Page 76 of A Dance of Lies

Gold swirls around his chest, the design unfurling across his arms, neck, and shoulder blades. He doesn’t notice me at first, but when his eyes find mine, they sweep over me like a sandstorm.

My mouth dries.

Last night, after everything, I had sought him out. Pulled him from another practice and thrown my arms around him, needing to feel safe, if only for a moment. Needing an escape from all my anger and fear, both of which feel lodged in my very heart. And he let me do it, stunned as he was, until I left without a word.

Now, it’s a struggle to look away. But I drag my gaze back to the Hall of Thrones, only to find Illian in my line of sight. Like my first night, he’s perfectly positioned so that he can see me—only he isn’t looking at me.

He’s watching Copelan.

I know that look. It’s the look he’s given a thousand men before when their proximity to me was too close. I think of all the ways Copelan is about to touch me, the ways I will touch him in return.

But this is the position Illian forced me into.

So I wipe it from my mind, checking the pouches sewn into my outfit, and breathe. Servants bring out decanters of wine. After another troupe finishes, sitar players thread into the crowd, distracting the audience from the bayans and tablas now being assembled across the space. Musicians take their place once more. Sconces are lit, enclosed by cerulean sea glass. They pitch a dim, bluish light acrossone crescent of the room, and on the other side, torches cast a scarlet haze.

Heat dips down my spine.

I pretend there isn’t water beneath the floor.

I pretend Emilia is watching.

Our song begins with the resonant hum of a zither.

Copelan steps out, releasing a trail of sand behind him. He scatters it about in patterns, whorls, matching the tempo as he meanders slowly toward the center of the room—spinning, focused on his task, oblivious to the storm behind him—

The storm that is me.

Once a year, the infamous Brisendali storms from the north invade the Razami desert—angry winds and ice-chilled rain that stir its dunes into a maelstrom of fury.

I pirouette onto the dance floor at the strike of a bayan.

I spill millen like rain. It plumes around me in clouds—a new, deep blue mixture that billows outward, upward. Winds pour into the room, blown by fans brandished by every member of our audience—a gift we left on each seat, with instructions.

Copelan is the desert, the sand that is Razam, and he pivots, sensing my disturbance.

I kick up sand with my feet, sullying it with the rage of a tempest most foul. And though I don’t look at Copelan, I feel his approach like a shift in the winds.

The drum slams down in a resoundingwham.

He shoves me, quick as lightning. I exaggerate the movement, lurching forward before throwing myself back against him. Absorbing it, he bands my waist, tucks his head against my hip. We bend, jump, the momentum hoisting me into the air—

He catches me. Lifts me over him in a wide arc, spins—

Wham.

He tosses me away. By some miracle, I land on my feet.

I whip toward him. Our battle has begun.

Wham.

I run and leap. He catches me around the waist mid-arm. I’m curled in on myself, legs poised off the floor as he spins, both of us releasing our opposing forces—sand versus rain, ferocity versus control. His gold coats my hair, my blue shadows his skin. When my first pouch runs dry, I slip from his hold, ready to escape, but he snatches the sheer fabric of my sleeve and yanks.

It rips free.

Cool air kisses my skin and I’m left in only my low bodice and skirt.

Illian will be furious.