The Sentinel Mage (17 page)

Princess Brigitta flinched and stepped back, almost treading on Karel’s boots. Duke Rikard raised their clasped hands high in a gesture of triumph, then strode into the hall, pulling her with him.

Karel followed, into the crush of nobles. The high ceiling trapped the sound of voices, trapped the heat of too many people pressed closely together, trapped the smells of perfume and perspiration.

Well-wishers swarmed around the bridal couple. Karel watched, sweating beneath the gleaming breastplate. The duke was enjoying the attention; the princess wasn’t. Her eyes were wide. She looked like a wild animal, caged and on display in a busy marketplace. Unable to escape. Terrified.

He wanted to reach out and grip her hand, steady her, tell her
It’s all right, I’m here, I won’t let anything happen to you
.

Except that everything was not all right, and he was powerless to save her.

T
ABLES WERE LAID
with crystal goblets and plates of beaten gold. Once everyone was seated, bondservants began serving. Karel stood behind the princess’s chair and watched as the food was brought from the kitchens: whole boars glistening with fat, huge fish with gellid eyes, platters of tiny roasted quail, bowls of steamed and braised vegetables, loaves of bread, salvers piled with cakes and pastries, dishes of whipped cream sprinkled with sugar crystals and flower petals.

Princess Brigitta allowed the duke to load her plate with food and fill a goblet to the brim with wine. Karel watched as she cut a piece of pork, as she speared it with the tines of her fork, as she lifted it to her mouth, each movement careful and precise.

After a minute Princess Brigitta laid down the knife and fork. She didn’t cut herself more food. Karel tilted his head slightly to one side, trying to see her face.

The princess was still chewing.

Karel watched as she reached for the brimming goblet of wine, as she withdrew her hand. He glanced around, catching a bondservant’s eye. “A goblet of water for the princess,” he said, beneath the discordant hum of voices, the
clink
of cutlery on the golden plates, the melodies of the fiddlers and pipe players.

The bondservant scurried to obey.

Princess Brigitta was still chewing when the servant returned. Her face, when the man presented the goblet, lit momentarily with relief. She took the goblet, lifted it to her lips, and swallowed.

For the rest of the meal she cut her food and pushed it around the plate, creating small piles, but she never lifted the fork to her mouth again. Beside her Duke Rikard ate and drank lavishly. His face was flushed, glistening with sweat, glistening with triumph. He had a right to be triumphant; his years of loyalty to the king were well-rewarded this day.

The bells counted out the hours of the afternoon, and still the celebration continued, the voices of the assembled nobles ringing beneath the gilded ceiling, almost drowning out the musicians. Karel thought he heard a forced note to the cheer. Everyone was acting their part for the king.

King Esger sat at the head of the room, smiling benevolently.
See, I am still strong
, he was saying.
I rise above last week’s catastrophe
. But anger smoldered beneath that smiling mask. Witches had attacked him in his own palace. His son had dared to disobey him—and had escaped unscathed. He’d lost his chance to gain wealth and new territory for Osgaard.

Karel averted his gaze from the king. There should be exultation in his breast for the blow Osgaard had suffered; there wasn’t. He couldn’t rejoice, not when Princess Brigitta was bound in marriage to Duke Rikard.

He looked down at the crown woven into her shining hair, at the line of her neck and the delicate curves of her earlobes, at the pale, smooth skin. What Prince Harkeld had done was right—defying his father, vowing to end the curse—but also terribly wrong.
He should never have left you, princess.

Prince Jaegar strolled across to speak in his half-sister’s ear. It looked friendly—his hand on her shoulder—but his fingers whitened as he gripped her shoulder and his voice was cold: “I’d smile, if I were you.”

After Jaegar had gone, Karel tilted his head to one side again. The princess was obeying her brother; a smile sat on her lips as she pushed her food around her plate.

“Y
OUR NEW HOME,
princess,” Duke Rikard said, with a flourishing bow.

Britta stepped through the open door. The duke followed. “The salon, as you see...” She scarcely heard a word he said, scarcely noticed the layout of the rooms: the large salon with windows looking east; the formal dining room, the study, the bedchamber. Her heart was beating too fast, too loudly. Knowledge of what must come next paralyzed her.
No. I can’t do it. I can’t!

The tour ended at the bedchamber. “I shall leave you to refresh yourself, princess.” Duke Rikard bowed and retreated. The door shut behind him.

Britta turned to Yasma. “I can’t do it!” There was a high note of panic in her voice. “I can’t!”

“Princess,” Yasma said. “Britta...I have this for you.” She placed an object in her hand, closed her fingers around it.

Cool. Hard.

Britta’s panic receded slightly. She opened her hand. A flask of green glass lay on her palm.

She blinked, drew a breath, focused. “What’s this?” She removed the tiny glass stopper. The liquid was dark, the smell bitter and faintly familiar. “Poppy juice?”

“Yes.”

Britta closed her fist around the flask.
I can kill myself.
She inhaled a deep breath and looked at Yasma. “Thank you.”

“It will help make it bearable.”

“Bearable?”

Yasma nodded.

“Is this...what you used?”

“Only once,” the girl said. “One of the other women gave it to me. It helped.”

“And the other times?”

Yasma’s face tightened. She looked away.

Britta looked down at the flask. She understood what Yasma had given her: not a way of escaping, but a way of enduring.

CHAPTER TWENTY

T
HE ARROW HAD
gouged down Petrus’s side, slicing through muscle and flesh, lodging just above his hip. Innis coaxed the arrowhead out while the others set up for the night—tending the horses, building a fire, hanging the blankets from low branches to dry. Above the trees, dusk gathered in the sky.

The arrowhead removed, she concentrated on repairing the wound. Petrus wasn’t a strong healer, but he’d been able to control the bleeding while they rode down from the pass, going from barren rock to sparse trees to thick forest, from mist and drizzle to sunlight streaming through a canopy of leaves. He was exhausted now. She was aware of how weak he was, aware of the dull edge of his pain as she closed the wound, knitting muscles and flesh, hiding the white gleam of his ribs.

His pain eased as she worked, his tension lessening in tiny increments. When the deeper layers were healed and only the skin remained, he exhaled a sigh. “Thank you, Innis.”

She smiled at him.

Twilight shadowed his face. “Dareus said you killed one of the soldiers.”

Her smile faded. “Yes.”

“Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” Innis said firmly, and began sealing the edges of skin together. Darkness had fallen by the time she finished. She smoothed her hand down the line of the scar, feeling with her magic. His body felt healthy, whole. “There.” She sat back on her heels. “Finished.”

Petrus pushed himself up on one elbow. He felt his ribs. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” She stood and held out her hand to him.

He let her pull him to his feet, but didn’t release her hand. “Innis, that soldier you killed; he would have killed you.”

“I know.”

“You did what you had to do.” His grip tightened on her hand. “You did well.”

Innis had a flash of memory: her sword burying itself in the soldier’s neck, the jolt as it struck bone, the spray of blood as she wrenched the blade free. She pushed the memory aside, swallowing nausea.

“We all did well.” She turned her gaze towards the fire. “The prince is still alive.”

Petrus grunted. He released her hand.

“He came back,” she said, watching as the prince sat down alongside Justen. “Prince Harkeld. Did Dareus tell you?”

“What’s the point of us protecting him if he—”

“He came back to help us.”

“Brave,” Petrus said. “But not smart.”

She stared at Justen, trying to tell if he was Ebril or Gerit. She couldn’t. Her gaze returned to the prince. “Do you think he’s a mage?”

“I hope not. An arrogant mage is a dangerous mage.”

Innis turned her head and stared at Petrus. “You think he’s arrogant?”

“You don’t?”

“He treats Justen like a comrade, not a servant.”

“Well, he treats the rest of us like we’re lepers.” Petrus turned away from her and rummaged in his saddlebag, pulling out trews, underbreeches, a shirt.

Innis looked down at the ground. She dug the toe of her boot into the dirt. Petrus was right. “Things will be better now we’re in Lundegaard,” she said, but her tone didn’t sound as certain as she’d meant it to be.

“They can hardly be worse,” Petrus said, pulling the shirt over his head.

“P
URSUIT
?” D
AREUS ASKED
the following morning when the hawks came back from scouting.

Harkeld looked up from tying his bootlaces.

“Twenty men spent the night at the pass,” Ebril said. “They set off into Lundegaard at dawn, leaving their uniforms behind.”

Gerit snorted. “Civilians now, are they?”

“And in Lundegaard?” Dareus asked.

Petrus accepted a bowl of gruel from Cora as he answered: “A lot of activity. I saw half a dozen patrols on the roads, and two in the forest.” He shrugged. “It may be normal.”

“It’s not,” Harkeld said. “That number of patrols means they’re looking for something. Us, at a guess.”

There was a moment’s silence. “We don’t know their intent,” Cora said. “It might not be hostile.”

Harkeld stood. He reached for his sword belt. “I can’t believe King Magnas would seek to hinder us. Not if he knows what we’re doing.”

Gerit grunted.“
If
he knows what we’re doing.”

“If King Esger told him you were a traitor,” Dareus said. “And asked for his assistance in killing you... Would King Magnas ask why? Would he doubt your father’s word?”

Harkeld buckled the sword belt around his hips. “I think so.”
I hope so.
“He’s a sensible man, a calm man. I’ve never seen him act in haste or anger.”

“So you think the patrols are there to aid us?” Justen said.

“Yes.”

“Does anyone care to risk it?” Dareus asked.

There was silence.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE