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Chapter Nineteen

B ack in my room, I dig, frantically, through my half-unpacked bag. I leaf through clothes, face paints, and undergarments until I find it.

Emilia’s glove.

I squeeze my eyes shut, pressing the pads of its fingers to my lips, and there I make a promise to do what I didn’t before. I make it into a song, a prayer, a plea. I beseech any Fates who might listen, because I might be the only one who can wrench power from my father’s grip.

This time, when I tuck away the glove, I tell Emilia that promise. I vow to take back what is rightfully ours.

Our home. My status. Everything she wanted for me. I will clear my name and reclaim my title, not as the King’s Jewel, but as the heir to House Stova.

And I will banish her murderer into the never-ending dark.

Illian deserves a similar fate. But this would be a small revenge in itself, because if I’m right about my father pressuring King Rurik to ignite a war, Illian’s plans might be thwarted with him gone.

It isn’t much. But it’s all I have because I need Illian. I need him to seal my release.

Laurent finds me while I’m assembling my costume for tonight. It’s a stretch of black taffeta, belted with a braided silver band. As I fit myself into it, he helps me loop the intricate ribbons along the back while telling me about the raid on King Estienne’s envoy.

“They say bandits attacked before he and his men reached the coastline in the dead of night. A huge number of them, too, enough to ransack every last carriage.”

Laurent then tells me to be cautious. Nothing extravagant in my dance, no stunts with the audience.

“Vasalie, King Estienne is one to be feared. Not only did he capture every last raider, hence the delay, but he brought them here. Sixty of them, imprisoned in his corridor. Not in the dungeons but his personal hall. My staff—they hear them. Screams, things from nightmares. Understand me when I say to get in, do your job, and leave. I loathe that Copelan is sending you in the first place, but everyone else is assigned to other posts.”

Of Illian’s two brothers, I’ve heard the least about King Estienne.

Mere mentions between the bat of a fan. Mostly that he’s a recluse, secluded in his own lair.

But toy with him, and he’s dangerous. Vicious, like a viper’s strike.

One of Illian’s attendants who apprenticed in the Miridranian army alongside King Estienne once told me that, when they were young, their captain found sport in playing with the young prince—pissing in his tent, stealing his clothes, even letting his comrades knock him around.

To thicken his skin, the captain claimed.

Until Estienne torched their camp, made it look like an accident, and killed fifty men in the process.

Cold settles against my bones as I enter his halls.

It doesn’t help that I’m particularly weak tonight, what with the overexertion of the last few days.

And perhaps I am mistaken, but when I pass one of Illian’s guards, I swear I see a frown crack her blank expression, as if she’s surprised to find me headed in this direction.

Even so, I keep onward until King Estienne’s doors swing open and I’m permitted entrance into his nest.

Puddles of violet light hover high above from stained sea-glass sconces, limning the heads of the near-silhouetted guests.

Aside from that, the room is as dark as the black basalt walls, and spherical, like a cavern.

Like what I imagine Morta’s Lair might look like.

And the centerpiece—a throne of obsidian quartz—looms at the far end.

In it rests a figure in black velvet and leather, a foot propped up on one knee, a goblet resting idly in one hand as he partakes in a conversation to his right.

A single red glow from a pendant chandelier above catches the ominous steel crown wrapping his brow, and only when my eyes adjust can I see him more clearly.

The King of Central Miridran looks almost nothing like his younger brothers.

His eyes are dark and deep-set, like Illian’s, though his face is covered with freckles that look like shells in the sand, the same hue as his deep, flaming locks.

Even seated as he is, I can tell he’d tower over the room, his legs long and sprawling.

Something about him is familiar, however, though I can’t figure out what.

Laurent told me they would call for me when I’m needed, but so far, I’ve gone unnoticed.

Serving boys flit back and forth, ferrying bowls of blood-red grapes and trays of drinks between guests.

A discordant melody winds around me, low and vibrating.

Textured, like the brush of snakeskin. Like the hum of chapel bells during a storm, and there’s no set tune.

Nor can I see where it’s coming from.

A familiar voice dips into my ear then. “No matter what, do not look left.”

An irresistible impulse urges me to do just that, but the tone of the warning stops me short. Instead, I track my gaze to my right, where Anton leans against the precipice, just over my shoulder. I bob a short curtsey.

He merely offers me a tight grin. “Evening, Minnow.”

“Your Majesty,” I say. Of course he would be here to greet his oldest brother on his arrival. Illian, on the contrary, is nowhere to be found.

“Why,” I ask, “can I not look to my left?”

For the first time, perhaps ever, his smile drops, and it’s then that I catalog the difference in his appearance.

His dark hair isn’t wind-swept; rather, it’s tied back in a knot at the base of his neck, a few, purposeful strands waving loosely about.

Every last button on his fine, soot-black, sleeveless jerkin is secured, his toned arms free of his usual stacks of bracelets.

And he carries no chalice, his breath untainted with wine.

It’s as if he’s an alternative version of himself tonight, proper and refined.

“Vasalie,” he says softly, “you should leave. I will call for the Master of Revels; he can perform tonight in your stead.”

Vasalie.

Not Minnow, not Miss Moran. An uneasy feeling tightens my stomach, but I am not here by choice. “Your Majesty, I cannot refuse my post . . .”

He shakes his head. “You are leaving. Now. ”

“But I—”

He takes hold of my wrist, pulling me with him. “I’m not giving you a choice.” I’ve never seen him like this. The urgency, the concern . . .

Two guards slam the doors in our face.

Noise, music, chatter—it ceases.

“Leaving before the festivity starts, Anton? So unlike you.”

King Estienne’s voice is low, like Illian’s, but harsher. Almost as if he spits his words.

All at once, Anton drops my arm and smooths the crease from his brow. His usual, relaxed smile snaps back in place as he pivots to face his brother. “Festivity?” He glances about, a single brow arched. “If you promise to start it, I promise to stay.”

A thread of tension quivers in the air.

It breaks at the flash of teeth. “A fine point,” King Estienne drawls.

Then he spurs from his throne and stalks toward us.

I hear it, then. A slow drip, one splash after another, however faint. Like a leak in the ceiling, falling into a half-full pail. I angle my head, but Anton steps into my line of sight. “Don’t look, Vasalie,” he whispers, his gaze fixed ahead. “Not for my sake, but yours.”

King Estienne takes notice of me then, slipping his hands into the pockets of his doublet. “Ah, the dancer I’ve heard so much about, no? They told me what she did, brother. I’d have loved to see it. You, a spectacle.”

“I’m always a spectacle,” Anton says, offended. He edges in front of me, almost as if he’s trying to hide me. But his brother slinks around him easily.

“You were running off with my entertainment, weren’t you? Tsk, tsk.” He looks down his nose at me.

“Can you blame me?” Anton slings an arm over my shoulder. “I’ve always had a thing for dancers.” With his other hand, he flicks my nose.

I bite the inside of my lip, resisting the urge to glower up at him for that.

King Estienne watches us, thoroughly unimpressed with me if the downward curl of his lips is any indication. “What is your name, dancer?”

“Vasalie, Your Majesty,” I say, forcing the tremble from my voice. “Vasalie Moran.”

I pray he doesn’t ask where I’m from. I don’t know the adviser Illian paid to recommend me, only that he’s from Central Miridran. If King Estienne inquires further—

“Vasalie Moran, did you hear what happened to my envoy?”

I’m not sure if I’m supposed to know, but I don’t think it wise to lie. “I did, Your Majesty. I am grieved to hear of your troubles.”

He nods. “Tragic, I tell you, though I like to think every hindrance can be advantageous with the right outlook. Wise words from Father,” he says, addressing Anton.

He claps twice. “If it’s entertainment you seek, I shall deliver.

In fact, I’ve thought very carefully about this evening.

I admit, I’ve been anticipating it a great deal, what with the gift I’ve prepared for my guests—including you, Vasalie.

” He holds out his arm. “Would you care to assist . . . ?”

Dread courses through me, but I place my hand atop his.

He whisks me to the center of the room. And when he snaps his fingers, it’s like a jolt through my bones.

A heavy door behind the throne screeches open, then two guards come striding through.

And in each of their hands, the end of a large chain.

Clatter, clank.

Clatter, clank.

I hear them before I see them, the prisoners that emerge from the shadows.

“Bandits, every last one,” King Estienne says from beside me.

Some are my age, others older, and some younger, near children. Most are women. They’re fettered in manacles like the ones I used to wear. Maybe fifteen of them, their garb filthy, mud-caked. And yet their faces have been scrubbed clean.