The Sentinel Mage (27 page)

The hands cradling her head let go. “Innis, I have to sleep.” She heard exhaustion in Dareus’s voice. “Petrus will continue with you.”

“Petrus?” She turned her head on the pillow, looking for him.

Dareus moved into her line of sight. He looked far older than she remembered, his face drawn. “He’s asleep in the next room. I’ll send him in.”

She watched as he crossed to the door and opened it, his movements stiff, slow, then closed her eyes and began to explore the injuries in her body. Broken arm and wrist, ribs—

She heard the door open again, heard quick footsteps. “Innis!”

Innis opened her eyes.

Petrus stood over her. “You’re awake!” She heard relief in his voice, saw it on his face. His hand reached to gently touch her cheek. “I’ve been so worried.”

She smiled at him.

Petrus cleared his throat. He drew up a chair and sat alongside her. “I’ve repaired your lung,” he said briskly, taking hold of her hand, wrapping his fingers tightly around hers. “And your spleen and the damaged kidney. But you may want to check them—I’m not as good a healer as you. I thought I’d do the big bones next, in your legs, but we can do the ribs first if you prefer.”

Her legs? She hadn’t reached that far in her exploration of the injuries. Innis sent her awareness further down her body: abdomen, pelvis, groin—

Panic spiked inside her. “This isn’t my body!”

“It’s Justen’s,” Petrus said soothingly. “Don’t worry; you can shift back into yourself once we’ve dealt with the broken bones.”

Justen?

Memory came: climbing stone stairs with a Grooten sword belted at her hip, the clatter of boots, voices shouting, blood mingling with each breath she took.

“Legs or ribs?” Petrus asked.

They worked together through the morning, mending the bones one by one. By mid-afternoon Innis was well enough to sit up and eat soup with a spoon. Dareus joined them and the healing went even more swiftly after that.

Towards dusk, Cora entered the bedchamber. “How are you?”

“I’m ready to change back to myself.” There were still bruises, still cuts and grazes, but nothing that could harm her as her body shifted—no jagged edges of bone, no damaged organs.

“The prince wants to see you.”

Petrus stiffened.

“He’d like to apologize,” Cora said. “If you’re well enough to see him.”

“Apologize?” Petrus said. “Stupid whoreson should do more than apologize. He almost
killed—
”

“Petrus.” There was an edge to Dareus’s voice.

Petrus closed his mouth.

“Apologize for what?” Innis asked.

“He did this to you,” Petrus said.

“What? I thought I fell down some stairs.”

“You did. Because he pushed you.”

She opened her mouth to ask why, but could only stare at him.

Petrus answered her unspoken question. “His precious whore told him you’d raped her.”

“Lenora?” Innis blinked, and then frowned. “She told him that? Why?”

“You don’t remember?”

She shook her head.

“She invited you to tup her, and you turned her down.”

“Me?” Her voice squeaked. “Lenora wanted to do that...with me?”

“With Justen. Yes.”

“Will you see the prince?” Cora asked again.

“Uh...” Innis tried to order her scrambled thoughts.
Lenora wanted to have sex with me?
An absurd urge to laugh filled her throat. “Yes.”

Cora nodded and left the room.

Innis raised a hand to tidy her hair, felt the shortness of the locks, and remembered she was Justen. Justen wouldn’t care what he looked like for the prince.
Only a girl would.
She lowered her hand.

Lenora had invited Justen to tup her?

She wished she could remember the moment.
Did I laugh in her face? Is that why she said I’d raped her?

The door opened again. Prince Harkeld stepped into the room. He looked even grimmer than he usually did. Tight furrows bracketed his mouth. “Justen.”

“Sire.”

The prince walked into the middle of the bedchamber and halted. “Justen, I wish to apologize for what I did to you. It was unforgivable.”

Petrus muttered something, too low for her to hear the words.

“I don’t remember it, sire,” Innis said.

“You want to know what happened? I attacked you—almost killed you.” She saw bitterness on Prince Harkeld’s face, heard it in his voice. There was something dark in his eyes: self-hatred. “I should have given you a chance to speak, but instead I—”

“Lenora said I’d raped her.”

The furrows bracketing his mouth became deeper. He nodded.

Innis settled back on the pillows. “Seems to me you did the right thing, sire.”

Petrus jerked his head around to glare at her.

The prince blinked. “What?”

If I was raped, I hope someone would punish my attacker the way you punished me.
Innis rephrased the words: “If my sweetheart, Doutzen, said she’d been raped, I’d have done exactly what you did.”

“I...” Prince Harkeld blinked again, and then his expression hardened. “I should have given you a chance to speak.”

“You were angry.” She glanced at Petrus. He was still glaring at her. She transferred her gaze back to the prince. “You made a mistake.”

A baffled frown creased Prince Harkeld’s brow. “You forgive me?”

Innis considered this question, and then nodded. “Yes, sire.”

The prince swallowed. “Thank you.” For a moment he was silent, then he asked: “Will you continue to be my armsman?”

Petrus stiffened.

“You still want Justen as your armsman?” Dareus’s voice was neutral.

“Of course,” Prince Harkeld flushed. “That is...if he’s willing.”

“Yes,” Innis said. “I am.”

The prince’s face relaxed slightly. Not a smile, but not as grim as it had been. “Thank you.”

Petrus opened his mouth.

“Justen needs to rest now,” Dareus said firmly. He spoke to the prince, but his eyes were on Petrus. “There’s still some healing to be done before we leave tomorrow.”

Petrus closed his mouth, glowering.

“Of course,” Prince Harkeld said. He turned to Dareus. “Thank you for healing Justen.” His gaze shifted to Petrus. “Thank you.”

Dareus nodded acknowledgement of his thanks. After a moment, Petrus did too, a stiff movement of his head.

The prince glanced at her. “I shall see you tomorrow, Justen.” He hesitated and then said again, “Thank you.”

“What do you think you’re doing?” Petrus demanded once the prince had gone. “He doesn’t need you any more! He can have one of King Magnas’s men.”

“He’ll be safer with a mage,” Dareus said.

“Not Innis,” Petrus said, pushing to his feet. ‘‘Not after this!”

“I’m a Sentinel,” Innis said. “It’s my duty to protect him.”

Petrus swung around to face her. “You don’t have to prove yourself—”

“I’m not. I’m trying to keep him alive.”

His jaw clenched. He crossed the room with angry strides, wrenched the door open, and slammed it behind him.

Dareus sighed. “Ignore him, Innis. He’s tired.”

She nodded, her eyes on the door. It wasn’t like Petrus to lose his temper. “He doesn’t like the prince.”

“No.” Dareus rubbed his face wearily. “Come, let’s finish this. Would you like to shift back to yourself first?”

G
ERIT CAME TO
visit her when the shutters had been closed for the night. Innis sat up in the bed, playing cards with Petrus. “I’m sorry, girl,” Gerit said. He had a tankard of mead in one hand.

“For what?”

Petrus laid down the last of his cards. “You win.”

“For not stopping him.” Gerit scowled and pulled up a chair. “He was too fast for us. Took off like a ruddy hare. The guardsmen lost sight of him and ran the wrong way—” He gestured with his tankard. “I followed my nose, but there was this door, see? Couldn’t open the cursed thing with my paws.” He made a sound of disgust. “So I shifted and opened it and there was a serving maid on the other side.”

Petrus grunted. The sound was almost, but not quite, a laugh.

“What did she do?” Innis asked.

“Screamed loud enough to wake the dead and threw her tray at me.” Gerit grimaced.

Innis laughed. “What happened then?”

“I shifted back into a dog and followed the prince, barking my head off. The guards caught up in the end.” Gerit’s grin faded. “We were half a minute behind him. A minute at the most.”

“He did all that to me in a minute?” Her respect for the prince’s fighting skills rose.

“I think the stairs did most of it.”

Petrus had stopped smiling. His expression was grim. He picked up the cards they’d played.

“I don’t remember,” Innis said.

“Just as well.” Gerit heaved himself out of the chair. He stood for a moment scowling at her. “If he tries anything like that again, I’ll wring his neck for him. Stupid whoreson.”

He’s not stupid.
Innis bit her tongue, holding back the words, and watched Gerit leave. He didn’t like the prince any more than Petrus did.

H
ARKELD DINED WITH
the king and his sons. He would rather have dined alone; his mood was black. After the meal, King Magnas pushed back his chair and walked to a chest beneath the shuttered windows. The wood was dark with age and bound with thick bands of iron. “Harkeld?”

“Sir?” He laid down his napkin.

“Come here, son. I have something for you.”

Harkeld glanced at Tomas.

His friend winked. “Have a look.”

Harkeld stood and walked over to the king.

King Magnas took a long item wrapped in heavy cloth from the chest, closed the lid, and laid the object on it. “For you.”

Harkeld stepped closer. He folded back the fabric, revealing a sword. “Sir?”

“Something better than that piece of scrap metal you’re lugging around.”

Harkeld glanced at the sword strapped to his hip. It was plain, serviceable—a common soldier’s sword.

The sword lying on the chest wasn’t a common soldier’s sword. Harkeld picked it up reverently. The blade was tempered steel, double-edged. A groove ran down its length. On either side a delicate pattern was engraved into the steel: flames.

The workmanship was extraordinary, not just the blade, but the delicately-ridged grip, the guard that flared back from the tang like a flame.

The engraving on the blade, the elaborate guard, couldn’t disguise what the sword was: a weapon crafted for killing. It was light in his hand, perfectly balanced. Deadly.

A king’s sword. Or at the very least, a prince’s. He glanced at King Magnas. “I can’t—”

“Of course you can, son. You need a good weapon.” The king opened the chest again. “Here’s the scabbard. And a sword belt and baldric.”

They were as beautifully wrought as the sword, the leather supple and intricately stitched.

Harkeld removed the sword belt he was wearing. He buckled the new one around his hips and slid the sword into its scabbard. The weight felt good. No, it felt perfect. “Sir, I can’t thank you enough—”

“Nonsense,” King Magnas said. “We’re the ones who must thank you. Our lives rest in your hands.”

Harkeld glanced across the room at Tomas and Erik. The two brothers sat talking. “Sir, are you certain you wish Tomas to accompany me? The danger—”

“He’s able to take care of himself.” King Magnas’s smile was proud as he looked at his sons.

“But if Tomas should die—”

The king turned to him. “If he dies, he dies in a good cause.” He held Harkeld’s eyes. “That’s the best that can be said of any man.”

The words resonated quietly. Harkeld heard the truth in them.

King Magnas closed and latched the chest. “Your father has banished you.”

“Yes.” Harkeld looked down at the sword hilt, ran his thumb over it.
All my father wants of me is my blood. And my hands.

“When this is over, you’re welcome to make your home in Lundegaard.”

Harkeld glanced at him swiftly. “But...I have witch blood.”

King Magnas studied his face, a slow and thoughtful assessment. “Are you a witch?”

Something in the king’s manner, in his voice, reminded Harkeld of Dareus. He blinked, disconcerted. King Magnas was a man he respected, whereas Dareus was merely a witch. He focused on the question and shook his head. “No,” he said. “I’m not.”

The king smiled. “Then I hope you’ll think of Lundegaard as your home.”

Harkeld’s throat tightened painfully. He swallowed. “Thank you, sir, but...”
I have to tell him
. He took a deep breath. “About Sigren’s death. I don’t think it was an accident. I think my father had her killed.”