The Sentinel Mage (11 page)

The truth is what you see with your own eyes.

Not always. Sometimes what you saw was what people
wanted
you to see.

Beside him, Justen scraped his wooden bowl clean with a spoon. “By the All-Mother, I needed that,” he said, stifling a belch.

Gerit grunted his agreement.

Harkeld finished his stew. He put down the bowl and closed his eyes for a moment, remembering the arrows, the churning water, the screaming horses, and silently thanked the All-Mother that Britta hadn’t been with them. If she had, she’d most likely be dead.

Emotion tightened his throat. He opened his eyes and looked up at the starless sky.
Be safe, Britta. Be safe, Rutgar. Be safe, Lukas. May the All-Mother watch over and protect you.

An owl hooted softly in the forest. Or perhaps it was a witch.

Harkeld cleared his throat and stood. “I’m going to bed,” he told Justen, ignoring the witches.

The bedrolls were still damp. The blanketswere too.

After a few minutes, Justen joined him. He laid his sword between them, the blade bared. “Let’s hope it doesn’t rain tonight.”

Harkeld grunted. He glanced towards the fire. The girl, Innis, was gone. As he watched, Petrus emerged from the darkness and sat.

He rolled on his side, putting his back to the fire, to the witches.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

A
T MIDNIGHT,
K
AREL
handed Princess Brigitta’s safety into the care of her second armsman, Torven, and went off duty. The corridors of the palace were still brightly lit. He descended the stairs to the armsmen’s barracks, slung his sword belt over a peg in the antechamber, and joined the line of men waiting for food in the mess hall. The air was thick with the smell of mutton and leeks.

Karel took his plate and sat down at one of the long tables. He began to eat, paying no attention to the men sitting around him. The low ceiling echoed with a hundred different conversations.

“Island girls are such whores. They squeal loudly when you take them, but really they want to be rutted.”

Karel chewed stolidly, letting the words pass over his head. They were aimed at him, bait for him to rise to if he was foolish enough.

They’ll try to goad you, to break you.
His uncle’s words came back to him.
You must resist. You must prove that we are loyal and obedient. That we are worthy of freedom.

He’d done more than that: he’d proven he was among the best. There wasn’t one man in this hall he hadn’t beaten in the training arena, either with his sword or his bare hands.

“...Princess Brigitta.”

Karel’s ears pricked at the words. He stopped chewing.

“Lucky whoreson. I wouldn’t mind rutting her.”

Karel forced himself to swallow.
Ignore them
, he told himself, but anger bunched in his muscles.

“I bet she squeals like a bondservant when Rikard ruts her,” another man said, provoking laughter.

“I bet she likes it!” someone else said. “I bet she begs for more!”

Karel raised his eyes and gazed at the man, schooling his face into an expression of boredom.
Next time we’re on the practice field, I’ll have you.
He fixed the armsman in his memory and returned to his meal.

“The islander would know,” a sly voice said to his right. “He’s probably had her already.”

Karel’s grip tightened on his knife and fork. He reached for memory of his uncle’s voice:
Your parents suffered in bondservice so that you might have this opportunity. Don’t waste their sacrifice.
The words steadied him. The flare of anger died.

“Him!” someone exclaimed. “She’d never want an islander. Little better than animals, they are.”

“I bet the islander dreams of her,” the sly voice said again. “I bet he ruts her in his dreams.”

Guffaws of laughter greeted this sally.

Karel glanced at the sly-voiced speaker, noting his face.
I’ll have you, too.

He ate the rest of his meal slowly, imagining what he’d do to the men. Break their elbows first, then their knees—

No, that was too elaborate.
Best make it simple. Best just rip off their heads and be done with it. They’re not worth more.

Karel chewed, enjoying the fantasy. When he’d finished the meal he pushed his plate aside and stood, paying no attention to the men around him. He collected his sword belt from the peg and went to bed.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

I
T STARTED RAINING
during the night, soft rain that fell on her face, waking her. Innis pulled the blanket over her head and went back to sleep.

It was still raining at dawn. She woke, blinking, and stared up at the gray sky.
Who am I?
She groped at her throat and found the Grooten amulet, gripped it tightly. She was Justen.

Innis pushed aside the wet blanket and stood. Across the muddy clearing, Cora crouched at the dead fire, her plait hanging down her back. She snapped her fingers. The branches began to burn.

No one did the morning exercises. They ate quickly, huddled around the fire, then loaded the packhorses. A russet-brown owl glided down, landing beside Dareus. It shook its feathers and changed into Ebril.

“Pursuit?” Dareus asked.

Ebril wiped rain from his face. “They’re a good half day behind.”

“And ahead of us?”

“Forest’s full of them to the south. Keep going northeast and we should be fine.” Ebril looked at the dying fire, at the loaded packhorses. “Is there any food left? Ah, bless you, Cora.” He took the bowl of gruel Cora held out to him and ate quickly, hunched in a wet blanket, while the horses were saddled.

“Mount,” Dareus said.

Innis swung up into the saddle and adjusted the weight of Justen’s sword more comfortably at her hip. She watched as Ebril changed into a hawk and spread his wings. Water trickled down the back of her neck.
I wish I had feathers instead of soggy clothes and boots that squelch.

She tipped her head back, watching the hawk climb into the sky, and then glanced at the prince. His face was averted, tight-lipped.

They mate with animals
, he’d said last night.
Their women give birth to kittens.

Innis grimaced. How could he believe that?

A
S THE DAY
progressed the rain became heavier, drumming down. Her world narrowed to the water streaming from her hood, to the horse in front of her, to the drenched form of Prince Harkeld, wrapped in Ebril’s spare cloak.

Finally they halted for the night beneath the outspread branches of a massive oak. Petrus glided down to land while they unsaddled the horses. His feathers were dark with water, bedraggled.

Innis hefted her sodden saddle on one arm and walked towards the fire. Petrus intercepted her, wrapped in a blanket. His face was weary, his pale hair plastered to his skull. “Change into yourself,” he said. “I’ll be Justen for a couple of hours.”

“But you’ve been a hawk all day—”

“And I’ll be myself all night. You won’t be.”

It was the rain that made her hesitate, the
wetness
of everything. The thought of stripping out of wet clothes, of having to dress in them again later... Innis shook her head. “I’ll be fine, Petrus. It’s not a difficult form to maintain.”

“Innis,
change.
”

It was a nuisance peeling out of the trews, dragging off the clinging shirt, but once she’d shifted, she knew Petrus had been right. It felt odd to be herself. Her own body felt too small, too short, too...
wrong.

Petrus handed her the blanket. “Anything I should know? Anything he’s said?”

She shook her head.

“Go.” He reached for one wet boot, grimacing as he forced his foot into it.

Innis walked back to the oak tree, hugging the blanket tightly around herself. She paused and looked at the horses, the smoldering fire, the prince.

She’d felt naked wrapped in just the blanket last night. Not because of the other mages; because of the prince.

“Thirsty?” Cora asked, glancing up from the pot she was stirring. “Like some cider?”

“Give me a minute.”

Innis dressed in her own clothes, pulling them on over damp skin. The shirt and trews made her feel less exposed.
They mate with animals
, the prince had said, and last night she’d felt as if he was waiting for her to throw the blanket aside and run naked into the woods, to rut with the nearest beast she could find.

“Cider,” Cora said, holding out a mug when she returned to the fire. “But no tents. I know which I’d prefer to have.”

Innis sipped the cider. She watched as Petrus stepped into the firelight. Stubble was dark on his cheeks and throat. She touched her face with a fingertip. The skin felt too smooth.

This is me
, Innis told herself, stroking her cheek.
This is who I am. A woman, not a man.
Yet her skin felt soft and hairless and wrong.

They ate a stew of dried meat, huddling with the horses beneath the shelter of the oak. Water dripped steadily from its boughs and fell with sharp hisses into the flames. Even with Cora’s magic, the wood burned sluggishly.

Innis looked across the fire at Prince Harkeld. He was unrecognizable as the prince who’d walked into King Esger’s throne room. He looked like the poorest of commoners, his clothes ripped and stained, his hair hacked short, his face dark with stubble and grime.

It wasn’t just his appearance that was different, his manner was different, too. He’d walked into the throne room with his head held high, self-assured, confident, alert. A man used to being noticed, to being obeyed.

Innis studied him, frowning as she tried to identify what was different about Prince Harkeld. It wasn’t that he was cowed or that the confidence was gone, it was more as if....

As if he’d closed himself off.
He holds himself apart from us.

“More stew anyone?” Cora asked.

The prince glanced at her. His face momentarily hardened.

“Please,” Petrus said, holding out his wooden bowl. “By the All-Mother, I’m starving!”

Innis looked down at her own stew. She stirred it with her spoon.
To him we’re filthy, foul, loathsome.
She grimaced, remembering the prince’s words. Humans mating with animals. Women giving birth to kittens.

How could he think such things were true?

Because he knows nothing about who we really are.

Innis lifted her head. “Dareus? Justen wondered what a Sentinel mage is. I said you’d be able to explain it best.” She glanced at Petrus. “Didn’t I?”

Petrus paused with his spoon halfway to his mouth. He stared at her for a moment and then shrugged. “Yes.”

“A Sentinel mage?” Dareus’s eyebrows quirked slightly as he looked at her, then he put down his bowl and turned his attention to Petrus. “Sentinel mages make sure that the rules governing the use of magic are upheld.”