Page 58

Chapter Thirty-Three

B onfires heave smoke into the air as our boat approaches the small island off the northern end of Anell. It smells of a pyre lit with incense—sage, black currant, myrrh—like an offering to the Fate of Morta herself, while clouds of gray catch the smoke and blend it into the evening sky.

One long dock curves around the southern half like a crescent moon, and from it, a single bridge reaches onto the island itself. The Crowns and courtiers are escorted off small, elaborate crafts and directed toward the entrance—a stone tunnel that proudly displays flags from each country.

Our boat, however, drifts toward the eastern side of the island.

My guards and I dock near a set of rocks and unload, then join the performers around the back of the stage.

My cape billows in the wind over my costume, which is surprisingly light thanks to the corset and clever bustle sewn into the design.

I peer around the stage divider, the air heavy in my lungs.

It looks as if a giant scooped a handful of the island and tossed it out across the rocks.

A dip in the center creates the perfect curvature for carved stone benches, like that of an arena, and on the lowest level is the stage.

Around it, juts of stone form barriers, blending in with the curved stone wall and archway like a cave with its roof blown off.

I skim the crowd for Anton. If I could just catch his eye, I can signal him back here while the audience settles. I need to warn him about Illian and the tunnels. Ask him if he’s found anything. Time is running thin, and King Rurik is in danger.

But I can’t find Anton anywhere. Not as the musicians slide into place throughout the stage, not as massive pots blow steam across the makeshift stage’s wooden planks. Not even as the dancers and bards take their positions, their costumes drifting about in the wind.

I do, however, spot my father. He reclines beside King Rurik in his crisp blue uniform, sharp as the harsh lines scoring his forehead and lips. His eyes, severe and emotionless, cut across the stage like a carefully wielded blade.

The Lair of Morta. That’s what we have created here. I hope he knows he’ll face her soon. I’d gladly trade my soul if it meant his would be lost.

A harmony stirs the air, soft as breath.

Four dancers dressed like souls flutter a long, tapered stretch of fabric in the center of the stage. With the sweep of their hands, it bounces, flows, and with one last exaggerated swing, they release it.

Underneath, Copelan is revealed.

He lies on the stage floor, knees bent at odd angles, a plunging red stain evident on his doublet.

Eremis, slain on the battlefield of his first war.

The last time I saw him, I had whispered in his ear, Your complicity reveals your cowardice.

A violinist’s string pierces the fog, sharp as a pin prick. Copelan jolts, awakening in Morta’s Lair.

Souls circle him in their wraithlike attire, taunting, beckoning, grabbing fistfuls of his clothes. He tries to run, to flee, but they tear off strips of his jacket, ripping at his buttons—

Through a plume of fog, I enter, a whisper of darkness and shadow.

The commotion comes to a halt. Copelan, as Eremis, is unaware of who stands behind him, ready to pull him into the void. Anticipation builds until he senses my nearness, and finally, he turns.

He had stood idle while I suffered, idle while guards threw me down.

We watch each other—me, a veiled figure, and him, with his slicked-back hair and kohl-lined eyes, as defined as Anton’s in the low light.

I chance a glimpse at the stands, but Anton isn’t there.

Unease sits in my stomach like spoiled meat and it takes everything in me not to double over with worry.

Something isn’t right. He would not miss this.

The vocalists spin the lines cueing my next step. Take my hand, Eremis of Lach, for I promise not a scratch.

I have no choice but to focus, so I tug down my hood and reach out my hand.

True to the myth, infatuation cajoles Eremis toward me, as I am beauty personified. Copelan unfurls his fist, stretching his hand toward mine. But at the last moment, he jerks it back as the song continues.

You will not trap me, Morta. Your beauty, while lovely to be sure, is that of an agate, clouded and veined. I am an ammolite, iridescent and rare; next to me, you cannot compare.

He plucks the tapered cloth from the ground, whirling it about.

In a blink, he disappears, the trapdoor perfectly timed.

But while he has escaped my Lair, he has not escaped me.

That sepulchral, blue-gray light dwindles, the sea glass on the torches replaced.

Pale amber and sage envelops us now, shifting us into the land of the living.

The souls spin out of their robes, earth-toned linens beneath, the costumes of street-goers, traders, bakers, and merchants.

Dancing around, they sing their wares amid carts wheeled out, our surroundings that of a bustling street.

I, too, sweep off my cloak, revealing a softer one the shade of dusk—a maiden in the crowd.

From beneath the archway, Copelan enters the stage once more, an arrogant smile in place. He escaped death, after all, and now he joins the living, unaware of the specter who stalks him; in our version, it isn’t the prophets who follow, but Morta herself.

A bard sings my thoughts aloud as I follow him, as I vow to find his weakness. I move around him, dodge him before he can notice me, weaving among the bustling crowd. He turns back, sensing my presence, and I dip away. He dances from vendor to vendor; I spin and whirl about, unseen.

Until finally he pauses at a fruit cart, shucking a few coins in exchange for a pomegranate. I use the distraction to draw near, snatching a metal pitcher to hide my face.

He turns, pausing at the sight of me.

Only, he isn’t looking at me, entranced as he is by his reflection in the pitcher. He angles this way and that, flattening an errant hair before giving himself a wink.

And I’ve learned his secret.

His weakness I have unmasked.

His beauty shall trap him at last.

Beauty. The lyric snaps me out of my performance. Illian, the prophecy . . .

I flick my gaze to where he sits, and seeing him is like a blow. My skin still stings at the memory of last night.

He smiles when he catches me looking, smiles at the way I fumble a step. Then, deliberately so that I don’t miss it, he slants his head toward Anton’s empty seat.

No.

My heart slams my pulse into a frenzy. Anton, my one chance at justice. Freedom. Miridran’s only hope for a decent king—

Illian has captured him, somehow. He shows it to me in that smug, satisfied smirk.

I don’t see Gustav, either. Or Basile.

I can’t catch my breath. Copelan notices.

He spins away, drawing the audience’s attention with him.

The dancers play along, and I’m grateful, even if it isn’t for me; a poor performance would reflect on us all.

Attackers ready themselves in the bushes to ambush Copelan when the music swells.

I have precious minutes to compose myself and finish my act and then .

. . then I will make a plan. I will find Anton. Somehow.

Breathe.

But Laurent and Gustav. Are they safe?

I can’t . . . can’t let Illian win. I won’t let my father win. I will not let him claim the Brisendali throne for himself. Anton and I are the only ones who overheard their plot, and that means no one else can stop it. And if something happened to Anton, it’s up to me.

I must warn King Rurik.

A loud clash, and Eremis falters, slain once more. His attackers were swift, precise, and once more, the stage transforms back into Morta’s Lair. I drop the dusky cloak to reveal Anton’s creation: the gown of stained, molten glass—with a crown to match.

I feel the intake of breath like a drop in pressure.

For the second time, Eremis awakes in a bath of fog, souls chanting around him. Azure light focuses in on me. Copelan pulls himself up, only to freeze.

This time, he does not see me. Because there, in my dress, my crown, the mirrored sea-glass mask I slid into place, he finds his reflection gazing back at him. Just like the statue from the fountain.

For the second time, I stretch out my hand.

Eremis, whose face do you see?

Let’s see how easily you are deceived.

Our hands link, his heady pulse thrumming against mine. Souls bound around us, exuberant in triumph. We have bested an arrogant man, and we intend to feast. I drag Copelan deeper, deeper, spinning us lower and lower in the center of the stage until the mist swallows us whole.

The music settles, and applause breaks out, only to be overpowered by one slow, thunderous clap.

Illian is impossible to miss, his slim, crimson doublet trimmed with diamonds, his smile like that of a cat. He continues that clap, loud as the clank of a blade against steel, as he joins us onstage.

“Extravagant, as always,” he says. “Alas, I have an announcement that cannot wait.” His tone fails to hide his eagerness as he strides toward me, his gaze roaming where his hands itch to, until it clings to the glasswork details of my dress.

His smile falters when he realizes who made it.

Good.

“First and foremost,” he calls out, his expression one of concern as he turns to his waiting crowd.

“I wish to convey the depths of my gratitude that you have all chosen to attend the Crowns’ Gathering.

It is a show of dedication to the greater good of our world; we better serve our people by setting aside our differences to strengthen our relations and forge new ones.

Miridran has always been proud to host such an occasion.

And to honor that spirit, I vow to deliver the truth, no matter what imprecations it may bring against me. ”

My stomach swims with dread. Anton is still missing. King Rurik, on the other hand, sits next to my expressionless, deceiving father.