Page 142 of A Dance of Lies

“What a little waif of a thing you are,” she says, towering over me as if to prove just how small I am in comparison. “And rather damaged, no? But I admit I see the appeal.” She drags a single claw down and across my clavicle. “Do take excellent care of my father, will you?”

“You want his power,” I say, my voice low. “There are other ways to get it—”

“Don’t bother,” she says, disgust curling her smudged-red lips. “You cannot appeal to me, little dancer. Fates know how you appealed to the Master of Revels.”

“They will kill you,” I try. “They—”

“Tell Father dearest I’ll keep his seat warm.” She pinches my left cheek, wriggling it between her fingers. “Off you go.”

I stand there, heart thundering as she waltzes away. I don’t know what she hoped to accomplish by that. Dominance, perhaps, when she has so little—and will have even less once my father claims her crown. She will never be queen in her own right. King consort or not, she will always be second to him.

I take no pleasure in that.

I slip into the sitting room. It’s a small, unlit space, the balcony doors slung open to reveal a night sky tufted with clouds. Adjacent is yet another wing of the palace hovering above the water’s edge, yellow torchlight rippling across the waves. Even from here, I can make out more figures scattered across distant balconies.

I slide out and into shadow, the hood of a balcony above veiling me under the stark, moonlit night. It allows me to change, invisible to nearby eyes.

And to King Rurik, lazing on a chaise on the sprawling balcony next to me.

For a moment, I merely watch as he gazes off into the sea, a coil of smoke unspooling from the cigar in his hand. Whisper-thin drapes quiver in a gentle wind. A servant passes through them, presenting a tray, and Rurik plucks from it a glass of amber liquid and a stem of grapes.

Attired in black silk as I am now, brisk ocean air seeps through, chilling me to the bone—an icy reminder that I’m an insult to its finely crafted threads, stitched with perfect precision in the Razami fashion.

I drink in the salt-tinged air in an attempt to calm the frantic beat of my heart. My body feels like marble, heavy and weighted, ready to crumble. But I cannot waver.

It doesn’t escape me how easily I could use this chance to flee. The water isn’t far below. I could dive, reach the rocks quickly, steal a boat, and disappear into Philam.

But care for my own well-being has diminished, leaving nothing but a flimsy frame holding together what remains of my body and soul. I intend to use it to right my wrongs. When I pass into Morta’s judgment, I will not regret my final days.

The servant shuffles away.

The first night bell rings out, shattering the silence. It echoes into the sea’s abyss, jolting me from my thoughts. It’s midnight now, and the time to complete my order is vanishing. I climb onto the balustrade and leap.

The second bell tolls.

Air whooshes from my lungs as I land on King Rurik’s balcony, the smooth stone like a slap against my stinging palms. I shake it off and rise to my knees, the churn of the ocean masking the sound.

The third.

I draw in a breath, readying myself. He’s right there. I can do this.

The moment I move, the curtains part. I halt just in time to see yet another silhouette slinking between them, stepping out of the adjacent room and onto the balcony.

No,I breathe, as Illian clasps hands with King Rurik, a smile painting his lips as the bell tolls on. And my confusion gives way to sudden, harsh clarity. He does not trust me; of course he doesn’t. He is here to ensure I do as he commanded.

My feet are like posts, nailed into the ground as the final bells toll.

And when the last one rings out, Illian tilts a gaze in my direction, knowing exactly where I’ll be.

My hand teases the hilt of the katar.

I could kill him instead. Plunge the blade into the cavity of his chest, lead King Rurik to Anton, to the stolen seal—

But then I notice the dagger strapped inside Illian’s coat, the glint of that golden hilt. A dagger to keep me in check. To ensure Rurik doesn’t survive.

Illian and King Rurik lean over the balustrade now, conversing. There is nothing beneath us, save for the sea. Once more, Illian cants his head toward me, then up, deliberately. I follow his gaze to where a bevy of his guards keep watch from the window above.

Understanding burns in my gut like hot, scathing oil.