Page 21 of A Dance of Lies

“How’d you manage that? Copelan was intent on turning everyone away.”

I suck my lips between my teeth. “I can be annoyingly persistent.”

“I keep telling him to pull the stick from his ass, though I suspect if he does, he’ll deflate.”

I bark out a laugh, then touch a tentative hand to my cheek. My laugh, my smile—it’s a small thing, but . . . I’d forgotten what it felt like.

When he returns my smile, I can’t help but ask, “I take it you and Copelan aren’t the best of friends?”

“Oh, he’s decent,” Laurent says. “But I find endless amusement in his glowering displeasure. As for your supplies, I would be happy to help, but you’ll have to have it approved by him first—even given the nature of what you need. The way of things, unfortunately.” He grabs a set of keys, then leads me into the hall. “Can I help you find your rooms?”

“I know where they are in theory,” I say. “But this place is . . . rather overwhelming.”

“To think this one was originally built as a mere summer getaway,” Laurent says, shaking his head. “Miridran and its palaces.”

“There are hundreds, aren’t there?” Of course, many date back to before the War of Rites, before Miridran was consolidated into one nation. Half are in ruins still, while others were renovated into chapels, universities, and the like. “I wonder why they chose this one to host the Gathering?”

Guards skim our path as Laurent leads me down a broad hallway banking off the entrance. “An easy choice, I’d say. It’s on its own island, disconnected from any landmass. I suppose that makes it feel safer. More . . . neutral, even if it’s still considered part of East Miridran.”

Laurent then ushers me into the palace’s main hall—the sheer expanse of it even more spectacular than the entrance. Variegated glass wraps the room in its entirety, patterned to look like a forest at dusk. Fretwork columns partition the space, and between them, pathways spiral upward, soaring to multiple stories hundreds of feet high.

“Beautiful, no? Much of what you see here was built long ago, by our current kings’ ancestors, such as the foundation, the columns, and floors. However, there are many new additions, thanks to His Majesty King Anton. Many of the mosaics, for instance. He spends much of his time here, adding to the construction, even between the Gatherings when the isle is empty.”

Grinning at my expression, Laurent runs a hand over his shaved head, one of his glass earrings catching the light. “And if you think this is grand, you must not have seen his palace in Ansa.”

Ansa, East Miridran’s capital city.

“I haven’t,” I admit, rubbing my arm. Before, I couldn’t imagine anything more audacious than Illian’s palace. But now that I’m here, I feel a bit breathless.

“I hope you do one day,” Laurent says. “It was once Queen Mercy’s palace.”

Queen Mercy—the first Miridranian queen.

Who, according to lore, later became the Fate of Morta.

A myriad of staff members whisk by, each enrobed in their nation’s fashion. Several from Illian’s court have already arrived, as have his guards, stationing themselves around the palace. Their gazes fix on me when I pass.

Laurent angles toward me. “West wing is that way. The fourth landing is reserved for performers. Don’t forget to be in the dining hall by sundown.” At my quizzical glance, he clarifies. “The welcome dinner for the performers is in the southern wing, third floor. I won’t be there, but Copelan will. He’ll be delivering his little speech before seeing how quickly he can vanish.”

After bidding me good luck, Laurent is pulled away by a frantic maid, gesticulating wildly about a chamber pot disaster. He slides me an apologetic look before disappearing around a bend. At least I made a dent in my first task.

I stagger up endless stairs, my chest heaving. Stars pile in my periphery, and several times I’m forced to sit until I regain my vision.

Finally, I find my room nestled in a dark alcove at the end of the hall, almost as if they forgot it existed. I’m not complaining. It’s quiet, and the view is unlike anything I’ve ever seen. The window overlooks a scattering of islands beyond the docks, and past them, the sea is nothing but mirrors and glass, capturing the pink glaze of the setting sun.

I take a deep breath, absorbing the calm before what will surely be a storm.

Chapter Six

The isle comes alive as more and more ships arrive.

Billowing sails pass behind the gauzy curtains of my window that evening: clusters of vessels finding their way to the docks as the sun sinks beneath the horizon.

A wind sweeps low, swirling the drapes around like tendrils of smoke, stirring the plants in the corner of my room. Briny air fills my lungs alongside a flitter of nerves.

My skin is red and flushed from the washbasin and my efforts to scrub the blue powder from my skin. Now, I organize my rolls of fabric and sewing tools on an empty desk, then sort my bags of flours, dyes, and a few other components I plan to experiment with as the last glow of sunset fades and stars dust the darkening sky. After tugging on my leggings, I grab a fresh tunic, twist my hair into a loose braid, and head to find the orientation dinner.

The moment I step outside, I bump into a maid, a stack of linens in her arms. “Miss,” she says, dipping her head, “these are for you. May I?”