She won’t die, she decides. She simply won’t. She will do and say whatever it takes to walk out of this alive. After all, Bessemia needs her, and death doesn’t frighten her nearly as much as the prospect of failing.
“I’ll handle it,” Mrs. Nattermore says to Cliona and Diedre, though her eyes rest on Daphne. The woman doesn’t want to kill her, Daphne realizes, which isn’t to say she won’t, but the ambivalence is a tool to use. “Cliona and the guards will say they were attacked by rebels on the way back to the castle. Do we have all the guards?”
“Three out of four,” Cliona says quietly. “There’s a new one now; his family is loyal to the king.”
“Then you’ll say he valiantly gave his life trying to protect the princess.”
Daphne remembers how the guards looked at Cliona, that nod that seemed directed just at her, as if to communicate something. Now she knows three things about these rebels: they’re enemies of the king, Cliona’s family is involved, and they are very well connected. If she lives through this, she’ll have plenty of information for her mother.
Cliona falters, biting her lip before nodding. “Do it, then,” she says.
The knife presses harder against Daphne’s neck.
“You’re operating under a flawed assumption,” Daphne says, her voice coming out calm and level, though inside, her mind is churning. Survive at any cost, she reminds herself.
“Oh?” Mrs. Nattermore asks.
Daphne licks her lips, choosing her next words very carefully. She can’t give away too much, but what will that matter if she’s dead? She’ll be no use to her mother or Bessemia then. Her mother has always said she could talk a snake into eating its own tail.
“That our desires don’t overlap,” she says carefully. It isn’t a lie. They’re working against the king, and so is she.
The three exchange looks. “There is no overlap,” Mrs. Nattermore says, her voice brusque. “You want Friv united, or else you have no land to rule. We want a Friv with no king or queen, which means no princess, either.”
Daphne smiles. Maybe the best way through this is honesty—as much honesty as she dares. Maybe she can make her way out of this not just with her life, but with a bit of progress to report to her mother. “I don’t care for Friv,” she tells them. “It’s cold and coarse and I hate it here.” The knife presses harder against her neck, and Daphne wonders if that was a little too much honesty. She changes course. “If you want it, you’re welcome to it. All I want is to go home. You want to overthrow the monarchy? Wonderful. If you can manage it before my wedding, all the better. My mother will pay handsomely for my safe return, I’ll go home, and Friv will be all yours. We can all get what we want.”
“Is that meant to convince us?” Diedre asks scathingly. “We’re here because we love our country. We are patriots.”
“Then I’m assuming you don’t want Friv and Bessemia to merge,” Daphne says, looking from one to the other of them. She’s shocked them, she can tell. Good. She was planning on waiting to sow that little lie until she had the king’s seal to lend credence to it, but her mother has always said the best-laid plans are the most flexible. “That is the king’s plan. My mother has no male heir. When Bairre and I marry, the integration of Bessemia and Friv will commence, and eventually, he and I will rule it together.”
It is half true. Friv will be absorbed into Bessemia, along with Temarin and Cellaria, and Daphne will one day rule it all, but King Bartholomew knows nothing of this. Though if the rebels want to make him their villain, all the better.
“More reason to kill you,” Cliona points out. “If you’re dead, the alliance with Bessemia dies with you.”
“If you kill me, you’ll have a mess on your hands. All it will take is one person on Wallfrost Street who remembers me coming here with you, one person who sees only Cliona leave. And if King Bartholomew bartered Friv away once, he’ll do it again. Killing me would be a short-term solution to a much larger problem. Perhaps, instead, I could be of some assistance.”
It’s a desperate ploy and she isn’t quite sure what, exactly, she’s getting into, but if she lives, what does it matter? There are few things Daphne wouldn’t give for her life—in fact, nothing immediately comes to mind.
“You think we need you?” Mrs. Nattermore laughs. “There are rebels everywhere you look, Princess, loyal Frivians who see this king as the fraud he is, a power-hungry warlord who reached too far. There are rebels all over the highlands, ready to bring the clans back, ready to declare our independence if it means burning down the castle and everyone in it.”
More information to file away in her next letter to her mother, though Daphne wonders how much the empress already knows. Their spies knew about rebellions in the highlands, noble families loyal to the king who were robbed in their carriages, threats that had been made against the crown, clandestine meetings held in basements not so different from this one. Child’s play, her mother scoffed. All words and bluster, no real action. But here Daphne is, surrounded by weapons and enough gunpowder to level the city. If this doesn’t count as real action, she can’t imagine what would.
“You have support in the highlands,” Daphne says, remembering the spies’ reports. “But we aren’t in the highlands, are we? Oh, you’ll have support here as well, I’m sure. What would be the point of all these weapons if you didn’t? But not enough.”
For a moment, no one speaks.
“She isn’t wrong,” Cliona says, her voice quiet. “These weapons are all well and good, but they aren’t going to be of any use if we don’t have the manpower to get them into the castle, near the king.”
“What would you suggest, then?” Mrs. Nattermore asks.
Daphne shrugs. “The king seems to have taken a liking to me,” she says. “He’s grieving a child, and here fate’s delivered him a new one. I can use that. Not to mention the fact that I have unlimited access to the castle, including places even Cliona can’t get into.”
“Doubtful,” Cliona says.
Daphne smirks. “So you’ve been alone in the king’s study, then?”
Cliona’s jaw tightens. “It’s locked when he isn’t there.”
“Yes, I suppose that would stop some people,” Daphne says.
Mrs. Nattermore stares at her for a long moment. “Who exactly are you?” she asks.
Daphne shakes her head. “There is plenty you aren’t telling me,” she says. “It’s only fair I keep a few secrets for myself.”
“What do you want, then?” Diedre asks, eyes narrow.
“Well, for one thing, I’d like you to drop the knife, Mrs. Nattermore. If you were going to use it, you would have by now, but it’s terribly uncomfortable all the same.”