8. Vireth
Vireth
It’s been less than a day since we packed up our meager supplies and left the cottage, and I’m already regretting my decision to help the ignorant human.
Renard. All morning he tried to direct me in every manner of way, from how best to pack my satchel, to the right way to ensure the hearth fire was banked, to the correct way to prepare food for travel.
He is trying desperately to lead us through the forest—the Verge, he calls it—despite having no idea where he is or where he’s going.
Stubby red toadstools sprout up from the soil in our wake thanks to my ire. So far, he has not asked, or even noticed my decay magic pulsing around us. He was suspicious and unsettled by the overlarge mushrooms plugging our roof, but I don’t believe he knew they were there at my behest.
Mayhap I should have let him get soaked and chilled from the rain.
Nibblebones rides atop my shoulder, scampering down to the leaf litter every once in a while to unearth some tasty morsel or morbid treasure.
Renard’s too-blue eyes follow her movements with thinly veiled distaste, and if I hadn’t promised to protect the lout, I’d thump him on his golden head and let whatever stalks us in the woods have its way with him.
His injuries are responding well to my ministrations, however, and I take no small pride in that fact.
He doesn’t seem to eat and drink as often as I was led to believe, and while his body does seem fragile in comparison to most fae, he is strong enough and bears his pain with remarkable indifference.
Some color has returned to his formerly gray cheeks, and his flesh appears to be knitting itself back together, albeit slowly.
I’m glad the mushroom porridge and herbal tinctures I cobbled together early this morning had the desired effect.
At first, I tried to get him to ride on the makeshift stretcher I’d put together to haul him to the cottage in the first place and he would hear none of it—until he tried to swing his injured leg over Magnar’s saddle and nearly collapsed.
His embarrassment was satisfaction enough for me, even if he was surly while I hitched the support to saddle.
So, now we plod through the woods, making for the eastern road, while he sulks on the stretcher pulled stalwartly by his beautiful horse.
It is some hours before he emerges from his melancholy long enough to ask me more probing questions about myself.
Given how I see him reacting to Nibblebones, I’m less than enthused to offer him any kind of insight into my life.
I’ve only just left the cruelty of that life behind, and I’m not keen on revisiting it—especially with a human stranger, and an annoying one at that.
Instead, I pointedly ignore his questions about whether or not I hail from the castle and why I’m chasing down a fortune teller in a nearby village.
I am obviously reluctant to divulge the fact that he may be sharing a waterskin with a world-ending monster.
Nibblebones is curious about the human and his horse, staring unabashedly from her perch on my shoulder.
“What is it?” he asks of a sudden. “The little beast you carry with you.”
“I’ll thank you not to refer to my corpse weasel as a little beast,” I say tartly. “Her name is Nibblebones.”
He grunts at that. “Never heard of a corpse weasel before.”
“Well, since I am convinced you know nothing about the fae or our realm, that does not surprise me in the least. Perhaps if you’d spent more of your time reading books and less of it pillaging the countryside in a misguided effort to unite ill-tempered humans under a silly flag—a needless quest if there ever was one—you might find yourself surprised by the knowledge of them. They’re rather remarkable creatures.”
Nibblebones, who’s been coiled around my neck for warmth, emits a low trill of agreement that vibrates against my collarbone.
Renard glares at me, the muscles of his sharp jaw flexing again—a move I’m coming to understand as his effort to hide his irritation. He growls his next question through gritted teeth in what must be a serious effort to remain polite.
“Perhaps you can enlighten me, then.”
“Very well. Corpse weasels are often found denning around tombs and graveyards. Normally, they’re quite social, but Nibblebones was abandoned by her kresh when she was just a kit.
I found her as a wee thing and we grew up together.
They’re thought to be guardians of grave goods, though they have been known to pilfer them for their own little hoards.
They possess a great many magical gifts, and they’re uncommonly loyal for something so wild. ”
“Why does it look like it’s half-dead with mange?”
“She is not made of mere flesh and blood, ignorant knight. She is a demi-spirit of the forest. That means a once-living animal woven through with the energy of the spirit realm—thus connected to the other liminal beings that inhabit our woodlands. I do wish you’d show her a modicum of respect, since she can understand you.
” I stroke the thick growths of lichen and moss along her back and press a kiss to the top of her head.
Renard’s face falls and his cheeks turn pink, which gives him a rather virile look. Something peculiar flutters in my stomach.
“I beg your forgiveness, Mistress Bones, and do offer my most humble apologies for my human ignorance,” he bites out. I wonder if it physically pains him to do so.
At this, Nibblebones leaps from my shoulder and scampers up his uninjured leg, dropping a wet lump of rotting frog flesh into his lap.
If I’d been delighted at Renard’s embarrassed countenance earlier today, it is nothing in the face of his shocked revulsion.
I’m utterly helpless at reining in my laughter, and he glares sharply at me before the corners of his fine lips lift in a reluctant smile.
Eventually, he breaks into a low chuckle that raises goosebumps all along my skin.
It is a sound that lodges deep inside me, flowing through my veins with my long-damp ardor. Hmm. Another interesting thought best saved for later examination.
“I cannot tell if she means to insult me or honor me with her tribute,” he finally says, but his manner is light and some of the irritated tension between us has evaporated.
“I would consider it a bit of both, to be honest,” I return. “She accepts your apology and also seems to believe you are incapable of feeding yourself, though that could be due to your injuries rather than any perceived incompetence. Hence her proffered snack.”
“Gods above. Will she be offended if I do not accept her gift?”
“Most certainly.” I’m teasing him, but it stems from my curiosity to see how he will respond.
I watch Renard stare at Nibblebones’ eager little face, her shining onyx eyes tracking his every movement.
“Well, hells,” he grumbles, then picks up the bit of meat and swallows it without further preamble. A flash of green overtakes his pallor, but he forces another smile.
“A thousand thanks, Mistress Bones, ’twas delightful.”
Nibblebones chitters happily and runs back out into the forest, followed by my bark of laughter. Satisfaction nestles within my ribs, and no small amount of surprise. A large part of me expected him to fling the offending offering into the woods and glower at my furry companion.
“I cannot believe you actually ate it. You truly are a knight to behave so honorably.”
“I hate to admit it, but I’ve eaten worse,” he says. “And as I said, I am a knight no longer. Just a farmer in armor who hates to offend his hosts.”
“Well, you’ve made a friend for life, then. I wager she’s off through the woods to bring you some other tasty morsel to ensure your strength returns.”
“Oh, I cannot wait.” He grins, turning slightly to catch my gaze.
The brief eye contact feels… different from before.
Less suspicious and yet more charged, somehow, which is strange given our tempers seem to be easing.
If the heat crawling through my body isn’t from frustration, then…
no. I turn my attention back to the path ahead, confused by the tingling sensations that spark down my breasts and between my legs.
It hasn’t been that long since I’ve taken a lover—has it? Even if it has, it would take a lot more than a generous-lipped smile and a throaty chuckle to convince me to harbor more than a passing interest in the ignorant human, even if he has a figure that rivals Ulfrid’s.
It won’t matter, anyway, because as soon as we find the fortune teller and have her direct us to a curse breaker, I doubt he’ll deign to remain in Hollowmire.
And that would suit me fine, of course, since I plan to buy myself a little plot of land in Moontide, assuming I can get this mess of a prophecy sorted out.
I’m reluctant to admit that entangling myself with the human—Renard, I must remember to call him by his name—has proven a welcome distraction from both my current emotional turmoil and from the dread that has hardened in my gut whispering that something inside me is different.
Whether it is a world-ending harbinger of destruction, I cannot say.
I certainly hope not. It would make my hopes for a cottage with a garden overlooking the sea rather pointless.