But lately there have been more and more stories of missing travelers who disappear in Estyrion’s Great Waste—the land Boreas destroyed. I’ve never been outside of Evandale to know if these stories are any different from the tall tales the farmers spin during long winter nights to pass the time. But I’ve seen one too many terrified travelers pass through my doors who whisper about something dark stirring once more in the Great Waste.
I suppress a shudder and maintain the cheerful act; my customers come to the tavern to forget their troubles for a while. “I’m sure he’ll be fine,” I say, putting on my best smile. “You’ll meet your friend, and before you head out on your journey together, you’ll bring him back here for a much-needed drink.” I hide my creeping sense of unease at the possibility of yet another missing traveler.
I’m making my way back to the bar when the front door bursts open with such force, I’m amazed it’s still hanging on its hinges. A dozen soldiers barge into the tavern. They’re decked out head to toe in Loegrian blue, with sharp, gleaming swords at their hips. They stand shoulder to shoulder, their massive frames blocking the entrance.
I tuck my rag into my apron pocket and cross my arms over my chest. It isn’t every day that soldiers arrive at the Raven’s Beak. Even though they’re armed, they don’t look like they’re here to cause trouble.
But what business does the Loegrian royal guard have in Evandale?
Their dramatic entrance clearly didn’t have the impact they’d expected because, of course, most of my patrons don’t even give them a second glance. Everyone continues to chatter away. The table next to the tinker even starts a new ribald shanty.When a farmer takes a wife… His balls are set for life…
The captain—at least I think he’s the captain, based on the row of medals gleaming on his chest—steps forward. He looks around and calls out, “Silence!”
No one pays him any mind, save the half-drunk marquis. He starts to make his way toward the guards, likely attracted by the captain’s shiny hardware—a magpie drawn to power.
Oh, Goddess, I don’t need this tonight.
“Can I help you strapping gents?” I ask, shouldering my way over to the Loegrians. “If you’ll kindly pipe down and take a seat…” I motion to a table.
“Thank you, miss,” he says politely. “But I must have the floor.” He turns back to the tavern. “Silence!” he roars again, but no one listens.
Right.I let out a sharp whistle between my teeth, and the crowd falls silent like dogs called off a hunt.Everyone stares.
“Hey, listen up! It seems we’ve got an announcement,” I say, gesturing to the soldiers.
All eyes turn to the captain, who nods his thanks before he begins. “I am General Marcus Marcellus, and I’ve come to announce that my lord, the crown prince of Loegria, arrives in two days’ time.”
Murmurs cut through the tavern. A prince? In Evandale? What the hell for?
Thegeneral—not captain—continues, “His royal highness is traveling the kingdom in search of his bride.”
“Why?” one of the old farmers asks, his words slurring. “He lose her?”
That gets a laugh, but the soldiers are not amused.
“His royal highness has come to collect a bride, perhaps from this very village, on his tour of Alarice.”
“You want someone from Evandale?” another red-cheeked farmer croaks. “I’dmake for a nice bride.”
“Me too,” another says, laughing. He grabs his neighbor by the face. “Lemme give the prince a big smooch—mwah!”
More raucous laughter. If the soldiers had intended to make their announcement to Evandale’s most bustling hall of drunks, they’ve picked well. But my mind whirls and my whole body tingles with what feels suspiciously like hope at this remarkable news.
Despite his bearing and air of competence, Marcus Marcellus looks way too young to be a general. He also looks less than thrilled at his audience. “The prince is coming here in search of a bride per the terms of the treaty of mutual support between the kingdoms of Loegria and Alarice,” he declares. He sighs and glances at his men. It’s clear he’s unimpressed with the pickings so far.
That makes two of us, bud.
Under his breath, the general mumbles, “Dietan has lost his damn mind…” as he looks around. “This is a mistake.”
“We can’t leave yet, sir,” a soldier murmurs.
“I know our orders.” He turns back to the tavern, which has settled into its usual hum. Everyone ignores him. Most of them are sloppy drunk, and I doubt they’ll remember what happened come morning.
But me? I see opportunity. My brain starts to race.
As the soldiers take a table vacated by farmers who have left to stumble home to their beds, I head back to my place behind the bar.
I’m positively buzzing.
