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

Beatriz

tries to ignore the persistent guilt that nags at her, but it becomes her constant companion during the days after Lord Savelle’s arrest. It follows her to tea in the palace solarium with Gisella. It walks beside her when she strolls through the sea garden with Pasquale. It even lies next to her in bed, keeping her awake for hours and haunting her dreams when she does manage to sleep.

He won’t be executed, not yet. King Cesare seems to be engaged in a staring contest with Temarin, knowing that executing their ambassador would be an act of war, but tempted to risk it nonetheless.

The letter finds from her mother, tucked into the petals of a dried rose she sent, doesn’t help matters.

You have set up your dominoes, my dove. All that’s left to do is knock the first down. See to it that no mercy is shown to Lord Savelle.

The empress has been patient for nearly two decades, but now her patience is running thin. knows how easy it would be to convince the king to execute Lord Savelle; she imagines herself doing it over breakfast with the king and Pasquale—how she might affect a melodramatic sigh and let slip how unsafe Lord Savelle makes her feel, how he tried to convince her to use magic but how she, of course, resisted him. Anything to stoke King Cesare’s righteous fury against the man, anything to make war with Temarin seem worth it.

But instead she holds her tongue and eats her poached eggs and lets King Cesare ramble on about sacrilegious Temarinians, which courtiers he suspects are plotting against him today, and whether or not someone is trying to assassinate him. This last one, at least, is a new paranoia.

“Who would want to kill you, Your Majesty?” asks, giving him her most charming smile. She hasn’t forgotten about his wandering hands or leering gaze, though he seems to keep both to himself when Pasquale is around, at least.

But rather than returning her smile, King Cesare only glowers at her. “I can think of two people who would stand to gain quite a lot by killing me,” he says coldly.

exchanges a glance with Pasquale before she forces herself to laugh. There is nothing funny about being accused of trying to murder a king, but is aware of the guards standing at the door, of the servants bustling in and out to distribute and collect plates. She knows that if she doesn’t play it off as a joke, that rumor will grow legs, and that is the last thing she needs.

“You’re too funny, Your Majesty,” she says. “Truly, nothing would make us happier than if you were to live forever—ruling seems like a terrible chore. I much prefer being a princess to a queen. All of the glamour, none of the responsibility. Isn’t that right, Pas?”

Pasquale nods, but he lacks her ability to think quickly under pressure. Stars bless him, though, he tries his best. “I can’t imagine anyone would want to kill you, Father,” he says, though he keeps glancing at her as if taking instruction. “Why, without you, Cellaria would surely cease to exist.”

It might be laying it on a bit heavy, but King Cesare gives a snort before reaching for his wine again, looking at least somewhat appeased.

“You’re damn right, Pasquale,” he says before finishing off the glass and gesturing for his cupbearer to bring him more—not Nicolo, notes with a mixture of relief and disappointment, but another boy. This one, she remembers, is some third cousin once removed of Pasquale’s.

“My bitch of a sister in Temarin keeps writing me about Savelle,” the king says once his glass has been refilled. “Wants me to grant him mercy, at least so she says.”

Here’s ’s chance—the perfect opening to push him to execute Lord Savelle—but confusion swarms her. She received Sophronia’s letter the day after Lord Savelle was arrested, telling her about Cesare and Eugenia plotting together to seize Temarin and asking about a wine label. hadn’t thought much of it—it seemed likely to be a moot point anyway, with war looming so close. But if Cesare and Eugenia are plotting together, the king’s outburst doesn’t make sense. Wouldn’t they be coordinating better? It’s possible, of course, that King Cesare’s memory is faltering, but if he possesses the faculties to plot a siege, he can’t be that far gone, can he?

And the wine label— has had her fair share of wine in Cellaria, but none of it has been from Cosella, and a few casual inquiries to the servants have yielded only confusion.

“What do you mean?” asks now, wondering if Sophronia might be receiving faulty information.

King Cesare waves a hand and laughs, his dark mood of only seconds ago suddenly forgotten. That isn’t unusual these days either—his black moods are like Cellarian rainstorms: brutal, but fleeting.

“Eugenia must think me an idiot,” he says. “Telling me she wishes I would release Savelle so he could return to Temarin, all the while reminding me of the reasons I should just burn him and be done with it. I’m beginning to suspect she wants me to kill him.”

That makes frown. If they are conspiring together to start a war, why would Eugenia put up the pretense of telling him not to execute Savelle? And what’s more, why would she have to try to convince him of anything at all? If Cesare really did want a war with Temarin, like Sophronia thinks, why wouldn’t he have executed Lord Savelle straightaway?

“Perhaps she is simply goading you,” offers, though the wheels of her mind are still spinning. “That is what siblings do, isn’t it? I know my sisters and I always took great joy in trying to get a rise out of one another. Perhaps she simply doesn’t realize the gravity of the situation.”

“And you do?” King Cesare asks her, a mocking note to his voice. “Tell me about the gravity of the situation, .”

She can feel his mood darkening again, and even if she couldn’t, the look Pasquale sends her is warning enough.

“Well,” she begins, feeling like she is walking on a rotting bridge—one false step will send her plummeting. But she hears her mother’s words echo in her mind. You have set up your dominoes, my dove. All that’s left to do is knock the first down.

“It just seems like a very serious thing,” she says. “The ambassador of a foreign country, coming into your lands—your home, even—with such disrespect. It isn’t as if he simply spoke out of turn or didn’t show you the proper deference, Your Majesty—he flouted what many would call Cellaria’s most serious law. He didn’t only disrespect you, he disrespected the stars. Is that not a serious thing?”

She feels like the entire room is holding its breath—not only her and Pasqual, but the servants and guards as well. Even the air itself seems particularly still.

“You are quite right, —almost as intelligent as you are beautiful,” the king says, and lets out a breath. Then, suddenly, King Cesare slams his palm against the table, the sound of it echoing through the room and making everyone jump. “Lord Savelle’s offense cannot stand—he will be executed at the next burning. If Temarin wants to bring war to our door, let them. We’ll be ready.”

should feel relieved—she’s done everything she was meant to do. She has set up her dominoes and knocked the first one down. All that’s left to do is watch Cellaria tumble. She should feel relieved—proud, even—but all she feels is dread and guilt.

—

“Are you all right?” Pasquale asks her as they head back to their rooms after breakfast.

“Fine,” she says, shaking her head. “I just…never believed he would do it, I suppose. Which is foolish, I know, but…”

“You and Lord Savelle have spent some time together,” he says. “You like him. But if you’d said anything else, you know you very well might have ended up executed beside him.”

hesitates before nodding. “He said I reminded him of his daughter,” she admits.

Recognition flashes in Pasquale’s eyes. “I remember Fidelia,” he says. “I saw it, you know.”

frowns. “Her death?” she asks. There are plenty of people who enjoy watching the burnings, people who make an event of it, with parties before and after. But Pasquale hasn’t struck her as the type.

“Oh no, not that,” Pasquale says, looking away and lowering his voice. “I saw her…you know…use magic.”

nearly stops walking. “You did?” she asks. “What…what did she do?”

“It was the night of the summer solstice,” Pasquale tells her. “She was a year or so older than me, and, well, you know my father and his attentions.”

barely suppresses a shudder, but Pasquale must notice it, because he continues.

“He tried to lead her away from the party, but she didn’t want to go—I saw it, I’m sure plenty of other people saw it too, but no one did anything. I wanted to, Triz, but I froze. I couldn’t even move. She said something—I don’t know what, but I saw her lips move and her eyes were casting around wildly, looking for help. Looking for the stars, I think now, calling on them. Then everything happened quickly. A candle blew over even though there wasn’t any wind. A fight broke out in another corner of the ballroom. A tree outside crashed through a window. Any one thing might have been a coincidence, but all together?” He shakes his head. “ I wish you’d let me go. That’s what she said, I think. My father never said as much, he just called her an empyrea and had her executed, but I think that’s what she must have said. She wanted his hands off her badly enough that she brought a star down—you can see it missing, from the Hero’s Heart. And it worked. He let her go—if only so the guards could arrest her.”

swallows, unable to speak. Fidelia knew what she was doing, she tells herself. It was a choice, one she understood the consequences of.

The king’s words still nag at from earlier, conflicting with Sophronia’s. knows she should let them go, that they don’t matter anymore, but she can’t.

“Pas, have you heard of the Cosella vineyard?” she asks him.

He frowns. “Cosella?” he repeats, shaking his head. “It sounds vaguely familiar, but I don’t think it would be familiar to me if it is a vineyard. Why?”

“It’s nothing,” she says, giving his arm a squeeze. “It doesn’t matter.”

—

That night, King Cesare throws an impromptu banquet—a celebration, he says, though with him that can mean any number of things, many of them bad. Still, she and Pasquale dress up for the occasion, as they’re expected to, and sit in their appointed seats in the banquet hall, just to the right of the king. As looks around the crowded room, she notes that most people look somewhat confused by the gathering as well, though no one seems keen to question a party.

When glasses of wine are served, the king takes his from Nicolo—who seems to go out of his way to avoid ’s gaze—and stands. A hush falls over the room, and King Cesare clears his throat.

“As you may know, we discovered a heretic in our midst,” he says, prompting some jeers. “There was some question of what was to be done with Lord Savelle—execution would have been a foregone conclusion for anyone else, but I was told I must consider the consequences of such a decision. Surely, executing an ambassador will bring the Temarinians to our borders in force, frothing at the mouth for blood and war. There are many on my council who wish to avoid that, even if it means allowing Cellarian laws to be broken in my own court.”

King Cesare pauses, his gaze falling on . She feels the rest of the crowd follow his look, feels the eyes of the entire room on her.

“But as the…divinely alluring Princess said,” he begins, and has to fight to suppress a gag, “there can be no mercy for heretics. The stars would see Lord Savelle burned for his sacrilegious behavior.”

These words are met with overwhelming applause, giving the opportunity to lean toward Pasquale and ask through a pasted-on smile, “Did I say that?”

“I don’t believe so, no,” Pasquale replies, sounding more tired than confused. Though hasn’t known the king nearly as long as Pasquale has, she feels a bit tired of all of this as well—of feeling like she’s walking a tightrope, of having her words twisted, of never knowing which side of the king they will be subjected to tonight.

Guilt threatens to drown again, but a small part of her is relieved as well, like her own armor has grown another layer. Who would accuse her of using magic now, with the king himself making her out to be the stars’ most devout defender?

Then again, she thinks, casting King Cesare a sideways glance, she is the furthest thing from safe. All she can do is hope the king’s affection for her doesn’t lessen—or grow, for that matter. Walking a tightrope indeed.

Pasquale, Nicolo, and Gisella have all said that he wasn’t always this way, that he’s grown worse over the years, and she knows that oftentimes people’s minds can begin to go before their bodies do, but King Cesare is only in his fifties. It can’t be aging, and if it were some sort of malady, surely someone would have diagnosed him.

When the applause dies down, sees the king reaching for his glass of wine again. Her eyes follow the wineglass—refilled so many times tonight she’s already lost count. Nicolo mentioned that the cupbearers had taken to diluting the wine. As soon as she thinks it, another thought occurs to her: if she wanted to poison the king, his wine would be an excellent means—he’s never far from the stuff, and she would never have to handle it herself. So long as the bottle was poisoned, the culprit could be untraceable. Perhaps when Nico and the cupbearers diluted the wine they were actually diluting a poison, decaying his mind instead of killing him outright.

It’s what I would do doesn’t mean anything, knows this. But something about the notion won’t let her go, and her mother has always told her and her sisters to trust their instincts. She only wishes she knew more about poisons, but she’s never been as good with them as Daphne, and with something like this, she isn’t inclined to take chances.

She eyes the wineglass as King Cesare passes it back to Nicolo.

“So I say: death to the heretic who dared worm his way into my home, and death to any Temarinian who seeks to avenge him. And lo and behold,” the king continues, reaching into his pocket to remove a cream-colored envelope, with a theatrical flourish. is close enough to make out the vague shape of the seal—a sun, cast in yellow wax, with a spot of violet in the center to mark it as royal. “It seems my young nephew is foolish enough to declare war before I’ve even spilled blood! Well, if King Leopold seeks to make war with us, we’ll teach that boy a thing or two about what war means. To Cellaria!” he cries out, lifting his glass again. The rest of the court follows suit, echoing his toast, and goes through the motions as well, even as her mind is spinning.

War with Temarin, just as her mother has designed, just as she and Sophronia have put into action. Vaguely, she wonders what Daphne is up to in Friv, but she can’t waste her thoughts there—whatever it is, she’s sure Daphne is making their mother proud. Just as herself has, just as Sophronia must have if she’s convinced Leopold to declare war. Her thoughts drift to Lord Savelle, his death warrant signed now, but she forces herself to ignore him. Soon Cellaria will fall and Bessemia will claim its pieces. Soon will get to go home.

Her false smile feels somewhat more real as she lifts the wine goblet to her lips and takes a sip.

—

supposes it doesn’t actually matter whether someone is poisoning King Cesare or not, whether he actually has been conspiring with his sister or not—Cellaria will likely be under her mother’s control long before this possible poisoner succeeds. It shouldn’t matter…but ’s curiosity gets the better of her. At the end of the banquet, she tells Pasquale to go back to their rooms without her because she’s left her shawl in the banquet hall. Of course Pasquale doesn’t notice she wasn’t wearing one to begin with—he might not even know what a shawl is.

It’s an easy enough thing after that to wait around a corner until she hears King Cesare’s booming voice coming toward her. She steps out at just the right moment, walking straight into him.

“Oh!” she says, looking up at King Cesare with wide eyes. “I’m so sorry, Your Majesty, I was thinking about how wonderful your speech was and I got a bit distracted,” she says with a bright smile.

Behind him, his usual entourage of simpering courtiers fusses over him—as if ’s bumping into him might have caused him serious bodily harm. He waves them away impatiently, keeping his gaze on her. has to force herself not to recoil from his leer and hold on to her smile.

“It was a wonderful speech, wasn’t it?” he says, looking pleased with himself.

“Yes, indeed,” says, before breaking off into a little cough. “Oh, I’m sorry, my throat’s just a bit dry—”

“Nico!” King Cesare says, holding his hand out for the goblet.

Nicolo looks at her with a furrowed brow but passes the goblet to the king, who passes it to . She’ll explain it to Nicolo after, she thinks, once she knows for sure.

takes the wine, then frowns as if a thought has just occurred to her. “Oh, if I am getting sick, the last thing I would want is to make Your Majesty ill as well,” she says, glancing back at the courtiers, all carrying their own goblets. One woman—Duchess Lehey—holds it off-kilter, a sign that it has no contents she is worried about spilling.

“Duchess Lehey—might I take your cup? You look to be finished,” she says.

“I…of course, Your Highness,” the woman says, though she doesn’t appear happy about it. But when the king gestures for her to hurry up, she quickly passes the goblet to , who pours a small amount of the king’s wine into the empty goblet. She pretends to take a sip of the wine and smiles at the king.

“Thank you, Your Majesty. It is quite refreshing.”

—

As soon as she gets back to her rooms, she says a quick hello to Pasquale, distractedly reading a book, and goes to her dressing room, where she finds a small glass vial in the false bottom of her jewelry box. She transfers the wine from the goblet into the vial and begins to pen a letter to Daphne.