The Sentinel Mage (47 page)

Her skin was luminously pale, her eyes as dark as night. “We’re not monsters.”

“You are!” he yelled, shouting the words, screaming them at her. “I won’t be one of you!
I won’t!
”

She retreated, withdrawing from him, vanishing into the darkness.

Harkeld stayed where he was, half-sitting, panting, shaking, almost sobbing.
It’s too late
, a voice inside him said.
You’re already one of them. You are a monster.

CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

T
WO DAYS AFTER
Ambassador Alrik’s departure from the palace, Lundegaard closed its border with Osgaard. The following day three squadrons of Osgaardan soldiers were ejected from Lundegaard. None were in uniform.

The palace boiled with rumors, with supposition and conjecture, with wild flights of fancy: the squadrons had deserted and tried to take Lundegaard’s goldfields for themselves; no, Duke Rikard had been trying to invade Lundegaard without King Esger’s knowledge; no, it was an authorized invasion and the plans had been stolen from Duke Rikard’s study by Lundegaardan agents.

Karel listened to it all and kept his mouth shut. He watched the princess, he watched Yasma, and, most intently, he watched Duke Rikard.

The duke was rarely in his rooms. When he was, he brought with him the smell of rage, of desperation. His reputation, his future, his very life, were in the balance—and he knew it.

Investigators commissioned by the king roamed the palace, interviewing anyone with a connection to Duke Rikard or the Lundgaardan delegation—armsmen, bondservants, nobles, army officers.

One of the first people they spoke to was the princess.

Karel answered the knock on the door to Duke Rikard’s rooms just after noon, the day after the border closed.

“Announce me to your mistress,” the royal investigator said. He was a burly man with graying hair, shrewd blue eyes, a military stance.

Karel read the letter of appointment with its royal seal, and admitted the man into the salon. At that moment Princess Brigitta emerged from her bedchamber. She halted. “Armsman? Who is this?”

“A royal investigator,” he said, scrutinizing her face for signs that she’d been drinking poppy juice.
Be extremely careful, princess.
“I have seen his letter of appointment.”

The investigator bowed. “Your highness, I’ve been instructed to ask questions regarding the matter of military information being leaked to Lundegaard.”

Princess Brigitta’s chin came up. “Questions of
me
? Don’t be absurd. I’m the king’s daughter.” Her tone was perfect: regal, affronted.

Karel relaxed fractionally. She hadn’t been drinking the juice.

The investigator looked at her through narrowed eyes, and then nodded. “I meant no offense, highness.” His gaze fastened on Yasma, standing behind the princess. “Your maid, then. She had the opportunity—”

“My maid can neither read nor write,” Princess Brigitta said. She didn’t say
Don’t be absurd
again, but it was clearly implied. “Yasma, fetch my cloak. Hurry, girl.”

Yasma obediently scurried back into the bedchamber. A moment later she emerged, a sable- trimmed cloak over her arm.

“Not that one,” Princess Brigitta said, her tone impatient. “The one with the
white
trim. How many times do I have to tell you?”

Yasma flushed and vanished back into the bedchamber.

“My maid is somewhat slow-witted,” Princess Brigitta told the royal investigator.

The man looked at her, as if assessing the truth of her words.

“Too many beatings,” the princess said, with a careless shrug. “I have to tell her most things twice. It’s rather aggravating.”

Leave it at that, princess
, Karel told her silently.

She did. She returned the royal investigator’s gaze, her expression guileless.

“Even so, your highness,” the investigator said politely, “there are questions I must ask her.”

Yasma returned, a second cloak in her arms, this one trimmed with white fox fur. The princess turned to her. “Girl, this man has questions for you. Answer them.”

Yasma swallowed and clutched the cloak tightly. “Yes, sir?”

The investigator hesitated. He flicked a glance at the princess. Karel read annoyance on the man’s face. He’d wanted to interview Yasma privately.

Karel held his breath. Would the investigator press the issue?
Please, All-Mother, let him not insist on—

“Have you ever been in the duke’s study?” the royal investigator asked.

Karel released his breath.

Yasma shook her head, her eyes wide and frightened. “No.”

“Have you ever seen anyone other than the duke enter it?”

“No.” Not by so much as the flicker of an eyelid did Yasma indicate that she was lying.

“Another bondservant? An armsman?”

“No one.”

“Have you ever had contact with anyone from Lundegaard?”

“No.”

“At the garden party?”

“No.”

“Is that all?” Princess Brigitta’s tone was bored, impatient.

The investigator studied Yasma’s face and gave that curt nod again. He turned his head and looked at Karel. “Your armsman, highness. May I speak with him? With your permission, of course.”

“Certainly, but I require him now. You may wait until he’s off duty.”

The royal investigator bowed politely. “Of course, your highness.”

K
AREL ANSWERED THE
man’s questions after midnight, in a dark, candle-lit room not far from the armsmen’s barracks. No, he’d never been in the duke’s study. No, he’d not seen anyone but Duke Rikard enter it. No, he’d had no contact with any of Lundegaard’s ambassadorial delegation.

The royal investigator rephrased the questions and asked them again—and again—and again—while the candles in the sconces burned low and Karel’s eyes grew gritty with tiredness. Finally he said, a bite of frustration in his voice: “I’m never alone in the duke’s rooms. The princess is always present. I have no opportunity to enter the study.”

“While she’s asleep,” the investigator said, his gaze intent on Karel’s face.

Karel snorted. “With the duke asleep on the other side of the door? A man would have to be insane to take such a risk.”

“You’re from Esfaban. You have reason to hate Osgaard. Reason to take such a risk.”

Fear tightened in Karel’s chest.
They’re going to pin it on me.
“I have a duty to my family, to prove that we’re loyal and worthy of freedom. I wouldn’t jeopardize that for anything.”

Except that he
had
jeopardized it. He was complicit in an act of treason.

All-Mother, what have I done?

The investigator stared at him for a long moment and then pursed his lips and nodded curtly. He made a note on the sheet of parchment in front of him. “What about the maid?”

Karel blinked. “The maid?” He forced his thoughts to follow this new direction. “She’s timid and not very bright.”

The man gazed at him, clearly wanting more.

“She can’t read or write,” Karel said.

“She could have given someone access—”

“No, she couldn’t. For the same reasons as me. Her family’s freedom.”

The investigator made another note on the parchment. “And Duke Rikard’s bondservant? What of him?”

“I’ve never seen the man. But he wouldn’t have done it, for the precisely the same—”

“Yes. His family.” The royal investigator pursed his lips and studied Karel’s face for a long minute, before giving another brusque nod. “You may go, armsman.”

CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

F
IVE HORSES HAD
torn free of their tethers overnight; two had broken legs. The rest stood where they’d been picketed, a mile from the cave, sweating, trembling.

By the time the packhorses were loaded, the sun had risen above the canyon rim. They set off in a slow cavalcade, Innis in her place at Prince Harkeld’s side. Ebril rode the thermals above them and Petrus loped a furlong ahead.

At noon, they halted for lunch. Innis loosened her horse’s girth and turned to lead the weary beast down to the river. Dareus caught her eye. She walked slowly, lagging behind Prince Harkeld.

“How is he?” Dareus asked as he caught up with her.

“He hasn’t spoken a word.” Innis glanced at the prince, and away. “Yesterday was my fault. I should have been closer to him.”

“You were as close as you could be, under the circumstances.”

“But—”

“It’s as well that we know what he’s capable of. That
he
knows.”

Innis walked for a moment in silence. She remembered the dream she’d had last night, the way the prince had trembled as she held him. She’d felt his fear, quite literally.
He’s lost the person he thought he was. He’s terrified of what he’s become.

She lifted her gaze to Prince Harkeld. She hadn’t been imagining his emotions in the dream; she’d
felt
them with her magic, just as she did when she healed. “Dareus? Have you ever heard of mages sharing dreams?”

His eyebrows rose sharply. “Sharing dreams?”

Innis nodded.

“What sort of dreams?”

“Dreams when you’re with someone. When you talk with them.”

“Intimate dreams?”

“Sometimes.” She felt a flush rise in her cheeks. “I’ve never had dreams like this before. They feel
real
.”

Dareus nodded. “I’ve heard of it happening between healers. It’s rare.”

“Healers?” Her gaze jerked, startled, to Prince Harkeld.

They reached the edge of the riverbed and the clutter of dry boulders. Dareus halted. “When you heal, what happens?”

Innis looked at him, confused. “What do you mean?”

“Do you read people’s thoughts when you heal them?”

“Of course not!”

“But...you feel more than just tissue and bone?”

“Yes.”

“What do you feel?” he asked.

“Emotions,” she said. But it was more than just that. Innis frowned, struggling to find the words to express it. She stared at Prince Harkeld, remembering the strong sense of honor she’d felt when she’d healed him, the stubbornness, the courage—and the loss, the despair, the rage. “It’s like knowing someone really well. Knowing who they are as a person.”

“For me it’s just tissues and bones.”

Innis turned her head and looked at him.

“Strong healers, healers like you who
feel
, sometimes have dreams like you describe.”

“With their patients?”

“With each other.” Dareus frowned. “It is Petrus you’re talking about, isn’t it?”

“No. It’s the prince.”

Dareus’s eyebrows rose. “Prince Harkeld?”