9. Renard #3
“Gods above, the ignorance of humans,” she mutters.
“You do know that fae are all born with different magical gifts, do you not? We’re intimately connected with our land, so our gifts tend to tie closely to our natural world.
My sister Bronwyn’s gift is a kind of hearth magic, with particular skill at gatherings and celebrations.
She senses what a gathering requires before anyone else, be it music, food, décor, ambiance, or general merrymaking.
She’s also particularly adept with certain types of floral arrangements. ”
Vireth chuckles at my incredulous expression.
“It may sound silly to you, but try having a spring wedding without flowers. Think of the best meals, parties, gatherings… the best pints in the nicest taverns, or the coziest nights spent in an inn that you’ve ever had.
That’s every time when Bronwyn is attendance.
No food shortages, no out-of-tune musicians, no drunken brawls.
Simply the best merrymaking of your life. ”
“She must be a delight to be around,” I admit, reconsidering my initial impression.
Vireth snorts at that. “She’s meaner than a wet cat and surly on a good day. But she’s powerful and beloved, and smarter than a sting.”
“Is she your only sibling?”
“Ha! If only! There are seven of us, all sisters.”
“I imagine it made for a lively household.”
“It certainly made for a crowded one,” she replies.
“My youngest sister, Sephia, is the jewel of the brood. She was blessed with uncommonly potent fertility magic. It was down to her efforts alone that Hollowmire was able to have even the meager harvest we did this year, and still, she could not encourage the land to produce as it once did. She’s the best of us all, though, sweet, and kind, and biddable.
It earned her an envious betrothal. ‘Twas her bloomday we were most recently celebrating when the fortune teller set the proverbial cat amongst the pigeons.”
“And you? What did your gifts earn you?”
Vireth purses her lips and it’s hard not to notice the way she curls in on herself—shoulders slumping, spine rounding like a defensive hedgehog.
Something buried in me bristles to see it—the way this formidable fae woman retreats like she fears some kind of reprimand or correction.
After a moment, she replies, and her answer sharp with bitterness.
“A string of broken betrothals and an abominable reputation. I’ll tell you this—it has been a very long time since my bloomday was celebrated.” She laughs, but there’s no humor in it, only pain.
“How would you celebrate it now, if it were up to you?”
She pauses, considering. Then, her dour expression melts into a heartbreaking smile that’s soft and small and clearly reserved for herself.
“A long, luxurious bath, followed by a feast of all my favorite foods, and an evening in front of the fire with a stack of my favorite novels,” she says.
“No fancy ball where you get to be the center of attention, admired by handsome young men and envious ladies?” I tease.
Vireth’s face twists in disgust, and I chuckle.
“I’d sooner pull my fangs out with a pair of blacksmith tongs,” she utters darkly. “I enjoy merrymaking as much as anyone, and I don’t begrudge my sisters their preferences, but the only time I’ve ever succeeded as the center of attention has been an embarrassment for all involved.”
“Ah, yes, I suppose that would color one’s opinion of the matter.”
“And what about you? As a knight, I suppose you’ve seen your fair share of courtly gatherings. Is that what you would wish for? To stand at the right hand of the king in your glittering ceremonial armor while nubile young ladies fawn over you and lust for your favor?”
“It is what many knights wish for,” I admit. “But therein lies one of my many failings. I was always gifted with the sword, but lacked the wit to play the political game. It cost me much, in the end.”
She makes a thoughtful noise, but does not press, and I’m grateful for the small grace. After a few moments, my companion surprises me again when she adds, almost as an afterthought, “Actually, I left court recently.”
I suspected as much. If she’s talking about feasts and betrothals, she’s obviously an aristocrat of some kind. A lady-in-waiting, perhaps.
“Voluntarily?”
The pause is heavy with suspicion while she weighs my trustworthiness.
“Yes.”
“And does this departure have more to do with the abominable reputation or the rendezvous with the seer?” It’s a risk, asking this personal of a question. Yet I cannot seem to help myself. Once more I find myself inexorably drawn in by this mysterious fae woman.
“I suppose it’s a bit of both. I’m hoping to get something resolved, and then I plan to journey northwest to Moontide.
I’ve heard there are plots of land for sale overlooking the sea.
A quiet life away from idle judgments and the suffocation of expectation is where my future lies,” she says, as much to herself as to me.
I incline my head. “I can understand that desire better than you know, Lady Fae.”
Nibblebones scampers up Vireth’s leg to coil around her neck and offers a trilling agreement.
We walk on in silence after that, the mountains rising ahead of us, their peaks lost beneath blankets of cloud.
The pass ahead is narrow, the path winding between steep, rocky slopes that look ready to tumble into an avalanche at any moment.
Snow begins to fall again—not the soft sleepy clumps from before, but icy shards that sting with cold when they meet skin.
My knee gives a painful throb and I glance up at the sky, frowning as the clouds darken to ultramarine-washed gray.
“We’ll need shelter,” I say.
“Your knee again?” she asks, her voice threaded with a lilt of humor.
I scowl, attempting to quell my shuddering as the temperature drops even further.
“My knee, yes, but also a lifetime of experience on campaign.”
Vireth harrumphs at that, but begins to scan our surroundings.
“There,” she replies, pointing toward a dark opening in the rock face ahead.
The cave is a jagged slash of black in the mountain, yawning like some great stone-lipped maw. The light fades almost too easily beyond the threshold in a way that feels unnatural to me, but I am beginning to make peace with how unnatural the natural world of this realm is.
“Caves almost always house some kind of ill-tempered creature, in my experience. Is that not the case here in Hollowmire?” I ask, daring to hope for an easy night.
“Oh, it is,” Vireth replies, matter-of-factly. “But our choices are to challenge whatever almost certainly lies within the cave, or challenge the gods of the impending blizzard. I fancy our chances in the cave only slightly higher than carrying on in this, don’t you?”
There’s a devil-may-care air to Vireth’s words, but it is plain there’s unease beneath.
“Very well,” I say.
“Steel yourself, Farmer Knight,” she says, drawing her own blade and moving ahead of Magnar, who I bid to stay outside the cave’s entrance. Without further prompting, Nibblebones twists down from her shoulder and climbs atop Magnar’s saddle.
We approach cautiously. The entrance is narrow but deep enough to offer protection from the wind and snow, which will serve our purpose. I reach for the torch in my pack while Vireth tips her head up to scent what lies within.
“Allow me,” I murmur, moving to step in front of her.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she snaps, pushing me behind her with impressive force. My cheeks heat when she glares at my injured leg and back up to my healing shoulder, but she rolls her eyes at my obvious chagrin and steps inside.
I’ve never had to rely on a woman—or anyone, for that matter—to lead a charge or go forth into danger, and the reality of both my injuries and my age settle over me like the millstone of failure.
It takes as much effort for me to swallow my pride and admit that Vireth is right as it does to stretch my tender muscles and prepare for yet another onslaught of violence.
The torchlight flickers against damp stone, illuminating movement in the back of the cave.
The dim orange light spills forward, followed by a rumbling growl that vibrates through the stone floor beneath our feet.
The sound is deep and sets my heart racing, because the deeper the sound, the bigger the foe.
A warm gust of air rushes out from the depths of the cave, carrying with it the stench of spoiled flesh and stale darkness.
Then, the torchlight flickers across some massive, dark thing moving forward, and I grip my sword to keep my hands from trembling as the battle thrill surges through my limbs.
At first, it’s only a shape, low and broad, hunched near the back of the cave.
Then it rises, unfolding in a way that makes my stomach tighten.
It has the mass of an ice bear, but the elongated muzzle and pointed ears of a wolf.
As it prowls closer toward us, I can see that its fur is blacker than obsidian and matted with some kind of sticky liquid that leaves wet spots on the ground beneath its massive paws.
Its overlarge claws scratch against the stone with a high-pitched scrape that sets my teeth on edge.
The moment it sees us, it bellows a roar that makes me want to drop everything and clap my hands over my ears. The pain in my ears is dizzying, and when the beast quiets, everything sounds muffled, save for an ear-splitting ringing echoing through my head.
“Gods above,” I offer in quiet prayer. “If we should meet Death today, let it be quick.”
Vireth moves before I have the chance to. There is no hesitation in her, no pause to consider or retreat. She rushes forward with her blade already in motion, striking for the creature’s flank with a precision earned after years of practice. Perhaps not a lady-in-waiting, then…