Page 77 of The Blight of Hollowmire

“He began to study for it, but before he made his final vows, he found a young woman of noble birth and married her instead. In doing so, he left to take over her inherited manor and lands, brokered a seat on the council, and wormed his way through court as something of an advisor. His young wife did not live for more than a year after they wed. There were rumors, of course—a tragic accident followed by an untimely illness—but no investigation ever followed. By then, Arden had entrenched himself firmly at court and had more allegiances—I dare not say allies or friends—who found it beneficial to keep him in power.”

Vireth offers her nearly empty bowl to Nibblebones, who utters a delighted trill and begins to lick it clean. Idly, I rub my fingers across the bronze cloak pin I’ve kept in my pocket, ashamed to admit I’m envious of the bond they share.

Or perhaps ’tis I who wishes to lay in Vireth’s lap and lick food from her fingers—among other things.

“You think he murdered his wife?” she asks, surprised. “After refusing the temple because of his carnal needs—he simply does away with the one who would attend them?”

I run a hand across the back of my neck, uncomfortable discussing this—yet another failing to add to my tally.

“Arden never kept a lover for very long,” I say slowly. “Many of the women were sent to him as gifts or arrangements. Precious few of them went willingly. He always had somewhat… unique appetites, if the court gossip is to be believed.”

Her eyes cut to mine, and I deserve every bit of the censure there.

“Did no one try to stop him?” she asks.

My face burns hot with shame. “There were a few that may have made it out—stolen away in the night by those who could not bear to hear the screams any longer. Still more who never did.”

“You?”

I nod.

“Better some than none, I suppose.”

“It should have been all,” I say bitterly. “And may every lost one haunt me ’til I draw my last breath for being unable to do more.”

“I will admit, Renard, I’m finding it very hard to summon grace and leniency for your kind. Perhaps the seat at Valehar deserves to fall, as do all those who prop it up,” she growls. A large swath of tiny red toadstools erupts from the dirt in a wide circle around us. She blows out a breath that’s thick with bone-white spores, and I watch as they drift upward in the column of smoke between us.

“Perhaps,” I admit. “Though the few at the top are the most rotten of the lot. Many of my people—the good, common folk—do not deserve the hardship they’ve been enduring. I would see it ended, Lady Fae, by any means necessary.”

“We are set on this path together, Renard. We will do what we can.”

I nod, my thoughts too tangled for me to say much else.

“I’m going to the stream to wash,” I say, mainly because it gives me an excuse to be alone with my thoughts—far away from warm, oxblood eyes and hair like moonlight.

Vireth hands me her cooking utensils to wash and throws another log on the fire. By the time I’ve gathered my things, she’s laid out her bedroll next to the fire and is playing a game of pebbles with Nibblebones.

If she becomes the Blight Mother, starts to destroy the world, and you must kill her to keep her from doing so… what will happen to the corpse weasel?

It’s an odd thought that plagues me, but one that will not let go until I am bare and submerged in the frigid water of the stream. Only then does the cold steal whatever breath I have left that wasn’t stolen by my lady fae.

It’s the small hours between night and gray dawn when I first wake, and miraculously, Vireth is still asleep across from me. The fire has died down to embers and the weather remains cool, but pleasant, so I listen for a few moments to hear what might have pulled me from sleep.

A bird call—too early, too strange to be natural. Nibblebones cracks one eye—she hears it, too. In the scant light, her whiskers glitter as they twitch in the air.

Something is wrong.

My hand finds my sword before my mind has woken fully. Vireth still dozes, her soft snores regular and even against the backdrop of water. Again, the sharp trill of a singular bird call interrupts the stillness.

“Stay here,” I whisper to Nibblebones. “Keep an eye on her.”

At any other time, in any other place, I might think it silly to expect a half-spirit forest creature to guard anything, but she sits up next to Vireth’s prone form, alert and clearly taking her charge very seriously.

Creeping down along the edge of the road, I make my way toward the sound of the occasional bird call. Thankfully, the leaf litter and moss stifle the sounds of my feet. I crouch behind the trunk of a cedar and listen. The stream murmurs somewhere downhill beyond the trees, hidden behind a tumble of moss-covered stones, while the wind drifts through the trees overhead.

Beneath all of that comes the unmistakable sound of human voices—five of them, if my ears still serve me half so well as they once did.

I edge forward through the undergrowth until the trees thin enough to grant me a clear view of the small camp nestled beneath a towering granite outcropping. A fire smolders low in the center, while bedrolls and packs lie scattered around it. Two horses stand tethered nearby, heads lowered as they munch lazily at the sparse grass poking through the stones.