55. Lilias
Lilias
DO I HAVE A CHOICE?
But it’s not Petrys who opens the door to the small guest room hours later, after the sky behind the window has turned to gray and the last streaks of sunlight have faded from the western horizon. It’s not Blayne either.
It’s Doloros. And she’s carrying a dress.
It’s an elaborate, pale ballgown, one I recognize from the wardrobe in Blayne’s house.
Doloros helps me step into the massive skirts.
The dress doesn’t fit me well; it’s too tight across my chest, and it’s so long I need to hold the skirts up while I walk.
While Doloros pulls the bodice tight, I wonder who wore this dress before me. And what happened to her.
Doloros has me sit in front of a mirror as she arranges my hair into an elaborate knot of braids and curls. I stare at my reflection and wonder if this mirror is also a window.
No, I don’t think so. I doubt this room is important enough to be spied on.
“Are you ready?” Doloros asks, once she steps back from the dressing table.
I meet her gaze in the dull gleam of the mirror.
“Do I have a choice?” I reply.
“I could tell him you’ve fallen ill,” she says with a shrug.
That’s the most she’s ever said to me. My lips twist into a smile.
“Thank you,” I say, and I mean it. “But that won’t be necessary.”
I come to my feet as Doloros opens the door. Petrys is waiting for me in the hallway. We walk through the halls together, Petrys slightly ahead of me, his hand on his sword.
“People are scared of him,” Petrys whispers, once we’re alone in a wide hallway. “This new advisor. No one wants to talk about him.”
We turn toward the castle’s grand entrance hall. The swell of voices grows louder.
“I had a hell of a time even getting someone to tell me where on the fourth floor his quarters are,” Petrys whispers, shaking his head.
“But you did?” I ask. “You know where they are?”
“I think so,” he replies.
His pace slows. We’re close enough to the banquet hall now that I can make out individual conversations, threads of laughter, and the gentle clink of crystal glasses.
“Something’s happening tonight,” Petrys whispers. “During the ball. Or after it.”
There’s an edge to his voice that makes me turn and glance at him. He looks pale in the thin, flickering light of the torches lining the hallway. My hands twist in the fabric of my skirts.
“Oh, gods,” I whisper as Blayne’s words come back to me. “The execution?”
“The execution isn’t tonight,” Petrys replies, grim determination on his face. “There’s going to be a—demonstration. Something to do with the weapon. Everyone says the advisor will be there.”
I shiver. Screams echo through my memory. I remember the taste of dust in my throat, the way the rising haze turned the sunlight red over the fields of Ethiria. Petrys clears his throat, bringing my focus back.
“That’s our chance,” Petrys says. “When the advisor is distracted.”
I nod, and Petrys leads me into the banquet hall where I once celebrated my wedding.
The crowd is larger tonight than it was when Zarek held a slice of cake out to me on the end of his sword. The room feels crowded, stuffed with a hundred disparate conversations. I see Blayne at the far end of the room talking with a group of men I don’t recognize.
Petrys leans over when we enter.
“Do you see him?” Petrys whispers. “The advisor? The one who has Zarek?”
Varitan. I take a deep breath and run my eyes over the room.
“No,” I whisper.
Petrys mutters something under his breath that sounds like fuck, then leads me to Blayne’s side.