Page 5 of To Dance with Death

There’s something about Brisendali forests. Unlike Miridran come winter, these trees do not shed their leaves. The forest is alive with birdsong, the rustling of branches, the patter of icicles breaking and falling about. Though after a while, the trees grow so thick it might as well be night, frost lacing the windows like a veil of ice.

Sundar falls asleep, too, some minutes later, his cheek flat against the wooden siding.

Though the journey has been taxing on my frail body, my fatigue mounting, my mind is too scattered, too worried, to sleep.

I drag my finger along the window, through the condensation, twirling it this way and that, until I’ve wiped away a clearing. Several wayward honey-brown curls are glued to my forehead, though I brush them away, unable to look at my own reflection for long. Instead I gaze past it, idly watching as dark shapes flit past the window—trees, the occasional deer, I think.

Until something materializes in the glass.

Hazy and ghostly white, like a whirl of pale smoke. Then its edges sharpen, lengthen. Details emerge the way they did with Anton’sstills,developing rapidly—

Dark, familiar eyes. A slash of mouth.

A dark curl of hair…

I leap from my seat, my heart slamming into my throat. Copelan rustles next to me. My pulse ratchets to full speed, but I blink, scrub my eyes—

The vision is gone.

My heart pounds a quick staccato. Shaking, I force myself to breathe. In through the nose, out through pursed lips.

I must have dozed off. Or it’s yet another sleep-deprived hallucination, just like when I grabbed the handle.

It must be, because there’s no way what I saw was real.

Or rather…whoI saw.

The next afternoon, after spending the night in a modest posting inn, we come upon a clearing, a long ribbon of sea flowing inland from behind a tall jut of stone. Upon that jut is the Fortress of Sira, the castle where the Brisendali monarchs have resided for the past two centuries. On the outside, it is an unimpressive sight despite its size—stacks of weathered stone battered by decades of frigid, unrelenting wind. A forest creeps onto the ledge on the right, and in the distance are nearby towns—clusters of homes and buildings. Even from here, I can see the nearest port packed tight with Syndicate ships. Beyond them, the sea churns underneath a stir of rain that has yet to reach land.

The wind pushes the carriage to and fro, sending it tottering on its wheels. Even Sundar looks nervous, his large fingers clamped on either side of the bench as we pull up to the main entrance. Copelan has only just begun to stir.

We approach the gatehouse. Inside are guards not just from Brisendale but also from across the Syndicate.

“Stop here,” I say to the coachman before he brings us too close to the gate, knowing the gatekeeper would stop us and send word to my father. Instead I clamber out despite my ratcheting heartbeat and walk to the gate myself, noting bitterly the alteration to the Brisendali flag waving above it. The great hawk’s talon is now clutching my father’s sigil.

Before the gatekeeper can demand my identity, I announce it at the top of my lungs—ensuring the guards beyond can hear, too. “My name is Vastianna Stova, daughter of His Majesty, King Stova, and I demand we be let into the palace at once.”

The inside of the fortress is not so different from the outside. Old, faded tapestries hang from stone walls, the narrow, wood-shuttered windows letting in shafts of light that rotate with the sun.

Upon entering, we are greeted by the steely Master Footman, Mr. Perov—a slender man with brass glasses that balance precariously on his elongated nose. “Lady Stova?”

I nod once. He appraises me with a reluctant sigh, as if he doesn’t believe I am who I say. My shoulders straighten in defiance.

“Do Brisendali subjects not bow before their Crowns?” Sundar asks, looking down at the man.

“I have no proof of her identity.”

“My father will verify it,” I say. “I demand to be taken before him at once.”

“You cannot simply—”

“Mr. Perov, shall I make a scene? These halls echo loudly. What do you think will happen if the Syndicate hears you are the one who denied me entrance?”

He stares at me a beat before conceding. “You may follow me, then. Your entourage will be held here—”

“They come with me,” I say. Again he starts to argue, but I intervene. “This is His Highness, Prince Sundar of Razam, and Copelan, the Master of Revels for the recent Gathering. Both have testimonies relevant to the Syndicate hearing.”

“Razam!” Mr. Perov’s eyes widen. “He is a traitor—”