Page 118 of A Dance of Lies

I don’t want to compare Anton with Illian, but how could I ever be sure of his intentions? While I trust that he won’t hurt me, or touch me unless I wish it, I am here because he needs me, in the end.

He plays a wonderfully convincing hero—an act I am starting to believe, admittedly. But how can I trust that he’s a better man when, upon his coronation, he established that Fates-forsaken court?

He notices the change in my demeanor, his smile fading.

“Your Glory Court,” I whisper.

His brows furrow. “Oh, Vasalie, it isn’t what you—”

A knock interrupts him, two raps in quick succession. Anton slides from the bed and, before I can so much as hide under the covers, says, “Yes, Basile?”

I squeak and bury myself under the duvet, but all that comes is a deep, “Your Majesty, the breakfast bell has rung. I’ve brought the clothes you requested.”

“Thank you, Basile. We will leave right away. Vasalie, my dear, you can come up for air. Basile is the captain of my personal guard. He is not only sworn to secrecy but is fully aware of who you are and why you are here. I informed him last night.”

Humiliation colors my cheeks as I peek above the covers. Anton tosses me a cloak. “Wear this. You can’t be seen in the same dress you wore in the Sky Garden in the unlikely case someone notices you this morning.”

Hesitantly, I take it, arranging it around my shoulders before sliding from bed. To my further embarrassment, Basile—a broad man with rich brown skin and a mane of thick curls sectioned intoseveral braids—stands in the doorway, blank-faced, unmoving. He’s plated in sea-glass armor and pads of leather, looking as bedecked as his king usually does. At least he isn’t looking at me. “Sire, I recommend that you put on actual pants.”

“Thank you, I was getting to that,” Anton says, snatching a nearby set of trousers. He’s wearing a set of loose drawers that indeed cut well above his knees.

“It’s only that I have to remind you often, Sire.”

“I am sorry that my thighs offend you, Basile.”

“Sire, after eight years in your employ, nothing offends me.”

Anton sends me a coy grin. “See? Dead inside.”

“That would be your fault, Majesty,” Basile retorts.

“Indeed. However, my astounding supply of charisma resurrects you on the daily. Does it not?”

“If by charisma you mean chaos, then yes, I am revived daily.”

“Stop stealing all the good lines,” Anton mutters, buttoning his tunic.

Despite myself, I can’t help a small smile. Anton adores Basile, and it shows. And the affection seems to be mutual.

After donning a vest, Anton ushers me from the room, instructing me on which path to take while he arranges a disaster involving the delivery of my millen and a small-scale fire, which will inevitably draw most of the staff out into the halls while I slip from the cellar.

But as I reach the pane of glass leading into the tunnels, Anton calls my name. I swivel as he advances, and he takes my hands in his. “Promise me you will not act on what you saw last night. Do not move against your father or Illian yet.”

It is a wise move, making me promise. The temptation to end this now is all too great. Yes, Maksim Stova deserves torture, shackles, the dark, endless grip of a cell, but he also deserves death, and I want to give it to him.

I clench the folds of the cloak.

“Promise me,” he urges. “We will bring him a fate worse thanMorta’s revenge. Your life is not worth risking only to bring your father a few seconds of pain he’ll scarcely feel.”

For that, I finally agree. And I cling to that promise even as I leave his rooms and traverse the tunnels. Yet even as I do, I find myself replaying the night’s events. The morning’s, too, in an endless loop. I practice my breathing as I take it all in, and then I realize something else.

Anton promised me he would unearth my secrets.

Now he has them—every last one.

It’s unsettling. Frightening.

But in a way, it’s also freeing.