Castles in Their Bones (Castles in Their Bones #1)

Daphne

When the empress summoned the princesses to the archery field for a lesson a month before their sixteenth birthday, was thrilled. Ever since she’d first picked up a bow at the age of eight, after her mother’s spies learned that Prince Cillian loved archery, she’d felt like it was a part of her. She would spend most afternoons on the field, with the string pulled taut and the feathered tail of the arrow brushing her cheek before she let it soar through the air. Few things were as satisfying as the sound of the arrow’s point piercing the target.

But her mother wasn’t waiting for them alone. With her was a group of five young men recognized right away—archers. She’d seen them compete at the last tournament, though none of them had made it to the semifinals. All of them had been, in ’s opinion, entirely average.

“Your lucky day, looks like,” Beatriz said, looping her arm through ’s and giving her a quick grin before her eyes darted over the boys. “Though it might be mine, too,” she adds thoughtfully.

“If you make it through the day without flirting, I’ll give you my new shoes. Those lavender heeled slippers with the bows you were coveting,” told her, mostly because she knew Beatriz would fail horribly, though it would be fun to watch her try to control herself.

“Those shoes are gorgeous, but I don’t want them that badly,” Beatriz said with a laugh.

“Add my new hat to the pot,” Sophronia said from Beatriz’s other side, sharing a conspiratorial look with .

Beatriz scowled at Sophronia, but she was fighting a smile. “Throw that violet day dress in and you’ve got a deal,” she said.

Sophronia looked at with raised eyebrows and an amused smile. “Deal,” she said. “But the second you bat your eyelashes or drop any kind of innuendo, we get to borrow whatever we like from your wardrobe for a month.”

“Two months,” corrected.

Beatriz pursed her lips. “Fine,” she said. “But it’s a moot point anyway. I can behave myself.”

When they reached the empress, she greeted her daughters with her usual tight-lipped smile.

“I thought we would have a little fun today, my doves,” she said. “Let’s have an archery competition, shall we?”

Her eyes lingered on as she spoke, and stood a little straighter, trying to hide her own smile. Beatriz always flourished in their seduction lessons, while Sophronia did best with coding and bookwork. ’s skills were usually strongest in lockpicking and poisons, but those talents weren’t quite as showy. Winning an archery tournament, though—that would certainly impress her mother.

They were paired off then, and easily defeated her first opponent. Sophronia and Beatriz advanced as well, though neither came as close to the bull’s-eye as had managed. In the next round, she beat Beatriz without even trying, while Sophronia lost gracefully to the last of the men.

He had better aim than expected, though his arrow had a habit of veering left.

“All right,” the empress said with a gracious smile that managed to not show teeth. “Our last round. Sir Aldric, you first.”

Sir Aldric stepped forward and lifted his bow. His right shoulder was too high, thought. He needed to relax it before he—

As soon as she thought it, he released the arrow and it predictably veered off, just barely landing on the target.

smothered a smile as she stepped forward and aimed her arrow. This would be easier than she expected, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t going to show off.

She narrowed her eyes on the target, took a deep breath, and let her arrow fly.

It landed smack in the middle, a perfect bull’s-eye.

She spun toward her sisters, no longer bothering to hide the grin spreading over her face. Beatriz and Sophronia both cheered, rushing toward her and throwing their arms around her in a flurry of silk and ruffles and lace. When they pulled apart, though, ’s eyes searched for her mother, longing to see her approval.

Instead, her mother’s expression was stony as ever, the corners of her mouth pulled into a frown.

“Sir Aldric,” she said, turning toward the man. “Tell me, how did this outcome make you feel?”

For a moment, Sir Aldric looked surprised at the question. He glanced at , then back at the empress. “There are many tournaments, Your Majesty, one cannot expect to win them all. The princess has a good arm and a good eye.”

“That wasn’t what I asked,” the empress said, her frown deepening. “How did the outcome make you feel?”

Sir Aldric shrugged, considering the answer. “No man likes to lose, I’ll admit.”

“Of course not,” the empress said, looking at , even as she continued to address Sir Aldric. “My daughter bested you—quite soundly, I might add. What do you think of her?”

“As I said, she has an admirable talent,” he said carefully.

“She does,” the empress said—exactly what longed to hear, but not in that voice, not said like a curse. held her breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop. “But you don’t love her for it, do you?”

At that, Sir Aldric looked even more bewildered, and wanted to sink into the ground beneath her feet. Just moments ago, she had been proud and victorious; now she had never felt more like a failure.

“She doesn’t entice you,” the empress continued, pacing toward . “You have no desire to impress her, to woo her. You don’t want her in your bed.”

The words landed like punches. Sophronia steadied with a hand on her arm, giving her a reassuring squeeze, but barely felt it. All of her focus was on her mother, whom she had managed to disappoint once more, this time by succeeding.

“No,” Sir Aldric said after a moment. “I suppose not, Your Majesty.”

“Thank you, Sir Aldric,” the empress said. “And the rest of you. You may leave us now.”

As the men filed away, the air went still and silent.

“It was a tournament,” Beatriz said when they were gone. “ won. What’s wrong with that?”

“There is only one tournament, only one prize,” the empress said, her eyes still on . “If you hope to control your princes, you must remember to be what they want you to be. And no man wants a woman who emasculates him.”

frowned, trying to wrap her mind around the lesson—and it was a lesson. Things with her mother always were. But this…The empress had spent years grooming them, training them, making them the best they could be. Now she wanted them to be less impressive, to dull themselves to protect a fragile ego?

“Sir Aldric is a sore loser,” Beatriz continued, shaking her head. “All men aren’t like that.”

“If you believe that, you’re more na?ve than I thought,” the empress scoffed. “And you forget—these aren’t men we’re discussing. They’re princes—spoiled boys who are used to getting everything they want. If you don’t understand your opponent, you’ve already lost. Do you understand, ?”

looked up at her mother and forced herself to nod. “I understand, Mother.”

—

In the week since ’s theft of the king’s seal, she’s begun to spend more time exploring the castle grounds. It started with the stables, and the stable hands there are always quick to saddle a horse for her.

Her morning rides are refreshing—she hadn’t realized how much she had missed riding until she started again. And it has allowed her to explore more of the grounds—the thicket of woods to the north, the meadow to the south. In her mind, it doesn’t compare to Bessemia. The trees are mostly skeletal, and even though it’s only fall, there is already a thick blanket of snow covering the ground. But fresh air is fresh air, and will take it however she can get it. Her happiest discovery on these rides has been the eastern field, set up with large straw targets, not so different from the ones she used to use for archery practice.

When she got back to the castle after that discovery, she asked a maid for a bow and arrows, and a set appeared at the foot of her bed that evening, polished and new, carved from wood so dark it was nearly black. It was different from the one she’d left back home—stiffer, less accustomed to her grip—but the second she got onto the field and lifted the bow in her arms, pulling the string back, part of her felt comfortable for the first time since she’d come to Friv.

It’s been months since she’s shot an arrow, not since that lesson of her mother’s, which left her embarrassed, furious, and brimming with something she could only describe as shame. She was so out of practice she didn’t even hit the target the first few times. But as the days pass, it slowly comes back to her, and she remembers why she loves it, the feeling of the bow pulled taut in her hands, the flex of the muscles in her arms and back, making her feel strong and capable and sure. The feeling of releasing the arrow, like letting out a heavy sigh.

Just a few days after she started practicing, and she’s already getting back to where she was before. Her arrows usually find the target now, and they are making their way closer and closer to the bull’s-eye. It feels good, to see her progress, to feel like she has proven something, even if there is no one else around to see it.

She nocks a new arrow and lifts her bow again, focusing on the bull’s-eye. She takes a deep, steadying breath and—

“Drop your shoulder.”

She spins toward the voice, in the process accidentally releasing the arrow and sending it just past Bairre’s left ear.

He doesn’t flinch, instead keeping his eyes on her and merely raising an eyebrow.

“If you’re hoping to kill me, you need to work on your aim.”

“If I were hoping to kill you,” she tells him, nocking another arrow, “poison would be far less conspicuous. Less messy, too.”

She turns back toward the target and aims again. After a second, she realizes Bairre was right—her shoulder is so tense it’s almost touching her ear. She forces herself to relax it before letting the arrow fly.

It isn’t a bull’s-eye, but it’s solidly in the smallest ring around it. She drops the bow to her side and turns back to Bairre.

“Did you come out here to accuse me of theft again?” she asks him.

“I apologized for that,” he says, shaking his head.

“Only because your father made you,” points out.

He doesn’t deny it. Instead he reaches behind him to draw his own bow, carved from the same dark wood as hers.

“Mind if I join you?” he asks.

shrugs. “It’s a big field, plenty of room for us both,” she says before mentally kicking herself. If her mother were here, she would chide her for her sharp tone—she needs Bairre to like her, to desire her. As it is, they can’t have a conversation that lasts longer than a few minutes without insulting each other.

He moves to the target next to her, lifting his bow and pulling an arrow from the quiver behind his back. She watches him for a moment before forcing herself to speak.

“I didn’t know you enjoyed archery,” she says. “I’ve heard Friv has some of the best tournaments in the world. Have you competed?”

He looks at her, surprised, before shaking his head. “It’s just a hobby for me,” he says. “Cillian was in a class of his own, though, so we would practice together sometimes. There’s something…relaxing about it.”

She’s surprised to hear her own thoughts spill from his lips. “It’s hard to feel stressed after shooting pointed weapons at a target,” she agrees.

“Especially when you can picture that target as my face?” he asks.

She opens her mouth to deny it, but when she looks at him, she’s surprised to find he’s almost smiling at her. It’s too wry at the corners to be a true smile, but it’s the closest she’s seen from him.

“Well, whatever helps,” she tells him before nocking another arrow.

This time, though, she hears her mother’s voice in her mind. There is only one tournament, only one prize. As badly as she wants to prove to Bairre that she can hold her own, she needs him to like her more, and that means dulling herself.

It kills her to do it, but she lets her arrow go wide. It lands at the outer edge of the target with a thwack that feels in her soul. It’s a game, she reminds herself, a means to an end, but still the mortification of failing rakes over her skin like hot nails.

“Rotten luck,” he says, nocking his own arrow and taking aim at the target.

His form is terrible—his elbow is too low and his stance is too narrow. The effort of firing the arrow alone will be enough to knock him off-balance.

“Wait,” she says with a sigh before approaching. She lifts his back elbow so it doesn’t sag and send the arrow high. “Now square your hips.”

“What?” he asks, glancing back at her over his shoulder, brow furrowed.

She nudges his front foot wider, then, feeling heat rise to her cheeks, she sets her hands on his hips, adjusting him so his entire torso is directed at the target.

“There,” she says, dropping her hands away quickly. “Trynow.”

His gaze lingers on her a second longer, skeptical and uncertain, before he looks back at the target. He aims and releases the arrow. It lands just inches from the bull’s-eye. For a moment, he just stares at the arrow in shock.

“How did you do that?” he asks her.

She shrugs. “I had a good teacher in Bessemia,” she says.

“Right,” he says, clearing his throat. “Your turn, then.”

’s smile is strained as she takes aim once more, this time letting the arrow go early so it doesn’t even make it to the target, instead burying itself in the grass two feet short.

“Not your day, is it?” he asks.

She bristles but shoves her pride down. “Apparently not.”

waits for him to nock his next arrow, but instead he just stares at her, his expression even more perplexed than usual.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were trying to shoot poorly,” he says.

“Then you know less than I thought,” she says. “My wrist is still a bit sore from my fall.”

It’s a lie, but a believable one.

“May I?” he asks, holding his hand out.

places her left hand in his, letting him unbutton the leather glove and peel it back from the pale skin of her wrist. He turns it over in his hand, brushing his thumb over her pulse, making her heartbeat pick up. She wants to pull away from him, to tug her glove back over her skin before he can do that again, but she doesn’t. Instead she remembers her training and takes a step closer to him, looking up and biting her lip.

“How does it look?” she asks him.

“Still a bit bruised,” he says. “You should rest it a couple of days longer.”

“I should,” she agrees with the small, secret smile she had to spend weeks perfecting in the mirror. “But I’ve never been terribly good at resting.”

He smiles back, but after a moment—far too soon—he looks away and drops her hand.

“Cillian always said you were clever,” he tells her. “He said your letters were some of the wittiest things he’d ever read—and he read a lot, so you can take that as a high compliment.”

The words sit like tar in the pit of her stomach. She doesn’t want to think about the dead prince, the one she wrote letters to by candlelight, the one she can’t even mourn.

“Oh?” she forces herself to say. “And do you agree?”

He laughs, but he sounds vaguely uncomfortable. “Maybe too clever for your own good. Tell me, would you have let Cillian win at archery as well? Or is it because I’m so terrible at it?”

goes still. “I didn’t realize it was a matter of winning or losing,” she says. “I thought we were only practicing.”

“Really?” he asks, raising his eyebrows. “Because the look in your eyes says otherwise. And you flinch as soon as you fire the arrow—almost like you know exactly where it will go. So is it pity? Or false flattery? Because I think I’ve had enough of both in the last couple of weeks.”

That gives her pause, and for a moment, she only looks at him, getting a glimpse beyond the furrowed brow and angry jawline and the resentment in his eyes. For the first time, he looks like a boy who lost his brother and had his life turned upside down in a single moment.

“I’m sorry,” she says, and this time there is no sarcasm in her voice. “I didn’t…shall we go again?”

He hesitates for a second before nodding and nocking another arrow.

This time, his form is better. She can tell he’s checking himself for the corrections she made last time, though a part of her still wants the excuse to place a hand on his shoulder or hip—anywhere, really. Stars above, she’s becoming as shameless as Beatriz!

When he releases the arrow, it grazes the bull’s-eye, landing just outside.

“Well done,” she says, meaning it.

“Better than I usually do,” he admits. “The elbow adjustment helped.”

“You’re welcome,” says before taking her own stance and raising her bow.

She runs through her inner checklist, making sure her shoulders are dropped, her elbow in place, her hips squared. She takes aim and releases the arrow, sending it flying into a perfect bull’s-eye.

When she catches sight of Bairre’s expression, she has a second of panic. His expression is unreadable, and she’s reminded of how Sir Aldric looked when she beat him, how he told her mother he found her unattractive because of it. For a second, she worries that her pride has ruined any feelings Bairre might have had—if they ever existed; worries that she’s killed her mother’s plans thoroughly.

But then something in his face shifts and he almost smiles.

“Impressive,” he says. “You might even have given Cillian a challenge. He would have been mad about you. He already was, just through letters, but in person he wouldn’t have stood a chance.”

glances away before she forces herself to meet his gaze.

“And you?” she asks him. “Do you stand a chance?”

Bairre holds her gaze for a moment before looking away, his jaw flexing.

“I’ll let you be,” he says after a moment. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

She opens her mouth to tell him he’s not interrupting, to ask him to stay, but he’s already walking back to the castle, the answer to her question still locked away.