When Aeduan hit the edge of the ceiling, a hole opened up—more spying space behind the ballroom wall. A rope ladder of absolutely no quality or defensive use spanned the fifty feet to the floor. It was just another example of how lax the Dalmottis (and everyone else) had become. Should there be any actual need for the guards in the ceiling, it would take them much too long to descend.
Just as the four-step shifted into its second movement, Aeduan’s boots hit the floor. The violins sang into the shadowy wall space, shaking the dust and the wood with their vibrato. Over them was the light tapping of heels that Aeduan recognized as a vine-like dance.
Aeduan actually knew the Nubrevnan four-step. Not well, and he would rather gut himself on a roasting spit than ever engage in it. But he did know the moves. His mentor had forced him to learn it during those first few years at the Monastery.
Aeduan was just aiming left when a familiar blood-scent hit his nose. Venom-laced secrets and endless lies. Aeduan didn’t know if the rumors were true—if a Marstoki Adder’s blood was truly made of acid—but he did know that the Poisonwitch bodyguards were best avoided, if for no other reason than how their scents hurt his nose.
So Aeduan abandoned his leftward trek and moved right instead. When at last he found a spy hole, even smaller than those in the ceiling, and pressed his eye to it, the third movement of the four-step had begun.
And Aeduan’s eyebrows shot high.
It was only two dancers, their heels and toes clattering against the marble at a speed Aeduan had never seen—and, even more impressive, a wind had begun to swirl around them. One of the dancers clearly had some form of air magic.
Observers pulled back like a tide as the dancers spun, their feet moving stormily onward though their faces remained still, their eyes thinned and focused. The wind continued to sweep up, twirling in time to the music. In time to the steps. It tossed the girl’s skirts, her hair, and it tugged at the gaping viewers as the couple spun past.
Yet the longer Aeduan watched, mildly entertained by the skill needed to dance with such speed and grace, the more an itch began to tickle Aeduan’s nose.
Instinctively, he scanned the nearest faces and sniffed. He smelled … a sharp blood. A wild one.
One that reminded him of mountain ranges and cliffsides; of meadows laced with dandelions and of a truth hidden beneath the snow.
A thrill rose in his gut. The Truthwitch was here—at this very party.
The final bouncing notes of the four-step rang out, drawing Aeduan’s eyes back to the dancers. The wind was dying down; they were marching apart for the final pose of the dance. The Nubrevnan man was clearly someone of importance, judging by the way people gazed upon him with fear or respect. But he held little interest for Aeduan, for his blood-scent was unfamiliar.
It was the girl that drew Aeduan’s eye—drew his witchery. Aeduan’s smile widened, and his fingers reached for a stiletto strapped over his heart. A heart she had impaled only yesterday.
Yet, as he wondered who such a woman might be—surely Aeduan would have heard of a Truthwitch domna—a loud clapping took over the ballroom. It was from a single source, and though all the other spectators joined in with the applause, this clap remained the loudest.
Aeduan’s limited gaze finally latched on to the pale-haired imperial heir, Leopold. He stood near Empress Vaness and waited for people to clear a pathway before he lifted his foot to approach the dancers.
“Well done,” Leopold finally called, still clapping. But there was an overdone layer to his applause. “Such magnificent dancers.”
The Nubrevnan rounded a shining, flushed face toward the imperial prince. He bowed low. “Prince Leopold.”
Leopold only gave him a nod. “Prince Merik—you have stolen Safiya from us.” There was no missing the blackness in his tone, nor the intentional way he dismissed the other prince to look pointedly at his uncle, the squat Cartorran emperor who stood nearby.
Safiya’s expression shifted from its dance-drunk intensity to simple, pink-faced embarrassment. “Polly,” she murmured, almost inaudible over the crowds. “I’m sorry—I lost you in all the people.”
“No need to apologize.” Leopold spoke in a far louder voice than her proximity required and spread his arms wide. “Another dance! Let’s make this a Pragan waltz.” Then he swept the Truthwitch a regal bow and clasped her arms.
Aeduan’s fingers tapped out an excited rhythm on his stiletto. This night had just become very interesting. The Truthwitch who had tried to rob Guildmaster Yotiluzzi was now dancing with not one, but two princes.
Oh, the Bloodwitch named Aeduan was no longer bored. No longer bored at all.
And now he had work to do.
* * *
Safi was sick of dancing. Literally, she felt ill from all the spinning, and her breath—she’d not had a single moment to catch it since … Merik.
Prince Merik.
The man who couldn’t dress himself properly had turned out to be royalty. The man who’d thrown himself against a Cleaved was a prince. It was almost impossible to conceive, yet it explained his high-chinned bearing, his lack of fear when Safi pushed him—and his willingness to push right back.
Something had happened between Safi and Merik during their dance. Something as powerful as the wind and the music that had gusted around them. A shift in the air that preceded a storm.
Hell-flames, Safi needed Iseult now. She needed her Threadsister to help her sort through this wildness in her chest.
As the room and the faces spun past her in another stomach-tilting waltz, as lies and truths crashed over Safi from all directions, she knew she needed to stop. To leave.