Page 57 of A Dance of Lies

“I don’t know, exactly. Last night, we were expecting the arrival of three prophets from the Temple of Mirin. We received a short but urgent correspondence, a mention of an augury, for which they demanded to be taken before all the Crowns. His Majesty charged me with ensuring their safe arrival, but word reached me that King Illian found them first. He sent them away, threatening them with arrest for attempting to incite chaos at the Gathering.”

The Temple of Mirin dates back to the Mirin clan, and Queen Mercy. It’s one of the few active temples in Miridran. Not only does the temple house all of Miridran’s historical records, but its prophets are well respected. Authorities in the community. They teach at universities, attend local hearings, ensuring not only justice but grace to those who need it. They allocate taxes to help the needy.

To outright deny them an audience is not only a slight against the Fates, should they exist, but a dismissal of a valued Miridranian community.

“Can’t someone track them down if it’s so important?”

“We tried,” Laurent says. “We couldn’t find them. Then a page reported to me this morning that he witnessed King Illian issue orders to follow and quietly subdue them once they left—until the Gathering has concluded. It means, Vasalie, that whatever auspice they intended to deliver, King Illian wanted them silenced. Furthermore, he wanted the arrest to take place outside of Anell, in the hopes of it going unnoticed by the Syndicate.”

“But there hasn’t been a new prophecy in over a hundred years.” It’s yet another reason religion has dwindled. Aside from the prophets of Mirin, most prophets hole up in their near-abandoned chapels, studying the stars, translating their interpretations into poem and verse, waiting for the day their words are confirmed, while others have abandoned their faith, saying the Fates have abandonedus.

I once thought such prophecies were mere myth. My father drilled that into me. But Emilia had been obsessed with the Fates.She collected old tales, poems, and various literature on them behind my father’s back. She believed in them, believed that the only reason the Fates were distant was because they feared the Fate of Morta after she tricked one of them, stole his power, and obliterated his soul.

Even so, the more merciful Fates found ways to relay warnings amid tribulation to their dedicated servants through cosmic visions—from the movement of the very stars themselves—she had told me. Prophets and acolytes spent their lives learning how to translate the sky for this reason. And it’s never an isolated event, meaning that if more than one transcribes such a message, it’s likely the translation is correct.

But there still lies room for error. So it was rumored that, long ago—when the very first prophets were established and when a prophecy was at its most urgent—a coil of flame like an adder’s tongue would spit from the mouth of the prophet who read it aloud.

“There hasn’t been, meaning it’s no small thing. What’s more, guess where the prophets are being held?”

I shake my head, stomach turning.

“A Brisendali ship,” he says. “Princess Aesir’s, to be exact, and that ship is no longer here. And this isn’t the first time King Illian and the princess have conspired, either. A dockhand overheard something about that ship being loaded with Brisendali weapons—ones that came from the princess’s ship. Some bargain has been struck between them—something King Illian is trying to hide—and I believe the prophets were trying to warn the Crowns about it.”

A bargain, between Aesir and Illian? I twist my fingers, pull at my knuckles. He had never spoken of her during my time as the Jewel. I hadn’t known they were friends. Or maybe it’s more than friendship.

Maybe it’s only a matter of time before we learn of an engagement. But I’d heard that Aesir had been engaged multiple times before, only for her to spoil it in some manner—throwing fits, offending her betrothed—almost as if she were doing it deliberately.

Perhaps she and Illian deserve each other. But I let my mind retrace Laurent’s words. The ships, the weapons . . .

“You suspect war,” I say, tucking my hands underneath my thighs.

“I think,” Laurent says, lowering his voice even more, “that Illian is funding a Brisendali war against Razam. He can’t do it in the open; his brothers would never support such an allocation of Miridranian assets. But if a war begins”—he pauses, taking a breath—“all of Miridran will be forced to take sides. And King Estienne, as withdrawn as he may be, will never side with Razam. Not if it means going against the Beast of the North.”

“Does Anton know of this?” Even if Laurent finds the youngest Miridranian king an enigma, he seems loyal to him all the same.

“Of course, though he can do little without proof. Even admitting such suspicions would provoke turmoil among the Crowns. Trying to save the world from war is the very thing that could start one.”

But this doesn’t add up. Brisendale might be built to withstand war, but they have never initiated it. King Rurik, for all his faults, is concerned only for himself and his land. He’s too guarded, too greedy, to disrupt his coddled life. Unless . . .

My pulse goes cold.

Unless my father is influencing him.

Even so, Illian refuses to trust his own courtiers, let alone his brothers’. How could he deign to trust a foreign nation with such a plot as this?

But then I recall the way Princess Aesir leaned into him, a red smirk fixed on her lips like a bloodstain. I think of King Rurik and his sapphire eye, the way he watched Anton and me. I think of what I’ve seen so far: Illian poisoning Gustav, but not with the intent to kill. Illian demanding I sneak Annais into the palace. I try to fit together the pieces, to no avail.

At the banquet, Anton mentioned a new era of friendship and wealth between Razam and East Miridran, thanks to Gustav. Was that what Illian wanted to stop? If so, why not kill him?

Then my mind snags on something else, something that has been bothering me even more after last night.

What do I have to do with all this?

It’s time I find out, because whatever it is, he’s dragging me into it with him.

And I’m so very tired of being left in the dark.

After leaving Laurent, I seek out Copelan in the Dance Hall. He’s watching the triplets rehearse, and I can’t help but observe for a moment, too. Threads of harmony intertwine, accented by their swift, lithe movements. He appraises them with a knuckle under his chin, stopping to correct their posture once or twice.