Page 141 of A Dance of Lies

But I am not unaware.

My breath echoes in my ears.

If I do this, he wins. My father wins. And how many would later die at their hands? How many will he slaughter in a war? But if I refuse, Anton dies, along with Miridran’s hope for a better king.

My father deserves every foul thing in this world. Every bit of pain and suffering he inflicted on me and Emilia. I should deny him what he wants most: a crown. Power—and not just over Brisendale, but the whole of the north. And Illian—

I can’t let him make me a murderer. I can’t let him have this victory over me.

Because that’s what he wants—victory. Leverage. He could have someone else play this role, but he’s decided it must bemeyet again.

Then there’s the prophecy. Should I aid them in this, I might as well damn the world. I wouldn’t just be complicit, I would be the catalyst.

I should let Anton die, and I should die with him.

“My patience wanes, Vasalie,” Illian says.

Anton is yelling against his gag, inaudible as it is. But I know what he wants. He is telling me to refuse. He is telling me to sacrificehim.

Except, now that I watch him, I’m not so sure.

There’s defiance in that green-gray gaze, but something else, too. The gleam of an idea. A spark of hope. And somehow, I think I understand.

He dips his head in a single nod, as if to reassure me.Yes, Vasalie. You know what I ask.

And I do. I sense it as if he’s whispered it in my ear.

“Kill him,” Illian says, patience discarded. “I’m done waiting.”

“No,” I concede. “Keep him alive, and I will do it.”

Chapter Thirty-Five

Imove in slow, lithe steps, the melody sickeningly sensual and soft.

This soirée, hosted by King Rurik’s emissary the following evening, is a small, private affair, and the only way Illian could get me inside the Brisendali wing. He offered me up like a platter to the salivating older man, who watches me now with rheumy, bulbous eyes.

At least he’s kept his distance, what with his nearby wife and the handful of courtiers lounged about.

King Rurik, however, is not in attendance. I knew he wouldn’t be. So I bide my time, waiting until the courtiers are too deep in their cups, enough that they won’t notice me when I sneak away. It shouldn’t be long now. So with every bend and twist, I am careful not to reveal the katar strapped to my thigh.

The outfit, too, is secured like a bustle underneath my dark, fur-fringed skirt fashioned after traditional Brisendali garb. Despite that, my too-tight bustier manages to squeeze the breath from me every time I shift, sending spurts of pain through my ribs.

I ignore it, rehearsing the speech I’d practiced on the way here, because I will not be killing King Rurik tonight.

Not when I have the chance to warn him instead. I think that’swhat Anton was trying to tell me, that Illian provided me with a way to speak with him in private.

A fool’s hope it might be, but he is still the king who rules the Beast of the North. And he might not listen to a lowly performer, but I am the daughter of his esteemed general.

So I will fall at his feet, beg if I must. I will expose Illian and my father both.

Illian chose the wrong person to do his dirty work. I might not like what happened to me—I might think it unfair—but I can make it so that he rues the day he selected me.

Until then, I count the hours, the minutes, until those, too, dwindle away. And when finally their attention wavers, a boisterous game of tablut afoot, I make my escape down a nearby hall, recounting my instructions. Around the corner should be a sitting room with a balcony directly in line with the king’s private veranda, where Illian assured me Rurik will be—well in his cups this time of night, and alone. A ritual of his, it seems. I am to slip in, complete my task, and leave the katar behind, after which Illian promises to set us free.

I sense the lie as surely as I taste the salt in the sea.

Yet the moment I round the corner, I come face-to-face with a loose-haired, inebriated Princess Aesir. And I’m so surprised that words flee me, even as she rams me up against the wall, her nails at my throat.