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

Daphne

is just putting her satin slippers on when a maid walks in, holding a small box. “From your sister,” she says, and when raises an eyebrow, she quickly adds “Princess Beatriz.”

tries to appear pleased, but she’s already running late for her engagement ball, and Cliona’s list of names is weighing heavily on her mind. Whatever Beatriz wants—and knows her sister well enough to be sure she wants something— doesn’t have time for it right now.

“Thank you,” she tells the maid, taking the box from her. “Will you fetch my wrap? It’s particularly chilly this evening.”

When the maid goes to the wardrobe, opens thebox to find a letter and a small vial of what appears to be red wine. The package doesn’t appear to have been tampered with, but that doesn’t surprise —Friv is a bit more lax in their security than Bessemia. She guesses that because it is a new monarchy, they haven’t yet learned to see enemies around every corner. supposes it makes things easier for her, though it also led to that assassination attempt.

She pushes the thought aside and opens the letter.

Dearest ,

I came across a Cellarian cure for migraines and wanted to pass it along to you—I know yours cause you such trouble when they come about. The king himself swears by this mixture, though I haven’t the slightest idea what is in it. Ofcourse, I wouldn’t be surprised if you puzzled out the recipe. I’m happy to send you more if you need any.

Your sister,

Beatriz

searches for a sign of what code the letter is in, but none appears. She rolls her eyes. Just like Beatriz to forgo coding the letter—she was never as gifted at it as Sophronia and . reads it again, picking out the lies in an effort to see the truth.

First, has never suffered a migraine in her life, and to the best of her knowledge, the king of Cellaria doesn’t suffer from them either. Surely that would have been mentioned in the spy reports.

I wouldn’t be surprised if you puzzled out the recipe. That’s it, then. The king is drinking whatever’s in the vial, and Beatriz wants to know what it is. A couple of logical steps have been skipped, she knows, but she knows her sisters even better. Sometimes they don’t need logic. In Bessemia, they would often have conversations without any words at all. It’s comforting to know that even with all these miles between them, some things haven’t changed, but ’s irritation outweighs that. She has plenty on her own plate without doing Beatriz’s work as well. She puts the vial into the drawer of her desk and tosses the letter into the fire.

She has a rebellion to infiltrate, she thinks, letting her maid drape the ermine wrap over her shoulders. Beatriz is just going to have to figure it out for herself.

—

The Frivian castle has been quiet as a crypt since arrived, but she hadn’t realized just how quiet it has been until she steps into the banquet hall where her betrothal ball is being held. The large room is packed full with groups from the twelve visiting highland noble families, six lowland noble families, and every castle-dwelling noble who had been observing the mandated monthlong mourning period.

has heard that Friv is a wild, unrefined place, but she hasn’t fully understood what that meant until now, when she finds herself enveloped by the overwhelming smells of ale and roasted meat and the sounds of countless conversations, all loud and some conducted in accents so strong she can’t begin to pick apart the words.

The large room is packed with bodies, most of them far taller than any Bessemian, all dressed in wool and velvet. The men all look in desperate need of a haircut, the women wear few jewels. spent most of her life learning about Frivian customs and celebrations, but it is another thing entirely to find herself thrown into the center of them. She’s careful to school her expression into a polite smile and hide any hint of her distaste as she scans the room, looking for a familiar face.

“Ah, !” a voice calls. follows it and finds King Bartholomew standing near the center of the room, with Bairre as well as two men she does not recognize. When she goes to join them, the king makes quick introductions.

“Lord Ian Maives and Lord Vance Panlington,” he says.

curtsies toward each man in turn. She has all but eliminated Lord Maives already from Cliona’s list, but it is still good to put a face to his name, and Lord Panlington must be Cliona’s father.

“It was very kind of you to send Lady Cliona to accompany me on my journey to Friv,” she tells him, offering up her most charming smile. “We became the fastest of friends.”

She watches his expression carefully—Mrs. Nattermore implied he was the head of the rebels, so he must know about what happened at the dressmaker’s and her own involvement now, but also wonders if he knows something about the assassination attempt on her. She believed Cliona when she swore she wasn’t involved, but it is possible Lord Panlington didn’t wish to entangle his daughter in such nasty business.

But if Lord Panlington knows anything about her at all, he doesn’t give it away. Instead, he bows low and kisses her gloved hand.

“I’m very glad to hear it, Your Highness,” he says.

Finally, she turns toward Bairre. She hasn’t seen much of him over the last week, not since they met on the archery fields. He’s been holed up in meetings with his father, trying to make up for missing a lifetime of princely training and elbow-rubbing in a few short days.

He cleans up quite well, dressed in midnight-blue velvet that fits him better than anything else she’s seen him wear—she wonders if it’s the first thing he’s owned that was made specifically for him. His hair is brushed, though still overgrown. finds that she’s relieved he didn’t cut it. It suits him.

“Prince Bairre,” she says, curtsying again.

Bairre bows in turn and mumbles something that sounds like her name. He’s nervous, she realizes, and she can’t blame him. has been trained for events like these, to smile and mingle and make a favorable impression. Bairre has been raised to linger on the outskirts, watching but not participating. He must be miserable.

“The children should start the dancing, Bartholomew,” Lord Maives says, clapping the king on his shoulder.

If anyone dared touch her mother like that, reckons they would lose that hand, but Bartholomew only smiles.

“Of course,” he says, lifting his goblet high in the air. In seconds, everyone falls silent. When he speaks again, his voice is booming, loud enough to reach the farthest corners of the room. “I won’t drone on and keep you from eating, drinking, and merriment,” he says, gazing around the room. looks as well, searching for the slightest hints of resentment. She finds plenty, but Bartholomew gives no indication that he notices. “It has been a difficult time for my family and for our country, but I hope that today marks the turning of a corner for all of us. I hope that you will join me in welcoming Princess to Friv and to my family, and join me in wishing her and my son, Prince Bairre, a star-blessed union. To and Bairre.”

“To and Bairre,” the crowd echoes, raising their own goblets toward her and Bairre. With everyone’s attention on her, she decides to give them a show. She slips her hand into Bairre’s and flashes him an adoring smile. For an instant, he’s shocked, but then he returns it, somewhat warily.

“A dance!” Bartholomew calls out, and from the corner, a quartet picks up their instruments and begins to play. She recognizes it as a carrundel and lets out a quiet groan. Bairre hears it and glances at her, eyebrows raised.

“I’m not very good at this one,” she admits. She was taught the traditional Frivian dances alongside Bessemian ones, but her feet never took to them the same way. She found them rough and erratic, with none of the softness and grace of the ones that played out in Bessemian ballrooms.

“Then I suppose you’ll have to follow my lead,” he says, lifting their joined hands to walk her out to where a small space has opened up in the center of the room.

“If you step on my toes,” she tells him, through a smile that is all for show, “be assured I will seek my revenge.”

“I would expect nothing less,” he replies. He shifts their joined hands so that their fingers are entwined and settles his other hand on her waist. She places her hand on his shoulder, feeling the firm muscle beneath his velvet jacket.

He steps toward her, and at the same time, she steps toward him, the result the clash of his chin with her forehead.

“Ow,” she says, lifting her hand off his shoulder to rub her head.

“I step forward first, you step back,” he tells her, brow furrowed in concentration.

“Why is your chin so sharp?” she asks with a scowl. She’d never noticed how pointed it was before, but now she feels certain it’s left a permanent dent in her forehead.

“You’re the one with the head hard as marble,” he volleys back. “Here, follow me.”

He says it like it’s easy, but in reality, for every two steps he takes, is lucky if she manages one without tripping over her feet. In Bessemia, she was considered a good dancer, though not as graceful as Sophronia or as spirited as Beatriz, but Frivian dances are a whole other beast.

She stumbles, she falters, and she steps on Bairre’s toes every few seconds—though he never once complains. Luckily, as soon as they begin, other couples join them, so she doesn’t feel that her failure is quite so much on display. And after a time, she begins to enjoy herself, the quick beat of the music working beneath her skin, her steps becoming more confident, Bairre’s hand on her back like an anchor. When he releases her waist to send her twirling across the dance floor, she can’t hold back the wild, unrestrained squeal of joy that rips its way from her chest.

When the song reaches its crescendo, is out of breath and smiling so broadly her cheeks ache. Bairre is smiling too, a truer smile than she’s ever seen on him. She decides she likes it—it is a smile she cannot help but return. Though the song ends, his hand still rests on her waist, steady and sure and warm through her velvet gown.

“You’re a better dancer than I thought you’d be,” she tells him, making no move to step out of his arms even as the couples around them break apart.

With the spell of the music waning, the placid mask begins to fall back into place. “Yes, well, even bastards are given lessons,” he says, dropping his hands from her waist.

She takes a step back, her own hands falling to her sides. “Don’t put words in my mouth,” she says. “I was trying to pay you a compliment.”

“Your Highness,” a voice cuts in, and turns to see a young man of around twenty approaching, his dark hair swept back from his face and secured with a leather tie, highlighting his knife-sharp features. “I was wondering if I might have the honor of a dance with Princess .”

Bairre tears his gaze away from , shrugging. “You would have to ask it of her, Haimish,” he says before turning on his heel and walking away.

Haimish, thinks, smiling at the man and accepting his hand. The third name from Cliona’s list. She knows she should focus on him, but she can’t keep her eyes from following Bairre as he walks across the dance floor, shoulders hunched and ready to slip back into the shadows. But he is no longer a bastard, so no one lets him, their eyes following his every move. almost pities him.

“A dance, then, Princess?” Haimish asks, drawing her attention back to him. She pastes on a bright smile.

“I would like nothing more,” she says before biting her lip. “But I’m afraid I turned my ankle during the last dance. I’m sure it’s fine,” she says when his eyes widen in concern. “But I think it might be best if I sit down for a bit, to be sure.”

“Of course,” he says, offering her his arm. takes it and lets herself be helped to the far wall, where some seats have been set up. He helps her sit and then turns to go.

“Wait!” she says. When he turns back toward her, she dons a sheepish smile. “Will you sit with me for a bit? I’m afraid I don’t know many people here.”

“You don’t know me, either,” he points out, but he sits down beside her nonetheless.

“Then we will have to change that, won’t we?” she asks. “Haimish, was it?”

He nods. “My father is Lord Talmadge.”

affects a brighter smile. “Oh, him I know, at least by reputation,” she says, watching Haimish’s face carefully. “His skills in the last of the Clan Wars is legendary—even in Bessemia, they sang ballads about him.”

“Truly?” Haimish asks, looking at her with raised eyebrows.

“Oh yes,” she says. “In Bessemia, we haven’t had any war in centuries—the people were always hungry for tales of valiant heroes from other lands, fighting for their country.”

There it is—a scoff he can’t quite hold back, though he does manage to catch himself rolling his eyes.

“What is it?” she asks, still all wide eyes and empty smiles. “You don’t think he was a hero?”

“I think war is a more complicated thing than you might imagine, having only heard tales and ballads,” he says, his eyes traveling across the ballroom.

She registers the condescending note in his voice but ignores it. He’s not wrong—she doesn’t know about war the same way Frivians do.

“And you?” she asks him. “You don’t look old enough to remember the last Clan War.”

He smiles, though his eyes are still on the crowd. “I was two when Bartholomew was crowned king,” he says. “Though there are those who say the war never really ended. There are those who believe that war is as much a part of Friv as the soil, trees, and snow.”

glances sideways at him, a question on her lips, but then she sees that his roving gaze has settled, and she follows it to where Cliona is standing beside Bairre, her head bent toward his as she murmurs something that makes him smile—not really smile, the way he did on the archery fields or even just a moment ago, but it still ignites something ugly in the pit of ’s stomach, though she’s sure Cliona is only exploiting their friendship for the sake of the rebellion. It shouldn’t bother her that Cliona is manipulating him—stars know she’s doing the same—but a strange, foreign part of her feels protective of Bairre. No one could call him na?ve, she doubts any royal bastard is, but he hasn’t learned yet that everyone wants something of him.

“Cliona said they’ve been friends since they were children. Cillian, too,” says to Haimish, in an effort to veer away from that troubling line of thought. “I’m glad they have each other to rely on in their grief.”

As soon as she says the words, she wonders how true they are. Bairre loved his brother, she knows that, but Cliona? If she’s been actively working against the royal family, that included Cillian. And the disease that killed him was one that eluded every physician who examined him. She knows firsthand that Frivians aren’t shy about assassination attempts. What if the rebels were responsible for Cillian’s death? And what would that mean now for Bairre? Maybe she’s right to be protective of him. After all, their betrothal is the only thing keeping Friv within her mother’s grasp, and Bartholomew doesn’t have any other bastard sons lying about, as far as she knows.

“He was a good person, Prince Cillian,” Haimish says, drawing her out of her thoughts. He tries to hide it, but she sees how his eyes keep going to Cliona in the crowd, as if drawn there by some invisible force.

“Yes, I believe he was,” says, then pauses. She chooses her next words carefully. “Bairre is a good person too. If anything were to happen to him, it would be disastrous.”

That gets his attention. He looks at her and raises his eyebrows, appearing bemused. “Your devotion to Prince Bairre is touching, Your Highness.”

“Is it?” asks, tilting her head. “And here I was thinking the same of your devotion to Cliona.”

Haimish goes rigid— doubts he even breathes. The only change in him is a flush that begins to work its way up his neck.

“Why, you’ve barely been able to stop looking at her all night. And she seems to be doing everything possible not to look at you. Which of your parents disapproves? I’d wager it’s her father. I’ve heard he’s very protective of her, and then there’s the matter of your loyal war hero father. Is that why you joined the rebellion? To prove you’re more than your father’s son?”

Haimish is quiet for a few more seconds, but then he surprises by smiling. “Something like that, I suppose,” he says. “How did you figure it out?”

She shrugs. “You underestimated me and got sloppy,” shesays. “It was actually quite easy. Why would Cliona put you on my list? She must know your loyalty better than anyone.”

Haimish rubs the back of his neck. “We had a bet. I lost.”

“So it’s all a game to you, then,” says, rolling her eyes. “Believe it or not, I do have better things to do.”

“Relax,” he says with a snort. “It’s not all a game. Think of me as a test. Well done. The other two names are genuine.”

“Well, I doubt you can win over Lord Maives. He’s even closer to the king than your father is, not to mention the fact that he’s the queen’s brother-in-law. Trying would be foolish.”

Haimish makes a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat, and forces herself not to roll her eyes. If he wants to try to turn Lord Maives, let him.

“And Rufus Cadringal?” he presses.

notes that Haimish doesn’t use Cadringal’s title. Lord Cadringal has only come into it recently, but she wonders if he and Haimish are familiar enough that it’s a difficult habit to break.

“Going by what I already know, I think it’s possible he’ll turn. But I haven’t met him yet, so it’s difficult to say for certain,” says, scanning the crowd. “Do you see him?”

“Unfortunately, they had some carriage issues and were delayed. I heard they sent a messenger ahead to say they would be arriving before dawn.”

“That is unfortunate,” agrees, the wheels in her head turning. Across the banquet hall, Bairre says something to Cliona before slipping away, outside the main doors. “Thank you for keeping me company, Haimish. If you don’t mind, I need to have a word with my fiancé.”

—

She finds Bairre leaning against the stone wall outside the banquet hall beside a lit sconce, his sharp-boned face thrown into high relief by the flickering flame. More than ever, he looks half feral, but when his eyes find hers, there’s a flash of softness—so quick she can’t be sure it ever existed at all.

“Are you hiding out here?” she asks him. “The highlanders don’t seem so bad, boisterous as they might be.”

He shakes his head, a smile flickering at his lips. “I just needed a minute,” he says. “What did you think of Haimish?” he asks her.

rolls her eyes to show how trying she found him, and Bairre barks out a laugh. “Fair enough,” he says.

“He did mention that one of the families—the Cadringals—was delayed. I thought we might take them hunting tomorrow as a way of making up for it,” she says.

“The Cadringals?” Bairre asks, his eyes lighting. “I haven’t seen Rufus since…well, since we both had different titles, I suppose.”

“Since you both lost loved ones,” she adds.

He nods, glancing away. “It’s not necessary, you know.”

“What?” asks.

“Trying to charm him,” Bairre says, shrugging. “The Cadringals were among the first families to swear fealty to my father, and Rufus was friends with both Cillian and me. We took lessons together whenever he was at court. He never treated me different than Cillian. If there’s anyone whose loyalty I can depend on, it’s him.”

considers this, adding it to the information she’s already gathered about Rufus Cadringal, along with what she’s gathered about Bairre as well—beneath the gruff exterior, there’s so much he doesn’t understand about his new position. If someone is trying to kill her, if someone already succeeded in killing Cillian, he very well may have a target on his back as well, and at the moment he’s an easy mark. She leans against the wall across from him.

“A strong ruler knows not to depend upon anyone’s loyalty, Bairre,” she says softly. He doesn’t know that Cliona is working against his family, after all. He doesn’t know about herself. His ignorance of her motives is a boon, but if he looks around the faces of the Friv courtiers and sees no enemies, it very well might get him killed. She feels certain her mother would see that as ’s fault.

He shakes his head, not speaking for a moment.

“How do you do it?” he asks finally.

She frowns. “Do what?”

He shrugs. “Look at everyone around you and see how you can use them, how they can betray you. You and my father both, talking about the people in that room like their value can be tabulated on a sheet of paper, what they’re worth to the crown and to Friv. I always thought he was mercenary about it, but you might be even more so.”

watches him for a moment, trying to concoct a response. The courtesans in Bessemia taught her that the key to seduction was understanding what a man wanted and becoming that thing. But what does Bairre want her to be? Apologetic for her nature? Or is he truly in awe of it? That’s the challenge with Bairre—she never knows what he wants from her. So she decides to give him the truth for once.

“Unlike you, unlike your father even, I was raised to wear a crown from the moment I was born,” she says slowly. “You, on the other hand, were meant to lurk in the background, on the periphery. Maybe Cillian would have given you some kind of position on his council, given you a title, even, but you would never have had real power. And the thing you learn quickly when you have real power is that everyone, on some level, wants to take it from you. Oh, they might never act on it, might never even admit it to themselves, but they all want what you have. And that makes them easy to understand, easy to handle, but always, always, dangerous. Every single person in that room, Bairre, would stab us in the back if they thought they could get away with it.”

He considers this for a moment before his full mouth curls into a smirk. “And here they call you charming,” he says dryly.

“You don’t want me to be charming. You want me to be honest,” she tells him. He doesn’t deny it. “So here’s the truth—everyone wants power.”

“That’s just it,” he says, leaning his head back against the stone. “I don’t. I was perfectly happy in Cillian’s shadow, perfectly happy as the bastard brother.”

stares at him for a moment, her eyes tracing thelines of his face, the tension in his jaw, the flare of his nostrils.

“You’re a liar,” she says, pushing off the wall and coming to stand in front of him.

“Pardon?” he says, his eyes meeting hers.

She waves her hand at him. “All of this—the sulking, the bitterness. It isn’t resentment, it’s guilt. Because you weren’t happy in your brother’s shadow, because you desperately wanted all of this. And now you have everything you wanted, and your brother is dead.”

Bairre stares at her, speechless, with such an intense loathing in his eyes that it knocks the breath from her lungs.

“You don’t know me,” he says.

“No,” she agrees. “No one really does, I’d imagine.” She pauses, something inside her breaking open. She knows what it is to be jealous of siblings: she’s spent her life envious of Beatriz’s confidence, of Sophie’s effortless kindness. Though the mere thought of them leaves her winded. If anything were to happen to them, she doesn’t know what she’ddo.

“You didn’t kill him,” she says, her voice softening. “If envy alone were enough to kill, there would be no one left in the world. Maybe he was the one born for this, maybe he would have been a better prince, but he’s dead and you aren’t. You can skulk around feeling sorry for yourself, or you can fill that role in a way that would make him proud. That’s up to you.”

For a long moment, he doesn’t say anything, his eyes downcast. Finally, he looks at her again, his expression one of a pure, naked vulnerability that makes something in her chest crack.

“I don’t know how,” he says quietly.

She takes a step closer to him, holding out a hand. She tells herself it’s part of her plan to earn his trust, to seduce him, part of a long game. Deep down she knows it isn’t the whole truth. “Well, as you pointed out, I do. So tomorrow, we will go hunting with Lord Cadringal and I will help you act like the prince you’re meant to be.”

He looks at her hand for a moment, as if it might be holding a knife, before eventually taking it in his. She can feel the rough calluses of his palm against hers. It isn’t as unpleasant as it should be.