Daphne, Castles in Their Bones

Daphne finds Cliona in the woods outside the palace, sitting with her back against a tree trunk with a book open on her knee and a half-eaten apple in her hand. When she hears Daphne approach on horseback, she looks up, unsurprised.

Daphne rolls her eyes and dismounts, keeping hold of the horse’s reins. Her usual mare, Mánot, hurt her ankle, and the horse the stable hand saddled for her instead isn’t as well trained. It was all she could do to keep her saddle on the ride here.

“Of course not,” she says. “The king believes the castle grounds are safe and says I don’t need a guard as long as I stay within the bounds.”

“Good,” Cliona says, closing her book and getting to her feet. “My father was impressed with you.”

Daphne has to bite her tongue to keep from giving a sarcastic response about how much she values Cliona’s father’s opinion. Remember to keep your enemies close, my dove—and the enemies of our enemies all the closer, the empress wrote, in response to Daphne’s weekly update, telling her about the rebels and their frustrations with King Bartholomew.

They won’t succeed, but if Daphne can keep their anger stoked, they’ll be able to weaken Bartholomew’s hold on Friv and make it easier for Margaraux to eventually seize it.

“You weren’t lying about the marriage contract,” Cliona says, her voice soft.

Daphne shakes her head. “In fact…” She breaks off, reaching into her pocket to draw out the forged letter from the king to her mother, complete with his seal. She passes it to Cliona. “I was arranging to have something sent to my sister when I spotted this on the postmaster’s desk, along with some other correspondence. I grabbed it when his back was turned.”

“Well done,” Cliona says, sounding impressed. She opens the letter and scans it, the furrow in her brow deepening. “You read it?” she asks, glancing at Daphne, who makes a show of hesitating before she nods.

“Bartholomew knows about your little rebellion. He’s readying for a war,” Daphne says.

Daphne raises her eyebrows. As much as Cliona’s reaction will suit her mother’s goal of destabilizing Bartholomew’s rule, she’s surprised at how quickly the other girl jumped at it. “You think it will be so easy?” she asks, wondering if perhaps she has been underestimating the power the rebels have, if it is something her mother should be concerned about. “That letter says he’s soliciting help not just from Bessemia, but from Temarin as well.”

Or perhaps the rebels have exactly as much power as Daphne thought, and Cliona is simply a fool. She is comparing a puddle to the sea. It’s hardly surprising—Friv prides itself on staying separate and secluded, on acting as if the rest of the world doesn’t exist. No one at court talks about what’s going on in Temarin or Bessemia or Cellaria—she knows, she’s asked around, trying to learn what her sisters and mother are up to, but with no luck. While Daphne studied the entire continent growing up, she would be surprised if Cliona even knows what the capital cities are called, let alone Temarin’s reputation as a brutal war power.

“Bartholomew might know about the rebellion, but he doesn’t know about you,” Cliona says. “You’re in a position to help us—you stole this letter, but when he doesn’t receive a response, Bartholomew will write her again. You could get to her first, convince her not to send troops.”

Daphne laughs. “Why exactly should I do anything more to help you?” she asks. She will, of course, since it furthers her mother’s goals as well, but she’s interested to see what Cliona will offer her.

“Well, I’m not going to trust your word on that alone,” Cliona says, rolling her eyes. “I’ll write the letter, you can copy it and sign it, and then I’ll give it to the postmaster for you. And one more thing—I’d like you to dance,” she says, a slow grin spreading across her face.

“At your betrothal banquet tomorrow night,” Cliona says. “The king invited the heads of the highland clans to attend. Some are on our side, others are loyal to the king, but there are a handful we believe may be amenable to joining the rebellion. Three in particular.”

“You think I can turn them in a single night?” Daphne asks, raising her eyebrows. “I’m flattered, truly, but I think you overestimate my skills.”

“I don’t think I do,” Cliona says. “And you won’t try to turn them, just tell me, in your opinion, if you believe it’s possible to turn them.”

Daphne pretends to consider it for a full minute. She knows that her loyalty is being tested more than anyone else’s. “What are the names?” she asks.

“I’ll leave you a list with the letter you’ll copy—word for word,” Cliona says.

“Anything else?” Daphne asks, even though she’s already gathering her horse’s reins.

“Just a general reminder that we’re watching, we’re everywhere, don’t do anything stupid,” Cliona says.

“Yes, yes, trust me, I’m terrified,” Daphne says. She moves to step into the stirrup and mount her horse, but as soon as she shifts her weight, the girth snaps and the saddle slides off, knocking Daphne flat on her back, the air fleeing from her lungs. She looks up just in time to see black hooves reared up over her and hears the horse let out a hair-raising shriek. Instinct takes over and she turns her face away, closing her eyes tight and waiting for the inevitable impact. Instead, Cliona’s hands grab her arm and yank her out of the way with surprising strength.

The horse’s front hooves hit the ground where she was lying a mere instant before, and then he’s off, running into the woods.

Daphne sits up, wincing as she does. “No need for the literal demonstration,” she snaps at Cliona. “I believed your threats already.”

“You think I was behind that?” Cliona asks, looking so angry that Daphne believes she’s innocent. “It was an accident.”

Daphne shakes her head, looking at the discarded saddle lying beside her. She takes hold of the girth and holds it up for Cliona to see—the leather is cut clean through three-quarters of the way, the rest roughly ripped.

“Not an accident,” Daphne says, standing up on shaky legs. “The stable hand said my usual mare turned her ankle, but, come to think of it, I didn’t recognize the man.”

“Not until now,” Daphne admits, frowning. “It isn’t as if I’ve been here long enough to know all the stable hands. I wasn’t exactly expecting an assassination attempt.”

“I’m sorry, I was just nearly trampled to death by a horse,” Daphne says. “What, exactly, would you call that?”

Cliona rolls her eyes. “You aren’t asking the right question,” she says. “Who wants you dead, Princess?”

“If I wanted you dead, I wouldn’t have saved you—you’re welcome for that, by the way,” Cliona retorts.

It’s a solid point. “Then I don’t know,” Daphne says. “But I’m certainly going to find out.”

She reaches down and collects the broken saddle, hefting it over her shoulder and starting into the woods, back in the direction of the castle.

“Maybe not, but one near-death experience was enough for me and I’d rather not risk it,” Daphne shouts over her shoulder.

For a brief moment, Daphne considers alerting the king to the attempt on her life, but she dismisses the idea immediately. He would never give her a moment without guards again, and that would make it impossible to carry out any new orders her mother sends her. And besides, tampering with her saddle? If someone truly wants her dead, they’ll have to try harder than that.

When she gets back to the stable, she looks around for the stable hand who saddled up the horse this morning, but he’s nowhere to be found. Instead, there is Mánot in her stall, with no sign of a turned ankle, and one of the stable hands she does recognize.

“Gavriel,” she says, smiling when she sees him brushing down another horse. “It looks like Mánot is feeling better.”

“Yes, the stable hand this morning said she turned her ankle. I’m afraid I didn’t catch his name.”

“It’s only been me this morning,” he says, his frown deepening. “Ian is home sick today, so I’ve been busier than usual—you say someone else helped you?”

Daphne holds on to her smile, trying to read Gavriel’s expression, but if he had anything to do with her damaged girth, he’s a better liar than she is, which she doubts.

“Yes, it must have been another servant trying to help,” she says, waving a hand dismissively. “But he did saddle up a different horse for me—taller than Mánot, chestnut, black mane?”

At that, Gavriel’s face goes ashen. “Vrain?” he asks. “But he isn’t fit to ride. He only just arrived as a betrothal gift. Excellent bloodlines, but wild.”

“King Bartholomew,” he says before looking away, his cheeks reddening. “Apologies, Your Highness, I believe it was meant as a surprise.”

Daphne smiles, even though her mind is turning this over, trying to fit the pieces together. “Oh, I won’t tell him,” she promises. “However, on our ride he did get away from me. I stopped to adjust the saddle and…well, I hope he didn’t get far.”

“I’ll send scouts out right away,” Gavriel tells her. “We’re lucky that’s all it was—Vrain has thrown the last few trainers who have tried to ride him.”

That night, Daphne finds the list and letter Cliona promised her. She decides to tackle the letter to her mother first, reading over what Cliona drafted for her.

My dear Mother,

I hope you are well. I write to you because I fear King Bartholomew has not left the war behind him—he sees enemies everywhere, always talking about rebel factions plotting against him. He even mentioned writing to you to request troops! I know that he was a great hero in his time, but I beg you to ignore his pleas. There is no one plotting against him—everyone I have met has been wonderful to me, and they all seem to look forward to Prince Bairre’s and my rule.

Daphne

It sounds nothing like a letter Daphne would send her mother, but that’s just as well—the empress will know it’s a fake as soon as she sees it. Daphne writes it out verbatim in her own hand, adding only a closing, May the stars shine upon you and Bessemia, before turning the piece of parchment over and finding the jar of ink hidden in the back of her desk drawer. She begins to write the real message.

When she’s done, the ink dries to invisibility. It will stay that way until her mother dusts it with the ink’s accompanying powder—an invention of Nigellus’s that uses stardust, indicated by Daphne’s closing on the false letter.

She sets that aside and unfolds the list of names. All three are familiar to her by name only.

Lord Ian Maives, Cliona has written. Daphne mentally adds queen’s brother-in-law, close friend of king.

There is no possibility of Lord Maives’s siding with the rebels, and Daphne suspects Cliona included him as part of her test, to see if Daphne’s information is good. She moves on to the next name.

There’s one that could go either way. The new Lord Cadringal is barely older than Daphne, with five younger siblings. His father died suddenly, and Daphne would wager the boy is lost and impressionable.

Not a lord—not yet, at least, but Daphne knows that his father was one of King Bartholomew’s most loyal generals during the war. It’s how he went from being the third son of a blacksmith to the lord of one of the most prosperous parts of Friv. If it were Lord Talmadge’s name on Cliona’s list, Daphne would dismiss it without another thought, but it isn’t, and she realizes she doesn’t know much about Haimish Talmadge at all.