Page 15 of A Dance of Lies

With a wave of his hand, he dismisses his courtiers, and only when the room is empty does he whisper, softly, “My Vasalie.”

I feel the ache of it. There’s a longing in his gaze, one that sends a lick of unease down my spine—a reminder that there must be more to all this, more to why he pulled me out.

He wets his lips, watching my own. An uncomfortable warmth wreathes the space between us. But it’s as if his pride keeps him from crossing that invisible barrier between us.

So what, then? Does he wish me to do it?

I won’t—ever. I step back.

His mouth curls into a frown. “Tomorrow,” he says, his husky tenor betraying him, “you will travel ahead of me to the Isle ofAnell. Once there, we will not associate with each other, as your guise places you from my brother Estienne’s court. Remember, Vasalie, you are a tool through which I will work and nothing more. Do not pride yourself that you have earned this spot on your own merit.”

The more I watch him, the more I don’t believe him. If I were simply a tool, I wouldn’t affect him so. Again, I wonder what his plans are. Fury smolders beneath his lashes, but I ignore it, my expression blank. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Remember my warning,” he says, stepping around me. “One wrong move, one act of defiance, and it’s back to the cell with you. I am watching you, always.”

“I would not wish to displease you,” I lie.

“My instructions will be delivered to you. You need not seek me out.”

All of this I know already, but his reminder whisks chills along my skin. I bow, the flour stirring around my toes.

Then he adds, “I’d like to give you your first one now. I want you to befriend the Gathering’s Head of Staff. I hear he’s a disgustingly kind fellow, so it shouldn’t prove difficult.”

I give him a curt nod, then hesitate. “Is there something you wish me to glean from him, Your Majesty?” It’s difficult not to spit the words.

“His favor,” Illian says. “He is well connected, having been around for years.”

His command is vague, so I nod blankly, poised to turn away.

“And Vasalie,” he says before I can retreat, “after your final task, you will return to me. Your last evening at the Gathering will be spent in the company of my court alone.”

King Illian stands tall against the backdrop of his palace, watching my coach depart for the Isle of Anell. His figure shrinks as thetraveler’s coach glides away, but the warning in his eyes follows me through the twists and curves of the road as the drivers steer us into Lorewood Forest.

A cold shiver traces down my arms, but I focus instead on Brigitte’s words before I left. After packing my bags, she drew me into a hug and whispered, “You’re strong, just like my daughter. Strong where it counts.”

She had heard Illian’s words. I swallowed, pretending to believe her.

Still, I hope my brittle hug conveyed what words could not. She was patient with me, gentle, treating me not like a convict but someone worthy of being cared for. I wish I knew why she isn’t with her daughter in East Miridran. I wish I had asked her more questions, but I will never forget her kindness.

My story for Anell will be simple, and not wholly untrue. It still places me as a dancer who once performed at the Melune—a small, albeit prestigious theater on the border of Central Miridran. There, however, I’m to say I snagged the attention of an adviser in King Estienne’s court, who, after hiring me for a time, secured my audition for the Gathering. The adviser has, of course, been paid off by Illian.

But that story won’t matter if I falter before the Master of Revels. My name might be on a list, but other performers will have twice the stamina, span of movement, and strength. Yet I’m auditioning as a solo dancer, which means twice the pressure.

If I don’t impress him, I will not make it inside the Gathering.

A canopy of leaves hangs over the coach in shades of emerald and gold, filigreed by the glow of a warm, amber sun. It reminds me of the audience I’ll entertain if I succeed: advisers, emissaries, heralds. Not to mention nobles, diplomats, and other court functionaries hailing from every shadow of the north—including the place I once called home. What if someone from my past were to recognize me? I’ve grown up since then, changed my name, but it’s not impossible.Worse, any one of the Crowns could order my head on a platter should I displease them, because I am not under King Illian’s protection. I am not officially tied to him in any way.

Fear presses in on me as the sun shrinks behind the leaves, shadows fringing the coach like a veil of lace, and then the coach is too small, too enclosed, and suddenly I’m in my cell again, imprisoned by yawning darkness. Darkness with teeth, swelling with voices,somany voices—

Freedom never lasts. You’re too damaged for this world.

Broken toy.

Plaything.

It took weeks for the nightmares to whittle down after my release; a month until I woke and understood where I was, why the ground had grown soft beneath me. That I wasn’t falling, sinking into the earth and into some underworld below. That it wasn’t the ground at all but a mattress. Longer, still, to grow comfortable existing once more in a world of daylight—a light that should make me feel comfortable, safe, but instead makes me feel exposed, my broken body on display for all to judge.

It seems I cannot exist in either: the light or the dark.