Page 54 of A Dance of Lies

But he quickly recovers, leaning back. “It wasn’t politically expedient to reveal his death at the time, so I put out a rumor that hewas traveling on kingdom business for the last two years. You should thank me for it.”

Is that the real reason he kept me secluded in his wing once he pulled me from prison? Why he didn’t let me wander around the palace? Not because others would wonder why he let a murderer out of prison, but because Illian didn’t want me to find out thatno one knew?

A cold sweat breaks across my forehead; I feel moments away from retching.

“Of course,” Illian adds, too casually, “those two years will be coming to an end shortly, and rumors will start to fly if he does not return on schedule. Should you do as I command, people can easily be convinced that he met with some misfortune while abroad. But if you defy me . . .” He shrugs. “His body is preserved in the icy tundras of Brisendale, frozen and available should I send word to have it returned. And with him are all the letters you two exchanged during your little love affair, letters that will prove you were furious with him when he refused to leave his wife for you.”

“Affair? Letters? I—I never touched him,” I say, my hands numbing. “I never wanted him. Ineverwrote him letters . . .”

“Try to speak against me,” Illian says, “and all I need to do is produce the body and its evidence. Do you think they will take the word of a king, or that of a dancer? The story is rather simple; it writes itself. You left my court of your own volition. Found him during his travels. What a nasty confrontation you had, the two of you, a few weeks before the Gathering. You thought you got away with it. You fled to Central Miridran thereafter, charmed an adviser into garnering you an audition, and here you are.”

I shake my head.

How very prepared he is.

I defy him, and he publicly pins me with the murder, ruining my name before every country in the north.

But why?

Why?

He knows the story is false; he penned it himself. He imprisoned me to make it believable—even to me. And for what? So that I might come here and do his bidding?

Maybe it’s that simple. He wanted Lord Sarden dead for his offense, and he needed a way to control me. Two birds, one stone—but to what end?

“But none of this is necessary,” he adds, “should you be a willing participant. It would be much more pleasant for the both of us if you were. Perhaps we might even find a way to be friends once more. Perhaps,” he says, wetting his lips, “there is an even greater reward at the end—one far more satisfying, if you come to accept your place in all this.”

Is he really so deluded? I bark out a laugh. “Such irony, when I might have spied for youwillinglyonce.” Such lengths he went to, when I might have done anything for him without half a thought.

His hand stills atop the quilt.

And just like that, I am unable to restrain the barrage of emotions I feel for him—the rage, the hurt, the cavity of loss left gaping in my chest. Or perhaps it’s because I am desperate to make him feel something, to make him remember what we could have had—that I would have gone to the ends of the earth for him, had he only hinted that he wanted me to.

“You were myeverything.”

I hadn’t let myself fully accept it amid my devastation, but it’s true. And my adoration might have even blossomed into something more. “I looked up to you. I was devoted to you. I could have evenlovedyou one day,” I go on. The secret smiles he gave only me, the gifts, the attention. The belief he had in me. I flourished under his appraisal. And more so, we had a bond.

Or so I had thought.

“Then you became someone I did not recognize. You ruined what I was. You ruinedme.” I can’t help the hate steeped in that last admission.

His brows notch, and if I’m not mistaken, I see a hint of regret. It’s in the way his lashes shudder against his cheeks, the way his chest rises and falls.

“I wouldn’t expect you to understand,” he says softly. “But one day, you will see that there is a reason for everything.”

Almost an admission. The closest I’ll get.

“A reason, you say.” I glare until his eyes connect with mine once more. “Is it one you are too ashamed to admit? Or is it so vile a thing that words could not possibly convey it?”

His hand closes into a fist, but only for a moment. I wait for him to answer, to snap at me, even. He does not.

He just . . . watches me.

An uncomfortable feeling flits across my skin. I want to wrap the blanket tighter around myself, but I can’t act like a sheep. I fear that if I do, he’ll become even more the wolf.

“Your Majesty,” I say, patience thinning. “I am still unwell. Are you going to inform me of my next task, or may I go back to sleep?”

He stands, folding his arms behind his back. “So charmingly short-tempered. I am pleased to see the Head of Staff spending so much time in your presence. Another job well done.”