The Sentinel Mage (23 page)

P
ETRUS FLEW AROUND
to the prince’s bedchamber. Predictably, the windows were shut and the shutters closed. He found an open window two levels down and changed into a cat. A minute later he was in the corridor outside Prince Harkeld’s room. A guard stood with his back to the door, as far away from Ebril as he could.

Petrus retreated around the corner and shifted into the shape of a lizard.

Stupid son of a whore
, he grumbled to himself as he hurried along the corridor.
Thinking with his cock, not his brain
.

The guard didn’t see him. Ebril did. The hound’s tail wagged faintly, not drawing the guard’s attention.

Petrus nodded to him, and darted through the crack beneath the door. The furniture in the bedchamber loomed as large as mountains: oak table, armchairs, the trestle bed for Justen. A fire was lit in the wide hearth—a towering bonfire—and candles burned in the sconces.

Petrus climbed the wall, working his way towards the four-poster bed. The velvet canopy cast deep shadows, but the candlelight let him see the bed’s occupants. When he saw the woman, her blonde hair spilling across the pillows, he understood why the prince hadn’t resisted. Lush mouth, lush breasts.

Lucky whoreson
.

Petrus took up a position on the mantelpiece and watched.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

P
ERHAPS IT WAS
because he’d almost died today, but Harkeld was hungry for sex. He couldn’t get enough of Lenora’s mouth, the delicious softness of her body. She was like a siren from sailors’ tales: the full lips, the ripe breasts, the rich curves of waist and hip.

And she had a siren’s skill at kissing, a siren’s skill at touching him, at drawing pleasure from his body. He trembled as she cupped his testicles in her hand, biting back a groan as she explored with light, teasing fingers.

“You’re everything I hoped you’d be, prince,” she murmured.

And you’re even more.
More beautiful, more bold, more skillful.

He didn’t say the words aloud. He couldn’t talk with her caressing him like that, could barely think.

Harkeld reached for her. He wanted to bury himself in her ripe body, to lose himself in pleasure.

“No.” Lenora released him. She drew back, her smile coy, teasing. “Not yet.”

Harkeld dragged air into his lungs. Arousal burned inside him, urgent, insistent.

Lenora stroked herself, letting her fingers trail down the slope of one breast, circling the rosy nipple. “Touch me,” she whispered, looking at him from beneath her lashes.

That, he could do.

He did more than touch; he devoured. The softness of her skin, her feminine scent, were intoxicating. Heat and urgency swelled inside him until he felt he would burst from it.

Lenora arched against him. “Take me.”

He needed no second urging.

I
NNIS WOKE THE
next morning as herself, not Justen. For a moment she didn’t know who she was, where she was—then everything settled into place around her. She pushed the coverlet aside. The other bed in the room was empty; Cora was gone.

She found Cora and Dareus in the main chamber, talking over the remains of breakfast. “What time is it? The prince! I should go to him—”

“Gerit is Justen this morning,” Dareus said.

“But—”

“This morning you’ll be yourself.” It was an order. “You’ve spent too much time in a shape that’s not your own.”

Innis bit her lip.
But I like being Justen.
And then she realized how dangerous such thoughts were. It was the way to madness.

“Sit,” Cora said. She pushed a basket of pastries across the table. “Eat. I recommend the nut ones.”

I
NNIS DID THE
dawn exercises first. She hadn’t done them since she’d become Justen. Her limbs felt stiff and slightly awkward, uncoordinated. She went through the sequence four times—the stretches, the lunges, the retreats—before she was satisfied with her body’s response. Then she sat and ate breakfast. Cora was right; the nut pastries were delicious.

Petrus entered the chamber, yawning. He did the dawn exercises and joined her at the table. “Morning.” He reached for a pastry, broke it in two, and began to eat.

“How did it go last night?”

“Fine,” Petrus said, not looking at her.

Innis glanced at Dareus and Cora. A map was spread between them. They were deep in conversation.

She leaned towards Petrus. “I’m sorry about last night,” she said in a low voice.

Petrus stopped chewing. His eyebrows rose. She saw his confusion.

“Next time, I’ll watch the prince myself. I promise.”

Petrus choked and began to cough. When he’d caught his breath he said, “No.”

“Why not?”

“Because...”

Because I’m a virgin.
Innis looked down at the table. She pushed a crumb with one finger. “Next time I’m doing it.”

“You’re too young.”

She looked up. “Not too young to be a Sentinel.”

“Theoretically, you are.” He reached for another pastry. “Age limit for a Sentinel’s twenty-four, that I recall.”

“But I
am
a Sentinel, and I should be doing everything you do!”

“Not that.”

Innis felt herself flush. “Why not? I’m not a child. I’ll be twenty soon.”

“Because Gerit and Ebril and I can do it, that’s why.”

She studied his face while he ate. Petrus wasn’t a virgin, hadn’t been for several years.
Were you afraid the first time you did it?
She bit her lip, bit back the question. Of course he’d been afraid. Any mage—any mage with
sense—
was afraid the first time. So many things could go wrong.

But she was nearly twenty now. Old enough—despite the rules—to be a Sentinel. Old enough to have control over her magic, old enough to have sex and not unwittingly harm either herself or her bed partner.

If I wasn’t a Sentinel...

If she wasn’t a Sentinel, she’d be at home in Rosny, preparing to start her apprentice Journeys. And when the time was judged right—this year, next year—someone would be chosen to teach her how to control her magic during sex.

There was no one here who could do that. Dareus was too old, Ebril too young, too inexperienced, and Gerit... She repressed a grimace. No, not Gerit.

Which left Petrus.

Like Ebril, he was newly a Sentinel, too young to take the role of teacher. But even if he was older...

Innis studied his face—the white-blond hair falling over his brow, the long nose, the mobile mouth.

Memory came: for a moment she was twelve years old again, standing in the doorway of a classroom, trying to find the courage to step inside. Students sat in rows. One by one they turned their heads until they all stared at her.
This is Innis
, the Master said, his hand on her shoulder, urging her into the room.
She’ll be in your class from now on.
She wanted to shrink into a corner, wanted to run home, except there was no home any more and her parents were dead. And then Petrus caught her eye and winked.

“What?” Petrus said, his mouth full.

Innis shook her head. “Nothing.” She looked down at the table, pushed the crumb again with her finger. Since that first day at the Academy, Petrus had been like a brother. Sharing his bed would be...

She pulled a face. No, not Petrus.

Unbidden, an image of Prince Harkeld slid into her mind. As he’d been in the dream, naked, reaching for her. She pushed it firmly away. When she returned to Rosny, once the curse was broken, there’d be time enough for that aspect of her training.

A
FTER LUNCH, WHEN
she was back in Justen’s shape, back in her place at Prince Harkeld’s side, they went down to the training ground. Gerit trotted at their heels, a grizzled brown mastiff, and behind him were two of King Magnas’s guards.

“Ready?” the prince asked, stripping off his shirt.

The training ground was a courtyard of packed dirt covered with sawdust. They weren’t the only people there—half a dozen men wrestled or practiced their sword play. Stone walls rose on all four sides. Innis glanced up, scanning the windows that overlooked them. The eastern wall had an open gallery. It was empty, but even so... She laid her hand on her sword hilt, and released it as she saw a creamy-white dove circle down and land on the parapet. The faint shimmer surrounding the bird told her it was a shapeshifter; the color told her it was Petrus.

Innis unbuckled the sword belt and dropped it on the ground. Her shirt and boots followed. “Ready.”

They wrestled for half an hour, until they were sweating, panting.

“Who’s winning?”

Innis looked up from pinning Prince Harkeld on the ground. She saw fair hair and a grinning face. Prince Tomas. She released her hold and stood. “Sire.”

Prince Harkeld raised himself on one elbow. “We’re even.”

“Looks like you lost that bout.” Tomas’s grin widened.

“I did,” Prince Harkeld said, wincing as he pushed himself up from the dirt. “But I won the one before that.”

“Not sure I believe you. Looks to me like your armsman had you whipped.” Tomas was teasing; his tone took the insult out of the words.

Innis grinned, and wiped sweat and dirt from her face. Justen’s body made wrestling much more fun. It wasn’t merely that she was stronger; she had more weight behind her, more leverage. She felt a dangerous flicker of exultation for a shape that wasn’t her own—and firmly quashed it.

“Grown soft, have you?” Tomas peeled off his embroidered vest and tossed it on the ground behind him.

Prince Harkeld narrowed his eyes. “Soft?”

Tomas shrugged, still grinning. “Flabby, weak...” He pulled his shirt over his head.

Innis swallowed a grin. Prince Harkeld was as lean, as muscled, as the guards who protected him.

“Flabby?”

Tomas kicked off his boots. “Uh huh. Flabby.”

“Then I wonder you care to fight me.”

Tomas shrugged. “For old times’ sake. Unless...are you sure you’re not too tired?” His tone was mock-solicitous.

Prince Harkeld flexed his hands and bared his teeth in a grin. “Try me.”

Innis heard a murmur of feminine voices and glanced behind her. The gallery was no longer empty. A handful of noblewomen clustered there.

The pale dove sat on the parapet, watching too.

Innis turned her attention to the princes. There was nothing elegant about their wrestling, nothing restrained; it was rough, almost brutal.

Prince Harkeld won the first bout, emphatically. “Flabby?” he said. “Soft?”

“Soft as a girl,” Tomas said, as he lay gasping on the dirt.

The prince grunted, and hauled Tomas to his feet. “Then what does that make you?”

The next bout was over almost before it had started. Tomas took Prince Harkeld down so fast, so hard, that Innis winced. “Soft,” Tomas said, panting. “See?”

The prince spat sawdust from his mouth and pushed to his feet. “I’ll show you soft.”

Innis picked up her discarded shirt and walked across to the water butt beneath the gallery. She cupped her hands and drank, then washed the sweat and dirt from her face, her arms, her torso.

Behind her, someone grunted as they hit the ground. She turned and watched the princes grapple, rolling in the dirt, muscles straining as they each sought to overpower the other. The way they wrestled, they way they teased each other, had the familiarity of an old friendship.

I’m glad Tomas is coming with us. Prince Harkeld needs a friend.

She watched as Prince Harkeld pinned Tomas, as he laughed in triumph and then sat back on his heels, grinning.
This is who he used to be. Before we came and his life fell apart.