Page 137 of A Dance of Lies

In the shadow of the cave walls, I go unseen, skimming the edge of the rocks until I’m behind where they had sat during the performance.

And there, in his seat, is my father’s cap. I use the distraction, careful to stay low, and lunge.

I snatch the rough, weather-resistant cap.

“I am honored,” Illian says as others voice their support. “In the wake of everything, truly, I am more than humbled to serve Miridran this way, but only with the support of the Crowns’ Syndicate.”

Slowly, I release the daggers from my crown. It takes me a moment to pry them loose, but they slide free, small and perfectly shaped for my hands.

“We should put it to a vote,” Illian says.

A vote will be pointless, when everyone will back him now that Brisendale does.

“But the queen—”

“Will be served her justice. She will be held and put to trial before the Gathering ends.”

“Lay a hand on her and you will lose it,” Prince Sundar growls, his brothers and guards forming a blockade against the riotous assemblage.

Riveted by the turn of events, no one watches the entrance to the tunnel or the wall of flags, each one strung top-down like a banner. Over my shoulder, I catch sight of Aemon and Sana scouring the stage, wondering where I’ve gone.

The Miridranian and Brisendali flags are next to each other, there in the center, and impossible to miss.

Tucking one dagger into my belt I plunge the other into the Brisendali flag and drag it down, threads ripping apart like a knife tearing through flesh and muscle. I don’t stop until I split it in two, both ends fluttering in the salty breeze, tapered and torn. Behind me, King Rurik asks if any oppose the motion.

When no one comes forward, he says, “It is settled, Illian. By vote, by heritage, and by right, the Miridranian throne is yours.”

His role.

His role, that Illian said he’d play. Unknowingly, after my father no doubt whispered into his ear.

I take the same dagger and jam it through my father’s cap.

And with the blade still stuck in its thick wool fabric, I pin it through West Miridran’s flag, directly into Illian’s golden-threaded chalice.

Chapter Thirty-Four

Idon’t wait for them to see what I’ve done. I run.

Hard-packed sand and shells jab into my soles as I flee for the boats. Voices echo behind me, but I press on, praying King Rurik will understand the message I left for him and the rest of the Gathering.

That his general plots his destruction, alongside Illian.

My guards know I’m missing, so Illian will know it was me—especially when he examines the dagger I left stabbed into my father’s hat. The other, I still carry with me.

I clamber inside a small craft and grab the oars, pushing off into the waves. At least the current drifts south, the wind helping me along. Even still, rowing is no easy task, and the effort burns hot in my muscles, my arms shaking. Mist sprays my skin, cold as ice. A storm is rolling in.

My chest grows tighter with every near-impossible breath.

I must find Anton. Despite what Illian claimed, Anton would not have run.

Steering toward an inlet, I see Copelan and the other performers already there, emptying onto the docks. I watch him, his blond hair tousled by the breeze, the lines of his jaw hard with tension. For amoment, I remember the feel of his arms and the warmth of his skin, and I consider dropping everything and begging for his help. He listened to me once.

But when it mattered most, he did nothing. He didn’t bother to learn if Illian’s accusations were true. He abandoned me for a girl who couldn’t see past Illian’s lies. It hardens something in me.

Copelan disappears behind the palace doors as I tumble from the boat and wade through the water; it’s much higher this time of day, reaching my chest.

My dress catches on the oar.