The Sentinel Mage (13 page)

Karel glanced at her briefly, and then looked stolidly ahead as she crossed the chamber.

“Karel,” she said, halting in front of him.

He transferred his gaze to her face. “Yes, princess?”

“Do you wish to accompany me to Duke Rikard’s household? I had thought you’d prefer not to, but if I’m wrong—”

His heart kicked in his chest.
Not go with her
? “I wish to accompany you.”

“Are you certain? The opportunities for advancement will be limited.”

“I’m certain.” In her service, Osgaard was bearable.
Without you, I would fill up with hatred.

“Very well. I’ll see that you’re added to the list.” The princess glanced back over her shoulder. “Yasma, when the duke arrives, please tell him we’re in the garden.”

K
AREL STOOD WITH
his back to a hedge and tried to concentrate on his task: protecting the princess. He scanned the garden—flowerbeds, hedges—but his gaze kept returning to the rose-draped bower, to Duke Rikard and the princess seated on the cushioned bench.

He watched as Duke Rikard spoke to the princess, as she replied. Above them, the rose bower arched, dripping with blooms. The scent drifted on the breeze.

The duke was eager to claim his rights to Princess Brigitta’s body. His hand kept creeping across the cushions towards her, kept withdrawing. He didn’t quite dare to touch her.

After tomorrow Rikard could touch the princess as much and as often as he wished.

Impotent rage rose inside him as he imagined the man rutting her. Karel discovered he was gripping his sword hilt tightly. With effort he unclenched his fingers and looked away.

D
UKE
R
IKARD LEANED
towards her. Sweat glistened on his cheeks. The expression in his eyes made panic spike sharply in her chest. Britta dug her fingernails into her palms to keep from scrambling backwards over the cushions. She was a princess, and she
wasn’t
going to cringe from him like a helpless bondservant.

She lifted her chin. “I shall be bringing some of my servants with me,” she said. “My personal maid, and at least one of my armsmen.”

The duke stopped leaning towards her. “I’m perfectly capable of providing armsmen for you.”

“I am aware of that. But I should like to bring Karel with me.” She looked across to where he stood, the sunlight glinting on his black hair, on his golden breastplate.

The duke followed her gaze. “An islander.” His voice held a sneer.

“Yes.”

Her armsman stood at parade rest, his feet twelve inches apart, his shoulders back, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword. He scanned the garden, his gaze resting on her for a moment, on Duke Rikard. His face was expressionless, but she’d learned during the past three years to read the tiny signs that told her what he was thinking. She knew when he was bored, when he was amused. Today he was neither amused nor bored. She saw a much darker emotion in his eyes, in the set of his mouth.

He hates Rikard.

For some reason, that knowledge made her feel safer. “Karel comes with me,” Britta said firmly. “He has been an exemplary armsman.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

R
AIN FELL STEADILY.
Mid-afternoon, the ground began to rise. The vegetation changed, oak giving way to low-boughed mountain beech. Wet leaves slapped Harkeld in the face as he rode.

“By the All-Mother,” Justen muttered behind him. “I wish I could change into a bird and fly above these cursed trees.”

Harkeld’s skin prickled as he remembered the dream he’d woken from—feathers bristling from his chest, down growing on his face.
I don’t.

They halted for the night at an outcrop of rock. Gerit was waiting for them, drenched and naked. “It’s not a cave,” he said. “But it’s the best shelter I can find.”

Harkeld looked up at the slight overhang.

“It’ll do,” Dareus said.

Harkeld dismounted stiffly. Every item he wore was saturated. His muscles told him he’d been doing nothing but sit in a saddle for the last three days. He swung his arms, trying to work out the stiffness. “How about some wrestling?” he asked Justen.

The armsman blinked. “Now?”

“After we’ve seen to the horses.”

Darkness fell while they unloaded the packhorses. Cora and Gerit set about making a meal. “Well?” Harkeld said, once the horses were hobbled.

“Er...” Justen glanced towards the fire. The witch, Petrus, walked into the circle of firelight, a blanket around his shoulders. “I don’t want to hurt you, sire.”

“A friendly bout,” Harkeld said, stripping off his shirt.

Justen hesitated, and then shrugged. “All right.” He pulled his shirt over his head and kicked off his boots.

They started slowly, testing each other’s strength, each other’s skill, grappling and breaking off, their feet scuffing up wet leaves. Harkeld saw an opening
—now
—and came in low, driving his shoulder into Justen’s hip. The armsman grunted and sprawled backwards. Harkeld followed him. They wrestled, rolled, rose to their knees. He had his arm around Justen’s throat—

Justen grabbed his elbow and drove his weight forward, breaking the hold. He rolled free and sprang to his feet. His teeth glinted in the firelight as he grinned.

Harkeld stood. He wiped sweat and rain from his face. Justen’s amulet caught the firelight as they circled. They came together again, forehead to forehead, gripping each other’s arms. Harkeld tightened his hold on Justen’s left arm and shifted his balance, preparing to bring the armsman down.
Got you.

Justen twisted free, his skin slick with rain. He dropped to one knee. Harkeld’s breath exhaled in a
whoosh
as his armsman’s shoulder rammed into his stomach. Justen grabbed him behind the knees, heaved—

Harkeld found himself face down on the ground, gasping for breath.

Someone laughed. He thought it was Petrus.

Harkeld pushed himself up and spat leaf mold from his mouth.

“Did I hurt you, sire?”

Only my pride.
“No.” Harkeld climbed to his feet. He looked at his armsman with newfound respect. “Again.”

They wrestled until the stew was cooked and it was too dark to see more than the pale blur of Justen’s amulet. Harkeld walked back to the overhang and the fire, breathing heavily. He rolled his shoulders. The stiffness was gone.

“T
HAT WAS A
good wrestling match,” Petrus said as he changed clothes with Innis. “You nailed him a couple of times.”

It was hard to tell in the dimness, but he thought Innis grinned. “I like being Justen.”

Petrus paused, one leg in the wet trews. “Innis, you need to be careful.”

“Don’t worry,” she said, wrapping herself in the blanket. “I know this is the shape I’m meant to be. It’s just...you’re lucky to be so strong.” She handed him the amulet. “Can you ask about the curse tonight?”

“The curse?” The disc of walrus ivory was warm in his hand. “What about it?”

“How much do you think he knows?”

Petrus shrugged. “Not a lot.”

“So ask questions.”

Petrus grunted. He put the amulet over his head. It rested below his collarbone, warm and smooth. “If he wants to know, he can ask himself. Surly son of a bitch.”

“You’d be surly too, if you were him. He’s lost everything. He’s like a mage who’s been stripped of his magic.” She laid her hand on his arm. “Please, Petrus?”

Jealousy stabbed inside him. “Fancy him, do you?”

Innis removed her hand. “No. I feel sorry for him.”

Petrus bit his tongue.
Fool.
He shrugged into the wet shirt. “Fine,” he said. “I’ll ask about the curse.”

P
ETRUS PUSHED A
lump of meat around his bowl. Beside him, Prince Harkeld ate silently, not looking at anyone. His face was dark with shadows, dark with stubble. His hostility was almost a tangible thing.

Petrus glanced at Innis. He scooped up a spoonful of stew. “Dareus, can you tell me about Ivek’s curse?”

“The curse? What about it?”

Petrus shrugged, chewing. “Everything. All I know is that it’ll kill everyone in the Seven Kingdoms. And that he’s the only one who can stop it.” He pointed at Prince Harkeld with his spoon.

Dareus glanced at the prince. “Very well.” He put down his bowl. Behind him, water dripped steadily from the edge of the overhang. “It started nearly three hundred years ago, when the rulers of the Thirteen Kingdoms decided to purge this continent of mages. There were thirteen kingdoms back then, not seven; Osgaard hadn’t begun its expansion.”

Petrus nodded.

“Hatred of mages had been growing for some time. Admittedly, a few were abusing their powers, but mostly it was just rumors.”

“What sort of rumors?”

“Mages eating human flesh, procreating with animals—absolute nonsense, but you’ll find that people here still believe such things today.”

Petrus glanced at Prince Harkeld. He appeared to be paying no attention to Dareus.

“Some mages managed to flee across the ocean to the Allied Kingdoms,” Dareus said, picking up his mug. “But most didn’t. A lot of completely ordinary people were killed too, merely on the suspicion they had mage blood.” He lowered the mug without drinking. “The killing of suspected mages is a practice that continues to this day. They have a saying here: the only good mage is one that’s dead and burned.”

Petrus grimaced, and then smoothed the expression from his face. Justen wasn’t a mage; he’d hear those words with nothing more than mild interest.

“Witch,” Gerit said. “The only good witch is one that’s dead and burned.” He scowled. “They call us witches here.”

“The wife and children of a mage named Ivek were among the first to die,” Dareus continued. “Ivek laid the curse as his revenge.”

“What does it do?”

“It strips people of their humanity.”

“What?” Petrus wrinkled his brow. “It makes them into animals?”

“Less than animals. They become maddened by blood lust. They’ll slaughter each other, just as Ivek’s family was slaughtered.”

Petrus tried to react as if the tale was new to him. “But...all this happened three hundred years ago. Why didn’t the curse kill everyone then? Why now?”

“The curse was dormant while it gathered power. It’s...as an analogy, imagine a pot of water over a fire. Ivek placed it there, but it’s taken this long for the water to boil.”

“And only Prince Harkeld can put out the fire?”

“Yes.”

Petrus shoveled stew into his mouth and chewed, trying to think of another question. “How did the curse gather power?”

“Ivek anchored it with three stones. You’ve seen a map of the Seven Kingdoms? You know that it’s roughly divided into three regions? North, east, west?”

He nodded.

“Ivek anchored the curse in each region. In the north, Ankeny. In the east, Sault. And here, in the west, Lundegaard, up on the Masse plateau. Each stone has been drawing power from the kingdom it’s anchored in.” Dareus laid his hand on the wet soil. “From the ground.”

Petrus tried to look as if he didn’t already know this. “Did Ivek know it would take three hundred years for the curse to gather enough power?”

“He thought it would take longer. We have some of his writings. He estimated four centuries.”

Petrus lifted his eyebrows. “A slow revenge.”

“He died knowing that everyone in the Seven Kingdoms—the Thirteen Kingdoms, then—would die, just as his family had.” Dareus shrugged. “It didn’t matter to him whether he witnessed it or not; he knew it would happen.”

Gerit grunted. “He was mad.”

No kidding.
“How did he die?” Petrus asked.

“The soldiers caught him in the end. Cut off his head, then burned him.”