The room was narrow, with a sloped ceiling, single window, and a short, hay-stuffed bed. The blanket was threadbare, mouse-eaten at the edges. Ridha heard rodents in the walls, skittering back and forth from the garden to the roof. She didn’t plan to sleep that evening. It was Nirez who needed rest, not her. Instead she shucked off her armor and stored it in a chest with her sword and saddlebags. She kept her dagger, tucked beneath her long, charcoal-gray tunic, along with a boot knife, as well as her jewelry: a pendant and the hammered silver ring of Iona on her off-hand thumb.

For a long moment, she considered sitting on the bed and staring at the wall until dawn. It would certainly be just as productive as returning downstairs. But her body drifted, her feet stepping without sound, until she found herself in the common room again. She claimed a table by the hearth, her back against the cool wall, one hand gesturing for a drink.

Bitter ale, thin soup, bread surprisingly good, she thought, taking stock of her meal. She ate and drew with her finger on the tabletop, tracing the lines of a map only she could see. Where can I go next? she asked herself again, naming the enclaves. They were far-flung, a long journey in every direction, every choice a risk. Who might help, and who might turn me away?

In the corner, the men gurgled back and forth, their Gallish accents thick and harsh. Ridha tried not to listen, but as an immortal Vederan, she had no trouble hearing their heartbeats, let alone their conversation.

“Married, or getting married soon,” one of the mortal men grumbled quietly. He sucked down the last of his ale, tipping the tankard. Then he belched and smacked his lips. Ridha cut a glare at him, though he didn’t notice. “Can’t remember which.”

His companion was lean, with strong forearms bared to the elbow. A woodcutter. He shook his head. “Come on, Rye, I’m sure we’d know if the Queen was married already. There’d be a ’nouncement. A rider.” The woodcutter flapped a hand at the doorway. “I dunno, a lion prancing down the lane to roar the good news.”

Rye laughed harshly. “You think the Queen cares to tell us her doings, Pole?”

“We’re her subjects—’course she does,” Pole said indignantly, puffing out his chest. Ridha felt the corner of her mouth lift. A mortal monarch barely has time to learn herself. She won’t be learning about you anytime soon, Master Pole.

Rye shared the same opinion. He chuckled again, slapping a hand on his table. “She doesn’t even know the name of our village, let alone the people in it.”

“I s’pose,” Pole muttered begrudgingly, his face flushed. “So to who?”

“Who what?” the other replied. He grabbed for a hunk of bread, dipping it in his soup. He ate like a bear, messy and without regard. Brown water dripped from his graying beard.

Pole sighed. “Who’s she marrying?”

“D’ya think I’d know?” Rye said, shrugging. “Or you’d know the name if I said it?”

“I s’pose not,” Pole said, embarrassed again. He scratched beneath his felt cap, at a scalp near to balding. “She might,” he added suddenly, jerking his chin.

Ridha slowly pushed the ale away, freeing her hands.

Rye did not notice, too occupied with his soup. “Who might?”

“Her, the fancy one.” Pole dropped his voice to a whisper. She heard him clearly, as if he were shouting across the common room. He even pointed with a knobbled finger. “Came tromping in here like a knight in six feet of armor with a cloak to match.”

It took longer than it should have for Rye to follow. But finally he noticed Ridha at her table, her chair braced against the wall, her eyes fixed on her plate. “Oh right,” he said, clear he’d forgotten her completely. “Maybe she will.”

And then Pole really was shouting across the room, picking a scab on his neck as he did so. “Hey, do you know who the Queen’s marrying?” he said, his voice shrill and hard.

Ridha bit back the urge to cover her ears, remove herself, or remove him. I should have just stayed upstairs and stared at the wall.

“I beg your pardon?” she said instead, her voice soft from days of disuse.

The men exchanged a very patronizing roll of their eyes. “The Quee-een,” Pole said, drawing out the word. As if I’m completely stupid, even though I’m the one they’re asking for information. “Who’s she marrying?”

“Which queen?” Ridha replied, in an equally slow voice. There was a host of queens, mortal and immortal, reigning and consort, this side of the mountains and the Long Sea. Silently, she willed Nirez to recover quickly, so she might be free of this inn.

Rye blinked his mud-brown eyes. His mouth went a little slack and he looked to Pole in confusion. “There’s more than one queen?” he hissed under his breath.

Baleir save me.

Pole waved him off. “The Queen of Galland,” he said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “Queen Erida.”

“I can’t say I know much of her.” It was the truth. Ridha had not traveled far from Iona in twenty years, never riding west of the Monadhrion. The mortal lands changed so quickly, even in two decades. It was not worth recalling what she remembered of them.

The two men scoffed in unison. Now Pole really did think her stupid, an overly tall woman playing at knighthood in borrowed armor. “She’s been queen of this here kingdom for four years yet—you certainly should,” he sputtered.

A heartbeat in Elder time, Ridha thought. “I am sorry, but no,” she answered, dropping her eyes. “No idea who she might be marrying.” And no interest either.

The innkeeper’s wife bustled out from behind the bar, wiping her hands on her apron. She put herself between Ridha and the men, smiling at them as she cleared their table. It was no small reprieve when she took up the conversation.

“Must be a great prince. Or another king,” the woman said, balancing plates. “That’s how it works, don’t it? That lot always keep to each other. Keep things in the family, so to speak.”

While the men blustered between themselves over subjects they had no knowledge of, Ridha sat back in her chair. She felt oddly warm in her skin, though the fire was barely lit, and the room was cool and dim. All this talk of royalty and marriage put her off balance, for she was a princess herself, with a duty to a throne and an enclave like any other royal woman. Elders might live long, seemingly endless years, but there was still a need for heirs. Isibel Beldane and Cadrigan of the Dawn had not wed for love, but for strength, and for a child to keep the enclave when the Monarch could not. At least I have time, where mortals don’t. At least my mother does not force me into choices I don’t want to make. She felt warm again, a cloying heat at her collar. She frowned, fingers pulling at her tunic. Or does she? Is that not what this is? The rule of another driving me forward, in acquiescence or opposition?