10. Vireth
Vireth
Renard’s eyebrows lift in surprise then furrow in confusion, his mouth gaping and snapping close in sharp succession.
It was a risk to admit as much to him, but with my powers, and these antlers growing, I knew I’d have to tell him the truth sooner or later.
Sadness blooms like a frost-damaged rose in my chest, because now, inevitably, comes the rejection I’ve been desperate to avoid.
“No,” he breathes, disbelieving. “The Blight Mother? How?”
“I confess, I am not entirely certain,” I admit, poking at the fire so that I will have something to do with my hands. “This revelation is all rather new to me, too.”
“The seer,” he says slowly, piecing things together. “That was the prophecy at your sister’s bloomday. The Blight Mother prophecy.”
“Ah, I should have known that news of a prophecy would spread,” I grumble. “My people love nothing more than to discuss an ill omen.”
“You cannot be the Blight Mother,” he echoes. “She is an ancient goddess, called down by the gods.”
I shrug, because I am no closer to possessing answers about this than he seems to be.
Frustration surges, along with unbidden memories of my magic first manifesting—of my family’s inability to help me understand it because they’d never seen anything like it before.
Bitterness coats my tongue. Once more, I shall figure things out on my own.
“It cannot be!” he insists, likely reveling in my betrayal, or the betrayal of my body.
Profound sadness flashes across his handsome, scarred face, but it is gone almost as fast as it appears.
I’m left to wonder if whatever fledgling spark I felt with him has been doused—how quickly his anger and sadness will turn to disgust and dismissal.
If he’ll leave, or turn away from me like everyone eventually does.
He’s quiet, staring into the fire, clearly weighing what to say, or what to do, or mayhap whether or not he wishes to unsheathe his sword and deal with the greater monster in the cave—me.
I don’t think I would blame him if he did.
My shoulders curve inward and another small mushroom pushes up from the soil around my feet. Nibblebones scampers over and snaps it up.
The pile of blackened mush that was the wyreboar lies half in shadow near the mouth of the cave, and the sight of its collapsed body makes my stomach tighten every time I accidentally look at it.
Snow blows across the entrance of the cave in restless white gusts beyond, collecting in the creature’s sticky, matted fur and along the exposed curve of its spine.
Its flesh has degraded utterly, devoured beneath a network of pulsing blue-black mushrooms that I’m unfamiliar with, and yet, summoned on an instinctual whim.
The wyreboar’s bones gleam a soft gold in the low firelight—bones that, I suspect, will crumble to dust much faster than they would if the poor animal had had a natural death.
Shame and despair bruise my heart now at my actions.
I keep expecting the thing to move again.
Not because it lives, obviously—but because I don’t quite understand what I did to it.
Was it even me? It felt almost like something other than instinct—as if a greater power, or a darker one, guided my hands.
The fire burns low and steady between us, filling the cave with uneven amber light that catches along the damp stone walls.
It’s brighter now, thanks to the large golden mushrooms now lining the ceiling of the cave, but I almost regret them.
I don’t want to witness what my destructive power has wrought, and I certainly don’t want to see my shame reflected in Renard’s glacial gaze.
Meltwater drips somewhere deeper inside the cave with slow, hollow plinks that sound maddeningly loud in the quiet.
Nibblebones has disappeared into the folds of my cloak again, though every so often I feel the corpse weasel’s tiny claws flex comfortingly against my hip.
I think she might be the only being in this realm or the next that does not despise me for what I am. For what I am becoming.
Smart little thing. Perhaps if I possessed any sense at all, I would be hiding too—tucked comfortably in my bed in Hollowmire, or better yet, inside the modest seaside cottage of my dreams, warmed by a cheery hearth, a simple meal, Nibblebones curled atop my lap, and a garden thick with compost and impressive fruits and vegetables.
After gawking at me for an uncomfortable amount of time, Renard goes and sits near the fire and begins sharpening his sword with slow, methodical movements that scrape steadily through the silence.
The sound is irritating in its regularity, or perhaps because I can’t tell if he’s genuinely tending the blade or simply avoiding looking at me—possibly both. Probably both.
Another sharp ache pulses through my skull and I wince before I can stop myself, pressing two fingers carefully against the base of the antlers curling from the top of my head.
The skin is hot and itchy, pulsing beneath my hair that is tangled with sweat and gods-know-what else.
When I bring my fingers up to the small antlers, a strange answering thrum echoes deep in my chest like a stone dropped in a well.
It’s as though something inside me knows this discomfort and delights in this larval stage of goddess-hood.
Gods.
And to think, I used to worry about the dimples gathering on my fleshy thighs and the wrinkles collecting at the corners of my eyes—what foolish vanity that was!
As if having younger, dewier skin and lithe legs would have kept the betrothals from being broken.
Now I’ll be lucky if I can make it to my Moontide cottage without having my body decay into that of a living skeleton.
If only it was simply the collection of age signs on my skin again.
“This does seem patently unfair, given that women must bear too many other silent torments,” I mutter under my breath.
“Powers manifesting, our monthly courses, the attention and avoidance of men—and women. The horrors of quickening and pregnancy and birth, and then on top of it all, the weathering of one’s beauty and body like the sea upon a rocky cliff.
Until eventually, our usefulness to everyone else is all worn away and we are but an inconvenience to be acknowledged. ”
Renard’s hand stills against the whetstone. Not for long—barely a heartbeat, really, but I notice. Of course I notice. I cannot stop noticing everything about him at the moment, which is deeply unfortunate for my peace of mind.
“It started with the fortune teller,” I say awkwardly. “From my sister’s bloomday feast. She’s the one who made the prophecy. I’d only heard occasional whispers about the Blight Mother before then. There weren’t even books or writings in the library, save for one.”
I pull the apprentice’s diary from my pack and hold it up to Renard to see.
His eyes flick briefly toward the small, black book before being drawn to the growths on my head.
I feel my cheeks heat with embarrassment, and wish I could pull my braid up to cover my antlers without seeming so obvious.
Renard’s attention returns to the sword in his hands, though not quickly enough to hide the conflict there.
“What did it say?” he asks.
“The Blight Mother is barely mentioned, and even then, it’s a cryptic recounting of an encounter with an older seer.
This is why it’s so important for me to find the one from the feast, because she must have more to tell me.
This cannot be all there is,” I say, shoving the book back into my pack.
Perhaps there will be a way to appease the goddess—to stop this transformation.
Perhaps an offering needs to be made, or a temple rebuilt.
There cannot be one doomed path forward.
Renard’s silence overflows with things unsaid. Questions, accusations, condemnations… I’ve heard them all before. It’s only a matter of time before he voices them.
Instead, he offers me a tight smile. “You should get some rest.”
“Ha! I should be sealed in a temple vault beneath impenetrable magical wards, and perhaps a very heavy rock,” I bite out. As soon as I say it, I wish to reel the words back in—they feel frighteningly vulnerable in this moment.
The blizzard picking up speed hisses distantly outside the cave entrance.
The storm has thickened since dusk, whiting out the world beyond into shifting layers of silver, black, and blue.
Pine branches bow heavily under the weight of it, and every so often wind sends glittering powder swirling through the opening before the fire’s warmth melts it into droplets on the stone floor.
Renard sets his sword aside at long last. With practiced efficiency, he wraps his whetstone in a small cloth and tucks it into his pack.
“So, your fortune teller truly is a seer,” he says.
“Given what I’ve read, and what appears to be happening to me, I’d say that is likely.”
“How badly do they hurt?”
The question catches me off guard, and I blink at him for a moment before I understand what he’s referring to.
“The antlers?”
“Yes.”
I hesitate, partly because the truthful answer sounds dramatic and absurd, and I don’t want to sound like a feckless youth who cannot manage her thoughts and feelings. Honesty, however, is usually the best policy.
“It feels,” I say slowly, “rather like someone is driving wedges through my skull with a carpenter’s mallet.”
His eyebrows lift, pulling at the larger scar on the side of his face. His mouth tightens.
“Is it truly that bad?”
I huff a sardonic laugh, nearly choking on how bitter it sounds—how bitter it tastes. Desperation and despair are clawing at me from within, like frightened animals bashing against the bars of their cages.