Chapter Forty-Seven Blodwyn
Chapter Forty-Seven
Blodwyn
I’m woken by the smell of spices and meat.
Hazy details sharpen into focus as my eyelids struggle to open. Is this my chamber? It doesn’t feel right. I groan and roll over onto my side, then immediately regret the action as every muscle in my body screams.
“So you didn’t die, then,” someone says. “Tilda! She’s awake.”
Vaguely, I register a hearth on the other side of the room, where a man is poking at the fire.
He turns toward me and his gemstone-colored eyes glimmer.
A Dwarf, I realize. Adrenaline surges through me.
The Dwarvian Guilds work for Ayleth, don’t they?
I start to kick my way out of the bedclothes, but my limbs immediately—and loudly—protest.
“Oh, thank goodness!” A Dwarvian woman hurries over to my bed. “Careful, now. Don’t do too much. You were in quite a state.”
It’s then that I notice the faint taste of blood in my mouth and the bruises on my hands and forearms. Memories of my mad flight from the palace begin flooding back to me: Flashes of angry guards and Aunt Margaret. The shadow creature with the crimson eyes.
“Where am I?” My voice is rough against my throat. “How did I get here?”
“You’re about a day’s journey from the White City,” the Dwarf I take to be Tilda replies. “As to how you got here, well…”
“Your pet deer brought you,” the other Dwarf says over his shoulder, stirring whatever is simmering in a kettle slung over the fire.
“Deer?”
“It was a stag,” Tilda corrects with an exasperated sigh.
Barnabas. Another memory surges up. The stag smashing down the stall door. Kneeling so that I could climb onto its back.
“Call him whatever you want, I suppose,” the Dwarvian man replies with a shrug. “He’s your pet. Damn thing brought you right to my door. How’d you train it to do that?”
“I didn’t,” I say, still confused.
Because how on earth had I managed to climb back onto Barnabas after I fell from the tree, much less remain there all the way through the forest?
And what happened to the shadow creature?
Snatches of the night resurface—branches clawing at me.
Eyes watching me from between the trees.
Even the memory causes my blood to chill.
“I’m just relieved that you survived,” Tilda goes on, tucking the bedclothes around me. “You gave us quite a fright, didn’t she?”
The man just grunts.
“How long was I asleep?”
“About a day,” Tilda replies. “I tended to you the best that I could. I’m Tilda, of course. And the grumpy one over there is Roland. Don’t mind him. He’s all bark.”
I swallow, searching for a name. “I’m—”
“Oh, we know who you are, Your Highness,” Roland says dryly.
I freeze. “I’m not—”
“No use lying about it.” Roland waves me off. “And I take it the queen will be wondering where you’ve disappeared to?”
Fear lances down my spine. “Have you sent word to the palace?”
“Not yet,” Tilda says, patting my hand. “I thought it would be best if we spoke to you first. Determined the right course.”
I exhale a breath at that stroke of luck.
But what can I tell them? That I ran away because my aunt was attempting to poison me?
That I was staging a coup with Gavin, who was actually plotting to kidnap me?
I think of him, lying lifeless on the stable floor and my anger rekindles.
I hope he broke every bone in his body. How could I have been such a fool as to trust him?
Cursed, that voice slinks through my mind. You are cursed.
A wave of dizziness overwhelms me. I lean back against the pillows, the room spinning.
“Easy now,” Tilda says. “Let’s discuss it later. You must be starving. Come and have some food. That will help you feel better.”
I don’t think I’ll ever feel better again, but I don’t resist as Tilda helps me out of bed and over to the table.
I wince as I lower myself into the chair.
Roland plops a bowl of stew in front of me.
I can’t remember my last meal and it smells delicious.
I dig in immediately, shoveling bites into my mouth as fast as my sore limbs will allow.
“Don’t choke on it,” Roland chides. “Can’t have you dying on our watch.”
I shoot him a look but do slow down, taking in the details of the cottage as I eat.
It’s small but well-made and comfortable.
There’s a second room to my right, where Tilda and Roland probably sleep.
My own narrow bed is on the other side of the main chamber.
Now that I can see the piece properly, it’s beautiful work, with the posts designed as dragons, jaws open in a roar.
The table we’re sitting at is of similar craftmanship, with the legs resembling tree trunks, feet rooted to the floor.
Intricate scenes of a forest are carved into the rim of the tabletop.
And my wooden chair is far more comfortable than I anticipated, especially given my injuries.
“Did you make all this?” I ask, gesturing at the furnishings.
“No,” he says. “Little fairies came and did it for me.”
Tilda just sighs. “Yes, we did. Most of our pieces are from the Mines.”
“It’s exquisite work,” I comment, more to Tilda than to Roland.
Despite the fact that he doesn’t seem to possess a polite bone in his body, Roland sits up taller. I think he might be preening.
“That’s kind of you, Princess,” Tilda says.
“Please,” I say. “Call me Blodwyn.”
“Blodwyn,” she repeats, smiling. “You see, Rollie? She’s not a snobbish noble.”
The other Dwarf flushes. “That’s not what I said.”
“It’s fine,” I tell him. “A noble is the last thing I want to be right now, anyway.”
Tilda pats my hand, sympathetic. “Why did you run, my dear? Is someone trying to hurt you? We might be able to help if we know more.”
Don’t, a deep instinct warns. Tilda and Roland may have taken me in, but I have no idea if I can trust them.
Then again, who can I trust? Between Gavin, my aunt, and Ayleth, I’m surrounded by enemies.
And what happens when they find out where I am?
Aunt Margaret might actually kill me. The same could probably be said of Ayleth. And Gavin…
I grip my spoon tighter, refusing to grant him another thought.
I need to focus. I may not be sure of what’s next for me, but I know that if I’m going to make it out of here—perhaps even out of Riven—I’ll need assistance.
Whether I like it or not, these two Dwarves are my best hope.
And so I swallow my last bite of stew and start talking.
Once I begin, everything pours out of me: the trials and Aunt Margaret and my insane plan with Gavin.
The legend of the lost princess. I even tell them about Ayleth.
Tilda’s gemstone-colored eyes grow progressively wider as she listens.
Occasionally, she interjects with questions or throws worried looks at Roland.
He doesn’t say anything, though. Not until I’ve finished.
“You royals,” he grumbles at last. “Always trying to kill one another.”
“Roland.” Tilda gives him a swift nudge. She turns back to me. “That is…quite a bit to take in, though. Especially about the queen. A witch? Rollie, did you know?”
The other Dwarf is suddenly very interested in clearing up our dishes. He stacks the bowls on top of one another and carts them over to the washbasin.
“ ’Course not,” he says. “Why would I know a thing like that?”
But Tilda tilts her head and crosses her arms. “Roland?”
“All right, aye,” he admits, flustered. “I knew what she was. Are you happy?”
“So you were aware this whole time,” I start. “And you just…let her get away with it?”
“And you kept it from us,” Tilda adds, furious.
“What would we have done about it?” Roland presses. “Stormed the castle? Not likely. Besides, the arrangement worked in our favor. I helped Mistress Witch become the queen. She made me Head of the Guilds.”
“So you did all this for a position?” I ask, disgusted.
Was Ayleth right? Is power the only thing anyone cares about?
“No.” Roland heaves a frustrated breath. “I did it for us. For the Dwarves. Mistress Witch freed us, didn’t she? Nothing else mattered.”
“Freed you?”
He looks at me like I’ve just stated that the sky is green. “Do you really not know?”
I shake my head and he grumbles something about education in Riven as he yanks up his trouser leg, exposing his calf. The skin above his ankle is puckered and pink, but I can still make out a faint design. Crossed pickaxes, perhaps.
“My Guild Mark,” he explains. “Or it was. Used to be that we Dwarves were bound to our Mines, forced to wear these. Use our magic as the king saw fit.”
The king. “You mean my father.”
“Aye. And his father before him.”
“But no one is blaming you for that, Blodwyn,” Tilda supplies quickly.
Roland doesn’t second her opinion, though. I can’t say that I blame him. Because shouldn’t I have known about this part of my history? The sour taste of my complicity, even if it was unwitting, cuts between my teeth.
“In any case, Mistress Witch put a stop to it,” Roland goes on. “Gave us back our lands and rights to our Mines. Removed our marks. If the price of our freedom was keeping her secret, I considered it a fair bargain.”
“It wasn’t your bargain to strike,” Tilda admonishes.
“And who would I have asked?” Roland says. “Summoned the Guilds and said—by the way, the queen is a witch. Anyone object to that?”
Tilda just frowns and traces the designs on the table. My own mind spins, trying to merge this version of Ayleth with the queen I’ve come to know. How can there be so many different versions of the same person? And which one of them am I supposed to trust?
“We’ll figure all this out,” Tilda says, perhaps more to herself than to us. “Until we do, you’ll stay here, Blodwyn.”
“What?” Roland asks, incredulous. “We’re not an inn.”
“Roland!” Tilda swats at him. “She needs help.”
“Aye, and I don’t need the Hunt kicking down my door. After what she told us, that’s exactly what’s going to happen.”
“He’s right,” I say, putting up my hand in surrender. “I’ll leave.”
“See?” Roland says, jerking his chin at me. “She wants to go. Can’t keep her here against her will.”
“She’s staying,” Tilda says, in a tone that brooks no argument from either of us. “And we’re calling a meeting of the Guilds. Which is what you should have done years ago.”
Roland scowls but doesn’t argue further. Tilda gives me a reassuring pat on my shoulder.
“Don’t worry,” she says. “You’re safe with us.”
I try to muster a smile for her, but my insides are knotted with apprehension.
I’m grateful for their kindness, but Roland is right.
All I do is bring trouble. How long until the Hunt does arrive to drag me back to the palace?
Or something worse? An image of the lost princess, blood running down her chin, flashes in my mind.
Beneath the whine of the wind pushing against the cottage, I swear I can hear her croaking voice:
You must pay the price.
Far in the distance, a crow’s call echoes over the forest.