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Chapter Six

T he isle comes alive as more and more ships arrive.

Billowing sails pass behind the gauzy curtains of my window that evening: clusters of vessels finding their way to the docks as the sun sinks beneath the horizon.

A wind sweeps low, swirling the drapes around like tendrils of smoke, stirring the plants in the corner of my room. Briny air fills my lungs alongside a flitter of nerves.

My skin is red and flushed from the washbasin and my efforts to scrub the blue powder from my skin.

Now, I organize my rolls of fabric and sewing tools on an empty desk, then sort my bags of flours, dyes, and a few other components I plan to experiment with as the last glow of sunset fades and stars dust the darkening sky.

After tugging on my leggings, I grab a fresh tunic, twist my hair into a loose braid, and head to find the orientation dinner.

The moment I step outside, I bump into a maid, a stack of linens in her arms. “Miss,” she says, dipping her head, “these are for you. May I?”

I step aside and allow her entrance. She places them on my bed, then tells me she will return each morning to collect what I’ve used.

There’s a saccharine quality to her—one that feels forced, especially when her eyes travel over the room, then me, to linger just a little too long before she leaves.

Illian.

How many has he paid off? How many are instructed to watch my every move?

Sconces bounce torchlight across the sandstone walls, lighting my path until I find the arc pass leading toward the southern wing.

It’s one of many I saw from the outside: a curved bridge enclosed in glass that connects various parts of the palace.

As I step onto it, I’m so high above the world, it takes me a moment to orient.

Beneath, wedges of glittering torchlight illuminate the grounds and docks.

Servants shuffle around like ants, carrying trunks and carts of food.

Not for the first time today, my eyes wander past the esplanade toward the western dock, my bunched fists relaxing when I ensure it’s empty.

I’d known he wouldn’t be here yet; the Crowns won’t arrive for another week. Still, I’d wondered if he’d find a way to come early.

Even so, I know I’m not alone. But there’s something about Illian’s actual presence, as if he pulls a storm with him wherever he goes. As if at any moment, he’ll shock me or drag me back into the dark, like the more frightening tales of Morta.

My protector is gone, revealed to be a monster. But I remind myself that I am not a damsel. I’m no princess bound within a tower.

I am a shadow.

I can be broken apart and put back together, like Brigitte says.

I have endured cruelty, imprisonment, years of loneliness and pain.

I might not be able to escape Illian, but I can clear my name and shape myself into something new.

So here, in this serenity above the island, I repeat my promise: I will do as Illian asks and earn my freedom.

I picture the deep, windy cliffs of Brisendale, the towns that lay beyond, folded into vales and carpeted in wildflowers.

There, I could disappear. Live among the heather and birdsong and peaceful mountain air.

The brazen scent of fresh herbs and honeyed wine thickens at the end of the arc pass, drawing my stomach into twists as I descend the stairs. Chatter accompanies it, mingled with peals of laughter, the clank of silverware.

I take in a steadying breath, pausing at the precipice of the dining hall.

It’s packed tight, the space elongated with narrow tables arrayed between pale sea-stone walls.

I feel invisible as I slide onto the edge of a bench, taking in the multitude of other performers.

Mostly musicians and dancers, I gather, several troupes all sitting together, but also bards and poets if their conversation is any indication.

They grin cheekily as they jostle and tease one another, as if they share a lifetime of history.

I slide my palms underneath my thighs, scanning for anyone who might be separate from the group.

I’d hoped to determine who the other soloist might be.

A whistle pierces the chatter. Through an arched doorway, Cope-lan stalks into view. He looks refreshed, his bright hair swept back, a loose, flowing uniform similar to Laurent’s hiding his sculpted form.

With a clap, he says, “Welcome, all, to the Crowns’ Gathering,” and glasses lift in recognition.

“As you know, we’re here for six weeks. That means forty-five nights of performances.

Granted, we’ll have only one signature performance a week for the entirety of our guests, but each night, we’ll divvy you up to entertain smaller, more select groups.

These are determined by request or assignment, so you will defer to me.

As such, your role here affords you the unique privilege of spending time in each and every court present. ”

Every court. A reminder of why Illian needs a performer.

“There are rules you must adhere to. You are not to address our guests directly unless spoken to. You will accept no bribes, nor will you favor any audience member during a performance,” he says, ticking off each regulation with his fingers.

“We are bound by Miridranian law. If you are caught giving out any information pertaining to our land, resources, or leadership, you’ll consider prison a blessing to the alternative.

And if you’re caught in a guest’s quarters, you’ll be suspended immediately.

The same can be said if a guest is caught in yours. ”

An image of Lord Sarden’s body the night he was found in my room slips into my mind—waxen, pruned flesh; a bulbous, watery wound.

Rheumy eyes, lifeless yet accusing. Bile snakes up my throat.

I hadn’t known he was there, not until I was wrenched from bed and dragged from my room, sluggish from what I suspect was a tonic slipped into my drink.

Guards pulled him out, cocooned in a bloodied sheet—someone must have snuck him in after I fell asleep.

But he’d clearly been dead for some hours, and I’d been with Illian up until the hour previous . . .

“Through us, the most powerful presences in the Northern Kingdoms will bear witness to Miridranian talent and strength.”

Cheers ring, chalices clink. I drag a hand over my face. I wonder if Copelan knows just how cunning, how vicious, the Crowns can be. Rules are no hindrance to them.

I wonder how many I’ll have to break.

Copelan raises his glass with a forced smile. “Take tonight to get acquainted with your fellow performers. I expect everyone to retire at a reasonable time and fill the practice halls bright and early. We only have a few days before our first signature performance.”

Food is served: fresh cod sauced in white wine over a bed of rice, presented in small stoneware dishes.

After a few bites, I lay down my spoon, not wanting to be sick before this crowd.

My eyes travel to Copelan. Like me, he’s alone amid a room full of people and, like me, he seems to prefer solitude.

A minute later, he rises from the table and slinks from the hall.

A slow, sneaking suspicion pulls me from my bench.

Wandering in the direction he left, I find another arc pass, this one higher than the last and overlooking the dome in the middle of the palace.

It’s quiet—so quiet my thoughts sound like voices.

It drags me back to my time in Illian’s prison, back to that dark, ever-present well in my mind.

But I stave it off, repeating the promise I made to myself with each step, sealing it deep in the burrows of my heart.

On the other side, I come upon a wide turret ringed by ominous, amaranthine sea glass, in the center of which stands a large statue depicting a lovers’ embrace.

The tableau itself is a glossy marble, finely crafted, yet it looks as if it was cracked apart then glued together again. Veins of reflective glass mar its smoothness, shimmering under the moonlight.

A closer inspection reveals the figures aren’t lovers after all. Not now that I recognize the hooded woman, the way her arm coils around the chiseled torso of a beautiful man. Her other hand grips a large, gilded mirror.

This tale I know well—a myth that ties back to the foundation of Miridran itself. Because the figure the Fate of Morta holds is Eremis, the only man to face her and live.

Eremis was the king’s bastard well over a century ago. When he died, Morta held out her hand, but he did not take it, so enamored with his own beauty that he was not swayed by hers. He returned to his life on land, having cheated death.

This piece of art, however, shows Morta’s revenge: the day she claimed him by holding up a mirror, capturing his reflection the next time he died.

He’d taken her hand, thinking it was his own.

A chill passes over me, bristling the hairs on my arms. Illian had images of Morta all over his palace, but here she feels close, somehow. A phantom in the shadows, the silence her song. Idly, I press the pad of my finger to her billowy lips, a faint ringing in my ear . . .

The sound of movement jerks me from my trance, drawing my attention to a nearby hall.

I ease past the sculpture and peek around the bend.

And there, in a wide, abandoned room, is Copelan.

Floor-to-ceiling mirrors encompass the space, reflecting his every angle, while sconces from the hall volley soft, fluttering light across the room. And he’s dancing, sailing across the floor, a ribbon banding his eyes—

Blindfolded. He’s blindfolded. Consumed in his own world.

I can almost see it as he moves; he paints it for me with motion.

There’s no music, no beat, but I hear it in his steps.

It flows from his leaps, his pirouettes, and I’m left breathless and gaping as he works up a sweat, his shirt clinging to his well-cut frame.