The Sentinel Mage (12 page)

Petrus glanced at her. “Er...rules?”

Innis gave him a tiny nod.

“There are certain dangers inherent in the use of magic. Take shapeshifting, for example. A mage who stays shifted for too long can identify too strongly with a body that’s not human, become stuck there. It’s a form of madness.”

Petrus pulled a face. “Ach, that doesn’t sound good.”

“No. The rules are to prevent it happening.” Dareus counted them off on his fingers. “No eating while in animal form. No sleeping. No copulation.”

Innis glanced at the prince. He gave no sign that he was listening. He ate, not lifting his gaze from his bowl.
Listen
, she told him silently.
Hear the truth about us.

“There are other rules,” Dareus continued. “For example, shapeshifters are forbidden to make partial shifts—to become part one thing and part another—and they’re absolutely forbidden to take the form of another human.”

“Why?” Petrus asked.

“In the past there’ve been shapeshifters who abused their power. You’ve heard the tale of Ysaline?”

“The most beautiful woman in the world. Kings fought over her, nations fell...” Petrus paused. “She was a shapeshifter?”

Gerit spat into the fire. “Stupid bitch wanted to be a queen.”

“Any power can corrupt,” Dareus said. “Magic is no exception. It’s our task as Sentinels to make sure it doesn’t happen.”

“And if it does?”

“We stop it.” Dareus reached for his mug. “Magic is a responsibility. It’s not something that makes you better than other people. In the past, there have been mages who failed to recognize that. These days, there are rules. There’s
us.”

Innis glanced at the prince. Had he thought himself better than a commoner because of his royal blood? Had he seen his status in terms of power or responsibility?

The prince looked up, as if he’d heard her silent question. His expression was closed, stony.

“If a mage abuses his power, we hunt him down and strip him of his magic. It’s one of the tasks we’re charged with. For that reason, only the most powerful mages may become Sentinels. Those who’re extraordinarily adept in one of the disciplines.”

“Disciplines?” Petrus asked.

“Shapeshifting. Fire magic. Healing. They’re the most common.”

Innis watched the prince. He ate his stew, giving no indication that he was listening.

“Most fire mages can do no more than this—” Dareus snapped his fingers. A flame flared at his fingertips for a second and then snuffed out. “Light a candle, start a cooking fire.”

The prince glanced at Dareus’s hand, and away.

“A strong mage can set fire to an object and control the spread of the flames,” Dareus said. “As long as he’s touching whatever he’s set fire to.”

Petrus nodded.

“But only the strongest mages—those able to
throw
fire and still control it—are capable of being Sentinels.”

Petrus chewed and swallowed. “And shapeshifters? What about them?”

“Shapeshifters...” Dareus reached for his mug. “A lot of shapeshifters aren’t capable of much. They can take one shape, perhaps hold it for half an hour. Some can’t even do that.”

Petrus nodded. Beside him, the prince had put down his bowl. He stared past Dareus, at the rain, but Innis thought he was listening.

“It’s not an easy skill,” Dareus said. “Every part of a shapeshifter’s body changes—flesh and blood and bone. I’m not a shapeshifter myself, but I understand it’s uncomfortable, even painful, to change shape.”

Petrus nodded again.

Innis nodded too.

“Shapeshifters need to have a thorough understanding of anatomy. They have to know each animal inside
and
out before they can become it. Most never learn more than one or two shapes. To be a Sentinel, a mage has to be able take a dozen or more shapes, and they have to be able to hold each one for at least half a day.” Dareus leaned forward. “You have to understand, Justen, being a shapeshifter isn’t just about
taking
another shape, it’s about having the strength to shift
back
into your own shape.”

“Or you get trapped in a body that’s not your own?”

“Yes.” Dareus nodded. “And then you lose yourself, become an animal.”

Innis repressed a shiver.

“That’s why all mages are trained,” Dareus said. “To prevent accidents like that happening.”

Petrus grunted and nodded, as if this was all news to him. “So, Sentinels are strong mages?”

“Strong mages. Strong fighters. Each Sentinel must be able to defend himself not just with his magic, but with weapons—and his bare hands.”

“Like an armsman,” Petrus said, scraping his bowl clean and licking the spoon.

“Somewhat. We protect, we punish.” Dareus paused. “Does that answer your question?”

Petrus glanced at her. His eyebrows lifted slightly.
Does it?

Innis raised her chin, a tiny nod.

“W
HAT WAS THAT
about?” Petrus asked later as he stripped out of Justen’s clothes.

“He thinks we mate with animals,” Innis said, placing the amulet around her throat. Its weight felt familiar and right. “That we give birth to kittens and—”

“So?” Petrus said. “Everyone in the Seven Kingdoms thinks that.”

“I want him to know the truth.”

Petrus snorted. “He can hear it, but I doubt he’ll believe it.”

Innis pulled the shirt over her head. It was damp, and warm from Petrus’s body. “He might.”

“When hens grow teeth,” Petrus said.

H
ARKELD WOKE FROM
a nightmare in which he’d become a bird. Feathers sprouted from his head, from his chest, from his groin. Down grew on his face.

He sat up, gasping, his heart thudding in his chest. It was dawn.

“Sire?” Justen asked, slitting open his eyes. “Are you all right?”

Harkeld touched a fearful hand to his chin. The rasp of stubble was reassuring.

“Sire?”

“I’m fine,” he said, pushing back his damp blanket and standing.

Nothing had changed overnight—the steady
drip drip drip
of water, the smell of wet soil, wet leaves, wet horses. “Still raining,” Justen said, coming to stand beside him. He sighed. “Ach, it could be worse. Could be winter. Could be sleeting.”

Harkeld grunted. He reached for his boots. The leather was cold, clammy.

Packing up camp took a matter of minutes; they rolled up the wet bedrolls and blankets, strapping them on the packhorses while Cora ladled gruel into wooden bowls.

A hawk landed while they ate. It shook itself and changed into Ebril. “They have our trail,” he said, taking the blanket Dareus held out to him. “But they’re still almost half a day behind. The rain’s washed away a lot of our tracks and the dogs are having difficulty with the scent.” He wrapped the blanket around himself and wiped his face with a corner.

“And ahead of us?”

“They’re trying to cut us off, but we should be fine. We’re further north than they think.”

Cora handed him a bowl. Ebril began to spoon gruel into his mouth, not bothering to sit.

“And the passes?” Dareus asked.

“They’re blocking them,” Ebril said, between mouthfuls. “But there are lots of passes, and only so many soldiers.”

“And on the other side of the Graytooth range?” Cora asked. “In Lundegaard?”

Ebril shook his head. “No sign of activity.”

“Choose a pass,” Dareus told him. “We’ll try to reach it tomorrow, before King Esger’s men.”

“And if they get there first?” Justen asked.

“Let’s hope they don’t. I’d like to avoid a fight. The risks are too great—”

Harkeld looked down at his bowl. He stabbed the gruel with his spoon. “Burn down the forest, if you’re afraid of fighting,” he muttered.

Beside him, Justen stirred slightly. “Can’t you just raze the forest?” he asked. “Get rid of the soldiers that way?”

“Using magic to kill another human is forbidden. It’s one of the Primary Laws.”

“But the archers,” Justen persisted. “Back at the river—”

“I burned their bows,” Dareus said. “Not the men.”

Harkeld glanced up. The witch could wield fire, but not kill with it?

“Cora and I have been laying narrow bands of fire. If the soldiers get too close, we’ll do it again.”

Beside him, Justen licked his spoon. “Does the rain make it harder?”

“Harder to start, easier to control. Fire wants to consume. The difficulty is always in holding it back.” Dareus stood, stiffly.

Harkeld stabbed his gruel again with the spoon. His protectors weren’t allowed to kill.
We won’t make it out of Osgaard.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

“T
HE FINAL ITEM,
highness, is the matter of your personal servants. Do you wish to take them with you into the duke’s household?”

“My maid comes with me,” Britta said, and watched as the palace secretary appended this to the end of the long list.

None of it felt real. The scratch of the quill as the man wrote, the words in black ink on the cream-colored parchment, were part of a dream. No, a nightmare. And it
was
real. Tomorrow she would become wife to Duke Rikard, commander of the king’s army.

“And your armsmen?” the secretary asked. “The duke is most eager to provide you with men of his own.”

Britta looked across the room, to where Karel stood at parade rest.

He was young, no more than twenty-five, at the beginning of his career. And he was one of the few Esfaban islanders who’d made it into service in the palace, the only islander who’d been assigned a royal charge. He’d want to climb higher, not to follow her into Duke Rikard’s household. “I’ll let you know.”

“Very good, your highness.”

The secretary gathered his things—ink pot and writing implements, roll of parchment—and bowed and departed. Britta stayed at the table, watching the sunlight move slowly across the polished marquetry, highlighting flowers formed from golden oak and birds hovering on outspread wings of walnut and cherry.

“Princess? Britta?”

She looked up. Yasma stood there, her face anxious.

“Is everything all right?” the maid asked.

“Perfectly.”

“Duke Rikard will be here shortly. Do you wish to change?”

No, I wish to run away.
Britta stood. Her limbs seemed to creak stiffly. “A new tunic,” she said.

She stared at the mirror while Yasma tidied her hair, winding the strands tightly around the golden crown. “Princess?” the little maid said hesitantly when she’d finished. “Britta?”

Britta blinked. Her face came into focus in the mirror. She turned and looked at Yasma. The girl was clearly an Esfaban islander. She had the dark skin and hawk-like face—winging eyebrows, high cheekbones, aquiline nose—but her features were delicately drawn. She wasn’t pretty; she was beautiful.

Britta forced herself to smile. “The duke is allowing me to bring my personal servants into his household. I said that you’ll come with me.”

She saw Yasma swallow, saw the sudden sheen of tears in her maid’s eyes. “Thank you.”

Britta stood, turning away from the tears. “Do you think the armsmen will want to come?” she asked brightly.

“I think...Karel will wish to stay with you.”

She glanced at the maid. “Truly?”

Yasma flushed and lowered her gaze. “Yes, princess. But ask him if you wish to be certain.”

A week ago, that blush would have made her curious. Did Yasma and Karel have an understanding? Were they in love? Now, the weight of her own problems smothered any curiosity she might have.

P
RINCESS
B
RIGITTA EMERGED
from her bedchamber, dressed in an undergown of white silk and a long rose-pink tunic stitched with silver.