Page 41 of The Blight of Hollowmire

“And what? It is a mere story—a folktale to keep children well-behaved. I do not make a habit of entertaining every story whispered in the dark.” Her tone is dismissive, but her posture is not—confirmation of my earlier supposition, that her people have some kind of relationship to, or knowledge of, the ancient goddess.

“What do they say about it?” I press, hoping my casual tone belies my hunger for information. All Arden told me was that she was an ancient goddess in need of killing, and I’m beginning to worry that there’s more to it than that. Many of my assumptions have been challenged since meeting Vireth. Perhaps this is yet one more.

“Where did you hear about such a thing?” she shoots back. “I find I am surprised that you’ve heard the name when you clearly know nothing else of our world.”

I watch her for a moment longer, recognizing the insult as another deterrent from what seems to be a sensitive topic. Interesting—clearly she is keeping this knowledge close to her chest. I’ll have to find a better time to find out more.

“Rumors travel faster than horses,” I say with a shrug, “and I was simply curious. It seems we have a long road ahead of us and perhaps I wanted to do as you suggest and learn a bit more about the land I’ve crossed into.”

She grunts and worries at her lip with her teeth. The sight of her fang sinking into the pillowy flesh sends a dangerous thrill through my body.

We walk on, each of us lost in our thoughts. The quiet is broken only by the soft crunch of icy snow beneath our boots and Magnar’s hooves, the occasional chittering of Nibblebones as she scampers to and fro between our company and the snowy woods, and the mid-morning chorus of birdsong. It’s not unpleasant, this journey, with quiet company and a wild landscape to look upon and—shamefully, I admit—glimpses of the round curves of Vireth’s ass and thighs wrapped in dark brown leather. Perhaps it’s dishonorable of me to admire it, but more and more I seem to find long dormant lust kindling in my blood. Then again, it’s likely because a woman in breeches is simply unheard of in Valehar. It must be the novelty of it that draws my eye so persistently.

After a time, I try another approach.

“This fortune teller we’re to find,” I hedge. “Is she someone you know? A family member, or friend, perhaps?”

She has refused to answer most of my questions with any kind of substantive information, often cutting me off with a curt rendition of “worry about your own fate, Farmer Knight,” that has ceased to perturb me. It’s surprising, then, when she answers one question by avoiding another.

“Not a friend, nor a family member. More of an acquaintance. She mentioned something at my youngest sister’s bloomday feast that I didn’t get a chance to ask her about. By the time the final toast had been made, she managed to slip away.” An undercurrent of bitterness in Vireth’s tone sparks my curiosity, but I’ll need to mind my words.

“Bloomday feast?” I ask.

“Do humans not have those? No, I suppose you wouldn’t… it’s not quite a birthday—those don’t merit much attention for us as immortals. It’s an anniversary celebrating when our power first manifests. If you spend much time in our realm, you’ll come to understand my people don’t much care about who you are, rather, it’s what you can do.”

“I’m not sure I follow.”

She sighs, pausing to take a drink from her waterskin.

“Gods above, the ignorance of humans,” she mutters. “You do know that fae are all born with different magical gifts, do you not? We’re intimately connected with our land, so our gifts tend to tie closely to our natural world. My sister Bronwyn’s gift is a kind of hearth magic, with particular skill at gatherings and celebrations. She senses what a gathering requires before anyone else, be it music, food, décor, ambiance, or general merrymaking. She’s also particularly adept with certain types of floral arrangements.”

Vireth chuckles at my incredulous expression.

“It may sound silly to you, but try having a spring wedding without flowers. Think of the best meals, parties, gatherings… the best pints in the nicest taverns, or the coziest nights spent in an inn that you’ve ever had. That’s every time when Bronwyn is attendance. No food shortages, no out-of-tune musicians, no drunken brawls. Simply the best merrymaking of your life.”

“She must be a delight to be around,” I admit, reconsidering my initial impression.

Vireth snorts at that. “She’s meaner than a wet cat and surly on a good day. But she’s powerful and beloved, and smarter than a sting.”

“Is she your only sibling?”

“Ha! If only! There are seven of us, all sisters.”

“I imagine it made for a lively household.”

“It certainly made for a crowded one,” she replies. “My youngest sister, Sephia, is the jewel of the brood. She was blessed with uncommonly potent fertility magic. It was down to her efforts alone that Hollowmire was able to have even the meager harvest we did this year, and still, she could not encourage the land to produce as it once did. She’s the best of us all, though, sweet, and kind, and biddable. It earned her an envious betrothal. ‘Twas her bloomday we were most recently celebrating when the fortune teller set the proverbial cat amongst the pigeons.”

“And you? What did your gifts earn you?”

Vireth purses her lips and it’s hard not to notice the way she curls in on herself—shoulders slumping, spine rounding like a defensive hedgehog. Something buried in me bristles to see it—the way this formidable fae woman retreats like she fears some kind of reprimand or correction. After a moment, she replies, and her answer sharp with bitterness.

“A string of broken betrothals and an abominable reputation. I’ll tell you this—it has been a very long time since my bloomday was celebrated.” She laughs, but there’s no humor in it, only pain.

“How would you celebrate it now, if it were up to you?”

She pauses, considering. Then, her dour expression melts into a heartbreaking smile that’s soft and small and clearly reserved for herself.

“A long, luxurious bath, followed by a feast of all my favorite foods, and an evening in front of the fire with a stack of my favorite novels,” she says.