Page 7 of A Dance of Lies

I look at Illian. “My name will be cleared?”

“Yes,” he says.

“Then I want permission to leave West Miridran.”

He opens his mouth, pauses. It was bold, I know, but I’ve realized something. He must need me, and only me, or he would have chosen a dancer who doesn’t loathe the carpet on which he stands.

But . . .why?

“If you wish,” he finally says.

“I want it in writing. Stamped with your seal.”

“Fine, Vasalie,” he drawls, scribbling on a document before snatching his seal. Once he finishes, he holds it out so that I can see. “But I will hold on to this until the Gathering has concluded.”

I study him. If there is a lie there, it’s hidden beneath the surface of his dark, hooded eyes. But . . . “Why? What is it you wish to discover?”

King Illian gives me a sour look. “To you, it matters not.”

I swallow, threading my fingers together. Whatever he intends to uncover at the Crowns’ Gathering, it is no small thing. Not whenthe whole of the Crowns’ Syndicate will be in attendance. Not when he’s offering me whatever I wish if I obey. There’s something he isn’t telling me, some hidden agenda. But if the cost of my freedom is lies and deception, I’ll pay it.

I dip my chin, just once, in acceptance, even as I strain to keep my spine straight.

A smile creeps over his lips. “My Vasalie, returned to me at last.”

My stomach turns inside out at the possessiveness once again coating his words. He motions toward the door, and a guard allows Brigitte inside once more. He juts his chin toward me, addressing her. “Take her from here. Do whatever is necessary to ensure she is ready, but she is not to leave my personal corridor.”

Brigitte offers her arm, and I need her strength more than ever. I lean on her as she turns, leading me toward the door.

“And Vasalie,” King Illian calls after me.

We halt.

“I have eyes and ears everywhere on the Isle of Anell,” he says. “If you run, I will find you. If you speak ill of my name, I will hear of it. If you betray me, I won’t only revoke your reward . . .” He pauses, and his eyes go cold. “I will kill you myself.”

And just like that, new shackles bind my wrists, hewn from promises and carved from threats. But with them comes a second chance, and I won’t take it for granted.

Muscles spasm in my back and legs the moment Brigitte and I emerge from the king’s office, and I collapse, doubling over in a heap.

I expect the guards to yank me up. Instead, I hear Brigitte ordering them to fetch the physician and the meal she fussed at them about earlier.

“Foolish, the lot of them,” she grumbles as their footsteps recede.

I feel her arm around me next.

She stays that way until the physician arrives.

She remains by my side even after, when I’m carted away on a stretcher into the physician’s ward, when the physician examines me from head to toe with his dainty, pale hands, wrinkled with age.

She watches him like a hawk, and all the while, I fade in and out of consciousness.

Surely this was what she was instructed to do. Except it also feels somewhat like kindness, and I don’t understand why. Illian no doubt told her who I am.

Hadn’t he?

I don’t recognize her from before. She wouldn’t recognize me, either, considering she must be new. Besides, I was kept away from the public, save for when I was in full costume, with paints and cosmetics layered on my face like a mask. And even then, it was only for a select audience, chosen by King Illian himself, that I performed.

I break my silence when the physician leaves the room. “You know the reason for my isolation, don’t you?”