Page 38 of A Dance of Lies

I recall the sculpture I found in the turret, the Fate of Morta’s arm coiled around Eremis like a lover set to kill. “She tricked him,” I answer.

“More to it than that,” Laurent says. “My niece is quite the scholar, see. After Eremis refused Morta’s hand the first time, she sent three prophets to warn him that if he did not humble himself and return to her lair willingly, she would come to claim him.”

The prophets of old; I remember them from Emilia’s stories. Some were devoted to the true Fates, as they called them, refusing to believe the Fate of Morta was a Fate at all. Others dedicated themselves entirely to her service. But a thousand years have passed, and prophets are few and far between. In both Miridran and Brisendale, religion is sparse because of it—more a collection of tales rather than truths.

“Eremis ignored the prophets,” Laurent says, spinning a seashell pin between his fingers before sliding it into my hair, “living as if he were as immortal as the Fate of Morta herself. He spent his days beneath the sheets of married courtiers, thieving valuables, instigating fights until his fists were bloodied stumps. Then he started a war, to no one’s surprise—during which he was slain once more. But, knowing her beauty would not drag him under, the Fate of Morta held up that mirror because, you see, the prophets hadn’t just been sent to warn Eremis but to observe his weaknesses.”

“Are you trying to give me a lesson on vanity? I don’t see what this has to do with King Anton.”

A shrug. “Nothing, perhaps. Or maybe everything.”

A shiver slips down my spine like a winter-chilled wind; even my bones seem to grow cold. But I shake my head. Emilia loved the stories, so I did, too; I even believed them, once. But if the Fates are real, they’ve lost interest and moved on. I owe them nothing, and certainly not my faith, much less my devotion.

They haven’t walked my path. They don’t know my pain. I am but a grain of sand; I matter to them as little as dust.

At that, Laurent flicks the lightest dusting of powder over my nose and tells me I should leave the rest of my face open and bright, but I can’t take his advice. I feel too bare like this, too exposed—especially now that my father stalks these halls. So when he leaves my room with a kiss to my forehead and a wish for good luck, I draw heavy lines of kohl across my lids and sweep gold leaf along the planes of my cheeks.

I wait for Copelan, dreading the moment he walks in, but as the minutes tick by, I can delay no longer. I force myself to stand, a sudden, transient spell crowding my mind with stars. The thought of performing tonight makes me want to sink into the floor.

After slipping on my shoes, I exhale in front of the mirror. The girl peering back at me is neither the girl I used to be nor the girl who emerged from that prison. I don’t recognize her as she slips the vial of poison into the folds of ribbon around her waist.

I don’t know what she is willing to do.

Chapter Eleven

The Miridranian wing is at the other end of the palace, crowning the top of a cliff. The journey alone, which took me across multiple arc passes overlooking the whole of the island, left me weary, breathless. But once I cross its threshold, I find myself slowing for another reason.

This wing is by far the oldest and the most luxurious. Glass mosaics predating even King Junien bedizen every wall, floor to ceiling, each pane encased in copper. They tell stories from every generation of Miridranian Crowns. The most elaborate illustrates the story of Mercy, a healer from the Mirin clan before Miridran was formed. During the War of Rites, Mercy became a renowned medic on the battlefield, healing not only her Mirin allies but her enemies as well. She later became the first Miridranian queen.

Here, Mercy wears a robe and a crown, cloth bandages slung over one arm. She kneels at an altar open to the skies, tears pearling on her cheeks. After her coronation, she was plagued by nightmares about those she couldn’t save, so tormented that she was often found weeping in the chapels.

On the mosaic, Mercy’s story ends there. But Emilia once told me the rest.

The Fates took notice of Mercy’s pure, wholesome heart and bestowed upon her the power to gift the mourning with eternal peace. But the more death she witnessed, the more her heart sickened and swelled, like rotting fruit. The Fates did nothing for the dead, and so Mercy, in her bitterness, convinced one to come near so they might experience what she felt.

But it was a trick. She seduced the single Fate that obliged her, thieving enough of his power to create a Realm of Souls. Some say she even killed him. Drained his soul until he was but a shell.

Many claim that the Fate of Morta, once known as Mercy, uses her stolen powers to tend to the souls of the dead, issuing her judgment to grant peace or peril. But as real as she feels here and now, I remind myself that she’s just a myth, a tale fabricated from history and interpreted through art. Whatever truth her stories have, it matters not. Faith has dwindled. The Fates no longer speak.

And the monsters of this day and age wear flesh and bone.

I find one of them watching me.

I pause before his scene. It’s a younger Illian, kneeling before his subjects. He smiles a plotter’s smile while a priest positions a crown over his head. But it’s his too-bright eyes that give me pause, seemingly lit from within.

It’s as if he’s truly looking at me.

I could almostswearhe is.

After mosaics showing similar scenes for King Anton and King Estienne, the hallway branches in three directions—a newer addition, likely retrofitted from a singular one. A flag embedded into the limestone marks the two on the right as Illian and Estienne’s corridors. I veer toward the left, halting before a set of double doors made entirely of sea glass.

I run my fingers along their granular surface.

While I’ve seen sea glass before, Illian’s pride keeps him from making use of it, and even here, I’ve never studied it up close. While most sea glass is clear if not dyed, the doors before me are opalescent,frosted, as if someone smeared around fragments of sand inside to obscure whatever lies beyond.

Even so, a pair of guards sense my presence. The doors swing open from the inside to reveal the labyrinth beyond.

I stand there, unable to move, trying to make sense of the scene before me.