To Dance with Death (The Edge of Glass #2)

Prologue

He stands underneath a dome of starlight.

I watch him from a distance, through the open window of my room. Silky warm air flutters the drapes softly against my skin until a gust pushes them all the way against the bed.

But I can’t pry my gaze from Anton, there on the balcony of his lone, isolated tower, staring up at the heavens as if he could escape into them.

He looks like a figure from lore, as he always has. A dark robe drapes over his shoulders, falling open at the chest, and moonlight silvers the slope of his cheeks, the downward tilt of his plush lips. Such an odd, ill-fitting expression on him; he does not belong in frowns.

He does not notice me.

It feels like pressure on a bruise to see him this way. Like the drag of nails against an open wound, the pain of it stinging through the lace of my nerves. Because he will never notice me again. Not the way he did before.

I am nothing to him now.

Three weeks.

Three weeks have passed since I woke from Morta’s Lair only to find that Anton was long gone. Ripped from my grasp—and I from his heart. Moranya’s price for saving my life.

And now he’s secluded. Guarded, as if he were some kind of criminal.

That was his final request to Queen Sadira, whom I know will honor it. He said we cannot allow him to be fodder for such a dreadful prophecy—one that promised destruction and death. He said he’d rather die.

He would sooner take Morta’s hand once and for all.

Even so, I long to run to him. To throw my arms around his neck. To breathe our past into his ear. To remind him—if only I could.

But I tried that. We even attempted to show him the stills—the images caught on panes of glass that he himself captured at the Gathering—as proof of what transpired.

Such is Morta’s curse, however. It keeps the truth sealed behind my teeth, so that any attempt to speak of the past clogs my airway.

It prevents him from seeing anything in the stills but an empty glass pane.

It keeps us from telling him the true story—any of us.

It took us some time to fully understand what was done to him.

That she had scrubbed clean any notion of the love he was allowing to take shape—which in turn shaped who he became.

He remembers the Gathering so differently, as if Moranya reframed the events in his mind.

He believes that his friends betrayed him.

He thinks Gustav and the queen worked behind his back to unseat him from Miridran’s throne. And I—

I have been erased from his memory altogether.

And it wasn’t just me, as we had thought.

Anyone he ever cared for was stripped from him in different ways.

Love became betrayal, leaving only a hollow bitterness in its place.

To make matters worse, the belief that his friends betrayed him is reinforced by the fact that he’s here, seemingly imprisoned, with Gustav reigning over Miridran in his place.

I am still unable to fathom how I came to matter to him in such a profound way—that he would sacrifice a piece of himself for me. That any notion of love that might have formed has now soured, leaving only resentment in its wake.

In turn, I have cried my share of tears.

But we must honor what he wished of us all before Moranya’s curse. He laid out his plans as best he could during his one day—including Gustav’s role as regent. And we will use the stills he gathered to prove my father’s corruption.

After, I will find a way to keep my promise.

I will save him. Somehow.

At least I know he is surrounded by those who love him. The queen, her sons. Then there’s the shadow outside his tower, standing sentinel, never resting.

Basile.

It’s the sight of his beloved captain of the guard—of the dedication he shows as he resolutely refuses to leave Anton’s door—that steels my resolve, even as my soul rebels at the thought of leaving him.

I know Basile will watch over him. Even now, save for a helm, the man is decked fully in armor—including pads of leather and sea glass—despite the Razami heat, sweat beading along the brown skin of his brow and along his neck underneath his thick, ornamented braids.

But he does not waver. I know it’s out of love.

With a breath, I duck out from between the flowing drapes and tuck the last of the warm clothes Queen Sadira provided for me into my carpet bag—woolen gowns and scarves, fur-lined leather gloves. Thick leggings. I’ll need them, for it is always cold in Brisendale.

That’s where we are headed.

Home.

We had hoped to petition the Syndicate and show them the stills, but my father beat us to it. He summoned them instead, calling for war, for permission to invade Razam in retaliation for the death of King Rurik. The Syndicate set sail at once for Brisendale.

But I was responsible for Rurik’s death; Illian was going to have Anton slain had I not done it. And that death was blamed on Razam on account of the Razami outfit Illian had insisted that I wear.

Yesterday Gustav sent word that he, along with his royal envoy, was leaving for Brisendale at once. He plans to demand an audience and prove both Anton and Queen Sadira’s innocence through the images the stills depict.

But I worry that might not be enough.

The Syndicate needs to know the full truth about my father and how he rose to power. How he murdered his own wife and threw her off a balcony when she tried to protect his daughter from an arranged marriage to Illian after overhearing his plans.

The testimony of an eyewitness.

I board a ship at first light.

After buttoning my bag, I curl my arms around Ishu one last time, scratching a spot on the back of her neck.

Anton’s pet tiger—a gift from Queen Sadira from when he first visited Razam—has been my only real source of comfort since Gustav and Laurent returned to Miridran.

Since arriving, she’s opted to sleep with me as opposed to anywhere else—though I attribute that more to my room being Anton’s whenever he visited Razam in the years previous.

I wish she could come with us. At least when I leave, Sadira intends to send her to his new suite.

As I pull back, I notice the sheaf of paper crumpled underneath her large white paw.

A piece of parchment. With great effort, I lift her paw and pull it out, only to wish I hadn’t.

It must have fallen from the shelf above, where I’d left it to gather dust—the paper with the written prophecy Anton had shown me weeks ago.

Without my consent, my eyes dip to the scrawl.

From Beauty foretold, a trap unfolds,

A return to the living, a plight of souls,

Eyes of shadows, glazed like mist,

Whose touch will kill, and lips will kiss,

Consumed by darkness, His heart a snare,

Those around Him will remain unaware.

Beware, beware, His time is near,

Through one of three sons, He shall appear,

A jewel in His palm, a path divine,

With the Fate of Morta, He will align,

When Crowns divide, and nations collide,

Blood will run, high as tides.

During the Gathering, I had thought it referred to Illian. But so had everyone else. I had been unaware that Anton was the one who came back to life. Though Gustav had known that, as had Basile, neither thought Anton could ever be corrupted.

I’m not sure I believe it still.

“Your escort awaits.”

I straighten at Queen Sadira’s voice. She pauses at the threshold of my room, her regalia a stretch of flowing, fuchsia silk that sweeps the floor. Warm lamplight flickers dimly over her features, softening them when she tracks the paper I hold.

“We are not condemning him to this fate, Vastianna.”

I swallow. It’s as if she read my thoughts. “I know. It’s just…hard to leave him like this. Alone, secluded, thinking everyone betrayed him, abandoned him…”

She comes to sit beside me, prying the parchment from my hands. “It’s what he asked for. A warning he chose to heed.”

He had demanded we prevent him from getting free and becoming Moranya’s pawn—though we still don’t know what she wants from him. Why she made this bargain in the first place.

Deep down, I know Queen Sadira is right. She was one of Anton’s closest friends, someone he stood by. I know she’s only respecting his wishes.

“Can’t I visit him one last time?” I ask, even knowing it will yield nothing. “To say goodbye, at least?”

We don’t have much time. We already have to travel through the rest of the night to reach the docks by morning and board the merchant vessel that will inconspicuously take us north. But I haven’t seen him since the day I woke up.

“You know as well as I do that it would go against his wishes,” she says softly. “He demanded I keep you safe—even from him.”

“He would never hurt me,” I say. “Even…like this.”

“Wounds can be more than just physical,” Sadira says, and Ishu sets a chin on her knee.

Her hand comes to rest on the tiger’s head.

“Besides, I already broke my promise when I let you see him that first time. I suppose I had hoped that, despite everything, your presence might spark something. We all saw that it did not. And I do not wish for him to associate you further with the hatred he feels for us all.”

I know she’s right. But…“It still feels wrong.”

“Everything does, I’m afraid,” she says sadly. “I think it will feel that way until we find a way out of this.”

I blow out a breath. “And if we fail?”

“Vastianna,” she says, her gaze suddenly latching on to mine with a ferocity I haven’t seen since she faced down my father at the Gathering.

“I have stood alone against the greatest powers in our mortal world for decades—men who sought to intimidate me and take my land—but still I stand. I have fought against armies twice the size of my own, but still I stand. I have protected every inch of Razam despite hundreds of threats, raids, even battles, my world always on the brink of being lost—but still I stand. Are similar sentiments not true for you, too?”

Sadira surprises me when she reaches out and grips my hand. “We are made of the most resilient cloth. We will not be defeated, so long as we do not kneel.”

I can’t help the tears that clog my throat, but my fingers curl around hers.

I needed that. Needed a reminder that we could, indeed, face the impossible and triumph. I have to believe that still.

And yet…“How can you bear my presence, knowing the way I put you and Razam in this position?” If I hadn’t framed them, they would be guilty only of conspiracy, not murder.

It was my hand that held the blade. Even now, I feel its weight. I see King Rurik every time I close my eyes, feel the soft parting of his flesh.

“You were faced with an impossible choice—one that no one should ever have to make. When your hand was forced, you chose to save a life that might, in turn, save more.” She shakes her head.

“Intent is what matters, Vastianna. And so does heart. For all you have been through, yours still beats with the force of a drum. Let it beat for justice, my dear. For vengeance. This time, you will not be a powerless criminal or a damsel in distress. You will be a threat.”

“But if I confessed everything…”

“I am not letting you take the fall for something your father should pay for. Besides, did you not sacrifice yourself already? Did you not already die?” I open my mouth to argue, but she waves a hand at me.

“Once is enough. I will not hear it. I will not condemn a girl who suffered greatly—is still suffering—because of what cruel men forced her into. Promise me you will not confess your role to the Syndicate.”

With a shaky breath, I nod. I don’t deserve her grace, but I will cling to her strength.

She rises to leave, and, after assuring her I’ll join them shortly, I bend to whisper in Ishu’s ear. “Look after him.”

With that, I collect my travel bag and cloak. When I glance out the window, I see only his silhouette, a shadow against the rising moon.

I already feel the absence of him, like a chamber cleaved from my heart.