Chapter Fifty-One Blodwyn
Chapter Fifty-One
Blodwyn
Over the next day, I begin to improve.
My cuts and bruises are healing nicely and my limbs no longer complain at every movement.
Soon, I’m feeling well enough that I’m restless and venture outside.
My attention tracks to the north and I picture the palace rising over the forest. What’s happening there now?
Did Ayleth capture the witches? Has Gavin returned?
Perhaps, with me gone, he never left. Maybe they even reinstated the trials and he’s been named Heir.
The thought doesn’t make me as angry as it probably should.
After all, maybe Gavin ought to be crowned.
He’s not the one being chased by a dead princess.
Even in my sleep, I see her skeletal hands reaching for me from the darkness. Her croaking voice haunting me:
Blodwyn, pay the price.
How long before she follows me here?
“Stop that!” Roland’s voice carries across the yard.
He’s near the goats’ stable, fussing at Barnabas, who is currently munching on the pile of hay. Roland tries to shoo the enormous creature off, but Barnabas just grunts and keeps eating.
“Think you can do something about this overgrown cow of yours?” he calls to me.
Barnabas twitches his tail and snorts as though offended.
Honestly, I’m surprised he’s still here.
I fully expected that the stag would have returned to the forest by now, but he’s remained close to the cottage.
More than once, he’s scared Roland out of his wits by trying to stick his massive head through one of the open windows.
Barnabas wiggles his ears in what I take to be a greeting at my approach, pieces of hay falling out of his mouth as he chews.
“Can’t you leave some of it for the others?” I ask, patting his neck.
The stag reluctantly trots off in the other direction and sets to annoying the chickens.
“Why can’t you have a normal pet?” Roland asks. “One of those little dogs or something I’ve seen running around the palace?”
“Barnabas isn’t my pet.”
“Oh aye. That’s why you have a name for him. And I’m sure he has some other reason for rescuing you from certain peril.”
Roland has a point—about the rescue, anyway.
“Have you ever heard of an animal doing something like that before?” I ask, watching the stag. “He helped me at one of the trials as well. Fought off a Nevenwolf.”
“Must be mad,” Roland says, tending to one of the goats. I scowl at him. “Or he saw something in you worth saving.”
I’d like to know what that might be.
“Right, then,” Roland says, dusting off his trousers. “Tilda and I are meeting with the Guild leaders. We’ll leave tomorrow and shouldn’t be gone more than a couple of days. Think you’ll be all right here on your own?”
I’m not sure I’ve actually ever been on my own before and the idea is as foreign as it is terrifying. But, even alone, I’d rather be here than at the palace.
“I’m sure I’ll manage,” I say, feigning confidence. “What do you think will happen at the meeting?”
“Don’t know,” he says, scrubbing the back of his neck. “But I doubt it’ll be pleasant.”
One of the goats wanders over and nudges his head against my leg. I scratch between his horns, earning a bleat of appreciation.
“Why?” I ask. “Are you worried they’ll be angry that you’ve been lying for Ayleth?”
I may be grateful for Roland’s—albeit reluctant—hospitality, but that doesn’t mean I’ve forgiven him.
He narrows his eyes at me. “Don’t you start. I’ve explained my reasons. You can take them or leave them. And I’m not the only one guilty of keeping secrets, now, am I?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” he says, tapping his chin. “Maybe like when a certain someone showed up at the palace and declared the trials without warning. Think we Dwarves appreciated that?”
My brow furrows. “What did the trials have to do with you?”
“And there’s the problem, isn’t it?” He points at me. “You want to rule this realm, but you have no idea of the lives of those living in it.”
He sounds like Gavin, and I bristle. “That’s not my fault. I’m not the one who levied the edict against the Dwarves. I wouldn’t do anything like that.”
“Maybe not,” Roland allows. “But what would you do?”
The question presses on a tender place. The throne was always more Aunt Margaret’s quest than mine.
I never imagined my life beyond the trials.
Never really believed I was capable of leading Riven.
How could I be, when I wasn’t even able to see the betrayal that was right in front of my face? From the people I trusted most?
“Aye,” Roland says, reading my silence. “Well, it seems like you’d best figure that out.”
With that, he heads back to the cottage.
A crow calls somewhere in the distance and the wind picks up. Beneath the susurration of dry leaves, I swear that I can hear the sinister voice of the lost princess:
Blodwyn, pay the price.
—
Tilda and Roland prepare to leave the next morning. Roland blusters around the cottage, rattling off endless lists of instructions—items I’m absolutely not permitted to touch, how to take care of the chickens and goats, and what to watch out for in the forest.
“And under no circumstances is your pet cow allowed in the house,” he adds.
“Barnabas?” I ask. “He can’t even fit through the door.”
Roland grunts. “I wouldn’t put it past you to try. We’ll come back to him sleeping all nice and cozy-like in our bed.”
I roll my eyes, half tempted to find a way to squeeze Barnabas in here out of spite. Tilda pats my arm.
“Don’t mind him,” she says kindly. “He’s just worried about you.”
“He has a strange way of showing it,” I mutter.
But then I catch Roland testing the lock on the door a few times.
“I’m sorry we can’t bring you along,” Tilda says. “But you’ll be safest here. I’ve left plenty to tide you over. There’s a stew in the pot. And several loaves of bread in the cupboards. A pie. And don’t forget the cheese.”
It’s more food than I could ever manage to eat and I nod, trying to disguise my own nerves. “I’m sure I’ll be fine.”
“Right, then,” Roland says. “We’d best be off. Just remember: Keep to the cottage as much as possible. Don’t go wandering around. And don’t tell anyone who you are.”
“And here I was planning on making a formal announcement,” I say dryly.
Roland just scowls at me, but Tilda smiles.
“You two are better suited than you think,” she says. “But he’s right. Be careful. We’ll be back as soon as we can.”
“Aye,” Roland agrees. “And I expect to find my house in one piece when we do.”
With that, Roland straightens his jacket and leaves the cottage. Tilda gives me a quick embrace, then hurries after him. I watch them go through the window. As they disappear into the forest, I get the strangest feeling—like something is coming.
But then the moment is gone.
—
For the rest of the morning, I keep myself busy with feeding the livestock and taking care of the cottage.
But no matter how much I work, I can’t settle my nerves, which only worsen when the shadows of evening start to lengthen.
As Roland instructed, I bolt myself inside the cottage, watching the forest darken and half expecting the creature to materialize from between the trees.
A crow calls overhead, its shadow swooping over the yard.
Other shadows start to shimmer as well. Far in the distance, I can almost detect the glimmer of a pair of crimson eyes.
“Hello?” someone calls.
My pulse ratchets up. I dart out of view, keeping close to the wall to peer outside. A figure traipses out from the forest. Not a shadow creature or the lost princess, but a person. Roland told me that no one else lived around here, though.
“Is anyone in there?” the person calls.
And it’s then that I realize their voice sounds familiar. As they approach the cottage, their features sharpen into focus: It’s a young woman, about my height with black hair and tawny skin. Is that—
“Verity?”
Surprise and relief rush through me. I burst out of the cottage and hurry across the yard to meet her. She grins at me and drops her bag. Throws her arms around me.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, returning the embrace.
“I could ask you the same thing,” she remarks. “I thought you were dead!”
“I almost was,” I tell her as she lets me go. “But how did you find me?”
“Sheer luck, I suppose,” she says, shrugging. “I’ve been searching for days. And on foot. I didn’t even have time to steal a horse.”
She gestures to herself—the travel-worn gown and the leaves sticking out from her hair. A bolt of panic spikes in my chest. If Verity could find me, who else can?
“Does anyone else know you’ve gone?”
“Of course not,” she says. “Just me. Is that…the stag?”
She catches sight of him near the stable, where he’d been grazing on the goats’ straw again. He spots Verity and snorts, then paws at the ground. Tosses his head back and lets out a low keen. The crow caws overhead, making my skin prickle.
“It’s a long story,” I tell her. “Come on.”
I lead her into the house. Verity flops down at the table as I close the door and slide the bolt back into place. Then I shut all the windows and shutters for good measure.
“Are you all right?” Verity asks.
“Just being safe,” I say. “What about you? What’s happening at the palace?”
“Everyone is talking about you, if that’s what you mean,” she replies. “Some are saying that you were ill again, but I knew that couldn’t be true. Hang on. I have something…”
She rummages through her bag. An apple rolls out. I pick it up before it falls, admiring the bright ruby skin. It shines so much that I can almost see my own reflection inside it. There’s something strange about it, though. Something I can’t quite place.
“Where did you get this?” I ask.
“Kitchens,” she says. “I filched as much as I could fit in the bag. Have it if you like.”
“There’s no need,” I gesture to the hearth. “Tilda left enough food to satisfy an army.”
And with little else to do, I’d been picking at it all day.
Still, a sudden, overwhelming wave of hunger overtakes me.
I do want the apple. Desperately. My stomach growls and my mouth waters.
I take a bite, tart juice bursting over my tongue.
It’s delicious, crisp and clean and impossibly sweet.
But there’s something else. A sourness buried deep in the flesh.
“This came from the palace kitchens?” I ask.
“That’s right.” Verity nods. “Have another bite. Don’t let it go to waste.”
But the apple is suddenly heavy in my grip, its lingering taste in my mouth like copper. From outside, I hear the long keening of the stag.
Alarm bells clang in my mind. Something isn’t right. I drop the apple and make for the door. But as soon as I take a step, the cottage swims. My knees meet the floor. Panic grips me and I resort to crawling, a single word looping in my brain: Away, away.
“Don’t fight, Princess,” Verity croons. But her voice is suddenly not Verity’s at all. It’s croaking and wrong. “It will all be over soon.”
“Who are—” I start, but my tongue feels too thick to continue.
Black spots burst before my eyes and bleed outward. Verity’s face appears above me, then starts to shift. Her skin wrinkles and withers, black hair turning white and wispy. She smiles, her teeth jagged and broken.
“And now,” she rasps, “the price will finally be paid.”