Daughters of Ruin (31 page)

C
adis fell.

But Iren caught her.

An awkward grab by the shoulders to avoid pushing the bolt farther.

It staked into her stomach, through her right hand.

Iren let Cadis down gently.

She grabbed the bloody hand.

Cadis screamed.

Every bone in it was shattered.

Steady. Steady.

Iren dislodged the wooden shaft from Cadis's stomach without shifting it in her hand.

The breaths came in spasms.

But at least they came.

Her stomach didn't bleed as much as her hand. Sacrificing it had saved her life.

Iren found herself admiring her old friend as she never had before.

She felt guilty that it had taken so long.

Iren helped Cadis over to the terra-cotta planter, where she could sit up. “I'll go get help,” said Iren.

Cadis grabbed her arm. “You're not coming back, are you?”

“No, I'm not,” said Iren.

She had time enough to take the land route through the badlands back to Corent before total war broke out.

Declan would hear of Hiram's death in a few days. He would march on Findain. Her mother surely had spies to keep her informed. But Iren could be of use, somehow. She would make sure of it. Cadis had not let go of her arm.

“Please,” said Cadis. “You could join us. We could join with the rebels. We could stop Meridan. We know how he thinks.”

“We don't,” said Iren.

“You do.”

“But I'm not coming back.”

It was a naive plan.

The old Cadis.

But it was also shrewd for the archana to join the rebels.

Declan would never expect it.

Perhaps a new Cadis had arisen.

Iren should have gotten up then.

Something kept her.

“You'll do just fine,” she said.

Cadis shook her head, no, as if telling herself not to cry. She looked away. She wanted something, some kind of momentous behavior.

So much of what Cadis wanted was born of understanding the world as a giant theater for the gods. She wanted Iren to exclaim her feelings, to be a fountain of emotion. To rend garments and shout, “Sister!” to a sky that Iren knew for certain did not give a damn.

She wanted to know Iren loved her.

“Just go,” said Cadis. Iren made an awkward crab step over Cadis's legs and sat down next to her. Like before, when they'd first met. Iren hoped speeches wouldn't be necessary. She tucked her head into Cadis's shoulder and closed her eyes. She felt Cadis sobbing. She wiped her own eyes.

They weren't kidnapped little girls anymore. They didn't need to hold each other to survive a night.

They had killed and grown and escaped.

They were queens now.

And when they left the room, they would have new allegiances: Cadis to her rebel dream of rule by the people, Iren to the academy. It had always been to the academy and her mother.

Soon Rhea would take the throne of Meridan and fight them all. She was Declan's blood. Suki would ride to war just to win Endrit.

War was coming. Only sisters could stop it.

But they were not sisters.

Iren wished she could apologize for being the less loving one. For being so hard. “Thanks for being my friend,” she said, remembering their first night and wondering if Cadis would remember it the same.

“Just go,” said Cadis.

Iren got up. She snapped her fingers, and the shinhound ran to her side.

“Don't let Rhea take the midlands,” she said. Hypatia and the rebels wanted bloodshed. Cadis should have been consolidating her power instead of giving it up to the vote of the uneducated, self-interested, and untrained.

Iren wanted to say all of this.

Somehow the words wouldn't form.

“Don't worry,” said Cadis. “I won't look for assistance from the Corentine.”

“That's not—”

It wasn't what Iren meant.

Cadis groaned as she got herself up to go tend to Jesper.

“You have safe passage through Findain,” she said with her back turned.

Iren turned and left the room.

The shinhound followed.

She hoped her mother would be happy to see her.

F
or ten short years, Rhea had three sisters and she loved and hated them. She sat at the great round oaken table of their shared space as the sun rose and remembered it all.

Cadis, a gallant beauty, mounting the table and belting her orations, as if she stood in the Findish theater.

Iren, silent as the zephyr, cutting as the gale, sitting on three stacked books to see her glasswork on the table.

Suki, full of fuss and fear and fire, in turns vaulting across the chairs and pouting underneath the table.

It was all a ruin now.

Her father—king or usurper, guardian or prison guard, peacekeeper or villain—sat now in the dungeon awaiting trial. Would he get justice or vengeance from Endrit? The lost heir, returned from the grave—already beloved by the people, already plotted against by the nobles.

And what am I?

Just another for Endrit?

When they released Marta, she confirmed the history. The dragoons secured the castle immediately. Such transitions were bloody seasons. He would be inaccessible until magisters could verify the crest of Kendrick and Valda, until declarations could be made to all others.

Rhea sat at the table waiting to lose a throne she had never owned by rights in the first place.

Oddly, she did not mind.

Oddly, she found herself feeling certain of one thing: Endrit would need her. Whatever else he thought of her—as men think of women—she was still the only other to have lived as they had, in the gardened prison of the Protectorate. He would trust her for that reason. She was the only one sculpted to rule Meridan. And he knew it. He knew that she could be the mind of Meridan, even as he was the heart of it.

Hiram was her only rival in that knowledge—but Hiram was still missing. And if he returned, he was Declan's pet, not hers. And his whisperings could be silenced.

In many ways, Rhea realized, she would have a stronger grip on the crown of Meridan than she ever had before.

All she needed to do was keep the stable boy entertained—a dance to which she was learning the steps.

There would be plotting, of course. Always someone plotting. And there would be war. But her sisters had barely ascended in the eyes of their people, while Endrit was already a legend. There would be rumor and slander all through her father's trial. But Rhea smiled and watched the sun rise over the keep in newfound calm.

She was equal to it. She was stronger than Rhys, or if not stronger, at least better versed in the skills that mattered.

To meet rumor with quiet.

Treason with cunning.

And vicious with vicious.

Three little queens went riding into Meridan

Three little queens who won't ride out

The price of war makes a strange inheritance

Dance little queens, but don't . . . fall . . . down.

I
have looked forward to the opportunity to thank the many unsung and brilliant individuals who helped complete this book. They deserve far more than my thanks, but words are the writer's best currency, so I offer it freely.

Thank you first and foremost to Annie Nybo, who is the editor, babysitter, warden, tutor, and visionary of this endeavor. Editing is as difficult a craft as any true art form, and precious few practice it as gently and firmly, as insightfully and humbly, as precisely and clearly as Annie. For instance, if she had edited this paragraph, it would not have all the adverbs you just endured. Evidence, dear reader, that this entire book owes much to the craftsmanship of a good editor.

Wherever you find merit, please also credit the hard work of the Simon & Schuster team: editorial captain at McElderry Books, Karen Wojtyla. Citizens of Olympus Justin Chanda, Anne Zafian, and Jon Anderson. Managing editor Bridget Madsen. Our amazing designer, Sonia Chaghatzbanian, who created such a lovely package, and cover artist Charlie Bowater, whose magnificent hand gave our Rhea that delightfully inscrutable grin. And thank you also to Elizabeth Blake-Linn, a miracle worker in production, who gave us those special effects on the cover to highlight Charlie's work.

A special thanks to Zareen Jaffrey, Dani Young, Ruta Rimas, Emma Ledbetter, Amy Rosenbaum, Julia Maguire, Navah Wolfe, Kristin Ostby, and Ariel Coletti, who saw the book in its infancy—and Kirsten Dean, who kept with it throughout.

Thanks to Deane Norton, Christian Pecorale, Rio Cortez, Danielle Esposito, and Colin Shields for helping the book reach as many hands as possible, and thanks to Chrissy Noh, Michelle Leo, Candace Green, Anthony Parisi, Lucille Rettino, Katy Hershberger, Ellen Grafton, and Alex Del Negro for making sure people know of it.

Thank you all.

Much love,

KDC

MARGARET K. McELDERRY BOOKS

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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author's imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Text copyright © 2016 by Simon & Schuster, Inc.

Jacket illustration copyright © 2016 by Charlie Bowater

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Castner, K. D.

Daughters of ruin / K. D. Castner.

p. cm.

Summary: As a war begins, four princesses of enemy kingdoms who were raised as sisters must decide where their loyalties lie: to their kingdoms, or to each other.

ISBN 978-1-4814-3665-6 (hardcover)

ISBN 978-1-4814-3667-0 (eBook)

[1. Princesses—Fiction. 2. Sisters—Fiction. 3. War—Fiction. 4. Loyalty—Fiction.] I. Title.

PZ7.1.C45Dau 2016

2015003949