Page 148 of A Dance of Lies

“Eat,” Illian says.

I glare. My place setting is bare of anything sharp, even a fork. “And how am I supposed to do that, exactly?”

“You have hands. Unless you would like me to feed it to you . . .”

Hot fury burns my cheeks. Even if I wanted to, I wouldn’t be able to keep the food in my stomach for long. I’m tempted to eat too fast, then vomit it onto his lap.

But then, remembering Anton, I pry a piece of bread loose and slide it between my teeth, swallowing against a wave of revulsion. Satisfied, Illian angles away, his attention on the guests now offering gifts to the new queen. I scoop a few bites into my napkin and ball it up.

Desert is served soon after—plump peaches doused in cream—during which a small troupe dances, ribbons unspooling from their hands. No one pays them much heed; it is but an idle show with an idle tune, set dressing and no more. Even the torches dim ever so softly, a quilt of stars now visible.

The moon is the real spectacle, however, so large it fills an entire arch from my point of view.

I turn my attention toward the show nonetheless. Dancers bound in front of us, and when they pass, my eyes latch on a dark shape between the columns near the back of the room.

By the look of it, Copelan sees me, too. Recognizes me.

I wonder what he thinks.

He witnessed what became of me in those tunnels, heard every word. And here I am now, at the left-hand side of the very same king, dressed in his silks, flush in his jewels. Like a cosseted princess. An appointed concubine.

I try to read his expression, only to wish I hadn’t.

Disgust. He flames with it.

Even so, I don’t know why it hurts so badly when he turns his back on me and leaves.

I force my eyes down to my plate and fall into the trance of my own thoughts. Nobles flit by, wishing the queen and her husband long life and prosperity. Dishes are cleared, replaced with fresh, crystalline glasses glistening with champagne, but it all passes in a smudge of motion until finally the clink of a toast rattles me back to the present.

It takes me a moment to realize my father and Queen Aesir are standing.

Aesir, for her part, delivers her oration, thanking their guests before holding a moment of silence for the passing of her father. “This season has been more trying than we could have anticipated,” she goes on. “Yet you have wept with us, mourned with us. You have raged with us over the injustices brought about by those who wish to disrupt our hard-won peace.

“But where there was once mourning, there shall be joy and triumph.” She lifts her chin to my father, who lingers at her side. “My father, the honored King Rurik, was blessed to have such a trusted friend, adviser, and mentor as General Stova, and that blessing continues as we welcome him into our family. As such, the title of consort will never fit, and so I am pleased to announce his coronation upon our return to Brisendale.”

Because it’s the only way he was willing to help her dispose of her father.

Not king consort but king, with all a king’s rights and power. The reins of the country, handed over like a scepter.

If the Crowns are surprised, they hide it well, offering a polite sweep of cheers. A smile forms on his lips, broader than I’ve ever seen. It doesn’t suit him.

Or perhaps that’s what bothers me—the genuineness of it.

He knows he’s won.

I clench my fists, releasing a new promise under my breath.

If I cannot defeat him in life, I will find him in death.

The general drops a kiss on his bride’s lips, knocks back his drink, and signals for another glass. And just when I think he’s about to take a seat, he says, “Please rise, all, for we have one more cause to celebrate on this joyous evening.”

Then he turns straight to me.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Everything freezes—my breath, the beat of my heart, even the wind.

My father gazes down at me, and I see now that he knows exactly who I am.