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Chapter Eight

O nly after I use the washbasin in my room to scrub the millen from my skin do I return to the Dome Hall.

This time, a black tulle skirt wraps my waist, a simple, laced chemise tucked inside—leftovers from costumes we decided not to use.

Despite my efforts, a slight sheen of silver still shimmers against my skin, especially along my eyes and cheeks, where I tried to leave my makeup intact.

Tonight, the talent is to join the after-party, and according to Copelan’s rules, we’re allowed to converse with anyone who approaches us. The opposite, of course, is forbidden.

But I haven’t yet completed my task.

The weight of my actions squeezes my lungs, shortening my breath.

I could have found another way. I should have waited until after the dance, captured his attention here at the party somehow.

Anything would’ve been better than pulling him, a Miridranian king, into a foreign country’s dance.

And Brisendale, of all nations, whose king is notoriously short-tempered and very likely to take offense.

Then there’s the fact that I robbed Copelan of his role.

Thankfully, by the time I slip back into the throng, the tension has evaporated, the atmosphere wreathed in a cheerful, inebriated sort of merriment.

I’d left after our opening act, as a vocal ensemble wove through a myriad of Brisendali ballads while the millen was cleaned.

After that, another troupe was to perform.

Now, upon my return, a harpist’s melody strolls about, sweet as ripened lychee.

Copious amounts of wine flow from decanters; trays of miniature scones flutter by.

All the guests have intermingled—including the Crowns.

I pilfer a flute from a nearby server if only to have something in my hands. I couldn’t imagine consuming it, what with my growing fatigue and the way my muscles quiver and burn. I’d never make it back to my room.

I keep to the edge of the Dome Hall. Even so, several eyes drift my way and linger.

Then, my gaze snaps to Illian’s, as if he’s tugged on some invisible rope yoking us together.

But he merely gives me a passing glance before turning to Princess Aesir, the Brisendali princess and King Rurik’s daughter.

She’s reclining beside Illian on his divan, her chin poised, her white-blond plait draped over a pale, bare shoulder.

It’s been ten years since I’ve seen her, and even then, it was only from a distance; though we were close in age, my father was too worried about my lack of decorum to let us interact.

But she’s recognizable all the same. Tall, regal.

Lush red lips like a drop of blood against snow.

Frost-blue eyes that mimic her father’s.

She, too, glances in my direction, then angles her chin back toward Illian.

They share a peculiar smile before engaging in a lively debate with two Brisendali nobles.

I take the chance and dip from view, escaping to the other side of the room. I must stay focused.

Couples thread together for a dance. I ease through them, aiming for the veranda where I locate King Anton alongside his courtiers, each one draping over him like vines on a trellis. A lazy smile shows just how much he’s enjoying it.

A hand snags my arm.

I swing around to find Copelan’s accusing glare, his copper-flecked gaze as hard as steel.

His fingers tighten around my wrist, and with his other hand he plucks my flute from my fingers and clanks it on a nearby tray.

“Do you have any idea what you’ve done? Morta’s teeth, Vasalie, I should—” He bites his tongue, realizing the scene he might create, the unwanted attention.

He yanks me into a dance—an excuse to draw me close enough to hiss, “I should send you packing right now. ” Unlike me, he’s still in the costume I robbed him of performing in: the iridescent silk wrapping his torso, the gold headpiece banding his brow.

“I—” My words falter as I grapple for an excuse. His eyes rip into me, searching. “I’m sorry. I thought—” No, I didn’t think. I acted rashly.

“You thought what?” He whirls me into a spin, then jerks me close again, breath hot against my ear. “You thought you could ignore my rules? Thought you could steal the show for your own glory? Is that it?” His grip tightens on my waist.

“No! That isn’t—”

“And him of all Crowns, Vas. Do you not know how dangerous that was? He’s the most likely to—”

A deep voice cuts into our quarrel, thick with a northern accent. “Master Reveler, is it? Pardon, but I’d like to steal a dance.”

Copelan and I swivel.

My heart speeds when I find the King of Brisendale standing there, and it takes me a moment to remember to breathe. His right eye . . . From afar, it looks so incredibly real, but up close, it’s a little too glossy, the pupil a saturated, winking blue, cut from genuine sapphire.

I force my stubborn muscles into a curtsey. Beside me, Copelan sinks into a bow.

Only when we rise do I remember King Rurik’s request. I jolt and offer my hand, his grip a little too firm when he accepts it. He leads me away, only for Copelan to step in our path once more. “Your Majesty—the dance—I can explain—”

“Step aside, Master Reveler,” he says, his tone edged in ice. “If I require your explanation, I will ask for it.”

Sweat coats my palms. Without a choice, Copelan retreats.

King Rurik steers me toward the edge of the Dome Hall, drawing me into a slow waltz.

A veranda fans out beside us, spreading over the island below, where a lambent moon teases the night-dark waves.

It catches in his light hair, washing out his features—his pale beard, his frost-bitten gaze.

A true frost king. He looks so much like his daughter who, at a glance, still sits with Illian.

Both of them watch us now.

“Quite an invigorating performance,” King Rurik says, recapturing my attention. “But I wonder at your choice of . . . prop. ”

For a moment, I think he means my millen dust, but then he spins us, pointing his gaze in King Anton’s direction.

Prop.

“Your Majesty, I’d hoped to spare you,” I say with more confidence than I feel, thankful my own northern accent had faded long ago. “You are too fine to be sullied by dust.”

“Perhaps,” King Rurik says, that sapphire in his eye winking. The other pierces into me like a single, sharpened claw. “But my court is not. With such fine Brisendali men available to join you onstage for a dance meant to honor my country, you leave me to wonder, Miss . . .”

“Vasalie,” I answer him. “Vasalie Moran.”

“Miss Moran,” he says, dropping my hands; this was never about dancing, anyway.

“Perhaps you acted a fool, as so many young women do, but such a mistake is uncommon at the Gathering. What with the time and meticulous care put into planning our evenings, I’ve found that choices here are quite deliberate. ”

My heart stutters. “I assure you, Your Majesty, I meant no offense—”

“Who put you up to it?”

“You misunderstand—”

His voice is as cold as northern frost. “Never lie to a Crown, Miss Moran.”

My throat dries. He could have me ripped from this room with a flick of his wrist, could have me questioned until I couldn’t remember lies from truth. I swallow my rising dinner, scrounging every corner of my mind for an excuse.

“She’s working for me.”

My head whips around.

King Anton gives the Brisendali king an absurdly innocent smile, swishing the wine in his gaudy, sea-glass chalice. Gold still coats him like a second skin, though he’s wiped the worst of it from his face. “Quite the spectacle, no?”

He doesn’t spare me a glance, but recognition hits me swiftly when I hear the deep, lazy lilt of his voice. He was in the office with Laurent. He was the hooded figure.

King Rurik lifts a skeptical brow. “Surely you don’t intend to make enemies our first night here, Anton?”

“Morta’s teeth, I would never,” King Anton returns, throwing a hand over his heart as if he’s been wounded.

“As I’m sure you know, dear friend, the sun is the antagonist of that story,” he points out, and I want to kick myself for not thinking of it earlier.

“We would never paint you, or your noble subjects, with such villainy. But surely if you’d have preferred otherwise . . .”

King Rurik holds up a hand, the cruel twist of his lips smoothing out. “I concede; I hadn’t thought of it that way.”

“The fault is mine,” King Anton says dismissively.

“I see now why the interpretation was misunderstood. Allow me to make it right. Join my court for a private breakfast tomorrow, and perhaps we can find a way to expedite those shipments of cassava. Maybe I’ll throw in an extra crate or twelve as a gesture of our growing friendship. ”

I press my lips together to keep them from tipping open. But then, perhaps I shouldn’t be surprised at the hint of diplomacy King Anton seems to so carefully wield, considering his feat with Queen Sadira.

King Rurik swings an unreadable glance my way, then relents with a sigh. “Well enough, Anton; consider this matter forgotten.” He lifts a flute from a passing tray. “To the future, and to a successful Gathering.”

“To prosperity and peace and plenty of wine.” King Anton mirrors him with his own chalice. He takes a swig, then places a warm hand on my lower back.

He is touching me.

During the performance, I had initiated it. It was part of the show. But he, a Crown, is touching me of his own free will—something Illian never did for reasons I still don’t understand. I almost wonder if my flesh is poison to his skin.

Ignoring the way King Rurik takes notice, King Anton ferries me away.

I shiver from the heat from his palm, and from the gaze King Rurik burns onto the back of my neck. I wonder if he believes King Anton, or if he’s merely stowing the offense for later. Perhaps that’s the reason for the clench in King Anton’s grip as his hand moves from my back to my wrist.