A scant half hour after emerging from the river drenched and freezing, Daphne finds herself in a dry, new gown almost identical to the green velvet one she wore before, a thick ermine cape draped over her shoulders to ward off the chill that works its way even into the carriage she shares with King Bartholomew and Bairre. Neither of them seems to feel the cold, but when Daphne remarks on it, Bartholomew gives her a small smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.
“You’ll grow used to it, in time,” he tells her.
Daphne thinks she would rather burn alive than stay in this miserable place long enough to grow used to it, but she pretends to find the words a comfort.
King Bartholomew glances at Bairre, whose attention is focused out the window, before looking back at her. He seems to steel himself for something—hardly a good sign, Daphne thinks. The king takes a deep, steadying breath before he speaks.
“There is no easy way to say this and I’m still struggling to say it at all, but Cillian died six days ago, the night after Cliona and the others departed to meet you.”
Daphne laughs. She doesn’t mean to, but after all the stress and sleepless nights and change over the course of the last few days, she can’t help it.
“You aren’t serious,” she says, but when Bartholomew and Bairre only look at her with anguished eyes, her laughter dies. “I—I’m s-so sorry,” she stammers, “I didn’t mean…I’d heard he was ill, but I didn’t think…”
“None of us did,” King Bartholomew says, shaking his head. “Until a few months ago, he was the picture of health. We always assumed his illness would pass. It didn’t.”
His words are clipped and matter-of-fact and Daphne can see the general he was before he was king, a man more familiar with death than life. But even that hasn’t prepared him for the loss of his son—beneath the placid exterior, there is pain in his eyes.
“I’m sorry,” she says, and she means it. She didn’t know Cillian, not really. They’ve shared letters over the last few years and she’s thought him kind and clever, but she isn’t Sophronia, imagining herself in love with a boy made of words. Any sympathy she feels, though, is quickly drowned out by panic that she tries her best to hide. What does this mean for her mother’s plan, for her own future?
“Thank you,” King Bartholomew says. “It’s difficult for a parent to lose a child, just as I’m sure it was difficult for you to lose your father.”
Daphne doesn’t correct him, though the truth is that she rarely thinks about her father. He died when she was only a few days old. She couldn’t mourn someone she’d never known, and besides, her mother has been more than enough.
“I always looked forward to Cillian’s letters,” she says instead, another lie that falls easily from her lips. “I was very much excited to finally meet him.”
“I know he felt the same, isn’t that right, Bairre?” King Bartholomew says, looking at his son.
Bairre gives a jerky nod but doesn’t speak.
“However,” Bartholomew continues, “I am a king first and everything else second, even a father. And as much as I would like to take the time to properly grieve Cillian, I must ensure my country’s well-being. We need the trade routes our alliance with Bessemia promised.”
Daphne frowns. “I’m sorry, I’m confused,” she says. “I came here to seal an alliance through marriage. If Cillian is dead—”
“Cillian was my wife’s and my only surviving child, but there were others. Ten total. Six born alive; three of those survived a week. None survived two.”
“I’m sorry,” she says again.
King Bartholomew shakes his head. “The reason I am telling you this is so that you understand: we can have no more children together. The stars will not give us any, for whatever their reasons might be. And a united Friv is too young—too fragile—to endure should I die without an heir.” He pauses, looking at Bairre, who sits up straighter, his face suddenly ashen. “However, I do have an heir.”
“You must be joking,” Bairre practically growls. “Cillian has been dead six days and you want me to replace him? To just step into his life, his title, his betrothal like a pair of hand-me-down boots?”
King Bartholomew flinches, but his gaze on his son remains steady. “Friv needs a clear future. Legitimizing you is the only way to give her one.” He doesn’t wait for Bairre’s response, instead turning to Daphne. “And this way, our treaty with Bessemia will still stand. I have written to your mother already. Her agreement arrived just before you did. An updated contract is being drawn up as we speak.”
Of course she has, Daphne thinks. One Frivian prince is much the same as another. She doubts her mother even spared the matter a second thought.
“Is it a request?” Bairre asks his father, his voice shaking. “Or a royal order?”
The king doesn’t answer at first, though he suddenly looks much older than his thirty-seven years. “You are my son,” he tells Bairre. “And I believe I have raised you in such a way that you will know the difference.”
If Bairre does know the difference, he doesn’t say as much. Instead, he looks at Daphne for the first time since she entered the carriage. “And you?” he asks, the words scathing. “Are you all right with agreeing to marry a stranger?”
Daphne holds his gaze. “I was always going to marry a stranger,” she says before looking at King Bartholomew. “Whatever it takes for the treaty to hold.”
* * *
—
If the Bessemian palace is the crown jewel of the country, the sun around which all life revolves, the castle Daphne steps into that evening is the long shadow of Friv, a distillation of its wildness and savagery. There isn’t a hint of gold glowing beneath the light of the candles, no shining enamel paint, no glistening marble. It is all stone and wood, narrow hallways lined with thick wool rugs in shades of gray, and sparse décor. Where the entryway of the Bessemian palace is bright and decorated with gilded paintings and porcelain vases stocked with fresh flowers, the entryway here is dimly lit, with only a handful of oil portraits framed in naked wood.
Daphne pulls her ermine cloak tighter around her shoulders.
“I must check on the queen,” King Bartholomew tells them as soon as they’re inside. “Bairre—will you see Daphne settled in?”
The king doesn’t wait for an answer before hurrying off down the dark hallway. Daphne and Bairre remain, cloaked in an awkward silence.
“I’m sorry,” she says when the silence becomes too much. “I can see you cared for him.”
He doesn’t answer right away. “He was my brother,” he tells her, finally, as if it’s that simple.
And it is. Because even though Daphne doesn’t like Bairre, she cannot imagine what it is like in his mind right now. If it were Sophronia or Beatriz dead, she doesn’t know how she would even continue to breathe.