Page 13 of A Dance of Lies

But aside from slight tensions over Anton’s weapons development freeing East Miridran from Brisendali dependence, Miridran and Brisendale have always been at peace. King Rurik was mentored by Illian’s father, King Junien, before he died from scrofula.

I sneak another glance at King Rurik. I’d only seen him a handful of times before I left Brisendale.

He was younger then, but he wears his age well.

He could pass for thirty, though he’s well past forty.

Yet even now, I can’t help but search his eyes.

From here, I can’t tell which, but one of them is fake.

He’d lost it long ago thanks to a sparring accident, or so I was told.

I remember noticing it the first time he visited my father at our home, before Emilia swept me away and out of sight.

Copelan watches him, too, his lip caught between his teeth. I wish I could pluck the thoughts from his head.

I wonder if, like me, he’s working for someone.

I let my gaze fall over Copelan, now that his attention is elsewhere.

Gone is the stiff-backed Master of Revels, and in his place is a figure from lore.

A performer in every sense, from his tousled, flaxen locks to his gold silk tunic and ivory satin pants.

His brows pull into a dark slash, such a contrast to the citrine flash of his eyes.

I force myself to look away.

Another twist of melody brings in the Queen of Razam, her deep amber skin flawless in her golden gown, her night-dark locks woven through with ribbons. Seven men flank her, each garbed in black, with a sun emblem sewn onto their shoulders. Vicious tul-wars crisscross on their backs.

“Her sons,” Copelan tells me, his breath skimming my ear, but I can’t tear my eyes from the queen. I envy her poise, the way her chin is lifted, her hard obsidian eyes raking across the room as if measuring her prey.

“It’s a miracle she’s here,” Copelan murmurs. “I heard she almost didn’t come.”

I heard that, too, though it’s unsurprising.

During my time at the Melune, Razam and Miridran were well on their way to war if relations weren’t repaired—something about the queen vehemently rejecting Illian’s aid against the threats from the south.

It was all anyone talked about: whose children would volunteer for the army, what the draft age might be if it was implemented.

Rumors stirred of Razami soldiers gathering along the edge of East Miridran.

But then King Anton traveled across the border with only two of his soldiers, supposedly as a show of peace—or foolishness. He met with Queen Sadira, and not only convinced her to cease the brewing war but to open trade with Miridran.

To this day, no one knows what he said to her.

Even now, I’ve heard she refuses to so much as speak to Illian. I bet it’s because she can see straight through him.

A lyre joins with the stringed instruments and I stifle a breath, knowing what’s coming.

The three kings of Miridran.

It should come as no surprise when Illian steps through the portal first, magnificently appareled in a midnight brocade with diamonds up to the collar, lest anyone forget his trade.

His eyes are dark, vast, a slight, arrogant grin tucked into the corner of his lips—something only I might notice.

Even so, the atmosphere itself seems to shift, even the light chatter ceasing.

My stomach turns as he strolls farther into the room—alone, unlike the other Crowns. No courtiers, no generals. Not even an adviser. A small assemblage of his court awaits—his seasonal selections, who will no doubt be discarded like I will be soon enough.

He selects a seat directly in my line of sight—the only member of the audience who can see a sliver of backstage.

And when he smiles, a chill snakes down my spine, because that smile isn’t for those around him, no.

It’s for me.

His eyes lock onto mine like a hook, even as an announcer from Central Miridran gives his condolences; King Estienne, Illian’s older brother, was delayed in his journey and hasn’t yet arrived.

It strikes me as odd, but I can’t focus on it, not when King Illian’s gaze still holds mine.

He slides his hand to his belt and pats it twice, then raises a brow, and it takes me a moment before I understand.

I move my hand to the ribbon around my waist, and there, next to my satchel of millen, I feel it.

A small, rolled parchment tucked into the silk.

I glance about, but no one aside from Copelan is nearby. And he couldn’t be under Illian’s employ—not after the test he put me through.

Hiding the parchment from Copelan’s view, I unspool it near my waist and skim the letter. It’s written in Illian’s hand, just like the first note I received.

Tonight, pay my brother Anton special attention. Secure an invitation to his private dinner tomorrow evening as his entertainment by whatever means necessary.

As I roll the parchment up and hide it within the folds of my skirt, cheers erupt from the crowd. King Illian’s mouth flattens into a line, and I drift my gaze toward the door where a young man stands with quite possibly the brightest smile I’ve ever seen.

My lips part without my consent.

King Anton of East Miridran looks nothing like his brother.

Unlike Illian, with his colorless garb and oppressive demeanor, his younger brother is vibrant in a verdant, double-breasted jerkin capped with gilded shoulder seams, the center of it parting to reveal a silken tunic beneath.

Then there’s the ostentatious belt, the boots paneled with jeweled buckles.

His dark hair is wavy, like a wind-blown sea, his kohl-lined eyes a startling green beneath thick, shapely brows.

But it’s his dashing grin that lights the room, rivaling even the stacks of rings glinting from his fingers.

It’s apparent just how popular he is despite his well-known debauchery. People always did love a good show, and I must admit he delivers. The whole ensemble, but especially that crown. Glass protrudes from its golden base, stained with shards of aqua and emerald, like a garland of gilded leaves.

And it’s crooked.

He soaks in the adulation before parading through the archway, women crowding him on either side, chins tilted up as if they’re royalty right along with him.

I see now why people believe that he cheated death. He looks otherworldly, like he indeed has the power to deny his own mortality.

As he sinks into his divan, more wine is served, along with platters of roasted boar—thick haunches of steaming pink meat decorated with rosemary—followed by fruits indigenous to each country.

I recognize pink mangoes and plump, aromatic ambarella fruit from Razam, pears and russet plums from Brisendale—Emilia’s favorite, I remember with a pang—and apricots and grapes the size of my fist from Zar.

No one notices the potted trees being carted in, placed at intervals in the center of the room, not even as the candles and wall sconces wink out, one by one.

A strum silences the Gathering, quick as a whip.

Then the melody turns, shifting into something darker, more mysterious, accented with the soft beat of a drum.

A ripple of nervous panic whisks over me as I prepare for my moment, as I beg my body to cooperate.

The pain is compounded now after long days of practice and exertion, but I recall what Brigitte had told me once, something I had ignored until now.

Use all your senses when the pain is at its worst. Taste, touch, scent.

I peel off my slippers, focus on the cold of the stone beneath my toes, the tinge of brine on my tongue.

Fog drifts across the floor, blown by performers robed in diaphanous, azure gossamer. Each stands before a pot of dyed, steaming water, wafting it about with large, crescent fans.

I slide into the indigo cloud, curtained by its haze, and position myself on the floor.

A vocalist begins our tale, her voice soft yet resonate, carrying above the breeze.

Wake, woodlands; here comes your king.

Wake, forest, hear him sing.

The fog rises, and I am revealed.

My back, flat against the floor, arches upward. I am the frost king, waking from his slumber, ready to take revenge on the Sun who put me to sleep. My body curls in, then out, toes pointed, before a deep yawn stretches me to my feet in one graceful sweep.

In the snow, he steps.

Barren sun, you must now set.

The folktale is common, even outside Brisendale. The frost king is cursed, banished for five months out of the year. I show this while I move. As the music ebbs and flows, I make my urgency clear. His time, my time, will run out fast.

Frost king, go your course.

Frost king, our world is yours.

I glide across the floor, releasing my frost. Shimmering silver pours from my fingertips like snow, thanks to a component mixed into the flour.

As I dance, it swirls around me, glimmering in the air, coating my skin, my dress, the trees and plants that set our stage.

I bend into shapes I know I can achieve, and then Illian’s task surfaces in my mind: Pay my brother special attention.

Through my movements, I find King Anton’s eyes, gleaming even in the dark. My heart catapults, but this is my chance. I tread to him in a plume of silvery light.

The curve of his smile ticks upward at my approach. Two of his guards step into my path, but he waves them off.

Forest, quick, hide your light.

For the sun intends to plight.

I don’t think about the ramifications of what I’m about to do.

I don’t think about how daring to touch a Crown is forbidden, even without the mess of silver dusting my hands.

I don’t think about how I’m about to pull a Miridranian king into a Brisendali dance—an offense in itself—or how Copelan warned us against involving the audience.

All I can see is King Illian’s handwriting, his instructions, and I act.

Don’t be deceived, oh king, for the sun comes with golden rings.

This was meant to be Copelan’s role.

I grasp King Anton’s fingers and tug him up.

Amusement dances in those kohl-lined eyes, and for a moment, I am lost. Such a striking shade of green, somewhere between peridot and jade.

But I snap from my trance and ferry him into the center of the floor, ignoring the bevy of gasps and whispers.

He follows me with easy grace, as if he, too, were made for the dance.

And, as if sensing my trepidation, he gives my hand a reassuring squeeze.

A bit of boldness returns.

I relish it, sliding my fingers along the sharp angle of his jaw, leaving a trail of silver. I feel the room tense around us, holding its breath.

My heart is a thunderous thing.

But then he grins, and I know I’ve made the right choice.

I release his hand and circle him, arms raised, millen spilling until we are blanketed in a dense, pearlescent veil.

Quickly, I slip a small sack of dust into his palm, subtly guiding his thumb to the release string.

I whisper my request into his ear. He gives me a flash of brilliant white teeth.

I can’t help but smile back, elation swelling in my chest like a whorl of incense.

The cloud falls into a nebula that wafts about our feet.

I arch backward, his hand supporting my lower back, the other hovering over me as if casting a curse.

I let my head loll. He lowers me to the floor, then frees a large, billowing halo of golden dust that explodes outward—the warmth of the sun, the frost king’s curse.

Before it settles to the floor, I dash behind the divider and out of sight, leaving King Anton standing before the crowd, plated in gold like the sun itself.