Page 55 of The Blight of Hollowmire

“High praise, indeed,” I chuckle.

“It’s the highest praise you’re likely to get,” she chirps, but offers me a faint smile that’s open and genuine.

I busy myself putting away the comb so I don’t stare and dwell on the way her smile summons blood to inconvenient extremities.

We continue downward through the pass, the mountains rise around us in towering black walls streaked with snow. Vireth explains the layout of the mountain range, pointing up at the left peak—called North Fang—and the broader one on the opposite side, called South Fang. It’s easy to see why, since the whole passage curves inward like the mouth of some enormous beast, stone teeth overhead and ice gathered in the cracks.

“When I was little, my mother and sisters used to tell me stories about this place. They say the pass was bitten open,” Vireth tells me.

“Bitten by what?”

“Well, it depends on who’s telling the story. A monstrous wolf, an evil dragon, an ancient god whose name I have quite forgotten now. The one Bronwyn used to tell me became my favorite version—it involves a giant hag with iron teeth.”

“Of course it does.”

“The other versions were all about chasing power or wealth, but she was following a lover who’d abandoned her. And she was so practical about it! There was a mountain in her way, and she solved the problem.”

“A lesson for us all.”

“Exactly.”

The path widens as we descend into the valley and the wind loses some of its bite. Snow still decks the tops of the pine trees, but around the trunks there are patches of black soil where roots and sparse growth have broken through.

Smoke rises up above the treetops, curling like beckoning fingers. As we get closer, timber-shingled rooftops appear down below.

The village sits tucked comfortably between the mountains, blanketed with a thin layer of snow from last night’s blizzard. Houses crowd together, almost as if they are huddling for warmth against the bitter wind that gusts down through the pass. Narrow black streams of icy water thread through the settlement, crossed here and there by crooked wooden bridges.

“What’s the name of this place?” I ask.

“Morsell. A little bit of something stuck between the Passage of Teeth.” She grins, and my heart gives a pathetic thump at her amusement.

We approach the edge of the village slowly. The air is thick with peat smoke, roasting game, and bread fresh from an oven. People notice Vireth almost at once. Or rather, they seem to notice the odd shapes hidden beneath her hood.

A boy carrying turnips stops outright until an older woman cuffs him sharply between the shoulders and sends him on. Two women near a stall of carved wooden cooking utensils fall silent. A man mending a gate looks once, then lowers his gaze.

There is wariness, certainly, but it lacks the sharp edge of disgust that she—we, if I’m honest—likely expected. There is an alien sense of recognition, perhaps, or caution, or maybe even expectation from everyone we pass in the streets. Vireth stiffens, anyway.

“You are making a face,” I murmur. “We’re here to make inquiries about your seer, and if you keep making that face, no one will be amenable to answering our questions.”

“What face?”

“You’re scowling at everyone, as though you’re expecting someone to point at you and scream ‘Monster!’ at the first opportunity.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I am doing no such thing.”

“You are.”

She throws me a glare, and when I raise a hand to prove my point, she relents and wipes the sulk from her face. Fixing her lips in a polite smile, she pushes past me and walks at Magnar’s head. With her cold-pinked cheeks, haughty posture, and fierce gaze, I reckon it is the loveliest fit of ill temper I’ve seen in a long while.

The village square is busier than I expected—although, in hindsight, I’m not certain what I expected from a fae village. It’s close enough to a human village to be mistaken for one, should you overlook the pointed ears and needle-sharp fangs on the passersby. Stalls crowd together beneath colorfully patched awnings. Smoked fish and fresh rabbit carcasses hang beside ropes of onions. A baker sells dark loaves from a stone oven built into the side of a hill.

The smell should be comforting, but it’s not. Something is… off. Just to the side of the baker’s stall, a woman gnaws at the end of a loaf of bread, but her expression is still sharp with hunger. Beside her, two children bicker over a bruised apple while a basket of them sits within arm’s reach—each one looking more perfect than the last. A goat tied near the well chews steadily at a bundle of hay, but its flanks look thin beneath the shaggy coat.

Vireth notices it, too.

“Renard…”

I nod, anxiety twisting my insides, because this is familiar—all too familiar. “Yes, it started just like this in Valehar. The famine.”