Swallowing the lump in his throat, Druic lifted his eyes to see the impossible. All five knives stuck in the ceiling high overhead. Eugenides put his hands on either side of Druic’s face and pulled him close to whisper in his ear, “Never dance for me again with wooden knives.”

The movement of Druic’s head wasn’t so much a shake as a quiver. “I won’t. I swear I won’t,” he said.

The king stepped back. The knives dropped down. In one motion, he swept them from the air and smiled at Druic as he replaced them in their box, then watched approvingly as Druic put the lid back on.

“Come sit with me,” said the king, and without waiting to see if Druic followed, he walked back to his throne.

Two of the attendants made room and Druic sat on the step of the dais, near the king’s feet, for the rest of the performances. He watched the archway through which the artists came and went for some sign of his brother, but he didn’t doubt that Ruk had fled the palace the moment the knives had hit the ground, if not the moment the king had left his throne. Ruk would have seen him moving, though Druic had not.

In between the performances, the king chatted, asked about Kathodicia, where Druic was from. Asked about Druic’s father, who had died the winter before of a fever. Asked about Ruk and his plan to join one of the troupes at the Cerulis festival.

“He doesn’t perform himself?”

“No, Your Majesty. He’s a laborer.”

“But he makes the plans?”

“He always has. My father favored him.”

“I see,” said the king. “Maybe of the two of you, Ruk needed it more. Did your father tell you, when he was dying, that you should stay with your brother?”

“No,” said Druic, staring glumly at the pattern in the marble under his feet. “He told me not to do the knife dance.”

The king laughed. “You should have listened more carefully. My god does not tolerate missteps.”

Druic didn’t remember a single performance that followed. The evening was a blur of light and sound and what he mostly remembered later were the patterns in the marble tiles on the floor. Blocks of geometric patterns to represent waves, others with fish or dolphins, one with an octopus, its eight tentacles curling in all directions. He did listen to the king and queen talking, though, when the performers were done and the judges were choosing a winner.

“You seem to know Kathodicia well,” said the queen to the king.

“I visited with my grandfather when I was very small. We stayed longer than expected,” he told her.

She raised an eyebrow.

“I fell off a horse—broke both my arms.” The king sounded embarrassed.

“You fell?” The queen sounded gently amazed. If she was amazed, Druic was stunned. He lifted his head and looked at the king, who nodded down at him.

“My grandfather was livid. I ruined all of his plans and we had to find someone to take us in, as he had no way to pay for our keep while I healed.”

Just then, the judges returned to announce the winner of the medal, and the king finally excused Druic, sending him to get a dinner he hadn’t earned and couldn’t eat, along with the other performers, while the winner of the Cerulis medal, a piper, approached the throne to receive his prize.

“No,” said Druic, the next afternoon. His brother wanted him to add the knife dance as a regular part of his routine, and he refused. He’d never refused Ruk anything, not really. He’d always given in, but he knew this time he wouldn’t. “The king didn’t even let me finish.”

“He was going to let you use his knives! If you weren’t such a cursed coward you’d have the Cerulis medal right now. Do the knife dance and you can pick any troupe you want.”

“I can’t do it with real knives. I don’t know all the throws.”

“We’ll make another set of wooden ones.”

“No. I told you. Eugenides told me not to dance for him with wooden knives.”

“The king’s never going to know!”

“You don’t understand,” shouted Druic, tongue-tied. Unable to put what he’d felt into words.

“No, I don’t understand!” Ruk poked Druic hard in the chest. “The only thing you do that’s worth doing is that knife dance and if you won’t do it, I am done with you. Done. You’ll be on your own. You just think about that while I go get a drink.” He stormed away, slamming the door behind him.

Druic knew that one drink would turn into many, would turn into a bar fight, would turn into a night in the city’s gaol. He sat down on the narrow cot in the tiny room they shared at the Cerulis Inn, picked for its lucky name. They’d sold their wagon and the horse to come to the capital. He’d loved the horse and now they had nothing but the clothes that lay scattered on the floor, and the bag of juggling props. Ruk had all their money, and it would soon be gone. Druic had always given way to Ruk, always let Ruk do the talking, always let Ruk make the plans. The truth was that Druic relied on Ruk to handle all the things that frightened him. But he remembered how Eugenides’s hands had felt on either side of his face. Two hands, when the king had only one. Druic knew he’d never risk the knife dance again.

Ruk returned to the inn late the next day, nursing bruises and a headache. He found the room empty, only his own clothes on the floor. When he stumped back down the stairs to ask the innkeeper where his idiot brother might be, the man handed him a small bag of coins.

“An advance on your brother’s pay,” said the innkeeper. “He left it here for you.”

“What pay?”

“He joined a troupe of players. They left the city this morning.”

“Which one?” asked Ruk, thinking he would have to move fast to catch up.

“He didn’t say.”

Credits

Cover art © 2017 by Joel Tippie

Cover design by Joel Tippie

Copyright

This book is a work of fiction. References to real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity, and are used to advance the fictional narrative. All other characters, and all incidents and dialogue, are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.

THE QUEEN OF ATTOLIA. Copyright © 2000, 2017 by Megan Whalen Turner. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.