Page 74 of The Blight of Hollowmire

It has, however, given Renard ample opportunity to settle into a grumpy temperament that has been stretching my patience about as much as my surges of bodily heat and aching antler growth.

We’ve been on the eastern road from Morsell to Valehar for five days now, and I suspect even Nibblebones is frustrated with our dour traveling companion.

We have settled into something of a routine, however, and now that we’ve made our way into the foothills, we’re at least warmer without the blanket of mountain snow plaguing us.

Since leaving Morsell and bidding goodbye to Ursula—who helpfully offered me almost a month’s supply of willow bark tea for my headaches—I have come to what I believe is a truce with the ferocious goddess living inside me, and my symptoms seem to have abated a bit. The trade-off has been the steady and inconvenient increasing of my magic, which I’m forced to exhaust every few hours before my skin begins to itch.

I’m in charge of the fire tonight, which is sending up more smoke than flame thanks to the damp kindling from yesterday’s endless drizzle, while Renard checks the snares he set earlier today and sets out a small river trap he cobbled together in an effort to provide us with some fish to smoke. Still, I’ve got the kettle over the fire and a thin broth of the bones from last night’s grouse, some salt, mushrooms, and handfuls of herbs I’ve been plucking along our journey. I drop in a bit of the willow bark, as well, since both Renard and I seem to need it in spades these days.

As if I’ve summoned him with my thoughts—though he’s never far from them lately—Renard trudges out of the forest carrying a rabbit and three small perch. His mood is lighter, mayhap due to his success in providing a meal after several recent failures, and he holds up his prizes with a devastating grin, flashing the lethal dimples that often hide beneath his beard.

Heat gathers low in my belly, my skin prickling with awareness at the sight. I can barely keep myself from swooning outright.

“We shall eat like kings tonight,” I laugh, then catch myself when I see his face fall.

“Were you ever going to tell me?” he asks.

Confusion draws my brows down.

“You are a lost princess of Hollowmire,” he explains, the bitterness catching me by surprise.

“Lost princess?” He says it with such gravity that I cannot help but laugh. “Hardly. I am the sixth daughter of Hollowmire’s king. And I’m not lost—I left. And I’m here, on the road to Valehar, with you. Lost? Nay.”

“You know what I mean,” he grumbles, stooping near a rock to gut and clean the fish. Nibblebones appears at his elbow, snapping up any entrails just as soon as they fly from his fingertips.

“I don’t think I do,” I say, pulling out the knife Ulfrid gifted me with to skin the rabbit. “What is it that vexes you? My station? My blood?”

“Princesses seldom leave and they are almost never left alone. Your decision to keep this from me has the potential to endanger us both further.”

I stare at him, perplexed about where this is coming from, and why he sees fit to bring it up now.

“I am 40 years old, Renard—hardly a young maiden fleeing some unsavory betrothal. I left because my own mother tried to imprison me in my bedchamber because, as she says, she feared what would happen to me when the news of the prophecy spread. Whether that is the truth of her motives, I cannot say. I suspect it was part of it, but not the whole of the matter. I left because I would not stay and let my fate be decided by anyone else—just as I will not be lectured by a man for withholding something that has no bearing on his life.” Suddenly, his dour mood makes sense. He seems to believe my leaving carries the same weight as being kidnapped by a rapacious bandit or wayward dragon. Perhaps my family spent some time looking for me. Then again, perhaps they simply barred the doors and hoped I would never knock again.

“And what if someone from Hollowmire finds us here and tries to drag you back to the castle?”

A dark twist of power crawls through my veins at the prospect.

“I would like to see them try,” I say softly.

Renard frowns, skewering the fish with more force than necessary.

“It bothers you that I kept this part of me from you,” I say, understanding dawning. “While I have shared far too much of myself in every other way.”

“I simply wish to understand all the threats I might face,” he snaps. “If I must also worry about an army of fae descending on me from your castle, even as I try to protect you from the army of Valehar.”

“My, my, we do lie prettily,” I murmur.

Renard glares.

I sigh heavily, chucking the rabbit’s heart toward Nibblebones. “I was unwanted at the best of times. My people do not inherit the crown—it is decided by a council vote. The only reason they would come for me would be to see that whatever destruction I wrought would not reflect poorly on them.”

Renard’s shoulders slump forward beneath his chagrin.

“I’m sure that’s not the case,” he says gruffly. “I’m certain they miss you.”

His words sting—not intentionally, of course. Yet I ignore them, not having the heart to argue about just how wrong he is.

“I am sorry if you feel I deceived you,” I say. “It did not occur to me that you would be caught up in whatever this—” I gesture between us, “is.”