4. Vireth
Vireth
“It’s for your own safety,” Mother says. “At least until the… concerns”—she waves a hand in the air, searching for the right word—“gossip… rumors… die down a little.”
I arch a brow, because if I open my mouth too quickly, something unpleasant is sure to spill out.
The days-long thunderstorm has finally abated, but the rumble of discontent around my presence at court has only increased.
Damp wind blows in from the open windows, the scent whispering more storms are on the way.
“Don’t look at me like that, Vireth,” she says, her voice all edge and no warmth. “You were the one who lied about your powers increasing. Your father and I might have been able to help you, or at the very least, prevent this.”
The this she refers to is the complete and utter chaos that the court at Hollowmire has been thrown into since Sephia’s bloomday feast. Lords and ladies demanding something be done about me—whether exiled entirely or chained in the dungeons.
Mages have been sent deep into the archives to find answers, and the fear percolating is both ignorant and explosive.
It’s a lucky thing the Moontide prince took such a fancy to her and went ahead with the betrothal, but following that damned fortune teller’s silly prophecy, the Moontide delegates packed up their ocean-damp bags before they even had time to dry out.
That includes, of course, Sephia, along with her trunks of clothes, jewels, and her servants.
Even more regretful is that I actually miss the blessed creature.
There’s something depressing about the fact that the castle is now absent of her cloying sweetness and hesitant gentility.
I had hoped that with the joy of the impending nuptials, the whole Blight Mother portent would fall by the wayside, but fate, or luck, or gods-favor, has never really been on my side.
As soon as the procession of courtiers in kelp-green silk passed beyond our gates, eyes squinting in suspicion turned my way.
My mother stands next to my armoire, her mouth drawn and expression beleaguered.
She watches Ulfrid as he hammers the gold lock on my bedroom door—both of them studiously avoiding my gaze.
When he knocked on my door earlier, a perverse shred of hope kindled that all my youthful fantasies had come true until he looked at me with devastating, breathless sadness and murmured, “Forgive me, little toadstool.”
My trapped-bird heartbeat fluttered wildly before understanding dawned, and then it fell stone dead with the helpless betrayal of it all.
Numbness swept in, followed by a flood of questions I can’t help but ruminate on—if Ulfrid gave in so easily to my mother’s demand, does that mean he, too, believes I am something to fear?
Am I becoming something to fear? How can that be when all I’ve ever felt was me?
The delicate plink plink plink of his hammer against the gold reverberates through my bedchamber. The stone walls carry the sound, and the canopy above my bed trembles faintly with each strike. The twitch in my eye seems to answer in kind.
As angry as I am with Mother for locking me in my own chambers, it’s Ulfrid’s betrayal that burns hottest. Did he argue against her on my behalf, I wonder.
Did anyone? He doesn’t look at me, and hasn’t since Mother summoned him here an hour ago.
He doesn’t look anywhere but the lock, as if I am already something one must not meet the eyes of. Gods, the betrayal of it all.
If I were a better daughter, or perhaps a better woman, I might fall to my knees and beg forgiveness for keeping my growing powers a secret, and then dissolve into tears to impress upon everyone how little harm I meant and how I don’t deserve such cruel measures.
But I’ve only enjoyed getting on my knees for one thing, and it’s never been to apologize, let alone beg.
“I never actually lied about my powers, you know,” I say petulantly. “I always drank the leywort tea. That I didn’t come to you and tell you it wasn’t working as well is more a testament to the fractured nature of our relationship than it is to my honesty.”
“Lies of omission are still lies,” she returns, fists clenching against her sides at my words. Mayhap they are cruel, but for once I feel they are deserved rather than the result of my temper running away with me.
The wretched unfairness of this sours in my gut like spoiled food.
Why will no one come to my defense? Why is it so easy to believe that I’m fated to become a world-ending creature?
Why is no one even bothering to get to the heart—to the truth—of this?
The questions come in dizzying succession, my distress sending a patch of velvety gray mold climbing up the side of my armoire.
“Speaking of omission, what’s been done to find the fortune teller?
I cannot believe she’s just vanished. Why isn’t anyone dragging her back here to prove what she says is true?
Sephia said Bronwyn invited her, and yet Bronwyn wouldn’t tell me what her name was or where she comes from.
Just that she found a seer for the feast. Might we allow ourselves to be ruled by logic for once and go to the source of the trouble?
” But Mother isn’t listening to my logical yet paltry defense—she’s staring out the window toward the sea.
“Enough, Vireth. As I said, this is a precautionary measure. None of us understand what’s happening—including you.
Keeping you under lock and key is meant to protect you from anyone who’d be driven by fear to end a threat before it can come to pass.
Everyone at court is terrified, and people often strike out of fear before they understand the situation and its many nuances.
As soon as the sages come up with something helpful about the prophecy and we can figure out what to do about it, you’ll have unfettered access to the kingdom once again. ”
Anger throbs through my veins, a pulse alongside the decay magic that is always clamoring to be released. It presses at my skin, itchy and irritating, like something trying to hatch.
“So instead, you punish me for the possibility of someone harming me? How is that just?” I snarl.
There is a whisper—just a soft one—that suggests she might be right.
That I might be better off locked away, or sent away.
That my isolation is more than preferable—it is necessary.
Gods, but why is that so much easier to accept than my nature?
My voice cracks, and with it, something inside me breaks open. It’s a hairline crack at first, splitting wider with every word I find the courage to say.
“This is madness, Mother—you go too far. You have always looked down on me for being the way I am. I spent the first half of my life desperate to please you—desperate to unmake myself from the disappointment that I was and become something that could be accepted and loved. The second half of my life I spent carving a home out of my solitude because I knew there was nothing I could do—no way I could change—to be something worth your love. And now, at the first opportunity—which was but a mere unhinged whisper from a stranger—you imprison me like some disobedient child or common criminal?”
A manic cackle stutters out of me, my wounds laying bare between us. Black tears spill down my cheeks, hot and shameful. Even Ulfrid’s measured hammering has ceased.
“If you truly seek to find those who would harm me, Mother, I suggest you find a mirror on your way out.”
The sobs trip out of me, and to my horror, something deep within me answers. The something that has been clamoring beneath my skin, coiling deep in my chest, waiting for the right emotional conditions to flourish.
Slick black mushrooms erupt from the mortar between the stones of the walls and floor.
They split through the cracks with wet, obscene enthusiasm and prurient squelching noises.
Black mold, fuzzy and toxic, thickens into carpets beneath my feet.
Fungal stalks as thick as my wrist thrust upward, their caps trembling and seeping spores that hang in the air like breath on a winter morning.
Mother gasps, and Ulfrid swears under his breath. They hurry out, nearly stumbling over one another, and the door slams. The new lock clicks with finality.
I don’t blame them. I’ve had emotional outbursts that ended in fungal growth before, but nothing like this. Nothing so impressive, or dangerous. Maybe Mother is right to lock me up. As furious as I am, I don’t really want to harm anyone.
Well… I certainly don’t want to kill anyone.
Probably.
My breath steadies and my pulse slows. The mushrooms seem to throb in sympathy.
And then, I feel it. Not just connection—I’ve always felt the gentle hum of rot when I summon it.
This feels… different. The filaments that give rise to these poisonous blooms feel like delicate extensions of my veins.
Like the mushrooms aren’t conjured by my magic but growing out of me, as if I am not their mistress but their orchard.
As if the mushrooms are the fruiting body of my awakening rage.
Interesting.
Taking a deep breath, I test my connection to this outgrowth of my powers, attempting to call the mycelium network back inside me.
First, there’s an icy shiver, and then, it’s as if my body starts to drink up the decay through filament straws, sip by poisonous sip.
I watch in wonder as the dripping black mushrooms shrink and wither, snaking back toward me in little tendrils of sentient black goo.
Moved by pure instinct, I press my hands to the cold stone floor, and the trickles of black slither up my fingertips until they’re absorbed into my skin.
The room is as it was before my outburst. No trace remains save the faint smell of wet earth and the sound of my pulse roaring in my ears.
That’s never happened before. I’ve never been able to pull the decay back once it’s been unleashed. Interesting. Very interesting and slightly alarming.