The Sentinel Mage (43 page)

Yasma fussed over her, leading her to the bathtub, helping her to climb into the steaming water. Britta began to wash. Soap, scrubbing brush— She paused. “What’s that sound?”

The noise came again: a faint crash.

Yasma hurried out into the bedchamber. A moment later, she was back, her eyes wide with fear. “The duke’s in his study. He’s looking for something.”

It’s starting.

Britta pushed to her feet. Water cascaded over the side of the golden bathtub. “Quickly. I need to dress.”

She toweled herself roughly dry, dragged on a linen shift, and stood for Yasma to lace her into an undergown. The cream-white silk covered her from throat to wrist to ankle, hiding the marks Duke Rikard had left on her skin.

“The tunic, princess.” Yasma held out rose-pink silk stitched with silver thread. Behind her, the door jerked open. Duke Rikard stood on the threshold.

Britta’s breath stuck in her throat. She couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, could only stand and stare at him.

The duke advanced into the bathing chamber. His face was flushed. With anger this time, not lust.

Britta swallowed. “My lord?” Her voice trembled slightly. “You’re back early.”

Duke Rikard pushed Yasma out of his way. He grabbed Britta’s shoulder, pulled her towards him, shook her. “Have you been in my study?”

This close she could smell him, smell his sweat, his anger.

“
Have you?
” he yelled, shaking her again.

“Of course not,” Britta said, but her voice was breathless and afraid, not firm. “Why would I?”

His grip tightened on her shoulder. “To betray Osgaard.”

Britta’s heart beat too loudly in her chest, too fast.
He knows.
Behind him, she saw Yasma. The maid’s face was terrified.

The girl’s terror steadied her.
Be strong.
Too much was at stake here: her own life, Yasma’s life.

Britta took a deep breath and wrenched free from the duke’s grip. She lifted her chin. “Have you forgotten that I am your king’s daughter? How dare you accuse me of betraying my country!” Her voice rang in the bathing chamber.

“You spoke with the ambassador’s wife.”

“Which ambassador’s wife?”

“Lundegaard.” Duke Rikard spat out the word, as if it tasted foul in his mouth. “You spoke with her!”

“Of course I did. She was my guest.” Britta turned to Yasma. “The tunic, girl.”

Yasma stepped forward. She lifted the tunic and placed it carefully over Britta’s head, twitching the seams into place across her shoulders, smoothing the silk. Her hands trembled as she worked.

“I spoke to the ambassadors’ wives from Ankeny and Sault,” Britta said coolly. “And Roubos. Is that also a crime of treason?” She walked into the bedchamber and sat down in front of the mirror. Her crown rested on the gilded table top, gleaming.

Duke Rikard followed her.

Britta picked up the crown. The gold was cool beneath her fingers.
See, I am a royal princess. I would never betray Osgaard.
She placed it on her head.

Usually the crown felt like a shackle, something that kept her imprisoned, like the iron band Yasma wore around her arm. This morning it felt like a soldier’s helm, protecting her. Britta watched in the mirror as the duke came to stand behind her. “What has happened, my lord, that you speak of treason?”

The muscles in Duke Rikard’s face contracted, tightened. She saw anger, and beneath that, something else: fear.

His fear gave her courage. “Well, my lord?”

“Ambassador Alrik departed the palace overnight, taking his wife and staff.”

And the invasion plans.
A quicksilver gleam of emotion stirred in her chest: relief, hope. “I fail to see that this is reason to accuse anyone of treason.”

In the mirror, she saw Duke Rikard clench his hands. “Someone must have told him.”

“Told him what?” Britta looked over her shoulder. “Yasma,” she said, an edge of impatience in her voice. “Hurry along, girl. I’m waiting.”

The duke stepped back a pace as Yasma scurried forward.

“Told him what?” Britta repeated, as the maid began to dress her hair. The overt terror was gone from Yasma’s face, but her fingers weren’t as deft as usual.

“Told him about...information in my study.”

“I assure you, my lord, I haven’t entered your study. Why should I?” She tried to sound bored, disinterested.

“Someone has.” The duke’s gaze turned to Yasma. “This bondservant, perhaps.”

Yasma fumbled as she wove the crown into place.

For a moment Britta sat frozen, unable to think past panic, and then she uttered a shaky laugh. “My maid? A slow-witted islander who can neither read nor write?” Her voice was scornful.

The duke flushed. “She has reason to wish us ill, like all her kin.”

“And reason to be very conscientious in her service to us! Her family’s freedom rests on her shoulders, their very lives. What bondservant would risk such a thing?” As Britta spoke the words, she realized what she’d asked of Yasma. She glanced at her maid in the mirror.
I’m sorry, Yasma. I was thinking only of myself.

Rage built in the duke’s face. “Someone has been in my study—”

“Are you so certain?” Britta said. “Surely you’re not the only person who was party to this information?”

The question hung in the air. She saw the duke’s eyes narrow, saw his brow furrow slightly, saw doubt cross his face.

“Look elsewhere for your traitor, my lord.” Her tone was almost an order. “You will not find him here.”

Duke Rikard’s lips compressed. He looked at her face in the mirror, at the golden crown, and then turned on his heel and strode out of the bedchamber. The door slammed shut behind him.

Silence rang in her ears. She met Yasma’s eyes in the mirror, saw the fear in them.

What have I done?

“I’m sorry,” Britta whispered. “I didn’t mean to place you in such danger. I didn’t think—” She turned to face Yasma. “Remember: you’re illiterate! You had no contact with the ambassador’s wife.”

Yasma nodded, her face pale.

Britta reached out and took her maid’s hands, gripping them tightly. “It will be all right.” Her mouth spoke the words, but her heart didn’t believe them.
Were my wits so fuddled by the poppy juice that I didn’t see these consequences?
Treason had been done, and someone must be blamed for it.

S
HE WAS AFRAID
to take the poppy juice, and afraid not to. What if the duke returned to question her again? She might say the wrong thing, might betray herself and Yasma. But what if he returned at noon to bed her, as was his habit?

Britta discovered she was twisting her hands together, as Yasma was wont to do. She stilled the movement.
Think
. There must be somewhere she could go, somewhere she’d be safe—

The nursery.

Yasma finished anchoring the crown in place. “Would you like the poppy juice now?”

“I think...today it wouldn’t be wise.”

Britta crossed to the door and opened it, trying not to look agitated as she entered the salon, aware that the armsman was one of the duke’s men. Outside, the fourth bell tolled. What could she draw? Something that wouldn’t take long.

Britta stepped into the dining room. She hurried to where the sheets of parchment, the ink flask, the quill, lay on the table—and halted.

The topmost sheet had a picture on it. Her eyes took in the details: a flock of geese arrowing across the sky, a jagged range of mountains, a vast cavern in which a giant winged lizard crouched atop a pile of treasure—tumbled coins and necklaces, jeweled goblets and kings’ crowns. Cowering from the creature was a pretty peasant girl with braided hair and a scattering of freckles across her nose. And climbing the mountainside to rescue her, an axe strapped across his back, was a young woodcutter.

Britta closed her eyes briefly.
Thank you, Karel.

She rolled up the parchment and returned to the salon. “Yasma,” she called.

The maid emerged from the bedchamber. “Yes, mistress?”

“I shall have lunch with my brothers. Carry this for me.”

And then, with Duke Rikard’s armsman trailing behind them, she took Yasma and herself to the nursery.

CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

T
HEY LEFT THE
destruction of the battle behind in a matter of minutes, but the broken-open tombs extended for several miles, lining the base of the cliffs on either side. Innis flew above them in wide circles, a speck in the sky. Petrus lifted his eyes to her often.

Their pace slowed with each mile that they rode. It wasn’t just the horses that were tired; the soldiers sagged in their saddles, their faces dark with soot, with stubble, with exhaustion. “How much further?” Tomas asked Dareus, as the sun shone overhead, at its zenith. “We need to rest.”

“We should be there soon.”

The canyon narrowed, swung north a few degrees, widened again—and there on the other side of the river was an outcrop of rock. It pushed out of the sand like the prow of a ship, sheer-sided, its flat crest several yards above the canyon floor.

They dismounted at the riverbed and led the horses across the jumble of boulders. Petrus stumbled as he walked, holding on to the horse to steady himself. His eyes were gritty with tiredness.

He watched as Innis swooped low. She hovered above the ground, some two hundred yards distant. Petrus squinted. What had she seen?

Innis landed. She shifted into the shape of a dog, sniffed the ground, and began to dig. Clouds of red sand rose behind her.

“What the...?” Petrus pushed away from his horse. “The mage has found something!”

He covered the distance at a half-run, scrambling over boulders, jogging across sand. He heard others following him.

Innis appeared to be digging a trench. It was already a foot deep when he reached her. “What is it?” he asked, crouching.

Innis paused and looked at him. Sand cascaded gently into the hole. She uttered a short, yipping bark.

“What—?” said Prince Tomas behind them, and then, peering more closely into the hole: “Is that a hand?”

I
T TOOK SEVERAL
more minutes to fully uncover the shallow grave. Innis sat down, panting. Her tongue hung from her mouth.

They stared down at what was exposed. Petrus silently counted the body parts. Like Captain Ditmer’s men, these men had been torn limb from limb.

“How many—?” someone asked.

“Three heads.”

Three heads, and a tangle of limbs.

“Fresh,” one of the soldiers said. “About a week, I’d say. “

Petrus turned away from the grave. He examined the canyon walls. Holes gaped in the nearest tombs.

“Who do you think they are?” Tomas said, crouching. “And where are their companions?”

“They must be heading towards Ner,” Dareus said. “Or we’d have crossed paths with them.”

A terrible thought seized him. Petrus narrowed his eyes, examining what was left of the bodies. The only skin he could see was covered by sand and dried blood.

With a muttered expletive, he reached down and hauled one of the arms from the grave. He stripped off the torn shirtsleeve and began to examine the skin. It was deeply bruised.

“What are you looking for?” Tomas asked.

“A tattoo.”

Tomas understood. He turned and uttered a curt order. Within less than a minute the body parts were laid out on the sand. Tomas knelt at one of the torsos and tore off the clothing.

It was Prince Harkeld who first found what they were looking for. “Here.” He held up an arm. A tattoo of a five-bladed throwing star showed on the pallid skin of the bicep.

Petrus released his breath with a hiss.

“Fithian assassin,” someone said behind him.

A second throwing star was found on the shoulder blade of one of the dead men, and marching across the nape of the man’s neck was a row of tiny daggers.