Page 27 of A Dance of Lies

After them, three other large processions sweep through, starting with Zar, an island that doesn’t have a king, but instead a prince whose law dictates him too young to be crowned for another year. Kasim is next, whose ruling council enters together, consisting of their sultan and three ministers. And finally, the Karithian islands—a thriving archipelago of smaller nations northwest of Miridran, represented by several lieges.

The melody then shifts into an anthem I know all too well as King Rurik of Brisendale stalks inside.

I don’t realize how tense I am until Copelan breaks my concentration with a hand on my waist, only to notice the way I’ve bunched my fists. He peels them apart, finding the welts I’ve created. “What’s this?”

“Nerves,” I answer, but it’s only partly true.

He follows my gaze, to where King Rurik takes his place among the Brisendali court, and nods. “We’ll especially want to please them.”

It makes sense. Brisendale, commonly called the Beast of the North, is the largest and most influential nation next to Miridran. Not only do they supply ninety percent of the weapons across the northern nations thanks to rare metals found in their mountains—half the north is deeply indebted to them for it—but their army is unmatched. Twice the size of Miridran’s, if not larger. At least they’ve kept to themselves despite the rumored appeals from the southern lands to encroach on Razam’s territory.

But aside from slight tensions over Anton’s weapons development freeing East Miridran from Brisendali dependence, Miridran and Brisendale have always been at peace. King Rurik was mentored by Illian’s father, King Junien, before he died from scrofula.

I sneak another glance at King Rurik. I’d only seen him a handful of times before I left Brisendale. He was younger then, but he wears his age well. He could pass for thirty, though he’s well past forty. Yet even now, I can’t help but search his eyes. From here, I can’t tell which, but one of them is fake. He’d lost it long ago thanks to a sparring accident, or so I was told. I remember noticing it the first time he visited my father at our home, before Emilia swept me away and out of sight.

Copelan watches him, too, his lip caught between his teeth. I wish I could pluck the thoughts from his head.

I wonder if, like me, he’s working for someone.

I let my gaze fall over Copelan, now that his attention is elsewhere. Gone is the stiff-backed Master of Revels, and in his place is a figure from lore. A performer in every sense, from his tousled, flaxen locks to his gold silk tunic and ivory satin pants. His brows pull into a dark slash, such a contrast to the citrine flash of his eyes.

I force myself to look away.

Another twist of melody brings in the Queen of Razam, her deep amber skin flawless in her golden gown, her night-dark lockswoven through with ribbons. Seven men flank her, each garbed in black, with a sun emblem sewn onto their shoulders. Vicious tul-wars crisscross on their backs.

“Her sons,” Copelan tells me, his breath skimming my ear, but I can’t tear my eyes from the queen. I envy her poise, the way her chin is lifted, her hard obsidian eyes raking across the room as if measuring her prey.

“It’s a miracle she’s here,” Copelan murmurs. “I heard she almost didn’t come.”

I heard that, too, though it’s unsurprising. During my time at the Melune, Razam and Miridran were well on their way to war if relations weren’t repaired—something about the queen vehemently rejecting Illian’s aid against the threats from the south. It was all anyone talked about: whose children would volunteer for the army, what the draft age might be if it was implemented. Rumors stirred of Razami soldiers gathering along the edge of East Miridran.

But then King Anton traveled across the border with only two of his soldiers, supposedly as a show of peace—or foolishness. He met with Queen Sadira, and not only convinced her to cease the brewing war but to open trade with Miridran.

To this day, no one knows what he said to her.

Even now, I’ve heard she refuses to so much as speak to Illian. I bet it’s because she can see straight through him.

A lyre joins with the stringed instruments and I stifle a breath, knowing what’s coming.

The three kings of Miridran.

It should come as no surprise when Illian steps through the portal first, magnificently appareled in a midnight brocade with diamonds up to the collar, lest anyone forget his trade. His eyes are dark, vast, a slight, arrogant grin tucked into the corner of his lips—something only I might notice. Even so, the atmosphere itself seems to shift, even the light chatter ceasing.

My stomach turns as he strolls farther into the room—alone, unlike the other Crowns. No courtiers, no generals. Not even anadviser. A small assemblage of his court awaits—his seasonal selections, who will no doubt be discarded like I will be soon enough.

He selects a seat directly in my line of sight—the only member of the audience who can see a sliver of backstage.

And when he smiles, a chill snakes down my spine, because that smile isn’t for those around him, no.

It’s for me.

His eyes lock onto mine like a hook, even as an announcer from Central Miridran gives his condolences; King Estienne, Illian’s older brother, was delayed in his journey and hasn’t yet arrived. It strikes me as odd, but I can’t focus on it, not when King Illian’s gaze still holds mine. He slides his hand to his belt and pats it twice, then raises a brow, and it takes me a moment before I understand. I move my hand to the ribbon around my waist, and there, next to my satchel of millen, I feel it. A small, rolled parchment tucked into the silk.

I glance about, but no one aside from Copelan is nearby. And he couldn’t be under Illian’s employ—not after the test he put me through.

Hiding the parchment from Copelan’s view, I unspool it near my waist and skim the letter. It’s written in Illian’s hand, just like the first note I received.

Tonight, pay my brother Anton special attention. Secure an invitation to his private dinner tomorrow evening as his entertainment by whatever means necessary.