Page 4 of A Dance of Lies

Then, when I was sprawled on the floor like a puppet unstringed, he flicked his wrist so subtly I almost missed it, and his guards heaved me away. A reminder that no amount of hard work, wealth, or status can protect you from the wrath of a king. It didn’t matter that I was his most esteemed dancer, his prime performer, his choice—alwayshis choice—of entertainment.

The King’s Jewel, they called me.

But that girl was someone else entirely. And like a mirage in a desert, I question if she ever existed at all.

And yet he sent for me.

The attendants give nothing away, going as far as to avoid my gaze. My arms and legs are shoved into clean garb: this one a shift of plain white cotton that reaches my knees, cinched at the waist by a rope.

I try not to look at my reflection in the pool, and fail.

I feel numb as I gaze at the unrecognizable waif before me. She barely looks alive, her eyes sunken, her frail form hunched like a hag as the attendants wrestle her frayed, waist-long locks into a pitiful braid.

When I’m deemed acceptable, the guards reenter. I hadn’t even known they had left. Their grip on my arms is punishing now.

Before they lead me away, a new woman strides inside the chamber. She’s middle-aged and fitted in a high-collared gray velvet dress that washes out her pale skin, her red-brown tresses tucked into a chignon.

It startles me when she looks directly into my eyes.

Like I hadn’t spent the last however long in prison—and for murder, no less.

“I’m Brigitte,” she says, matter-of-fact. “Have they given you something to eat?”

“We were instructed to take her directly to King Illian,” says a guard, hooking the shackles back around my wrists. “We cannot delay.”

“Fates above, look at her! She can barely stand,” Brigitte says, noting my wobbling legs. “The least you could have done was had something simple prepared. Can’t think for yourself, the lot of you,” she harumphs before spinning on her heels and following us out.

I’m pulled into a vast hallway and led to yet another achingly familiar set of ornate double doors, these guarded by no less than ten armored men.

They swing wide at our approach.

Three wings unfold beyond expansive archways. The center is for private entertaining—where I’d spent most of my days. The far right is for his personal guard and staff, where I had dwelled in a small but gilded apartment that overlooked the gardens. Even now, a painful recollection paints itself in the canvas of my mind—ivory plasterwork filigreed in gold, a tall bay window, flashes of cherry red roses dancing in the breeze just outside.

My haven.

All over again, I feel the loss of it like a melody I can no longer hum.

But it’s the third arch, far on the left, that we enter.

A knot of pain hitches up my throat, each encroaching memory more devastating than the last. These are King Illian’s personal quarters, where we lounged for hours after his soirées, night after night, battling it out over chess, sampling cheeses, fruits, wines, usually in his study—

With a start, I realize that’s where we are now, right outside his office.

“Wait here,” says Brigitte, entering alone—no doubt to announce my presence.

The sound of birdsong pulls my gaze to my left, where a wide, arched window is open to reveal the vast forest sprawling beneath the palace and the hazed, blue crescents of the Galan Mountains inthe distance. Clouds have swept in since I was released, bringing with them a fresh shower of rain. A few magpies dip underneath the eaves for shelter.

They play, and it looks like dancing.

It looks likejoy.

The sight sends another spear of longing through me, and for once, my knees want to buckle for a reason other than pain.

I’d forgotten what real beauty was. What really existed beyond the walls of that prison.

I’d forgotten the simple things, like the scent of rain, the feel of water, the sound of wind.

The artistry of nature.