The Sentinel Mage (3 page)

Prince Harkeld stood his ground. “If you kill me, the curse can’t be broken.”

The king smiled, his lips stretching across his teeth. “I don’t need you alive,” he told his son. “I only need your blood.”

“Prince Harkeld’s hand must touch the anchor stones,” Dareus said. “Or else the curse can’t be broken.”

King Esger glanced at him. “But Harkeld doesn’t need to be attached to his hands, does he? He doesn’t even need to be alive.”

Prince Jaegar stirred. Innis glanced at him. He was watching his half-brother. His mouth moved, as if he savored a sweet taste on his tongue.

“The choice is yours,” the king said. “Your obedience—or I take your blood and your hands.”

Prince Harkeld swallowed. He touched his hip, as if reaching for a sword—but he wore no sword belt.

Dareus glanced back over his shoulder. He raised his hand, a tiny gesture.
Now.

Innis inhaled deeply. She let the magic rush through her body. “I choose honor,” she heard Prince Harkeld say. “I’ll have no part in your—”

She held the image of what she wanted to be firmly in her mind—a lioness—and changed. There was a dizzying second when she was neither one thing nor the other, when magic poured through her, stinging, a sensation close to pain, and then everything was solid and real again. Scent and sound rushed at her: the sharp smell of fear, the hiss of swords being drawn from gilded scabbards, the scrape of hobnailed boots as the guards scrambled to protect their king and his heir.

“Kill it!” Fear made King Esger’s voice shrill. “Kill the witch!”

A guard brandished his sword at her. The blade trembled.

“Kill Harkeld!”

Prince Harkeld’s personal armsman, the torque gleaming silver at his throat, raised his sword, his eyes on the prince.

Innis charged past the guard, bunched her muscles, leapt. In human form she would have been too late; as a lion, she was swifter than the armsman. She struck the man with her full weight. He dropped his sword as he fell. It spun across the floor, striking the wall with a loud
clang.

Another lion roared. Petrus stood with Dareus and Cora. He was a lion, silver-maned and deep-chested. A dozen guards faced him, swords drawn, protecting their king and his heir. The rest faced her and Prince Harkeld. Eight men. Her lion eyes saw their fear: the wide pupils, the sweat, the rapid beating of their pulses.

Innis crouched, ready to leap.

Fire magic hissed over her pelt as Dareus and Cora unleashed their magic. The guards’ tunics began to smolder. One of the tapestries on the wall erupted into flames.

“Guards, kill them!” King Esger screamed.

Men ran to obey, swords raised and fear in their eyes, tunics smoking.

Petrus roared again. He charged, scattering the guards, knocking one down, opening the man’s cheek with razor-sharp claws, spraying blood.

The guards’ clothes burst alight. One of them screamed, a high, panicked sound. Metal clanged on the marble floor as men threw aside their swords, tore off their breastplates, tore off their uniforms.

King Esger’s voice rose to a shriek. “Kill them!”

Innis turned to Prince Harkeld. He stepped back, holding up a hand to ward her off.

I won’t hurt you
, she tried to tell him.
I’m here to protect you.
The sound was a grunt, almost a mew. The prince didn’t understand it. He kept backing away. His foot caught on the clothes she’d worn. He glanced down and then sharply back at her. She saw the depth of his fear, of his revulsion.

The tapestries along one side of the throne room were alight. Flames swept towards the high, golden ceiling. The mirror frames burned, gilt melting from the wood. One crashed to the marble floor, spraying shards of glass and burning wood across the throne room. And above it all—splintering mirror and crackling flame—was King Esger’s voice: “Kill them! Kill Harkeld!”

Dareus grabbed the prince by the elbow. “We must get out of here!”

Cora ran past, flames trickling from her fingertips.

Petrus was suddenly alongside Innis, smelling of blood. He butted her shoulder, telling her to hurry.

Another mirror smashed to the floor. The roar of flames was loud. And louder than that was King Esger’s voice. “Kill Harkeld!” he shrieked. “Don’t let him escape!”

CHAPTER THREE

H
ARKELD WRENCHED FREE
of the witch’s grip. “No. This way.” The tall double doors would only lead them to the main corridor and more guards. He headed for one of the side doors at a run.

The gray-haired witch followed. Harkeld didn’t look to see whether the others came. Grotesque perversions of human and animal. Better that they died in the throne room.

He jerked the door open. The corridor was low-ceilinged and unadorned. A bondservants’ corridor.

Harkeld ran. The door slammed shut behind him. Footsteps echoed in the corridor—his and two others, boots slapping on the flagstones.

He focused on what was simple: a route out of the palace. The events of the throne room—the witch’s revelation, his father’s reaction, the magic—clamored in his head, so shocking, so huge, that he had to push them aside.
Don’t think. Just run.

The corridor branched. He turned left and ran down the stairs, taking the steps three at a time, turned left again, pushed open the door at the end of the corridor. They were no longer in bondservants’ territory. The walls were hung with tapestries. Windows looked out over manicured hedges and flower beds.

Harkeld slowed to a fast walk. In the distance a bell rang frantically. “There’ll be guards here.” He glanced back. Two witches followed him—the gray-haired man and a middle-aged woman. Behind them were a pair of long-legged hunting dogs, one silver-white, the other black.

Human beings in the form of dogs.
Monsters.
Harkeld jerked his gaze ahead again.

Three guards turned into the corridor, striding. Their eyes flicked to him and they halted, snapping to attention.

Harkeld halted too. To these men he was still a prince. “My father needs you in the throne room,” he said, authority ringing in his voice. “Hurry!”

The guards obeyed without hesitation, breaking into a run, not stopping to ask where his personal armsman was or who the strangers following him were.

Harkeld began to walk again, almost jogging. “The gates will be sealed,” he said, not looking back at the witches. “They’ll have heard the bell. Our best chance is to go through the gardens.” Ahead were double doors, embossed with gold. He pushed them open and stepped out onto a marble terrace. The sun was high overhead. He slowed, strolling.

“The outer wall?” the gray-haired witch asked, lengthening his stride until he was alongside Harkeld. Despite his age, he was barely out of breath.

“It’s less heavily guarded at the eastern corner.”

They went down the steps into the garden. The paths were made of crushed pink and white marble that crunched beneath their feet. Above that small sound, the bell tolled urgently.

“I’ll have the horses meet us there.” The witch snapped his fingers. “Petrus!”

The silver-white hunting dog trotted up, ears pricked.

“Tell Gerit to meet us at the eastern corner. Hurry!”

The dog nodded.

“How heavily guarded is the outer wall?” the gray-haired witch asked.

“In the eastern corner, two men in each tower.” Harkeld glanced back. The silver-white hunting dog was gone. A hawk rose in the sky, gaining height with each flap of its wings.

He jerked his gaze forward again. They were between the clipped hedges now, out of sight of all but the topmost windows of the palace. Harkeld lengthened his stride into a run. The witches followed.

The gardens stretched for more than a mile, a labyrinth of groves and flower beds and secluded, sunlit lawns. Harkeld took a route that avoided the courtyards where the ladies liked to sit and gossip, heading for the outer wall, running fast, listening for sounds of pursuit behind them. The bell pealed loudly, but beneath that sound he heard nothing—no shouts, no baying hounds.

Ahead, the wall towered high. He was close enough to see the blocks of stone, close enough to make out the steps leading up to the guard tower—

“Harkeld!”

He swung around, panting.

Behind them, where the path branched to a rose bower, stood his half-sister Brigitta and her armsman.

“Harkeld, what’s happening?” Brigitta stepped forward. The sunlight caught her hair, making it gleam as brightly as the golden crown woven into it. She shone with youth, with beauty. “Why is the bell ringing?”

Her armsman stepped forward too, one pace behind her. He had the dark hawk-like features of an Esfaban islander. A silver torque gleamed at his throat.

The black hunting dog came forward to stand in front of Harkeld. It was panting, its tongue hanging from its mouth.

The armsman laid one hand on the hilt of his sword.

Brigitta stared at the dog and the two witches. Her brow creased. “Harkeld, where’s your armsman? What are you doing?”

For half a second he considered lying, then rejected it. Britta deserved the truth. “I’m leaving.”

Her eyes widened. “Leaving?”

“Now. Over the wall.” Harkeld caught the armsman’s gaze, held it. “Don’t try to stop us,” he told him.

The armsman hesitated, then raised his chin in a slight nod.

Brigitta stepped forward, ignoring the dog. “Take me with you.”

“I can’t, Britta.”

Her hands clasped together, white-knuckled. “Please, Harkeld.” He heard desperation in her voice. “You know what will happen to me if you go. Duke Rikard—”

“There’s a bounty on my head.” He glanced at the armsman again. Would the man attack? “That’s why the bell’s ringing.”

“I don’t care! Take me with you. Please!”

The armsman stood, still and watchful. He made no attempt to move.

Harkeld looked at Brigitta. Tears were bright in her eyes. “I’m sorry. It’s too dangerous.” He stepped past the dog and pulled her into a hug. She was slender in his arms, fragile. He tightened his grip, hearing the strident peal of the bell, smelling the scent of roses. His half-sister, his friend.
I love you.
He bent his head and kissed her soft hair and said it aloud, so that she could hear, “I love you.” The golden crown pressed against his cheek.

He lifted his head and looked at the armsman. “You keep her safe.”

This time the man spoke. “I will.”

Harkeld stepped away from Britta. He couldn’t say goodbye; his throat was too tight. He was trying to protect her. Why did it feel as if he was abandoning her?

Because I am.

He turned and ran, paying no attention to the witches or the dog. He glanced back once. Brigitta stood in the middle of the path. Behind her was the armsman, watching.

The wall loomed ahead, cliff-like. It was easy to turn grief and guilt into rage, to take the stairs three at a time, to burst out onto the rampart, to take advantage of the two guards’ hesitation when they recognized him. He took the closest guard, bringing him down, slamming the man’s head against the stone parapet, knocking him senseless.

Harkeld pushed to his feet. The second guard lay on the floor. Standing over him were the two witches, man and woman. The black dog was gone. A pair of hawks soared above the guard tower.

Harkeld bent and removed the guard’s sword belt, buckling it swiftly around his own hips. The weight made him feel less vulnerable. Now he could defend himself.

The baying of a hound rose from the garden.

The wall was too high to jump from, too sheer to climb down, but the rope for hoisting the tower’s flag, hastily cut, was long enough for their purposes. The female witch went first, a small, middle-aged woman with her sandy hair in a thick plait down her back.

Harkeld leaned over the battlement, watching. A mile away, to the right, was the town, its slate roofs gleaming in the afternoon sunlight. Ahead and to the left was the royal forest, a sea of trees. Between forest and wall was a furlong of cleared land. Horses galloped towards them from the town. “Yours?” he asked the gray-haired witch.