The Sentinel Mage (10 page)

CHAPTER ELEVEN

H
ER FATHER SAT
on his throne. He was as motionless as the armsmen positioned along the walls. Only his eyes moved, watching her as she walked across the marble floor.

Britta halted at the foot of his dais. She sank into a low curtsey.

“Brigitta,” her father said coldly. “What took you so long?” Jewels set in gold glittered on his fingers. Anger glittered in his eyes,

“Forgive me, Father.” She straightened, biting her tongue to keep from babbling excuses. “I came as quickly as I was able.”

The king looked her up and down. It was hard not to cringe beneath that scrutiny. With every second that passed, her chest tightened and her heart beat louder.

“I’ve had enough of this nonsense about your marriage.” There was a harsh edge of anger in her father’s voice. “Duke Rikard is my choice of husband for you. He’s commander of my army. I see no reason why you should object to him.”

An image of the duke rose in her mind’s eye: fleshy body, cruel mouth, face glistening with sweat. Britta’s stomach clenched in a sick knot.

“Answer me,” her father demanded. “Will you, or will you not, marry Rikard?”

Britta swallowed.
I’d sooner die than marry Rikard.
She looked at her father, saw the rage swelling his face, and knew with absolute certainty that Jaegar was correct: Father would punish her in Harkeld’s stead, if she gave him the chance.

There was utter silence in the room. Britta heard her heart thudding in her chest. This wasn’t a decision about her marriage; it was about her life.

W
HEN
P
RINCESS
B
RIGITTA
emerged from the king’s audience chamber, her face was wax-like, pale and stiff. She didn’t appear to see Karel when he stepped away from the wall.

He followed her back to her rooms. Yasma emerged hurriedly from the bedchamber. “Princess?”

“I wish to change.”

Karel caught Yasma’s eye.
Find out what happened.

Yasma gave a tiny nod. She followed the princess into the bedchamber and shut the door. Ten minutes later, she emerged. Her face was sober.

Karel stopped pacing the parlor. “Well?”

“She’s marrying Rikard.”

“What?” He took an involuntary step backwards.
Not Rikard.

“The king says it’s a good match.” Yasma pressed her hands to her temples. “He’s commander of the army. And a duke.”

“He’s a thug! With the manners of a hog scrambling for the best place at the feeding trough.”

Yasma didn’t appear to hear him. “Karel, do you know anything about Queen Sigren’s death?”

He blinked. “What about it?”

“Britta said...she said Prince Harkeld told her it wasn’t an accident. He thought the king had Sigren killed.”

Karel nodded. “I’ve heard that rumor.”

“Do you think it’s true?”

Karel hesitated, remembering Queen Sigren’s death two and a half years ago, remembering the rumors rife in the palace—and remembering that the queen’s armsmen had been quietly pensioned off with fat purses of gold in the wake of her death. He nodded again.

“So does Britta,” Yasma said miserably. “So you see, she daren’t disobey her father.” She turned towards the bedchamber.

“About Queen Sigren, you mustn’t repeat—”

“I know.”

Karel held the question between his teeth while Yasma walked away from him, and then had to ask: “When is the wedding?”

“In three days.”

B
RITTA SPENT THE
afternoon in her garden. The things she normally delighted in—the scent of roses, the hum of bees gathering pollen—didn’t lift her mood. She saw only the clouds in the sky, not the sunshine, heard only the discordant crunch of her shoes on the crushed marble paths, not the birdsong.

Her eyes kept turning to the high stone wall that ringed the palace grounds. With Karel guarding her, she’d never escape. His footsteps crunched behind her on the path even now. He watched her so intently it was impossible to imagine evading him.

I could kill myself.

Britta turned the thought over in her head. Would it be better to be dead than be pawed over by Rikard? To share his bed?

Better to be dead.

But if she killed herself, Yasma would lose her protection. The maid would go back to scrubbing floors and being bedded by any man who wanted her.

I can’t do that to her.

In front of her a worm struggled to cross the path. “Careful, Karel.”

Her armsman halted. Britta bent and picked up the worm. She deposited it beneath a rose bush, where the soil was rich and damp.

I wish I wasn’t a princess.

But then what would she be? A commoner, living in a dirt-floored house, wondering where her next meal was coming from, watching her children die of illness and hunger? Or perhaps she’d be a bondservant like Yasma, condemned to a life of slavery, being passed from man to man because of her pretty face, bound into servitude so that her children might be free.

Isn’t that what I am? A bondservant, with no control over my own life, no say in who my body goes to?

Britta halted in front of her favorite rosebush. The petals were creamy white, glowing softly golden at their heart, the edges tipped with pink. She gently brushed a drop of water from one smooth petal.

No, her position was nothing like Yasma’s. She was being given to one man, within the laws and protections of a marriage contract. And she wasn’t twelve years old, as Yasma had been the first time a man had taken her. She was eighteen. A grown woman.

The petal was as soft as silk beneath her fingertips. Sweet scent drifted up.

Yasma survived. As will I.

CHAPTER TWELVE

T
HEY PUSHED EAST
while smoke rose in the sky behind them. Harkeld rode a packhorse, a sturdy roan Cora had caught. Midway through the afternoon shapeshifters brought one of the packhorses, carrying food. They ate riding, chewing on nuts and strips of dried meat.

Several hours later they emerged from the cool shade of the forest into a grassy clearing beside a creek. Ebril was there, whistling between his teeth as he laid a ring of stones for a fire. Behind him, several horses grazed. Harkeld recognized the bay he’d ridden that morning.

Dareus dismounted stiffly, wearily. “Our pursuit?”

“South,” Ebril said. “The fires confused them. They haven’t found your trail yet.”

Dareus grunted. He looked across the clearing. Shadows were lengthening along the ground. “The other horses?”

Ebril shook his head. “Two dead, one injured. Lame. We had to leave it.”

They tended the horses as the sun sank behind a veil of smoke. Cora built a fire from fallen branches and lit it with a snap of her fingers. There were no tents; the packhorse carrying them had died at the river crossing.

Everything was wet—boots, saddles, clothing, blankets. Harkeld dried his sword with a handful of yellowing grass. He looked at his belongings. They made a pitiful collection, spread out to dry.

Two days ago he’d been a prince, eating the finest food, sleeping on silken sheets. Today he was a fugitive, bare-footed and bare-chested, clad in damp trews, with nothing more than a wet blanket to sleep in tonight.
How did I fall so far, so fast?

“We need to cut your hair, sire,” Justen said. “The archers knew who to aim for.”

Harkeld touched the tangled strands that hung down his back. His hair was the last thing tying him to his birthright, the last sign he was of royal blood.

He couldn’t summon the energy to object, just nodded. “You have a razor?”

Justen shook his head. “Back on the ship. I’ve been getting shaved at the public baths. But Ebril or Petrus will have one.”

“The witches won’t have razors,” Harkeld said. “We’ll have to use your dagger.”

“Why won’t they have razors?”

“Because they grow feathers, not hair. They have to pluck themselves.”

Justen stared at him for a moment, and then gave a shout of laughter. “By the All-Mother, you don’t believe that, do you?”

Harkeld flushed. “It’s true.”

“Then how do you explain Gerit’s beard? Or Dareus’s?” Justen asked, grinning widely.

“Magic. They’ve made themselves look human.”

“Ach, you don’t truly believe that, do you, sire?” Justen’s grin turned down at the corners. “That they grow feathers, not hair?”

“Of course. Everyone knows it’s true.”

Justen’s grin vanished entirely. “What else does everyone know?”

“That witches mate with animals. That their women give birth to litters of kittens.”

“Kittens?”

“And other things. Some witches have goats’ eyes and walk on cloven hooves, others have the heads of dogs or asses, others—”

Justen snorted. “I’ve never heard such nonsense in my life, sire.”

Harkeld stiffened. “It’s true.”

“We had a mage born in my village. He didn’t have an ass’s head or cloven hooves. He didn’t grow feathers or fur. He was just like anyone else.”

“He can’t have been a witch then.”

Justen grinned. “He’s one, all right. When he’s home, he sometimes turns into a sea eagle and goes out ahead of the fleet to find where the fish are running.” His arms lifted, mimicking a bird’s wings. “Must be marvelous to be able to fly.”

Fly? With feathers sprouting from his skin? The thought made Harkeld’s scalp prickle.

Justen lowered his arms. “Fredrik didn’t even know he was a mage until he was tested.”

“Tested?”

“All children in the Allied Kingdoms are tested, to see if they have magic. Mages come to Groot every few years.” He shrugged. “They don’t find many. Groot doesn’t breed a lot of mages.”

Harkeld flexed his hand, looking at the way skin moved over muscle and bone. An ordinary hand—and yet the blood that flowed beneath his skin was tainted.
Would the test show I am a witch?

He clenched his hand into a fist. No. The blood was too diluted. He was no witch. He
refused
to be a witch. “What happens to them? The children?”

“They go to Rosny when they’re old enough. To learn to use their magic.”

They should be culled. Like deformed calves are culled from a herd.

“Fredrik has to shave, like you and me. He grows whiskers, not feathers.” Justen indicated the witches with his hand: Cora stirring the stewpot, Ebril and Petrus spreading bedrolls and blankets to dry beside the fire, Dareus checking horses’ legs. “That’s the truth, sire. Not asses’ heads and cloven hooves. The truth is what you see with your own eyes, not what someone tells you.”

Harkeld looked coldly at his armsman. “How dare you speak to me—”

But Justen didn’t hear the reprimand; he was striding towards the fire. “Petrus, Ebril, do either of you have a razor?”

Both witches looked up.

“I need to cut the prince’s hair. Makes him a target.”

Ebril nodded. “Use mine.”

Harkeld maintained a reproving silence while Justen cut his hair. The armsman didn’t appear to notice. “There,” he said cheerfully when it was done. “Now you look like the rest of us.”

A commoner. Harkeld touched his hair. The strands were no longer than his thumb.

T
HEY ATE AROUND
the fire. The girl, Innis, came out of the darkness and sat wrapped in a blanket. He knew she was naked beneath it, but the knowledge wasn’t titillating. He half-expected to see her guzzle the food from her bowl like an animal, but she ate with a spoon, as neatly as any court lady.

Harkeld looked down at his stew. Would the witches bother to cook if he and Justen weren’t with them? Or would they eat the raw flesh of slaughtered beasts, as the tales said they did, and rotting carrion and dead babies?