7. Renard
Renard
I hoped I’d imagined it in a fever dream, but the cottage is actually worse in daylight.
The scant gray light that seeps through the shattered roof reveals a place that has been abandoned long enough for the forest to begin reclaiming it.
One wall leans inward at a dangerous angle, the timbers swollen with rot and slick with moss.
The floor is half stone, half dirt now, where the planks have long since collapsed into the soil beneath.
Mushrooms—so many mushrooms—grow in the corners and along the walls, their pale caps pushing up through cracks like quiet intruders.
And then, there are the massive ones growing in the roof, with golden gills that glow faintly in the dim morning light.
They’re bigger than any mushroom I’ve ever seen before, which shouldn’t surprise me in this monstrous woodland realm, but I find I am unnerved by their sheer size.
No one has lived here for years—that much is clear.
The fire Vireth has coaxed into life burns low in the tumble-down ring of stones that was once the hearth. We’re fortunate that much of the chimney is intact, and the smoke drifts upward through the jagged stones rather than billowing out into the ramshackle room.
She kneels beside it, stirring something in my borrowed kettle, and the sight of her unsettles me in ways I struggle to name. Not because she is ugly or horrifying, exactly—quite the opposite.
She is beautiful in the way moonlight on still, deep water is beautiful.
Breathtaking, cold, and hiding such dangers in her depths that would make the bravest cower.
The firelight slips across her pale skin and the loose silver knot of her hair, catching in the delicate points of her ears.
If I came upon her alone on a dark road, I realize suddenly, I would not know whether to offer help or turn my horse and ride the other direction.
That thought does nothing to settle the nervousness swirling in my gut.
The ugly little rodent that I’ve seen her sweet-talking scurries across the ruined floor between us, dragging something that might once have been a frog.
The creature glances up at me as it passes, bright eyes gleaming with limpid enthusiasm.
Its fur is patchy with what looks like mange, except that it sports green growths of moss or lichen instead of bare skin, and its body undulates in ways that seem unnatural.
I try not to stare, but fail. The weasel—if it still qualifies as such—settles near the fire and begins to gnaw happily on its prize.
The small snapping sounds of bone between its teeth make my skin crawl.
“You must be hungry,” Vireth says without looking up. “I hear humans have voracious appetites—for all the good it seems to do your bodies. You seem to heal slowly, though I’m glad the wounds do not yet fester.”
“Oh. Ah, yes.” My voice sounds rougher than I expect. Nearly being dismantled by a bogunder will do that, apparently. “I suppose in comparison, that’s true. Is that not the same with fae?”
She snorts. “Obviously. Do you humans not have books of history in your land? Do you not know the wild-folk when you come upon them?”
She stirs the contents of the pot again, then reaches for a small pouch resting beside her pack. The pack itself lies open near the fire, its contents sparse—bundled herbs, a few tools, a waterskin, a coil of cord. Beside it sit my saddlebags, and I recognize the worn leather immediately.
“Magnar?” I ask.
She turns to look at me, and I try not to gasp at the sight of fangs peeking out over her lush lower lip, or the way her brown-red eyes flash with humor and curiosity.
“My horse,” I explain.
“Outside.” Her tone is neutral, but she glances briefly toward the broken doorway. “He is grazing. There’s a safe patch of grass down by the stream.”
“And he’s… unharmed?”
“He is irritated,” she says. “He suffered burns from the bogunder bile, but they have been cleaned and bandaged.”
I exhale slowly, ashamed to feel tears of relief stinging my eyes. That horse has carried me through battlefields and marshes that swallowed better men whole. Losing him to some swamp beast after everything else would have been a bitter ending, indeed.
“You tended him?” I ask, unable to temper my incredulous tone.
“Yes.”
“That must have been… interesting.”
Her mouth twitches faintly, and I decide I am most intrigued to see what her smile looks like. If the shape of it transforms her face into that of a beautiful maiden, or if with her fangs and oxblood eyes, she looks more like a predator come to dine.
“He does not trust easily.”
“Neither do I.”
She looks up again, and for a moment her eyes hold mine across the fire.
There is something in them that makes the back of my neck prickle and has all the sinews of my body tightening in preparation for something.
It’s not hostility, not exactly. Assessment, perhaps.
Like she is trying to decide what sort of creature I am, which has my defensive instincts on alert.
The weasel lets out a pleased chitter and crunches down on the frog’s skull. Finally, I look away. The ruined cottage creaks softly around us as the wind moves through the broken walls. Rainwater drips steadily from the ragged gap in the roof, tapping against stone in slow irregular beats.
“What were you doing in the bog?” Vireth asks suddenly.
“Traveling to Hollowmire,” I say, certain I said as much to her before, though that may have been my injured delirium.
A collapsed bookshelf lies half-buried beneath fallen beams. The remains of a cabinet cling stubbornly to one wall, caked with dust, ancient soot, and spindly little plants. Idly, I wonder how my interesting host knew about this place if it is not hers.
“But why through the bog? No one uses that path. Everyone always takes the eastern road,” she presses.
“I didn’t know there was an eastern road through the Verge. I’ve been here once before. My company came this way,” I say.
“The Verge?”
“What do you call it, then? This forest?”
She tilts her head at me, a thoughtful expression on her face. “This forest has many names. I’ve never heard it called the Verge. I rather like that.”
“What do you call it?” I ask again.
“I suppose I just call it ‘the forest’ or ‘the wood.’”
“That’s a very plain name for a very strange place,” I say, warming to her sharp humor.
She lifts the pot from the fire and sets it aside to cool. The smell that rises from it is earthy and bitter—herbs, mushrooms, something medicinal.
“I’m almost certain this will speed your healing, human Renard. Or am I to call you Knight Renard? Sir Renard? What is your custom?”
“Renard is fine. I am a knight no longer, and even when I was, the title fit me ill.”
There is unguarded curiosity in her gaze, but thankfully, she does not press.
“Well, Renard,” she says, murmuring the name between those deadly fangs.
“As I was saying, I’m almost certain this will speed your healing.
Either that, or it will kill you faster than the bogunder ever could.
It would be painful, I suspect, but fortunately very quick.
I’m not as used to human forms, so I can only do my best. Are you brave enough to give it a try? ”
I should say no. Every instinct in me screams to—why should I trust this terrifying woman in this equally terrifying place?
Yet my leg and shoulder throb with pain at every beat of my heart, and I don’t want to linger here any longer than necessary.
Is the risk worth my life? Certainly. Is the risk worth the lives of those starving souls in Valehar? That is less certain.
My eyes wander again, lingering on the strange growths pushing up along the damp beams of the walls.
Pale mushrooms cluster in uneven patches, some small and delicate, others thick-stemmed and dark.
The ground below Vireth’s crouched form is decked with a strange growth of bright orange that’s almost certainly toxic.
There are far too many mushrooms for comfort.
“Were all these here before?” I ask.
Her gaze flicks briefly toward the clusters, then down at the pulsing orange upon the dirt.
“Some of them were,” she says with a half shrug.
“But not all of them? Do you mean to tell me these grew overnight?”
“In a sense, yes. Everything that lives grows all the time. It only stops when we die.”
The answer is confounding, and only furthers my discomfort. I shift carefully against the wall, testing the bandages wrapped around my ribs. The pain is manageable now, though every breath reminds me just how close I came to my quest ending in the innards of the bogunder.
“You did a fine job,” I say, touching the edge of the binding.
“Of course I did,” she replies, perplexed by my bewilderment. “Now, will you take your chances with breakfast? I’ve got places to be, human, and I can’t stay here tending you for long.”
It would be absurd to imagine this creature meant me harm after going through so much trouble to care for me in the first place. I nod, reaching for the outstretched mug steaming with savory brown sludge.
“Thank you,” I finally say, testing the first sip cautiously. Despite the unappealingly thick texture of the liquid, it’s delicious—a kind of fatty, mushroomy porridge topped with bitter herbs I am unfamiliar with. “This is very good. I suppose if I am to die, it is a fine last meal.”
“It’s better than a mouthful of bog water,” she chuckles, and I catch a glimpse of her smile before it falls away.
It is exactly as I imagine being struck by lightning is like—sudden, blinding, and fatal. This fae wields a terrifying beauty and it is more frightening than a thousand bogunders or mimics.
“Mine would be poached blackfan scallops drizzled in kelp broth to start, then fire-roasted marrow with herb-crusted potatoes, an entire loaf of freshly baked yeast bread, an entire wheel of cave-aged cheese, salad of bitter greens and pomegranate seeds, and salted honey apple tart for dessert,” she says dreamily.