Page 28 of A Dance of Lies

As I roll the parchment up and hide it within the folds of my skirt, cheers erupt from the crowd. King Illian’s mouth flattens into a line, and I drift my gaze toward the door where a young man stands with quite possibly the brightest smile I’ve ever seen.

My lips part without my consent.

King Anton of East Miridran looks nothing like his brother.

Unlike Illian, with his colorless garb and oppressive demeanor, his younger brother is vibrant in a verdant, double-breasted jerkin capped with gilded shoulder seams, the center of it parting to reveala silken tunic beneath. Then there’s the ostentatious belt, the boots paneled with jeweled buckles. His dark hair is wavy, like a wind-blown sea, his kohl-lined eyes a startling green beneath thick, shapely brows.

But it’s his dashing grin that lights the room, rivaling even the stacks of rings glinting from his fingers.

It’s apparent just how popular he is despite his well-known debauchery. People always did love a good show, and I must admit he delivers. The whole ensemble, but especially that crown. Glass protrudes from its golden base, stained with shards of aqua and emerald, like a garland of gilded leaves.

And it’scrooked.

He soaks in the adulation before parading through the archway, women crowding him on either side, chins tilted up as if they’re royalty right along with him.

I see now why people believe that he cheated death. He looks otherworldly, like he indeed has the power to deny his own mortality.

As he sinks into his divan, more wine is served, along with platters of roasted boar—thick haunches of steaming pink meat decorated with rosemary—followed by fruits indigenous to each country. I recognize pink mangoes and plump, aromatic ambarella fruit from Razam, pears and russet plums from Brisendale—Emilia’s favorite, I remember with a pang—and apricots and grapes the size of my fist from Zar.

No one notices the potted trees being carted in, placed at intervals in the center of the room, not even as the candles and wall sconces wink out, one by one.

A strum silences the Gathering, quick as a whip.

Then the melody turns, shifting into something darker, more mysterious, accented with the soft beat of a drum. A ripple of nervous panic whisks over me as I prepare for my moment, as I beg my body to cooperate. The pain is compounded now after long days of practice and exertion, but I recall what Brigitte had told me once,something I had ignored until now.Use all your senses when the pain is at its worst.Taste, touch, scent. I peel off my slippers, focus on the cold of the stone beneath my toes, the tinge of brine on my tongue.

Fog drifts across the floor, blown by performers robed in diaphanous, azure gossamer. Each stands before a pot of dyed, steaming water, wafting it about with large, crescent fans.

I slide into the indigo cloud, curtained by its haze, and position myself on the floor.

A vocalist begins our tale, her voice soft yet resonate, carrying above the breeze.

Wake, woodlands; here comes your king.

Wake, forest, hear him sing.

The fog rises, and I am revealed.

My back, flat against the floor, arches upward. I am the frost king, waking from his slumber, ready to take revenge on the Sun who put me to sleep. My body curls in, then out, toes pointed, before a deep yawn stretches me to my feet in one graceful sweep.

In the snow, he steps.

Barren sun, you must now set.

The folktale is common, even outside Brisendale. The frost king is cursed, banished for five months out of the year. I show this while I move. As the music ebbs and flows, I make my urgency clear. His time,mytime, will run out fast.

Frost king, go your course.

Frost king, our world is yours.

I glide across the floor, releasing my frost. Shimmering silver pours from my fingertips like snow, thanks to a component mixed into the flour. As I dance, it swirls around me, glimmering in the air,coating my skin, my dress, the trees and plants that set our stage. I bend into shapes I know I can achieve, and then Illian’s task surfaces in my mind:Pay my brother special attention.

Through my movements, I find King Anton’s eyes, gleaming even in the dark. My heart catapults, but this is my chance. I tread to him in a plume of silvery light.

The curve of his smile ticks upward at my approach. Two of his guards step into my path, but he waves them off.

Forest, quick, hide your light.

For the sun intends to plight.