“Sir, please,” she says before hesitating and biting her lip. “Do you know what stardust looks like?” she asks, dropping her voice to a whisper.
That gets his attention, and his eyes snap to her as if truly seeing her for the first time. “Why do you want to know?”
She pretends to hesitate again. “I think I might have seen some in the Lord Ambassador to Temarin’s rooms. There was a small vial of some kind of silver dust—”
“Where?” he interrupts, standing up straighter.
“Tucked away in one of his boots. In the wardrobe, a tall black pair.”
The words are barely out of Beatriz’s mouth before the guard is hurrying past her, toward the rooms she just came from.
When she gets back to her own rooms, Beatriz suddenly feels so exhausted, her head pounding and every muscle aching, that sleep claims her as soon as she climbs into bed beside Pasquale. She doesn’t wake again until dusk, and by the time she does, Lord Savelle’s arrest is all anyone is speaking of.
Daphne finds Cliona in the woods outside the palace, sitting with her back against a tree trunk with a book open on her knee and a half-eaten apple in her hand. When she hears Daphne approach on horseback, she looks up, unsurprised.
“Were you followed?” Cliona asks through a mouthful of apple.
Daphne rolls her eyes and dismounts, keeping hold of the horse’s reins. Her usual mare, Mánot, hurt her ankle, and the horse the stable hand saddled for her instead isn’t as well trained. It was all she could do to keep her saddle on the ride here.
“Of course not,” she says. “The king believes the castle grounds are safe and says I don’t need a guard as long as I stay within the bounds.”
“Good,” Cliona says, closing her book and getting to her feet. “My father was impressed with you.”
Daphne has to bite her tongue to keep from giving a sarcastic response about how much she values Cliona’s father’s opinion. Remember to keep your enemies close, my dove—and the enemies of our enemies all the closer, the empress wrote, in response to Daphne’s weekly update, telling her about the rebels and their frustrations with King Bartholomew.
They won’t succeed, but if Daphne can keep their anger stoked, they’ll be able to weaken Bartholomew’s hold on Friv and make it easier for Margaraux to eventually seize it.
“You weren’t lying about the marriage contract,” Cliona says, her voice soft.
Daphne shakes her head. “In fact…” She breaks off, reaching into her pocket to draw out the forged letter from the king to her mother, complete with his seal. She passes it to Cliona. “I was arranging to have something sent to my sister when I spotted this on the postmaster’s desk, along with some other correspondence. I grabbed it when his back was turned.”
“Well done,” Cliona says, sounding impressed. She opens the letter and scans it, the furrow in her brow deepening. “You read it?” she asks, glancing at Daphne, who makes a show of hesitating before she nods.
“Bartholomew knows about your little rebellion. He’s readying for a war,” Daphne says.
Cliona merely lifts a shoulder in a shrug. “Then we’ll give him one.”
Daphne raises her eyebrows. As much as Cliona’s reaction will suit her mother’s goal of destabilizing Bartholomew’s rule, she’s surprised at how quickly the other girl jumped at it. “You think it will be so easy?” she asks, wondering if perhaps she has been underestimating the power the rebels have, if it is something her mother should be concerned about. “That letter says he’s soliciting help not just from Bessemia, but from Temarin as well.”
“And?” Cliona says. “The rebellion has the majority of the highlands.”
Or perhaps the rebels have exactly as much power as Daphne thought, and Cliona is simply a fool. She is comparing a puddle to the sea. It’s hardly surprising—Friv prides itself on staying separate and secluded, on acting as if the rest of the world doesn’t exist. No one at court talks about what’s going on in Temarin or Bessemia or Cellaria—she knows, she’s asked around, trying to learn what her sisters and mother are up to, but with no luck. While Daphne studied the entire continent growing up, she would be surprised if Cliona even knows what the capital cities are called, let alone Temarin’s reputation as a brutal war power.
“Bartholomew might know about the rebellion, but he doesn’t know about you,” Cliona says. “You’re in a position to help us—you stole this letter, but when he doesn’t receive a response, Bartholomew will write her again. You could get to her first, convince her not to send troops.”
Daphne laughs. “Why exactly should I do anything more to help you?” she asks. She will, of course, since it furthers her mother’s goals as well, but she’s interested to see what Cliona will offer her.
“You do us another favor, you get more stardust.”
It takes all of Daphne’s self-control not to grin. “How much?” she asks.
“A vial,” Cliona says. “For now.”
“And all I have to do is write to my mother?” Daphne asks.
“Well, I’m not going to trust your word on that alone,” Cliona says, rolling her eyes. “I’ll write the letter, you can copy it and sign it, and then I’ll give it to the postmaster for you. And one more thing—I’d like you to dance,” she says, a slow grin spreading across her face.
Daphne blinks. “Pardon me?”
“At your betrothal banquet tomorrow night,” Cliona says. “The king invited the heads of the highland clans to attend. Some are on our side, others are loyal to the king, but there are a handful we believe may be amenable to joining the rebellion. Three in particular.”
“You think I can turn them in a single night?” Daphne asks, raising her eyebrows. “I’m flattered, truly, but I think you overestimate my skills.”
“I don’t think I do,” Cliona says. “And you won’t try to turn them, just tell me, in your opinion, if you believe it’s possible to turn them.”
Daphne pretends to consider it for a full minute. She knows that her loyalty is being tested more than anyone else’s. “What are the names?” she asks.
“I’ll leave you a list with the letter you’ll copy—word for word,” Cliona says.
“Anything else?” Daphne asks, even though she’s already gathering her horse’s reins.
“Just a general reminder that we’re watching, we’re everywhere, don’t do anything stupid,” Cliona says.
“Yes, yes, trust me, I’m terrified,” Daphne says. She moves to step into the stirrup and mount her horse, but as soon as she shifts her weight, the girth snaps and the saddle slides off, knocking Daphne flat on her back, the air fleeing from her lungs. She looks up just in time to see black hooves reared up over her and hears the horse let out a hair-raising shriek. Instinct takes over and she turns her face away, closing her eyes tight and waiting for the inevitable impact. Instead, Cliona’s hands grab her arm and yank her out of the way with surprising strength.