Page 160 of The Witch Queen
“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, whocanI 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 granthimanother 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. Awitch? 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 wouldwehave 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. “Gaveus 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.”
