Page 30 of A Dance of Lies

My heart speeds when I find the King of Brisendale standing there, and it takes me a moment to remember to breathe. His right eye . . . From afar, it looks so incredibly real, but up close, it’s a little too glossy, the pupil a saturated, winking blue, cut from genuine sapphire.

I force my stubborn muscles into a curtsey. Beside me, Copelan sinks into a bow.

Only when we rise do I remember King Rurik’s request. I jolt and offer my hand, his grip a little too firm when he accepts it. He leads me away, only for Copelan to step in our path once more. “Your Majesty—the dance—I can explain—”

“Step aside, Master Reveler,” he says, his tone edged in ice. “If I require your explanation, I will ask for it.”

Sweat coats my palms. Without a choice, Copelan retreats.

King Rurik steers me toward the edge of the Dome Hall, drawing me into a slow waltz. A veranda fans out beside us, spreading over the island below, where a lambent moon teases the night-dark waves. It catches in his light hair, washing out his features—his pale beard, his frost-bitten gaze. A true frost king. He looks so much like his daughter who, at a glance, still sits with Illian.

Both of them watch us now.

“Quite an invigorating performance,” King Rurik says, recapturing my attention. “But I wonder at your choice of . . .prop.”

For a moment, I think he means my millen dust, but then he spins us, pointing his gaze in King Anton’s direction.

Prop.

“Your Majesty, I’d hoped to spare you,” I say with more confidence than I feel, thankful my own northern accent had faded long ago. “You are too fine to be sullied by dust.”

“Perhaps,” King Rurik says, that sapphire in his eye winking. The other pierces into me like a single, sharpened claw. “But my court is not. With such fine Brisendali men available to join you onstage for a dance meant to honor my country, you leave me to wonder, Miss . . .”

“Vasalie,” I answer him. “Vasalie Moran.”

“Miss Moran,” he says, dropping my hands; this was never about dancing, anyway. “Perhaps you acted a fool, as so many young women do, but such a mistake is uncommon at the Gathering. What with the time and meticulous care put into planning our evenings, I’ve found that choices here are quite deliberate.”

My heart stutters. “I assure you, Your Majesty, I meant no offense—”

“Who put you up to it?”

“You misunderstand—”

His voice is as cold as northern frost. “Never lie to a Crown, Miss Moran.”

My throat dries. He could have me ripped from this room with a flick of his wrist, could have me questioned until I couldn’t remember lies from truth. I swallow my rising dinner, scrounging every corner of my mind for an excuse.

“She’s working for me.”

My head whips around.

King Anton gives the Brisendali king an absurdly innocent smile, swishing the wine in his gaudy, sea-glass chalice. Gold still coats him like a second skin, though he’s wiped the worst of it from his face. “Quite the spectacle, no?”

He doesn’t spare me a glance, but recognition hits me swiftly when I hear the deep, lazy lilt of his voice. He was in the office with Laurent. He was the hooded figure.

King Rurik lifts a skeptical brow. “Surely you don’t intend to make enemies our first night here, Anton?”

“Morta’s teeth, I would never,” King Anton returns, throwing a hand over his heart as if he’s been wounded. “As I’m sure you know, dear friend, the sun is theantagonistof that story,” he points out, and I want to kick myself for not thinking of it earlier. “We would never paint you, or your noble subjects, with such villainy. But surely if you’d have preferred otherwise . . .”

King Rurik holds up a hand, the cruel twist of his lips smoothing out. “I concede; I hadn’t thought of it that way.”

“The fault is mine,” King Anton says dismissively. “I see now why the interpretation was misunderstood. Allow me to make it right. Join my court for a private breakfast tomorrow, and perhaps we can find a way to expedite those shipments of cassava. Maybe I’ll throw in an extra crate or twelve as a gesture of our growing friendship.”

I press my lips together to keep them from tipping open. But then, perhaps I shouldn’t be surprised at the hint of diplomacy King Anton seems to so carefully wield, considering his feat with Queen Sadira.

King Rurik swings an unreadable glance my way, then relentswith a sigh. “Well enough, Anton; consider this matter forgotten.” He lifts a flute from a passing tray. “To the future, and to a successful Gathering.”

“To prosperity and peace and plenty of wine.” King Anton mirrors him with his own chalice. He takes a swig, then places a warm hand on my lower back.