The Sentinel Mage (22 page)

King Magnas nodded. He picked up his own goblet, but didn’t drink. Worry furrowed his face.

Harkeld glanced down at his wine, at the reflections shimmering on the surface, and then back at the king.
Should I tell him Sigren died at my father’s hand?

No. Not now. It would only make King Magnas more anxious about the boys’ safety.

The king smiled. Harkeld saw how much effort it took. “How are they? It’s been a long time since I saw them.”

He forced himself to match the king’s smile. “Lukas wants to be a woodcutter. I gave him an axe, a blunt little thing, and he drags it wherever he goes. His nursemaid complains that he even sleeps with it.” There was an ache in Harkeld’s chest; it had to do with memory of the boys—Lukas’s dimples, Rutgar’s mischievous grin. “And Rutgar is mad about horses. He has a pony of his own, but he likes nothing better than coming up on my blood bay with me.”

Liked
, he reminded himself. There’d be no more rides on that blood bay, Rutgar’s face glowing with delight.

Harkeld cleared his throat. “Rutgar and I have...had an arrangement. For each tooth he lost, we went for a gallop outside the palace walls. So far he claims to have lost twenty-three teeth. Once he lost four in one week.” He made himself chuckle. “The All-Mother alone knows where he’s getting them from.”

Tomas snorted, and King Magnas’s smile became more relaxed.

A
S DUSK FELL,
Harkeld walked on the battlements with Tomas, Justen one step behind, and behind Justen, two of the king’s guards. Harkeld glanced sideways at Tomas, seeing the fair hair, the good-humored face.
You would have been a good husband to Britta.

In his mind’s eye, he saw Britta as he’d seen her last—sunlight on her hair, tears in her eyes, desperation in her voice. His throat tightened with guilt.

He’d done what he had to. Britta wouldn’t have survived the flight to Lundegaard; he barely had. Better that she was alive and betrothed to Duke Rikard, than dead.

I’m sorry, Britta.

He forced his thoughts back to the journey that lay ahead. Ten years ago, he and Tomas had been as close as brothers. They’d wrestled and practiced sword-fighting, had hunted side by side, had played pranks together. With Tomas’s older brother, Kristof, they’d explored the disused dungeons beneath the castle and—memorably—been lost in the warren of cells and passageways for a day and half the night. “You shouldn’t come with us, Tomas. It’s too dangerous.”
It’s not a game, like the dungeons. No one will come to rescue us.

Tomas shrugged. “It’s you they’ll be trying to kill,” he said flippantly. “Not me.”

Harkeld halted. “If you die, your father will never forgive me.”

Tomas turned to face him. Behind him, the sky was shading into darkness. A breeze drifted up, making the torches flare in their brackets, bringing with it the scent of woodsmoke and meals cooking, the faint sound of laughter. “And if
you
die, he’ll never forgive
me
.”

“Tomas...” He looked away from that grin. “I have witch blood in me.”

“Not a lot.”

“A quarter. I’m a quarter witch.” Fear clenched in his chest.
What if I’m a shapeshifter? What if there are feathers, bristles, and scales waiting to burst from my skin?

“Are you a witch?” The smile was gone from Tomas’s voice. He sounded wary.

Harkeld looked at him. “No.”

Tomas shrugged. “Then don’t worry about it.”

Harkeld laughed, a flat sound. “I wish my father had said that.” He dragged a hand through his hair. Short hair.
I’m no longer a prince.
Bitterness surged through him. He resumed walking. “Fifty men? That’s very generous of your father.”

“How do we know we can trust them all?” Justen asked, behind them.

“They’ll be hand-picked,” Tomas said.

“But even so, all it takes is one man—”

“The soldier who attempts to kill Harkeld won’t live more than a few minutes himself. There’ll be forty-nine other men trying to kill him. And me.” They passed a flaming torch. Tomas’s eyes reflected the firelight for a moment. “And what use is gold to a dead man?”

Harkeld glanced at the two guards behind them. Justen’s words echoed in his ears:
All it takes is one man.
He found himself wishing he had one of the witches guarding him instead. He hated the witches, but he trusted them not to kill him. He returned to one of Tomas’s earlier comments. “Fithian assassins? You weren’t serious, were you?”

“Why not? They kill for money, and there’s a hefty bounty on your head.”

“But there aren’t any Fithians in Lundegaard, surely?”

Tomas shrugged. “They’re like cockroaches. Turn up everywhere.”

To the west, the last of the light crept from the sky; to the east, stars were faintly visible. Ahead, to the north, was the Masse plateau and the first of the stones anchoring Ivek’s curse.
Will I survive this?
“I’m glad you’re coming,” he told Tomas.

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world!”

I would. I’d give anything not to be here, not to be me.
Harkeld shoved the self-pity aside. “How far will you come?

“As far as you like.”

Harkeld’s spirits lifted slightly.
All the way to Sault, then.
“Where’s Kristof?”

“Down at the Hook. Refugees are arriving from Vaere.”

“Refugees?”

“More every day,” Tomas said. “We’re setting up camps. Father wanted one of us down there to make sure there’s some kind of order.” He sighed. “The All-Mother herself only knows what we’ll do with them all.”

“Bondservice?” Justen asked, his voice neutral.

Harkeld glanced back at him. The armsman’s face was as expressionless as his voice, his condemnation carefully hidden. “Lundegaard doesn’t have bondservants,” he told him. As a boy, he’d once tried to defend the practice of bondservice. As an adult, he couldn’t. A kingdom didn’t need bondservants in order to flourish; Lundegaard proved that past any doubt. “King Magnas rules quite differently from my father.”

And King Magnas gave his three sons command in Lundegaard’s army, gave them the opportunity to acquire leadership skills, to show their mettle.

Harkeld compressed his lips, remembering the times he’d begged his father for a role in the army, however small, remembering the times he’d pleaded for an opportunity to do something more useful than practicing his wrestling skills and exercising his horses.

Be patient
, his father had said.
I have greater things in mind for you
.

Now he knew what his father had meant.

Harkeld bit back a sour laugh. He’d wanted to be useful; he’d got his wish. The fate of the Seven Kingdoms rested on his shoulders. How much more
useful
could a man be?

“Come back to my rooms for a drink,” Tomas said. “There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

“Who?”

Tomas winked.

I
NNIS SHIFTED HER
weight. She eyed the woman across the chamber from her.
Lady
, she corrected herself. The
lady
across the chamber from her. The
lady
who had all the subtlety of a tavern wench as she flirted with Prince Harkeld. She averted her gaze from the woman’s full, pouting lips and lush bosom, and scanned the room.

Tomas was a prince, and yet his apartments had little of the lavish opulence she’d expected. The fabrics were rich, the furniture handsome, the tapestries on the walls exquisitely stitched, but there was none of the ostentatious display of wealth she’d seen in Osgaard’s palace.
No bondservants either
,she reminded herself. Lundegaard might share a border with Osgaard, but their royal families lived by different philosophies.

Her eyes catalogued the room’s occupants: the impassive guard at the door; Prince Tomas, lounging in a heavy oak armchair by the fireplace, one foot swinging, a tankard of mead in his hand; Prince Harkeld, his mead forgotten on the table, his attention on the lady seated alongside him on the settle; and Lady Lenora, widow of a baron, leaning forward as she spoke, laying her hand on the prince’s arm, glancing up at him from beneath her lashes. The way she sat, her back slightly arched, thrust her full breasts into prominence.

Innis snorted under her breath.
Practically shoving them in his face.
She looked away. When she glanced back, Lady Lenora’s hand had moved. It now rested on Prince Harkeld’s thigh. The prince didn’t appear to mind the lady’s lack of subtlety. He was smiling.

Memory flooded through her of the dream she’d woken from. She’d touched the prince far more boldly than Lady Lenora was now doing. She’d stroked her fingers over his bare skin, had dipped her head and actually
tasted
his skin.

Embarrassment heated her cheeks. Innis thrust the memory firmly aside and tried to look as impassive as the guardsman.

Across the room, Prince Harkeld laughed. He looked like a stranger, not the man she’d traveled with these past eleven days. It wasn’t just the cleanly-shaven jaw and the fresh clothes. Gone was the grim set of his mouth, the closed expression.

An attractive man, now that he was smiling. He had a strong face, a strong body.

Innis watched as Prince Harkeld laughed again, as he leaned forward and whispered in the lady’s ear.

The lady blushed, giggled, and whispered a reply. Her smile was coy, the glint in her eyes triumphant.

Prince Harkeld rose to his feet, offering his hand to Lady Lenora. “If you’ll excuse us, Tomas?”

Prince Tomas grinned. “Of course.”

Innis tried to be as impassive as the guardsman by the door and not let her disapproval show.

They traversed two corridors and climbed a winding flight of stone stairs to reach Prince Harkeld’s bedchamber, a procession led by one of King Magnas’s guards.

Another guard stood at the door to the bedchamber. Beside him lay a large russet-brown hound. Ebril. The prince looked back over his shoulder. “I shan’t need you tonight, Justen.”

Innis hesitated. There was a trestle bed set up inside, so Justen could guard the prince while he slept. How would Justen react? With a protest? With a grin like Prince Tomas? She settled on a wooden, “Yes, sire.”

She waited while the guards opened the door, while they checked the chamber, while Prince Harkeld and his lady—
his whore
—entered and the door closed behind them, then she turned and went in search of the other mages.

They’d been allocated a suite—three bedchambers opening off a central room furnished with chairs and an oak table. Petrus and Gerit sat by the fire, drinking mead and playing cards. They looked up as she entered. “He’s found himself a whore,” Innis said, shutting the door with a snap.

Gerit grunted. “Lucky him.”

“He sent me away, but...” She struggled to put her fears into words. “Shouldn’t one of us be with him? Just in case.”

“Isn’t Ebril there?”

“Outside the door. No one’s inside, guarding him.”

Petrus laid down his cards. “You think she’ll try to kill him?”

“No.” Innis shook her head. “I don’t know. She’s... I don’t trust her. One of us should be in there with him.” She felt herself blush. “I’d do it myself, but—”

“I’ll do it,” Petrus said, pushing back his chair.

“Thank you.” She bit her lip, and then remembered that Justen didn’t do that. “Once she’s gone, I’ll take over.”

“I will,” Gerit said, shuffling the cards. “That was serious healing you did today, girl. You should sleep as yourself tonight.”

Petrus nodded. He began to strip.

The shutters had been closed for the night. Innis unfastened one and pushed open the window. It was pitch black outside. Far below the distant lights of villages sparkled on the plains. When she turned back, Petrus had shifted. A snowy-white owl stood in the middle of the room. It spread its wings.

She stepped aside. The owl swept past her, the draft from its wings ruffling her hair.

Innis remained at the window after the owl had gone, staring out into the darkness. She was a Sentinel. She should be able to do what Petrus was doing: keep Prince Harkeld safe while he bedded Lady Lenora.

So why wasn’t she?

Innis rubbed a finger over the window sill—Justen’s finger, broad and blunt—feeling the grain of the wood. It was more than the invasion of privacy that made her balk.
If I wasn’t a virgin, would I be so afraid of watching?

In not doing this, she was letting everyone down. Including herself.

Her hand on the wooden sill connected her with the All-Mother, with soil and rock and water, with her parents, buried on the other side of the ocean. She tried to recall their faces, but the eight years had blurred them too much. She could imagine their quiet disappointment, though, through the palm of her hand.

Innis pushed away from the window.
Next time the prince takes a woman into his bed, I’ll guard him myself
.