The Sentinel Mage (25 page)

Lenora reached for him, tried to kiss him again. Harkeld pulled away. Had she pleasured that other man intimately, taken his organ in her mouth?

Probably, given her willingness to do that for him last night.

He looked at her ripe body. Lust clenched inside him, a base, animal emotion. He still wanted her, but not to kiss, not to taste intimately. He wanted her like a whore, not a lover.

Why did you have to spoil it?

Lenora must have read his thoughts on his face. She reached for the coverlet, hiding herself from his gaze.

That’s that, then
, Harkeld thought sourly. He got off the bed and reached for his clothes.

“Prince Harkeld...it wasn’t what you think.”

He pulled on the underbreeches and trews, hiding his arousal. Curse it. Now he’d have to find a willing maidservant to slake his lust on. He shrugged into his shirt.

“It wasn’t my fault. I didn’t want to. He forced himself on me.”

Harkeld stiffened. “What?” He swung round to face her. “What did you say?”

Lenora wiped her eyes with the edge of the coverlet. “He forced himself on me.”

Anger swept through him. “Who?”

She sniffed and shook her head.

“Lenora...” Harkeld took control of his anger, softened his voice. “Tell me who did this to you.”
And I will rip his balls off and shove them down his throat.

“It was your armsman.”

Harkeld stared at her, his mouth open. “Justen?” He shook his head. “No. Impossible. He’s been with me all day...”
Except when I was in the steam room.
In a flash, he understood. It hadn’t been disapproval he’d seen on Justen’s face; it had been fear. “After the wrestling,” he said grimly. “That’s when he came.”

“He said...he wanted to try his master’s whore for himself.”

Rage flared inside him, so hot, so intense, that for a moment he was blind and deaf.Harkeld blinked, shook his head to clear it. “Why didn’t you tell me—”

“He said he’d hurt me if I told anyone.” Lenora dabbed her eyes.

“He did, did he?” Harkeld pulled on his boots with angry haste.
Thrice-cursed son of a witch. I’ll kill him.
His hands shook with fury as he buckled his sword belt.

T
HIS TIME,
P
ETRUS
took the shape of a cat. But when he leapt down onto the stone window sill and peered in through one of the diamond-shaped panes, there were no lovers entwined in the bed. He watched as Prince Harkeld strode from the bedchamber.

That was quick.

The lady seemed satisfied, though. Her smile was smug.

Petrus shrugged, leapt lightly up onto the guttering, and padded back across the slate roof.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

I
NNIS STEPPED OUT
from the stables and the smell of hay and manure. She pushed Justen’s short hair back from her brow. Above her, the castle rose in tiers—roofs, battlements, walls of gray stone—to its pinnacle, a squat tower from which the blue and gold flag of Lundegaard flew. She began the climb back to the upper levels, up a flight of stone steps that hugged the first buttress, then across a courtyard. She glanced up. High above, a face peered down at her from a parapet. From this distance, it almost looked like Prince Harkeld.

The next staircase ducked under a stone archway and climbed inside the outer wall of the castle, twisting and turning, rising steeply. The stairwell was dim; the torches in their iron brackets were unlit. The only light came from arrow slits.

Innis paused to catch her breath halfway up. An arrow slit gave her a narrow view towards Masse. She stared out. Cliffs and desert awaited them in the north, but all she could see was farmland, a neat patchwork of fields.

“There you are.”

She turned her head, blinking. After the bright sunlight, the stairwell was as dark as night. “Sire?”

“I’ve been looking for you.” Prince Harkeld’s voice was grim.

“Do you want—?”

Something slammed into her face. She fell, clutching for the wall, smacking her head against stone, landing jarringly on the steps.

Innis shook her head, tasting blood. Was the prince being attacked? She pushed dizzily to her feet, groping for the wall, reaching for Justen’s sword. “Sire—”

Someone kicked her in the chest. She went backwards, tumbling down the steps, rolling, bouncing, sliding at last to a halt, dazed and winded. Breath came after a suffocating eternity, and with it, pain, blossoming inside her.

Footsteps rang on the stairs, coming towards her. Innis pushed up on an elbow. A shadowy figure loomed over her.

Someone hauled her to her feet, hands fisted in her shirt. She groped for her sword, struggling to see. Where were the guards? Where was Gerit?

“You son of a witch!” The voice was the prince’s, fierce. “Thought you could get away with it, did you?
Did you?
” He slammed her against the wall.

“Wha—?”

She never finished the word. Prince Harkeld’s hands were at her throat, gripping so tightly she couldn’t breathe. “I’m going to make sure you can never rut a woman again.” His voice was thick with rage.

Innis barely had time to register the words before his knee took her hard in the groin. The agony was acute. If she’d had breath, she would have screamed. The prince released his grip on her throat. Her legs buckled and she collapsed.

Through the haze of pain she heard Prince Harkeld draw his sword.

Innis tried to breathe, to speak. “Sire...”

“Get up.”

She couldn’t move, could only lie gasping at his feet. Behind him, the staircase stretched upward, empty.

“
Get up!
” His hand clenched in her hair, hauling her upright. He thrust her against the wall and uttered a harsh laugh. “Not so brave now, are you, armsman?”

She couldn’t see the prince’s face, but she saw the gleam of his sword.
Shift!
she screamed to herself.
Become a lion.
But her magic was buried beneath pain, beneath dizziness.

“Nothing to say, armsman?”

Innis lurched backwards, aware of space yawning behind her. The stairwell. This time she didn’t try to catch herself, she simply fell.

Time fractured, became disjointed—the steps tossed her, walls slammed into her. Finally she came to a thudding halt, sprawled face-down on a landing.

Innis blinked, trying to focus her eyes. Everything spun on its axis, tilting, lurching drunkenly. She saw shadows, the angles of steps rising into darkness. She squeezed her eyes shut. Somewhere, a dog barked.

She gasped to breathe, but instead of air, came blood. Footsteps rang behind her in the stairwell.
He’s going to kill me.
But she hadn’t the strength to open her eyes again, let alone push to her feet. Pain swelled inside her, expanding until she couldn’t think.

The stairwell echoed with barking, with shouts, with the clatter of boots. Even with her eyes closed the world spun around her.

Vaguely, she heard the deep barking of a dog, felt the touch of a wet nose against her cheek.
Gerit?
But she had no strength to open her eyes.

The dog stopped barking. Gerit’s voice rose in a bellow, filling the stairwell.

Innis shut everything out and tried to reach for her magic. Too many bones broken, too much bleeding. She was choking on blood, drowning in it.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

P
ETRUS SAT, HOLDING
Innis’s hand with both of his, pouring his magic into her. There was so much damage—he was aware of the grating edges of broken bones, aware of blood leaking inside her body. He tightened his grip and directed his attention to the puncture wound in her right lung. The broken ribs he’d mend later. Right now he needed her to
breathe.

Dareus cradled Innis’s head in his hands, a look of utter concentration on his face. The others stood around the bed—Cora, Gerit, Ebril, Prince Harkeld. “He got what he deserved,” the prince said, his voice tight with anger. “Forcing himself on Lenora.”

“It wasn’t Justen,” Petrus said, not bothering to look at him. “Justen refused her.”

Prince Harkeld uttered a disbelieving laugh.

“It was a nobleman,” Petrus said, looking up. “A man with black hair.”

“You think I’d believe the word of a witch over the word of a lady?”

Rage flared inside him. He pushed to his feet. “You whoreson—”

“Sit down, Petrus.” Dareus’s voice was flat, hard.

Petrus clenched his jaw. Rage vibrated inside him. He sat slowly and took hold of Innis’s hand again. “It was a black-haired nobleman. He was rough, but your precious Lenora enjoyed it. She wanted more.”

Prince Harkeld’s mouth twisted into a sneer. “And you know this how?”

“I was patrolling as a bird.”

The prince turned away from the bed. “Justen raped her. And now he’s been punished.” He strode to the door and jerked it open. “Don’t bother healing him. He’s not my armsman any more.”

The door shut loudly.

“Ebril, stay with him,” Dareus said, not looking up from his task. “And you too, Gerit.”

Gerit grumbled under his breath as he shifted. Cora opened the door and let them out, hound and pigeon. “And me?” she asked Dareus.

Dareus didn’t answer for a long moment. Finally he said, “Petrus, what did you see?”

Petrus told them, while he held Innis’s hand and focused on the gash in her lung, laboriously coaxing the edges of the wound closed. There was silence when he’d finished.

“How rough was he?” Cora asked.

“I saw him bite her.”

Cora glanced at Dareus. “You want me to find him?”

“Is it worth it?” Petrus asked. “We don’t need Justen any more, do we? Innis can be herself.”
If she survives this. If she ever wakes up and can change herself back.

“I want him to have an armsman we trust implicitly.”

“One of King Magnas’s men.”

“Let’s decide that once Innis is healed. For now...Cora, see if you can find this nobleman.”

Cora nodded. “I’ll do my best.” The door shut quietly behind her.

Petrus looked down at Justen, at Innis. The punctured lung was mended—after a fashion. He had nowhere near Innis’s strength at healing, or her finesse. She was breathing more easily now, but there were so many other injuries, damage that was beyond his abilities to heal. He felt despair. “We need her to wake up. I’m not a strong enough healer. Neither of us is.”

“She’ll wake.”

Will she?
Petrus tightened his grip on her hand and drew on his healing magic again, focusing his attention on the blood leaking from her spleen.
Come on, Innis
, he urged her silently.
Wake up.

H
ARKELD GLARED OUT
over the parapet of the topmost tower.
I should have ripped off his balls.
If that witch Gerit hadn’t interfered—