The Sentinel Mage (26 page)

“Harkeld.”

He turned his head. Three people stood behind him. Tomas, the witch Cora, and a man he’d never seen before. A nobleman, by his dress.

“There’s a matter that needs to be dealt with,” Tomas said, his face, for once, quite serious.

“What?”

“Lenora’s claim that your armsman forced himself upon her.”

Harkeld stiffened. “It’s not a claim. I
saw
the bruises.” He transferred his gaze to the witch. What was she trying to do? Twist the truth? Confuse Tomas with her lies?

“Your armsman didn’t visit Lenora this afternoon. Count Viktor did.”

“Who?” Harkeld focused on the stranger, seeing him clearly for the first time: a stocky young man with black hair. His eyes narrowed. “You were with her?”

The man swallowed. “She invited me to spend some time with her.”

“Invited?” Harkeld shook his head. “Someone took her by force.”

Alarm widened the nobleman’s eyes. “No, I didn’t force—”

Harkeld took a step towards the man. “She had
bruises.
Bite marks!”

The nobleman shrank back. “She wanted it like that. Like an animal, she said. She asked me to bite her. She...she bit me.” He flushed. “I only did what she asked.” He glanced at Tomas, his eyes pleading. “I wanted to please her. I wanted her to invite me again.”

Harkeld shook his head. “Why would she say that Justen—” He stopped, remembering the blond witch’s words. Justen had refused Lenora’s invitation.

“Why don’t we ask Lenora?” Tomas said.

Harkeld hesitated. He looked at the witch. Was this some sly magic she was working? Weaving lies into truth?

“Lenora shares her favors with a number of men,” Tomas said. “Sometimes she does like it rough.”

Harkeld glanced sharply at him.

Tomas shrugged. “You’re not the only prince who’s enjoyed her bed.”

Harkeld turned his back to Tomas and stared at the horizon. The sun was sinking towards the mountains. Had Lenora lied to him?

No.

But he was no longer utterly convinced. “Very well. Let’s ask her.”

T
HEY TRAILED DOWN
stairs and along corridors—himself and Tomas, Count Viktor, the witch, the guards and the russet-brown hound. Harkeld’s thoughts ran in tight circles. If Lenora had been lying—

He recoiled from that possibility. It didn’t bear thinking about. She
had
to have told the truth, because otherwise...

His hands clenched.

At the door to Lenora’s suite, Harkeld inhaled a deep breath. Beside him, the nobleman swallowed audibly.

One of the guards knocked. After a moment, a maid opened the door. She curtseyed low when she saw Prince Tomas.

“Is your mistress in?” Tomas asked.

The maid’s eyes flicked anxiously from one face to another. “Yes, sire. Please come in. I’ll fetch her.”

She scurried across the parlor, but the door to the bedchamber opened before she reached it. Lenora emerged. “Olga, who is it?” She looked past the maid and smiled warmly. “Prince Tomas.” And then her gaze went to Harkeld, to Count Viktor. Her expression froze.

He didn’t need to hear Lenora speak; guilt was written on her face.

Harkeld turned and pushed his way through the people crowding the doorway.

He retraced the route they’d taken, up what seemed like a thousand stairs, until he burst out onto the top of the highest tower.

Two guards followed him, panting.

Go away!
he wanted to shout at them.
I need to be alone.

He turned his back to them, to the witch-dog that followed at their heels, and strode to the parapet. He stared out across Lundegaard, his hands gripping the stone.

The sun sank behind the Graytooth Mountains. The sky darkened, from pale lavender to indigo to a deep blue-black. And still he stood there.

Footsteps approached. Harkeld heard the heavy breathing of someone who’d climbed a lot of stairs. He didn’t look around.
Leave me alone.

“Harkeld?”

The voice was familiar. Tomas.

His friend came to stand alongside him. They stood in silence for several minutes, looking out at the darkness, at the lights flickering below on the plains.

“Did she say why?” Harkeld asked finally.

“She had a lot of excuses.” Tomas turned and leaned against the parapet. “She felt insulted. She’s not used to being turned down.”

Of course she’s not. Not with that face, that body.

Harkeld closed his eyes. “I almost killed Justen.”

Tomas said nothing for a moment, and then: “The witches will heal him.”

That’s not the point.

Harkeld pushed away from the parapet.

Tomas followed. “Where are you going?”

N
OTHING HAD CHANGED
in the bedchamber. Justen lay motionless on the bed, Dareus cradling his head, Petrus clasping one hand. Harkeld halted in the doorway and stared at his armsman’s face—eyes blackened and swollen shut, nose broken, mouth bloodied.

I did that.

Harkeld closed the door quietly behind him, shutting out Tomas and the guards. “Will he be all right?”

“It’s too soon to tell,” Dareus said.

“But...you healed me. The arrow—”

“That was one injury. This is many. And the head injury is serious.”

Harkeld advanced into the room. He looked down at his armsman. Sharp emotions swelled in his chest. Strongest was guilt. “Lenora lied. Justen didn’t harm her.”

Petrus glanced at him. His hair was silver in the candlelight. His eyes glittered with hatred. “I told you that.”

“I know,” Harkeld said. “I apologize.”

The witch’s mouth tightened, his lips thinning. “Tell that to Justen.”

“I shall.”

Harkeld stared down at his armsman. Justen was ominously still. He looked dead. “Where’s Innis? Isn’t she your best healer? Justen needs her—”

“She’s resting,” Dareus said. “The healing is difficult. Draining. We’re taking it in turns.” He looked old, weary, lines deeply engraved on his face.

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

Petrus uttered a sound that was too harsh to be a laugh. “It’s a bit late for that!”

“Petrus,” Dareus said quietly.

The witch closed his mouth. His lips thinned again.

“Thank you, Prince Harkeld,” Dareus said. “But there’s nothing you can do.”

Harkeld nodded. He stared down at the armsman, his throat tight. “If you think of any way I can help...please tell me.”

He turned away from the bed and let himself quietly out of the room.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

K
AREL CHEWED HIS
dinner slowly. Around him, men ate, talked, laughed. “I hear he makes her wear the crown when he tups her,” he heard someone say, beneath the din of half a hundred conversations.

Every muscle in his body froze.
What?

“He ruts her breakfast, lunch, and dinner,” someone else said. “Can’t keep away from her.”

“Do you think she’s any good?”

Someone sniggered. “The duke certainly thinks so.”

Karel’s fingers tightened around his knife and fork. He stared down at his plate, at the slabs of coarse sausage, the mashed turnip, the potatoes.
How can you laugh about such a thing?

But these were the same men who rutted bondservants, whether they were willing or not, who raped casually.

“You’d know, wouldn’t you, islander?” An elbow dug him in the ribs. “Is she any good?”

Someone leaned across the table. “Does the duke leave the door open? Let you watch?”

Anger flared inside him, so intense that for a moment he couldn’t breathe.
Don’t let them bait you, boy.
His uncle’s voice rang in his ears.
They’ll try to make you fail. Don’t allow them to
.

Karel swallowed his rage. He fixed a bored expression on his face, lifted his head, and glanced at the men looking at him.
I will kill you if I get the chance.
He committed their faces to memory and resumed eating.

“Stupid son of a whore,” he heard one of them mutter.

Karel cut a piece of sausage, lifted it to his mouth, chewed slowly. He’d spent years ignoring crude jibes, cruel taunts. They’d said worse things about his mother, about the island bondswomen they rutted each night. Why, now, did anger threaten to overwhelm him?

Don’t let them provoke you
, he told himself. He had too much to lose: his own freedom, his family’s.
Ignore them.

CHAPTER THIRTY

P
AIN.
T
HAT WAS
the first thing Innis was aware of. Her head felt as though it was splitting in two. Every bone in her body hurt, every muscle hurt. Someone groaned. She thought it might be herself.

“Innis? Can you hear me?”

The voice was faint, faraway, familiar. She tried to see who it was, but her eyes wouldn’t open. “Innis?”

She tried again to raise her eyelids. Only one of them opened. She saw a sliver of light.

“She’s awake!”

Her vision was blurry. She blinked, and a shadowy room lit by candlelight came into focus.

“Innis!” Someone leaned over her. She saw white-blond hair, green eyes. Petrus. “Innis, stay awake! We need your help.”

She tried to speak, tried to ask him what was wrong, tried to keep her eyes open, but it was impossible.

T
HE NEXT TIME
Innis woke, it was daylight. She blinked heavy eyelids. A room swam into hazy focus: diamond-paned windows, stone walls, tapestries.

“Innis?” The voice was quiet, coming from behind her. Hands cradled her skull.

“Dareus?” It was a hoarse whisper. The voice didn’t sound like her own.

“Yes.”

There was magic flowing from those hands. She recognized the touch of it: healing magic, weak and faint. “What happened?”

“You had an accident. We need you to help us.”

She blinked again, and tried to remember. Stairs?

“Try to heal yourself, Innis.”

Obediently she reached for her magic. It came to her sluggishly.

She closed her eyes again and tried to sense what healing was needed. Pain swamped her.

“Start with your head,” Dareus told her.

Innis tried to concentrate past the pain. She could feel what Dareus had done—mended fractures in her skull, repaired blood vessels—but there was still extensive swelling, extensive bruising.

She set to work, methodically repairing the damage. It was painstaking, tiring, but gradually the ache in her head eased. Pain stopped thudding against her temples. It no longer felt as if her skull was splitting open.