Page 99 of To Dance with Death

He had wanted a wife—maybe more than anyone realized. Perhaps that’s why all of this hurt him so much.

“Maybe you can still make use of it,” I hedge, even as my stomach climbs into my throat. But he doesn’t answer me, rummaging through some drawers, almost as if to see if the contents remain intact.

I approach from behind, then put a hand over his, there on the knob. Then I tug it open myself, running my fingers along the silk within. Vests, tunics, all exquisitely embroidered. “I admit I’m jealous of your wardrobe.”

“I’d happily share.”

I grin, but then I hear the crinkle of paper underneath fabric. “May I?” I ask.

“Be my guest. You’ve already been privy to my embarrassment.”

I rifle through and find a stack of letters, each one addressed to Princess Ademi. Their correspondence, I realize. He kept it.

“Bring them,” he says. “We can toss them into the Sands.”

“Never,” I say. “Anton, these are a reflection of who you were. You wrote your heart out, and that makes me…”

It makes me love you all the more.

I sigh, then cup his cheek. “It makes me wish you would call in my debt.”

The kiss I owe.

He looks at me, and it feels charged. I put my hands on his chest, steeling myself for what I’m about to say. “Would it be so terrible to—”

But he grips my wrists, interrupting me. “Come. There’s a tunnel entrance from my closet.”

Fear,I think. Had he sensed what I was about to ask?

The Palace of Ansa, I soon learn, is not one building but several, connected by walkways and bridges similar to Anell. The only way back to the ruins of Mercy’s chapel is through the Central Hall—dedicated to the throne room and surrounding courtrooms—then into the eastern wing of the palace.

We take a hidden stairwell that leads us into a tunnel back on the lower floor. From it, we can see into the Central Hall itself. It’s seemingly miles high and all clear, granulated glass, the light shimmering about as if it’s suspended in the clouds. It would be peaceful, serene—if it weren’t for the commotion inside. Crowds of courtiers amble past, and there’s both shouting and frantic flits of conversation. Something is wrong.

Around another bend, and then we’re looking straight into Anton’s throne room.

All the doors at the far end are shut, barring the crowds, the inside seemingly quiet. For a moment, I take stock of its extravagance.It’s as if the Hall of Thrones on the Isle of Anell was merely a prelude. The back wall, climbing as high as the palace itself, is a mosaic of mosaics. Twenty—no thirty—large glass spheres each display a different scene: tales of Fates, of history, the War of Rites, and more. Each is rimmed by painted plasterwork and stone, and at the very bottom, the largest one actually curvesaroundthe throne. The scene here is of a great and dawning star above a vast seascape, the throne set into the crest of a wave that protrudes from the wall itself.

Then a door near the throne itself opens and Gustav walks inside, followed by a handful of what I assume are advisers. I feel Anton freeze beside me.

Gustav wears no crown save for a humble silver circlet set above his brow. A moment later, guards open the doors, allowing the courtiers inside. At first, it’s orderly. He speaks with a few of them—some of whom I recognize from the Gathering. But it quickly grows rowdy, more piling in. I try to catch bits of conversation, but it’s difficult to make out.

But they aren’t lining up before the throne. Instead they shuffle toward either side of the walkway.

No, not shuffling, but backing away. Clearing the carpeted walkway that leads to the throne. To Gustav. Stepping over one another to do so.

Frantic whispers scurry about. Our line of sight is cluttered, and Anton tries to pull me away. Through a gap in the crowd, I see that the guards have formed a line before Gustav, who stands bravely despite whatever threat is about to come his way.

I resist Anton’s next tug, shrug away from him, and stand on the tips of my toes until finally a gap between two courtiers affords me a better view.

A view I wish I hadn’t seen.

A crown bobs above the line of nobles just before us. Thick, spiked steel, ringed with opals and sapphires.

It can be no other than the new Brisendali king.

My father marches toward Gustav with the air of an emperor rather than a king, and I’d wager that’s what he wants in the end: to conquer and retain as many nations as possible.

To Gustav’s credit, he does not shrink back, not even an inch.