The Sentinel Mage (29 page)

They rode hard. Farmers paused in their fields to watch them and villagers stared wide-eyed as they passed with a clatter of iron-shod hooves on cobblestones. The soldiers reported no problems, but when they halted at dusk, a hawk circled down to land. Gerit. “A dozen men in the forest above the bluffs,” he said, pulling on his clothes. “A day or so ahead of us.”

Prince Harkeld looked at him swiftly. “My father’s men?”

Gerit shrugged. “At a guess. They’re not wearing uniforms, but they ride like soldiers.”

Innis looked west. The bluffs were pale, crowned with dark forest, and the sky a dusky pink.

“If they’re above the bluffs, we can’t reach them,” Tomas said. “Not until we get to Masse.”

Dareus pulled his lower lip thoughtfully and then turned to Gerit. “Tomorrow, try to get close enough to hear their conversation.”

G
ERIT LEFT NOT
long after dawn. Innis watched until he was a speck in the sky, then turned her attention to saddling Justen’s horse. The bustle of the camp surrounded her: the jingle of harnesses, the hum of conversation, the nicker and
harrumph
of packhorses being loaded.

They rode as they’d done the previous two days: fast. Morning ripened into afternoon. Innis gazed around with interest. The cows in the fields were dun-colored, not black and white, the cottages were roofed with slate instead of thatching, but other than that Lundegaard looked no different from any of the Allied Kingdoms she’d seen—neatly-fenced fields, copses of trees, villages with market squares.

Prince Harkeld rode silently beside her, sunk in his thoughts. Above, a hawk swooped and soared. Innis shaded her eyes. A faint shimmer surrounded the bird. Its breast and underwings were cream-colored. Petrus. Justen would be blind to both those clues, so she said: “I wonder if that’s Gerit?”

Prince Harkeld glanced up and shook his head. “It’s the blond one. Petrus.”

Innis blinked. “How do you know?”

“They all look different.”

She frowned, her surprise unfeigned. “Different how?”

“The blond one is always paler, like his hair.” The prince glanced skyward, at the circling hawk. “Ebril is always a bit reddish, whether he’s a dog or a wolf or a bird. The other one, Gerit, is brown, and he looks older.”

“Older?”

Prince Harkeld shrugged. “Thicker in the body. A little gray.”

Innis stared at him. He was far more observant than she’d given him credit for. “And the girl?”

“Don’t see her often.” His brow furrowed. “Strange, that. Where is she all day?”

Innis cleared her throat. “Perhaps she looks like one of the others when she’s shifted. Like Ebril.”

Prince Harkeld shook his head. “She’ll be darker. Like her hair.”

Innis looked away, disturbed. The prince had noticed something few non-mages did—that shapeshifters kept some part of their coloring when they took animal forms. To change form was difficult enough; to change one’s appearance within that form took much more effort. “Perhaps she’s scouting ahead?”

The prince shrugged. “Perhaps.”

Innis chewed her lip. If he could tell them apart, what else could he see? The shimmer of a shifted mage? “Are you sure that’s a mage?” she asked, pointing at Petrus circling above them. “It could just be an ordinary hawk.”

“Maybe.”

Above them, Petrus uttered a faint cry and wheeled west. She shaded her eyes again and squinted up at the sky. A second hawk flew towards them, a faint glimmer of magic surrounding it. Gerit.

They halted long enough for Gerit to dress and swing up onto his horse. “They’re definitely soldiers,” he told them as they rode. “And they’re on the look-out for mages. The archers fired at me.”

“What?” Dareus swiveled in his saddle to stare at Gerit.

“Missed by a mile. I took care not to show myself after that.” He snorted, a contemptuous sound. “Stupid sons of whores are shooting at anything that moves.”

“Did you get close enough to hear anything?”

Gerit nodded. “The leader is a Captain Anselm.”

“I know him,” Prince Harkeld said. “An ambitious man.”

“He’s looking to claim the bounty on your head,” Gerit said.

“He won’t,” Prince Tomas said confidently. “Even if he arrives in Masse before us.”

“There’s another party ahead of them,” Gerit said. “Anselm’s following their tracks.”

“Soldiers?”

Gerit nodded. “Anselm’s trying to catch up, but from what I gather, they’re two days ahead. I had a quick look but couldn’t see them.”

This time Prince Tomas was silent.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

K
AREL STOOD ACROSS
from the rose bower. The princess hadn’t walked the crushed marble paths today, hadn’t walked them for a week. She sat on the cushions, half-dozing, while bees hummed busily among the roses.

He paced another circuit of the garden, turning his head to keep her in sight. Her hair, binding the crown to her head, had lost its shining luster, her face had lost its bloom. She was fading, every day a little more listless, a little paler, a little thinner.

It’s the poppy juice
, he thought grimly.
She has to stop taking it
.

And what if she did stop? What then? Did she have the strength to survive her marriage to Rikard without it?

Karel looked away. He knew the answer.

The duke must have noticed the change in his wife, but he didn’t appear to care.
As long as he has a princess to rut, he’s happy.

Ahead of him, a beetle struggled on its back among the pink and white chips of marble. Princess Brigitta would kneel and save it; Duke Rikard would grind it beneath the heel of his boot.

No, that was wrong. These days the princess wouldn’t even notice the beetle’s plight.

Karel bent and picked up the beetle. He placed it on leaf mold beneath a flowering rose bush, as Princess Brigitta would have done, and resumed his circuit, his boots crunching on the path. The daydream filled his head again, as it did more and more often these days: the weight of his sword in his hands, the flex of his muscles as he swung it, Duke Rikard’s head spinning, spraying blood.

He would never do it. Could never do it. Everything his parents had slaved for during their bondservice would be forfeit. Not just his own freedom, but everyone in his family: the sisters he’d left behind, his aunts and uncles, his cousins.

It was the only way he had of saving the princess. And he could never take it.

“S
HE HAS TO
stop drinking the poppy juice!” Karel said. Outside, the sky was darkening and the tenth bell was ringing. “She’s barely aware of anything that happens these days!”

“But how can I refuse it to her?” Yasma asked, wringing her hands.

The door to the bedchamber was closed. The duke had finished his day’s duties and was rutting his wife before dinner, as was his habit. In a few minutes the light would fade from the sky and Duke Rikard would emerge from the bedchamber, his face flushed and smug.

The daydream blossomed in Karel’s mind again: hefting the sword, swinging it, sending the man’s head spinning across the room. He imagined blood spattering across the rugs, the walls, the ceiling.

When Duke Rikard emerged, the princess would remain in bed, lost in poppy-induced dreams. The duke would dine alone and then return to her, closing the door again.

“She needs it,” Yasma said. “Don’t you see?”

Yes, he did see. But he also saw what the poppy juice was doing to her. “It’s destroying her. You must reduce the dose.”

“But she keeps asking for more!” Yasma cried. “How can I refuse her? She saved me!”

Karel took her hands to stop their twisting.

“I was scrubbing floors,” Yasma said, tears in her voice. “One of the armsmen had just come off duty and he...he— And she saw me, Karel. She
saw
me.”

“Yes, but Yasma—”

“She didn’t have to stop,” Yasma said. “She didn’t have to take me as her maid. She could have walked past.”

“No, she couldn’t. It’s not in her nature.”

Yasma sniffed, and nodded.

“Yasma, if she dies, what will happen to you? You’ll go back to scrubbing floors. Without her protection...”

Yasma’s face was pinched, miserable. “I owe it to her.”

“Reduce the dose,” Karel said. “You must give her less. Otherwise you’ll kill her.”

“But—”

“Reduce it, Yasma. And get her to eat more.”

Yasma ducked her head and nodded.

“Is she drinking the dung-root juice?”

“Yes.”

He squeezed her hands and then released them. “Good.”

The bedchamber door began to open. Yasma scurried over to one of the settles and began rearranging the cushions. Karel stepped back so that his shoulders were against the wall. He lifted his chin and stared stolidly across the salon.

Duke Rikard strolled into the room. His face was as flushed and smug as Karel had imagined. “You,” he said to Yasma. “Go to the kitchen. I’m hungry.”

Karel’s hand flexed near the hilt of his sword. He saw blood in his mind’s eye, a head spinning.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

“P
RINCE
H
ARKELD KNOWS
who we are when we’re in animal form,” Innis told Dareus that evening, while they ate dinner. She pitched her voice low; the prince was with Tomas on the other side of the fire. Ebril sat beside Prince Harkeld, in Justen’s shape. “He can tell us apart by our color.”

Gerit grunted, a dismissive sound.

“Are you certain?” Dareus asked, frowning.

Innis nodded. “And he knows I’m not one of the hawks we’ve been seeing.”

Silence greeted these words. A log shifted in the fire with a small cascade of sparks.

“We could change color,” Petrus suggested. “For a few hours each day.”

Dareus shook his head. “It’s a hard shift. It’d take too much energy; you’re already stretched.”

“Then let Innis be an animal for part of each day,” Petrus said. “And we’ll be Justen. Justen’s an easy shift.”

Dareus considered this for a moment, his brow furrowed, and then nodded. “We’ll do that. We can’t have him suspecting Innis is Justen.”

“Can he see the shimmer?” Cora asked.

They all looked across the fire, to where Justen—Ebril—sat with the princes. The shimmer was faint around Justen, but quite clear, beneath the dark shadow of Ivek’s curse.

“I don’t think so.”

“A mage would be able to,” Cora said.

“Untrained?” Dareus shook his head. “He’d have to know it’s there to see it.”

“Is he a mage?” Gerit asked.

Dareus shrugged. “His grandfather was a Sentinel. That’s strong blood.”

Innis studied the prince, seeing the shadow of the curse lying over his face, seeing tiredness and stubble. “I doubt he’d agree to the test.”