Nor, Seraphel realized, had she been told before this. Her mother had delivered the news of her nuptials. Her father had given her a message to convey personally to Noelictus’ ruler. She had accepted, said goodbye to her friends, wept—spent her last hours of freedom.

Never had they told her who she was wedding. She hadn’t asked. It might even be someone she knew.

Seraphel ran down the list of names of people in Noelictus she knew, and they were legion. She could have recited each one’s titles, lineages, and holdings verbatim if need be, not that she cared. It was simply a Skill.

[Perfect Recall – Signatories of the Crown]. A Skill of unsurpassed use and uselessness. Rather like herself. With it, Seraphel could remember anyone who had ties to Calanfer once she heard the name, of course. And as Mariel stammered, she realized she’d heard of this [Earl] before. She rolled her eyes.

“The Earl of Evening, Fallien of Ovela. Him? Wonderful. Doesn’t he have a twin sister? Don’t answer that.”

She already knew the answer, again thanks to the Skill supplying the knowledge she’d absorbed at some function or other years ago.

“The twin [Earls] of Ovela, rulers of this place and any number of smaller lands about here. No wonder we are staying here for so long. Father must truly have been desperate if I’m not even to rule jointly.

How wonderful. So I will then be not Princess, or even Earl, but simply Seraphel du Marquin-Ovela. I shall so cherish my new name and position.”

The [Handmaidens] pretended not to notice the biting sarcasm. In an attempt to change the subject, they offered Seraphel the sweets and other snacks that she’d been bundled away with for the long ride, but she ignored them. And after a second—a polite tap came at the glass window.

Calanfer wasn’t as rich as Ailendamus and not a port-nation like Pheislant with vast trade goods exchanged with other nations, but it wasn’t poor either. It had a famous throne—a magical relic from Dragonwars millennia ago, strong ties with neighboring nations, any number of heirs which could be used for political gain—and of course, [Knights]. The Knight-Order was the Thronebearers of Calanfer, an astonishingly uninspired name. But their heraldry, golden armor, tied into the motif. The throne room of Calanfer never darkened, so the Thronebearers brought the sun to their enemies.

Seraphel had grown up in that throne room. The light still hurt her eyes.

“Yes?”

“Merely inquiring into your health, Princess du Marquin. Is all well? We may stop now if you wish…a detour to the nearest town will not cut unduly into our travel time.”