But Eris had already stolen the king’s jewel. And she still had a day before needing to report to Jemsin’s protégé. She had some time to waste.
So here she was, wasting it.
Eris pushed herself away from the closed door and set the oil lamp down on the dark wood of the desk. The moment her gaze lifted to Skyweaver, there was that sharp shock she’d felt two days ago. Memories of warmth, friendship, and belonging flooded her... quickly followed by feelings of terror, grief, and betrayal.
She narrowed her eyes.
“I’m not doing this for you,” she told the god as she reached to untie the tapestry from where it hung on the wall. “As far as I’m concerned, you’re a traitor and a fraud.” She kept her voice low, knowing the security had been doubled since the king’s jewel went missing two nights ago. “I’m doing this for the ones you betrayed.”
Eris no longer believed in Skyweaver, god of souls. But the one who’d woven this tapestry believed in her—and he’d died for that belief. So, lifting it down from the wall, Eris rolled it up tight, then tucked it carefully under her arm. As she did, she plucked the gray, spiny scarp thistle from the pocket of herstolen uniform. Careful not to prick herself on its thorns—which were poisonous—she set it down on the desk.
In some ways, the signature was more for Eris than the ones she stole from. A way of proving to herself that she did, in fact, exist. She might live an invisible life, but she was stillhere.Still alive.
The scarp thistle was proof.
With the tapestry still under her arm, and her signature there on the commandant’s desk, Eris reached for her spindle. It was time to go. She would take this tapestry and put it with the rest of her loot. Then she’d head for theSea Mistressand wait for her summons.
But before she could pull the spindle free of its pouch, a voice behind her broke the quiet.
“Who let you in here?”
The voice was low and gruff and it made Eris freeze—except for her right hand. Her fingers tightened around the smooth, worn wood of her spindle, slowly drawing it out.
“I asked a simple question, soldier.”
Soldier.
Eris had forgotten she was in disguise tonight. With the heightened security, it was easier moving through the palace dressed like a guard.
So Eris turned. A soldat stood in the doorway. He hadn’t quite stepped into the room, clearly startled by the sight of her, but he wore the same uniform she did: a steel morion on his head and the dragon king’s crest across his shirt. The only difference was that a saber hung from his hip, while a woven pouch hung from hers.
Eris hated soldiers.
“I was sent to remove this ratty old thing,” she lied, nodding her chin toward the tapestry of the god of souls, rolled up beneath her arm. She winked as she said, “Apparently our commandant isn’t exactly the pious type.”
Her wink had the desired effect. The soldat relaxed. He smiled then, leaning against the door, seemingly about to remark on the commandant’s piety or lack thereof, when something on the desk caught his eye.
Eris watched his face go blank, then light up with recognition. Looking where he looked, she silently cursed herself.
The scarp thistle.
“You... you’re the Death Dancer.”
He didn’t wait for her to confirm it. Just drew his weapon.
Time to go.
Eris gripped the spindle hard in her hand as she crouched down. As the soldat stumbled into the room, she pressed the spindle’s edge to the mosaicked floor and drew a straight line.
The line glowed silver. The mist rose.
The soldat lurched toward her, calling for help and alerting the other soldats nearby.
But by the time he rounded the desk, Eris was already stepping into the mist, and beyond it.
By the time he reached for her, Eris was already gone.
When the mists receded heartbeats later, Eris was not where she should be.
