Page 7

A canopy of leaves hangs over the coach in shades of emerald and gold, filigreed by the glow of a warm, amber sun.

It reminds me of the audience I’ll entertain if I succeed: advisers, emissaries, heralds.

Not to mention nobles, diplomats, and other court functionaries hailing from every shadow of the north—including the place I once called home.

What if someone from my past were to recognize me?

I’ve grown up since then, changed my name, but it’s not impossible.

Worse, any one of the Crowns could order my head on a platter should I displease them, because I am not under King Illian’s protection.

I am not officially tied to him in any way.

Fear presses in on me as the sun shrinks behind the leaves, shadows fringing the coach like a veil of lace, and then the coach is too small, too enclosed, and suddenly I’m in my cell again, imprisoned by yawning darkness. Darkness with teeth, swelling with voices, so many voices—

Freedom never lasts. You’re too damaged for this world.

Broken toy.

Plaything.

It took weeks for the nightmares to whittle down after my release; a month until I woke and understood where I was, why the ground had grown soft beneath me.

That I wasn’t falling, sinking into the earth and into some underworld below.

That it wasn’t the ground at all but a mattress.

Longer, still, to grow comfortable existing once more in a world of daylight—a light that should make me feel comfortable, safe, but instead makes me feel exposed, my broken body on display for all to judge.

It seems I cannot exist in either: the light or the dark.

Here and now, I gulp in greedy breaths, pleading with my trembling body to relax.

I push my head into my palms, drawing up that familiar anger, the rage that nearly had me ready to drive the point of a sword into Illian.

I let it wrap around me, consume me, until I’m shaking for a different reason altogether.

I am still under Illian’s control, trapped by his threats, but it won’t always be this way. I make a promise to myself and chant it like a prayer—louder than the voices, louder than the grief. I will not go back to my cell. I will earn my freedom, no matter the cost.

My coach escapes the forest’s hold, tree limbs stretching like spindly arms as we flee its reach.

Dark clouds wend through the sky, then grow eerie with waning light—the grim transition from day to night.

Central Miridran is wet with fog, spilling with rain every few hours.

My back aches from sleeping in the cramped coach.

Three days feel like ten, until finally, we enter East Miridran along the coast.

While the art of glass is rooted in Miridran as a whole, East Miridran dominates the trade.

At first glance, Philam’s bustling port town would look like any other, its stacked buildings composed of dark wood and alabaster stone.

Except each one is accented with glass, whether it be colorful windows, glistening cupolas, or luminescent steeples and spires.

And with the morning sun now teasing the clouds, it’s as if the town has been lit by a thousand prisms.

When we reach the port, the air is cool and brisk despite the flushing dawn. I’m handed my bags and loaded onto a curved wooden boat along with my silent escorts. Then the waves guide us to our destination: the Isle of Anell.

A thin, sandy shoreline graces the horizon, quickly swallowed by a scattering of trees that grow thicker farther inland.

I stare in wonder at Anell’s seaside palace.

Rather than a single structure, it’s a large network of white sandstone buildings capped with copper and glass cupolas and domes, sunlight glaring off them like liquid fire.

Between them, bridges arc hundreds—maybe thousands—of feet off the ground, some enclosed in emerald-tinted sea glass, others open and shielded only with balustrades.

Even the sides of the palace are decorated with large, ornate glass panels detailed with mahogany fretwork.

Then there’s the waterfall spilling from its center in a cerulean ribbon, disappearing behind another bridge.

Based on how Illian once described it, I expected a gaudy structure, as pretentious as King Anton is said to be, considering he’d added his own extravagant touch to this place once he was handed the eastern territory.

But even I can’t deny its magnificence.

Still, it makes me wonder just how different King Anton is from Illian.

Does he look like him? Act like him? A libertine, I’ve heard, and not just from Illian.

A philanderer obsessed with his own wealth and merrymaking.

He was often spoken about at court by those who attended his many soirées, the rumors surrounding him more numerous than the other Crowns combined.

Most notably, that he procures hundreds of women for his so-called Glory Court—forcing them to dedicate themselves to his pleasure alone.

Then there’s King Estienne, the oldest of the three, who is whispered to be cruel and short-tempered. He’s quick to behead anyone who offends him and enjoys it like he would a sport.

Perhaps I have them to thank for the vermin Illian has become.

As we drift closer, a bustling harbor splays before us, dockhands preparing for the arrival of larger ships.

The docks themselves branch into stars, each reserved for the nations in attendance and marked by their own flag.

The three at the center are clear: East, Central, and West Miridran.

The flags are the same: a golden chalice against dark silk, the only difference signifying each territory engraved in the chalice itself.

A diamond for West Miridran, a violet quartz for Central Miridran, and for the East, pearls and sea glass.

Then there’s a dock marked by black flags fringed in colorful tassels for Serai, a large country separated from West Miridran by the sea.

Following that, a dock for the Karithian islands to the north, and Zar to the east. The farthermost dock sends a jolt down my spine with its ice-white and blue flag centering a gold talon—a flag I once pledged to.

Brisendale.

Emilia would have walked that dock. Would have seen Anell for the first time from that vantage.

I swallow and turn my gaze, running it over a large, incoming ship with angular purple sails.

Its bow is curved heavenward, capped in gold, and it docks underneath Razam’s amaranthine flag.

If the shouts are any indication, it’s the first ship carrying foreign courtiers.

Behind it looks to be an envoy of smaller ships from Kasim beneath yellow and sage flags.

A dockhand shuffles us off the boat, then points me toward a spherical structure made entirely of chromatic sea glass, arrayed by a copse of willows. From the outside, it reminds me of the music boxes Emilia used to collect.

The inside, while bare save for the ring of performers waiting to audition, is marbled in polychromic light from every direction.

I skirt the edge of the room and set my bags on the floor, dazedly surveying the three girls pirouetting in sync in the center.

Ribbons unspool alongside them, knotted along their wrists in shades of indigo and cerise that compliment their deep, golden-brown skin.

In tandem, they shift places, directions, and if I’m not mistaken, they’re spelling words with their streamers.

With their technique, I wonder if they might have studied in Razam or Zar, or even one of the island nations to the west. It’s obvious from their precision that they’ve been formally trained, whether in an academy or private lessons, despite their age, for they can’t be older than sixteen.

Next to me, someone whispers that they’re triplets, the daughters of some renowned steward.

I wipe my sweat-slicked palms against my legs and shrink back against the wall.

I’ve had some training, and Emilia taught me what she learned from her time as an actress.

But not like this. I couldn’t have afforded anything formal, not after fleeing my father with nothing but a small bag and Emilia’s ring to purchase passage.

My skills were developed through observation and practice in the theater I’d called home before Illian found me.

And here, now, I feel foolish and small, especially as I watch the trio. I may have the basics—like talent, flow, and a natural sense of rhythm—but even if that were enough, my new limitations will be clear.

All at once, the music ceases, and a nervous energy pulses through the air.

Then a man standing to the side breezes into the center of the room, his flaxen hair swept neatly across his forehead, his toned arms bare against his loose vest and pants.

And by that assuming stance alone, I gather he must be the Master of Revels.

I don’t know what I’d expected, but he isn’t much older than I am.

Illian’s age, perhaps, on the cusp of his thirties.

And I would be remiss not to notice how well formed he is.

Or the pale gold of his eyes and how stark they are against his darker lashes and brows—especially as that gilded gaze swings over the waiting crowd, settling on me for a breath, then two.

I feel as if I’ve been struck by lightning.

He is a study in angles, like a marble statue cut by lines of shadow and sun. I am no painter, but for him, my fingers itch for a brush.

I try and fail to read his lips as he speaks to the triplets in a low tone. Then he motions the next performer forward, and the next, and with each performance, my confidence dwindles more. He’s testing them, gauging their ability.

I was prized, the Jewel of King Illian’s court, yet now I wonder if it meant anything at all. Perhaps I simply moved in a way that pleased him and only him. And now, for a performance fit for royals, I have little to offer but a broken body and sack of flour.

The hours stretch on as performer after performer showcases their talents. I fight to keep air in my lungs, the sweat from my palms, until the clearing of a throat jolts me from my thoughts. The Master of Revels raises his brow at me, his pale eyes narrowing. “Reference?”

I quickly offer him my letter stamped with Central Miridran’s seal, but he merely stares at me, uninterested. “We don’t need another solo dancer.”

I blink. “I’ve . . . been sanctioned by King Estienne’s court.” While it doesn’t guarantee me a position, it does ensure my right to audition. I try to hand him the letter once more, but he crosses his arms.

“Regrettably,” he says—unapologetically, “we only have room for one soloist, and the position is taken.”

Taken? That can’t be right. “You don’t understand. I’ve come all this way—”

“As has everyone else.”

“The recommendation comes from King Estienne’s very own adviser . . .”

“Not from the king himself, then?”

“I—” I clamp my lip between my teeth, withholding a growl. “Surely you wouldn’t want me to tell them you turned me away before I even had the chance to prove myself?”

He rolls his eyes, then scrubs a hand over his face. “Look, Miss . . .”

“Vasalie,” I answer. “Vasalie Moran.”

The truth. I was instructed to use my name, being that it’s on the Miridranian registrar’s list. At least no one will recognize it. My vocation as the King’s Jewel kept my identity a secret during my time in King Illian’s court.

“Miss Moran,” he drawls, “I don’t have time to waste on another performer who fancies ribbons or frills and a basic routine.

Frankly, I’ve seen it all before, and so have the Crowns.

I’ve even been requested by our kings to ensure this year’s entertainment is a true showcase of Miridranian talent.

Last time, one of our hotheaded soloists nearly got herself hanged after she was laughed off the stage, and I doubt you wish to share the same fate.

So unless you can create wings and fly, I suggest you return to your ship.

” He pivots toward the harpist, who perches awkwardly on a stool in the corner, awaiting his dismissal.

“And if I can?” I say.

He angles back toward me, brow arching. “Can what?”

I level my chin, my glare a challenge. “Create wings and fly.”

A bold claim, maybe. But if it’s a little magic he wants, then it’s magic I will serve him.