Page 63

Chapter Thirty-Six

S omeone prods me, startling me from the prison of my thoughts. “Get up!”

My eyes peel open to find Sana leaning over me. She grips my arm and hauls me from bed. “Your time for wallowing is over.”

“What does he want now?” I ask flatly, though a jolt of fear pinches my chest. But she ignores me, leading me instead into a large bathing chamber with a pool that seems to float off into the sky, held only by a wall of glass.

A miasma of steam sends my lungs into a spasm, but she pays no heed to that, either, her rough hands stripping me bare.

The water is hot, almost scalding, the sea-glass roof focusing sunlight into the pool below.

Another of Anton’s inventions. I grit my teeth, knowing I’m owed this pain, and wade in until I’m waist deep.

I can’t think about why I’m being prepped like a pig for a spit, so I let my mind go numb, empty, not allowing my thoughts to form anything solid.

I am nothing but air, water, and shadows, even as two servants glide in after me, scrubbing then anointing me with oils and perfumes until I’m as raw and primed as a fresh cut of meat.

Then I’m pulled out and guided to a divan where they use fans to dry me so as not to smear the oils, my hair twisted up into pins to keep it off my neck.

Why they are taking such care of me, I don’t know, nor do I let myself care.

Once I am dry, I am wrapped in violet and crimson silks—a gown that loops around my neck and chest and waist before fanning out onto the floor.

My hair is then laced with a ribbon of rubies and braided loosely into an intricate, pinned mass.

My wrists are clamped with bejeweled cuffs on my lower and upper arms. Strings of garnets dangle from my ears.

Again, a flash of curiosity lights in my mind, but I tamp it down until it’s smothered by emptiness and silence.

After, they paint my face, and I look more like Vastianna Stova, the girl I once was.

Young and fresh, devoid of kohl, only a faint smear of rouge atop my eyelids, my lips tinted with fresh roses.

Vasalie Moran, the dancer—the temptress with wings—does not exist here. She is unrecognizable. She is dead.

When they are through, they tuck a small sack of millen into the folds of my skirt and tell me that, later tonight, I will perform for Illian alone—just like he’d told me, all those weeks ago.

Then I’m escorted back to Illian’s antechamber.

“His Majesty will be along in a moment,” Sana says more to the other guards than to me. I keep my head down, refusing to meet Illian’s gaze whenever he strides through the opposing doors.

But then a familiar voice calls my name. A tender one, painfully gentle. It reminds me of the way Emilia used to say it. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to picture her, trying to recall the sound of her voice . . .

“Vasalie,” Anton says again, and I snap from my reverie and meet his gaze. He’s across the room, drawn inside by another guard, who then attaches him to the chain dangling from the chandelier once more. At least he has been scrubbed clean, dressed.

And he’s still alive. Still in one piece. Vicious, cruel hope flares within me, but I don’t dare entertain it—

“Vas, listen to me,” he implores, those green eyes holding fast to mine. “Whatever it takes to survive, do it.” Aemon advances, readying his fist, but Anton ignores him. “Trust me.”

“Trust you?” Aemon lets out a single guffaw. “Look at you, you pathetic fool.”

“Stunning, even in such vile circumstances—yes, I know,” Anton returns.

It earns him a fist in his abdomen. He barely reacts, taking a beat to spit blood before propping his head up once more. “Survive,” he says— pleads. “Whatever the cost.”

All numbness flees me, and I choke out a sob. “I killed him, Anton. It’s over because of me.”

I brace myself for his judgment, his righteous indignation. His fury. And yet I find something else within his gaze, etched into the set of his brows.

It is a wild, frenzied sort of ferocity, and it steals my breath.

“This,” he says softly, “is far from over.”

“Indeed,” croons Illian, a shadow now emerging from the threshold. “There is still much to celebrate.”

My stomach plummets like it did when he shoved me from the balcony.

To my great disgust, he mirrors me in a sleeveless, russet ensemble that fits snugly to his chest, with garnets and rubies rimming the seams. Embellished leather bracers cuff his forearms, matching his boots.

But it looks regal rather than martial, as do his styled tresses, one lock dripping across his forehead like a curl of ink.

He holds his arm in front of me, expectant. “Time to go.”

I grind my molars. “ Where? ”

“I am certainly not attending such a prestigious event alone,” he says. “And my, don’t you look lovely. A fine escort indeed. Sana did well.”

Sana approaches, and clutched between her fingers is a sheer red veil. She attaches it to the circlet at the crown of my head, then drapes it to cover my face. And I know, then, where we are about to go.

Because it’s an honor veil, a traditional practice during a Brisendali wedding. Every woman wears one, save for the bride, so that her betrothed might not see anyone but her as she walks down the aisle.

More specifically, so that my father might not see anyone but the queen who will gift him his long-anticipated crown.

“Vasalie.”

I glance at Anton. He seems to hold my gaze, even through the veil. “Remember what I said.”

Survive. It’s what Emilia told me, too. I swallow against the lump in my throat.

Sana takes my hand and places it atop the silver-etched leather bracer on Illian’s forearm.

And even through the leather, I feel the heat of his arm, the subtle movements as he adjusts his weight, and it strikes me how strange it is.

I have never held on to him before, never so much as gripped his hand.

He feels more human than ever now, a collection of bones and sinew and muscle.

He tilts his gaze down at me, his eyes touching my cheeks, my lips, the skin of my neck. A satisfied smile bends his lips, and he tugs me toward the door.

And as my dress flares out behind me, weighing down each step, and as the pins holding the circlet against my head pinch and prick at my scalp, I can’t help but wonder if Illian does, in fact, know that the general is my father.

Another storm stirs the air, threading a train of leaves into the wind.

We stand poised at the precipice of yet another enclosure, a bougainvillea-laced arcade palisading us on all sides.

Ahead stands a line of Crowns, waiting between cathedral trellises sprawling with blooms for the announcer to signal our entrance.

I survey the scene through a red screen.

It isn’t unlike the garden where I first saw my father, though much larger.

Chaises are scattered across the grass as opposed to chairs, with courtiers strewn across them in all their finery.

Petals whisk about, garnishing an aisle that runs toward the far outer wall.

There, a flowering espalier spirals on the outer wall like a halo—a perfect backdrop before which a carpet is set, fringed by candles.

“One wrong move,” Illian whispers against my hair, “and he will pay.”

Anton, he means.

The Crowns are individually announced; we are last. The only small mercy is that the name of their escorts are not made known, sparing me from being exposed.

By the time we glide into the garden, all eyes turn to the man they believe is the sole King of Miridran.

I might not know everything that happened in my absence, but with no one to oppose him, Illian’s reign is secure. And here I am, the decoration on his arm.

He guides me to a chaise at the front, mere feet from the carpet, before taking his place in the center of it like a priest. Sana and Aemon linger behind, ensuring I don’t try anything.

A Brisendali man in a white and blue robe enters. I recognize him as Rurik’s adviser—a prelate not dedicated to religion but to the culture and health of his people. The only man who may perform a binding marriage.

The sun hovers behind the clouds and a chill grips my skin, as if the Fate of Morta herself breathes the warning of death into the air.

The start of the Brisendali anthem carries through, weaving a mix of fear and dread around my lungs until I can scarcely breathe.

I don’t turn as my father approaches, though I hear the squelch of his boots.

But when he steps onto that carpet, my gaze is pulled to him like a moth to rotten fruit. He stands there, those cold, soulless eyes pointed back down the aisle.

Does he see her like I do?

Does he remember Emilia standing in a courtyard much like this one, dressed in white fur and pearls as big as snowdrops? Does he remember the vows he spoke to her, the woman he promised to protect? Does he remember trapping her, stealing her away, and then stealing her life?

Is he haunted by her ghost?

I’m trembling, but I can’t look away. Not as a flurry of cerulean silk sweeps by. Not as Queen Aesir stands before him and speaks her vows, led by the prelate. Not even when my father does the same, then leans to kiss her pert, pink lips.

Not even when he faces the crowd in triumph, a king ready to be crowned, cheers rolling over him in waves. I wonder how long before his official coronation.

Then, so subtly I almost miss it, his eyes flick over me before turning away. Almost as if he knew where to look. My only consolation is that he cannot see me under my crimson veil.

Applause crowds my ears, the air filling with nectar-sweet praise, adoration. I feel sick.

But he didn’t recognize me. Because if he had, he wouldn’t let me go, not when he murdered Emilia to try to find me.