Page 106 of A Dance of Lies

He’s right, mostly. What he said feels both too big and too small to describe what happened. The chains, the darkness—I am still there when I close my eyes. It damaged me in ways I’ll never recover from. I have accepted that.

Except I wasn’t malnourished—or at least, not compared to the other prisoners. I was allowed food, and it wasn’t moldy nor was it old. I was provided a pail of fresh water daily from which I could drink. I was not crammed onto a floor with other prisoners and their illnesses, many of which were contagious. My cell had a hole for waste, and as small as the space was, it was larger than the other cells, all of which were packed with people. I had seen that when I was taken in.

I had assumed it was the one kindness Illian had left. Or a kind of torture, to keep me alive so that I might suffer longer, when he knows I must have wanted to die. And I had tried. I refused his food until I couldn’t, when the pain of hunger forced me to eat.

I don’t know how to answer Anton, what words could possibly convey the truth of what happened to me. I end up deflecting instead. “I am sorry, Your Majesty, if my performance has not been adequate—”

“Souls, Vasalie,” he says. “That isn’t what I meant. It took me a while to notice, in fact, as you hide your pain well. I see it only in the press of your lips, the wince when you turn away. The occasional stumble you cover impressively well.”

I knew he had been studying me, but I suppose I hadn’t realized just how closely.

“I am sorry for what I accused you of,” he continues, “and for what you have gone through, when souls know I am not nearly as strong as you.”

Strong?

No, I am not strong. Not my bones, not my spirit. Not when I can’t move or dance like I used to. Not when I shoved Emilia and my father and all my pain into a box and locked it away like the coward I was, all before Illian ever wronged me. Not after everything else I’ve done under Illian’s command. My hands find my stomach, and I press against the nausea threatening to erupt inside of me.

For once, Anton doesn’t notice, occupied as he is steering us into Philam’s bustling docks. Even at night, the city teems, thanks to the marketplace scattered along the water’s edge.

Two dockhands assist us as we scramble from the craft. Anton tosses them each a sack of quatra, then shakes their hands. They must know who he is because they dip in reverence when they accept the payment. A minute later, we’re on our way.

Melodies spill from taverns, the amalgam of jaunty rhythms clashing together in a lively yet dissonant ensemble. Sellers hawk their wares, even this late in the night, while others haggle over prices. Horses trot over salt-smeared cobblestones. Women lean over balconies, cat-calling sailors and passersby. The smell of sweat, sea spray, and manure hangs thick in the air. I almost have to run to keep pace with Anton, who strides ahead of me, shouldering through the crowd.

Only when he turns down an alley does he slow. “Stay close,” he says, placing a hand on my lower back. I pretend I don’t shiver from the contact.

I pretend, too, I didn’t hear the marvel in his voice, the respect, when he called me strong.

An array of saturated colors illuminates the walkway ahead. When we reach it, Anton turns, a smile curling the corner of his lips. “Welcome, Minnow, to the Heart of Philam.”

Canopies enshroud the moonlit sky, but light glows from every direction. Craftsmen rotate metal pipes, shaping what looks likemolten fire. Behind them, large, concave furnaces spit sparks into the air. Then there are the tents stacked with artifacts and trinkets, not to mention walkways that ramp upward toward more shops on different levels—

“The Glass Market,” I surmise. I’d heard of them, but this one is large, like a city in itself.

“One of many throughout my territory,” Anton says. “See those men? They’re glassblowers and gaffers. Each works for one of the many merchants. While there are ready-made items available, a patron may commission something, too, whether it be decorative or useful—the possibilities are endless—and they can make it on the spot. And this particular market uses recycled glass,” he says, redirecting my attention toward the furnaces. “It’s heated in a tempering oven and then quickly cooled, which makes for stronger and more durable glass.”

I slow, unable to keep my gaze from roaming about as we weave through the market. Anton points out some of the commissions: vases; windowpanes and doors with family crests or other unique stains; tabletops; chandeliers that look like hanging gardens.

“The colors,” I ask, speeding up again to match Anton’s stride. “How do they do it?”

“Minerals and salt,” he answers. “Copper turns it red, and adding iron or chromium stains it green, for example. Cobalt for blue, silver for red to yellow, depending. I promise to bring you back one day, but for now, we shouldn’t linger.”

I keep moving, not allowing those words to take root inside in my heart.I promise to bring you back one day.

We pass a small bunker at the back of the marketplace hidden by a copse of flowering jacarandas. Racks of weapons with metal hilts and glass blades glint in the torchlight, and I recall the halberds from Anton’s guard. They must be crafted here.

He must sense the gaze I press between his shoulders because he glances back, a half grin on his lips. He nudges me along.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you something,” I say as we stridedown yet another alley, this one a flower market packed with rows of stalls.

“Mm?”

“Queen Sadira. What did you say to her to stop the war with Razam?”

“Nothing,” he says.

“So the story isn’t true, then?”

“What I mean is . . . I said nothing. Not one thing. I merely . . . listened,” he says, guiding me around a pothole. “That’s the problem with so many of us who hold privilege and power. We talk too much. We talk above others.”