Page 47 of A Dance of Lies

Lord Sarden.

Lord Sarden, who is dead, except Gustav doesn’t know, somehow. Thinks he’s . . . traveling? And now Gustav is next in line for Illian’s noose . . .

I focus on breathing. On standing, even.

A server offers us wine. My glass is full, untouched, but he refreshes Gustav’s. Gustav claps him on the back, thanking him, and tips the cup to his lips. My pulse drums in my ears. King Anton’s words swarm in my mind, but I keep to my decision.

I drink from my own glass.

The poison has no taste, but my tongue curls all the same. I finish half the glass, a spasm contorting my stomach a moment later, but I’m unsure if it is from the poison or the near-constant nausea that haunts me. Still, I feign a stumble. As intended, Gustav catches my arm. He collects my glass, worried it might spill, and places it on the table behind us along with his own.

I wish he was not playing into my hands.

“Here, let’s find you a seat—” he says.

I shake my head. “I’m quite all right, My Lord. I merely drank too fast.” I offer him a sheepish grin.

“You’re quite certain?” He’s wary.

“A dizzy spell,” I say. “Not unusual for me.” That, at least, is true. Even so, I feel the poison at work. My head swims giddily, my vision hazing. Nothing worse than usual. Yet.

I turn and select a flute, handing him the other. “I want to thank you—for everything. Tonight was easier by your side.”

He bumps my shoulder softly. “I’m glad I could make you feel welcome.”

“Another toast then? As you said.” I lift my glass. “To a new friend indeed. And to your family’s health.”

His grin is as bright as the prisms around me. It reminds me of Laurent’s—achingly pure. In short order, we finish the contents of our glasses, colors falling in front of us like rain. An overture, along with the music. It’s as if we’re standing in a summer shower, like those back in Miridran. It almost distracts me from the growing weakness in my limbs as my insides curdle more violently now.

I wonder what Gustav will feel—how much worse it will get.

The show drifts to a close.

The lights wink out.

Gustav’s brows knit, confusion contorting his gaze, and guilt roils through me. He staggers on his feet, his gaze then sliding toward me. He opens his mouth—

And drops to his knees.

Chapter Thirteen

Ifall with Gustav, strength leaving me in a similarwhooshas my knees slam against the limestone floor.

Mind whirling, I shout for help—though my tongue is growing thick and ungainly in my mouth. My heart is a hammer against my ribs. A blur of guests rush over. Gustav’s eyes peel open, but they’re foggy, like breath against glass. Then Anton is there, a commotion of shadows crowding around us. He drops to hold Gustav’s face, then bellows, “Get my physician. And water—now!”

Gustav mumbles something. I pale as I notice his ashen face. I long to reassure him, to tell him that he will be all right, but I can’t shape the words in my mouth—

Shouts scatter my thoughts. Anton, barking commands. A servant hastens over with a pitcher of water, only to stumble, trip. It sluices over the king. The servant apologizes profusely, whisking a large rag from his apron, dropping to pat the king dry while another rushes forward with more water. Again, a blinding pain knots beneath my ribs, and I find my gaze catching on the first servant. Long hair, bound at the nape, a mole underneath his left eye.

Blood freezes in my veins.

I’ve seen him in Illian’s court. I know I have. He’s one of Illian’sattendants. With his rag, he dabs the king’s chest, arms, but Anton is too distracted, too focused on Gustav.

I force myself to concentrate, and that’s when I notice it. Something underneath the rag, though I can’t see what. The king shakes him off. “Where in the souls-damned palace is Karis?”

“Here!”

A woman swathed in white breaks through the commotion. A physician, I think. She ambles to Gustav’s side while the servant makes his escape. But before he leaves the room, our eyes lock.