Page 2 of A Dance of Lies

King Illian.

Like the swing of an axe, his face cleaves into my mind.

The sharp, marble cut of his jaw.

The sleek sheen of dark curls.

The endless black of his eyes, and the way they always glittered when they beheld me, save for that last time.

That last time.

Illian.

His name is like the stab of a nail, straight into the cavity of my chest. I pull in a breath, feeling the ghost of a puncture in my lungs.

Part of me has begun to wonder if he was a dream. A wonderful one, then a terrible one. A phantom I cannot shake.

He’s sent for me.Why?

I remember . . .

What do I remember?

That I was to live out my days in isolation, half mad, until I finally succumbed to the horrors of this fates-forsaken place. But . . . perhaps they need the cell? Perhaps I am too expensive a prisoner?

No. If the king wants me, it isn’t to spare a cell.

“The hair will smell the worst. Throw this over her head,” one of them says. “At least until she’s back within the palace walls.”

The cell door jerks open, smearing a fan of dirt across the flag-stones. Armored boots come into view between my snarled, honey-brown strands.

One guard blocks the doorway as if I could run, while the other reaches for my arm with a gauntleted hand. A click, and my shackles separate from the main chain. A frisson of fear sets my limbs to trembling. I press my back against the jagged wall, but he wrenches me up with merciless intent.

Sudden dizziness tilts my equilibrium. But I’m held upright, a sack shoved over my head.

Daggers of pain embed themselves into my joints. My knees give way as I’m forced forward. My palms meet stone, my brittle bones quivering as though they might fracture. A cry hisses from between my teeth, my voice scraped raw.

“Let’s go,” says one of the men, hauling me up again. With a sigh, he gives me a moment to stabilize, to figure out how to balance once more.

Some weeks ago, or perhaps months—time has lost all meaning now—the warden reset my shackles. Until then, I was able to move around. A comfort I took for granted. I could stretch, lie down on the plank I used for a bed. I could feel around my cell, keep myself somewhat tethered to reality. Then came the warden, grumbling about the constant, annoying clank of my chains.

He tightened them after that. Removed several links, so that I could barely shift at all. Gone was the ability to stand.

Cool air stipples my skin as we slowly, painfully traverse the prison halls. Alarm ripples through me at the severity of the pain.

It’s as if my weathered body can no longer hold what little weight I have left.

My muscles have atrophied. My strength is nonexistent. Eventually, my legs go numb save for a relentless, itching tingle, the pain like the stab of a thousand pins.

I’ve lost the body I’d earned, crafted through years of dancing, and now I struggle to remain upright. It is by the guards’ strength alone that I make it up the stairs, both men heaving me upward from beneath my armpits.

Again, that grind and screech of metal, this time much closer. Then light washes over me like a warm breeze; even the sack over my head glows orange.

Warmth.

A sudden, unexpected tear tracks a line down to my chin. For so long, I’ve felt nothing but a gaping, cold hollow, both outside and in.

And I realize I cannot go back. Not ever. Whatever the king wants from me, I willnotreturn to that cell.