AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Right now, he has his fingers looped casually around my wrist as he peers over the busy square. “The city has so many people. How will we be able to talk to them all?”
“We don’t need to speak to all of them. As long as we catch the attention of a bunch, they’ll chatter about it to everyone they know, and word will spread that way.”
The daimon-man’s eyebrows leap up. “It’s like a kind of magic. Humans are so eager to share things with each other.”
Despite the tension coiled in my belly, my lips twitch with a smile. “I guess the sharing helps us understand the world—by finding out what everyone around us makes of it too.”
For a long time, I didn’t have anyone I could really talk to that way. All I could do was listen in from the shadows.
It is easier to feel like I have a place here when I’ve got people who want me beside them.
Rheave adjusts his quiver against his back. He’s brought his bow and plenty of arrows so he can shoot down any captured daimon we spot in the crowd we expect to form.
That’ll both ensure they don’t interfere and give proof to the story Petra’s going to tell.
I glance at the clock tower visible over the tops of the nearby buildings. “Just another few minutes to go.”
Rheave shifts on his feet. His hand slips from my wrist briefly and then snatches it again when he ripples out of view as I must have to him. His gaze twitches to me and away.
It still feels like something’s a little strange about how he’s acted with me since I escaped Lothar. The uneasiness I’m tamping down creeps up through my chest.
“Is everything all right?” I ask him. “Nothing’s come up in the past several days that’s bothering you?”
The daimon-man lets out a dismissive huff. “Of course not. You’re back with us, and that’s what matters the most. We’ll deal with the rest of the scourge sorcerers like we brought down their march.”
His fingers tighten against my skin, but he still keeps his gaze averted. Maybe it’s only general daimon oddness… or maybe there’s something he doesn’t want to tell me.
I was under the control of the same scourge sorcerer—or at least one with the same gift—as the one who’s manipulated him. Does he associate me with that awful magic now?
“You know,” I try again, “even people who care a lot about each other sometimes have problems come up that they need to talk through. That’s part of having a close relationship with someone—at least for humans. So if you ever are concerned about anything to do with me or my other partners or anyone else we’re spending time with, I’d want you to say so.”
Rheave scoots a little nearer so he can give the side of my head a brief nuzzle. “I know that, Little Vine. So much talking. But the only thing I’m wondering about right now is what the people down there will be saying when Petra talks.”
His voice has lightened enough that I’m not sure if I was just imagining my impression of his discomfort. It could be the lingering madness provoking a more subtle paranoia.
So I smile at him and set my hand over his to give it an affectionate squeeze.
Before I can say anything else, a light flashes overtop a stack of crates at the other end of the square.
The brief flare is an illusion conjured by Tinom, designed to draw people’s attention to the main show. It fades into a projected image of Petra as I know she’s standing in a building elsewhere in the middle wards.
We picked out the three squares in this section of the city where we thought there’d be the most activity—the most people around to hear our true queen’s message. The nobles of the inner wards, Petra and Tinom can reach out to directly. It’s the more ordinary people who make up the majority of Florian’s citizens who she needs to get on her side against the scourge sorcerers.
Rheave and I are here to take note of reactions in this spot. Alek and Casimir are watching the second square. The third is within viewing distance of the place where Petra is actually standing, where Stavros has been coaching her on the best ways to stir people’s loyalties and remind them that our country is worth fighting for.
Petra didn’t have her royal crown, but she found herself a violet dress of sweeping silk worthy of a queen. For once, she’s swept up her dark hair into the formal, swirling style favored by the court. And her stance is nothing short of regal.
Her clear voice rings through the square, amplified as part of the illusion like Lothar projected his the other night. “People of Florian! I have important news to share with you. You’ve been lied to about the death of our king.”
As planned, those words get everyone’s attention quickly enough. Most heads in the square swivel toward the illusion of Petra. Startled murmurs pass between the onlookers.
Petra hurtles onward, unable to hear the response she’s getting. She holds up the blood-sworn letter with the sigil showing. “I was there when King Konram was murdered, because he is my father. You may not recognize me, but you should see the resemblance to my mother, Queen Ishild. When I was twelve years old, at my dedication ceremony, I stopped being Prince Dunstam and became Princess Petra. My parents decided to keep my new identity secret from you for my own security, as this blood-sworn document confirms. But it is your security I’m most worried about now.”
The warble of voices has risen while she speaks, some people below us sputtering in disbelief, others letting out shocked laughs. I notice more figures are arriving from the streets that lead into the square, others emerging from the shops and eateries along its edges.
“Prince Dunstam died!” someone hollers. “This bint could be anyone!”
“She does have Queen Ishild’s look to her,” a woman murmurs to her companion just beneath my rooftop perch.
