Page 163 of A Dance of Lies

Anton.

“Give me one day,” he relents, and my heart seizes. “One day with my court, before you claim that piece of me for yourself. Then we have a deal.”

No,I try once more.No—

Her smile is a wicked, lovely thing. “How long I have waited for you.”

A blink, and then I feel myself fall.

Chapter Forty-Three

Iopen my eyes to starlight.

I must be in the heavens, nothingness swept around by the winds of an open void, because there is no pain.

Except my body responds, and the pain returns slowly, like the stitch of a needle. I lift my hand to eye level, turning it slowly. It isn’t transparent; it’s flesh and bone. And I am not floating. I’m lying in a bed. Curtains quiver in a balmy breeze.

I ease up, hands digging into a white nightdress, memory coalescing in my mind.

My soul, adrift.

The Fate of Morta.

Green eyes between blurry blinks, low murmurs breathing my name.Vasalie. Wake up.

Anton.

Had I dreamed it? It must have been a dream.

But then, I remember dying. The feel of falling, breaking, yet my bones aren’t shattered. I feel like I always had before, familiar aches lancing my nerves.

I scramble from bed, not knowing where I am. I totter forwarduntil I reach a wide window on the far wall. Leaning my weight on the sill, my eyes widen at the view.

Miles of sand ripple before me. Not the sand of the Miridranian beaches but yellow thick-grained sand, eddying across tempered dunes. My heart speeds. I turn, examining my surroundings. Sand-colored walls encompass a white bed, and underneath, a vibrant rug depicts jungle cats threading between jewel-colored trees. Otherwise, the room is empty, save for an arching door.

I stagger into the adjoining room. It’s darker, a scattering of tasseled pillows strewn across a heavy rug. A table hitches against a wide window, complete with a pot of tea and two stoneware cups. Then a figure, perched on a chair—

“Vas?”

I jump, crashing into the potted plant next to me.

With a hearty laugh, the figure rises from his chair and bounds toward me, scooping me into a hug. “Vasalie, souls above. You’re awake!”

Laurent. The sound of his voice pulls a sob from my chest. I squeeze him into a hug then ask, “What’s happened? I remember dying. And I saw her, Laurent—”

“I know,” he says, but he doesn’t understand.

“Anton. Where is he—”

“Come,” he says, gently taking hold of my arm. “I know you want answers, but this story isn’t mine to tell. I will take you to someone who can.”

I follow on unsteady feet. “At least tell me where we are?”

He pauses, looking back at me. And when he answers, his smile lights up the room. “Vasalie, welcome to Razam.”

The door swings open, and I lose my breath.

It’s similar to the room I’d found in the tunnel all those weeks ago, though larger. Several paintings—impossibly realistic, imposed on some sort of glass—hang along the sandstone walls, lit from behind. And yet the images look familiar. There’s some of my father, of Illian. His room, his desk.