SIX
The Emperor’s crown was too tight. It squeezed the flesh of Henrick’s temples, practically blending into his skin and brown curls. As if his own body had grown around it. Safi had noticed it the first time she’d seen him in Cartorra with Iseult at her side. Then she’d noticed it again during their brief wedding ceremony …
And again on every night of these celebrations since.
Safi’s golden velvet gown, trimmed in Hasstrel blue and bobbin lace, swept around her in time to her forward steps. Domnas and doms bowed like wheat beneath the winds of power. She waved. She offered wisps of a subtle smile. The burn mark around her thumb glistened in the night’s candlelight.
“I am not so awful as you think me,” Henrick murmured beside her. He patted her arm where it was hooked into his. A tender move that was pure performance. “You will come to see that in time.”
“Of course, my Emperor.” Safi continued waving.
Every night since her marriage to Henrick two weeks before, Safi had endured this parade. And every night for two more months, she would continue enduring it. Tonight, however, was different from previous nights, for tonight, Safi burned. Beneath every nod and yes, my Emperor, she clung to her rage. No more layers of gray. No more lightless, purposeless life.
She had no real plan yet—just a vague notion that she needed the chain upon Henrick’s belt, the one he’d used to stop her attack only a few hours before. And perhaps more importantly, she needed the Threadstones beneath the chain. Her Threadstone. Iseult’s Threadstone. Taken from them before the noosing. With those, she could find her Threadsister again.
Even now, dressed for the evening’s festivities, Henrick wore the same belt. Unobtrusive, easy to miss. “Smile,” he ordered as he guided Safi onto the raised dais at the end of the room. “The world is watching.”
Safi did not want to smile—not for Henrick, not for any man ever again. But she did as she was ordered and bared her teeth for all the room to see. I hate you all, she thought before turning her most dashing grin upon the Emperor. And I will destroy you.
Henrick nodded, approval in the twitch upon his lips.
After a flippant wave at musicians across the room, a brisk tune began. The nobility, whether they wanted to or not, began to dance while Henrick sat upon his throne and Safi sat upon her own. The thrones were modern additions of scarlet satin that clashed with this ancient stone corner of the palace.
When Safi was a child, she’d found this room immense, terrifying. Now as a prisoner, she found it too small, too crowded, and dreadfully hot. Every member of the Cartorran nobility was crammed in here to celebrate. Again.
That was another thing that had, when she was a child, been so different. Then, Safi had come here to cower behind her uncle Eron, praying throughout that neither Henrick nor his Hell-Bards would realize what magic she kept hidden away.
She’d hated Eron for dragging her to Praga every year so he could pay the Hasstrel tithes. She’d hated him—with shit-roasting fury—for disappearing every night to drink himself into oblivion.
But everything had changed in Veñaza City two months ago when Safi had learned he was not, in fact, a drunk. Rather, he had a complex, sweeping plan to bring peace to the Witchlands—until he’d gotten caught before the plan could finish. Now he was somewhere in Cartorra, imprisoned for treason. And incomprehensible as it was, only Safi seemed to care about that fact. To Mathew and Habim, execution of the plan had mattered more than Eron’s life.
Well, Safi thought the entire plan was horse piss, and Eron didn’t get to die before he’d given her solid answers to the hundreds of questions she’d assembled since Dalmotti. So far, she’d discovered nothing. So far, she’d only gotten her magic stolen and her Threadsister lost far away.
I hate you all, Safi thought again as dancers swished past. Tonight was a quieter affair than the first weeks of dancing and music had been. No public feasting, and rather than a full orchestra rattling the room with heavy traditional marches, an octet of winds and strings was scarcely audible over a hundred voices and stamping feet.
Two of those feet belonged to Dom fon Grieg, who never missed a chance to bow dramatically at Safi when he saw her and inform her that her lands were still thriving beneath his hand. Safi smiled at him as he swept past, surprisingly graceful in this modern take on a country dance. I will destroy you, she thought, tossing him a wink for good measure.
To her delight, he missed a beat. His partner ran into a neighbor, and several people cried their annoyance—which only made Safi smile all the wider. Oh yes, this anger was delicious.
“You will dance tonight,” the Emperor said, scattering her thoughts and her smile.
“Your Imperial Majesty?”
“My nephew will ask later, and you will agree.”
Safi blinked. As far as she could tell, this was no joke. Henrick’s expression had not changed; he looked as foul-tempered and bored as he always did.
Every night since Iseult’s departure, Leopold had requested a dance with Safi. Every night, she had refused because she would, with no exaggeration, rather pull out her own toenails than dance with him. Or speak to him ever again.
He had realized what Henrick could do to her, yet he he had done nothing to stop it. Even now, with the Emperor’s Hell-Bard forces tracking Iseult by the day, Leopold did nothing to interfere.
All she said, however, was: “I would prefer to remain here, my Emperor.”
Henrick sighed and shifted his weight. Like the crown, his throne was too tight. “Leopold asks you every night.” He flicked a hand to the floor of dancers below them, where Leopold’s strawberry curls glistened and swirled. “The court notices. The court talks. They wonder why you refuse.”
Safi’s heel tapped beneath her gown. “Please do not make me.”
“Oh, but I will.” A smug smile stretched Henrick’s lips. He toyed with his belt, a blatant warning. “Tonight when he offers, you will accept. No more discussion.”
Safi’s heel stilled. Her ire flamed higher. “Of course, my Emperor.” She flashed a dazzling smile. “I look forward to it.”
Leopold must have sensed that his moment had come because he glanced Safi’s way midspin. And for once, she did not look away. Instead she arched her eyebrows.
He smiled—a beautiful smile because everything Leopold did was beautiful. Then his spin carried him away.
Moments later, the current dance ended and Leopold materialized before the dais. Dressed in silver velvet, he looked lithe and graceful while also looking more virile and masculine than any other man upon the floor. Safi hoped his Aetherwitched tailor was well paid.
“My Empress.” He bowed low, as he had every night. “Would you honor me with a dance?”
He knew she would say yes tonight. Safi could see it in the way his sea-green eyes gleamed. The way his tongue ran over his top teeth in anticipation.
She wished she could knock those teeth out.
“Yes,” she said simply. “Let us dance.” And with those words, she stood. At once, the court took notice. The voices softened, and all eyes slanted her way.
Curse Henrick for making her do this. Curse Leopold for persistently asking—and curse Leopold for every lie, every trick that had landed her here, imprisoned and separated from her Threadsister.