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Chapter Twenty-Four

C opelan waits for me in the Dome Hall, his face flushed.

He stalks to me, no doubt intent on demanding that I ex plain what just happened. But before he can speak, a frenzy of figures barge into the Dome Hall, shouts erupting.

Copelan and I whirl in tandem.

I barely have time to react before King Estienne of Central Miridran strides through, along with a multitude of guards, a variety of courtiers—

And a screaming, thrashing Annais.

“Show him to me!” she shouts, kicking and clawing at the single guard gripping her arm, her cheeks so florid I almost don’t recognize her.

Annais. Quiet and subtle Annais, whom I snuck into the palace.

“Let me see him,” she wails, so loud it echoes about the walls. “Let me go!” More guards spill into the room, rushing past me so fast I stumble. Copelan steadies me, then inches me out of the way as they surround her in a barricade. “My son,” she screams. “My son!”

My son.

“Estienne,” she cries. “ Estienne! ” But his guards press him back toward the entrance, away from the hysteria. An ashen pallor drains his already pale skin, though a patch of red laces up his neck.

I turn to granite.

She can’t possibly be his mother. It’s a farce, surely. But then I see them together. The tilt of their nose, the scatter of freckles patterned just the same . . .

I’d thought King Estienne looked familiar that first time I’d seen him. Now it’s unmistakable.

“Vasalie, we should leave,” Copelan is saying, guiding me toward the back doors.

They fling open before we can reach them.

Illian stalks into the room with Anton at his side. Close behind is King Rurik, followed by his steel-clad guards. Yet another assembly spills inside after him, a mix of courtiers from every court, all curious and pressing closer, eager to witness the drama.

“What is the meaning of this?” Illian demands. His golden circlet catches the light from the dying sun; it almost looks like a halo, as if he knew just where to stand to make himself a god.

“I’ve never seen this woman before in my life,” King Estienne says, glowering at the guards who still wrestle with Annais, snapping shackles over her wrists.

It’s as if the iron bindings snap any last shred of her composure. Thrashing even more violently, she shrieks, “I can prove it! Let me go!” She plunges forward, only to be slammed down, her bones smacking audibly against the floor.

Acid floods my throat, and I only just stop myself from lurching toward her. That treatment, the cruelty from the guards—I know it. And all the while, no one bats an eye.

Shame drains my face of color.

This—it’s my fault. I am the reason she is here. I could have told Anton, but I had held my tongue . . .

“Prove what?” King Rurik is asking. “By the Fates, let the woman speak!”

A guard tries to lift her, but she throws her weight forward, clawing uselessly at the floor. Her curls are drenched in sweat, plastered to her cheeks. “My son, ” she cries. “Let me go to my son!”

“Who is it you speak of, woman?” Illian says, a facade of concern.

“Estienne was born from my womb,” she says, a palm to her stomach. “He is my son. ” Tears run in rivulets, a glistening path that glides down her chin. My lungs constrict beneath my too-tight tunic.

She is telling the truth.

And Illian knows it.

“I advise you to consider your words carefully,” says King Rurik, his tone fringed with frost. “You are speaking about a Miridranian king. This accusation challenges his legitimacy, and should we find your words to be false, we would have your head.”

Legitimacy.

Miridran could lose a king right before my eyes.

“I do not lie,” Annais rasps. “He is my son. ” She whips her head to King Estienne again, eyes pleading. “They kept me from you. All your life, they kept me away, and they turned you into this. But you are better than this. Please! ”

They kept her away. And then Illian used me to sneak her inside.

What had he promised her? What does she think will happen? Does she know the cold of his ice-laden heart? More people pour into the room, drawn by the commotion. My father is among them, his hard eyes cutting over the crowd as he takes his place next to Rurik.

I shake my head, mouth drying. Anton, hovering behind Illian like a shadow, finds my gaze. He no doubt wonders if this was me.

It was.

“The absurdity!” King Estienne yells. “This is but a treasonous plot. You will receive nothing, woman, beyond a blade to your neck. ”

Annais shoves forward, pushing to her feet. Her linen smock is torn, fraying along her busted knees. “I have risked everything to come here. Everything, so that I might take you home to where you belong. This,” she says, “is not who you were meant to be.”

“Arrest her at once!” King Estienne demands, looking as if he’s only just managing to hold back from attacking her himself.

“Wait,” implores a voice. The Lord Sovereign of Serai. He cuts through his courtiers, his dark purple robe slung open to reveal the expanse of his smooth, deep brown chest, draped with colorful beads. “She claims she has proof. We deserve to hear it.”

“Let’s have it and be done with it, then,” Illian says dismissively. Like he’s grown bored. “I, for one, would like to retire for a glass of wine.”

Donning an overtly bored visage, Anton asks coolly, “Why’s that, brother? Something to celebrate?”

An accusation. But Illian merely flexes his jaw.

Annais swipes the guard’s grip from her arm, taking a step forward.

She directs the full force of her attention toward King Estienne.

“I worked in your father’s palace before the Miridranian territories were split into three.

I attended him directly, and after some time, he began to request me each night.

His Majesty had just married his queen a year’s previous, but they struggled to get with child.

With the mounting pressure from the court to produce an heir, he took me to bed.

” Her words feel brittle, as if she’s worn from a fight, but she maintains her conviction all the same.

“Once you were born, they wrenched you from my arms. Claimed the queen birthed you. And they turned you into one of them—a Crown raised by gold-coated lies!”

“Ludicrous!” King Estienne hisses through bared teeth. He swivels his head toward the other Crowns. “Have you not heard? She insults us all—”

“Let her finish,” someone says—another Crown, I think—but King Estienne can’t contain his fury.

“I will have her head!”

“Contain yourself, brother,” Illian says. “We must allow her to finish. If she digs herself a deeper grave, so be it.”

Such false camaraderie.

Annais knuckles a curl from her face and takes a shaky breath.

“When I became with child, they kept me secluded, cut off from the world—even from my own husband. And the moment I gave birth, I was never allowed to see you again. But I came here to find you and take you home. You are the heir to our clan, Estienne. I can prove my words as truth.”

Her clan.

Clans still exist in the mountains, I remember. After the War of Rites, Mercy, the first Miridranian Queen—who some believe later became the Fate of Morta—granted many of them their lands and allowed them to live in peace.

Annais yanks her tunic back, then turns to reveal the back of her neck, where a large patch of red in the shape of a star marks the base of her spine. “This is a birthmark that’s been passed down through our family for generations. You will have it, too.”

“You have nothing to hide, brother,” Illian says, straightening his lapels. I can almost feel his inward smile, like sludge against my skin. “Remove your jacket and prove this woman false once and for all.”

He knows good and well what we’re about to find; he wouldn’t have brought Annais here if her claim was false. If he didn’t know for certain the birthmark Estienne inherited.

He is about to dethrone his brother.

“Show them, Estienne,” urges King Rurik. “This accusation—it’s a stain on your father’s legacy. How dare you allow his name to be tarnished so?” There’s real fury in his one good eye, and I recall how he’d been mentored by Illian’s father before he took his crown.

The panic in King Estienne’s features is almost enough to condemn him. He throws up a few more feeble arguments, but the Crowns have spoken. They want their proof.

Reluctantly, he turns around. Drags his jacket and collar down.

A collective intake of breath whisks across the room.

The mark is clear and red as a drop of blood.

“I wrote you,” Annais weeps. “I sent a letter when you were sixteen . I sent it through your maid—which put us both at risk. I told you everything I’ve said today. I asked you to come find us when you were of age, but you never came.”

Illian wraps a palm over his mouth, and so ardent he is in his performance that I even see the sheen of tears. “How,” he says, “could you not tell us?”

Then he strides over and yanks the crown right off his brother’s head.

Estienne’s guards shove forward, leaving a sobbing Annais on the floor, but Illian’s men block them, hands shifting to their hilts.

“You ignored your own mother. You and Father hid this for years,” Illian says. “It’s disgusting! Yet you stood at your coronation, knowing Miridranian law?”

Miridranian law, which dictates a Crown must be of full royal blood. Bastards cannot rule. It means that Illian’s father put Estienne on the throne illegally.

“Explain yourself, Estienne,” King Rurik demands. A hum of agreement follows him.

“He’s a hedge-born!” yells a courtier.

“Lowly scum!”

The Queen of Razam nudges past me, her long amber cloak flowing like wind. Her regalia underneath is black silk, like her hair, which is woven up into a glittering circlet.

I hadn’t even seen her enter.

“Since when did bloodline dictate a higher calling to rule?” she asks. “Perhaps it is time to reexamine your own traditions.”

Interesting, that she speaks directly to Illian, whose eyes flash in answer. But I don’t understand why she would challenge him. She has no allegiance to Estienne.

I wonder, though, if she thinks Illian is worse.

“The issue is not just tradition and law but deception.” King Rurik approaches Estienne. “This pains me more than I can say, but the least you can do is make it right—”

The room erupts into a maelstrom of voices. More guards enter. More swords are raised. I slink back until I bump against Copelan. “You should leave,” he begins, hands on my shoulders, but Illian’s voice rises over the chaos.

“Step down now, Estienne,” Illian declares, holding up the crown, “and it will be with honor. If you do not, your land will be taken from you before the whole of the north.”

“And I suppose you’ll keep it for yourself?” Queen Sadira sidles up to him—even managing to look down on him. “Will you take his territory for yourself, Illian Orvere?”

His jaw ticks. “You forget, Sadira, that I have two brothers. Do you dismiss Anton so easily? Estienne’s territory will be governed by us both.”

“Then will you make that promise before us, right here, right now?” Her gaze reminds me of a cat readying to pounce.

I want to tell her that Illian’s promises mean nothing, but then I recall something Gustav mentioned the night of Anton’s banquet.

In Razam, oaths hold great meaning. They don’t sign contracts because they aren’t necessary.

Foreign letters are often denied; they prefer face-to-face.

An audience. Tone and intent aren’t easily derived from ink and quills, and the people of Razam are known to be sharp judges of character.

She hopes to bind him with his words.

But Illian is not so easily led. “Miridran will not answer to Razam, Queen Sadira. I take offense at your insinuation.”

I don’t believe him for a second.

Then say something, a voice inside me urges. Step forward and tell them about Illian, about everything that has happened thus far. But it wouldn’t help, not when Annais is speaking the truth.

And not when King Illian could nail murder to my name.

I divert my gaze back to Anton, who remains eerily silent. He looks untroubled in his deep viridian waistcoat over a crisp white shirt, his hands tucked in his pockets. By the lack of expression on his face, it’s almost as if he isn’t actually here. Like he’s witnessing a puppet show, not a coup.

Then, as if he feels my stare, his eyes flick to mine.

Do you see, now? he seems to say. Do you understand his play?

Part of me is glad for Estienne’s disgrace. I remember what he did. I remember that wall. He deserves to lose everything.

But my jealous king will not stop with Estienne. I know him too well for that, and his apparent distaste for Estienne pales in comparison to his hatred for his younger brother.

I see it now, clear and sharp, like the edge of glass.

He will go after Anton next.