Page 147 of A Dance of Lies

Then, so subtly I almost miss it, his eyes flick over me before turning away. Almost as if he knew where to look. My only consolation is that he cannot see me under my crimson veil.

Applause crowds my ears, the air filling with nectar-sweet praise, adoration. I feel sick.

But he didn’t recognize me. Because if he had, he wouldn’t let me go, not when he murdered Emilia to try to find me.

An announcement is made for a celebratory reception in the Dome Hall. The courtyard empties. Once again, I’m tucked against Illian’s side. His eyes roam over me as he wets his lips, and then, without a word, he shepherds me away, steering us at an unusually quick pace.

I tug against him, trying to slow him down. My effort is ignored.

“I hope you know what you’ve done,” I hiss. “The general is a monster and you’ve just sharpened his teeth.”

“Oh really,” Illian says idly. “And how do you know that?”

“I—rumors,” I say, though my voice quavers with the lie. “Everyone speaks of his bloodlust.” Illian may be despicable, but if I could only make him realize my father is worse . . . “Whatever it is you are doing, hewillbetray you.”

“I’m touched by your concern.”

Again, I tug against him, but his thick-gloved grip is tight. “Why—why are you doing this?”

A muscle feathers in his jaw, but it isn’t until we reach the Dome Hall’s wide double doors that he says, “A wise man once told me that patience is the only road that leads to true power. I have earned this tenfold.”

“Killing and conspiring isn’t earning.”

“You have no idea what I’ve earned, Vasalie. But worry not; I trust you’ll find out soon.”

He yanks me inside the Dome Hall.

It looks different than on the Welcoming night, five and a half short weeks ago that now feel like an eternity. Long tables fill its length, flush with flowers and votive candles, their small flames unwavering in the still air. The sky itself is pomegranate red, the sunset caught between layers of clouds.

The music is jaunty and light while appetizers are divvied about. At every columned interval stands a Brisendali guard, so many that even the courtiers have begun to take notice.

Yet Illian seems far from concerned. I still don’t understand how he came to trust the general, or how they connected in the first place. Trepidation slithers underneath my skin, setting me even more on edge. There’s a missing piece to this wretched puzzle, one I can’t seem to solve.

Illian leans in. “When that veil comes off, you will smile, eat what is placed before you, greet anyone who speaks to you with a polite nod, and nothing more. You will leave the talking to me.”

I merely grit my teeth. He ferries me to a long, curved table at the far end, where the stage divider used to be. It’s even more ornamented than the others—a sprawling candelabra set between roses; scallops of silk that fall in waves to the floor.

My father and his queen have yet to arrive, but their chairs are marked by even more ribbons, right in the center. Next to ours.

Other Crowns are directed into the seats on either side of us, separated from their courts, oblivious to the string of events that led to this moment.

How I long to tell them, to shout the atrocities before the whole of the Gathering, and yet if I do . . .

One wrong move, and he will pay.

My father and Queen Aesir parade through the double doors. I study the new Brisendali queen in all her piles of blue silk and decadence and wonder how long she might survive.

When finally they take their seats, my father is, of course, placed directly on Illian’s left.

One seat removed from me.

Everyone with a veil removes it. Hesitantly, I untwine the pins banding it to my circlet, tugging a few curls loose as I do so in hopes of hiding my eyes—eyes that he might recognize without glitter and kohl.

Slabs of lamb garnished with rosemary are delivered onto our plates, along with a hearty loaf of bread, cheese, and conserve—a common meal back home. Again, I can’t help but sneak another glance at Aesir, hoping to find even a modicum of regret. Her father is dead, and yet she is as content as ever in her cerulean dress. Cerulean, just like her father’s glass eye. Just like the diadem set into her crown—

That diadem. A large, glinting sapphire, but notjustany sapphire, no.

The eye looks just the way it did that night under the light of a waning moon as Rurik gazed up at me, blood encircling his throat like a torque. Bile spills into my mouth and I grab my napkin to cover it, swallowing until the surge of nausea subsides.