Page 12 of The Witch Queen

“Careful,” I warn, holding her back.

“Ayleth,” she scolds, pulling out of my grasp, “they’re starving.”

And that’s their own doing. Over the years, I’ve discovered that Malum isn’t as malevolent a force as the covens taught me to believe. Instead of attacking Riven at random, Malum seems to select its victims. At first, I couldn’t decipher the pattern. But then Follower uprisings were beset by Nevenwolves. Villages that held to the Order were struck with plague, blight, or other catastrophes. I soon began to realize that such occurrences weren’t coincidences. My shadows were rooting out areas of disloyalty. Claiming the realm. Soon enough,everythingwill be ours.

“But we barely have enough guards with us as it is.”

“They’re not going to hurt us,” Joan insists. “And I’ve been telling you for ages that we need to send aid to places like this.”

Joan has always possessed a softer heart than mine. During the first year or so of my reign, she brought me countless proposals to help thepoor. I ignored them, instead encouraging her to continue her studies to become a healer. The distraction worked—until now. Joan removes a leather pouch from her waist, digs out a few coins, and throws them toward the villagers, who scrabble to collect the gilded pieces.

“We can send food when we get back to the palace,” I tell her. “Just—”

The rest dies on my lips as we pass the remains of a Sanctum. Before the White King’s edict, the massive stone building would have housed a coven. Now the former sanctuary is reduced to a charred husk, the towers all but demolished and the roof caved in. But my attention is fixed to a moss-riddled wall, where a message is scrawled in angry crimson letters:

Long Live the True Queen.

“What on earth is that?” Joan asks, horrified. Even Fitz growls, his ears flattening.

“Nothing,” I say, as much to myself as to Joan. “Parnell warned me of another Follower uprising. They’ve apparently rallied around some imposter who they’re convinced is Meira.”

Fools. There’s only one true queen in Riven. The one who rose from the darkness, just as the prophecy claimed.

And if it was wrong?that voice needles.

I move to yank the curtain closed and spot the young girl again. She keeps watching me until the carriage passes, her blue eyes piercing and intense in a way that makes the hairs on the back of my neck shiver.

A crow calls outside, its cry resonating over the forest.

One for sorrow.

—

We spend the rest of the ride in relative silence, broken only by Fitz’s snores and the clatter of the carriage wheels. When the Dwarvian village finally rolls into view, I’ve managed to bury the image of the Sanctum and the girl. Which is good, seeing as Roland wastes no time in greeting us. At least, I think it’smeantto be a greeting.

“About time you got here,” the surly Dwarf grouses as he flings open the carriage door.

Like his demeanor, Roland’s appearance is much the same as when I caught him following me in the palace library. Tufts of his wispy white hair stick out from underneath his red cap. His brown skin is wrinkled with his many years. And his multicolored eyes, the color of crushed gemstones, gleam in the sunlight. The only difference in Roland is the pin on his jacket—a gilded pair of pickaxes ringed in a crown, signifying his position as Head of the Guilds. I appointed him shortly after I seized control of the council, needing all the allies I could get. The Dwarves have yet to disappoint me.

“I came as soon as I could,” I say, descending from the carriage. “If you wanted me here faster you should allow me use of the tunnels.”

Roland starts to answer back, but Fitz barks, leaping to the ground and zooming around the Dwarf’s ankles.

“By the Mines!” Roland curses as he nearly trips over the dog. “Watch your—”

“Rollie!” Another Dwarf joins us, a woman. She appears to be a bit younger than Roland, with fewer lines creasing her white skin and hardly any silver in her blond hair, which falls in an intricate braid over her shoulder. “Won’t you introduce me to the queen?”

Rollie?I mouth to Joan. She just shakes her head, as perplexed as Iam.

“Oh aye. This is, ah, Mistress W—the queen. And the marquess,” he adds, gesturing to Joan. “And this is Tilda. My, well…”

“Sweetheart,” Tilda supplies, her smile widening.

My jaw nearly drops. Roland has asweetheart? I cannot imagine anyone tolerating his bristly presence for longer than absolutely necessary. Tilda, though, seems besotted as she loops her arm around Roland’s. The Head of the Guilds shades the color of a ripe strawberry.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Tilda,” Joan says kindly.

“I—yes,” I manage, still gaping between the two Dwarves. “A pleasure.”