11. Renard
Renard
Morning does not dawn gradually for us, rather, it crashes in suddenly with the blinding white of bright sunlight reflected in the snow outside the cave entrance. The moment the sun crests the trees, shafts of frozen light spear our bedraggled camp, banishing much of the darkness.
My joints ache from the night on the hard-packed ground and my injuries, while healing, still offer a taste of discomfort.
Gingerly, I rub at my shoulder and stretch it a bit, biting back a groan from the stiffness.
I stretch my leg out next, again mystified by how quickly and cleanly the wound seems to be recovering.
I’m at least able to tend to my bandages by myself now—a blessing, since I’d rather not be so close to Vireth’s warmth in the softness of the morning.
Once again, dreams tormented my sleep—the pale, faceless woman, the rot, the crown of antlers.
It’s all the more unsettling now that Vireth’s revealed herself to me.
Were my earlier dreams a premonition? Were they a vision from the gods?
Or is there a hidden part of me that simply longs for such things to pass?
In the harsh blue-white light of day, the cave appears much more grotesque and yet, much less ominous than yesterday evening.
It smells of wet stone, smoke, old blood, the putrefying carcass of the wyreboar, and the sharp cold left behind by heavy snow.
We were warm enough throughout the night, though, so upon reflection, I suppose I have slept in worse places.
And yet… none of those places contained the Blight Mother.
Across the cave, Vireth lies curled beneath her cloak with Nibblebones wedged against her side.
Soft snoring emanates from their direction and I can’t be certain who’s making the sound.
It’s adorable, either way, and the thought twists a dour grimace upon my face.
I should not think such things of the embodiment of ancient decay.
One of Vireth’s hands rests close to her sword even in sleep. Given how well she fights, I suspect she could wake from a dead sleep and stab a man fatally before opening both eyes. The mental image excites something primal in my blood, frustrating me even more than the soft purr of snoring.
Her antlers catch the morning sunlight whenever she shifts.
They seem smaller now than they were during her frightening transformation, but I’m not sure if that’s down to the otherworldly lighting from the mushrooms and fire, or if it’s from the stress of last night’s events.
Four bone-white points curve upward through her hair close to the skull, nearly hidden by the loosened tangles.
The sunrise turns the edges of them bronze, giving them less of an air of horror and more of something from a children’s storybook.
I almost wish they were larger. Great branching antlers might have made the whole thing easier to place at a distance.
Then she could simply be some mythic horror, or old story come stalking out from the towering trees.
It would be easier to see her as the monster that needs to be sacrificed in order to return the soil to its previous fertility.
These, however, look painful—uncomfortable, and unwanted. A crown of great, inherited power that she wants nothing to do with.
I can’t help but think of the blood running down the side of her face when they forced their way through skin, and the way she begged me not to look at her.
‘Twas not the fear of the skeletons lifting up from the soil, nor the inadvertent summoning of wolves, nor even the summoning of wolves, nor even the wyreboar rotting through that has lodged stubbornly in my chest, like a beautiful weed that will not be uprooted. Vireth has always looked otherworldly to me, but with these uncomfortable-looking growths, it strikes me that she’s never seemed more… human.
Something in my heart cracked when I watched her expect disgust from me after revealing her magic and then, the prophecy.
She certainly expected me to flinch away from her, or perhaps flee into the woods in terror, almost like when one expects rain from a black sky or fever from a wound left untended.
Arden’s voice intrudes, unbidden. Kill the Blight Mother and break the curse. Save your people.
When I first crossed into Hollowmire, the charge seemed grim but simple.
A knight’s—a former knight’s—duty, stripped of ceremony, motivated by an almost divine purpose.
This is what I was made for. This is what I was trained for.
This is my duty to enact, and once done, I will be a hero once more.
It was the kind of errand men dress up as necessity when they want to sleep at night afterward.
The prettiest obligation, in the simplest terms.
Yet, there is nothing simple about it now.
Not when she lies a few paces away, exhausted and half-frozen, with smears of mud and blood and tear tracks still drying on her face.
Not when I can’t forget—despite trying my damnedest—the instant my hand brushed her cheek…
the softness, the tenderness, the way her breath caught.
Not when it took every fiber of my formidable strength to pull back from her instead of closing the distance and taking her lips in righteous conquest.
I should tell her.
The urge has stalked me all night, pacing at the edges of my mind like the wolves pacing outside.
Every time I look toward her, shame creeps up my throat—dishonorable fool that I am.
I came to Hollowmire because the regent of my kingdom believed killing the Blight Mother would end the famine.
There. The words are not difficult. Saying them aloud, however, would be another matter.
I can too easily imagine her expression afterward.
Of course, it wouldn’t be any kind of a surprise, I’m sure.
Vireth is much too smart for that. It would probably be that small, tired downturn of her lips—the one I have already seen when she believes someone has confirmed the worst of her expectations.
The same way she looked at me when, in a moment of instinct, I reached for my sword last night.
She was right last night. We need to find the seer, and hopefully, a curse breaker. Perhaps there truly is another way to end the famine without spilling any more blood. If there isn’t, I’m not certain I possess the strength to do what will need to be done.
Outside, the blizzard has passed over us, the day dawning into a bluebird morning with sun sparkling cheerfully on the thick blanket of snow.
The frigid temperatures sink in with less bitterness than before.
Every now and then, clumps of snow drop down from the pine trees in soft plops, but otherwise, the mountain is bathed in the kind of quiet that can only follow snow.
Vireth shifts restlessly under her cloak—from the cold, I suspect.
It’s not enough to wake her, but enough to keep drawing her tighter around herself.
I sit still for a while, telling myself she is fae and likely better suited to this cursed mountain weather than I am, but then she makes a small unhappy sound in her sleep, and all my practical reasoning abandons me.
I swear under my breath and remove my cloak.
The cave floor is uneven beneath my boots as I cross to her. Loose grit shifts softly underfoot, crunching despite my attempts at stealth. Nibblebones opens one black eye as I approach, sees the cloak, and burrows deeper against Vireth’s warmth. Lucky creature.
The moment the wool settles over Vireth’s shoulders, her eyes snap open and the dagger she carries at her hip flashes upward defensively.
I only just manage to keep all my fingers intact.
She’s frozen in time for a beat too long, but a fetching pink blush stains her cheeks as she seems to grasp her surroundings and lowers her weapon.
She thrusts her chin at the cloak in my hands.
“You know,” she says, voice rough with sleep, “you probably need that more than I do, Farmer Knight.”
Humor loosens something in me before I can guard against it.
“Were you aware that you snore?” I tease.
“I never!” She insists, her soft lips dropping open in mock outrage.
“Alas, Lady Fae, ’tis true. I’m fairly certain it was you and not Mistress Bones. What a racket it was—echoing off the back of the cave like another earthen tremor. I was worried for a moment there might be another wyreboar back there.”
“Worried because I was asleep and wouldn’t be able to protect you?” she shoots back.
A laugh escapes me before I can stop it. Her mouth almost softens in return, but she catches herself and tugs the cloak tighter. Nibblebones chirps irritably beneath the blankets as if we are disturbing her very important rest.
“I’ve half a loaf of stale bread left,” I tell her. “And three strips of dried fish. What supplies do you have left, and how much farther until the village and we can replenish our food stores? If it’s longer than a day, I can go out and set some snares for game.”
“Gods, how long have you been awake that you’re so concerned about your stomach?”
“Haven’t you heard? An army marches on its stomach. Food is the third most important consideration when you’re out on campaign.”
“I’d ask what the first two are, but I’m afraid to hear the answer,” she says with a throaty chuckle. The sound sends a rush of blood to my groin. I shift as discreetly as possible and turn away.
“Clean water,” I bite out. “And morale. Following those, shelter in foul weather.”
She makes a thoughtful noise.