Page 125 of A Dance of Lies

“I believe you,” I say, rubbing my arms. And I do—especially after last week. “It’s just that I thought the same of his brother, who had me fooled for years. It’s hard to forget that.”

“Illian had many of us fooled for a time,” Gustav says, drawingmy eye. At my quizzical glance, he explains. “I grew up in the palace. My mother and his are cousins, if you can believe it . . .”

“You were raised alongside them,” I say. Illian never spoke of his mother, let alone his past beyond his strenuous relationship with his brothers. And even then, it was cryptic. Small remarks, nothing more.

“Indeed. He was Queen Saskia’s favorite. For a long time, I couldn’t understand why she never favored her eldest.”

At least now we know why; Illian was her eldest by blood.

“But though she doted on Illian, souls, she smothered him, too. She forced him into lesson upon lesson while his brothers galivanted through Miridran in whichever way they so pleased. She practically ignored Anton’s existence altogether. And Illian . . . I don’t think I ever saw him without a book in hand, and by the Fates, even as a boy, he never learned to smile. His whole life was centered around a single purpose: preparing for the throne.

“I remember Anton and I overheard him and Queen Saskia once after he was caught skipping a lesson. It was”—

Gustav counts his fingers—”two years before she passed. She berated him relentlessly. It didn’t matter that Estienne had always intended to step down as crown prince, that everything would go to Illian automatically. That was not enough for her. Illian had to earn it. Prepare. And so he did.”

“But then King Junien split the kingdom,” I say. After all Illian’s hard work.

“Yes, after spending time in Razam with Her Grace. The two grew close—closer than Queen Saskia was comfortable with. She didn’t like it—misunderstood it, even, because it was never romantic. But even she couldn’t convince her husband to abandon his plans before the Gathering took place. She died that year.

“Once the announcement was made, Illian . . . grew bitter.”

In some ways, I understand. Illian thought he was owed Miridran in its entirety. He had prepared for it all his life, to the exclusion of all else. It had beenpromisedto him.

I, too, know what it is like to be raised solely for a purpose—a commodity more than a child. It’s almost enough for me to feel sorry for the boy Illian was.

But not quite.

I think of the attempts Illian made on Anton’s life. I had accused Anton of carousing, and while that is true, his adolescence was also spent simply trying to stay alive. I do not know the nightmares that follow him to sleep, but I suspect they are many. I wonder if they might be as vicious, as numerous, as mine.

I know what it’s like to feel lonely and stifled by the dark.

He’s surrounded himself with good people—Gustav, Laurent, Basile. The company one keeps is an indication of character. Yet I sense that they might not fully comprehend the depth of his pain, and he, in turn, chooses to shield them from it. His brothers, his mother, and even his future wife rejected him, all in their own ways. And with the pressure of a kingdom on his back . . .

“Please, I need to see him,” I say.

“He’s on the balcony off his room last I checked,” Gustav says, a coy smile brimming. “I believe you know where that is.”

The balcony, where he perched me on the balustrade and broke my spiral of anxiety and fear.

Where he said:You are art.

Somehow, I don’t even mind that Gustav knows. I follow the hall, past the empty plinth where the vase I broke once stood, and beyond, into Anton’s bedroom. It’s dark aside from the orange light of the hearth, the doors leading to the balcony spread open. A current of sea air rushes past, carrying the song of softly rolling waves.

I find Anton on a lounge, the breeze toying with his loose hair. He’s propped up, nose buried in a book, a small lantern flickering a soft glow onto the page. A pair of endearing spectacles are perched on the bridge of his nose. Beside him, Ishu is curled on her side, snoring softly.

He’s so engrossed that he doesn’t even notice me.

My heart whirls like a carousel in my chest, a gyre of feelingsthat make it seem like the balcony is tottering beneath me. Like the palace might topple, crumble, and me with it.

I haven’t known him for long, but something about the sight of him dispels the last of my reservations. Here, and perhaps always, he is just a boy. A curious boy who loves to learn, to laugh, tosave.

A boy chased by nightmares, even when he’s awake.

A sly little curve turns his lips without him glancing up. “Enjoying the view, Minnow?”

Embarrassment suffuses me. I wring my hands, idling awkwardly by the door. “It’s been days, Sire. You said you were gathering proof, and I was worried—”

“I have been,” he says, grin softening. “I am. I need another day or two at most, and we have just over a week before the Gathering ends.”