Page 17 of The Witch Queen

“When did it start?” I ask.

“Few days ago. It’s at some of the other Mines as well. Always in the crypt.”

My brow furrows. “Why would it—”

“Because it’sthem.”

Both of us startle at the voice. A Dwarvian woman stands at the entrance to the cavern. She’s older, probably about Roland’s age, with rich black skin and white hair pinned neatly in braids around the crown of her head.

“Miranda,” Roland groans. “Go on with you, now.”

“I’ve as much right to be here as you do,” Miranda replies staunchly. “These are my people. And the queen will want to know the truth.”

“No one is—” Roland starts.

I put up my hand, staying him. “What truth? Who did you mean bythem?”

Miranda shuffles closer. “Spirits.”

The word echoes in the vastness of the cavern.

“Here we go,” Roland grouses. “We don’t have time for your ghost stories.”

“They’re not stories,” she replies, irritated. “I’ve seen ’em.”

“SeenSpirits?” I ask.

“Aye.” Miranda’s attention twitches back to me. “Veil falling must have let ’em out.”

A finger of fear skims down my spine.

“And you think they did this?” I ask, indicating the wall. “Why?”

“Don’t know. Send a message, perhaps,” Miranda guesses. “From the looks of it, not a pleasant one. In fact, if you ask me, I’d say they’re angry.”

“They can’t be angry,” Roland says, exasperated. “They’redead.”

Miranda sniffs. “Didn’t look so dead to me when they were traipsing around out there.”

She jerks her chin toward the entrance to the chamber.

“You’ve seen them here?” I ask. “At the Mine?”

“That’s what I said.” Miranda nods. “Just the other day.”

Which was around the time that Roland told me the Mine startedleaking…whatever this is. An idea takes sudden shape in my mind. I snatch a dagger from Roland’s belt.

“Hey!” he protests. “That’s mine!”

I ignore him and use the knife to scrape up some of the substance, then bring it to my nose and inhale. Beneath the initial heady floral scent, I detect something else. An odor like scorched earth and ash burns the inside of my nostrils. Something that might be—

“Fireroot,” I murmur.

“Fireroot?” Roland repeats, puzzled. “What’s that doing here?”

“The other Mines you contacted,” I ask. “What were they crafting?”

He pauses. “Silver and copper. Iron, maybe.”