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Chapter Thirty-Four

I don’t wait for them to see what I’ve done. I run.

Hard-packed sand and shells jab into my soles as I flee for the boats. Voices echo behind me, but I press on, praying King Rurik will understand the message I left for him and the rest of the Gathering.

That his general plots his destruction, alongside Illian.

My guards know I’m missing, so Illian will know it was me—especially when he examines the dagger I left stabbed into my father’s hat. The other, I still carry with me.

I clamber inside a small craft and grab the oars, pushing off into the waves. At least the current drifts south, the wind helping me along. Even still, rowing is no easy task, and the effort burns hot in my muscles, my arms shaking. Mist sprays my skin, cold as ice. A storm is rolling in.

My chest grows tighter with every near-impossible breath.

I must find Anton. Despite what Illian claimed, Anton would not have run.

Steering toward an inlet, I see Copelan and the other performers already there, emptying onto the docks.

I watch him, his blond hair tousled by the breeze, the lines of his jaw hard with tension.

For a moment, I remember the feel of his arms and the warmth of his skin, and I consider dropping everything and begging for his help. He listened to me once.

But when it mattered most, he did nothing. He didn’t bother to learn if Illian’s accusations were true. He abandoned me for a girl who couldn’t see past Illian’s lies. It hardens something in me.

Copelan disappears behind the palace doors as I tumble from the boat and wade through the water; it’s much higher this time of day, reaching my chest.

My dress catches on the oar.

The tide is strong, and with the weight of the fabric, I can’t get free. I tug. Groan. Pull, even as exhaustion overtakes me.

I can’t do it.

Frigid waves topple over me and I gulp for air, choking on my own breath. My muscles feel like porcelain, ready to shatter. I lean against the side of the boat, clinging to it with the last of my draining strength. Each brush of the waves yanks it from my grip.

My hands loosen, and my fingers slip.

The water pulls me under.

My world grows dark, the oar dragging me on its path to the bottom like a cluster of seaweed, and I’m so tired, so weak. Sink—I should let myself sink. Why bother? Hope is frail, all but lost. There’s little left worth fighting for.

Then eyes, green as rolling hills, fill my mind like a phantom. I hear his voice. It’s far away at first, but it echoes, reverberates like a ripple of water—

I cannot protect you, Vastianna Stova. But I can arm you.

My hand falls to my side, my fingers brushing against something sharp and cold.

The second dagger. It’s tucked into my belt.

I fumble to unhook it, then cut and slash at my gown until the layers of heavy fabric release their grip.

Left in nothing but a slip, I rise to the surface, inhaling deeply before swimming to shore, battling fiercely against tendrils of coiled seaweed and the growing current.

My lungs are tight, my heartbeat so rapid I fear it might give out.

Still, I clutch the dagger so tightly the embellishments imprint onto my skin, afraid the sea will rip it from my hands.

Once ashore, I find the tunnels, begging the Fates for the strength to keep moving.

I’ve built up more stamina over the past month, but I’m worn and weary, always, and I don’t think the fatigue will ever go away.

So I make myself another promise: I will find a way to live with it.

Because I am grateful that my heart still beats, grateful that this body, however pained, has not crumbled beneath the weight of all that has been done to me.

Inside the tunnels, I expect to find a guard at every turn.

Instead, I find only an unsettling emptiness.

I curl my fingers around the dagger’s hilt, and just when I feel like I might collapse, I reach Illian’s chambers.

Through a mosaic, I note four guards outside his suite, and even more stand sentinel just outside the doors to his antechamber.

But why not monitor the tunnel’s entrance? Surely they know about this one, where it leads. I move to the one above the hearth, and my breath stops short.

Because secured to a chain hanging from that ominous, glass-work chandelier is Anton, his hands bound above his head, a strip of cloth gagging his mouth.

The tips of his toes graze the floor, probably the only thing keeping him from a substantial amount of pain.

Several cuts nick his face and neck, but he has the gall to look entirely bored with the guard who is circling him insouciantly on the carpet beneath that array of glass, quite clearly taunting him.

A guard who, if I had to guess, is supposed to be guarding the pane in the wall I’m looking through.

Anton mutters something through the gag, a grin creasing his eyes. It earns him a fist to the face, his head snapping to the side. My hand flies to my mouth; it takes everything in me not to barge into the room.

But he is alive. That’s what matters.

I have to think—and fast. Only two guards are inside the room with Anton. I don’t have to fight them; I need only to outsmart them. My whole body trembles, but a new wave of adrenaline keeps me on my feet, so I swallow the nerves bundled in my throat and move.

Snatching a pebble from the tunnel floor, I tap lightly on the glass. Enough that it could be nothing, but they will have to investigate. When they drift over, I slink around the bend until I’m out of view.

The glass pane screeches open. “Stay here,” one says. “Probably nothing, what with everyone on the island still, but I’ll take a look.”

The mural is like a window, and he has to climb on top of the mantle before he can crawl in. He does so with ease; first, his boots pop through, then his hands, until finally, he slides down into darkness.

I toss the pebble down the corridor. It clatters, echoing like the clank of a faraway sword.

He jolts, then stalks past me. I throw out a foot. He trips, his head smacking against the wall.

Idly, I wonder if he was there—if he was one of the guards who beat me.

He thunks onto the cold stone floor.

The other guard calls his name. I keep silent, the tunnels like a crypt. He curses, then slides into the tunnel. I stay low, slashing the dagger against his ankle between the break of armor. He cries out, fumbling for his weapon. I yank it away before he can get a good grip.

There’s more blood than I expected, and it covers my fingertips. I cut him deep. He clutches his leg, gasping as he squints around, unable to see.

But I am used to the dark.

Quietly gathering a large rock at the base of the tunnel, I bash it against his head. He slouches over. Palms shaking, I wipe the blood on his cloak, then clamber inside Illian’s antechamber and slide the panel closed.

Anton blinks, and then his eyes widen. He mumbles something unintelligible until I stride over and rip the cloth from his mouth. He coughs like he’s parched. My stomach climbs into my ribs at the sight. I cup his jaw in my palms, needing to see him, to gauge whether he’s all right—

“Vas,” he rasps. “You have to leave.” But he doesn’t understand—Illian will kill him. I’m surprised he hasn’t yet.

“I’m going to free you,” I say, studying his bindings.

“It might not look like it,” comes his hoarse reply, “but truly, I can handle the situation on my own.”

“You’re practically an extension of the chandelier, attached to it like that!”

“Terrible choice on my part to put it there,” he says.

“There has to be a way to free you.” I want to tug at the chain that binds him to the chandelier, but it is fastened way higher than either of us can reach.

Then I eye the rope holding the chandelier in place.

It runs along the ceiling, down the wall, then winds around an ornate wheel—or crank, rather. “That crank. What’s it for?”

“That allows us to light the thing. See that pin? It locks in place to prevent the chandelier from moving. The lever lifts the pin, allowing the chandelier to then be lowered by the crank. But even I can barely manage the crank despite the gear mechanism we built.”

“But if I could break it somehow, maybe smash the lever?”

“That ah . . . would bring the whole thing down.”

“I could find help for the crank, then,” I try. “Where are your men? Basile? And Laurent, Gustav—”

“All enjoying a nice view of the ocean,” he says, and I breathe a sigh until he adds, “through prison bars. We were ambushed by the general and his men in the dead of night. I believe they are being held in the Brisendali quarters.”

Right. And aside from his personal guard, Miridran’s army is one unit. They wouldn’t have reported to Anton alone. If Illian gave them charge of something, they would have no choice but to obey, even before his so-called arrest.

It’s my turn to curse. “It’s my fault. I was caught in the tunnels—”

“Semantics, as of now.”

Heaving a breath, I take stock of the room, searching for anything I might use to release the lock on his shackles.

The desk is now empty, though I open every drawer, and the mantel on the hearth is swept free of decoration.

There’s a small bar built into the side wall, stacked with bottles but little else, then the double doors leading to Illian’s room—which to my great displeasure are locked.

I spin about but find nothing else save for an open balcony, the balmy breeze wafting inside through softly billowing curtains. Nothing aside from the gaudy chandelier and the disgraced king chained to it, like a pig ready for roasting.

“Gustav is going to get an earful,” Anton murmurs, giving his chains a pull. “He helped me design this blasted chandelier, though it was sadly my idea to dangle it in my brother’s room like a trophy.”

I drag a stool in front of Anton and climb atop it, reaching for his manacled hands. If I can free those bonds . . .