Chapter Two

Laleh wrenches the scroll from me and sighs. “Be leery all you want, but most Oryndhrian women would kill for this chance, including me. And I know you. Even if you don’t want to marry, you’d sell your obsessed little soul to get inside that palace, admit it!”

I can’t hold back my smile. Laleh does know me, much too well. With a fond look at my mother’s painting, I try to flatten the waves of apprehension and anticipation threatening to sweep me up in their chaotic wake and focus on the positive. “What do you think it’s like inside?”

“That’s more like it!”

Laleh laughs and hugs me, brown eyes lighting up with excitement. “Gold floors inlaid with precious stones. Furs on every surface. Rich carpets so thick that your feet sink into them like luxurious padded slippers. Beautiful fabrics and tapestries hanging from the walls. And servants everywhere!”

Grinning, I jump wholeheartedly into our game. “My chamber would be a hundred times the size of this one, with a bed that could sleep ten people, and blankets so fine, they would be made of handspun cashmere.”

Laleh matches my enthusiasm. “And a bath so large you couldn’t hold your breath swimming from one end to the other.”

I sigh with absurd pleasure at that thought. “I’ve changed my mind. I’d sell my soul to Prince Javed just for the baths. If I’m chosen as his bride, he won’t be able to tear me from at least a half dozen baths a day.”

“You’d be the cleanest princess in all of Oryndhr,”

Laleh says, smirking. “Perhaps that will be enough for you to finally decide upon a husband. Get some of that slag and soot off you.”

“Hey! I’m not that dirty.”

She mimes an erotic sex act with her fist, pumping it toward her mouth while moving her tongue into her opposite cheek. “Not dirty enough, in my opinion.”

I blush hot, but we collapse into a fit of laughter as delight unfurls inside me. “Do you think the palace has a library?”

Laleh winks. “I bet it has an enormous, thick, overflowing library.”

“I don’t think we’re talking about the same thing.”

I snicker.

She waggles her perfectly threaded eyebrows and holds her hands apart the length of something much too large for any person to take comfortably. “I think thick is exactly the word I mean. Or maybe even turgid, throbbing, tumescent, thunderous.”

“You are fixated on sex!”

“And you need to follow my lead to clear out the cobwebs before you start hatching an army of spiders down there.”

Clasping a hand to my breast, I fake an insulted gasp. “My down there is free of all vermin, thank you very much.”

I throw a cushion at her, and we giggle some more as my father’s voice filters through the doors of the shed from the tavern across the way.

“Suraya!”

“Shit, I should go home soon,”

Laleh says, hopping up and pulling a face. “By the maker, I can’t wait to see Simin’s face when she finds out.”

“Laleh, maybe we should keep this quiet,”

I say. “Between us for now.”

She looks at me as if she wants to argue, but then clamps her lips shut and nods.

I carefully inspect the dagger, prepping it for the final round of shaping and polishing before dampening the coals in the forge and putting away my hammer and tools. I scrub the grit and jādū stains from my fingers in the nearby bucket, wipe down my neck and armpits, and switch my overalls to a plain black skirt and blouse. I finger-comb the unruly waves that have escaped their ties and rebraid them before Laleh and I brave the sweltering heat to cross the alley to the inn’s back entrance.

As we enter the kitchens, the warm, buttery smell of baking bread makes my stomach rumble, reminding me that I haven’t eaten since breakfast hours ago. The galley is a whirlwind of activity, the sounds of clanging pots merging with chattering voices while the undercooks take direction from the head cook—a small, round dumpling of a woman who also happens to be my aunt—my mother’s twin sister. Despite our differences in size, the resemblance between us is striking. We both have the same large gray eyes, pronounced cheekbones, and wild, ink-dark curls.

Catching her eye, I wave. She hurries over to enfold both Laleh and me into a hug, pressing us into the ample folds of her chest. She smells of warm spices and sunshine . . . of everything that reminds me of home.

“Morning, Amma,”

we chorus when she lets us go.

“Did you hear?”

Laleh whispers before I can stop her. “The king has invited our Suraya to the palace to be presented as a potential bride for the prince!”

Amma’s eyes widen as I glare at my bigmouthed best friend. So much for keeping anything quiet for more than two sandsdamned minutes.

“Is that so?”

Amma replies, and I’m startled by the fretful, dark expression that crosses her face. “A bride, you say?”

“Hardly. I’m not going to be married, Amma,”

I say, scowling at a less-than-contrite Laleh, who I know is happy for me, but still, I would have liked to ease into letting the world know my private business that I have yet to come to terms with. No doubt the news is already spreading like wildfire among the eavesdropping kitchen staff. A whisper turns into a roar anywhere in this tavern. “If I go, it’ll only be for the adventure of visiting Kaldari and a chance to see the palace. No one will notice me.”

Amma shoots me a teasing grin, but it seems strained. “Maybe if you didn’t look like a chimney sweep, that would be different.”

She plucks a flake of ash from my hair as I squirm out of her grasp. “Now, eat, eat,”

she tells us, pushing two plates in front of us. “Put some meat on those bones. Strong minds require strong bodies.”

She bustles away, and needing little encouragement, Laleh and I wolf down the flaky layers of flatbread and the spicy chickpeas with potatoes. My tongue burns in a good way as the flavorful mash hits my taste buds. Amma is the best cook in all of Coban. I bet not even the palace cooks in Kaldari can hold a candle to her. Laleh and I are silent as we eat until we are stuffed. I grin as my best friend pats her stomach in satisfaction.

“I thought you had to leave.”

She winks. “A girl has to eat.”

“You’re only here because you get fed,”

I tease. “Admit it.”

“Guilty as charged.”

She licks her lips and sighs. “That woman is worth her weight in jādū. Uncle Hassan needs to lock that down before someone steals her away.”

At the mention of my father, I push to my feet. Laleh’s not wrong. I’ve always wondered why Amma never married him after my mother passed over a decade ago, since it’s clear that there’s a deep connection between them. But they both seem to be content with the way things are—she as cook and he as inn owner. As long as she’s a part of our lives, I’m happy.

I scan the busy kitchen and spy Amma in a hushed conversation with my father, whose weathered face has gone tight. She’s gesticulating with her hands, a clear sign she’s upset about something, and with every expressive swish accompanying her frantic words, his spine is snapping straighter and straighter.

What are they saying?

I wave a quick goodbye to Laleh, nearly shooing her out the door in my haste to eavesdrop. I know listening to a private conversation is wrong, but if it’s about me or what had made Amma look so alarmed before, then I want to know. I sneak closer until my father’s low baritone reaches me.

“She cannot go.”

They’re definitely talking about me.

“It’s been nearly twenty-five years. This could be nothing but coincidence.”

My ears prick up. Coincidence for what? He scrubs a hand across his beard and releases a growl of frustration through his teeth. “You don’t think she knows, do you?”

Does he mean me or someone else? Clearly, I’ve been kept in the dark about something monumental, and curiosity swamps me. I frown and strain to catch Amma’s answer. “No. My sister’s protections are still strong. She died to make it so. We have to keep her safe, Hassan.”

A dark chill slithers over the knobs of my spine. My mother died from a wasting illness. But the way Amma is speaking makes it sounds different . . . like her death had been purposeful. To protect me. Questions spawn in my brain like sandworm slugs. How could anyone protect someone by dying? Her words don’t make any sense.

A distraught Amma leans forward to embrace my father, and heart pounding, I sidle back to where Laleh and I had been sitting. When Amma returns, I open my mouth to ask about their conversation, but the flat look in her eyes stops me in my tracks. I’ve never seen my sweet, gentle, smiling Amma look so grim. Why would she look as though the world was ending?

“Amma?”

I venture. “Is everything well?”

“Yes, child,”

she replies quietly, but I know she doesn’t believe it. Her words lack the bright, unfailing conviction I’m used to from her. I want to push, to ask about what I’ve overheard, about my mother especially, but something stops me. The residual fear in her eyes, maybe.

Wisely, I change my mind and head into the tavern, but I remain ill at ease.

Obviously, they don’t want me to go to Kaldari, but why? Apart from the fact that I’ve been plucked from obscurity to be part of the prince’s stomach-turning bridal buffet—gag—it’s not like I’ll be alone. Two other local girls whom I’ve known since birth will be going. There’s strength in numbers, right? And arranged marriages are common in Oryndhr, so there’s nothing unconventional about this hunt for a bride, really. Marriages are treated more as transactions than love matches. In fact, the latter, like that of my parents, is rare.

Not that I actually want to be one of the prince’s candidates.

But if the silver lining is a free trip to the palace in a style and comfort that I could never in a million years afford, Laleh does have an excellent point about my going. Not to mention I might also get the chance to see the palace forge, which is any bladesmith’s dream . . .

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 jādū 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.

“It is written,”

he says. “There are prophecies—”

Cutting him off with a sweep of my hand, I shake my head. “I don’t believe in divination or astrological premonitions and neither should you.”

“Promise me you won’t go.”

Wild-eyed, he leans forward. “You must find a way to decline. The queen will crush—”

“You have nothing to worry about,”

I say firmly, taking a deep breath and schooling my expression to blankness. “I swear I am the last woman the prince will choose. Please, don’t worry about me.”

I push a full flagon of wine toward him, hoping to silence him. “This one is free of charge.”

Yanking my hand back, I make a swift, frantic escape to the other end of the counter, my heartbeat returning to normal only after Cyrill drains the pitcher with an uneasy glance in my direction and leaves without further incident. I exhale a ragged sigh of relief.

I’ve heard enough chatter in the inn to know that not many agree with the monarchy’s policies, so it’s no surprise that Cyrill views this engagement celebration with such suspicion.

And there are rumors that the prince is corrupt, true, but I’ve never heard any whisper of him being an arcanist.

And there’s no such thing as death magic.

Or any magic, beyond the well-guarded pockets of jādū.

If one believed the stories, centuries ago, the Royal Stars were worshipped and akasha, the infinite ether of the universe, flowed freely through the realms in iridescent rivers and magic was abundant.

But when the old gods and the Royal Stars were scorned by the first King of Oryndhr, akasha began to wane and eventually withered.

The accusations are ludicrous.

I try to shrug off the ominous weight that has settled on my shoulders. Cyrill’s ramblings are nonsense, but the suffocating feeling loiters, along with a sour taste I can’t get out of my mouth.

There are fewer customers now; I decide perhaps a short walk will help to clear my addled brain and queasy stomach.

I slip unnoticed through the back door of the kitchen and frown up at the suddenly overcast sky. It doesn’t rain much here, less than ten inches a year, but when it does, the skies can look angry. Blotting out the sun, the low-hanging clouds are an ominous gray.

I’m not paying attention to my steps, blinking against the sudden, sharp pain in my temples, so I don’t see the hunched crone blocking my path at the top of the narrow backstreet until we are nearly nose to nose.

Murmuring my apologies, I move to skirt past her—but a wizened arm shoots out to grab my wrist.

“Setareh sar lokkar,”

she whispers.

“Excuse me?”

I ask her, a chill creeping across my skin. I look over my shoulder, but the alley is empty save for us. A crackle of raw energy leaps from her fingers to my skin, and I yelp, trying to jerk my arm away. But she holds fast, her grip surprisingly strong. “Who are you? Let me go!”

She looks up with eyes the color of a twinkling twilight sky, and a sudden calm descends over me. The crone turns my wrist over in a swift movement to trace the lines on my palm with a fingernail, those brilliant starlit eyes tracking its path. I know all the lines she touches—heart, head, life, and fate—the diviners of destiny. The very things I just disparaged moments ago to Cyrill.

I fight the urge to curl my fingers into a fist to protect my palm from this woman’s penetrating gaze. I might not believe in divination—at least not anymore—but that doesn’t mean I want her to pore through my personal fate. “What are you doing? Let go!”

But she ignores me, her hold unyielding. Her fingers pulse against my skin, outlining a shape across the center of my palm between the crisscrossed lines, and an odd sensation blooms in their wake. I blink rapidly as a silvery glow seems to illuminate the path of her fingertip.

What the actual fuck?

I must be seeing things, but there, on my palm, is a glimmering five-pointed shape that also looks faintly like an M.

Chiromancy isn’t unfamiliar to me. My mother used to say that our palms are the maps to our souls. When I was little, she would kiss and read my palms before bed, tracing my lines and making predictions about my future . . . how I would love, live, or learn. But those were games meant to charm a child.

“Setareh sar lokkar, servant of the star.”

Her eyes return to my face, which she studies with frightening intensity. “Not yet awakened, it slumbers sound. The fates will wait until they are called.”

Her low, singsong voice sounds like an imitation of the over-the-top soothsayers who come to the summer market fairs. “You speak in riddles, old woman,”

I scoff. But my heart is pounding.

“Where it walks, death follows.”

As quickly as she had restrained me, she releases my hand and shuffles off into the pronounced gloom of the adjacent alley, vanishing between the buildings.

I take a step after her, but I can no longer see her; it’s like the dark devoured her. I stare at my palm—no longer glowing, thank the sands—and curl it closed.

My heart is pounding, fear crashing through my veins, and I fight the urge to flee like a frightened rabbit toward the safety of the inn.

I’m not superstitious, and I should know better than to let the prophecies of a foolish old fortune teller get to me.

But after Cyrill’s cryptic words in the bar, along with Amma’s and Papa’s cagey behavior, I feel that something terrible is about to happen.

Lightning forks over the darkened sky, making me jump, and the flash of light erases my ability to see for a second.

The shadows seem to press upon me from all sides, the darkness stretching and yawning like a sentient beast. I am nothing but an insignificant speck in its realm. I am at its mercy. A rash of goose bumps prickle my skin.

I’m not afraid of the dark.

The multilayered whisper that comes back is ghostly and echoes from everywhere at once: You should be.