Chapter Eighteen
“Soooo,” Sundar says once we’re back in his suite, drawing out the vowel. “How was dinner?”
My glare is razor-edged. “Oh, I don’t know. He revealed very little and instead propositioned me to leap into his bed like all the rest of his nightly entertainment. Then you showed up and badgered the hell out of him, effectively ending our evening. So how did it go, Sundar? You tell me.”
“Look, I couldn’t help it,” he says. “Maybe I wanted to see exactly who he is now. Maybe I wanted to see how he reacted to my proximity to you.”
“For all the good it did.”
“Actually, I think it was rather telling. A shame you don’t see it.”
“I think I am a momentary infatuation for him, Sundar, and nothing more. That’s all you are seeing.”
“Then use it, Vasalie,” he says, stepping in front of me. “Make him want to spend more time with you. The more he falls for you, the more likely he is to open up to you—about Moranya, and maybe even about the codices.”
“That’s the problem! He won’t let himself fall for anyone. He rotates his souls like he does his wines!”
“Forsaken Fates, Vasalie, you have his interest now! Wield it while you have it. As he sees it, you are his greatest temptation, and that gives you power. So stoke his attraction. String him along like a cat. Unspool just enough yarn that he chases after the ball.”
Stoke his attraction.
Deep down, I know he’s right. I know I can do it, too.
But I don’t want to. I don’t feel brave when it comes to Anton. I feel intimidated, hurt, and afraid of the permanence of it. I look at him, and my breath wants to stick in my lungs.
But I can’t let fear stop me from what I need to do.
It’s not just my heart at stake, but the world as I know it.
Without Anton, we have no way to stop the civil war.
Miridran has no hope of standing against my father, because if Anton doesn’t regain his memories and testify before the Syndicate, my father will invade Razam.
And he will find an excuse to push into Miridran thereafter.
I must succeed here before all hope is lost. Only twelve days remain.
“I will try, Sundar.”
He nods. “Drive him a little wild, woman. Use every weapon in your arsenal to do it.”
Every weapon in my arsenal.
I gnaw on my lip as I string together my outfit for the dance the next day, thinking through what, exactly, my weapons are. And then it hits me.
Creativity.
I am not as beautiful as the other souls, even after prepping my skin with that false, shimmering glow.
I’m not able to dance the way even mortals do—let alone with the effortless grace of the dead.
But I have always been creative. That’s what kept me in the Gathering.
That’s what drew Illian’s eye, what earned me my place as the King’s Jewel.
He might have figured out who I was quickly, but he could never have given me that title and let me perform in front of his best men if I hadn’t proven myself.
He never would have believed I could earn my place at the Gathering if I wasn’t good at what I do.
Creativity—my first weapon. My other?
Resilience.
I drag silk over each of my legs, then wrap it around my waist and across my bust. It’s a single stretch of dark fabric, though it’s sewn to appear more like a pair of leggings and a cinched bustier.
I had originally made it from a piece meant to fit under another ensemble, and a few quick alterations suited it to my purpose.
I don’t want the swish of extra fabric, the glitz of any other embellishments. Not tonight, when the twin cords of gossamer I quickly braided together, tied to a stick, and dipped in oil will be my prop.
Sundar and I spent yet another fruitless morning in the Abyssal when it should have been anything but. Despite walking my father’s despicable book down shelf after shelf, no more codices glowed blue.
More and more, I notice other codices missing. Arjuna’s book had led Sundar to find Nakula’s codex. But Nakula’s blood sister who had died at a younger age should have been there with his. So why wasn’t it? Then Sundar asked something that, even now, I can’t stop thinking about.
“Vasalie,” he said, “have you noticed that there are no children here?”
Beyond that, my father’s codex lit cerulean when I passed another shelf hours later, only for me to find a glowing, empty slot. When I glanced at the codices around it, I recognized Emilia’s family name.
But Emilia’s codex was missing.
Like mine. Like Nakula’s sister.
Sundar was right. This isn’t making sense. Something is off—not just about the Abyssal and missing tomes, but about this whole forsaken lair.
He was right, too, that Anton is our best chance at figuring it out.
The pressure feels insurmountable as I prepare for the evening. I even left the Abyssal early in the afternoon to choreograph my dance. To practice it.
Now I’m wondering if it was a mistake. As I drag myself through the palace, the extra exertion has left my bones quaking with exhaustion.
By not rehearsing beforehand last night, I had more energy in the evening, if only a little.
Worse still is the burgeoning headache slowly burning its way through my skull.
It concerns me more than I’d like to admit—these new, strange headaches. How frequent they are becoming.
But I fight to ignore the pain. I clench my teeth and straighten my spine, dredging up as much determination as I can muster. I need Anton to want to spend time with me. Another dinner. A moment alone. Something.
I have to find answers—about Moranya, about the missing codices—or at least plant a seed of doubt in him about it all. But I must do so without tipping him off.
Eleven days left, each one seeming to disappear faster than the last.
Tonight’s soirée takes place in the highest tier of the palace where several rotundas connect through a network of bridges, each domed and columned in arcades but open to the crisp, starless night breeze.
Souls congregate under each one, and large, potted plants sway in the wind.
The party is in full swing, a congruence of music harmonizing from multiple directions.
We are so high up that the aurora’s fringe along the skyline looks near enough to touch, faint tendrils of azure flickering just off the walkway’s bone-white stonework rail.
Almost like clouds sinking down upon a mountain, while stretches of it rise at a higher elevation.
In the distance, spires seem to pierce the nonexistent heavens.
I’m panting by the time I climb the last step, the stairs relentless on my already aching knees. I take a moment to myself, skirting the outside of a rotunda. Even so, stars—so unnervingly absent here—prick my vision with every blink.
My lungs ache with each inhale, but I draw in air, let it settle deep within my chest. It smells sweet and soft, like lilies with an undercurrent of spice, which I gather is from the decanters of wine stationed at several nearby serving tables, artfully arranged between stacks of gem-encrusted glasses.
A voice slips into my ear from over my shoulder. “Once upon a time, you’d dress up like that for me.”
Illian sets down a tray of empty flutes near the bar station, his gaze walking a slow perusal over my outfit.
Anger flares. “I did, and happily so, until you threw me away.”
I expect him to defend himself like he did at my father’s wedding. Instead he simply…nods. “I do wonder what might have happened had things been different. Had I handled things differently with your father, for one.”
“You don’t get to regret your actions now,” I say, sweeping my gaze across the landscape if only to remember to breathe. “You don’t get to tell me you’re sorry for conspiring with my father—”
“That,” he says, “is not one of my regrets. Without him, I would not have met you.”
“In case you forgot, I am the reason you are dead. And I’m glad of it.”
I’m about to storm away when he says, “Perhaps I don’t entirely blame you. I was jealous, and desperate not to lose you.”
“If you are searching for forgiveness, you will not find it.”
“I don’t believe I asked for that. I merely wished you to know,” he says, his hand reaching out, his finger brushing over my top lip.
I slap his hand away. “You will not touch me. Ever again.”
“Your anger will fade in time. It does for all of us.”
“Mine won’t.”
The corner of his lip lifts in a half smile. “There will come a time, Vastianna, when you will have to accept where your future is leading you. What it looks like. On that day,” he says, “I will be here.”
I shove Illian’s words from my mind. I refuse to let him distract me; he’s only trying to keep me from his brother. As he always has.
Focus.
Entice Anton into spending time with me. I’ve been given that task before. But I need to find him first.
I wander across the walkways, searching.
My stomach swims with nerves. An Aegis finds me, however, and directs me toward the largest rotunda.
It’s lit by hundreds of bobbing lights congregated underneath the dome, spotlighting the raised platform at its center that’s currently occupied by a trio of souls writhing together in some semblance of a dance.
They giggle and shove playfully at one another while a fourth climbs up to join.
A second later, they straighten and descend the platform.
Then I see why.
Anton, on the other side, folds his arms and gives me a knowing smirk that seems to say, The stage is all yours.
He saw me arrive. His gaze dips to my attire as I step up onto the platform, his brow rising a fraction.
Our dance begins there. Our game, like before—where we hold each other’s gaze and do not look away, because to do so means forfeit. It means the other has lost, even if we do not know what that loss entails.
I unspool the two coils of gossamer tied to my hips, letting them unravel along the floor in thin, wispy strips. “Care to strike a match, Majesty?”