15. Renard
Renard
Now that I have the chance to tell Vireth about everything that’s been plaguing me for the last couple of weeks, I can scarcely conjure the words to do so.
Simply tell her, Renard. Tell her the truth.
Tell her everything. Was I not just berating her—like a fool—for electing to keep some of her past with me?
And did she not have a very simple, rational, heartbreaking reason for doing so?
My guts sour the more I reflect on my own untruths.
What is my excuse for hiding things from her? Because I am a coward. Because I cannot bear the possibility that she will look on me with anger, or worse—disappointment. It’s hardly the same thing. What if I tell her all and she leaves? My pulse begins to race, and I start to feel lightheaded.
Worse—what if she doesn’t?
Despair and fatigue make my joints ache, even as my injuries are all but healed thanks to her dedicated nursing and, I suspect, something to do with her magical gifts. Even more of a reason for me to be honest with her.
With the perch skewered and smoking high above the flames, and the rabbit stew bubbling away, there’s little for me to do with my hands to soothe my nerves. Out of habit, I pull out my whetstone to sharpen my sword, comforted somewhat by the low metallic scrape of stone against metal.
“We have known each other since we were children,” I begin, fearing if I don’t, I shall lose my nerve.
“Were you both born to privilege?” she asks.
I nod, but do not explain further. That is a tale for another day.
“The first time I met him, I remember being disappointed. I’d heard so many things about him, you see, I expected him to be ten feet tall, or bear some mark of gods-favor. Everyone at court adored him.”
Vireth’s smirk sets my heart racing.
“That sounds like childhood jealousy to me,” she chuckles.
“Aye, it certainly was—at first. I was a young lad then, maybe seven or eight years old. He was two years younger than me, but sharp as a needle and cunning.”
“Cunning? At six?”
The fire shifts suddenly, sending up a bloom of sparks into the purple twilight sky. Vireth repositions the kettle to keep the embers from falling into the stew.
“There was a stableboy—Bertram, I think his name was. A good lad, but ran with a hot temper at times. One afternoon, I came down to the yard and found him trouncing one of the kitchen boys, Owen—pummeling him over and over with his young fists. Gave the kitchen boy two black eyes, a bloody nose, and knocked out two of his teeth. Off to the side, Arden was—watching the whole thing with a strange, peaceful expression on his face. ‘What’s this all about?’ I’d asked him when the stable master finally broke up the tussle.
‘I told Bertram that Owen had been stealing from him,’ he says to me.
‘What did he steal?’ I asked. Then he looked at me, grinning, and says, ‘Nothing.’”
“Why would he lie?” Vireth gasps.
“As he explained, ‘To see if he would believe me.’”
Vireth’s eyes widen, and she leans forward to stir the stew.
“Still,” she says. “The folly of youth…”
I shake my head. “He was six then. As he got older, it was much more of the same. A servant dismissed after taking blame for a broken chalice Arden destroyed himself. Household staff beaten for stealing things that always wound up in Arden’s pockets.
Beheaded songbirds tucked in the maids’ beds.
Always with the same sort of detached curiosity—how would people react? What could he get away with?”
“Did he not get into trouble? I wasn’t the most obedient child, either, but enough punishments eventually wore me down.”
“A few times, he did. It taught him how to lie to avoid trouble, and then later, to avoid notice.” I cannot stem the bitterness that flows into my voice, remembering each of the times I suffered punishments for misdeeds he wrought.
“What happened when he grew older?” Vireth asks as she tastes the stew she’s been fiddling with.
She hums softly, then adds in another pinch of salt from the waning supply in her pack.
Suddenly, I’m struck with an unbidden sense of longing—this quiet, domestic scene is far from the comfort of my farm, but somehow, leagues more satisfying.
It takes me several moments to recover my wits enough to remember her question.
“Arden's intelligence made him valuable. Perhaps others saw him as I did—a man to fear—but people also will tolerate a great many flaws in useful men. More than they should.”
Nibblebones emerges from somewhere underneath Vireth, carrying a disturbingly large dead spider in her jaws. I try not to flinch as memories of the bogunder surface, but my leg begins to throb with phantom pain anew.
“He was meant for the temple,” I continue.
“He showed such intelligence and promise in his lessons, everyone though he would be destined to be a powerful mage. As you know, humans don’t possess natural magic, but can perform basic spells with years of studying the arcane arts.
Our mages aren’t quite so powerful as yours, I’d wager, but they have a spartan, devotional life carved out for them.
The priests expected him to become one of the most gifted mages of his generation.
He had the ability. The intelligence. The discipline when he chose to apply it.
The priests practically tripped over themselves trying to recruit him. ”
Vireth dips a spoon into the stew and raises it to her lips, and I fight to ignore the jolt of pleasure watching her lips, her tongue, and the small expressions of satisfaction and pleasure dance across her face.
“I take it all did not go according to plan…” she says, snapping me back to my story.
I scratch absently at my beard. “The Temple requires sacrifice, you see. I’m not certain how it works with fae mages, but for humans it is a life of service—a willingness to surrender certain… comforts in exchange for power and knowledge gifted from the gods.”
I watch as understanding dawns on Vireth’s face.
“Oh!” she exclaims. “Oh.”
“Aye,” I say with a chuckle, and she bursts out laughing.
The sound echoes faintly throughout our little clearing, lodging itself permanently in my ribcage.
“He refused because he wasn't allowed to… to… indulge himself?”
“That is a very delicate way of putting it, but I suppose. More or less.”
“Well, that may be the most human story I've ever heard,” she says, dishing up two bowls of piping hot stew. “Your childhood enemy ruled by his mortal appetites and not his fate. If he’d grown up in Hollowmire, he wouldn’t have had the choice—especially if he was born to privilege.
Paths are carved in stone for most aristocratic younglings. ”
“And what of yours?”
She smiles, but it fades before any real warmth can appear within.
“Apparently, stone is susceptible to rot,” she answers.
Since learning she harbors the Blight Mother within her—a fact I have struggled to contend with since Morsell—I have been at war with myself about what that means.
For the last several days, I’ve been trying to contend with the fact that I’d rather cut out my own heart than spill Vireth’s blood, and yet, Ursula gave me no other wisdom as to how this famine in Valehar might be undone.
Even worse, if Vireth eventually transforms into the Blight Mother and begins to lay waste to the world around us, whether she means to or not, I may be forced into action to keep her from destroying everything, including herself.
The tumult has given me a sore head and a sour gut the entire way out of Morsell.
I have given much to Valehar, to my duty, to my people, and have not asked for much beyond what was mine by right.
The thought that I might have to give up the one thing that has restored my heart to a sense of wanting since my late wife and sons died might be the first price I cannot bring myself to pay.
“If Arden did not join the temple and become a mage, how did he end up as the regent of Valehar?” she asks.
Anger and resentment threaten to make me choke on my dinner. It takes great effort for me to swallow, and once I do, long moments before I’m able to reply.
“He began to study for it, but before he made his final vows, he found a young woman of noble birth and married her instead. In doing so, he left to take over her inherited manor and lands, brokered a seat on the council, and wormed his way through court as something of an advisor. His young wife did not live for more than a year after they wed. There were rumors, of course—a tragic accident followed by an untimely illness—but no investigation ever followed. By then, Arden had entrenched himself firmly at court and had more allegiances—I dare not say allies or friends—who found it beneficial to keep him in power.”
Vireth offers her nearly empty bowl to Nibblebones, who utters a delighted trill and begins to lick it clean. Idly, I rub my fingers across the bronze cloak pin I’ve kept in my pocket, ashamed to admit I’m envious of the bond they share.
Or perhaps ’tis I who wishes to lay in Vireth’s lap and lick food from her fingers—among other things.
“You think he murdered his wife?” she asks, surprised. “After refusing the temple because of his carnal needs—he simply does away with the one who would attend them?”
I run a hand across the back of my neck, uncomfortable discussing this—yet another failing to add to my tally.
“Arden never kept a lover for very long,” I say slowly. “Many of the women were sent to him as gifts or arrangements. Precious few of them went willingly. He always had somewhat… unique appetites, if the court gossip is to be believed.”
Her eyes cut to mine, and I deserve every bit of the censure there.
“Did no one try to stop him?” she asks.
My face burns hot with shame. “There were a few that may have made it out—stolen away in the night by those who could not bear to hear the screams any longer. Still more who never did.”
“You?”
I nod.
“Better some than none, I suppose.”