The Sentinel Mage (28 page)

King Magnas nodded. “Yes. I know.”

“You know?” Harkeld stared at him. “But...how?”

Erik and Tomas had stopped talking. They watched from across the chamber.

“We have friends in Osgaard who tell us things. From them we heard...details about Sigren’s death.” Grief for his eldest child momentarily shadowed the king’s face. “And the truth about your banishment.”

“Oh,” Harkeld said.

“What happened to Sigren doesn’t affect my offer. Lundegaard may be your home, if you wish.”

“But she died at my father’s hand—”

“You are not your father. You’ve proven that, son, beyond any doubt.”

Harkeld’s throat tightened again. “Thank you, sir.”

P
ETRUS PUSHED HIS
plate away. He swallowed a mouthful of mead, tasting honey on his tongue.

“We leave at dawn tomorrow.” Dareus leaned his elbows on the table. “I’ve sent a message back to Rosny, asking for more Sentinels to join us in Ankeny. Fire mages, shapeshifters, healers.”

Gerit nodded. “Good.”

They sat around the oak table, Dareus, Cora, Gerit, and himself. Ebril was in the shape of a hound, guarding the prince. Innis was asleep.

“I want Innis to ride as herself tomorrow,” Dareus said. “I’ll assess her at the end of the day. If I think she’s strong enough, she can be Justen overnight. If not, one of you will have to do it.”

Gerit drained his tankard and placed it on the table with a thump. “Sounds good.”

“I’d like you to take turns being Justen tomorrow.” Dareus looked at Gerit, and then Petrus. “But your attitude concerns me, both of you.”

Petrus felt himself flush. “My attitude?”

“Your antagonism towards the prince.”

Petrus moved uncomfortably in his chair, excuses crowding his tongue—
It’s not my fault. It’s the prince’s!
He glanced at Cora. Her expression was grave.

“You may only be Justen if you can keep your hostility under control. Both of you.”

Across from him, Gerit shifted his weight. “But the stupid whoreson—”

“I don’t care what your opinion of him is. Right now, Prince Harkeld is the single most important person in the Seven Kingdoms. Lives past counting depend on him.”

Gerit dropped his gaze.

“Justen is our best way of protecting him. A Sentinel at his side. But that depends on Prince Harkeld
wanting
to have him as his armsman. He has to trust Justen. He has to like him.”

Petrus looked away from those fierce eyes. He stared down at his mead.

“I will not have you jeopardizing our mission. Either of you. Regardless of what you think of Prince Harkeld, you’ll treat him the way Innis does. The way
Justen
does. Or I won’t allow you to be Justen. Is that understood?”

Shame was hot on Petrus’s face. He looked up and met Dareus’s eyes. “Yes.”

Dareus transferred his gaze to Gerit. “And you?”

“Yes,” Gerit said gruffly.

“Good. Then you may take turns being Justen tomorrow.” Dareus pushed back his chair and stood. “I suggest you have an early night. Tomorrow will be a long day.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

B
RITTA LAY WITH
her eyes closed. She let herself float upwards. The duke didn’t seem to notice that she was no longer sharing his bed, that she had slipped free.

She drifted near the ceiling, as light as a leaf floating on water. The person Duke Rikard was grunting over, whose legs he was spreading, wasn’t her. She was serene up here, where nothing could touch her.

W
HEN
B
RITTA WOKE,
she was alone. Even though he had gone, Duke Rikard’s scent still smothered her. She could smell his sweat, the musk of his arousal. It was ingrained in the sheets, ingrained in her skin.

Her throat closed. She couldn’t breathe.

She thrust herself out of the bed, tangling in the sheets, landing on hands and knees, her chest heaving.

“Britta!” Someone knelt with her. Hands touched her lightly. She flinched before she realized they weren’t the duke’s—small, soft, gentle. “Are you all right?” It was Yasma’s voice.

Britta squeezed her eyes shut, gasping to breathe.

“Princess?”

Her breathing steadied. Britta opened her eyes, allowing Yasma to help her stand. She turned her gaze from the bed, from the rumpled sheets and tumbled pillows, refusing to think about what those things meant. “What’s the time?”

“The third bell has just rung, princess.”

“I need to wash.”
I need to scrub him off me
.

“I have a bath ready for you.”

She allowed Yasma to slip an arm around her waist and guide her towards the bathing chamber. Her thoughts moved as slowly as her feet. Third bell. The duke usually returned at the fifth bell, at noon. Tightness grew in her throat again, in her chest. She halted.

“Princess?”

“The poppy juice. I’ll take it now.”

“So early, princess? You’ve only just woken.”

Early, yes, but what if the duke came early too? What if he came back at the fourth bell, today, instead of the fifth? “Now,” Britta said, making it an order.

Yasma hesitated. She shook her head. “Britta, I—”

“You have some? Tell me you have some!” Her voice held a note of panic.

Yasma bowed her head. “I have some. I’ll prepare it while you bathe.”

Y
ASMA BROUGHT THE
poppy juice while Britta scrubbed away Duke Rikard’s scent. Was her skin thinner now from all the scrubbing she’d done, every day, with bristles and soap?

His smell washed away, but not the bruises that marked his ownership of her. They were stamped on her skin.

“Princess.” The maid knelt beside the bathtub, a small goblet in each hand. She held out one.

Britta dropped the brush. She took the goblet with shaking fingers, lifted it to her mouth, gulped.

The dark juice tasted bitter. It tasted like serenity.

The duke seemed to recede as she handed the goblet back to Yasma. Her breath didn’t hitch any more, nor did her fingers shake.

She drank the dung-root juice next. The liquid was pale and cloudy, with a fennel-like taste and sulfurous smell. It didn’t give her serenity; it gave her hope.
No children
, she whispered in her mind as she swallowed, a silent prayer to the All-Mother.

Britta handed the goblet back. “Thank you.” She picked up the brush and resumed scrubbing.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

I
T WAS AN
eight-day journey to the cliffs that thrust up to the Masse plateau. They rode with their escort surrounding them: ten men in close formation protecting the prince, the remaining forty scouring the countryside around them.

Innis traveled as herself the first day. The castle atop its mount grew slowly smaller behind them. By noon, it looked like the humped back of a turtle crouching on the plains. By nightfall, it was the size of a peach stone. To the west, the bluffs kept them company, rearing up from the plains, thickly crowned by forest and with the Graytooth Mountains running in ridges behind.

They camped for the night in a hay field that had recently been harvested. Dareus gave her permission to become Justen again. Innis ate her dinner seated alongside the princes. The murmur of men’s voices drifted on the breeze, punctuated by the occasional clink of metal or snort from a horse.

“Which is my tent?” Prince Harkeld asked once they’d finished eating.

Innis looked around, seeing a small city of tents and campfires within the drystone walls of the field.

Tomas pushed to his feet. “I’ll show you.”

Innis followed the princes. Dried hay stalks crunched beneath her boots.

“Here.” Tomas halted. “This one’s yours. Bedrolls and blankets are inside.”

“Sentries?” Innis asked.

“Five,” Tomas said. “Four tasked with the camp, one guarding this tent.”

A
SOLDIER’S BRASS
lantern hung from the tent pole, a candle stub flickering inside. The huge shadows it cast made the small space seem doubly cramped. Prince Harkeld removed his boots and sword belt silently. Abruptly he said: “Thank you for choosing to come. After what I did—”

“Forget it, sire. The fault was Lady Lenora’s, not yours.” Innis shrugged out of her jerkin. The leather was new, supple and—best of all—didn’t smell of mold. The shirt was new too, made from sturdy cotton. Folded, it made a nice pillow. “I’d have done the same as you. In fact, I’d probably have castrated me.”

Prince Harkeld uttered a sound that was too harsh to be a laugh. “I was going to. Gerit stopped me.”

“Oh.” Innis unsheathed her sword and laid it alongside her bedroll.

Prince Harkeld removed his jerkin and shirt. His clothes were as crisp and new as her own. Nothing marked them as belonging to a prince. Should an attacker penetrate their defenses, he’d not know which of them to aim for.

The prince bunched his shirt into a pillow and asked abruptly, “Why did you refuse her?”

Innis lay down. She folded her arms beneath her head and stared up at the ceiling of the tent.
Yes, why? What would Justen answer?
Two moths danced in the candlelight, batting their wings against the lantern. “Because I’ve uttered my betrothal oath. I gave my word of honor I’d be faithful to Doutzen.”

Prince Harkeld frowned. “Honor,” he said, sliding a dagger beneath the balled-up shirt. It was one of Tomas’s, the hilt stamped with Lundegaard’s crest. “Yes, I understand.”

Innis lay awake for some time after the prince had fallen asleep, listening to his steady breathing. Honor was paramount to him—she’d felt that clearly when she’d healed him. If she reached out and touched him now, if she let her healing magic flow into him, what would the magic tell her? Did Prince Harkeld feel that in believing Lenora, in taking vengeance on Justen, he’d lost some part of his honor?

She half-reached towards him—then tucked her hand inside the blanket and turned her back to the prince. Sensing his emotions while healing him was one thing; deliberately attempting to read them was something else entirely.

She’d crossed many lines in the past two weeks; she wouldn’t cross this one.

T
HEY BROKE CAMP
just after dawn. Innis swung up onto Justen’s horse. She settled the new baldric more comfortably across her chest. The hilt of the Grooten sword protruded above her shoulder, easy to grasp. The sword and dagger and the amulet at her throat were the only Grooten items she owned now—and the peeling portrait of the unknown lady. Everything else had been discarded at the castle, the clothes too filthy and moldy to launder. Even her boots were new, soldier’s boots, as sturdily crafted as the baldric.