leaf litter every once in a while to unearth some tasty morsel or morbid treasure. Renard’s too-blue eyes follow her movements with thinly veiled distaste, and if I hadn’t promised to protect the lout, I’d thump him on his golden head and let whatever stalks us in the woods have its way with him.

His injuries are responding well to my ministrations, however, and I take no small pride in that fact. He doesn’t seem to eat and drink as often as I was led to believe, and while his body does seem fragile in comparison to most fae, he is strong enough and bears his pain with remarkable indifference. Some color has returned to his formerly gray cheeks, and his flesh appears to be knitting itself back together, albeit slowly. I’m glad the mushroom porridge and herbal tinctures I cobbled together early this morning had the desired effect.

At first, I tried to get him to ride on the makeshift stretcher I’d put together to haul him to the cottage in the first place and he would hear none of it—until he tried to swing his injured leg over Magnar’s saddle and nearly collapsed. His embarrassment was satisfaction enough for me, even if he was surly while I hitched the support to saddle.

So, now we plod through the woods, making for the eastern road, while he sulks on the stretcher pulled stalwartly by his beautiful horse.

It is some hours before he emerges from his melancholy long enough to ask me more probing questions about myself. Given how I see him reacting to Nibblebones, I’m less than enthused to offer him any kind of insight into my life. I’ve only just left the cruelty of that life behind, and I’m not keen on revisiting it—especially with a human stranger, and an annoying one at that. Instead, I pointedly ignore his questions about whether or not I hail from the castle and why I’m chasing down a fortune teller in a nearby village. I am obviously reluctant to divulge the fact that he may be sharing a waterskin with a world-ending monster. Nibblebones is curious about the human and his horse, staring unabashedly from her perch on my shoulder.

“What is it?” he asks of a sudden. “The little beast you carry with you.”

“I’ll thank you not to refer to my corpse weasel as a little beast,” I say tartly. “Her name is Nibblebones.”

He grunts at that. “Never heard of a corpse weasel before.”

“Well, since I am convinced you know nothing about the fae or our realm, that does not surprise me in the least. Perhaps if you’d spent more of your time reading books and less of it pillaging the countryside in a misguided effort to unite ill-tempered humans under a silly flag—a needless quest if there ever was one—you might find yourself surprised by the knowledge of them. They’re rather remarkable creatures.”

Nibblebones, who’s been coiled around my neck for warmth, emits a low trill of agreement that vibrates against my collarbone.

Renard glares at me, the muscles of his sharp jaw flexing again—a move I’m coming to understand as his effort to hide his irritation. He growls his next question through gritted teeth in what must be a serious effort to remain polite.

“Perhaps you can enlighten me, then.”

“Very well. Corpse weasels are often found denning around tombs and graveyards. Normally, they’re quite social, but Nibblebones was abandoned by her kresh when she was just a kit. I found her as a wee thing and we grew up together. They’re thought to be guardians of grave goods, though they have been known to pilfer them for their own little hoards. They possess a great many magical gifts, and they’re uncommonly loyal for something so wild.”

“Why does it look like it’s half-dead with mange?”

“She is not made of mere flesh and blood, ignorant knight. She is a demi-spirit of the forest. That means a once-living animal woven through with the energy of the spirit realm—thus connected to the other liminal beings that inhabit our woodlands. I do wish you’d show her a modicum of respect, since she can understand you.” I stroke the thick growths of lichen and moss along her back and press a kiss to the top of her head.

Renard’s face falls and his cheeks turn pink, which gives him a rather virile look. Something peculiar flutters in my stomach.

“I beg your forgiveness, Mistress Bones, and do offer my most humble apologies for my human ignorance,” he bites out. I wonder if it physically pains him to do so.

At this, Nibblebones leaps from my shoulder and scampers up his uninjured leg, dropping a wet lump of rotting frog flesh into his lap.