Page 146 of A Dance of Lies

I grind my molars. “Where?”

“I am certainly not attending such a prestigious event alone,” he says. “And my, don’t you look lovely. A fine escort indeed. Sana did well.”

Sana approaches, and clutched between her fingers is a sheer red veil. She attaches it to the circlet at the crown of my head, thendrapes it to cover my face. And I know, then, where we are about to go.

Because it’s an honor veil, a traditional practice during a Brisendali wedding. Every woman wears one, save for the bride, so that her betrothed might not see anyone but her as she walks down the aisle.

More specifically, so that my father might not see anyone but the queen who will gift him his long-anticipated crown.

“Vasalie.”

I glance at Anton. He seems to hold my gaze, even through the veil. “Remember what I said.”

Survive.It’s what Emilia told me, too. I swallow against the lump in my throat.

Sana takes my hand and places it atop the silver-etched leather bracer on Illian’s forearm. And even through the leather, I feel the heat of his arm, the subtle movements as he adjusts his weight, and it strikes me how strange it is. I have never held on to him before, never so much as gripped his hand. He feels more human than ever now, a collection of bones and sinew and muscle.

He tilts his gaze down at me, his eyes touching my cheeks, my lips, the skin of my neck. A satisfied smile bends his lips, and he tugs me toward the door.

And as my dress flares out behind me, weighing down each step, and as the pins holding the circlet against my head pinch and prick at my scalp, I can’t help but wonder if Illian does, in fact, know that the general is my father.

Another storm stirs the air, threading a train of leaves into the wind. We stand poised at the precipice of yet another enclosure, a bougainvillea-laced arcade palisading us on all sides. Ahead stands a line of Crowns, waiting between cathedral trellises sprawling with blooms for the announcer to signal our entrance.

I survey the scene through a red screen.

It isn’t unlike the garden where I first saw my father, though much larger. Chaises are scattered across the grass as opposed to chairs, with courtiers strewn across them in all their finery. Petals whisk about, garnishing an aisle that runs toward the far outer wall. There, a flowering espalier spirals on the outer wall like a halo—a perfect backdrop before which a carpet is set, fringed by candles.

“One wrong move,” Illian whispers against my hair, “and he will pay.”

Anton, he means.

The Crowns are individually announced; we are last. The only small mercy is that the name of their escorts are not made known, sparing me from being exposed.

By the time we glide into the garden, all eyes turn to the man they believe is the sole King of Miridran.

I might not know everything that happened in my absence, but with no one to oppose him, Illian’s reign is secure. And here I am, the decoration on his arm.

He guides me to a chaise at the front, mere feet from the carpet, before taking his place in the center of it like a priest. Sana and Aemon linger behind, ensuring I don’t try anything.

A Brisendali man in a white and blue robe enters. I recognize him as Rurik’s adviser—a prelate not dedicated to religion but to the culture and health of his people. The only man who may perform a binding marriage.

The sun hovers behind the clouds and a chill grips my skin, as if the Fate of Morta herself breathes the warning of death into the air.

The start of the Brisendali anthem carries through, weaving a mix of fear and dread around my lungs until I can scarcely breathe.

I don’t turn as my father approaches, though I hear the squelch of his boots.

But when he steps onto that carpet, my gaze is pulled to him like a moth to rotten fruit. He stands there, those cold, soulless eyes pointed back down the aisle.

Does he see her like I do?

Does he remember Emilia standing in a courtyard much like this one, dressed in white fur and pearls as big as snowdrops? Does he remember the vows he spoke to her, the woman he promised to protect? Does he remember trapping her, stealing her away, and then stealing her life?

Is he haunted by her ghost?

I’m trembling, but I can’t look away. Not as a flurry of cerulean silk sweeps by. Not as Queen Aesir stands before him and speaks her vows, led by the prelate. Not even when my father does the same, then leans to kiss her pert, pink lips.

Not even when he faces the crowd in triumph, a king ready to be crowned, cheers rolling over him in waves. I wonder how long before his official coronation.