Page 35 of The Blight of Hollowmire

I wait for the revulsion to mar his face—Nibblebones’ entire head is covered in blood, which leaks profusely from the pheasant’s neck all over Renard’s fine wool blanket—but for once, it does not come. Instead, he offers her a small smile and inclines his head.

“You have my gratitude, Mistress Bones,” he murmurs, extending a finger to scratch a spot behind her ear. “This is a fine kill. What a talented hunter you are.”

Nibblebones preens and lopes off again, presumably to find some water to wash with. Damn his chivalric charm. My heart gives an odd flutter, not unlike the death throes of the bird my corpse weasel has just provided us with.

Shaking myself from my revelry, I look up at the sky.

“We should probably make camp,” I say. “Darkness and snow will come soon. I cannot be sure which will meet us first. We should try to find some shelter beneath the trees and start a fire.”

Renard rubs his knee and murmurs agreement.

“I’d hoped the ache was from my injuries, but I suspect you’re right.”

I raise a brow.

“My knee,” he says by way of explanation. “An old injury. It aches every time the weather means rain or snow.”

“I didn’t realize I was traveling with a seer.” I shoot him a teasing smile, and the expression he returns is… odd. Our gazes hold for a beat too long, and there’s something soft around the set of his mouth. If I didn’t know better, I’d think it was warmth.

The moment is shattered when he points to a spot just over my shoulder.

“There’s a copse of trees over there that look like they’ll provide just enough shelter to keep the worst of the wet off our backs,” he says. “If you would be so kind as to gather some firewood, I can get started with setting up camp and then get a fire built.”

The urge to argue is on the tip of my tongue—yet again, he is telling me what to do—but his suggestion makes sense. He’s ill equipped to walk around the woods alone, scarcely unable to defend himself if something should scent the blood beneath his bandages. Besides, it’ll do me some good to have a little time alone to sift through the conflicting emotions churning in my veins—time away from eyes that make me think of the Moontide sea.

“Very well. But that means you’re cleaning the pheasant.”

“Naturally,” he says.

I lead Magnar to the spot he suggested—and it is a fine spot, gods damn him—unsheathe my sword and make my way through the woods in ever-widening circles around our camp. The chill that hasn’t bothered me finally beings to seep in with determination now, and I draw my cloak tighter around my shoulders as I fill my arms with deadfall and tinder. As I walk, I reach out with my senses to feel the gentle tug of sleeping decay in the soil—seeking knowledge of this part of the forest that has been traded through vast fungal networks. Has Valehar’s curse been spreading here?

The answering hum of nature is as it should be—death cycling through decay to give birth to new life. The only things that linger unnaturally in these trees are demi-spirits and whatever creatures of darkness flow between this realm and the spirit realm. In the distance, I feel insects and tiny creatures working through the rotting carcass of a deer, likely brought down by a wolf pack. We’ll need to keep the fire stoked tonight in case the pack ventures in and gets curious.

After dropping the armload of wood at the camp, I set off to find a stream to replenish our water and find one on the other side of a small rise. From here, there’s sufficient privacy for me to scratch the itch that has been building beneath my skin all day. I drop to my knees and sink my fingers into the sticky, cold mud of the stream bank, releasing some of my pent-up decay magic. The irritation has been getting worse since I left the castle, but I don’t know if that’s because I haven’t been drinking any leywort or if it’s because the Blight Mother truly slumbers inside me and seeks to test her mettle.

Whatever the cause, sending out an explosion of mycelium sets my racing heart at ease, even as I watch a wide swath of violet mushrooms erupt from the dirt. They’re pretty enough, delicious roasted, and will likely wither in a few days’ time since there isn’t enough death here to sustain them. I collect several of the larger ones to supplement our evening meal, along with a couple of small medicinal mushrooms to brew into a healing broth for Renard, and return to camp.

By the time I near our little clearing, thick, soft snowflakes have begun drifting down from the slate-colored sky. Renard is crowded around the roaring fire he’s managed to ignite, and he’s already got the pheasant cleaned, dressed, and impaled upon a long stick. I watch silently as he tilts the bird just so over the cheerful orange flames, ensuring perfectly crisp skin and tender, juicy meat.

“Good to see you can make yourself useful,” I joke.

The corner of his mouth lifts in a smirk, but he’s otherwise quiet. He glances up at the sky with concern on his face and draws the blanket tighter around his shoulders.

“The cold doesn’t seem to bother you,” he observes, his breath condensing in frosty puffs in front of his face.

I shrug. “I feel it, of course. But no, it doesn’t vex me.” I don’t add that since I left the castle, an irritating heat has been burning beneath my skin, and the chilly temperatures have been a blessing. Without bothering to ask, I pull his kettle from his pack and fill it from my waterskin, then drop the small brown mushrooms in. From my own pack I throw in some dried thyme and sage, plus a pinch of salt. It’s hard to miss the way his shoulders bunch with irritation.

“You’re wasting all your good supplies,” he chides, as I set the kettle over the fire to boil. “I know you feel some obligation because you saved my life, but I don’t need you to empty your pack just because you think I need a nursemaid. I may be a mere human, but I’ve had a lifetime of caring for myself and others, and a few flesh wounds will not render me helpless.”

I huff out a laugh that is quickly dampened by the thin layer of snow accumulating on the ground around us.

“What was it that injured your shoulder, Renard?”

He scowls. “I do not know what is called.”

“What did it look like? Describe it to me.”

Pursing his lips, he slowly turns the spit with the pheasant. The skin is turning a lovely golden-brown color, and my stomach gives an audible growl. After a moment, his annoyance seems to lose the battle with his curiosity, and he answers.