Page 7 of To Dance with Death

It’s strange, standing before the Syndicate once more, and this time my tongue is not clamped. I take stock of them all in more detail now, noting a handful of delegates along with the Crowns. I recognize Prince Raiden, though his hair is slicked back and his silver attire collared up to the neck rather than loose, as at the Gathering. The Lord Sovereign of Serai sits at the head of the table, his deep purple robes open at the chest to reveal a woven tunic that matches his deep red crown. There are a few representatives from Kasim and the Karithian Isles, and of course the Brisendali council in full—all seven members—each donning a matching blue tabard with the emblem from the flag.

Then there are thestillsthemselves, which are more numerous than I had originally thought when I first woke in Razam.

Anton had indeed gathered ample proof of the deceits, and he hadn’t been collecting it alone. There arestillsof Illian and Aesir. Of Illian whispering to my father in the Hall of Thrones, just before I betrayed Laurent. Sundar had taken that one himself, because Anton knew he was being watched. And that Gustav was, too.

The most notable, however, is thestillof Illian at his desk, signing papers with Anton’s seal. Signing the very letters Illian later used to accuse Anton of conspiring with Razam. This one was taken through a mosaic, tinted in red.

Before them all stands Gustav, surprise widening his eyes at the sight of me. I offer a small, reassuring nod, though his brows only pinch in worry.

My father, it seems, recovers first from the shock of seeing me. “How dare you barge in uninvited, daughter? This is not your place—”

“Why the fear of letting me speak? Could it be that you have something to hide?”

When finally I settle my gaze on him, the sight of him in all his glory—the regalia, the spiked crown—is enough to clench my stomach. It doesn’t slip past my notice, either, that his bride is absent. There is no hint of the queen he groomed from such a young age. It should come as no surprise that he stashes Aesir away from as many proceedings as he can.

He was never going to let her have any real power.

The Lord Sovereign of Serai speaks loudly. “As is custom with every Syndicate hearing, Maksim, we do not dismiss a testimony before it is spoken. You will allow your daughter to speak.”

“You cannot expect me to entertain those in league with my enemy!” he shouts, red patching his cheeks. I’ve truly unsettled him. “My beloved Vastianna betrayed me when she hopped into bed with the man who aided Razam in the death of our former king, may he rest in peace!”

“Maksim, contain yourself,” the Lord Sovereign says. “We will weigh everything in equal measure, fairly and with evidence. If her words are false, do you not trust us to discern it?”

And so there, before the Crowns of the north, I tell my story—from the very beginning.

My father murdering Emilia.

My time in Illian’s court.

My imprisonment, and then my role in the Gathering.

I omit only two details. I do not confess that it was my hand that held the katar that split open King Rurik’s neck—though a part of me longs to. I still feel the pressure of the blade, how easily it cut. The guilt of it sickens me even now, as does the lie I tell next: that Illian had confessed to me that he had hired a guard to do it—a guard that he had dressed in Razami gear. At the insistence of King Maksim.

The second detail I leave out is that I died—and came back. That Anton did, too. Even so, the weight of Anton’s pendant between my breasts seems to pulse as if it might reveal my secrets.

I’d give anything to have him beside me. A familiar ache clenches within me, but I force myself past it.

“Everything thestillsreveal is true,” I say once more, gesturing to Gustav’s latest demonstration. The image in the glass is beginning to show now, albeit faintly—but enough to prove the process works. “And my father has been planning this for years.”

My throat closes on a swallow.

For a moment, no one speaks. I shift on my feet, feeling unsteady—more so as I watch them take it all in.

Then I notice one of the council members seated at the far end, behind the map of Sira. She’s perhaps sixty, with a frame as delicate as her voice. “If what you say is true,” she says, “it changes everything.”

Her gaze slides to Maksim, and while her expression is unreadable, there’s something of a warning in the way she says it. I don’t recognize her from the Gathering, however, and it takes me a moment to place her.

Ivory hair woven through with gray, arranged in a half coronet.

Pale, piercing irises, like an icicle lit by the sun—

So like the single one I’d gazed at while the life bled from Rurik.

She must be Sofya Kosarev, Rurik’s older sister.

Again my father raises his voice. “Thestillsincriminate Illian alone. I was unaware of his forgery. Perhaps he discovered Anton’s treachery with Razam and, desperate to prove it, falsified the evidence himself. Of course I would never take part in such deception. However, I fail to see how any of thesestillsprove my daughter’s allegations against me…”

“According to her, this was a ploy in the making for decades,” Sofya points out. “And there are images of you in secret meetings with Illian.”