Hollowmire's Blight Mother

1. Vireth

Vireth

In Hollowmire, autumn is a knife drawn tenderly across the throat of summer.

The leaves bleed their colors out one by one, gold to rust to the black of rot, while the soil waits hungrily for the chance to turn last season’s abundance into next spring’s. All the little deaths linger until the roots drink them down, and the land sighs like a satisfied lover.

Hollowmire, however, goes unsated this year.

Early morning mist steals through windows I don’t usually close, but unseasonal frost crept in last night, threatening the brocade of lichens clinging to the walls of my bedchamber.

Normally, the golden heat of summer lasts well into early harvest season, but an overture of unnatural cold has gripped our gloomy little province this year—which I just know is going to prove to be an ill omen.

It’s the way of my people, unfortunately, to look upon every anomaly, no matter how trivial, as an ill omen. Too much rain? An ill omen, most likely. Not enough rain? Naturally, an ill omen. Storm clouds in the shape of fluffy little bunnies? Ye gods! Ominous portents of certain doom.

It’s little surprise to me, then, as the white-haired, oxblood-eyed, second-to-last youngling of Hollowmire’s dull-witted king, my childhood lore was pockmarked with ill omen after ill omen.

Likely why my parents decided to have one more squalling infant instead of just stopping with me—which would’ve been prudent.

That her powers, so celebrated, manifested exactly on my bloomday is, dare I say, typical.

Erase the stain of the rot-tainted one with a babe who chases away hoarfrost with the green promise of spring.

Still, it smarts that they’ve gone all out for little Sephia’s twentieth bloomday today, and as ever, I’ve been forgotten.

Poor little Vireth, I hum forlornly, allowing myself an indulgent wallow.

When the knock comes to rouse me from my bed, there’s a perverse shred of hope that maybe someone remembered, but it’s tempered when my scowling maidservant Etia enters with a breakfast platter of marrow porridge and mushrooms without so much as a celebratory flower on the tray.

“Out of bed, my lady!” she says brusquely. “I’ve got your morning meal and—”

She pauses, brow furrowing as she stares down at her gnarled fingers.

“I almost forgot!” she exclaims, setting down the tray on my disorganized dressing table.

Thin filaments of hope explode out from my heart, and the emotion causes soft, bone-white spores to dance from my fingertips.

They glitter in the morning sun, drifting slowly downward, seeking the damp that seeps up through the floors.

It certainly wouldn’t be a gift, of course, but maybe a honeyed apple tart—though I can’t recall if she even knows my preference for those.

“Your leywort tea!” she says, chiding herself and dashing my hopes more efficiently than a bucket of cold water. “What a mess it would be if you spoiled all the food at your sister’s bloomday feast!”

I sink back into the pillows and grunt as she bustles from the room, muttering to herself.

A soft breeze sighs through my window, rustling the green and brown canopy of forest and carrying briny perfume from the distant ultramarine sea.

Puffy slate-colored clouds are gathering, and the damp scent of petrichor and salt air hints at the oncoming storm blowing in.

A merciless smile lifts the corners of my lips—the family won’t be pleased their favorite blossom’s feast day is about to be ruined with a torrent of angry rain.

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d think that storm was your doing, Vireth,” Bronwyn says as she swirls into my room.

Her gown is an autumnal rainbow of sunflower yellow and russet, perfectly complementing her rosy cheeks and mahogany hair.

The golden ornaments in her coiffure tinkle as she crosses to my armoire, throwing open the doors and diving headfirst into racks of never-worn dresses in all the wrong colors.

I hiss at her through my fangs and burrow deeper within my blankets.

“Mother sent me to ensure you dressed appropriately,” my older sibling sniffs.

“No one will tolerate both your sour temperament and your penchant for matronly fashions at a formal occasion. Since no one really believes you’ll be capable of keeping your vitriol to yourself, the very least you can do is put on a gown. ”

My temper gets the better of me, and I fling a glob of scarlet slime mold at the hem of her gown, but she sidesteps easily and shoots me a withering glare.

“I don’t have the time nor the patience for you to spoil more than you already have, Vireth. Today is about Sephy. Mother and I worked very hard to entice the delegates from Moontide for her bloomday feast and if it doesn’t end in a betrothal, it will be bad for all of us—especially you.”

Bronwyn’s green-gold eyes—our mother’s eyes—glint in the paltry morning sunlight.

When she turns back to my closet, I let my glare slip a little to allow the hurt in.

She’s not wrong on any of the counts laid against me, but I grow weary of shouldering the blame of my odd complexion and my abhorrent abilities.

Despite fae immortality, none of them seem particularly fond of rot and decay magic, so I remain the second-to-last unmated fae whelp—all because I can’t bloom a rose, coax fat grains of wheat from their stalks, or summon spring with a whisper.

Well, when Sephia’s betrothal inevitably happens, I suppose I’ll be the last, then.

Maybe I’ll finally unearth my courage and find myself a grand adventure, instead of lingering at court and pretending to be useful with the kitchen’s compost heap.

Better yet, if Sephia gets married off, mayhap Mother and Father will finally allow me to leave this grand pile of stones and carve out a life of my own—far away from courtly disappointments.

Bronwyn tuts to herself as she lifts and discards gown after gown, muttering about how the finery is wasted on me. Her annoyance summons mine, and I capitulate if only to eject her from my bedchamber more quickly.

“Fine, but do not pick out any of the blue ones—those all make me look even more corpse-like and I’ve no wish to hear the sibilant whispers slither behind me all evening,” I sneer.

Bronwyn grunts, pulling out a gown of shimmering gray. With any luck, it’ll help me blend into the cold stone walls of the great hall.

Etia enters with a second tray, this one smaller and carrying a full pot of scalding leywort tea.

“My lady,” Etia murmurs, curtsying to Bronwyn—who suddenly shrieks and drops the gown on the floor. A high-pitched chittering erupts from the armoire and a small, furry creature bolts forward, startling my sister and the maid.

I chuckle as the length of piebald fur races toward me. The women glower.

“Good morning, Nibblebones,” I coo. The corpse weasel scampers up my arm and burrows beneath my hair, settling on my shoulder with a rumbling trill.

“That creature is a menace,” Etia mutters, plonking the tray of medicinal tea on my table with an exaggerated clatter. “Corpse weasels belong with the dead.”

Bronwyn stoops to pick up the dropped puddle of gray wyrm silk and glowers at me.

“Is it any wonder why it haunts Vireth’s chamber, then?”

The remark stings, but I bare my fangs right back at my beleaguered sibling and spare a cold glance at Etia, whose eyes are downcast with second-hand embarrassment.

“You’ve delivered your tidings, and you—your tea—now, both of you get out.”

The low warning comes in time with a resonant rumble of thunder, and blessedly, they turn to leave. On Bronwyn’s heels, I hear Etia mumbling.

“I tell you, my lady,” she worries. “I just know this weather is an ill omen for Lady Sephia’s bloomday…”

The heavy wooden door closes behind them, leaving Nibblebones and I in disappointed silence.

“Joyous bloomday to me,” I mumble, rising to pull the tray of breakfast back into bed with me. Nibblebones whines piteously, so I swipe a mushroom through the savory marrow and feed her absent-mindedly.

Rain begins to tap against the windowpanes in a steadily increasing rhythm, giving pace to my thoughts.

It’s sure to be another trying day, especially if I need to spend it at court instead of entertaining myself in the woods or sneaking down to the kitchens.

Every moment I’m forced to stand in that obnoxious great hall is a moment of agony—trying to pretend I can’t hear every whisper, every disgusted voice that floats in my direction.

Nibblebones creeps closer to my bowl, her whiskers glittering in the morning light as she sniffs desirously at my breakfast.

“Did you not catch any mice last night?” I chuckle.

She whines again, and I proffer her another mushroom.

“Very well, but that’s the last of it for you. If I’m going to survive this day, I’ll need a full belly.”

The remark is meant with levity, but sounds about as light as an anvil.

At forty, I should have learned how to block out the disdain, or at very least, how to keep it from burrowing under my skin, but all I’ve ever learned was how to keep a placid expression while it takes root in my chest and festers.

At court, my allies are thin on the ground—my friends, nonexistent.

“Perhaps it is time for us to leave,” I say to Nibblebones.

“I hear that the southern edge of Moontide has plots of land for sale along the coast.” If I’m to be an exile in my own home, I might as well go somewhere with a better view.

“Wouldn’t that be a dream, little one? Setting up in a small cottage between the sea and the forest, with land for me to have a little garden and wilds enough for you to hunt?

And no one to bother us or scurry away in fear. ”