Page 70 of A Dance of Lies

I could have stopped him long before he came here. I could have returned, told the world the truth of who he is. What he did. More so, I would have been under Illian’s protection as his Jewel. And now it’s too late. I’m but a puppet, like my father said I would be.

Unless—

Unless I clear my name. No one would believe the words of a convicted criminal, but once I’m free of Illian, the daughter of General Maksim Stova could tell the world the murderer he is. I’m the only one who knows the truth of Emilia’s death, the only one who knows the demon he tries to hide. If I survive this Gathering, I could expose him.

Because he doesn’t deserve death; that’s too kind. No, I want him to rot in a cell like I did. I want him to think of me and Emilia every day for the rest of his life. I want our voices to taunt him in the dark.

This is what I should have been planning all along, ever since I was released. But I thought he was far out of reach. Instead, he’shere, violent and cruel as ever—the hounds master of the Beast of the North.

And he’s been delivered straight to me. Or me to him.

No.

I will take everything from him.

I will ruin him.

Chapter Nineteen

Back in my room, I dig, frantically, through my half-unpacked bag. I leaf through clothes, face paints, and undergarments until I find it.

Emilia’s glove.

I squeeze my eyes shut, pressing the pads of its fingers to my lips, and there I make a promise to do what I didn’t before. I make it into a song, a prayer, a plea. I beseech any Fates who might listen, because I might be the only one who can wrench power from my father’s grip.

This time, when I tuck away the glove, I tell Emilia that promise. I vow to take back what is rightfully ours.

Our home. My status. Everything she wanted for me. I will clear my name and reclaim my title, not as the King’s Jewel, but as the heir to House Stova.

And I will banish her murderer into the never-ending dark.

Illian deserves a similar fate. But this would be a small revenge in itself, because if I’m right about my father pressuring King Rurik to ignite a war, Illian’s plans might be thwarted with him gone.

It isn’t much. But it’s all I have because I need Illian. I need him to seal my release.

Laurent finds me while I’m assembling my costume for tonight. It’s a stretch of black taffeta, belted with a braided silver band. As I fit myself into it, he helps me loop the intricate ribbons along the back while telling me about the raid on King Estienne’s envoy.

“They say bandits attacked before he and his men reached the coastline in the dead of night. A huge number of them, too, enough to ransack every last carriage.”

Laurent then tells me to be cautious. Nothing extravagant in my dance, no stunts with the audience. “Vasalie, King Estienne is one to be feared. Not only did he capture every last raider, hence the delay, but he brought themhere.Sixty of them, imprisoned in his corridor. Not in the dungeons but his personal hall. My staff—they hear them. Screams, things from nightmares. Understand me when I say to get in, do your job, and leave. I loathe that Copelan is sending you in the first place, but everyone else is assigned to other posts.”

Of Illian’s two brothers, I’ve heard the least about King Estienne. Mere mentions between the bat of a fan. Mostly that he’s a recluse, secluded in his own lair. But toy with him, and he’s dangerous. Vicious, like a viper’s strike. One of Illian’s attendants who apprenticed in the Miridranian army alongside King Estienne once told me that, when they were young, their captain found sport in playing with the young prince—pissing in his tent, stealing his clothes, even letting his comrades knock him around. To thicken his skin, the captain claimed.

Until Estienne torched their camp, made it look like an accident, and killed fifty men in the process.

Cold settles against my bones as I enter his halls. It doesn’t help that I’m particularly weak tonight, what with the overexertion of the last few days. And perhaps I am mistaken, but when I pass one of Illian’s guards, I swear I see a frown crack her blank expression, as if she’s surprised to find me headed in this direction. Even so, I keep onward until King Estienne’s doors swing open and I’m permitted entrance into his nest.

Puddles of violet light hover high above from stained sea-glass sconces, limning the heads of the near-silhouetted guests. Aside from that, the room is as dark as the black basalt walls, and spherical, like a cavern. Like what I imagine Morta’s Lair might look like. And the centerpiece—a throne of obsidian quartz—looms at the far end.

In it rests a figure in black velvet and leather, a foot propped up on one knee, a goblet resting idly in one hand as he partakes in a conversation to his right. A single red glow from a pendant chandelier above catches the ominous steel crown wrapping his brow, and only when my eyes adjust can I see him more clearly.

The King of Central Miridran looks almost nothing like his younger brothers. His eyes are dark and deep-set, like Illian’s, though his face is covered with freckles that look like shells in the sand, the same hue as his deep, flaming locks. Even seated as he is, I can tell he’d tower over the room, his legs long and sprawling.

Something about him is familiar, however, though I can’t figure out what.

Laurent told me they would call for me when I’m needed, but so far, I’ve gone unnoticed. Serving boys flit back and forth, ferrying bowls of blood-red grapes and trays of drinks between guests. A discordant melody winds around me, low and vibrating. Textured, like the brush of snakeskin. Like the hum of chapel bells during a storm, and there’s no set tune.

Nor can I see where it’s coming from.