Page 109 of A Dance of Lies

And Aesir . . .

“Furthermore, she knows the position Brisendale will be in once the Gathering concludes; we will need to create a strong front in case Razam retaliates—”

A shuffling sound next to me breaks my attention, and when I cant my gaze, I find Anton digging deep in his cloak.

“. . . logical, but women never are.” Illian stands and stretches,emptying the dregs of his glass. “I trust you will keep her in line.” His gaze skims over the girls before he bats a hand in dismissal. They slide robes over their scantily clad bodies and exit the room.

A clank draws my attention back to Anton, who fiddles with what looks like a golden tube or a miniature spyglass about as wide as my thumb and maybe twice as long. He positions it near the widest part of the spy hole, then twists it, back and forth—

“Let Rurik play his role,” my father says. “Everything will proceed as planned. Morta’s hell, his demise will be a relief.”

Demise.

Because my father is planning treason against his own king.

“Do enjoy your new bride,” Illian drawls, clapping him on the back. “I can’t wait to seethatplay out, old man.”

Their exchange knits together in my mind, and I understand with sudden, horrible clarity.

Princess Aesir is going to marry him. My father.

She is going to make him a king.

When Crowns divide, and nations collide,

Blood will run high as tides.

Nations collide.

The prophecy, Illian’s plans. There’s so much more to it than I’d imagined. I dart a frenzied gaze toward Anton, but he’s . . . occupied. Toying with a new trinket, one that looks like a miniature chest—wooden, rimmed in gold, brass hinges on one end. I want to shake him. Is he not paying attention?

My father’s voice carries through once more, and I watch as he secures the brass buttons on a dark, wool coat—the one Emilia made for him. “Greedy she might be, but I can satiate her well enough. I’ve had years to perfect my craft on girls her age. You understand what happens in encampments, yes? Free for the taking.” A snake’s smile inches across his lips as he holds out a hand.

The meager contents of my stomach threaten to spill even as a fire lights behind my eyes. Anton nudges me aside, having hooked the miniature spyglass to that strange, wooden box. He nudges itagainst the spy hole, then draws a key from one of the necklaces on his chest.

He places it in a small groove and twists.

Click.

Both my father and Illian turn.

In a dizzying rush, Anton pulls me away from the wall—

They heard it, the click. Had they seen us, too? Anton drops the slat back in place, but if he does it in time, I can’t tell. I open my mouth, but he presses a finger to his lips.

We listen.

The muffled sounds of voices slip through, though I can’t make out their words. Anton presses an ear to the wall. His eyes widen.

In one swift motion, he sweeps toward me. Grabs my cloak—throws it aside. I gasp. Underneath, I’m left only in a short scrap of velvet that hugs my bust and flares high around my thighs—

A garment appropriate for a place like this.

A knock pummels the door.

Anton yanks off his cloak, his shirt, then his pants, until only a pair of drawers remain. Snatching a wineglass, he slings the liquid across the ivory rug at the foot of the bed. The knock pounds harder, insistent. Then Illian’s voice, calling for Mistress Sezar . . .

Anton musses his hair. I realize, then, what he’s doing, and when his gaze finds mine, there’s a question there. Somehow, I understand. I nod my permission.