Page 4 of The Blight of Hollowmire

“Mayhap it was underestimating me,” I murmur. “Or perhaps overestimating yourself.”

Challenge flashes in Ulfrid’s eyes, but finally his lips quirk into a conciliatory smile.

“Aye,” he capitulates. “Even the gray-muzzled wolf leans too hard on his pride now and then. Well fought, Lady Vireth.”

I raise my blades and extend a hand to him to help him up. Nibblebones scampers over and I stoop to pick her up, this time tucking her soaked, shivering body into my shirt. Ulfrid eyes the move and sucks at the pinpricks of blood beading on his hand.

“Hold a moment, Lady,” he says, gesturing me to follow him back into the smithy. Despite the exertion, cold seeps into my bones and I’m only too pleased to jog over to the overheated space with its stoked forges and metallic, mineral reek.

“Are you attending the feast tonight?” The hope in my voice is childish, especially as I know what his answer will be.

Ulfrid’s back is to me, but I see the tension gathering in his shoulders at my question. He’s rummaging around a small wooden cupboard and for a moment, I wonder if he’ll bother voicing his rejection out loud.

“I’m not invited, Lady Vireth. Humble blacksmiths are not allowed at the king’s table.”

“Oh, starving ravens, Ulfrid! You’re not a humble blacksmith. You were the captain of the guard and have trained likely two-thirds of his army by now. No one would object to you sharing in Sephia’s bloomday. Gods, she’s one of the best archers in Hollowmire thanks to you. Come to dine. Come as my guest,” I entreat.

“I no longer serve as Hand of the King. I walk a different path now.” He turns to face me again with a grim expression on his face. In the flickering firelight, I’m suddenly struck by a few new lines on his face—wrinkles I hadn’t noticed during our bout.

His stubborn refusal to accompany me stings, even though I’m prepared for it. I would’ve liked to have an ally around, especially because I have fond memories of Ulfrid in his ceremonial armor and no obnoxious court fop could compare in sheer, gods-favored beauty.

He pushes a finger into the deep wrinkles of my furrowed brow, smearing my forehead with mud anew. My heart thumps pathetically at the touch—at any touch.

“It’s not an indictment against your company, little toadstool,” he offers, reaching for the dusty charm of his irrepressible chivalry. “It’s just the way things are.”

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

He tilts his head, a thoughtful expression on his face. Pregnant silence quickens in the interim, but as I turn to go, he thrusts a small bundle into my hands.

I unwrap the roll to find an exquisite dagger within.

“The handle is bone wrapped in gravemaw hide. The blade is folded steel with a gilt coating. It’s charmed to self-sharpen every time it tastes blood,” he explains in a low voice. “I daresay the blade will outlast even you.”

The gift is so unexpected, so precious, I’m unable to stem the black tears that gather in my eyes and threaten to spill over. I can’t recall the last time I received a gift, but it was almost certainly as a child. I gape, trying to summon words of thanks that will only fall short of something so fine.

Ulfrid shakes his head and waves me off, returning to the whetstone and his sharpening. I clutch the gift to my chest, careful to avoid the sleeping lump of corpse weasel in my shirt. Ulfrid’s soft voice carries over the sound of the whirring stone and the splattering, icy rain.

“Happy bloomday, little toadstool.”

2

Vireth

Etia makes a noise like a disgruntled hen when I return to my chambers and she takes in my mud-covered visage and sodden clothes. She doesn’t address me directly, so great is her pique—merely points at the large copper tub in the attached bathing room, which is already full of steaming hot water and fragrant oils. She used to try to put flower petals in the water, but as soon as my powers manifested, they’d shrivel and mildew the instant my toe broke the water’s surface.

I much prefer the heady spiced oils of cedar and balsam to the cloying smell of new flora, anyway.

“Your mother is going to flay me alive if you’re seen like that,” she grumbles under her breath. “As if I didn’t have enough to do today! Scrubbing mud and weasel droppings out of that disaster atop your head is just what I need.”

If today were any other day, I’d fling a barb of my own—or more likely, a globule of sticky, stinking mold at her hem—but the lightness I felt after my bout with Ulfrid has all but vanished beneath her censure. I want to be left alone to lick my wounds, coddle my damaged pride, and admire the only bloomday present I’m likely to receive. I hate how much it pains me that no one else remembers me today, or if they do, that they choose to ignore me in favor of my younger, sweeter, fairer sister. The black mood has a firm grip on me now, sinking its claws into my chest and causing wispy tufts of feathery mold to erupt along the stone floor around my feet.

“Nibblebones has never relieved herself upon my person, Etia, and I’ll thank you not to cast such aspersions upon her character. Corpse weasels are tidier animals than any of the ones living here. If your work gives you such trouble today, then be off with you—I’d rather be alone as it is. I can manage my appearance well enough on my own,” I grumble.

Blotches of red creep up her neck and bloom on her cheeks, but her obvious embarrassment at being overheard and summarily dismissed doesn’t inspire much in the way of an apology. She sinks into a low curtsy and whirls from the room, likely fearing the unleashing of my temper and untethering of my restrained powers—yet another mess for her to clean up, another spat to be hidden from Mother’s exacting gaze. She’s been at the castle for an age, but is only the latest in a long line of failed governesses, companions, and maids who’ve been foisted upon me. I glare at the door she slams and shuck my clothes, taking great care to tuck the snoozing Nibblebones back into her den in my armoire.

Blessedly alone, I don’t bother with a robe as I make my way to the gleaming tub, already imagining the comfort of the warm water. I step in and sink slowly until I’m submerged to my chin, exhaling a stuttering breath thick with emotion. The pain comes from more than my tender heart today. Already, my knees are starting to ache and deep indigo bruises are sprouting across my pale skin, while the scrapes along my palms sting enough to make me grit my teeth. Something about the discomfort, or perhaps the steam-thickened silence, unlocks the sadness I’ve been holding at bay today and I let the tears flow—saline streaks of black water dripping down my pitiful face and into the tub.

I uncork every emotion I can reach for like some kind of weeping glutton—the frustration of my circumstances, the despair of being a constant disappointment, the shame of being a pariah within my home and kith and kin, the hopelessness because nothing will change—nothing ever changes—and the bone-aching loneliness that has followed all of these. Each little hurt is lodged deep in me like a forest of splinters, unable to work its way out of my flesh until mayhap, one day, I will become more pain than person and simply dissolve.