Page 134 of A Dance of Lies

The Lair of Morta. That’s what we have created here. I hope he knows he’ll face her soon. I’d gladly trade my soul if it meant his would be lost.

A harmony stirs the air, soft as breath.

Four dancers dressed like souls flutter a long, tapered stretch of fabric in the center of the stage. With the sweep of their hands, it bounces, flows, and with one last exaggerated swing, they release it.

Underneath, Copelan is revealed.

He lies on the stage floor, knees bent at odd angles, a plunging red stain evident on his doublet.

Eremis, slain on the battlefield of his first war.

The last time I saw him, I had whispered in his ear,Your complicity reveals your cowardice.

A violinist’s string pierces the fog, sharp as a pin prick. Copelan jolts, awakening in Morta’s Lair.

Souls circle him in their wraithlike attire, taunting, beckoning, grabbing fistfuls of his clothes. He tries to run, to flee, but they tear off strips of his jacket, ripping at his buttons—

Through a plume of fog, I enter, a whisper of darkness and shadow.

The commotion comes to a halt. Copelan, as Eremis, is unaware of who stands behind him, ready to pull him into the void. Anticipation builds until he senses my nearness, and finally, he turns.

He had stood idle while I suffered, idle while guards threw me down.

We watch each other—me, a veiled figure, and him, with his slicked-back hair and kohl-lined eyes, as defined as Anton’s in the low light. I chance a glimpse at the stands, but Anton isn’t there. Unease sits in my stomach like spoiled meat and it takes everything in me not to double over with worry. Something isn’t right. He would not miss this.

The vocalists spin the lines cueing my next step.Take my hand, Eremis of Lach, for I promise not a scratch.

I have no choice but to focus, so I tug down my hood and reach out my hand.

True to the myth, infatuation cajoles Eremis toward me, as I am beauty personified. Copelan unfurls his fist, stretching his hand toward mine. But at the last moment, he jerks it back as the song continues.

You will not trap me, Morta. Your beauty, while lovely to be sure, is that of an agate, clouded and veined. I am an ammolite, iridescent and rare; next to me, you cannot compare.

He plucks the tapered cloth from the ground, whirling it about.

In a blink, he disappears, the trapdoor perfectly timed.

But while he has escaped my Lair, he has not escaped me. That sepulchral, blue-gray light dwindles, the sea glass on the torches replaced. Pale amber and sage envelops us now, shifting us into the land of the living. The souls spin out of their robes, earth-toned linens beneath, the costumes of street-goers, traders, bakers, and merchants. Dancing around, they sing their wares amid carts wheeled out, our surroundings that of a bustling street.

I, too, sweep off my cloak, revealing a softer one the shade of dusk—a maiden in the crowd.

From beneath the archway, Copelan enters the stage once more,an arrogant smile in place. He escaped death, after all, and now he joins the living, unaware of the specter who stalks him; in our version, it isn’t the prophets who follow, but Morta herself.

A bard sings my thoughts aloud as I follow him, as I vow to find his weakness. I move around him, dodge him before he can notice me, weaving among the bustling crowd. He turns back, sensing my presence, and I dip away. He dances from vendor to vendor; I spin and whirl about, unseen.

Until finally he pauses at a fruit cart, shucking a few coins in exchange for a pomegranate. I use the distraction to draw near, snatching a metal pitcher to hide my face.

He turns, pausing at the sight of me.

Only, he isn’t looking at me, entranced as he is by his reflection in the pitcher. He angles this way and that, flattening an errant hair before giving himself a wink.

And I’ve learned his secret.

His weakness I have unmasked.

His beauty shall trap him at last.

Beauty. The lyric snaps me out of my performance. Illian, the prophecy . . .