Page 99 of A Dance of Lies

It was.

“The absurdity!” King Estienne yells. “This is but a treasonous plot. You will receive nothing, woman, beyond a blade to yourneck.”

Annais shoves forward, pushing to her feet. Her linen smock is torn, fraying along her busted knees. “I have risked everything to come here.Everything,so that I might take you home to where you belong. This,” she says, “is not who you were meant to be.”

“Arrest her at once!” King Estienne demands, looking as if he’s only just managing to hold back from attacking her himself.

“Wait,” implores a voice. The Lord Sovereign of Serai. He cuts through his courtiers, his dark purple robe slung open to reveal the expanse of his smooth, deep brown chest, draped with colorful beads. “She claims she has proof. We deserve to hear it.”

“Let’s have it and be done with it, then,” Illian says dismissively. Like he’s grown bored. “I, for one, would like to retire for a glass of wine.”

Donning an overtly bored visage, Anton asks coolly, “Why’s that, brother? Something to celebrate?”

An accusation. But Illian merely flexes his jaw.

Annais swipes the guard’s grip from her arm, taking a step forward.

She directs the full force of her attention toward King Estienne. “I worked in your father’s palace before the Miridranian territories were split into three. I attended him directly, and after some time, he began to request me each night. His Majesty had just married his queen a year’s previous, but they struggled to get with child. With the mounting pressure from the court to produce an heir, he took me to bed.” Her words feel brittle, as if she’s worn from a fight, but she maintains her conviction all the same. “Once you were born, they wrenched you from my arms. Claimed the queen birthed you. And they turned you into one of them—a Crown raised by gold-coated lies!”

“Ludicrous!” King Estienne hisses through bared teeth. He swivels his head toward the other Crowns. “Have you not heard? She insults us all—”

“Let her finish,” someone says—another Crown, I think—but King Estienne can’t contain his fury.

“I will have her head!”

“Contain yourself, brother,” Illian says. “We must allow her to finish. If she digs herself a deeper grave, so be it.”

Such false camaraderie.

Annais knuckles a curl from her face and takes a shaky breath. “When I became with child, they kept me secluded, cut off from the world—even from my own husband. And the moment I gave birth, I was never allowed to see you again. But I came here to find you and take you home. You are the heir to our clan, Estienne. I can prove my words as truth.”

Her clan.

Clans still exist in the mountains, I remember. After the War of Rites, Mercy, the first Miridranian Queen—who some believe later became the Fate of Morta—granted many of them their lands and allowed them to live in peace.

Annais yanks her tunic back, then turns to reveal the back of her neck, where a large patch of red in the shape of a star marks the base of her spine. “This is a birthmark that’s been passed down through our family for generations. You will have it, too.”

“You have nothing to hide, brother,” Illian says, straightening his lapels. I can almost feel his inward smile, like sludge against my skin. “Remove your jacket and prove this woman false once and for all.”

He knows good and well what we’re about to find; he wouldn’t have brought Annais here if her claim was false. If he didn’t know for certain the birthmark Estienne inherited.

He is about to dethrone his brother.

“Show them, Estienne,” urges King Rurik. “This accusation—it’s a stain on your father’s legacy. How dare you allow his name to be tarnished so?” There’s real fury in his one good eye, and I recall how he’d been mentored by Illian’s father before he took his crown.

The panic in King Estienne’s features is almost enough to condemn him. He throws up a few more feeble arguments, but the Crowns have spoken. They want their proof.

Reluctantly, he turns around. Drags his jacket and collar down.

A collective intake of breath whisks across the room.

The mark is clear and red as a drop of blood.

“I wrote you,” Annais weeps. “I sent a letter when you were sixteen. I sent it through your maid—which put us both at risk. I told you everything I’ve said today. I asked you to come find us when you were of age, but you never came.”

Illian wraps a palm over his mouth, and so ardent he is in his performance that I even see the sheen of tears. “How,” he says, “could you not tell us?”

Then he strides over and yanks the crown right off his brother’s head.