Page 13 of The Witch Queen

“And you, Majesty,” Tilda replies, bobbing a curtsy. “I really must thank you for the chance you’ve given our Roland. We’re all very proud of him. And he speaks so highly of you.”

“Doeshe?” I arch an eyebrow.

Aside from the instance in which he rescued me from the palace dungeons, the Head of the Guilds has made no secret of the fact that he considers me a great annoyance in his life.

“Aye, well.” Roland scrubs the back of his neck. “Enough of that now, Tilda. Don’t be bothering the queen. We have business.”

“It’s no bother,” I insist. “In fact, I wouldloveto hear more about what Roland says.”

“That’s not—”

“You must come for dinner, then,” Tilda says, brightening. “Roland and I keep a cottage in the forest farther out. It would be our pleasure to host you.”

“I’m sure the queen has no time for that,” Roland attempts.

“Oh, it would be my honor,” I say. Fitz barks, as if to second this opinion.

Roland scowls at me. “Right, then. Dinner it is.”

“I’d best get ready.” Tilda peels herself away and hurries off.

Another group of Dwarves, who are all talking excitedly and glancing in my direction, intercepts her. I share another look with Joan, both of us hardly able to contain our amusement.

“She’s very pretty,” Joan comments.

“Rollie,” I add.

“That’s enough out of you two.” Roland jabs his finger between us. “Did you come here to see the Mine or to meddle?”

“Meddle,” we reply in unison, earning another furious glare.

I expect him to fire off another retort. But Roland just waves us off with a grumble and storms away, leaving Joan and me to dissolve in a fit of giggles.

“We shouldn’t be so mean,” Joan says, still laughing. “I’m happy for him.”

“Yes, well, I just hopeshe”—I nod in Tilda’s direction—“understands what she’s getting herself into.”

Roland pauses halfway toward the square.

“You coming?” he calls back at me. “Or did you need a parade?”

Joan laughs again. “Have fun.”

“I’ll do my best,” I say dryly, then pick up my skirts and follow the Dwarf.

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.