King of the Woodlands

Chapter 5

"Thank you most kindly, Sir Barrelbeard," Lilibeth said as he rushed to take Aheiran, gripping the reins a bit too tightly.

"Mind how you go," Lilibeth called to him as he disappeared behind a jagged peak of dark grey stone frosted with melting snow.

Another sentry holding an iron battle axe twice his size escorted her inside the dark cave. Lilibeth swallowed her fear and instead tried to focus on her surroundings. It was like she'd stepped foot in a nobleman's mansion rather than a clan of drunken dwarves.

A large mahogany table took up most of the space the dark room had to offer. Two black iron candelabras sat at the center of the table, wrought to look like twisting vines and leaves. Saltcellars and pepper mills were placed in easy reach at each table spot. Above them loomed an enormous chandelier, although in Lilibeth's opinion, it looked more like the bejeweled corpse of a huge spider.

Dwarves with weathered faces watched Lilibeth as she passed. She wondered if they'd leap on her and attack if she so much as breathed wrong.

"Welcome to our home," a warm voice said. If an autumn hearth fire ever had a voice, it would be his.

Sitting at the table's head sat the ugliest dwarf of them all. His salt-and-pepper beard was thick and scruffy, as if he never bothered to comb it. Beneath a pair of bushy eyebrows glinted two flinty eyes.

This was the Dwarf Lord, a greedy, ruddy-faced fellow who loved his ale and mead more than he loved his coin.

"Hello," Lilibeth breathed.

"Fetch the young lady a seat," the Dwarf Lord said. A nearby dwarf hurried to fetch a finely upholstered chair. Lilibeth sat down warily. She practically towered over the table (which made her feel very, very awkward).

Food began pouring out: pheasant roasted with raspberry sauce, dark artichokes soaked in olive oil, and diced pumpkin smeared with spices and honey butter. Lilibeth had never eaten such food. It was hot and rich, savory and spicy, and it made her feel alive.

She drank bright red candy apple cider out of a crystal cup. She fake-laughed until she thought she might never truly laugh again. She answered all the dwarves' questions as carefully and politely as she could.

Was she really a human girl? Yes, although sometimes she wondered if she could plant herself into the ground and become something new, perhaps a soft kitten or a playful puppy or even a faerie like she'd always dreamed to be.

Where was she from? Brightleaf, a small village near the coast. Each summer she tossed bread into the pond for the ducks, and each spring she celebrated Calan Beannacht, as did they all.

Had she ever met a dwarf before? One fellow claimed he'd seen her before (but she didn't recognize him. If she'd ever seen someone that hideous, she'd know him on sight).

Then the dessert came, a truly strange dwarven confection: spoonfuls of boysenberry syrup swirled over an apricot and raisin cake that had been marinating in ale for two years waiting for the proper visitor. Lilibeth wasn't the proper age to consume alcohol, so she was not quite obliged to acquiesce their request.

She pretended to eat and enjoy her food, rubbing her belly and emitting appropriate groans of delight. When it was time for her to be escorted to her quarters, she dragged herself along without complaint.

Her room was dreadful. Through the mullioned window standing sentinel near her horrendous bed, moonlight shone through, not enough to illuminate the fiery hues of the richly dyed Mourradan rugs at Lilibeth's feet, but enough to light up a potential escape route. To her dismay, however, she realized didn't have enough time to plot her escape.

Two female dwarves with matching crops of garnet hair herded Lilibeth into a bathing chamber with a three-legged iron bathtub. Lilibeth squeaked as they stripped her of her clothes and dumped her unceremoniously into the tub, but stopped objecting as they washed her hair with a shampoo that smelled of rain-washed gardenias.

She was tempted to paddle around in the luxurious heat of the bath water, but the dwarves were already pushing her out like she was no better than a wandering sheep. They dried her hair with thick towels and scrubbed away at the the black lines of earth embedded under her nails with sweet-smelling soaps.

"When can I leave?" Lilibeth demanded of them, but they didn't answer.

They slammed the little door behind them as they walked out, leaving Lilibeth alone. The young girl climbed into her scratchy bed and curled up, gazing at the window at nothing, an empty sky full of empty promises. She hated it all.

You're stronger than you know, Father's voice said. All will be well. His voice floated to her head like a corked bottle in a stormy sea.

Lilibeth rolled over. She needed to be strong. Now, she had no time to be weak.