Page 41 of A Dance of Lies

As if he can sense the danger tucked against my side.

And the monster I’m about to become.

“A toast,” he calls suddenly, springing from his seat. He hoists his flute heavenward, a signet ring half the size of his finger glinting like a star. It reminds me of Illian’s, though Anton’s is polyhedral in shape as if it was handcrafted, with a design etched onto its rim.

All at once, the room quiets; even the music dies away. Yet again,King Anton’s eyes lock on mine. My pulse skips a beat, but then he swings his head toward Gustav. “To Lord Bayard,” he says, with no short amount of pageantry, “whom we honor tonight.”

Cheers spread across the table. Sweat gathers along my brow and I try not to let my flexing fingers inch toward the vial hidden in my dress.

“It is because of his efforts that, as of this week, we have concluded the development of the most astounding invention of our time. In doing so, we have brought Miridran and Razam to a new level of not only friendship but also an abundant future for us all.” A single gesture, and everyone rises, Queen Sadira included. I fumble upward, steadying myself against the table to keep from wavering.

“My friend,” King Anton says, “you have altered the course of history, and Miridran is forever in your debt.”

Invention. Altered history.I swing a glance toward Gustav, who smiles sheepishly, raising his glass in return.

Whoisthis man?

“Might I inquire as to the invention, my lord?” I ask while others applaud.

But it’s King Anton who responds. “Ah, but we can’t yet spoil the surprise. You will know by the Gathering’s end, Miss Moran.”

Vague as that is, I try to shape Illian’s intent into something I can make sense of. Perhaps he wishes to stifle Gustav’s invention or disrupt his brother’s trade. Except doing so would harm West Miridran, considering a percentage of trade is taxed across each territory and funneled back into the Miridran army as a whole. Surely he wouldn’t wish to weaken it.

“Nevertheless, we did not drag you here merely to sing your praises,” the king says to his friend. He motions for everyone to sit. “I would not pull you away from your family without good reason.”

As we settle in our seats, I tuck my hands underneath my thighs, sliding my gaze once more to Gustav. He must feel my question because he says, “My daughter. She’s been ill for a long time.”

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, the apology fragmenting.

His eyes, glossy now, drop to his plate. “Encephalitis, they tell me. She may not last the year if it progresses further. It’s the first time I’ve left home in years.”

Guilt tightens my throat, thieving me of words. Encephalitis—inflammation of the brain.

My instinct is to comfort him, offer some modicum of hope, but my task sits on the edge of my tongue, rancid and heavy, eager to escape. I want to warn him to leave while he still can. I want to beg his forgiveness. I pull in a breath, unsure of what might slip out, until Queen Sadira rises from her seat.

Her deep-set gaze, winged with a sweep of kohl, drifts toward Gustav. Then, with the flick of her fingers, a servant breezes in, a corked bottle resting atop a pillow he carries. Inside is a syrupy, nacreous liquid—a tonic of some kind.

She grabs the bottle, long nails clinking. “Taheric, tusca milk, and a few other herbs indigenous to our region. It may help, perhaps even cure, your child. The concoction has worked miracles in my country thus far on many aggressive, inflammatory ailments. If you accept, I will have it sent to your family; my men will leave this very night. To show our gratitude for our accomplishments together.”

Taheric—I’ve heard of it. It’s rare, a root grown only in the southern lands, a single pearl-sized drop of it rumored to cost as much as a ship . . .

Gustav’s gaze swivels between his king and Queen Sadira, his throat bobbing. At that, King Anton adds, “Take it, my friend. It is the least you deserve.”

Gustav rasps his gratitude to the queen, his face awash with emotions. To his king, he just nods—a gesture that says more than words. King Anton’s eyes shine as he beholds his friend, even as servants shuffle in with decanters, others clearing away dishes. The music resumes, a plucky tune dancing across a lyre. Wine is refreshed, topped off in each flute. Mine is filled from Gustav’s personalbottle—at his request. “To making a new friend,” he tells me. Prince Sundar, grinning cheekily, clanks his chalice against both of ours, and in a blink, everyone else joins in. Even Queen Sadira, who taps hers softly with mine, saying, “It is a pleasure to meet someone who wields talent so beautifully.”

I’m so surprised my thanks comes out hoarse.

And then the meal comes to a close.

Anxiety sweeps over me like a chill, and my hands go numb.

The room empties, guests following King Anton one by one through a shroud of gossamer that obscures a lounge beyond.

Soon, I am alone.

And no one seems to notice. Gingerly, I dig the vial from my gown, cupping its shape in my palm. After all I just witnessed, my insides feel like water.

A breeze wends into the room, cold against my clammy skin.