Page 72 of A Dance of Lies

“Vasalie Moran, did you hear what happened to my envoy?”

I’m not sure if I’m supposed to know, but I don’t think it wise to lie. “I did, Your Majesty. I am grieved to hear of your troubles.”

He nods. “Tragic, I tell you, though I like to think every hindrance can be advantageous with the right outlook. Wise words from Father,” he says, addressing Anton. He claps twice. “If it’s entertainmentyou seek, I shall deliver. In fact, I’ve thought very carefully about this evening. I admit, I’ve been anticipating it a great deal, what with the gift I’ve prepared for my guests—including you, Vasalie.” He holds out his arm. “Would you care to assist . . . ?”

Dread courses through me, but I place my hand atop his.

He whisks me to the center of the room. And when he snaps his fingers, it’s like a jolt through my bones.

A heavy door behind the throne screeches open, then two guards come striding through.

And in each of their hands, the end of a large chain.

Clatter, clank.

Clatter, clank.

I hear them before I see them, the prisoners that emerge from the shadows.

“Bandits, every last one,” King Estienne says from beside me.

Some are my age, others older, and some younger, near children. Most are women. They’re fettered in manacles like the ones I used to wear. Maybe fifteen of them, their garb filthy, mud-caked. And yet their faces have been scrubbed clean.

“I know what you’re thinking,” says King Estienne, and I feel his eyes on me. “Theseare the outlaws who dared attack my men and postpone my journey? Hardly. It turns out, I find these ones in particular rather valuable. The rest,” he says, cupping my shoulders, “well, let’s just say they weren’t so fortunate.” He spins me back toward Anton, whose usual sun-kissed skin is now leeched of color.

No, not toward Anton.

Drip.

Drip.

I try not to look. I try to hold Anton’s gaze the way he holds mine, but even then, I can’t help it, the background bleeding slowly into focus.

Behind him, secured on the back wall—just to the left of where I’d stood—hangs a large metal board with long, crystalline pikes protruding outward like a bed of nails.

And every last spike pierces a neck, an abdomen, or the yawning mouth of a corpse.

Drip, drip.Like the swing of a pendulum. The click of a heel. The patter of rainwater, cool and slick.

Drip.

Metal goblets are scattered along the floor, each perfectly positioned so that it catches their blood.

I sway on my feet.

“As for you,” King Estienne says, and a surge of panic floods my veins. “Instead of a performance, how about a less arduous role? You’d make a fine auctioneer, I think.”

He digs a key from his belt and chucks it to a guard, who then unlocks the first prisoner from the main chain. When she looks up, the sight of her in shackles cleaves open a wound inside me—one that never healed, only scabbed.

Light curls, brown eyes. Small in stature, so like Emilia I have to heave in a breath. Her strong chin is notched upward in defiance, though she keeps her gaze leveled away from the horror ratcheted upon the wall. Even so, I note the bruise-colored bags underneath her eyes, the chills puckering her alabaster skin.

I wonder how many of them she knew. How many she loved.

I wonder if she watched them die.

And King Estienne is going to make me auction her off.

He can’t do that, can he? Ownership of any kind—it is forbidden. Unless—