Page 135 of A Dance of Lies

I flick my gaze to where he sits, and seeing him is like a blow. My skin still stings at the memory of last night.

He smiles when he catches me looking, smiles at the way I fumble a step. Then, deliberately so that I don’t miss it, he slants his head toward Anton’s empty seat.

No.

My heart slams my pulse into a frenzy. Anton, my one chance at justice. Freedom. Miridran’s only hope for a decent king—

Illian has captured him, somehow. He shows it to me in that smug, satisfied smirk.

I don’t see Gustav, either. Or Basile.

I can’t catch my breath. Copelan notices. He spins away, drawingthe audience’s attention with him. The dancers play along, and I’m grateful, even if it isn’t for me; a poor performance would reflect on us all. Attackers ready themselves in the bushes to ambush Copelan when the music swells. I have precious minutes to compose myself and finish my act and then . . . then I will make a plan. I will find Anton. Somehow.

Breathe.

But Laurent and Gustav. Are they safe?

I can’t . . .can’tlet Illian win. I won’t let my father win. I willnotlet him claim the Brisendali throne for himself. Anton and I are the only ones who overheard their plot, and that means no one else can stop it. And if something happened to Anton, it’s up to me.

I must warn King Rurik.

A loud clash, and Eremis falters, slain once more. His attackers were swift, precise, and once more, the stage transforms back into Morta’s Lair. I drop the dusky cloak to reveal Anton’s creation: the gown of stained, molten glass—with a crown to match.

I feel the intake of breath like a drop in pressure.

For the second time, Eremis awakes in a bath of fog, souls chanting around him. Azure light focuses in on me. Copelan pulls himself up, only to freeze.

This time, he does not see me. Because there, in my dress, my crown, the mirrored sea-glass mask I slid into place, he finds his reflection gazing back at him. Just like the statue from the fountain.

For the second time, I stretch out my hand.

Eremis, whose face do you see?

Let’s see how easily you are deceived.

Our hands link, his heady pulse thrumming against mine. Souls bound around us, exuberant in triumph. We have bested an arrogant man, and we intend to feast. I drag Copelan deeper, deeper, spinning us lower and lower in the center of the stage until the mist swallows us whole.

The music settles, and applause breaks out, only to be overpowered by one slow, thunderous clap.

Illian is impossible to miss, his slim, crimson doublet trimmed with diamonds, his smile like that of a cat. He continues that clap, loud as the clank of a blade against steel, as he joins us onstage.

“Extravagant, as always,” he says. “Alas, I have an announcement that cannot wait.” His tone fails to hide his eagerness as he strides toward me, his gaze roaming where his hands itch to, until it clings to the glasswork details of my dress.

His smile falters when he realizes who made it.

Good.

“First and foremost,” he calls out, his expression one of concern as he turns to his waiting crowd. “I wish to convey the depths of my gratitude that you have all chosen to attend the Crowns’ Gathering. It is a show of dedication to the greater good of our world; we better serve our people by setting aside our differences to strengthen our relations and forge new ones. Miridran has always been proud to host such an occasion. And to honor that spirit, I vow to deliver the truth, no matter what imprecations it may bring against me.”

My stomach swims with dread. Anton is still missing. King Rurik, on the other hand, sits next to my expressionless, deceiving father.

“My father once said that Miridran is like an evergreen tree. We remain strong season to season, but to do so, we must shed our weakest branches—those brittle with mold and corruption. We witnessed such an occasion last week with the heartbreaking news of Estienne’s deception and illegitimate claim, yet I am afraid I have even more disturbing news. Our host, and my younger brother, Anton Orvere, Crown of East Miridran, is not so benevolent as I believed.”

Murmurs spread, yet Illian barrels on, “As much as I wish to deny it, I have learned that he has used the Gathering as a way to plot against us all.” A guard approaches, handing him a bundle of letters. Illian holds them up, each one sealed with a pool of emerald-green wax.

And the imprint of Anton’s seal.

“We intercepted a series of correspondences from Anton himself to Queen Sadira. Razam intends to cease all weapons trades with Brisendale,” he says, “and Anton intends to replace them with newly forged weapons from sea glass—weapons he has thus far restricted to his own use. Not only has he undermined a ten-year trade agreement we signed into operation during the last Gathering, but he has since transported illegal weaponry. Such astonishing findings have left me no choice but to expose his schemes.”