Page 6 of To Dance with Death

“Watch your tongue. Razam has not yet been convicted by the Syndicate. Have them searched if you must. They are no threat. And be quick about it. I will not ask twice.”

Finally, and with begrudging reluctance, Mr. Perov leads us—along with a bevy of guards at our backs—from the vaulted entryway through the western passage, and finally to the king’s war room. There are more guards in varying armor standing sentinel outside the large double doors.

Inside that room, it is clear that my father believes everything isgoing to plan. He’s found a way to benefit from the events of the Gathering, despite Illian’s death. In fact, I don’t believe he ever intended to let Illian live. He would have found a way to kill him once we were wed, thinking to control me. Or perhaps it was me he would have killed, once I provided Illian with an heir.

He was always going to find a way to control Miridran if he couldn’t take it for himself. The same goes for the rest of the Syndicate—one nation at a time—if he isn’t stopped.

It’s that thought that spurs me forward, but Mr. Perov steps in front of me. “My lady,” he says, “you may not enter without being granted entrance. I will go inside and announce you. Then we will see if they decide to tolerate your presence.”

He disappears inside.

“That man is very small and really mean,” Sundar says with the corner of his mouth.

Then we hear the voices, muffled but loud.

The fortress, old as it is, was never insulated well. All three of us—Copelan, Sundar, and I—go still, as if to silence the rustle of our clothing, though remaining immobile is difficult with the pressure on my weak, aching joints. It takes everything in me not to shift and sway, and instinctively, I hold my breath.

“…and as you can see by the ring, this is clearly Maksim alongside Illian—”

“Just so we are understanding,” says another voice—whom I place as the Lord Sovereign of Serai thanks to a deep, western accent—“are you telling us that King Illian’s plan was to overthrow his brothers and become the sole king of Miridran, with King Maksim’s help? And Maksim, in return, would ensure Illian’s success?”

“I am,” responds Gustav. “Thestillsprove their conspiracy throughout the Gathering. As you can see, they met not once, not twice, but multiple times, all in secret. That, in addition to Illian’s forgery using Anton’s seal. As you can see here, Ilian is clearly holding a replica of Anton’s sigil, and here he is using it—”

“This is preposterous!” my father thunders, and I feel as though the sound quavers my very bones. “Who is to say Anton’s technology can even be trusted? That this whole thing is not some elaborate forgery? Are we forgetting that he deceived the whole of the Syndicate with his secret tunnels?”

“Far be it from us to find a palace without hidden passageways,” inserts another voice—Prince Raiden, I think. Zar’s young princeling.

“Maksim brings up a good point,” says someone else. “How do we know these are real, Regent Bayard? They could be some kind of painting, even as precise as they are…”

They are discussing thestills.

“Allow me to demonstrate,” says Gustav. “I have brought everything we need to re-create one.”

I release a relieved breath. Certainly that should be enough proof…

Clicking, scraping, the murmur of more voices. Then finally, “It will take half an hour for the image to materialize. And a full twenty-four hours for it to appear in detail. Even so, you will be able to witness the process for yourself.”

“Valid process or not,” says my father, “thesestillsprove little. Images are not the full truth…”

“One step at a time, Maksim,” replies the Lord Sovereign, and by the authority in his tone, I take it he’s leading the hearing as the active spokesman for the Syndicate. “You understand Regent Bayard’s claims against you are serious indeed…”

A pause, and then what I can only assume is our presence being whispered to the Lord Sovereign.

A moment later, Mr. Perov ushers us inside.

A lack of voices upon our entrance does not equate to total silence, due to the many intakes of breath, the shuffling about. I steel myself, forcing my chin level.

The war room is perhaps the size of a small ballroom with high wooden rafters and large maps of both cities and nations hungacross the walls. In its center is a thick stone table ringed by many matching stone-legged chairs. Beyond that is a fretwork display holding thestills.Each one is a few feet tall, hung like a painting on an easel, and before them all is Gustav, who has paused his presentation. Past him, my father sits on a small, raised dais, his throne a fat slab of stone.

Merely standing in his presence tempts me to shrink down, cower in fear, but I refuse. Instead I gather all my rage, my sense of justice. I sharpen it into a mental blade.

At the sight of me, he straightens, his expression inscrutable. Then he stands.

Before he can utter a single word, I raise my voice. “Syndicate leaders, my name is Vastianna Stova, daughter of Maksim Stova, and I come before you today not only to confirm King Regent Bayard’s story and the validity of thestills,” I say, “but to prove my father a murderer.”

Chapter Two

A silence sweeps over the room, and the hush that follows seems to vibrate.