Page 62 of A Dance of Lies

The tunnels feel longer, dimmer, but I retrace my steps, sure someone is following me, until finally the tunnels spill me back out onto the main one underneath the cellar. This one is dark, full of cobwebs and dust.

A bell signals ten minutes until midnight. I pick up my pace despite the patter of my heartbeat and the way it screams at me to rest, my steps beginning to waver and swerve.

It takes me longer than I expect to reach the outdoors. When finally I stumble out a discreet outer door that blends into the stone, the air is dense and humid from the storm, and the night suffocating and thick. The tunnels have led me underneath the barracks and disgorged me into a formation of rocks and sand dunes near the docks. Even still, a few patrols are scattered along them. I study their rotation, and when I see an opening, I make a run for it, damp sand crunching beneath my feet.

When my heel catches on a rock, I stumble.

A guard pauses his trek along the western dock, right near King Illian’s ship. I don’t move, praying the dune in front of me casts a bold enough shadow.

It doesn’t. The guard walks my way.

I hear the puff of his breath as he draws near.

I have no weapon, nowhere to hide. But my eyes track a small hilt on the back of his boot. If I stay low, I can trip him and pilfer it—because I can’t get caught. Thiscan’tbe it. With quavering hands, I rip a strip of cloth from my tunic.

But when he stops a few feet away, the moon spotlights the emblem on his shoulder.

Illian’s. He gives me a quick once-over then turns, approaching the closest group of guards. “Time to toss the pots, assholes,” he says, drawing two flasks from his jacket. “The evening’s plenty quiet.”

He’s distracting them.

Of course Illian wouldn’t have risked it, not if there was a chance I’d fail.

I dash across the ramp and descend the stairs leading to the captain’s quarters. My calves are screaming, but I knock softly against the door to Illian’s cabin. It parts with a creak, and then I’m looking at a woman twice my age with large brown eyes and dark, ruddy tresses, her skin rosy and freckled like a sea of stars.

“Annais?” I prompt. I expect her to scold me for being late.

Instead, she seems dazed. Frightened, even, as I try her name once more.

Then, as if being ripped from a dream, she snaps from her trance. Offering me a curt nod, she slips out the door and awaits my lead.

“Does she talk?” Laurent asks me, his tall form propped against my door.

I want to know the same thing; I’ve yet to hear Annais speak. Even last night, as we traversed the tunnels and slipped back into my room; even as I offered her my bed and prepared myself a spot to sleep on the floor, cushioned by fabric; and even when I brought her breakfast the next morning, she didn’t utter a word.

It wasn’t for lack of trying. I asked questions. She met each one with the press of her lips. I wonder if she’s meant to watch me. To report to Illian, after I frayed his trust at the banquet. Then, when I awoke this morning, I found her toying with the sewing kit, expertly mending a deep tear in my skirt.

That, at least, was a relief.

“She’s suffered a great deal,” I tell Laurent, dismissing the rising dread in my chest. “Just show her what you need her to do.”

Laurent gives me a wary look, then relents with a sigh. “You’re right. I suppose we all need time to heal, and a second chance.” He gathers a pile of fabric into his hands. “I can take her to the sewing room.”

I want to cry at his kindness. I don’t deserve him. But this is a reminder that I don’t know her past, the hold Illian might have over her. She might be as bound as I am.

Perhaps we aren’t so different.

Chapter Seventeen

“Once again,” I pant, racing after Laurent, “I beg you not to make me do this.”

The past four days, Copelan and I have spent hours rehearsing—so much that collapsing becomes a regular occurrence, as does losing feeling in my feet for hours at a time. My fingers are pricked and calloused from sewing with Annais. Not to mention, Laurent and I have worked tirelessly on a stage environment.

The upcoming dance is meant to honor Razam, and I haven’t forgotten the queen’s words to me. I want to thank her in my own way. But I would never deign to wrap myself in their garments and attempt to tell a tale only they should give voice to, so I had to be creative. How might we revere them when my king refuses to do just that? When he hopes to jerk her into a war?

Perhaps I have spite to thank, but an idea came together in my mind.

I just hadn’t expected Laurent to like it so much. Hadn’t expected him to make me dothis.