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I lean back in my chair, sorting through the questions I meant to ask. “Their precautions beyond the city walls—how much are they monitoring the area around Florian? How far out?”
Filip wets his lips. “It may be more now that you’ve disrupted their influence. But when I was there, the Order was focusing most of their efforts on keeping control over people in the city and securing the walls themselves. They didn’t care much about the farmlands nearby.”
Alek lets out a rough chuckle. “Very efficient of them. Reserve their efforts for where the population is most concentrated.”
I exhale in a sigh. “Well, if they’ve kept up that approach, it’ll at least be a little easier for?—”
A voice cuts through my statement, bellowing through the halls of the country residence. “Baron Cyris! General Stavros!”
The urgency in the yell has me shoving back the chair with a rasp and springing to my feet. Alek and I exchange a fleeting glance before we both hustle to the front hall to find out what the ruckus is about.
I jerk to a halt on the threshold of the foyer. Three of the baron’s guards stand in a tense ring around a slumped man who’s bound tight with rope and dripping blood from his forehead. The slackness of his pose against the floor suggests he’s unconscious if not dead, possibly from the blow to the head.
Alek and I aren’t the only ones who’ve been drawn by the clamor. Casimir and Rheave both appear within moments of our arrival, along with a few of the rebels from Pima, a couple of the estate’s staff, and all three of the royal heirs.
At the sight of the future queen, the guard who appears to be in charge holds up his hand to ward Petra back. “Don’t come closer, Your Highness! We don’t know what he might be capable of.”
Petra reaches out to hold Princess Klaudia and Prince Jacos with her, but even as her jaw tightens, she arches an eyebrow. “He doesn’t look as if he’s capable of doing much harm at the moment. Who is he?”
Before they can answer, Stavros strides into the hall. The title may no longer be fully accurate, but the massive man still looks every inch a general.
Baron Cyris hurries in close behind him. “What’s the meaning of this commotion?”
The lead guard dips his head to his employer. “Sir, we found this man sneaking around near the estate. He attempted to run when he realized he’d been spotted, but we were able to subdue him. I think he’s a spy for the Order of the Wild. I expected you’d want to?—”
Rheave breaks in with a sudden step forward. “He’s a daimon.”
Everyone in the room goes still and silent as they absorb that declaration. Then my daimon-man takes another step toward the bound captive, and two of the guards jerk up their swords.
Rheave blinks at them with obvious confusion. “I wouldn’t harm you.”
The lead guard seems to prefer to ignore him when he isn’t approaching, looking instead at the baron. “The spy isn’t even human, then. One of their animated slaves. He won’t tell us anything. We should end him now before he comes to and has a chance to blast us with that magic of theirs.”
I’m not sure which part of the scene jolts the hasty words from my throat. Maybe it’s the sorrow that flashes across Rheave’s sweet face or the helpless sprawl of the captured daimon, or maybe the hint of a sneer in the guard’s dismissive words.
Whatever the case, I find myself pushing forward to stand by my inhuman lover. “No! Not like that.”
The guard’s expression turns incredulous—with a flicker of fear he manages to master quickly. “You’re not the one who gives my orders.”
“Her judgment is worth listening to all the same,” Stavros says firmly. He folds his arms over his chest. “What are you thinking, Ivy?”
I glance at Rheave and then at the rest of the spectators. My gaze catches on the faces of the royal children: Klaudia’s, pale but determined; Jacos’s, wide-eyed with obvious anxiety.
They’ve accepted the one daimon among us as an ally because it’s hard to speak to Rheave and not see him as a sort of person. But all the other daimon the scourge sorcerers have captured have blended into a nameless mass simply labeled “the enemy.”
None of the spirit creatures ever wanted to hurt us. Don’t we owe each of them a chance to be something else when we can offer it?
Isn’t that the kind of compassion I want our future rulers to see is possible?
I don’t know if that explanation will win me any ground with the baron, so I consider the practicalities. “Even if the sorcery compelling this daimon means he can’t tell us anything on purpose, we might be able to get him to reveal a little bit involuntarily. It’d be incredibly useful to know why he was lurking in this area—how much the Order already suspects. Whether there are others roaming around here.”
The baron’s mouth sets in a hard line. “Is it worth the risk of the damage he could do when he wakes up? I wouldn’t want you to need to strain yourself defending us.”
The edge in his voice makes my hackles rise. Before I can respond, Rheave interjects.
“I can stop him,” he says quietly. “Our powers will deflect each other. And as long as he’s tied up like that, it’ll be easy to keep him under control.”
Petra lifts her chin imperiously. “Then please do that, and we should hear if the daimon will say anything to us. He’s as much a victim of the scourge sorcerers as those they’ve maimed and murdered.”
