“Here, Elyssa,” her mother said, holding out the dagger, a hint of pity in her voice. That, too, was part of the dance; her mother was always sorry, but only after the damage was done. “Take it.”
Elyssa lurched forward and took the dagger. The hilt was smooth and cold, inset with rubies. The dagger had been a gift to her mother from the Cadarese king, and like all Cadarese weapons, it had a slightly curving blade. Staring at the gleaming surface, Elyssa could see her own eyes reflected: bright green eyes, wide and hunted, full of tears.
In that moment, she came within an ace of killing her mother.
She could see herself doing it, burying the dagger in her mother’s stomach and jerking sharply upward, gutting the Queen as a kitchen boy would do a trout. Elyssa could even see the way the blood would flow: gouting from the wound, soaking her mother’s dressing gown, spilling onto her feet. The Guard would come, the medics . . . but it would be too late. Arla the Just would bleed to death.
Do it, and you’ll never take the throne.
Elyssa started, brought back suddenly by the steel in that voice—Lady Glynn’s—and even more by the memory of the crowd in the Circus, their wild jubilation. The True Queen, they called her, but no regicide would ever mount the throne, and when Elyssa went to the axe, the kingdom would go to Thomas. Besides, Gareth was behind her, still chained, and if Elyssa killed her mother now, one way or another, Culp would have him. She blocked out that murderous vision—though it did not go willingly—and turned to confront Gareth.
He was not looking at her. His eyes rolled without direction, gazing toward the ceiling and then the far wall. The Queen had said he was drugged, and Elyssa believed it. Spittle bubbled between his lips and ran in a thin line from the side of his mouth. The drugs had dulled his wits, certainly, but would they dull his pain?
“Morphia,” her mother said, sensing Elyssa’s hesitation. “High-grade, the best in the city, from our own infirmary. He will feel nothing.”
Elyssa stared at Gareth’s slack face. Her knife hand was shaking slightly; she waited for a moment, willing it to be still, and then stepped forward. Culp backed away—was it mild disappointment she sensed in his dead eyes, or only a trick of the light?—giving her clearance.
Elyssa did not know how to kill a man. Thomas had been given lessons in arms when he was younger—though the gossip of the Queen’s Wing said that Thomas was so terrible a fighter that the lessons might have served Elyssa better—but as a princess, she was not supposed to carry steel, or even know how to use it. She could try to cut Gareth’s throat, but what if she botched it?
You caused all of this, her mind whispered. You couldn’t leave well enough alone.
Elyssa drew a long, shaking breath. She closed her eyes and found Gareth there, standing before her mother’s throne, bruised and bleeding, staring up at the Queen with blazing eyes . . . but even Gareth was overborne by the other images. The Circus. The starving children she had seen in the Gut, all swollen bellies and wide eyes. The broad sweep of the Almont beyond the city walls. She loved Gareth, yes, but that did not outweigh the fate of the kingdom, the millions of people outside this room. It did not even come close.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, and in a single sharp movement she jerked her hand sinister, burying the point of the blade in Gareth’s neck. The drugs were strong, but not strong enough; Gareth’s eyes opened wide, and for a long, nearly endless moment, Elyssa saw a terrible awareness there. She cried out, reaching for the knife as though to take it back . . . but it was too late. A hideous rattling sound emitted from Gareth’s throat, and a moment later he fell to the floor. Elyssa wanted to turn away, to flee, but she knew that if she did, she would never forgive herself that cowardice. Too many unforgivable things had already happened in this room, and so she remained where she was, watching Gareth die. Only when the light had faded from his eyes did she kneel down beside him, placing her hand on his.
“What of the body?” she asked her mother. “Can I bury him?”
“No. The corpse will go to the Holy Father. We have made