She gritted her teeth, feeling the now all too familiar surge of anger in her chest. Cowards, she thought again. In Sirandel and Iona, where Elder warriors would rather sit and hide than fight. Dooming us with their fear.

The flow of ale did not stop. The innkeeper’s wife filled the men’s tankards with a bright smile, then Ridha’s, though she had no intention of drinking any more of the poorly made crop water. Still, she nodded in thanks all the same.

“So how about this proposition of Old Joe’s?” Pole was whispering again, raising a hand to hide his mouth. It did nothing to stop Ridha from hearing, though she wished she could not.

“Joeld Bramble is a loon,” Rye said, dismissive. “It’ll come to nothing. Don’t bother.”

Pole leaned forward on his elbows, too eager. He glanced around the room warily, as if the walls had suddenly grown ears. “Joeld Bramble has family on the coast. They said the Watchful’s been awfully quiet for this time of year. No Jydi, no raids. Not a single longboat spotted since last season.”

Ridha kept her eyes low, on the table carved with crude initials and cruder words. But her focus homed in on the men. The marriage of a mortal queen did not interest her, but this was different. Odd. The hairs on her neck stood up.

“So he thinks he can take their place, can he?” Rye sputtered. “In what, a canoe?”

“I’m only saying. If the Jydi raiders aren’t raiding, someone else can do it. Make it seem like raiders. Smash up a shrine, rob a few churches, maybe take some goats. Disappear back across the Castlewood and none’s the wiser.” Pole ticked off each step of the poor and foolish plan on his fingers. But it was not the scheme that interested the immortal. She furrowed her brows, trying to think. “Raiders blamed, we come home rich.”

Rye remained silent and pressed his lips together, looking over at his companion. Pole grimaced, preparing himself for another rebuke, but it never came. “Maybe Old Joe has an idea,” Rye finally murmured, winking an eye.

Her chair scraped across the floor, shocking in the quiet. Both men jumped in their seats, looking up at Ridha as she stood. She wagered she was taller than both, in boots or bare feet.

“Does your Old Joe have any idea why the Jydi have stopped raiding?” she said clearly, looking between them. They both gaped; then Rye turned sour, his face crinkling.

“You listening to our private conversation?” he sneered.

Ridha fished out a penny for the ale and left it on the tabletop. “I find it difficult not to.”

Pole was less offended. In fact, he seemed enamored by the attention. “No, he didn’t say,” he replied.

Ridha did not miss him shuffling in his seat, making room for her in the corner, should she feel so inclined. I’d rather sidle up to a troll than to scabby, bald Pole.

“Didn’t know, you mean,” she sighed.

Pole shrugged. “Same thing.”

“What’s it matter to you, lady knight?” Rye spat, trying to insult her with a compliment.

Though she had little cause to explain, Ridha heard herself do it anyway. Even the barmaid listened, leaning forward as she pretended to clean a glass with a dirty rag.

“Jydi raiders are fine sailors and finer fighters,” the Elder said. “Cutthroats, warrior pirates, borne of summer snow and winter storms. They’re hard people. If they aren’t raiding, there’s a reason. A good one.”

Even immortals knew the sting of a raider blade, or they had in centuries past. The Jydi were not afraid of the Vederan nor had they forgotten them like the other mortal kingdoms. The lure of their riches was too great. Ridha herself had fought a raiding party with her kin, on the northern shores of Calidon some decades ago. She had not forgotten it.

“I suggest you tell your friend that,” she warned, heading for the stairs.

Though the sun was still high outside, with dusk hours away, Ridha shut herself up for the evening, for there was work to do and plans to be laid out.

Her decision was made.

Sometime past midnight, the two men did try to rob her. She sent them both out the open window. Judging by his limping retreat, poor old Pole broke an ankle in the fall. The innkeeper and his wife tried an hour before dawn, though the wife seemed reluctant. Ridha let the blow of his rusty ax glance off her armor before warning him not to harangue travelers, especially women. This time she made sure to close the window before shoving him through it, spilling glass all over the yard below.

At least the children had done their part. Nirez was groomed and watered, well rested and ready for the long road to Kovalinn, the enclave deep in the fjords and mountains of the Jyd. Something was wrong in the north, as it was wrong at the temple.

Perhaps it was already knocking at the door, or beating down their walls.

Ridha of Iona intended to find out.

15

THE PATH CHOSEN

Corayne

Somewhere in the palace, a bell tolled. It was full dark outside, the stars like pinpricks in the windows. Dom slowed in his steps, faltering for the first time since Corayne had met him. She glanced his way, concerned. To her surprise, it was the squire who waved her off.

“He’s fine,” Andry said, sharing a look with the Elder. “Let’s keep moving.”

The Spindleblade was a nuisance. It was too long and cumbersome to wear at the hip, at least not without hitting a wall or person every time she turned, so Dom and Andry had rigged her sword belt to lie from shoulder to hip instead. She fastened her blue cloak to hide most of it from passing eyes. The sheath dug into her back, reminding her of the sword with every step. It wasn’t so difficult to carry this way, but it would be impossible to draw should she need it. Not that Corayne expected to be dueling any time soon, with the Spindleblade or anything else.

The guards knew Andry and nodded at him as he led their small group through the palace, toward the Queen’s feast. The passages became a long hall of vaulted ceilings and soaring columns supporting pointed archways. In the daylight, it would be magnificent; the windows all made of intricate stained glass. Now they were dark, the panes dull as dried blood. Some courtiers milled about the columns—couples, mostly, dancing around each other like circling predators and prey.

At the end of the long hall was a tall oak door bound in iron, cracked ajar, the sounds of music and conversation spilling out. Andry pulled it open, his smooth face set with determination. He met Corayne’s eye as he waved her through, offering her the smallest nod.