Here were no cupboard beds, and she could hear the sound of no one else’s breathing. The horsehair mattress felt hard and awkward to someone who had slept for years on rye straw. Her pillow was small, not the large pillow stuffed with goose down she had plucked herself. Though one wall of the room backed up to the fireplace in the royal chamber, she had no fire, no coals to wink at her in the dark.

She thought over what Queen Arane had said that afternoon, and as she considered it King Hadros’s castle seemed simple, comfortable, even welcoming. The faeys, she remembered, had told her that queens had to deal with upsetting things every day.

And without the fogged perception through which she had gone the last ten days, she could also think about Roric clearly. She had not been able to ask him-and now perhaps never would-if he knew why the Wanderers wanted him. Hadros had spoken truly that the Wanderers did not appear to mortals except in the oldest tales. Even if the faeys were right, the housecarls’ story-which had taken on additional wild embellishments each time it was told-was not the story of a Wanderer.

What could a mortal do against beings like that, armed only with his own strength and a little bone charm? And where could he possibly be now? But Roric was indubitably gone, and since he had been gone for days already without a word, he might well be gone forever.

Suppose she was carrying his child? She had not really considered the matter before-first they had assumed they would soon be wed, and then she had been too worried for his safety, even before her life had passed into a fevered dream. But she had thought of it when Hadros told her father she was coming home a pure maiden. Would her father reopen the war himself if her waist began to thicken?

She put her hands on her stomach. It felt the same as it always did, except perhaps a little uneasy. But even worse might be to lose Roric and not even have his child.