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He seems to notice that, too, and releases a soft laugh.

“Easy, now. I have no proof that you are under his thumb, merely suspicion. But before you throw in your stake, Miss Moran, think carefully. Get to know your opponents. You may find you like them better than you do your allies.” He sweeps his chin in the direction of the party.

“Stay a while. Drink my wine. Get to know my friends. Think about them the next time you are asked to infiltrate my court.”

Gustav’s image unfurls in my mind. I understand King Anton’s tactic now. He thinks he can appeal to me. Thinks that if I see the faces of those I could harm, I might not move against him. That I might reconsider.

He doesn’t know how much it’s working. The glass in my hand becomes heavy, weighted, as if the poison has turned to lead. I don’t want any of this.

I hope he doesn’t notice the way I haven’t taken a sip.

I shake my head, regaining a bit of sense.

Whatever he shows me, it’s curated. Carefully selected.

But I know the rumors, the whispers about his Glory Court and those he’s lured inside.

The fact that he’s probably slept with and then discarded more women than I’ve met in my entire life.

Does he really think I’ll believe him to be some bastion of goodwill after the convivial show he put on tonight with the Razami court?

I admit he’s intelligent, that he’s contributed to Miridran in his own deluded way, but I am no fool.

He says, “Speak freely, I bid you. I am not the type to take offense. Whatever it is you’re refraining from saying, let it out.”

He wants honesty? So be it. “You paint a pretty picture, Your Majesty—”

“Anton is fine.”

“—but I’ve heard otherwise,” I say.

“And you believe everything you hear?”

“Rumors are like threads. They unspool from a skein of truth, do they not?”

“Then let us get to the truth, shall we? The skein is here before you.”

Perhaps it’s because I feel cornered like a mouse, with little way out—but if I can turn this back on him, I will.

“The Glory Court,” I say, dropping the accusation before him.

“Do you think I need to hire someone to sleep with me?” He gestures at his perfect face. My fingers yearn to smack his smirk right off, but it only grows when he sees my expression. “What have you heard, exactly?”

“That you stock it full of concubines. Nearly a hundred women at any given time, there at your disposal.”

“And if it were true?” He steps closer, until he’s towering over me. “Little Minnow, are you jealous?”

Minnow. A fish. Really? I glower at him, cheeks aflame. “They say those who reside there were forcibly abducted from their homes. ”

“That’s quite the accusation.”

“And the moment you tire of them, they are never seen or heard from again. Hundreds upon hundreds have disappeared.” The mere thought makes my fists curl, my nails scoring into my flesh.

He leans down, meeting my gaze. A lock of hair falls softly over his cheek.

If I was closer—if I wasn’t disgusted with him—I’d itch to brush it back.

“If you would like to know about my Glory Court, ask anyone who actually spends time there. I hear there are some around these very halls. And,” he tacks on with no short amount of mirth, “there’s room for you, should you find yourself tempted to join. ”

I stare at him, aghast. But I refuse to let him pry his way under my skin again. And yet . . . “Are you not going to defend yourself?”

“That seems like an awful lot of work.”

“You aren’t afraid of what they’ll say?”

“Fear is not to my liking,” he says. “Anything else?”

“You seduced the queen to stop a war. Or was it bribery?”

“Neither, but I am flattered.”

“It was not a compliment.”

“I have an innate ability to turn anything into a compliment. One of my favorite qualities. I assume there’s more?”

Aggravation climbs up my throat. “The amount of hard-earned Miridranian funds you waste on your ridiculous parties, then. You have an entire port full of pleasure barges. Four vineyards to stock your palace . . .”

“Diplomacy is never a waste, Miss Moran.”

“They say you set your own hall on fire during one of them. That you were playing with fireworks— inside —while drunk.”

“The place needed a remodel anyway.”

His casual air only serves to unnerve me. But there is one last question I have, albeit a risky one. Offensive. I could never—

“Ask,” he dares.

“They say you fell off Mount Carapet ten years ago,” I blurt. “That you couldn’t have survived.”

Again, that strange smile spreads across his cheeks.

“What?” I ask.

“You,” he says, shaking his head. “You’re so . . . I don’t know. Serious. I find myself wondering what your smile looks like.”

The fire on my cheeks intensifies; it’s a struggle to keep my composure. Especially when he’s so . . . amused. And so close. “My smiles are earned, Your Majesty,” I tell him, shrinking back.

He watches me for a few uncomfortably long seconds before extending his arm. “I meant what I said earlier. Relax tonight. Enjoy yourself, for once. And by the Fates, call me Anton. Shall we?”

I don’t miss the way he’s skipped over my question about his supposed death, but it’s just as well. It’s likely a rumor devised to make him seem more like a god.

I take his arm only because I cannot refuse him, even if he acts otherwise.

About that. “Would I not be chastised for addressing you so informally?”

“Perhaps, though not if no one’s around.”

“I don’t plan on being alone with you often.”

“Don’t worry; the intimidation will wear off.”

I scowl. But he doesn’t notice, an all-too-pleased grin on his perfect face. His appeal, I realize. How easy it must be for him to wrap his charm around someone like a sash and lure them into his Glory Court with ease.

At least he doesn’t press me further. Even so, my insides tug and pull as we return to the lounge.

Lights bounce across the room as the glass show continues, images scrawling about before dispersing into a smear.

I don’t pay attention to them, not this time.

Instead, my gaze catches on Gustav, even from across the room.

He lounges with Queen Sadira’s sons, gesticulating, laughing.

The king— Anton, rather—abandons me, slinking onto a divan next to them.

They drink, they laugh.

I watch.

I thought I could do it. I thought I could be as ruthless as King Illian was toward me. I thought I’d do whatever it took to survive, no matter the cost.

Gustav notices me and rises, inviting me to join them. I tell him I’d rather stand. Night-crisp air washes over me, my stomach roiling.

“Actually, I could use a few minutes to stretch my legs,” he says, too kind to leave me alone.

I had counted on it.

“I hope if anything, you’re enjoying the rosé,” he says, bumping his glass against my poisoned one—a gesture that nearly makes me choke.

Hastily, I force a change of topic. “Are His Majesty and the queen . . .”

“Morta’s teeth, no,” he answers, barking a laugh. “The queen has no interest in men. Never has, never will. She’d sooner kiss Ishu.”

I frown. “But her sons . . .”

“Adopted. Every last one,” he says. “But all equal heirs.”

“As in . . . they will split the kingdom when she passes?”

“The late King Junien took her advice rather literally. Her sons will rule as a joint council of sorts, along with whomever they marry.”

“But they won’t fight over the throne?” I ask. While I had heard something like this before—her sons are common knowledge at court—I suppose I hadn’t fully grasped the concept. And most court gossip is nothing if not critical of Queen Sadira in every regard.

He shakes his head. “In Razam, power is not what one seeks for oneself; rather, it’s found in numbers, like the chain of a necklace.

The crown is merely a pendant. Decoration.

What truly matters is what they do together as one.

” He pauses. “It’s the reason Anton’s father split Miridran among his sons, you see.

He and the queen were once friends. He learned a great deal from her, and her mother before her—and Razami traditions and tales.

And when he grew sick with scrofula, he was inspired by her methods of distributing power and came up with a solution to alleviate his mounting fears.

It’s why he issued the decree he hoped would strengthen Miridran by granting all his sons power rather than forcing the burden all onto one. ”

I think of Illian, of Anton, and the brother I have yet to see. “Too bad our kings have no love for each other,” I say. Whatever the former Miridranian king’s intention, it failed. And even if he hadn’t split the kingdom in that way, I can’t imagine they would work together in any sense.

“Indeed,” Gustav responds softly. Sorrowful, even. “But it isn’t for lack of trying.”

I don’t know what to believe any longer.

We fall into an easy silence. Ishu has been let loose and pads between the guests.

She brushes past me once, her leathery snout nudging into my hip.

I worry she’ll sense the danger I possess, but then a nearby courtier dangles a small wedge of cheese, luring her away.

A moment later, she settles in a heap next to Anton, her massive head in his lap.

Get to know your opponents. You may find you like them better than you do your allies.

Gustav tells me about his home, his wife, the way he met her on a trip to Serai.

How he refused to leave without her, promising his life’s earnings to her family in exchange for her hand.

He talks about his daughter, her bouncy black curls.

How her favorite food is leka fruit, and when she cooks with it, it stinks up the whole house.

He asks me questions, too, but doesn’t press when I offer vague answers.

The music plays, darkly sweet, befitting my rising dread.

“Have you traveled much, Vasalie?”

“Not much beyond here and West Miridran.”

It comes out before I realize what I’ve just said, the backstory I just fuddled. I jump to add, “And Central, of course—”

“Ah, the west,” Gustav says, oblivious. “A friend of mine lives there. Perhaps you’ve heard of him? He was best known for funding the Academy of Arts in Galan. Eduard Sarden and his wife, Anita—”

My chest seizes, my breath sputtering out. Gustav does not notice. “He’s been traveling on Crown business for a few years now, I’ve heard, but I was hoping he’d have made it back in time for the Gathering. I was so looking forward to seeing him,” he’s saying. But my hearing fogs.

Lord Sarden.

Lord Sarden, who is dead, except Gustav doesn’t know, somehow. Thinks he’s . . . traveling? And now Gustav is next in line for Illian’s noose . . .

I focus on breathing. On standing, even.

A server offers us wine. My glass is full, untouched, but he refreshes Gustav’s. Gustav claps him on the back, thanking him, and tips the cup to his lips. My pulse drums in my ears. King Anton’s words swarm in my mind, but I keep to my decision.

I drink from my own glass.

The poison has no taste, but my tongue curls all the same.

I finish half the glass, a spasm contorting my stomach a moment later, but I’m unsure if it is from the poison or the near-constant nausea that haunts me.

Still, I feign a stumble. As intended, Gustav catches my arm.

He collects my glass, worried it might spill, and places it on the table behind us along with his own.

I wish he was not playing into my hands.

“Here, let’s find you a seat—” he says.

I shake my head. “I’m quite all right, My Lord. I merely drank too fast.” I offer him a sheepish grin.

“You’re quite certain?” He’s wary.

“A dizzy spell,” I say. “Not unusual for me.” That, at least, is true. Even so, I feel the poison at work. My head swims giddily, my vision hazing. Nothing worse than usual. Yet.

I turn and select a flute, handing him the other. “I want to thank you—for everything. Tonight was easier by your side.”

He bumps my shoulder softly. “I’m glad I could make you feel welcome.”

“Another toast then? As you said.” I lift my glass. “To a new friend indeed. And to your family’s health.”

His grin is as bright as the prisms around me.

It reminds me of Laurent’s—achingly pure.

In short order, we finish the contents of our glasses, colors falling in front of us like rain.

An overture, along with the music. It’s as if we’re standing in a summer shower, like those back in Miridran.

It almost distracts me from the growing weakness in my limbs as my insides curdle more violently now.

I wonder what Gustav will feel—how much worse it will get.

The show drifts to a close.

The lights wink out.

Gustav’s brows knit, confusion contorting his gaze, and guilt roils through me. He staggers on his feet, his gaze then sliding toward me. He opens his mouth—

And drops to his knees.