Finally, a pleasant surprise. The news is a weight off Marek’s shoulders. Doubtless the rest of the Ostomar garrison will be relieved too. They’re tired of their wing-marshal’s supervision.
“I look forward to the reunion,” Marek says. “Any other surprise wedding guests?”
Imrik gestures, and Navlin answers. “No more surprises. Fellrin’s plans to send an ambassador fell through, as expected. It’ll just be Draskorans, Prince Julien’s retinue, and a delegation from Patha.”
Gabra scoffs from behind her glass. “What about Tavoc? No invitation for Prince Vana, I assume?”
The table falls silent again. Then the nearest table on the main floor, then the next, attention drawing fearfully to the high table as the air pressure changes.
Imrik Dire sits as cold and still as the canyon walls. Only his eyes flicker like scalestone in the depths.
Gabra shouldn’t have mentioned Vana.
Marek’s thoughts race. He can’t save Gabra, but he braces himself to pull Sei out of the way before—
“General Gabra,” Kazia calls out, loud enough for half the hall to hear him. It’s the first time he’s spoken all dinner, and his voice is sweet with poison. “Do you prefer tonight’s soup, or the salad?”
Gabra’s wine-flushed face turns ashen with the gravity of her mistake. Gone is the fearsome former general. In her place sits an aging, frightened woman. “The soup, Your Highness.”
“That’s a pity,” Kazia says, pushing his seat back.
The entire dining hall waits spell-bound as Kazia hops onto his chair—then steps directly onto the table. Marek dares a glance at their father’s face but can’t read anything there. Everyone else watches with Marek, waiting for the king’s reaction to tell them how to respond.
Imrik says nothing.
Kazia stoops to pick up his glass salad bowl, which he hasn’t touched. Placing his leather boots carefully between plates and pitchers, he stalks across the table. A jar of salt trembles but doesn’t fall. Kazia’s path leads him to stand above General Gabra.
Flipping the bowl over, Kazia dumps the salad over Gabra’s head.
Marek holds Sei down by the shoulder almost before Sei tries to move. Sei can’t quite muffle his yelp of shock—but it’s lost in the cries thundering through the dining room.
Gabra sputters beneath the rain of vinegar and vegetables. Grabbing for her cane, she shoves away from the table.
The cane clatters from her grasp. She stumbles and catches herself on Radovan’s chair. With a wince, Radovan leans away.
Kazia drops the bowl. It bounces off the edge of the table, then shatters against the stone floor.
“Vana preferred the salad,” Kazia says. Turning on his heel, he crosses back to his side of the table. He jumps down next to Sei and throws himself into his chair.
Along with everyone else in the room, Marek turns away from the brat prince and the lettuce-covered general. King Imrik leans back in his seat. When a smile slowly spreads across his face, relief ripples through the crowd.
“Go clean yourself up, Gabra. The crown will compensate you for your wardrobe.” Imrik waves a scalestone-ringed hand in dismissal. “Prince Kazia, I’ll speak to you later.”
Gabra bows clumsily. A piece of lettuce falls from her hair. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”
She looks around as if finally taking in the gawking eyes. Shards of glass scatter between her and her fallen cane. In the end, Gabra abandons the cane and limps slowly towards the side door. She’s halfway there when Warlord Navlin lets out a dry chuckle.
Radovan takes the cue and joins her. Then the laughter spreads across the entire room. Just like the wave of relief before it. Just like the wave of fear.
Sei tries to jump up again, and Marek yanks him back into his seat.
“What are you doing?” Marek hisses into Sei’s ear.
Sei glares up with fierce, dark eyes. “I’m going to grab her cane for her! Do you have no shame?”
“Absolutely none,” Marek murmurs. “Please trust me. Helping her now will only hurt her.”
Sei ducks his head. “Fine.”
