Page 84 of A Dance of Lies

Then it hits me, Illian’s intent.Razam.

Laurent believes Illian is funding King Rurik’s future war against Razam, and I wonder if this is their first move. The first knight slid in a board of chess, because if they can incriminate Razam before the Crowns, they can get support. Allies. More funding. I flick my gaze toward King Rurik. His pale features are contorted, wrought with rage.

An act. A role, like the one my father plays now.

“Right, then,” my father says, circling Anton as if he can make him prey. “If it was the wine that was poisoned, let us examine the wine itself. Where did it come from? Was it grown here? An import? A gift from Her Grace?”

Again, the insinuation is clear, but Anton is swift. “Every ounce of food and drink brought inside these halls is examined first and accounted for. Her Grace brought no wine with her. Check the records yourself if you wish to confirm it. In fact, the contaminated bottle was brought in by Lord Bayard himself.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Prince Sundar standing protectively in front of his mother, while Gustav looks like he’s seconds from fainting.

“Then let us focus on the sequence of events,” my father says. “Was it or was it not served from a fresh decanter?”

“It was,” Anton says, the first hint of annoyance slipping through. In any other case, a general would never be permitted to question a king, but in the presence of other royals, he has no choice but to pacify them and respond.

A trap, so perfectly set.

“Then let the Head of Staff answer for this.”

For one heart-seizing moment, I think—hope—Laurent might have retired early. That he might be far enough away. But when he shoulders through an assemblage of courtiers, warm torchlight falling across the planes of his cheeks, my eyes fall shut.

Don’t speak,I silently beg him.

“Your Majesties,” Laurent addresses both Illian and Anton, bowingstiffly, an arm reverently tucked against his ribs. “The wine served that evening was stored in King Anton’s cellar. As previously stated, it was from Lord Bayard’s personal collection.”

“Then it’s simple,” my father says. “One of your staff is to blame. Whoever opened and poured the bottle into the decanter—which would have been done in the cellar itself—would have ample opportunity to slip bellamira inside without being seen.”

“With all due respect, General, no one in my kitchen would dare.” Laurent says it ardently, perhaps too much so, and I recall his vow to always protect his staff. “No one would have motive for such an act.”

Just then, another figure is dragged into the room.

Air rushes through my ears.

“The cellar wench, Majesties,” says a guard, his hand latched around Marian’s upper arm. He releases her beside Laurent. “She would have poured the wine.”

I freeze. Laurent’s eyes widen in horror. Marian, somehow composed, rights herself then bows.

“The Crowns are constantly burdened by threats,” says the general, striding around them with slow, deliberate steps. “Perhaps she was paid off. An ample sum for a quick job. The motive matters not.”

“With respect, I beg to differ,” Laurent says. “Every member of our staff comes with documentation, references. Familial records.” Like the ones Illian forged for me. “No one here would commit such treason, not when it would put their family at risk. I trust my staff with my life.”

He’s trying to keep the speculation, the focus, off her.

“Is that so?” My father narrows the space between himself and Laurent—an attempt to intimidate, no doubt, though Laurent stands tall. “Are you telling me you have never made an exception? Not even, say, for a friend?”

My knees beg to buckle. I should have seen it coming.

Illian discovered Marian. Is this, in part, revenge against her fordenying him? Or is this mere happenstance, because Laurent put her in charge of the cellars to guard the tunnel access?

In which case, if Illian did not know about Marian before, he certainly will now.

Laurent works his jaw. “I will not be subject to baseless accusations, nor will my staff.”

“You tread a dangerous ground without proof, General,” Anton warns, his eyes flashing, and I glimpse the storm now stirring within, an undercurrent of char and smoke. “I will tolerate your interrogations no longer. The harm was contained to my court, and as such, it falls under my rule.”

A valiant effort, but my father won’t let this go, and neither will Illian, who now watches me. He nods, the slightest bump of his chin. Silently, I beg him to reconsider, but it’s as futile as blowing a breath against the wind.

He raises his hand, ceasing the dialogue. The little food I managed to eat rises in my stomach.