Page 17 of A Dance of Lies

I try and fail to read his lips as he speaks to the triplets in a low tone. Then he motions the next performer forward, and the next, and with each performance, my confidence dwindles more. He’s testing them, gauging their ability.

I was prized, the Jewel of King Illian’s court, yet now I wonder if it meant anything at all. Perhaps I simply moved in a way that pleased him andonlyhim. And now, for a performance fit for royals, I have little to offer but a broken body and sack of flour.

The hours stretch on as performer after performer showcases their talents. I fight to keep air in my lungs, the sweat from my palms, until the clearing of a throat jolts me from my thoughts. The Master of Revels raises his brow at me, his pale eyes narrowing. “Reference?”

I quickly offer him my letter stamped with Central Miridran’s seal, but he merely stares at me, uninterested. “We don’t need another solo dancer.”

I blink. “I’ve . . . been sanctioned by King Estienne’s court.” While it doesn’t guarantee me a position, it does ensure my right to audition. I try to hand him the letter once more, but he crosses his arms.

“Regrettably,” he says—unapologetically, “we only have room for one soloist, and the position is taken.”

Taken? That can’t be right. “You don’t understand. I’ve come all this way—”

“As has everyone else.”

“The recommendation comes from King Estienne’s very own adviser . . .”

“Not from the king himself, then?”

“I—” I clamp my lip between my teeth, withholding a growl. “Surely you wouldn’t want me to tell them you turned me away before I even had the chance to prove myself?”

He rolls his eyes, then scrubs a hand over his face. “Look, Miss . . .”

“Vasalie,” I answer. “Vasalie Moran.”

The truth. I was instructed to use my name, being that it’s on the Miridranian registrar’s list. At least no one will recognize it. My vocation as the King’s Jewel kept my identity a secret during my time in King Illian’s court.

“Miss Moran,” he drawls, “I don’t have time to waste on another performer who fancies ribbons or frills and a basic routine. Frankly, I’ve seen it all before, and so have the Crowns. I’ve even been requested by our kings to ensure this year’s entertainment is a true showcase of Miridranian talent. Last time, one of our hotheaded soloists nearly got herself hanged after she was laughed off the stage, and I doubt you wish to share the same fate. So unless you can create wings and fly, I suggest you return to your ship.” He pivots toward the harpist, who perches awkwardly on a stool in the corner, awaiting his dismissal.

“And if I can?” I say.

He angles back toward me, brow arching. “Can what?”

I level my chin, my glare a challenge. “Create wings and fly.”

A bold claim, maybe. But if it’s a little magic he wants, then it’s magic I will serve him.

Chapter Five

The Master of Revels is far from amused.

“We don’t do acrobats, Miss Moran, and we don’t have the setup for aerialists here. Consider trying the circus—”

“You weren’t serious, then? About the wings?”

He blinks at me, as if I’m mocking him.

I fold my arms. I’m not leaving, even if I have to sneak into the Gathering and poison the other soloist. A sprinkle of sassen powder and they’d be sick for at least a few days. Two years ago, I’d be ashamed for such a thought, but if I fail to get in, I’m of no use to Illian.

He rubs a thumb over his jaw, then blows out a sigh, suddenly weary. “You have two minutes of my time.”

Before he can back away, I say, “Might I ask your name, Master Reveler?”

At that, he pauses. “For what reason?”

“You have mine. It seems only fair.”

“Copelan, then.”