Chapter Four Ayleth
Chapter Four
Ayleth
Though we’re just hours from the White Palace, the Dwarvian village seems an entire world away from court.
Dwarves mill about the quaint, thatched-roof homes, completing their chores or visiting the merchant stalls set up in the square, where the smells of roasting meat and fresh bread hang heavy in the air.
I slow my pace as we pass a display of wares—an enchanted wooden bird that flaps its wings lifts off the table.
A dagger engraved with Dwarvian runes. Like everything the Dwarves create, the craftsmanship is impeccable.
Even the eaves of their homes are decorated with carvings of screaming hawks, bears’ heads, or dragon-like creatures.
Stained-glass windows shine in the sunlight.
Details as small as door hinges are works of art.
Where so much of Riven is riddled with blight or disease, it’s refreshing to see a place that is alive and thriving—yet further proof that Malum is selective in what, and who, it targets.
“Roland!” another Dwarf calls, drawing our attention to where a few Dwarvian men are standing together near a market stall and drinking what I assume is ale. “Come and join us?”
“Aye,” another shouts, raising his tankard. “Sam here says he can best you at Castles.”
“Not now,” Roland calls back. “Got business with the queen.”
I wave at them and their mouths flop open. Frothy ale spills over the rim of their glasses as they scramble to snatch their hats off their heads and bow.
“You’re certainly popular,” I remark, nodding in the direction of the group.
He grunts. “Well, don’t sound so surprised about it.”
Surprised is an understatement.
“Shouldn’t I be? Even you have to admit that you don’t seem to like people. Now I learn you have a sweetheart and a whole village of friends.”
“It’s not my village,” he replies. “Tilda told you—we have our own cottage farther out. Where it’s nice and quiet. Because I don’t like people.”
“Well, they certainly seem fond of you,” I comment, gesturing in the direction of the Dwarvian men, who are still watching our progress.
“Aye, well. Things changed once I started wearing this.” He taps the pin on his jacket. The tiny gems embedded in the crown sparkle.
“It’s more than that, I think. You’re not nearly this pleasant at court.”
The few times he’s deigned to visit.
“That’s because everyone at court is an idiot,” he says. I deal him a look. “Present company excluded. Mostly. It’s different among my own people. They know me.”
The real him.
I used to understand what that was like.
A short distance away, a few Dwarvian children are splashing in a fountain, colored water spewing from the mouths of magical sea creatures.
Their laughter reminds me of when Eden and I ran wild through Stonehaven.
My chest aches at the memory. At the sight of the Dwarves tending their gardens or hanging their laundry, just as I used to do at Stonehaven.
Despite everything, sometimes I miss the sisterhood of the coven.
The warmth of the Great Hall and the sound of conversation and music after dinner.
The nights Mother, Rhea, and I would spend curled together in her room, when she’d recount stories about her own time as a witchling.
You’re my heart, her words echo in the depths of my memory.
“So,” I say, forcing myself into the present, “are you going to explain why you called me here?”
“Didn’t you read my note?” he asks. “Something you need to see.”
“And that’s all I get?”
“Just…wait until we get to the Mine,” he says, lowering his voice. “Been trying to keep it quiet for now.”
“Quiet?” I repeat. “Is it—”
The patter of hurried feet interrupts me. A young female Dwarf careens in my direction. She spots me at the last second and stumbles as she attempts to veer out of my way.
“Careful!” I say, catching her before she falls.
“Rosemary!” Another Dwarf, who I assume to be the girl’s mother, rushes up to us. “I warned you not to run. My apologies, Your Majesty.”
“Not at all.” I let go of Rosemary. “Are you hurt?”
She just gawps at me. “Are you really the queen?”
I balk at the question. After I took the throne, I wondered whether the Dwarves would sense what I am.
It certainly didn’t take Roland long to figure out my secret when I served Queen Sybil.
But, as with the mortals, my shadows seem to be shielding me from the Dwarves’ scrutiny.
Either that, or the Dwarves simply don’t care enough to discover the truth.
Still, Rosemary’s words are too close to the message scrawled on the Sanctum:
The true queen.
“ ’Course she’s the queen,” Roland chimes in. “You see that crown, don’t you? What else would she be?”
What else indeed? that old voice hounds me.
“Please, don’t take offense, Majesty,” Rosemary’s mother supplies. “Such a mind on this one. Asks me a thousand questions a day.”
“That’s all right,” I say, bending so that I’m at Rosemary’s level. “I am the queen. And that means I can name you one of my official ambassadors. Here. You can even have this.”
I remove a ring from my finger and hand it to her. Rosemary snatches it up, examining the way the jewel glitters in the sunlight.
“If I’m your ambassador,” she starts, thoughtful, “does that mean everyone has to do what I say?”
“I…suppose it does.”
Rosemary grins, mischievous, and then darts away into the village, already bellowing orders. I laugh, shaking my head at her.
“I’m sorry,” I say to her mother. “I might have created a mess.”
“Not at all, Majesty,” she replies. “It’s good to see her smile again.”
“Again?”
The Dwarvian woman presses her lips together.
“Rosemary’s father, my husband, passed away a few years back,” she begins. “He was caught in the forest, hunting where he shouldn’t have been. They captured him and returned him to the palace for a bounty. The court sentenced him to service in the Northern Mines.”
She doesn’t need to explain what must have happened after that.
As a witchling, I didn’t learn much about the Guilds.
In fact, the Dwarves were vilified in my history lessons, painted as having abandoned the witches.
Leaving them to suffer under the king’s edict while the Dwarves themselves lived in relative safety.
But, like most of my early teachings, those stories were carefully tailored to suit the covens’ narrative.
Through Roland, I learned that the White King issued a separate edict for the Dwarves, one that bound their Guilds to the service of the Crown and levied steep punishments against all who defied it.
“I’m so sorry,” I say to the Dwarvian woman, meaning it.
“You don’t have anything to apologize for, Majesty,” she assures me. “Quite the opposite, what with all you’ve done. Returning our villages. Removing our Guild Marks. You’ll have our gratitude for that, always.”
I smile at her. Whatever I did for the Dwarves isn’t enough to make up for what they endured under the Crown, but it’s a start. A new beginning—for all of us. Malum rumbles behind my sternum.
“Right, then,” Roland says. “We really do need to be going.”
The woman bobs a last curtsy, then heads toward Rosemary, who has a gaggle of younger Dwarves clustered around her as she shows off her gift.
Are you the real queen? The young Dwarf’s question resurfaces in my mind, along with the message at the Sanctum.
“Roland,” I ask as we walk, “have you seen any Followers around here?”
“Followers?” He arches an eyebrow. “Oh aye. They come ’round for dinner.”
I sigh, exasperated. “Do you find yourself amusing?”
“Most of the time,” he replies with a shrug. “And ’course we haven’t seen that lot. Why?”
“My steward believes that they may be responsible for some recent disturbances,” I explain. “That they’re rallying around someone they claim is Meira.”
“Bah.” He waves the idea away. “I wouldn’t pay any mind to the mortals and their superstitions. One year, I heard of a group of them worshipping a moldy loaf of bread.”
He’s likely right. The people of Riven are nothing if not fickle and susceptible.
And Meira never actually existed to begin with.
Still, that same prickling feeling from the carriage tingles at the nape of my neck.
Another crow calls and I glance up to find five of them sitting on the tree branches above me:
A warning.
—
Roland leads me the rest of the way through the village and into the forest. The entrance to the Mine soon looms ahead of us, marked by two stone Dwarves rising out of the craggy mountainside.
Each statue holds a lit torch, the firelight gleaming against their gilded armor.
Roland fishes his ring of keys from his belt and jams one into the stone between the sculptures.
Rock crunches as doors begin to carve themselves into the mountain, each engraved with twin images of kneeling Dwarves.
The handles are fashioned as golden pickaxes.
Roland motions for me to follow as he pushes his way inside, the hinges groaning as the huge door opens.
Given that the Mine is housed within a mountain, I expect the air to be dank and close, but it smells of earth and cool water and a hint of pine.
The ceiling arches high above my head, beams carved to resemble roaring mythical beasts—griffins and dragons and others I don’t recognize.
Rows of torches are held by bronze sconces sculpted as Dwarvian hands.
Their light flickers over sweeping murals depicting what I assume to be Dwarvian history: Lines of Dwarves headed into a Mine.
Another Dwarf, a woman, sitting on a throne-like chair, the pin marking her as Head of the Guilds affixed to her chest.
Roland turns us down another tunnel. Several other Dwarves pass by, pushing carts laden with glittering minerals or various types of stone. Two Dwarves nod at Roland as they steer an entire rack of gleaming, freshly honed swords into another chamber.