Daughters of Ruin by K. D. Castner

it.
    â€œFor your kindness, Your Majesty,” said Iren.

    Rhea walked down the wide stone corridor of Meridan Keep as she always did—as her father taught her—with a weapon hidden in her palm. The hairpin was sharp enough to suture a crocodile’s maw. “Pray you never need it,” her father had whispered, “but some in the castle will never love us. Some think I killed my friend Kendrick and hid his heir in the dungeons.”
    But such was always the way—Rhea knew—with royal clamor. Rumor and conspiracy rarely bothered with the truth. Rhea had watched her father weep for good King Kendrick, his bosom friend, every year. She had seen the dungeons, which Declan had emptied of prisoners and showed to disbelieving nobles.
    â€œAll this room,” he had said, standing in the basement floor. “I suppose Meridan Keep will boast the largest wine cellar in all of Pelgard.”
    He had no heart for dungeons and no interest in rumors.
    â€œMeet rumors with quiet, my love.”
    When Rhea was younger and felt her sisters hush whenever she entered a chamber, that was his coda. Meet rumor with quiet. But he was no fool, for as she got older, he told her of the discontented nobles who would fare better under some mocked-up heir to Kendrick—a puppet they would name Taylin, after Kendrick’s misbegotten babe. He told her of the Findish rebels. And he added to their code: “Meet rumor with quiet, treason with cunning.”
    Rhea followed the shinhound Iren had secretly named Ismata toward Hiram’s study, where she would likely find her father as well. The magister was cunning enough for all of them.
    His shinhounds carried secret messages throughout the palace and the spy networks of Meridan.
    No treason would match the young magister’s cunning.
    Rhea wondered if he knew of Iren naming the hounds and training them to her command.
    As she climbed the tower to the magister’s study, matching the hound’s pace, Rhea noted the soreness in her thighs. Perhaps she’d worked too hard before the Revels.
    She paused on the landing, outside the candlelight of the study to compose her breath. From the room, she heard Hiram’s voice. “Ah. Good boy, Ismata.”
    Rhea smiled. Of course the magister knows . Perhaps he was charmed by her childish attempt to give pet names to war dogs.
    â€œIs there a return message?”
    The voice was her father’s.
    A rustle of parchment.
    â€œNo. The king commands. The children listen.”
    Her father made a mocking sound. Do they know I am here?
    The scrabbling of the shinhound must have covered her footfalls. Rhea felt a momentary thrill at the illicit idea of spying on the two great men of Meridan.
    Iren, in all her properness, would have surely disapproved of queens skulking in dark hallways.
    Rhea eased forward along the wall to the edge of the entry and listened.
    â€œVery well, then. They’re likely cursing my name,” said Declan.
    â€œGood,” said Hiram. “Those who complain for want of handsome dancing partners lack real dangers to speak of.”
    â€œI’ve heard that Taylin is handsome,” said her father in a playful tone.
    â€œOh, I’m sure he’s quite the beauty. Grown ten feet in every direction.”
    Her father laughed. It must have been great relief, when every day the nobles spread rumors against him, as if the dead heir would arise to take the throne and give them back their ill-gotten lands.
    Her father sighed heavily.
    â€œOld friend, I fear the Findish use the myth to court our own banners away from us. They claim he captains a galleon and a crew of rivermen who pledge his return.”
    â€œRumormongering to stir discord. The Findish revolt isn’t nearly so illustrious,” said Hiram.
    â€œI know. The poor child is dead. But these river rats pirated far too inland for my liking. I think we’ll have to buy their loyalty.”
    Rhea had