Page 88 of The Blight of Hollowmire

I will not abandon her to that fate.

I refuse to stand aside and let the Blight Mother consume what remains of the woman I know. There has to be a way to free her. There has to be. And if the cost of finding that path is my life, my title, my home, or anything else I possess, then so be it. For the first time in a long while, the choice feels simple.

Even with the heaviness of my choices weighing me down, I feel a remarkable lightness in my chest—as though something old and burdensome has suddenly lifted.

I know what I must do.

I dig my heels into Magnar's sides and ride after her.

18

The Blight Mother

There, there, there. It is there, there, there. I feel it lingering unnaturally as I always do—man always tries to find ways to thwart the natural order of things. They take and they take, from the earth, from their women, from those who cannot protect themselves. They are creatures built to take.

Not everyone takes, Vireth defends. Some protect. Some create. Some nurture. These, too, are things in balance. If you wipe everything out, you will take away the good.

I care not for the exceptions to the rules. I am here to make the world right again—starting with this unnatural disruption hidden shamefully below the seat of power in Valehar. Then, onward to all the places that the imbalance has spread—helped along by greed and deception.

Years ago, it began. A throb—an ache—a pulse of pain at someone’s behest. Someone was determined to reverse the natural order of things and oh, how they succeeded. And oh, how they failed.

The valley spread below me slowly gives way to distant fields of perfectly inedible crops. Once, this land was all meadows and small copses of birch, but it’s been cut back and plowed over to feed the humans. Now, it is land that cannot feed anyone.

The dripping black ichor that slips from my fingertips falls to the soil around my skeletal mount’s feet, but the ground quickly snaps back to unmarred perfection—not even my power is strong enough to seize this stagnation and wrench it from the soil.

Not without first getting at the root of it and yanking it out. Then, my magic—Vireth’s magic, aided by my power—can take hold.

I will wipe this mistake from the maps.

I will turn over this land anew.

The rot and the ruin show mercy to no one.

And nor do I.

19

Vireth

Cloying gray mist swirls around me, sticking to my skin and trailing over me like the phantom fingers of a spurned lover.

Twice now I have managed to climb back up to my senses—to the place where I am myself. Once to cry for Renard’s help, and once again to fight with the Blight Mother who has seized control of my body.

I will not do it, I tell her. I will not bend to the destructive impulses that threaten to unhinge me from my humanity.

She laughs bitterly, and urges the wyreboar’s bones forward—marching determinedly toward Valehar. Through her, I can sense that it is close, but I know not what that means for us—for me.

The gray mist clings to me—sticky and cold, like seaweed upon the rocks at low tide. It’s like a cursed fog, beading along my arms, seeping under my nails and gathering in the hollows of my throat until I can no longer tell whether I am standing, floating, or drowning. There is no wind in this strange place—this realm of oblivion—yet the mist moves constantly, dragging itself over me in slow currents that smell of loam and mushrooms and wet stone.

This place is familiar, conjured up from my dreams and nightmares as an in-between place and I hate it. Gods, how I hate it.

It’s humiliating being so helpless—being trapped here without my consent, while my body carries on without me. It’s infuriating, too, when my hands touch what I don’t wish to touch, when my eyes look where I don’t wish to look, when my mouth speaks words I don’t wish to say. I’ve spent years—my whole life!—being told what I am, what I should be, and what I will ruin, and now it’s my body itself that joins the betrayal.

You think this is betrayal? the Blight Mother asks, her voice clear through the mist. Poor child. I am giving you divine purpose. See how they will react to your magic when this is all over.

“Purpose!” I snarl, my voice echoing through nothingness. “I have always had purpose—whether it is divine or not. In my life, I have been an ill omen, a burden, a weapon, and now, apparently, a throne that you intend to sit upon. You’re just as bad as the rest of them.”

The mist thickens and the ground trembles in answer.