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

Daphne

In the hours after her conversation with Beatriz, can’t stop thinking about her sisters.

What they are doing is dangerous, has always known this—it’s why they were taught to always carry a dagger holstered around their thighs, why she’s smuggled a second one in her boot ever since her brush with the poison. But the danger to her seems inconsequential. It’s her sisters she’s worried about, and with every hour that passes with no news from abroad, that worry grows, along with the mounting frustration that they’ve gotten themselves into this position in the first place.

It helps that Cliona’s decided to spend the next day with her. She arrives just after breakfast and helps go over the letters that have piled up while she’s been recovering. At first, suspects Cliona has some ulterior motive, but as the day drags on, she can’t figure out what that is. It’s unnerving, which is why decides to confront her while they sip their morning coffee.

“We aren’t friends,” she tells Cliona. “You must know I won’t tell anyone about the rebels. I can’t without incriminating myself.”

Cliona glances up at her over the top of one of ’s letters—this one from an acquaintance in Bessemia, fishing for gossip . “Are you sure we aren’t friends?” she asks, setting the letter aside.

“Yes,” says, frowning. “Friends like each other. They don’t threaten and blackmail and bribe.”

“Hmm,” Cliona says, pursing her lips like the thought had never occurred to her. “I guess I wouldn’t know. I don’t have many friends, and neither do you, come to think of it.”

“I have friends,” snaps, though as soon as the words are out of her mouth, she realizes they’re a half-truth. She doesn’t have friends; she has sisters. And that’s the same in some ways, but not in others. A sharp thorn of regret pricks her when she thinks about her last conversation with Beatriz, but it goes away quickly. It’s simply how they speak to each other; no doubt Beatriz has already forgotten it.

“You’re interesting to spend time with,” Cliona tells her, shrugging. “And whether or not I like you, I certainly respect you. Maybe that’s enough for friendship.”

looks down at the letter she’s holding, frowning so deeply that she can hear her mother’s voice in her mind, warning her about getting wrinkles.

“Besides,” Cliona says, “if I didn’t think we were friends, I wouldn’t have given you that wish to speak with your sister.”

At that, scoffs. “It wasn’t a gift, remember? You said I’d have to pay you back. Ergo, not friendship.”

“Yes,” Cliona says slowly. “But I haven’t asked for anything yet, have I?”

“There,” says, pointing at her. “Maybe I don’t know much about friendship, but I do know that friends don’t go around threatening each other.”

Cliona only laughs. “Please, you know you’d be hopelessly bored without me to keep you company, threats or no.”

grits her teeth, but she realizes she can’t deny it.

—

When they’ve gotten through ’s correspondence, and Cliona take a walk through the castle. With ’s wedding fast approaching, everything is in a state of chaos; twice as many servants as usual bustle about, and the visiting highland clans are everywhere looks. Cliona introduces her to everyone they pass, and though she recognizes the names from her studies, she pretends she doesn’t. She also realizes that their accents have become a little clearer to her. When she says as much to Cliona, the other girl laughs.

“Just wait until they get some ale in them,” Cliona tells her. “Even I can’t understand them when they begin drinking.”

smiles and they duck into the castle chapel, where she will marry Bairre in just three days. It’s a strange thought, though she doesn’t know why. She was ready to marry Cillian when she first arrived in Friv, and she feels she knows Bairre better than she ever knew his brother. And it’s the last thing she needs to do to further her mother’s plan. Still, she feels a sense of trepidation as they step into the space.

The glass roof lets in the light of the morning sun, making the space feel a little warmer than the rest of the castle. A dozen servants are hard at work, stringing up flowers, polishing candlesticks, laying a golden rug down the center aisle for her to walk on. She takes it all in, trying to imagine what it will look like when they’re done, what it will look like the night of her wedding, with the stars shining down on her in her wedding gown, while Bairre waits at the front. She hopes no one forces him into a haircut before then—she’s grown quite fond of his hair the way it is.

She’s drawn out of her thoughts by the distinct feeling that she’s being watched. It shouldn’t unsettle her—of course she’s being watched, she’s the princess. Every servant’s eyes were glued on her from the second she stepped into the chapel. But something about this gaze raises the hairs on the back of her neck.

“I think it will look splendid when it’s done,” Cliona says beside her, looking around the chapel.

“Yes, I suggested the white lily garlands—the florist said they were used for mourning in Friv, and it seemed like a fitting tribute to remember Cillian as well,” says, though she barely hears her own words. She’s following Cliona’s gaze, taking in the details of the space, but also looking for anything more.

There he is, standing in the front pew with a broom in hand. Average height, with fair hair and broad shoulders. She doesn’t let her gaze linger on him, but she doesn’t need to. She recognizes him instantly.

“Cliona,” says, letting her voice drop even as she maintains her bland smile and roaming gaze. “Do you see the man sweeping the front pew? Don’t let him know you’re looking.”

Cliona shoots her an indignant glare at the last bit but then passes her gaze over the chapel. “Yes, I see him. Why?”

“Is there any chance he’s one of your father’s rebels?” asks.

“No,” Cliona says without hesitation.

“You’re sure? You can’t know all of them.”

“I promise you I can. I like knowing who I can and can’t trust. Why? Who is he?” Cliona asks.

steers Cliona back toward the chapel entrance, dropping her voice even lower. “He’s the man who was pretending to work in the stables, who set me up with a wild horse and a broken saddle. That,” she adds, to be perfectly clear, “is the man who tried to kill me.”

—

Cliona waits around the corner from the chapel, using a hand mirror to keep an eye on the door in case the would-be assassin leaves. hurries back to her rooms as quickly as she can, casting her eyes to the clock hanging on the wall. It’s nearly noon, when the servant shifts change and the day workers take their lunch break. She doesn’t have much time.

She rifles through her jewelry box, taking a large emerald ring with a hidden needle and a well of poison inside the gem and sliding it onto her right hand before delving into the hidden compartment and slipping a vial of truth serum into her pocket. She hates acting without a plan, but she also knows to take opportunities when they come, and she’s not about to wait for another attempt on her life.

She pulls two fur cloaks from the wardrobe, one white and one gray, before leaving the room and running straight into Bairre, who steadies her with his hands on her shoulders.

“,” he says. “I was just coming to tell you that the seamstress has arrived for your final wedding gown fitting. Should I send her up?”

She forces a smile. “Actually, can you make my excuses to her? I told Cliona I would help her with something.”

Bairre frowns. “With what?” he asks, looking down at the cloaks draped over her arm. “Are you going somewhere?”

“Just for a walk,” she says, her voice breezy.

“A walk is more important than your wedding dress fitting?” he asks, raising a skeptical eyebrow.

opens her mouth, ready to argue, but the sound of the clock chiming interrupts. Which means the morning shift is over, which means the man who tried to kill her will be leaving the castle for the next hour. Which means there’s no time to argue.

“Yes,” she says, pushing past him and hurrying down the hall, but Bairre matches her step for step and she realizes he isn’t going to be swayed by anything but the truth. So she gives it to him as quickly as she can.

“We have to tell my father,” he says when she’s done.

snorts. “He didn’t help much the last time, did he?”

“What do you think you can do instead?” Bairre counters.

“Follow him. See where he goes, who he talks to.” She doesn’t mention the daggers hidden on her person, the poison ring, the vial of truth serum.

“You’re going to follow someone who wants to kill you,alone—”

“Not alone,” she interrupts. “Cliona is coming as well.”

He doesn’t look terribly relieved by that.

“I don’t suppose I can convince you not to join us,” says.

“No, I don’t suppose you can,” he says with a heavy sigh.

They round the corner and find Cliona standing exactly where left her, the hand mirror still held up. When she hears them approach, she turns, taking in Bairre’s presence with raised eyebrows.

“An unavoidable complication,” grumbles, pressing the gray cloak into Cliona’s hands and putting on the white cloak herself. She takes the mirror from Cliona and looks around the corner while Cliona dons the gray cloak.

“The way you say that almost makes it sound like a compliment,” Bairre says, but waves for him to be quiet. There, in the mirror’s reflection, she sees the fair-haired man leaving the chapel. The other workers cluster together, talking about lunch plans and laughing, but the man is on his own. He doesn’t seem to know any of the others atall.

“Come on,” she says, tucking the mirror into her pocket. “He’s on the move.”

—

It is alarmingly easy to slip past the castle guards amid the exodus of servants. supposes she understands why—no one expects the three of them to be leaving the grounds voluntarily. Under normal circumstances, the lax security might bother her, but just now she’s grateful for it.

As she, Bairre, and Cliona follow the assassin at a safe distance, she realizes how much easier it would be to avoid notice if she were alone, but still there is a part of her that is grateful she isn’t.

“Cliona, you have a weapon,” she says—a statement, not a question.

Cliona shoots her a grin and rolls up the long sleeve of her gown, displaying a slim dagger strapped to her inner left forearm.

It takes an extra few seconds to unsheathe hers from their hiding places in her boot and at her thigh, and she makes a mental note to ask Cliona where she bought that arm strap. When she passes one of the daggers to Bairre, he frowns.

“You just…carry daggers with you?” he asks.

He doesn’t ask Cliona about hers, notes.

“Someone is trying to kill me,” she tells him, though that’s only half of the truth.

Most of the servants cling to the walkway that leads into the village, but the assassin meanders off alone toward the woods on the outskirts of the castle grounds. holds up a hand, indicating for Cliona and Bairre to wait.

“Let him get ahead enough that he won’t see us,” she says. The grounds are covered in a fresh sheet of snow, so they’ll be able to follow his footsteps.

“I still don’t like this,” Bairre mutters.

“Then leave,” says.

He grumbles something unintelligible under his breath, but he makes no move to walk away, and finds she’s glad. She takes his hand, and though they are both wearing gloves, she suddenly feels a little warmer.

“Trust me,” she says, and as soon as the words are out of her mouth, she hates herself for them. Because he shouldn’t trust her, and neither should Cliona. Sooner or later, she will have to betray them, but today at least they are on the same side.

“I think he’s gone far enough,” Cliona says, and pulls her hand from Bairre’s.

It’s easy to find the assassin’s boot tracks in the freshly fallen snow, and the three of them fall into their roles without discussion— following the tracks while Cliona listens for any sounds that don’t belong; Bairre keeps his dagger drawn and his eyes roaming around them, looking for the slightest hint of a threat. Bairre is used to hunting, reminds herself; of course he knows how to track. And she’s given up being surprised by Cliona’s abilities. They continue like this for half an hour, until stops short.

“What’s wrong?” Cliona asks.

doesn’t answer at first. She drops to a crouch beside the boot prints and touches the edge of one with her gloved finger.

“These are different boots,” she says, frowning. “They’re a size bigger than the ones we’ve been following, and the heel shape is entirely different.”

“Wait, here are some more,” Cliona says, looking down. “But they’re too small.”

“There’s more here, too,” Bairre says.

Panic settles over an instant before the first arrow sails through the air, clipping Cliona’s shoulder. To the other girl’s credit, she is already turning toward the archer, dagger in hand, and barely flinches at the impact before throwing the dagger. A second later, a man screams.

“Careful, there are more,” calls to her as Cliona slips into the woods to retrieve her dagger.

As though they were awaiting a sign, men begin to spill out of the shadows of the trees around them— counts six as she inches toward Bairre until they stand back to back, blades at the ready. The assassin she recognized from the castle is there, and when her eyes fall on him, he smiles.

“And here I thought it would be more difficult to lure you into a trap, Princess,” he calls to her. “I do wish you hadn’t brought friends, but alas—I was paid to kill only you. Though I suppose I can add a couple more bodies to the bill. My employer has deep pockets.”

The man’s eyes move to Bairre, then narrow. “Where did the other girl go?” he asks, looking around at his men—and they are his men, realizes. They look at him, waiting for instructions. One of them shrugs and glances away. “Murtag hit her, I thought.”

The man frowns. “Find—” but he doesn’t get the chance to finish his order. He crumples to the ground, revealing Cliona behind him, her dagger gripped tightly in her hand, now dripping blood. Her eyes meet ’s, and she nods once before all chaos breaks loose.

isn’t sure what to expect of Bairre, has never seen him lift a weapon apart from the bow, but as soon as the first assassin comes toward him, Bairre reacts with a quick jab between the ribs before taking advantage of the man’s surprise to grab his blade and turn it back on the man, slicing across his throat.

wishes she could watch him longer—there is something almost artistic about how simply he dispatched the man—but another assassin is walking toward her, raising a pistol in shaking hands—she knows right away he hasn’t shot anyone before, so she uses the second of hesitation to knock the pistol from his grip with a jab of her elbow and bury her dagger in his stomach, to the hilt.

When she straightens up, she sees Bairre looking at her with the same shock and admiration she felt toward him just seconds ago. If we make it through this, she thinks, we’ll have a lot to talk about.

Three men remain, and two of them converge on Cliona, while the third starts toward Bairre.

“Go,” Bairre tells , raising his dagger again and nodding toward Cliona. doesn’t hesitate, stopping only to grab the pistol from the snowy ground. It’s already cocked, so she aims and fires, the bullet catching one of the assassins in the chest while Cliona slits the other one’s throat. She turns just in time to see the last assassin fall to the ground, Bairre standing over him with the bloody dagger, breathing hard.

All three of them are standing, she notes, doing a quick inventory. Cliona’s shoulder is bleeding from the arrow wound, Bairre has a gash on his leg that will likely need stitches, and she distantly notes that someone stabbed her in the stomach at one point, though she barely feels it and the wound doesn’t seem terribly deep.

opens her mouth to speak, but out of the corner of her eye, she sees the fair-haired assassin pushing himself up on his elbow, raising his pistol with the other hand, the barrel leveled right at her. Before she can react, he fires and her world goes quiet and fuzzy. Distantly, she looks down and sees blood blooming across the bodice of her dress.

Too much blood, she thinks, before her thoughts go dark.