Page 60 of The Blight of Hollowmire

Renard picks up his spoon immediately, and I find my hunger overrides any caution I might have had. The savory porridge is hot, herby, and filling in a way that the food at the tavern wasn’t.

For several moments, silence settles comfortably over the cottage while we eat. Outside, wind picks up and starts to press against the walls in low mournful gusts that send the charms hanging beneath the eaves tinkling softly together. Melting snow slides from nearby rooftops now and then with muffled thumps. The gathering night has thickened since we arrived; through the fogged windows I can barely make out the blurred lanternlight of Morsell below.

The warmth of the stew slowly unwinds some knot of tension beneath my ribs. By the time I set my spoon down, I no longer feel quite so close to collapsing face-first onto the table and some of my turbulent emotions feel a bit more… even.

Ursula wraps both hands around a steaming mug of tea while watching the fire.

“You came because you want answers. I don’t blame you.”

“Yes,” I say. “Though, admittedly, I had hoped the answers might be less horrifying than the questions, and altogether less horrifying than the journey to get here from Hollowmire.”

“That was optimistic of you. Well done.”

“Yes, well, I’m trying something new.” My sarcasm falls flat, though Renard huffs softly into his bowl. I ignore him and fix my attention on the seer instead. “You came to the castle for Sephia’s bloomday feast, but Hollowmire is a ways from here. How was it that Bronwyn found you and invited you down?”

“I came down from Morsell weeks ago. I knew I’d need to seek her out.”

“Wait… you sought Bronwyn out? You knew something would happen at Sephia’s feast?”

She shrugs, and the ornaments in her hair tinkle softly with the movement.

“I didn’t know. I almost never know. I simply suspected.”

“But why wouldn’t you come to me directly? Why make such a spectacle going through my sisters to deliver a message to me?”

“Would you have believed me if I had come to you directly?”

“No,” I admit. “But delivering your prophecy so publicly upended my life and set my kingdom to chaos.”

“Unfortunately, I cannot control the things that happen as the result of a message from the gods. They are not often prescriptive or specifically directive—merely a guiding hand towards fates.”

I exhale sharply through my nose and lean back against the bench. The firelight flickers gold across the cottage walls while shadows shift through the hanging herbs overhead.

Ursula’s mouth pulls down in a frown as she studies the flames before speaking again.

“The visions began months ago. Sometimes they would come during the day, when I was out foraging or tending my garden. More often, though, they would come at night. Each time, it was some version of the same thing. Over and over it would repeat, until I could see the images of the vision every time I closed my eyes.” Her fingers tighten faintly around the cup. “It was always that something was breathing underneath the mountain.”

The atmosphere shifts almost imperceptibly after that. Goosebumps lift along my arms, though they have nothing to do with the cloying warmth inside the cottage. The fire crackles quietly, but everything in the room stills. Even the fog-laced wind outside seems to hold its breath.

“I knew it was important, but the shape of it was never clear,” she continues quietly. “Until it drew close to your sister’s bloomday, and then I started to see—hear—understand more of what the gods wanted me to know.”

My fingers curl unconsciously against the edge of the table.

Renard watches her steadily. “And what’s that?”

Ursula lifts her gaze toward me rather than him.

“They foretold a great change—that the world had fallen out of balance, and they would determine if the world had suffered enough yet.”

No one speaks for several moments afterward. Even Nibblebones is quieter overhead, and I’m sure she’s paused to listen, as well. Ursula exhales softly and continues.

“After that, the dreams worsened. Every night, it was more of the same—forests collapsing beneath waves of rot, rivers black with unnatural mold, bones stirring beneath the earth as if something—someone—deep below called them upward.” Her gaze flicks briefly toward the braids hiding my antlers. “And always the same woman standing at the center of it.”

A thousand moths must have hatched in my stomach, for all the fluttering that begins.

“Me,” I whisper, the tone thick with dread.

“Yes.”