Page 138 of A Dance of Lies

The tide is strong, and with the weight of the fabric, I can’t get free. I tug. Groan.Pull,even as exhaustion overtakes me.

I can’t do it.

Frigid waves topple over me and I gulp for air, choking on my own breath. My muscles feel like porcelain, ready to shatter. I lean against the side of the boat, clinging to it with the last of my draining strength. Each brush of the waves yanks it from my grip.

My hands loosen, and my fingers slip.

The water pulls me under.

My world grows dark, the oar dragging me on its path to the bottom like a cluster of seaweed, and I’m so tired, so weak. Sink—I should let myself sink. Why bother? Hope is frail, all but lost. There’s little left worth fighting for.

Then eyes, green as rolling hills, fill my mind like a phantom. I hear his voice. It’s far away at first, but it echoes, reverberates like a ripple of water—

I cannot protect you, Vastianna Stova. But Icanarm you.

My hand falls to my side, my fingers brushing against something sharp and cold.

The second dagger. It’s tucked into my belt. I fumble to unhook it, then cut and slash at my gown until the layers of heavy fabric release their grip. Left in nothing but a slip, I rise to the surface, inhaling deeply before swimming to shore, battling fiercely against tendrils of coiled seaweed and the growing current. My lungs aretight, my heartbeat so rapid I fear it might give out. Still, I clutch the dagger so tightly the embellishments imprint onto my skin, afraid the sea will rip it from my hands.

Once ashore, I find the tunnels, begging the Fates for the strength to keep moving. I’ve built up more stamina over the past month, but I’m worn and weary, always, and I don’t think the fatigue will ever go away. So I make myself another promise: I will find a way to live with it. Because I am grateful that my heart still beats, grateful that this body, however pained, has not crumbled beneath the weight of all that has been done to me.

Inside the tunnels, I expect to find a guard at every turn. Instead, I find only an unsettling emptiness. I curl my fingers around the dagger’s hilt, and just when I feel like I might collapse, I reach Illian’s chambers. Through a mosaic, I note four guards outside his suite, and even more stand sentinel just outside the doors to his antechamber.

But why not monitor the tunnel’s entrance? Surely they know about this one, where it leads. I move to the one above the hearth, and my breath stops short.

Because secured to a chain hanging from that ominous, glass-work chandelier is Anton, his hands bound above his head, a strip of cloth gagging his mouth. The tips of his toes graze the floor, probably the only thing keeping him from a substantial amount of pain. Several cuts nick his face and neck, but he has the gall to look entirely bored with the guard who is circling him insouciantly on the carpet beneath that array of glass, quite clearly taunting him. A guard who, if I had to guess, is supposed to be guarding the pane in the wall I’m looking through.

Anton mutters something through the gag, a grin creasing his eyes. It earns him a fist to the face, his head snapping to the side. My hand flies to my mouth; it takes everything in me not to barge into the room.

But he is alive. That’s what matters.

I have to think—and fast. Only two guards are inside the roomwith Anton. I don’t have to fight them; I need only to outsmart them. My whole body trembles, but a new wave of adrenaline keeps me on my feet, so I swallow the nerves bundled in my throat and move.

Snatching a pebble from the tunnel floor, I tap lightly on the glass. Enough that it could be nothing, but they will have to investigate. When they drift over, I slink around the bend until I’m out of view.

The glass pane screeches open. “Stay here,” one says. “Probably nothing, what with everyone on the island still, but I’ll take a look.”

The mural is like a window, and he has to climb on top of the mantle before he can crawl in. He does so with ease; first, his boots pop through, then his hands, until finally, he slides down into darkness.

I toss the pebble down the corridor. It clatters, echoing like the clank of a faraway sword.

He jolts, then stalks past me. I throw out a foot. He trips, his head smacking against the wall.

Idly, I wonder if he was there—if he was one of the guards who beat me.

He thunks onto the cold stone floor.

The other guard calls his name. I keep silent, the tunnels like a crypt. He curses, then slides into the tunnel. I stay low, slashing the dagger against his ankle between the break of armor. He cries out, fumbling for his weapon. I yank it away before he can get a good grip.

There’s more blood than I expected, and it covers my fingertips. I cut him deep. He clutches his leg, gasping as he squints around, unable to see.

But I am used to the dark.

Quietly gathering a large rock at the base of the tunnel, I bash it against his head. He slouches over. Palms shaking, I wipe the blood on his cloak, then clamber inside Illian’s antechamber and slide the panel closed.

Anton blinks, and then his eyes widen. He mumbles something unintelligible until I stride over and rip the cloth from his mouth. He coughs like he’s parched. My stomach climbs into my ribs at the sight. I cup his jaw in my palms, needing to see him, to gauge whether he’s all right—

“Vas,” he rasps. “You have to leave.” But he doesn’t understand—Illian will kill him. I’m surprised he hasn’t yet.