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“What can I do for you...miss?” the barmaid said. Her eyes roved over Ridha’s face and armor. “I’ve got a room to let, six pennies for the night, seven with board. Ale’s more.”
This time Ridha was careful to count out the pennies. Flashing silver before children was one thing, but the others were a risk. They might try to rob her, and then she’d have to waste time and energy roughing up farmers. She slid seven pennies across the bar top.
“I’ve paid the stable hands to mind my horse,” she added, nodding toward the door.
The barmaid dipped her head. “I’ll make sure they do the job. Little imps seem to wander more and more these days. Room’s at the top of the stairs, first on the right,” she added, gesturing. “I can draw you a bath for a few pennies more.”
Though the road had been long, Ridha shook her head. She’d bathed last in Sirandel, in a pond lined with silver, attended by handmaidens with bowls of scented oil and lavender soap. She had no intention of souring the memory with a cramped tub bucket before a weak fire.
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. “Shemight,” 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.
