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Chapter Thirty-Five

I move in slow, lithe steps, the melody sickeningly sensual and soft.

This soirée, hosted by King Rurik’s emissary the following evening, is a small, private affair, and the only way Illian could get me inside the Brisendali wing. He offered me up like a platter to the salivating older man, who watches me now with rheumy, bulbous eyes.

At least he’s kept his distance, what with his nearby wife and the handful of courtiers lounged about.

King Rurik, however, is not in attendance.

I knew he wouldn’t be. So I bide my time, waiting until the courtiers are too deep in their cups, enough that they won’t notice me when I sneak away.

It shouldn’t be long now. So with every bend and twist, I am careful not to reveal the katar strapped to my thigh.

The outfit, too, is secured like a bustle underneath my dark, fur-fringed skirt fashioned after traditional Brisendali garb. Despite that, my too-tight bustier manages to squeeze the breath from me every time I shift, sending spurts of pain through my ribs.

I ignore it, rehearsing the speech I’d practiced on the way here, because I will not be killing King Rurik tonight.

Not when I have the chance to warn him instead. I think that’s what Anton was trying to tell me, that Illian provided me with a way to speak with him in private.

A fool’s hope it might be, but he is still the king who rules the Beast of the North. And he might not listen to a lowly performer, but I am the daughter of his esteemed general.

So I will fall at his feet, beg if I must. I will expose Illian and my father both.

Illian chose the wrong person to do his dirty work. I might not like what happened to me—I might think it unfair—but I can make it so that he rues the day he selected me.

Until then, I count the hours, the minutes, until those, too, dwindle away.

And when finally their attention wavers, a boisterous game of tablut afoot, I make my escape down a nearby hall, recounting my instructions.

Around the corner should be a sitting room with a balcony directly in line with the king’s private veranda, where Illian assured me Rurik will be—well in his cups this time of night, and alone.

A ritual of his, it seems. I am to slip in, complete my task, and leave the katar behind, after which Illian promises to set us free.

I sense the lie as surely as I taste the salt in the sea.

Yet the moment I round the corner, I come face-to-face with a loose-haired, inebriated Princess Aesir. And I’m so surprised that words flee me, even as she rams me up against the wall, her nails at my throat.

“What a little waif of a thing you are,” she says, towering over me as if to prove just how small I am in comparison. “And rather damaged, no? But I admit I see the appeal.” She drags a single claw down and across my clavicle. “Do take excellent care of my father, will you?”

“You want his power,” I say, my voice low. “There are other ways to get it—”

“Don’t bother,” she says, disgust curling her smudged-red lips. “You cannot appeal to me, little dancer. Fates know how you appealed to the Master of Revels.”

“They will kill you,” I try. “They—”

“Tell Father dearest I’ll keep his seat warm.” She pinches my left cheek, wriggling it between her fingers. “Off you go.”

I stand there, heart thundering as she waltzes away.

I don’t know what she hoped to accomplish by that.

Dominance, perhaps, when she has so little—and will have even less once my father claims her crown.

She will never be queen in her own right.

King consort or not, she will always be second to him.

I take no pleasure in that.

I slip into the sitting room. It’s a small, unlit space, the balcony doors slung open to reveal a night sky tufted with clouds.

Adjacent is yet another wing of the palace hovering above the water’s edge, yellow torchlight rippling across the waves.

Even from here, I can make out more figures scattered across distant balconies.

I slide out and into shadow, the hood of a balcony above veiling me under the stark, moonlit night. It allows me to change, invisible to nearby eyes.

And to King Rurik, lazing on a chaise on the sprawling balcony next to me.

For a moment, I merely watch as he gazes off into the sea, a coil of smoke unspooling from the cigar in his hand. Whisper-thin drapes quiver in a gentle wind. A servant passes through them, presenting a tray, and Rurik plucks from it a glass of amber liquid and a stem of grapes.

Attired in black silk as I am now, brisk ocean air seeps through, chilling me to the bone—an icy reminder that I’m an insult to its finely crafted threads, stitched with perfect precision in the Razami fashion.

I drink in the salt-tinged air in an attempt to calm the frantic beat of my heart. My body feels like marble, heavy and weighted, ready to crumble. But I cannot waver.

It doesn’t escape me how easily I could use this chance to flee. The water isn’t far below. I could dive, reach the rocks quickly, steal a boat, and disappear into Philam.

But care for my own well-being has diminished, leaving nothing but a flimsy frame holding together what remains of my body and soul. I intend to use it to right my wrongs. When I pass into Morta’s judgment, I will not regret my final days.

The servant shuffles away.

The first night bell rings out, shattering the silence. It echoes into the sea’s abyss, jolting me from my thoughts. It’s midnight now, and the time to complete my order is vanishing. I climb onto the balustrade and leap.

The second bell tolls.

Air whooshes from my lungs as I land on King Rurik’s balcony, the smooth stone like a slap against my stinging palms. I shake it off and rise to my knees, the churn of the ocean masking the sound.

The third.

I draw in a breath, readying myself. He’s right there. I can do this.

The moment I move, the curtains part. I halt just in time to see yet another silhouette slinking between them, stepping out of the adjacent room and onto the balcony.

No, I breathe, as Illian clasps hands with King Rurik, a smile painting his lips as the bell tolls on. And my confusion gives way to sudden, harsh clarity. He does not trust me; of course he doesn’t. He is here to ensure I do as he commanded.

My feet are like posts, nailed into the ground as the final bells toll.

And when the last one rings out, Illian tilts a gaze in my direction, knowing exactly where I’ll be.

My hand teases the hilt of the katar.

I could kill him instead. Plunge the blade into the cavity of his chest, lead King Rurik to Anton, to the stolen seal—

But then I notice the dagger strapped inside Illian’s coat, the glint of that golden hilt. A dagger to keep me in check. To ensure Rurik doesn’t survive.

Illian and King Rurik lean over the balustrade now, conversing. There is nothing beneath us, save for the sea. Once more, Illian cants his head toward me, then up, deliberately. I follow his gaze to where a bevy of his guards keep watch from the window above.

Understanding burns in my gut like hot, scathing oil.

If anything should happen to me, Aemon’s first order is to kill him.

It’s Anton or Rurik. I can only have one.

My pulse speeds fast as the wind. I feel weightless, like it might toss me into the sea. I almost wish it would, because my next move is clear.

I unsheathe the katar, carefully brandishing its H-shaped hilt. I don’t know how to wield it properly.

I think of Queen Sadira, of her knife-sharp gaze, the way she’ll wish me dead for what I’m about to do in her name. In the name of Razam.

She will never forgive me. Neither will Anton.

Don’t do it, Vasalie, he would say. There’s another way. But I shoot back angrily, I have to save you!

I have to save you, and this is the only way I know how.

Miridran needs a king. A good one. In this moment, that feels more important than vengeance, more dire even than the prophecy.

More important than me or any feelings I might have, when after this, I’ll never deserve him.

Because if anyone can stand up to the evils of this world, the men like my father and Illian, it’s Anton.

So I have to buy him time—even if I damn my soul in the process.

Boot to stone, my steps are weightless and sure. I dash across a pool of moonlight as Illian’s eyes connect with mine. And when I reach the Northern King—the king I grew up reciting prayers for—I grab the back of his head.

And drag the blade across his neck.

A sickeningly wet sound bubbles from his lips. One hands flies across his throat, the other gripping the balustrade to keep himself from buckling. That’s when I see his face.

And I can’t turn away.

I will see this forever. This moment, seared in my mind like the ridges of a scar. The blood. The sapphire eye, unusually bright, and his other one, widened with shock.

Blood coats my now-sticky hands, the katar locked in my trembling grip.

Watch him suffer, a voice inside me says.

The voice that knows I deserve for this to haunt me until I take my last breath, and maybe after that.

Watch every second of it. And I do, the breath still in my chest, the blood in my ears throbbing a vicious beat.

His knees hit the ground.

And now I am a murderer indeed.

I should die for this. There is no redemption for my soul now that I have killed him.

I killed him.

A cold hollowness sinks into me. As if whatever goodness, whatever lovely thing that fought to keep a remnant of my soul pure, has now abandoned it for good.

I sense Illian’s gaze on mine, hot like the blood on my hands. Shuttering my eyes, I try to pull myself back, to feel what I know I should.

His boots come into my vision. The katar slips from my grip and clanks to the ground. I had forgotten I was still holding it.

I face Illian, and for the first time, I feel equal. We deserve each other, this king and I. He deserves my fate, and I deserve his.

Shouts echo from nearby balconies, the observers Illian knew we would have. Then from inside, too, a moment before a bevy of guards sweep onto the veranda.

“Guards!” Illian rasps in their direction, his hand fisting my cloak. “The killer is getting away!”

They race for us.

He smiles down at me.

“Thank you,” he says, soft as the whistling wind, before tipping me over the rail.

Memories of my father and Emilia assail me as I plummet into the roaring waves.

Fighting to reach the surface, I gulp down mouthfuls of water. It stings my lungs, my vision murky and black. I’m not going to make it. I don’t deserve to make it. The thought crowds my mind like the anthem of ghosts, but still I push, swinging my arms with every ounce of strength my limbs possess.

I break the surface long enough to hear Illian’s shouts. “Hurry! He jumped! Just down there!”

The pain in my chest is like shards of ice, so cold it burns. So cold it drains the last of my grit. There is nothing left.

So I let go.

And sink.

And sink.

I know darkness intimately.

I know the bounds of it, the feel of it. There are types, I have learned. The darkness between stars, vast and eternal. The cold darkness of uncertainty, a slick clamor against your skin. The panic that comes with it.

Then there is the hollow dark. Suffocating, hopeless, like in my cell.

That’s how I knew I was not dead when I first awoke. This is not the peaceful abyss or suffering torment of Morta’s Lair. No, it is the emptiness of captivity.

Before I lost consciousness in the pitch-dark sea, two strong arms had taken hold of my shoulders and pulled me back into the world. I learned after that it was Aemon, sent to retrieve me. He had been waiting, had known exactly where to find me. Illian knew I was never in any danger from that fall.

So here I lie, curled beneath rough-spun sheets, my back aching from the cot. Thick curtains deprive me of any light. It’s dark enough to be a prison, and it might as well be. I am in Illian’s apartments, though I don’t know where.

I don’t know how much time has passed.

I feel as if I no longer inhabit my body.

I drink whatever they give me, eat whatever they shove between my teeth, swallow whatever tonic they spill down my throat until I’m a lifeless heap on a stiff mattress.

King Rurik of Brisendale is dead, and I’d dropped that katar. It was the proof Illian needed to show the world that Razam was behind the assassination, and I gave it to him.

I have brought destruction on two countries now. Perhaps I am the new Eremis—the bringer of death the prophecies foretold.

I am certainly the murderer Illian accused me of being, and even my two years in prison no longer feel like punishment enough.

I should not have taken Illian’s deal all those months ago.

I should have taken my last breath in that prison.

I was well on my way, maybe weeks from accepting the Fate of Morta’s hand and escaping this world forever.

But as the hours pass, a single question still pokes my mind, like a pin left in an unfinished dress.

Why me?

Yes, I was desperate for freedom, but there’s more to this. I can feel it. Did Illian sense the darkness in me? Did he know just how vile I would become with my freedom on the line? Anyone else would have betrayed Illian by now. Anyone else would have spared Laurent. Rurik.

Anyone with a soul.

More hours pass.

For the first time, I drag myself from my cot, parting the curtains with my fingers. Idle gossip drifts up from the garden and walk-ways below—gossip I strain to hear.

It seems Queen Aesir was crowned, though the formal ceremony will take place back in Brisendale.

She also announced her engagement to General Stova.

My stomach churns, rising into my ribs. I stay there until the sun recedes and night holds sway, thick and starless. Then, between two towers, an orange glow bleeds onto the distant sea.

The pyre, lit for Rurik’s passing. I assume his body will be buried in Brisendale, but a traditional Miridranian funeral is being held in his honor, with all the Crowns in attendance.

All except two. Queen Sadira is said to have departed in a furious rage with the rest of her court upon Illian’s announcement. They tried to hold her for a hearing before the Crowns’ Syndicate, but between her sons and her guard, she was untouchable.

It doesn’t matter. With the entire north against her, and the threat of war from the south at her back, Razam will not last long. Because of me.

A murderer.

I wonder if Anton knows. If he loathes me. If he even still draws breath.

But all I feel is cold.

Cold, and dead, and worthless, just like when Emilia died. I made the wrong choice again. I failed her once more. I am unredeemable, now.

The fire grows taller, a pillar of flame, and I watch it for almost an hour until it finally withers and winks out like my last spark of hope.