Chapter Twenty-One #2
I slide down the wall, my breathing shallow.
Illian paces to me. He bends, grabbing my elbows to help haul me up.
I shake him off the moment I’m on my feet. “You don’t get to play rescuer.” My voice comes out hoarse, barely audible, but I force it through all the same.
“Always so grateful,” he drawls.
But I heard what Rurik said. At first I thought perhaps Aesir figured it out and told him, yet Illian is the one who knew I was alive.
“Does Rurik know you were the one who made me kill him?” I ask. Yes, I’d wielded the blade, but I’d never have done it if I had a choice. If Anton’s life hadn’t been on the line. I’d made a panicked decision, and Sadira was right: I paid for it with my life. Paid for it ending him.
I don’t think I’ll ever truly release the weight of my guilt. I don’t think I should. But Illian doesn’t get to act like I’m the only one at fault.
And I realize, then, why he alerted Rurik.
Why he intervened when the Exalted found me, when I might have been dragged to the Sands.
It wasn’t my death he was concerned with.
Sure, he wants me to pay for ending his life, but he doesn’t want me to disappear.
Doesn’t want my soul to vanish, be burned away by the Sands.
And that’s what Dahlia and Sorrell would have done.
I’d never end up with Illian—to suffer alongside him—if that happened. No, Illian wants to see me tormented.
As expected, he doesn’t bother with a response, saying instead, “You don’t look so well.”
I swipe the sweat from my forehead and stride past him.
“It’s happening faster, I see.”
I slow, turning back. “What are you talking about?”
His lips tip into a half grin. “You were not made for this place. Your flesh and spirit are warring against each other. Can’t you feel it?
” He folds his arms. “I suspected that might be the case. Headaches, is it? Far more than your usual? I’ve noticed the flush in your cheeks, the way you rub your brows.
The pain in your eyes. And the sweating. ”
His words plunge fear into my lungs—a fear that was already growing, rising like a tide. I knew something more was going on, but I assumed it was the mere pressure of this place. If my very spirit and body are at war, though…
It doesn’t matter. I have a purpose here. I can’t think about this. I sweep past Illian, ignoring the staccato of my heart.
“It seems we will be reunited sooner than I had thought,” Illian says. “A matter of days at best.”
I halt, a cool breeze lifting my locks and tossing them about. It sends chills down my arms, despite the heat along my brows. I set my hand on a nearby post to keep my balance.
Days?
Maybe…Maybe I should let this happen. Anton asked me to stay, didn’t he? He promised to overrule Moranya’s judgment. It would be easier just to…succumb to it all.
But to do that would mean handing my father victory. Letting loved ones suffer. Beyond that, even if I sought to save Anton after I died, Moranya would never let my soul near his. And I would have nothing to bargain with.
Survive, my darling girl, Emilia said.
Illian is right. The longer I stay, the longer I’m at risk. Time is of the essence, and not just because of the Syndicate deadline.
You have a few days at best.
Despite the tightness in my chest—despite that it takes all my effort to place one foot in front of the other—I force myself under the arch that leads back into the party, leaving Illian behind. He does not follow.
“Vasalie?” Sundar says, noticing my entrance.
I resist rubbing my arms against the sudden chill. “Fine…I’m fine.”
Except my vision is more fogged now. But I swipe the sweat from my brow and plunge ahead, leaving Sundar near the balustrade when we find our king.
He’s draped on a chaise nudged against the wall, a blue-gold robe tossed open to reveal the contours of his chest. His ears drip with glittering gems, his hair is windswept, and he looks so beautiful, so like himself, that a small sob escapes my lips.
Even his eyes sparkle under the light of a fading aurora.
By the time I reach him, I’ve somewhat composed myself, and I dip into a neat bow.
My vision blinks black then white, and I wait until the multiple stars wash away.
When my line of sight finally clears, a slight frown tugs at Anton’s lips, but I waste no time.
It’s become apparent now that I need to finish this dance as quickly as possible.
I hold fast to my determination. Mustering up an ounce of strength—more than I really possess—I position myself between two columns framing the distant mountain as it sinks into the sea, soft threads of aurora reflected onto the water beyond.
The melody chimes like the singing of bells, the pluck of a harp.
I lean, my foot poised before me, a quick glance behind alerting me to how close I am to the edge of the walkway.
The balustrade, two feet away, barely reaches my knees.
Focus.
Dragging in a breath, I lift my arms. Settle into my opening pose.
This time, I brought no props save for the dress itself—the skirt made of long stretches of pale fabric I pluck upward and spin about. The corset was cut too low for me to keep Anton’s pendant on me, so that I tucked away, hiding it back in my room.
I would have liked to be more creative, but I’m trusting my instinct, holding tight to my resolve.
I lean on Sundar’s assertions, too. Tonight I will release my fear and dance for him, and then I’ll invite him to a game of tabletop joust, perhaps, or we could promenade through the rooftop gardens I saw this morning.
Anywhere I might spend time alone with him and loosen his lips.
I just need to make it through this dance.
I sweep into a whirl, bend and dip, sweat beading along the line of my brow—except here, outside, it’s downright frigid, and growing colder by the second.
Yet a sheen of perspiration coats my skin.
Even dancing, I shouldn’t be sweating like this.
Still, I force myself onward, concentrating on the rhythm, on planning my steps, even as chills sweep across my skin.
And with every motion, my resilience drains like sand clutched within a too-tight fist. The tighter I hold to it, the more it slips.
Before I make it even halfway through the song, my vision flickers like a candle’s dying flame—
Strength drains from my limbs completely, and the world slants as if on a hinge.
Turns black.
Someone shouts my name. Vasalie!
Then I feel myself fall.