The horse’s front hooves hit the ground where she was lying a mere instant before, and then he’s off, running into the woods.
Daphne sits up, wincing as she does. “No need for the literal demonstration,” she snaps at Cliona. “I believed your threats already.”
“You think I was behind that?” Cliona asks, looking so angry that Daphne believes she’s innocent. “It was an accident.”
Daphne shakes her head, looking at the discarded saddle lying beside her. She takes hold of the girth and holds it up for Cliona to see—the leather is cut clean through three-quarters of the way, the rest roughly ripped.
“Not an accident,” Daphne says, standing up on shaky legs. “The stable hand said my usual mare turned her ankle, but, come to think of it, I didn’t recognize the man.”
“And you didn’t find that suspicious?” Cliona asks.
“Not until now,” Daphne admits, frowning. “It isn’t as if I’ve been here long enough to know all the stable hands. I wasn’t exactly expecting an assassination attempt.”
“Assassination attempt sounds awfully dramatic,” Cliona says.
“I’m sorry, I was just nearly trampled to death by a horse,” Daphne says. “What, exactly, would you call that?”
Cliona rolls her eyes. “You aren’t asking the right question,” she says. “Who wants you dead, Princess?”
“Apart from you?” Daphne asks.
“If I wanted you dead, I wouldn’t have saved you—you’re welcome for that, by the way,” Cliona retorts.
It’s a solid point. “Then I don’t know,” Daphne says. “But I’m certainly going to find out.”
She reaches down and collects the broken saddle, hefting it over her shoulder and starting into the woods, back in the direction of the castle.
“A little gratitude wouldn’t kill you,” Cliona calls after her.
“Maybe not, but one near-death experience was enough for me and I’d rather not risk it,” Daphne shouts over her shoulder.
* * *
—
For a brief moment, Daphne considers alerting the king to the attempt on her life, but she dismisses the idea immediately. He would never give her a moment without guards again, and that would make it impossible to carry out any new orders her mother sends her. And besides, tampering with her saddle? If someone truly wants her dead, they’ll have to try harder than that.
When she gets back to the stable, she looks around for the stable hand who saddled up the horse this morning, but he’s nowhere to be found. Instead, there is Mánot in her stall, with no sign of a turned ankle, and one of the stable hands she does recognize.
“Gavriel,” she says, smiling when she sees him brushing down another horse. “It looks like Mánot is feeling better.”
“Better, Your Highness?” he asks, frowning.
“Yes, the stable hand this morning said she turned her ankle. I’m afraid I didn’t catch his name.”
“It’s only been me this morning,” he says, his frown deepening. “Ian is home sick today, so I’ve been busier than usual—you say someone else helped you?”
Daphne holds on to her smile, trying to read Gavriel’s expression, but if he had anything to do with her damaged girth, he’s a better liar than she is, which she doubts.
“Yes, it must have been another servant trying to help,” she says, waving a hand dismissively. “But he did saddle up a different horse for me—taller than Mánot, chestnut, black mane?”
At that, Gavriel’s face goes ashen. “Vrain?” he asks. “But he isn’t fit to ride. He only just arrived as a betrothal gift. Excellent bloodlines, but wild.”
“A gift for me?” Daphne asks. Gavriel nods. “From whom?”
“King Bartholomew,” he says before looking away, his cheeks reddening. “Apologies, Your Highness, I believe it was meant as a surprise.”
Daphne smiles, even though her mind is turning this over, trying to fit the pieces together. “Oh, I won’t tell him,” she promises. “However, on our ride he did get away from me. I stopped to adjust the saddle and…well, I hope he didn’t get far.”
“I’ll send scouts out right away,” Gavriel tells her. “We’re lucky that’s all it was—Vrain has thrown the last few trainers who have tried to ride him.”
“Yes,” Daphne says. “Very lucky indeed.”
* * *
—
That night, Daphne finds the list and letter Cliona promised her. She decides to tackle the letter to her mother first, reading over what Cliona drafted for her.
My dear Mother,
I hope you are well. I write to you because I fear King Bartholomew has not left the war behind him—he sees enemies everywhere, always talking about rebel factions plotting against him. He even mentioned writing to you to request troops! I know that he was a great hero in his time, but I beg you to ignore his pleas. There is no one plotting against him—everyone I have met has been wonderful to me, and they all seem to look forward to Prince Bairre’s and my rule.
Daphne
It sounds nothing like a letter Daphne would send her mother, but that’s just as well—the empress will know it’s a fake as soon as she sees it. Daphne writes it out verbatim in her own hand, adding only a closing, May the stars shine upon you and Bessemia, before turning the piece of parchment over and finding the jar of ink hidden in the back of her desk drawer. She begins to write the real message.
Dear Mama,
Ignore this, it is a ruse. I have it all well in hand with our rebel friends. More soon.
Daphne
When she’s done, the ink dries to invisibility. It will stay that way until her mother dusts it with the ink’s accompanying powder—an invention of Nigellus’s that uses stardust, indicated by Daphne’s closing on the false letter.
She sets that aside and unfolds the list of names. All three are familiar to her by name only.
Lord Ian Maives, Cliona has written. Daphne mentally adds queen’s brother-in-law, close friend of king.
There is no possibility of Lord Maives’s siding with the rebels, and Daphne suspects Cliona included him as part of her test, to see if Daphne’s information is good. She moves on to the next name.
Lord Rufus Cadringal
There’s one that could go either way. The new Lord Cadringal is barely older than Daphne, with five younger siblings. His father died suddenly, and Daphne would wager the boy is lost and impressionable.
The third name on the list gives Daphne pause.