Page 53 of A Dance of Lies

Light flares once more against the smooth stone of my walls, offeringme a better glimpse. He’s shrouded in a black cloak, shadows pooling around his eyes, though his hair is still styled back from the day. A low growl hums then, from beyond the window, faint as the vestiges of my dream. The storm was real, it seems, but not nearly as violent.

I draw in a heavy breath.

Silence yawns.

Illian sighs, resting his hand next to my leg, just above my quilt. “Have you recovered? I heard you were ill, and I was worried.”

He knows what I’ve done.

He has come to punish me.

Fear squeezes my lungs in a choke hold, but I manage, “Almost recovered, Your Majesty.”

Two days have passed since I woke up in Anton’s wing—two days spent in bed, healing from the effects of the poison, which kept me in a feverish ebb and flow until earlier in the night, when the fever broke for good.

Rivulets of rain drizzle down the pane of my window, thunder still rattling the outside air. For a breath, all I can see is the whites of his eyes.

His lips quirk. “Either you were foolish or brilliant.”

I draw an uneasy breath. “Your Majesty?”

“Tell me, Vasalie. Did you realize what I gave you was cut by duskbane, making it safe for you to consume so that you might, too, play a victim? Or,” he says, his fingers sprawling out like a spider, “did you mistake the poison for straight bellamira and try to spare the man by consuming half his dose?”

Duskbane. A rare root that tames the effects of bellamira. I only just resist loosing a breath and coat my response with frost. “I wouldnotrisk my freedom for a man I hardly know.”

Only, that’s exactly what I did.

Get to know your opponents. You may find you like them better than you do your allies.

I loathe Anton for those words, for the way they infected my thoughts. All I could think about was how I would be depriving a sick girl of her kind father—a rarity in this world.

But I had to find a way to complete my task. Ihadto.

Only, if Illian is to be believed, the poison wouldn’t have killed him anyway—not if it was tempered by duskbane. Illian never intended him to perish. My effort was pointless, and now Illian has reason to doubt me.

I am of no use to him if he can’t trust me.

Was this a test, then? For him to see what I might be willing to do? But that doesn’t make sense, either.

“I want to believe you,” he murmurs. A sigh, and then, “Regardless, it was a success, and I have what I need.”

I have what I need.

If he didn’t want Gustav dead, then what, exactly,didhe need?

Again, I feel like I’m missing something. My mind spins through the events of the banquet, but I can’t seem to focus under the intensity of his gaze.

Then I remember something else, something Gustav had said.

Perhaps you’ve heard of him? Eduard Sarden and his wife, Anita. He’s been traveling on Crown business . . .

Wouldn’t Gustav have heard about Lord Sarden’s death, particularly if they were friends? The death of a lord is no small thing. And yet Gustav had said he was traveling.

I think of the time I spent in Illian’s palace. Donatette’s reaction. The attendants, too—not once did I hear a whisper about the crime I was supposed to have committed. Brigitte was the only one to mention it.

“No one knows what happened to Lord Sarden, do they?” I say. “No one knows he was murdered.”

And there, a crack in his composure. It’s in the twitch of his lips, the slight widening of his eyes.