Page 18

Chapter Ten

M y fingers twitch as I hold Illian’s next letter. It was waiting for me when I returned to my room after a grueling practice and a hot soak in the bathing chambers. I’d worn myself out in an attempt to calm my nerves after seeing the man I once called father.

He’s here.

Here.

But I need only avoid him. Keep my head down, my face coated in cosmetics. Nothing has changed. Breathe.

Even so, it had taken hours for me to wind down. But now my mind thrusts back into action, swimming with dread. Illian’s letter seems to pulse in my hands.

My gaze dips to his writing. I know it by the haunting tilt of his strokes—long and sweeping with the promise of blood. It contains no instructions, only a name, and a threat.

Lord Bayard.

Refuse, and your time here is at an end.

I lick my lips and lift the vial that accompanied the letter.

The substance inside is clear. It isn’t sassen root, where a milky sheen turns the liquid pearlescent.

When I sniff, I smell nothing. It must be bellamira.

It’s similar to nightshade, except that it has no taste or smell.

The giveaway. And it only grows in the north, in my home-land.

It’s lethal.

The vial itself is tear-shaped, about the size of my thumb, and because of its design, the moment I tip it, it will release the entirety of its contents at once.

He told me I would spy for him. Ascertain information.

Not poison someone.

My breakfast inches up my throat.

Lord Bayard. The name isn’t familiar. One of King Anton’s men, I assume, but a death at the Gathering would disrupt the whole event. Surely Illian wouldn’t want to send the Crowns into an uproar so early.

A soft rap vibrates my door. Startled, I cram the vial underneath my pillow along with the note before opening the door. Laurent grins at me, presenting a large package festooned in ribbons. A dress box. “Hello, my sweet.”

I offer him a meager smile and step aside, allowing him entrance. “What’s this? I already have a costume for tonight.” I’d planned on performing the Illiuna, like I did for Copelan that first day. Safe. Easy.

Unlike what I’m now expected to do.

“I haven’t the faintest.” Laurent shoves the box into my trembling hands, then glides into my room, nose wrinkling at my mess.

I bite my cheek before unwinding the strands of ribbons, then slide off the lid. Inside is a heap of silk, and when I pull it out, it ripples down in a wave of emerald and aquamarine, like liquid sea glass. “Who sent this?”

“Ah, yes. The card.” He hands me a small, embossed sheet of parchment, its edges rimmed in silver. I expect to see Illian’s handwriting again, except the script is elegant, flourished, a ridiculous amount of embellishments accenting each letter.

Dearest Vasalie,

Please do me the honor of gracing us with this gown along with your much anticipated presence.

I shouldn’t be surprised to see King Anton’s name penned extravagantly along the bottom.

“How, exactly, am I supposed to perform in this?” I ask. The gown is long and delicate, like a layer of seawater already slipping from my hands. “Millen would ruin it!” Not to mention, I’d trip on the length . . .

Laurent shrugs. “That would be his problem, sweet. But you can’t very well turn him down. Let’s see it on you.”

He’s right; I don’t have a choice. Shoving thoughts of the poison away for the time being, I dip behind a divider and shrug from my robe as Laurent calls, “Consider yourself lucky. And he’s not bad on the eyes, too.”

“He’s aware,” I mumble.

“Why shouldn’t he be? And you are a princess for the evening, at his request. Might as well enjoy it.” He lowers his voice conspiratorially. “I would.”

As if I can enjoy anything now.

But as the fabric tumbles down my legs, I realize Laurent is right. I feel like royalty. What I thought was silk is something even softer—a fabric I can’t name. Almost like gossamer, the brush of a butter-soft petal, it ghosts my ribs and waist before trailing off in a swirl of colors at my feet.

But there’s no way I can dance without ripping it straight up my backside. Despite its loveliness, a flare of annoyance simmers in my belly. How presumptuous of King Anton to tell me what I can perform in! But I dismiss the feeling. He’s a Crown. He can do whatever he wants.

I emerge from behind the divider, angling to give Laurent access to the back of my dress. “Would you?”

He secures the ties with steady hands before spinning me around. He must notice my unease because he takes my hands, squeezing his reassurance.

I watch his face, then, as he sees my scars. As he takes them in, one by one.

They’ve continued to fade, thanks to the salves, but they’re still there—ropes of raised flesh banding my wrists, evidence of the fetters that bound me.

For the most part, I’ve been able to hide them with cosmetics, costumes, and bracelets.

When Copelan noticed, I told him it was from a short, experimental time as an aerialist. He bought the lie.

I can tell Laurent itches to ask about them, but he doesn’t, and I’m thankful.

“It is an honor,” he finally says, “to be requested by the King of the East.”

“What should I expect?” I ask, pushing my next task to the back of my mind. I’m hoping he’s familiar with the youngest Miridranian king and his habits. Perhaps that’s why Illian wanted me to befriend him, I remember with a pang of guilt.

A soft chuckle. “His Majesty is . . . an unpredictable force, ever causing a stir with his antics, and those parties of his.”

So I’ve gathered, even from the staff. During the last Gathering, he hosted banquet after soirée after banquet. Kept half the palace awake until the wee hours of the morning, the other half slobbering-drunk along with him.

Yet this is the man who supposedly stopped the Razami war. Though, I’d peg it on bribery, if his actions last night with King Rurik are anything to go by, and only because he thought himself invincible, like the rumors claim.

“Even so, one must wonder if it’s mere frill. Decoration, meant to distract,” Laurent says. “Perhaps he merely invites others into his lair to study them. And you poked him, my sweet.”

His words loop in my mind as I ponder my reflection, a bitter taste on my tongue. I belong in costumes, not gowns. This one isn’t cheaply made, hastily sewn, rigged with pockets and ties. It fits like gloss over my imperfect flesh and I long to peel it off.

“Anything else?” I press Laurent, tussling with my errant curls, fitting them into a loose coiffure.

Behind me, he runs a hand down the length of his surcoat, idly fiddling with its brass buttons.

“I was well into my twenties during his coronation, when he came of age. That was, ah . . .” He ticks off his fingers.

“Eight years ago now, and I’ve spent considerable time with him since.

He is a riddle even to me, and yet I can’t help but admire him. ”

I pause. “You’re from East Miridran?”

“For some time now, yes. Longer than I would have originally liked.” At my curious glance, he explains. “I grew up in Serai, but my sister wanted to move here. She became a glass smith, apprenticing in Philam. Naturally, I couldn’t leave her.”

Philam, the port town just off the coast. We’d passed through it on our journey here.

“You have a sister?” I say, turning to face him.

“And two nephews and a niece, all of whom have threatened me within an inch of my life if I don’t bring them some kind of artifact from the isle.”

I spill a laugh at that, grateful for his distraction. I tell him I want to hear more about them, and he promises me he’ll indulge me soon. But as we ready to leave, I can’t help but ask, “The stories. Are they true? About His Majesty’s death?”

Laurent stills, almost as if he’s debating whether to answer.

And then he says, “It wouldn’t be the first time someone came back to life, if you choose to believe the tales of old.”

“Eremis and the Fate of Morta, you mean?”

“Indeed. You know the full story, then?”

“I’m not from the southern caves, Laurent,” I say, perching by the vanity. “The tale is common enough.”

“Sure, everyone knows the tale in its most basic form, but do you know how she got her revenge?” Laurent asks, giving me a sly grin.

I recall the sculpture I found in the turret, the Fate of Morta’s arm coiled around Eremis like a lover set to kill. “She tricked him,” I answer.

“More to it than that,” Laurent says. “My niece is quite the scholar, see. After Eremis refused Morta’s hand the first time, she sent three prophets to warn him that if he did not humble himself and return to her lair willingly, she would come to claim him.”

The prophets of old; I remember them from Emilia’s stories.

Some were devoted to the true Fates, as they called them, refusing to believe the Fate of Morta was a Fate at all.

Others dedicated themselves entirely to her service.

But a thousand years have passed, and prophets are few and far between.

In both Miridran and Brisendale, religion is sparse because of it—more a collection of tales rather than truths.

“Eremis ignored the prophets,” Laurent says, spinning a seashell pin between his fingers before sliding it into my hair, “living as if he were as immortal as the Fate of Morta herself. He spent his days beneath the sheets of married courtiers, thieving valuables, instigating fights until his fists were bloodied stumps. Then he started a war, to no one’s surprise—during which he was slain once more.

But, knowing her beauty would not drag him under, the Fate of Morta held up that mirror because, you see, the prophets hadn’t just been sent to warn Eremis but to observe his weaknesses. ”

“Are you trying to give me a lesson on vanity? I don’t see what this has to do with King Anton.”

A shrug. “Nothing, perhaps. Or maybe everything.”

A shiver slips down my spine like a winter-chilled wind; even my bones seem to grow cold.

But I shake my head. Emilia loved the stories, so I did, too; I even believed them, once.

But if the Fates are real, they’ve lost interest and moved on.

I owe them nothing, and certainly not my faith, much less my devotion.

They haven’t walked my path. They don’t know my pain. I am but a grain of sand; I matter to them as little as dust.

At that, Laurent flicks the lightest dusting of powder over my nose and tells me I should leave the rest of my face open and bright, but I can’t take his advice.

I feel too bare like this, too exposed—especially now that my father stalks these halls.

So when he leaves my room with a kiss to my forehead and a wish for good luck, I draw heavy lines of kohl across my lids and sweep gold leaf along the planes of my cheeks.

I wait for Copelan, dreading the moment he walks in, but as the minutes tick by, I can delay no longer. I force myself to stand, a sudden, transient spell crowding my mind with stars. The thought of performing tonight makes me want to sink into the floor.

After slipping on my shoes, I exhale in front of the mirror. The girl peering back at me is neither the girl I used to be nor the girl who emerged from that prison. I don’t recognize her as she slips the vial of poison into the folds of ribbon around her waist.

I don’t know what she is willing to do.