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Chapter Thirty-Two

T he lantern cuts a harsh shadow against Copelan’s pale face, carving his cheekbones into razor sharp lines.

“Where have you been?” His grip is punishing as he swings around me, peering into the tunnels for himself. “Souls below, you were sneaking about the palace. I saw you disappear, but what in the Fates is this? How did you know of it?”

My mouth parts, but I’m so stunned I can’t even conjure a poor excuse, let alone a believable one.

He laughs, and it’s a pitiless, merciless sound. “One deception after another. Really, I’m dying to know what lie you have for me this time.”

“It was . . . an errand. At King Anton’s request.” I hate myself for lying, but I see no other escape.

His eyes dip down in a mocking perusal. “And what type of errand would that be, Vasalie?”

I’ve never seen him so cold, so finite. It’s as if he’s slammed a wall between us. “Please, Copelan. You can ask His Majesty. He will verify—”

“It’s too late for that.”

My face drains of color. “Too late for what?”

“I’ve already reported you. I wash my hands of this. Let the Crowns judge you.” One stride brings him to the kitchen door, where he knocks twice.

Horror leeches my breath. “Copelan, no—”

Guards pour into the room like smoke. I’m torn from Copelan’s grip and thrown to the ground, breath fleeing my lungs in a whoosh. I gasp, panic speeding through my veins like cold fire.

He turned me in.

He reported me.

Boots step around me. A hand grips my hair and wrenches my neck back.

A figure strides into view, a shadow against the blinding light, but I know that shape.

It’s happening— again.

“After all I’ve done for you,” comes that familiar drawl, followed by the cluck of his tongue. “This is how you repay me.”

My stomach churns at the low, smooth tenor of his voice. He tugs his hood down, his curls spilling out. One flick of his wrist, and a guard jerks me to my feet, fingers digging into the soft flesh underneath my arms. Even so, I struggle to find purchase, scrambling to stand on my own.

And the tunnels are wide open, yawning behind me.

If I could make enough noise, perhaps it would warn my friends—

“Release me!” I shout. “You have no reason—”

A gag is shoved into my mouth, then banded tight. “What a little snake you’ve turned out to be, coiled around another’s arm.”

I thrash, screaming against my gag. Meaty fingers squeeze my throat until stars splatter across my vision.

“Don’t hurt her,” comes Copelan’s voice. He steps forward but is promptly blocked. “Your Majesty, she was to be brought before the Crowns. This is unjust—”

“I’d advise you to hold your tongue, Master Reveler.”

“With respect, Sire, I am obligated to remind you that we are in East Miridran, and punishment must be carried out in accordance to its laws and to the laws of the Gathering.”

I notice, then, how ashen he is, even amid my panic.

“Her registration puts her from Greenwood, a village south of Irivan,” Illian drawls.

“Seeing as Central Miridran is now split between my brother and me, she falls under my judgment. I may carry out punishment as I see fit.” He pauses.

“I’d hate for my wrath to extend to dear Esmée, who is here in hopes that I might offer her another position once more. ”

Esmée.

She’s still here.

Copelan’s features slacken.

“Come now, Master Reveler. Your pity is misplaced.” Illian cocks his head to the side.

“Did you know that our Vasalie here is a suspected criminal? Rather damning letters of hers were found just recently alongside a murdered courtier from my territory. Perhaps you will be less hasty to defend her now.”

I suck in a breath. He signaled for the body to be found—he finally invoked his true hold over me. Or is it merely a bluff, a way to shut him up?

Copelan’s eyes find mine.

I shake my throbbing head. Please, see the truth in my eyes.

Illian continues, “What a favor you’ve done, reporting her. During our investigation, I will allow her to finish her role here, albeit under watch. And, seeing as I am repaying the kindness for your Esmée, may I count on your discretion?”

Again, Copelan locks eyes with mine. A tear tracks down my cheek.

Please, I beg him silently. Do something.

But I know he won’t. And so I am not surprised when he tightens his lips and nods like the coward he is.

“Excellent. Before you go,” Illian says, “what do you know of these tunnels? Where do they lead?”

“I was never made aware of them, Sire.”

I can’t tell if Copelan is telling the truth, but it does not matter. “Search them,” Illian orders his guards, and my stomach drops. “Find everything there is to find, but be discreet.”

Guards rush past, torches blazing as they plunge into the tunnel. And like batting a fly in the air, King Illian waves Copelan away.

Don’t abandon me, I silently plead.

His brows notch together, a flash of pity within, then his shoulders stoop and he walks away.

Once again, I am alone with Illian and his guards. I wonder if he will finally have me killed or if he has something worse planned.

Fear runs cold through the marrow of my bones.

“Tell me where you were going,” he says, narrowing the distance between us, his voice softening into silk. “Tell me before they find out, and I might find it in my heart to extend you mercy once more.”

The guard holding my arm yanks away my gag.

I bark my answer. “Was it your mercy I just witnessed?” I run my tongue along my lips, tasting blood. They must have split when I hit the floor.

Illian follows the movement, gaze dropping to my mouth. The echo of footfalls reaches my ears as the guards swarm the tunnels, splitting off in different directions. I pray my friends will hear their approach.

My eyes burn like hot pokers as I stare at Illian. I want to claw at him. I want to curse his name. I open my mouth but stop myself. Should I try for mercy or invoke his wrath? Survive, a voice inside me says; it sounds like Emilia. Live to fight.

Illian studies me for a long moment, two fingers rubbing his chin. “It pains me, you know. All of this. Contrary to what you may believe, Vasalie, I do not enjoy seeing you suffer.”

I lose all sense and spit in his direction. Blood lands on his brown tunic. His eyes dip down, assessing the damage, before returning to mine. I can tell he itches to reach for me, to jab his fingers into the soft flesh of my neck until the air is squeezed from my lungs.

But then I study him closer, and my breath recoils.

There is an ache in that gaze. A want. And all over again, I recall the girl. My dress. What he did to her while pretending she was me.

His fingers twitch at his sides.

Then he lets out a long sigh. “I thought we had an agreement. I thought we had made peace, after everything.” He pulls a kerchief from his pocket and dabs the blood on my lips with a tenderness that makes my skin crawl.

“But know this,” he tells me. “Whoever you are helping, whoever you have manipulated onto your side—whether my brother or his minions on this souls-forsaken isle—I will find them. And if you do not play your role, their every plea for mercy will reach your beautiful ears until you beg me to cut them from navel to neck.”

With that, he breezes away, and the guards heave me toward the door.

“And remember,” Illian shouts over his shoulder, “not a word, my Jewel.”

I launch my weight toward him, my vision sparking like the end of a torch. I want to rip him apart. Dig my nails into his face and shred it until there’s nothing left but blood and bone.

But my strength is no match for Illian’s guards. One grabs a handful of my hair and jerks. “Stand straight,” a feminine voice hisses into my ear. “Walk on your own legs or I’ll drag you down the hall by your braid.”

My pulse pounds against my skull. The guards press tight on either side of me; I have no choice but to walk on.

When we reach my room, one barrels in ahead of me. “What in Morta’s Lair is this?”

The other guard lugs me inside, and I hold in my gasp. In the center of my room is the bust with the Fate of Morta gown, gleaming like moonlight against black, jagged waves, a hooded cloak draping over the ensemble.

They managed to deliver it.

I take a shaky breath, steadying myself as my guards circle it like vultures.

“Don’t you dare touch it,” I hiss. “It’s a costume, designed specifically for the upcoming dance. If you so much as pull the wrong thread, it could fall apart.” A lie, or maybe it isn’t, but I don’t want their filthy hands on my dress.

But then I notice something different about it. I wait until the guards are distracted, leafing through my room as if to find damning evidence or some nonexistent passageway, one knocking against every last stone in the souls-forsaken wall.

I tug down the hood.

Underneath is a silver circlet ornamented with twining glass, and on the front, two opposing obsidian shards jut up proudly.

No, not shards. Daggers, the apex of their blades forming a point.

I cannot protect you. But I can arm you.

I press my finger to one of the blades.

It moves within the frame.

I’m herded to our final practice the next day like a muzzled ox, my guards crowding me with every step, and only when I reach the Dance Hall do they allow me room to breathe.

“One word, one wrong move,” one whispers in my ear, “and you’ll be dragged from this hall in chains.”

Our performance uses a multitude of performers, who Copelan directs in turn.

He makes a point to avoid me.

Whether it’s fear of retaliation from Illian or simply shame, I don’t know. Perhaps the knowledge of my past, the lies Illian told, disgusts him. Still, I sear him with my gaze, knowing he can feel it, and bide my time, praying my friends weren’t caught in those tunnels.

My friends, who I do not deserve, but who have lent me their kindness all the same. As I tossed and turned last night, sick with worry, I decided that—for them—I would fight back. I would destroy myself to protect them. Because Emilia had fought for me, and Copelan had not.