Page 98 of A Dance of Lies

“Show him to me!” she shouts, kicking and clawing at the single guard gripping her arm, her cheeks so florid I almost don’t recognize her.

Annais. Quiet and subtle Annais, whom I snuck into the palace.

“Let me see him,” she wails, so loud it echoes about the walls. “Let me go!” More guards spill into the room, rushing past me so fast I stumble. Copelan steadies me, then inches me out of the way as they surround her in a barricade. “My son,” she screams. “My son!”

My son.

“Estienne,” she cries. “Estienne!” But his guards press him backtoward the entrance, away from the hysteria. An ashen pallor drains his already pale skin, though a patch of red laces up his neck.

I turn to granite.

She can’t possibly be his mother. It’s a farce, surely. But then I see them together. The tilt of their nose, the scatter of freckles patterned just the same . . .

I’d thought King Estienne looked familiar that first time I’d seen him. Now it’s unmistakable.

“Vasalie, we should leave,” Copelan is saying, guiding me toward the back doors.

They fling open before we can reach them.

Illian stalks into the room with Anton at his side. Close behind is King Rurik, followed by his steel-clad guards. Yet another assembly spills inside after him, a mix of courtiers from every court, all curious and pressing closer, eager to witness the drama.

“What is the meaning of this?” Illian demands. His golden circlet catches the light from the dying sun; it almost looks like a halo, as if he knew just where to stand to make himself a god.

“I’ve never seen this woman before in my life,” King Estienne says, glowering at the guards who still wrestle with Annais, snapping shackles over her wrists.

It’s as if the iron bindings snap any last shred of her composure. Thrashing even more violently, she shrieks, “I can prove it! Let me go!” She plunges forward, only to be slammed down, her bones smacking audibly against the floor.

Acid floods my throat, and I only just stop myself from lurching toward her. That treatment, the cruelty from the guards—I know it. And all the while, no one bats an eye.

Shame drains my face of color.

This—it’s my fault. I am the reason she is here. I could have told Anton, but I had held my tongue . . .

“Prove what?” King Rurik is asking. “By the Fates, let the woman speak!”

A guard tries to lift her, but she throws her weight forward, clawinguselessly at the floor. Her curls are drenched in sweat, plastered to her cheeks. “Myson,” she cries. “Let me go to my son!”

“Who is it you speak of, woman?” Illian says, a façade of concern.

“Estienne was born from my womb,” she says, a palm to her stomach. “He is myson.” Tears run in rivulets, a glistening path that glides down her chin. My lungs constrict beneath my too-tight tunic.

She is telling the truth.

And Illian knows it.

“I advise you to consider your words carefully,” says King Rurik, his tone fringed with frost. “You are speaking about a Miridranian king. This accusation challenges his legitimacy, and should we find your words to be false, we would have your head.”

Legitimacy.

Miridran could lose a king right before my eyes.

“I do not lie,” Annais rasps. “He is myson.” She whips her head to King Estienne again, eyes pleading. “They kept me from you. All your life, they kept me away, and they turned you intothis.But you are better than this.Please!”

They kept her away. And then Illian used me to sneak her inside.

What had he promised her? What does she think will happen? Does she know the cold of his ice-laden heart? More people pour into the room, drawn by the commotion. My father is among them, his hard eyes cutting over the crowd as he takes his place next to Rurik.

I shake my head, mouth drying. Anton, hovering behind Illian like a shadow, finds my gaze. He no doubt wonders if this was me.