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Chapter Four

M y first dance for the king comes at the break of dawn.

King Illian’s guards lead me to a throne room in the entertainment wing. It’s a small one, intimate, unlike the large one where he holds court, and this choice . . . it feels deliberate.

This was the location of my last performance.

It was the night before I was arrested. The night I thought everything would change—just not for the reason it did.

Because after I had danced for King Illian and his courtiers, he asked me to do it all over again, except this time away from the crowd.

In the privacy of this room. And he watched me with such ardency, such .

. . zeal, that I thought he would break whatever it was that kept him from pursuing me.

“You are everything,” he had told me, his hand planted on the doorframe above my head, just before he bid me good night and pushed away.

How close I had been to taking his hand. To pulling him back. If only to thank him, throw my arms around him. I was so enamored with him—not by lust but by gratitude. And even if it had led to more, I might have welcomed it.

The very thought curdles my insides, especially as I approach him now.

He reclines on his fretwork throne, gloved fingers drumming. Dark, embellished leather hugs him from head to toe; he’s just come from a hunt. A small, dangerous smile bends his lips as his eyes flick to mine.

Around him lounge a handful of courtiers, each fitted in similar sable leather. I don’t recognize them, but that’s nothing new. He rotates his pawns with the season, never allowing anyone to burrow too close—save, once, me.

Even so, I expect their whispers. Their critical glares. Or has he not told them who I am or what this is about? That I am his former Jewel, and that my pardon hinges on my performance over the next few months? I had thought he would, considering their presence now.

Yet they do little more than appraise me with bored, half-lidded eyes.

And it’s clear they don’t expect much. I am thin, withered, my skin stretched too tight over delicate bones. I wear no makeup, no costume, nothing but black leggings and a thin band covering my breasts.

If the king is surprised, he doesn’t show it, though he must wonder at my attire. Before, I was known for my artistry as well as my performances. I would sew my own costumes, craft my own props, paint my face until I was a siren, a goddess, an enchantress. Anything he desired.

Beauty was King Illian’s weakness, so his weakness I became.

It’s not even that I am particularly beautiful. It’s simply that I learned how to become.

I glance toward the line of windows along the right wall, where Brigitte’s maidservants await. At my signal, they release the tasseled strings on each curtain.

One by one, they drape shut, save for the last, where a lone, focused thread of light limns me from the side.

Dance is the purest form of expression, they say, but I can’t express what I don’t feel. I draw in a calming breath, allowing my mind to settle into silence. My bare feet press into the polished floor as I find my center of balance. Behind me, a violinist begins a haunting tune.

I rise to the tips of my toes, expand my rib cage with breath, then lean into my dance.

My movement and range may be stilted, but I find my poetry. I whirl, dip, pivot with grace and precision, sticking only to positions I know I can master.

It’s a light sequence. Easy steps with soft, flowing movements.

I’ve reached my serenity, and I hold on to it like I do my most cherished memories: the scent of earth as I play in the rain, with Emilia beside me; the kiss of silk as I stitched my first dress.

I sway, sweep into arcs, and rise again.

But the king’s unease reaches me like a foul odor. He rustles on his throne, no doubt wondering why I’m sticking to a basic routine. Soon, he’ll grow bored.

I’m counting on it.

My fingers reach for the small black sack attached to my waist. I loosen the ties as I bend my knees, preparing for my moment. Flour seeps into my palms—just enough.

I come up in a spin, releasing it in a whirl as I pirouette.

It billows around me like smoke, floating in my wake.

My outfit is the canvas, the powder drizzling clusters of stars onto the black fabric as I twirl, bend, and twist into sensuous shapes—and with each step, I release more millen.

Light dances through it, and with its cloak I disguise the bounds of my new constraints.

Millen is the distraction for what I can no longer do.

But it works. One look at my owl-eyed audience, at the white-knuckled fingers pressing into their chairs, and I know I have them.

And when the flour finally drifts down, clouding around my heels like early morning fog, I slow with the music, lowering myself until I am curled on the floor.

The curtains ease shut, shrouding the room in shadow.

King Illian’s slow clap beats in my head like a pulse. Carefully, I push upward as the curtains are swept open again, and then I am standing before him—and he before me.

“Clever, Vasalie,” he says, eyes roaming over me with new interest. Dizziness blots my vision, and it takes everything in me not to sway.

Then he does something I do not expect. He bends and swipes a gloved finger along the floor, right where I’d been standing.

He inspects the flour, then raises it to his lips.

His eyes hold mine as he tastes it. Licks it right off his glove. “Millen flour, lighter than dust,” he says, mouth curved to one side.

He edges closer and lifts his hand, as if to cup my jaw.

It hovers in the air between us, so close I can feel its heat.

The breath stills in my lungs.

He could have taken advantage of me so many times, but he never did.

Even as lust darkened his eyes, even as wine filled his cups and the clocks ticked into early morning, not once did he lay a finger on me.

I thought it was dignity. I respected him for it.

But I am no longer his elite, his favored, the dancer his court admires.

With a wave of his hand, he dismisses his courtiers, and only when the room is empty does he whisper, softly, “My Vasalie.”

I feel the ache of it. There’s a longing in his gaze, one that sends a lick of unease down my spine—a reminder that there must be more to all this, more to why he pulled me out.

He wets his lips, watching my own. An uncomfortable warmth wreathes the space between us. But it’s as if his pride keeps him from crossing that invisible barrier between us.

So what, then? Does he wish me to do it?

I won’t—ever. I step back.

His mouth curls into a frown. “Tomorrow,” he says, his husky tenor betraying him, “you will travel ahead of me to the Isle of Anell. Once there, we will not associate with each other, as your guise places you from my brother Estienne’s court.

Remember, Vasalie, you are a tool through which I will work and nothing more.

Do not pride yourself that you have earned this spot on your own merit. ”

The more I watch him, the more I don’t believe him. If I were simply a tool, I wouldn’t affect him so. Again, I wonder what his plans are. Fury smolders beneath his lashes, but I ignore it, my expression blank. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Remember my warning,” he says, stepping around me. “One wrong move, one act of defiance, and it’s back to the cell with you. I am watching you, always.”

“I would not wish to displease you,” I lie.

“My instructions will be delivered to you. You need not seek me out.”

All of this I know already, but his reminder whisks chills along my skin. I bow, the flour stirring around my toes.

Then he adds, “I’d like to give you your first one now. I want you to befriend the Gathering’s Head of Staff. I hear he’s a disgustingly kind fellow, so it shouldn’t prove difficult.”

I give him a curt nod, then hesitate. “Is there something you wish me to glean from him, Your Majesty?” It’s difficult not to spit the words.

“His favor,” Illian says. “He is well connected, having been around for years.”

His command is vague, so I nod blankly, poised to turn away.

“And Vasalie,” he says before I can retreat, “after your final task, you will return to me. Your last evening at the Gathering will be spent in the company of my court alone.”

King Illian stands tall against the backdrop of his palace, watching my coach depart for the Isle of Anell. His figure shrinks as the traveler’s coach glides away, but the warning in his eyes follows me through the twists and curves of the road as the drivers steer us into Lorewood Forest.

A cold shiver traces down my arms, but I focus instead on Brigitte’s words before I left. After packing my bags, she drew me into a hug and whispered, “You’re strong, just like my daughter. Strong where it counts.”

She had heard Illian’s words. I swallowed, pretending to believe her.

Still, I hope my brittle hug conveyed what words could not.

She was patient with me, gentle, treating me not like a convict but someone worthy of being cared for.

I wish I knew why she isn’t with her daughter in East Miridran.

I wish I had asked her more questions, but I will never forget her kindness.

My story for Anell will be simple, and not wholly untrue.

It still places me as a dancer who once performed at the Melune—a small, albeit prestigious theater on the border of Central Miridran.

There, however, I’m to say I snagged the attention of an adviser in King Estienne’s court, who, after hiring me for a time, secured my audition for the Gathering.

The adviser has, of course, been paid off by Illian.

But that story won’t matter if I falter before the Master of Revels. My name might be on a list, but other performers will have twice the stamina, span of movement, and strength. Yet I’m auditioning as a solo dancer, which means twice the pressure.

If I don’t impress him, I will not make it inside the Gathering.