The Sentinel Mage (50 page)

CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

I
NNIS FLEW NORTH.
No, it was more than flying, it was running away from what had happened, from Dareus lying dead beneath a pile of sand.

Finally the canyon petered out in a forest of stone fins and spires. She dipped a wing and glided back down the canyon until she could no longer see the spines of rock. She circled. Here was where they needed to camp tonight—out of sight of the assassins, but within a few miles of the ruined city.

There were no caves large enough, no ledges of stone, no outcrops. She flew higher, breaking free of the canyon walls. A rocky plateau stretched south, east, west, like a rumpled orange-red blanket that had been cast down.

There was no shelter up here, no way the horses could be brought up, but with ropes the men could climb.

Innis circled thoughtfully. How safe would it be up here? Was it as empty as it looked, or did creatures roused by the curse hunt here at night?

She glided down again, letting the canyon swallow her, and landed beside the trickle of the River Ner. She shifted.

Innis had felt her weariness as a hawk, but in human form it pressed down heavily. Her knees buckled as dizziness washed over her. She fell, catching herself on hands and knees.

For a few seconds she knelt, head hanging, eyes squeezed shut, then she looked up.
You told Cora you could do this. So do it.

Her knees were bloody, her palms skinned. The pain seemed to help. The dizziness eased slightly. Innis drank from the river, splashing cool water on her face. The dizziness retreated even further.

She crouched in the rivulet and washed away soot and blood and sweat, washed away the terrible memory of last night. Then she sat on one of the smooth, rounded boulders and let the breeze dry her skin. Tombs lined the canyon to the height of a man’s head on either side. Some were natural, others looked as if they’d been cut into the rock by the ancient Massens. Above the tombs, the cliffs towered, red sandstone veined with orange and yellow, white and slate-gray, and riddled with holes—tiny cavities the size of her thumb, holes that were fist-sized, head-sized, the size of a man’s torso, and, scattered here and there, caves large enough for a person to huddle in.

Large enough for a person.

Her weariness evaporated abruptly. She caught her breath and scanned the cliffs. One, two...four...seven...ten, twelve. There were more than enough caves for them all.

Relief surged through her. There was no need to fight tonight. They’d be safe.

On the heels of relief, came grief. These cliffs were no different from those that had loomed over them last night.
If I’d thought of this yesterday, Dareus would still be alive.

Tears stung her eyes. Innis blinked them back.
This is what being a Sentinel means: death. You knew that. Dareus knew it too. Don’t let him down by blubbering
.

She’d heard Dareus speak twice at the Academy about being a Sentinel. He’d concluded both lectures by reading the names of Sentinels killed performing their duty. It was a long list. Both her parents’ names were on it. Now Dareus’s would be too.

Innis washed the tears from her eyes. Crouching, she drew a circle in water on a boulder with her fingertip. “All-Mother, take care of him,” she whispered, holding Dareus’s face in her mind.

The water evaporated slowly, the sandstone drying from red to dusky pink.

When the circle was no longer visible, Innis gathered her magic, imagining herself in the shape of a hawk. Her skin prickled, a sensation close to pain. She closed her eyes for an instant; when she opened them she saw from a hawk’s viewpoint: the sharpness of vision, the wider field of view. Her eyes caught movement on the far side of the canyon: a lizard scuttling.

Innis spread her wings and lifted into the air, heading back down the canyon.

CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

K
AREL STRODE THROUGH
the marble corridors, dressed in the gold and scarlet uniform, his sword belted at his side and the armsman’s torque around his throat.
Hurry. Hurry.

But when he reached Duke Rikard’s rooms, all was quiet. The duke must still be briefing the new commander. There was no bustle, no noise, no urgency. The door to the bedchamber was shut.

The armsman he replaced left without speaking a word.

Karel stood for a moment in the empty salon. Should he take his place against the wall like a good armsman and wait for whatever happened next?

No.

He strode across to the bedchamber and knocked. After a moment, Yasma opened the door. “Karel.” Surprise crossed her face. “Is it noon already?”

“I’m early.” Behind Yasma, he saw the princess seated before the mirror, the golden crown partly bound to her head. “Is the princess going into exile with Rikard?”

Princess Brigitta’s head turned. She stared at him across the room.

“You didn’t know?” Karel said, looking at the princess, not Yasma.

“No,” Yasma said. “The duke left just after midnight. He hasn’t been back since.”

“Exile?” Princess Brigitta pushed to her feet and hurried across the bedchamber. “Rikard?”

“Your father’s stripped him of his dukedom,” Karel told her. “And command of the army. He’s being exiled to Horst. Leaving tomorrow.” He waited a heartbeat, and then asked directly, “Do you have to go with him?”

It was an impertinence to speak so to her, but the princess didn’t appear to mind. “I don’t know.” Her brow furrowed, and then she blinked and purpose came into her face. “No. I won’t go with him!” She turned and half-ran back to the mirror. “Quickly, Yasma! Finish my hair! “

K
AREL WAITED TENSELY
in the salon.
If Rikard comes now
—

He paced to one end of the room and back. The door to the bedchamber opened. Princess Brigitta emerged. She crossed the salon, then turned in a flurry of silk. “You must come too, Yasma! Bring my cloak. Quickly!”

They walked briskly—mistress, maid, armsman—through the corridors of the palace. At the king’s antechamber, the princess demanded entrance. “I must speak with my father,” she said imperiously.

They waited only a few minutes. Karel stood to attention, staring straight ahead. On the wall was a map of the Seven Kingdoms, lettered in gold leaf. Osgaard looked like a bloated octopus, its tentacles reaching north, south, west. It had swallowed Meren and Brindesan, Horst, Karnveld, Lomaly, and the Esfaban islands.

His eyes traced the borders of the Seven Kingdoms. If Osgaard conquered Lundegaard, it would rival Ankeny in size. There would be only six kingdoms and the maps would have to be redrawn, yet again.

An armsman opened the door into the king’s audience chamber. “You may enter, highness.”

Princess Brigitta took a deep breath. “Wait for me here, Yasma, Karel.” She pinched her cheeks to give them color and stepped through into the audience chamber.

B
RITTA HADN’T SEEN
her father since the day of her marriage. He seemed to have grown in size, in anger. He sat on his golden throne, his face florid, his anger palpable as he watched her approach.

Her heart began to beat even faster. Harkeld’s voice whispered in her ear:
Don’t let him see you’re afraid.

Jaegar stood at one of the windows, a faint smile on his lips. Anticipation seemed to glitter in his eyes.

“Did Rikard send you to beg for him?”

“No, Father.” Britta took hold of her courage. “I’ve come to ask that my marriage be annulled.”

Her father’s brows lowered. Rage seemed to gather on his face.

Britta spoke quickly: “Rikard failed you, and you rightly punish him. Exile him, Father—but don’t allow him to take me with him. Else you’ll be seen as rewarding him.”

There was silence in the chamber. She was aware of the armsmen standing motionless against the walls, aware of the harsh sound of her father’s breathing. Jaegar stepped away from the window. He strolled across the marble floor and halted in front of her, studying her face.

Britta swallowed. Her heart seemed to be beating in her throat.

Jaegar reached out and lightly touched her chin, tilting her face upward. He turned to their father. “She’s right,” he said. “You strip Rikard of his title and his command of your army, you exile him—and yet you reward him with this. Your own daughter.”

Britta held her breath.

“Beautiful, isn’t she?” Jaegar caressed her cheek lightly with his thumb. “Such a shame to waste her.”

The king stared at her from his throne, heavy-browed, his mouth pinched in anger.

Jaegar released her chin. “She could be the answer to our most pressing problem.” He strolled over to the dais and bent to whisper in their father’s ear. Britta caught the word
Harkeld.

The king’s eyes narrowed as he stared at her. For a long moment there was utter silence. She heard her father’s breathing, heard the beating of her heart—and then the king spoke: “Very well. Annul it.”

J
AEGAR WROTE THE
annulment on a sheet of parchment. The king signed it, the quill making brisk scratching sounds as he scrawled his name.

Her brother applied the royal seal: scarlet wax and gold leaf. “Done,” he said, rolling the parchment up and handing it to her. His voice seemed to hold faint amusement.

Britta curtseyed towards the throne. “Thank you, Father.”

Jaegar escorted her to the door. “I suppose you’d like your old rooms back.”

“I don’t mind.”
I’ll sleep anywhere, as long as Rikard isn’t with me
.

“Take them. No one else is using them.”

“Thank you.” Britta gripped the annulment tightly. “What did you mean? About me being a solution to a problem?”

Jaegar’s smile widened, sharpened, showing his teeth. “We know how fond Harkeld is of you.”

An armsman opened the door for her. Britta found herself in the antechamber before her mind had sorted through the implications of the statement. Was she to be bait to catch Harkeld?

P
RINCESS
B
RIGITTA RETURNED
to Rikard’s suite. “Take what we’ll need overnight,” she told Yasma. “We can come back for the rest once he’s gone.”

Yasma hurried into the bedchamber.

Karel followed the princess to the dining room and took up position just inside the door. The picture he’d drawn last night lay on the table: soldiers chasing a party of bandits into the mountains.

The princess laid down the annulment and put the drawing aside without looking at it. She uncapped the ink flask, dipped the quill in it, and began to write hurriedly on the next sheet of blank parchment.

Karel tried to read upside down.
Rikard, my father has annulled our marriage. I am no longer your wife.

His gaze lifted to Princess Brigitta’s face, to the faintly furrowed brow, the golden crown. She was stronger than he’d realized—to confront her father, to demand an annulment. He’d underestimated her courage.

In the salon, a door opened. Heavy footsteps strode into the room.

“Princess,” Karel said in a low voice.

The princess had heard the footsteps. She sat frozen for a moment, her face leached of all color, then she stood, reaching for the annulment.

Rikard flung open the door to the bedchamber. “Brigitta!”

The princess stepped into the salon. Karel heard her inhale, saw muscles work in her throat as she swallowed, saw her hand tighten around the roll of parchment. “I’m here,” she said.

Rikard turned. “There you are.” He strode towards her. “Pack your belongings, my lady. We’re leaving.”

“I am no longer your wife,” Princess Brigitta said. She held out the roll of parchment. “The king has annulled our marriage.”

Rikard halted. His face stiffened as if he’d been struck. “You’re mine.”