I’ll simply have to do my best to go unnoticed. If I’m lucky, the prince will pick someone quickly, and I’ll be back here where I belong in no time.
After I make the rounds to ensure that the countertops have all been cleaned and the floors freshly scoured, the stale scents of the night past replaced with fragrant lavender brushes in clay pots at the corners of the room and sweet-smelling incense burning on the mantels, I approach my father slowly. He is at the front of the inn, and his expression is not as foreboding as Amma’s, thank the stars.
“Good morning, Papa,” I say, and reach for courage. I desperately want to ask him what he was talking about earlier, but I also don’t want to admit to eavesdropping. “Did Amma tell you the news?” A shuttered dark stare flicks to me, and he lets out a noncommittal grunt while he hefts a fresh barrel of ale to the platform behind us.“I’m excited to see some of the places Mama loved. Does the palace truly look like her painting?”
He flinches as if I’ve stabbed him. “You cannot go. We need you here.” He turns to me, jaw like iron, but his gaze softens at my confused expression. “Kaldari is no place for a young woman. You belong here.”
“It’s a ball, Papa, not a life sentence,” I say softly. “And besides, it’s a summons from the king. We cannot refuse. Think about how it will make our family look. Drawing the crown’s attention or ire will be bad for business.”
His eyes crash into mine, so many emotions flicking through his irises that I can barely pick them apart, but what stands out most is the hint of fear. Why would he look so frightened? My big, burly, stern father is afraid of nothing.
The bell over the door rings as someone enters the tavern, breaking the tension between us. “We will talk about this later,” he says gruffly, and reaches out to pat my shoulder. “I only want you safe, my pea pod.”
Something heavy and hopeless in his tone tugs at my heartstrings. “I know, Papa, but I’m a grown woman.” I attempt a smile. “You can’t wrap me in swaddling forever.”
To my horror, my papa’s eyes glimmer with unshed tears. “I wish I could. Go, you have customers.”
The conversation and my father’s peculiar state leave me even more unsettled. But more patrons trickle in, and I am forced to turn my attention to them.
Business has been good for my family. Our central location and the quality of the food have made most of the local villagers devoted customers. We have had travelers return year after year to Coban from all corners of the kingdom, desperate to experience one of Amma’s savory flatbreads or her rich goat stew. Others return for my father’s delicious bitter ale, made from a centuries-old secret family recipe. But most agree that the hospitable, welcoming atmosphere is what makes the Saab Inn so special.
“Congratulations, Suraya!” one man shouts, raising his glass to toast me.
My overfull stomach rolls unsteadily. I mutter my thanks and duck my head, moving behind the long divider separating the casks of wine and ale from the eating room and pulling out a cloth to buff the burnished wood.
“Hot wine,” a voice booms as a handful of coins bounce on the top of the counter. I try not to cringe. It’s Cyrill, a local who constantly asks me to marry him despite my consistent refusals. At first, I used to think that he was after the tavern, but he’s already quite wealthy. Though he’s not terrible looking, he just doesn’t attract me.
Forcing a pleasant mien, I pour his mulled wine.
He downs the drink in one gulp and wipes his mouth with the back of his sleeve. “I heard the news.”
Quick as a snake, his hand reaches out to cover mine before I can pull away. I try to break his grip, but his fingers hold fast.
“Let go, Cyrill.”
“Marry me instead.”
“No.” I twist my arm and dig my nails into the soft part of his wrist between the tendons there, and he winces, his grip slackening.
“I’m wealthy,” he says, cradling his bruised wrist as I step out of his reach. “I can give you anything you want, better than anything the king can offer you in that citadel of sins.”
“Cyrill,” I mutter in warning, “lower your voice.”
“I’d risk death to convince you of my fidelity.”
“Would you risk mine as well?” I shoot back, fear tightening my throat. “Or my father’s?”
He stares at me. “I would if only to save you from what lies in your future,” he says in a hushed tone. “If Prince Javed chooses you, he will crush the light from your eyes. He is corrupt. Arcanist, pledging his own soul in exchange for death magic—”
“Please stop,” I beg, worry turning into ice over my pebbled skin.
The restaurant is growing more crowded, and the king’s spies are everywhere, watching and listening. Any whisper against the royal family is considered an act of treason, and there are those who would turn in their own mothers in exchange for a sack of gold. I want to move away, but I’m afraid Cyrill won’t stop talking even if I do. Or that he’ll get louder.
If the kingsguard comes, the tavern will be searched. I think about my newly forged jadu dagger hidden in my workshop and fear prickles along my nape.
“The Dahaka know what’s at stake,” he spews recklessly. “Why do you think they fight so hard? They know what’s coming when King Zarek relinquishes his crown to that spoiled heretic of a prince. He will usher in an era of darkness and death!”
“Why are you saying this?” I hiss.
