Page 68 of The Blight of Hollowmire

The more I’ve been considering Arden, my exile, and this quest, the more I’m coming to believe he didn’t send me to Hollowmire merely to spill the blood of an ancient goddess. I suspect his reasons are twofold: firstly, so that I might find the Blight Mother before anyone else did, and secondly—more worryingly—that sending me into Hollowmire keeps me at an even greater distance than exile. In all likelihood, given the danger of the errand, he suspects it will remove me in a permanent fashion. No ruler sends an old knight out on his own when he has armies at his disposal. I have been away from the court at Valehar for too long, and I’m starting to wonder if there is much more afoot than I previously suspected.

Vireth studies my face carefully through half-lowered lashes. “You’re thinking loudly again.”

I continue working gentle circles against the base of one antler. “I was merely thinking Regent Arden knows more than he admitted.”

That gets her full attention immediately.

“The one who sent you to find a cure for the famine?”

Tell her, Renard. Tell her why Arden really sent you here. Pluck the poisonous thorn from your breast. Do it, and you risk her leaving you here all alone—perhaps more alone than you were before you set foot into the Verge. Gods, forgive me, but I cannot—not yet.

“Yes.”

“What do you think he knows? And why is this dawning on you now?”

“The way Ursula talked about the spread of the famine—the cursed goods being traded across borders without the merchants admitting as much. I know Arden, and I suspect that was deliberate. Valehar has a surfeit of perfect-looking crops when what we need is food that will actually feed people. He has become increasingly desperate, and so I’m certain he isn’t motivated by any goodwill or charity.” I grunt. “Come to think of it, I don’t think Arden has ever been motivated by goodwill.”

“You think he sent tainted goods to my people to deliberately spread his misfortune? Or was it simple greed for fae gold?”

“Both, I think. If Hollowmire and its surrounding principalities are also undone by a plague, it makes it much more difficult to point a finger at him. Which means the root of the curse is much closer to Arden than anyone else has considered.”

Vireth makes a thoughtful noise in her throat, and I long to pull her close to my body and inhale the scent of her hair.

“And sending you here to look for an answer was what, a fool’s errand? Why would he send you here when it would be only too easy for you to uncover and expose his treachery?”

“I’m living in exile, Vireth. My word has as much weight now as a lump of rotted frog flesh,” I huff. I cannot see where Nibblebones has chosen to bed down, but I hear her trilling squeaks floating down from the rafters above the hearth.

“Still, if his actions are motivated in the ways that you think they are, surely others close to him will see his duplicity. Gods, you alone cannot be the only human powered by mediocre food and thoughts of honor. There must be others,” she says.

“You underestimate how powerful fear can be when it comes to a man’s sense of self-preservation. Even if others know what he’s doing, or what he plans, it is only too easy for them to remain quiet and hope for the best.”

“Do you truly think so little of your brethren?”

“No. I think my people have been living in fear for too long, and I think men convinced they’re saving kingdoms become exceedingly dangerous.”

For once, she doesn’t answer immediately with sarcasm. Instead she looks away toward the dying fire while we both seem to be lost in thought. The room falls silent after that, though not awkwardly. Exhaustion lies too heavily over both of us for sharp tongues, and sharp edges now.

At some point, Vireth shifts closer without seeming fully aware she’s doing it. Her shoulder brushes lightly against my chest beneath the blankets.

Every thought halts—every fiber of my being pauses like a rabbit before a fox. Of course, she notices instantly.

“You’ve gone tense.”

“Perhaps I’m asleep and having a nightmare.”

One pale brow lifts, the humor in her gaze warming my blood better than fine wine. Gods help me. Tired as she is, she still manages to catch everything. I stare at the ceiling because looking directly at her now feels like baiting the bear that is my remaining self-control.

“I take it this ill-advised sleeping arrangement is not quite as comfortable as you believed it would be. Do you then admit defeat, Farmer Knight? Shall I divvy up the blankets and relocate to the floor as I initially proposed?”

“You’re impossible,” I mutter.

Still, I keep my hand in her hair, massaging gently, while her breathing gradually deepens. As sleep begins its steady march through our partially entwined limbs, I drift off wondering at what point between Hollowmire and Morsell, this stopped being about duty and started being about something more.

At some point in the small hours of the night, I wake with a sudden start. For the first time in years, no nightmares or mysterious portents have plagued my sleep—simply soft warmth and visions of lying naked in an autumnal forest, ticklish moss and red-gold leaves clinging to my skin.

I’m not certain what it is that’s pulled me from such a pleasurable dream, until I turn and see Vireth sitting straight up in bed, her face tilted toward the window and the round belly of a full moon. The evening’s fog has dissipated, leaving only a curtain of bright stars set against the velvet night.

“Vireth? Is something the matter? Are you well?”