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Chapter Twenty-Six

T he tunnels feel different.

Or maybe it’s me. I find my way through the darkness, de termination threading through my veins. Illian will not grant me my freedom; of this, I am certain. But I now know who might help me cut his strings.

My memory serves me well, and I find the mosaic leading to Anton’s antechamber. I rap against the pane and he opens it on the third knock, shoving a heap of fabric into my hands.

“Put this on,” he mutters. “Quickly.”

I examine the fabric, rolling it out. It’s a long black cloak, finer than the one I wear now. “Your Majesty—”

“You dropped this,” Anton says, bending to hand me a length of red velvet. I take it, frowning as I examine it. It seems to be a dress—but barely. My head snaps up. “Is this a joke?”

“Not at all,” he says. “Be quick about it.”

“You want me to wear this? Where? ”

“Did you notice your king was nowhere to be seen tonight?” he asks, and I remember he’s right. “My men tracked him to Philam; I just received reports of his whereabouts.”

I push the fabric back into his hands, flushing. I came to help somehow, but this . . . “I’m not your doll.”

“Miss Moran, I’m very good at reading people; let’s call it one of my many special talents.

You know as well as I do that he will not stop with the girl he festooned in your clothes and bedded like something from a nightmare.

So either you do nothing—let him keep you as his souls-damned marionette and be complicit to whatever vile plans he unfolds—or you can help me thwart him and be free of him once and for all. ”

Free, once and for all.

Once again, my anger rises to the surface, a beast ready to attack—but not him, because he is right. And hadn’t I already made my decision?

And yet . . . “I am but a lowly dancer. I have no power against him.”

“You are the object of my brother’s obsession,” he says. “I have a feeling everything he does revolves around you. And that, Minnow, is a very special kind of power.”

Bile burns deep in my belly and I pick at the fabric in my hands. “Why trust me? For all you know, I could betray you. You already know I was working for him.” If I have any hope of escaping Illian, I have to tell Anton the truth before he finds it for himself. “And there’s more—”

“Ah, yes. Like how you spent two years in prison for supposedly murdering one of Illian’s advisers whose death hasn’t even been publicized? You can tell me all about it on the way.”

“I—How did you . . .”

“Really, Minnow,” Anton drawls. “I wouldn’t be much of a king if I didn’t have my sources . . .”

But no one even knows Lord Sarden is dead, save for Illian and a few of his guards.

And . . . Brigitte.

“. . . I also know Lord Sarden would not have come to your rooms on his own, that he was devoted to his pregnant wife. He made a mockery of Illian in the weeks before, I am told, insulting him before his court after dearest Sadira refused a meeting yet again. Now can you please get changed?”

When I emerge from a guest room, my outfit changed, I pull the cloak tighter around myself, securing it with a tie at my waist.

I find Anton waiting restlessly by the hearth, his foot tapping a rhythm against the parquet floor.

And I notice, then, what I hadn’t earlier.

His clothing is simple: a plain leather jerkin and dark breeches, free of his usual embellishments and jewels.

No rings adorn his fingers and ears; no kohl sweeps under his jade eyes, though they’re still dark, accented with long, defined lashes.

And his hair is gathered at the neck, the smallest knot already slipping out.

When he notices me, he ushers me through the pane in the wall and into the tunnels.

It takes all my effort and more to keep up with him, but I press on, ignoring the ache in my knees, the exhaustion in my bones.

When we reach the beach outside, he guides us away from the dock along the dunes, hugging the palace until we reach an inlet hidden by rocks.

There, a small rowboat drifts in the shallow water, secured to a post by a corded rope.

Across the channel, Philam’s lights sparkle against the waves.

Anton wades into the water. I slide my slippers off and lift my cloak, shivering as the water laps around my thighs.

“Your brother, King Estienne,” I begin. I had been meaning to ask him, but my thoughts were foolishly occupied by Copelan, the dance. “I am the one who brought Annais inside the palace. Only I didn’t know who she was—”

“I had guessed that much. Laurent said something about a new seamstress after the tunnel debacle. I suppose it’s my fault for not digging into that further.”

“Did you know?” I ask. “That he was . . . illegitimate?”

“Illian and I both suspected,” he says, “but Illian had no real proof until he managed to find Annais.” He reaches the boat and unloops the rope.

“There’s a long history there, one I don’t care to repeat at the present.

But suffice it to say: It was only a matter of time.

In fact, I suspect that’s the only reason he hasn’t made any of his moves until now. ”

“And now,” I say, “you are the only thing standing in Illian’s way.”

“I intend to keep it that way, futile as it may be. What with the prophecy and all.”

“Can a confirmed prophecy be subverted? Avoided?”

“Not according to the prophets of old. Once confirmed, it is permanently etched into the stone of time. Their words, not mine.”

A chill raises the hairs on my neck. At least we are in Anton’s territory. Surely he is safe here. Protected. Except . . . “Your guards,” I ask. “They allow you to leave without them?”

Anton collects my shoes and lifts me into the craft with ease. “They are, ah . . . rather accustomed to my tendency to vanish. I am a pain to guard; I’m fairly certain the captain of my personal guard is dead inside.”

“But why not send them to Philam instead? You could have them report back, rather than put yourself at risk . . .”

“Because a king’s word carries more clout,” he says simply, jumping in beside me. He grabs the oars, which I’m grateful for; though I’ve rowed before, it isn’t an easy task. Then he adds, “And there are some things I need to see for myself.”

That, I can understand. I need to see it, too. Need to see what Illian is planning—especially if the prophecy manifests. Still, I ask, “What do you think we will find?”

“I think,” Anton says, “we are about to discover who, exactly, is under Illian’s employ.”

Who else aside from me, he means. Because he knows everything about my life in Miridran, apparently. The shock of it still hasn’t worn off, but at least he doesn’t seem deterred.

The ocean is smooth, and I can’t help but watch Anton as he rows, a notch forming between his brows. It isn’t from the effort; the craft glides easily under his strokes—an impressive feat. No, he looks like he wants to say something.

It isn’t until we’re halfway to Philam that he breaks.

“Tell me one thing.” His tone is sour, almost harsh.

“My brother. He chained you up for two years, kept you malnourished, weak, and yet he expects you to do all this—” He gestures around him, like the sea holds the answer.

“Dance for him, perform for the Gathering every souls-damned night while you’re clearly in pain, and do his dirty work? ”

My throat constricts, and I take a moment to swallow.

He’s right, mostly. What he said feels both too big and too small to describe what happened. The chains, the darkness—I am still there when I close my eyes. It damaged me in ways I’ll never recover from. I have accepted that.

Except I wasn’t malnourished—or at least, not compared to the other prisoners.

I was allowed food, and it wasn’t moldy nor was it old.

I was provided a pail of fresh water daily from which I could drink.

I was not crammed onto a floor with other prisoners and their illnesses, many of which were contagious.

My cell had a hole for waste, and as small as the space was, it was larger than the other cells, all of which were packed with people. I had seen that when I was taken in.

I had assumed it was the one kindness Illian had left. Or a kind of torture, to keep me alive so that I might suffer longer, when he knows I must have wanted to die. And I had tried. I refused his food until I couldn’t, when the pain of hunger forced me to eat.

I don’t know how to answer Anton, what words could possibly convey the truth of what happened to me. I end up deflecting instead. “I am sorry, Your Majesty, if my performance has not been adequate—”

“Souls, Vasalie,” he says. “That isn’t what I meant. It took me a while to notice, in fact, as you hide your pain well. I see it only in the press of your lips, the wince when you turn away. The occasional stumble you cover impressively well.”

I knew he had been studying me, but I suppose I hadn’t realized just how closely.

“I am sorry for what I accused you of,” he continues, “and for what you have gone through, when souls know I am not nearly as strong as you.”

Strong?

No, I am not strong. Not my bones, not my spirit.

Not when I can’t move or dance like I used to.

Not when I shoved Emilia and my father and all my pain into a box and locked it away like the coward I was, all before Illian ever wronged me.

Not after everything else I’ve done under Illian’s command.

My hands find my stomach, and I press against the nausea threatening to erupt inside of me.

For once, Anton doesn’t notice, occupied as he is steering us into Philam’s bustling docks. Even at night, the city teems, thanks to the marketplace scattered along the water’s edge.

Two dockhands assist us as we scramble from the craft. Anton tosses them each a sack of quatra, then shakes their hands. They must know who he is because they dip in reverence when they accept the payment. A minute later, we’re on our way.