The Sentinel Mage (7 page)

“Well done,” Dareus said. “And the weapons?”

Petrus unstrapped them. “Dagger,” he said, handing it to Innis. “And a sword.” The hilts of both sword and dagger were decorated with geometric Grooten designs.

Innis hefted the sword in her hand.

“It’s heavier than you’re used to,” Petrus said. “The same weight as mine.”

She nodded. “Where did you get all these?”

“Trader,” he said. “A Grooten ship was in port last month. Some of the sailors bartered their belongings.” For money to visit the local whores, the trader had said, but he didn’t tell Innis that. Instead, he fished in his pocket. “Here. Your amulet.” The disc was round and thin, a slice from a walrus tusk.

Dareus leaned close. “Excellent.”

Petrus nodded. It wasn’t a souvenir, shiny and new; the amulet had the patina of long wear, the ivory burnished to a creamy color.

Innis slipped the leather cord over her head. The amulet nestled just below the hollow of her collarbone. “What do you think?”

Petrus stared at her, unsettled. “That you look like Justen.”

Innis grinned.

Petrus looked away. He thrust his hand into his pocket again. “Here. Your sweetheart.”

The portrait was painted on a small piece of wood. The girl was flaxen-haired, pink-cheeked. The image was slightly worn, as if someone had touched the painted face often.

Innis took it. She turned it over, but there was nothing on the back. “Someone bartered this?”

Or was robbed.
Petrus shrugged.

“Get dressed,” Dareus told her. “Sparring with swords first, and then wrestling.” He turned to Petrus. “Are you having any difficulty holding the shift?”

“No.”

“Balance and co-ordination?”

“The same as when I’m me.”

Dareus nodded. “Good. You may change back to yourself.”

T
HEY’D SPARRED TOGETHER
often, but usually Petrus tempered his blows, not striking with his full weight. This time, when he did that, Innis pushed forward, forcing him to retreat.

Petrus gritted his teeth and began to defend himself more vigorously.

Innis didn’t pull back; she pressed her advantage, her lips pulled back from her teeth in a fierce grimace. She forced him to retreat another step.

“Stop thinking of her as Innis,” he heard Dareus say. “Fight as if she’s a man.”

But she’s not a man.
Protectiveness surged inside him.

Her blade swiped at him, deflecting his blow, striking his upper arm.

It was no gentle tap. Petrus bit back a yelp of pain.

Innis lowered her sword, her expression instantly contrite. “Did I hurt you? I’m sorry.”

“You were holding back,” Dareus told him.

“Next time I won’t.” Petrus said, massaging his upper arm.

“Well done, Innis.” Dareus held out his hand for the Grooten sword. “Let’s try wrestling now.”

Petrus stripped off his shirt. The sword blade had left an angry red welt on his arm. Innis winced when she saw it. “I’m sorry,” she said again, reaching out to touch him. “Does it hurt?”

“Don’t,” he said roughly. “You’re behaving like a girl. Justen would laugh and tell me it served me right.”

Innis flushed. She lowered her hand.

Petrus balled up his shirt and tossed it aside. He kicked off his boots. “Wrestling. Best out of three.”

He won the first bout easily. “You hesitated,” he told Innis as he pinned her to the ground.

Dareus spoke behind them. “Don’t be afraid of hurting Petrus.”

Innis shrugged him off and pushed to her feet. “I’m not,” she said, but her voice lacked conviction.

They circled each other, crouching slightly, their weight on the balls of their feet. Petrus saw Innis inhale, saw her muscles tense, saw her hesitate.

He took advantage of the hesitation, rushing her. They grappled, arms locked around each other.

“You’re still holding back,” he told her.

Innis grunted. “So are you.” Her hip dipped as she threw him.

Petrus rolled and sprang to his feet. They circled again, panting. This time it was Innis who moved first, tackling low, her shoulder slamming into his ribs.

He let her weight propel them backwards and twisted, bringing her to the ground. They rolled. He almost had her pinned—

Her knee caught Petrus hard beneath his breastbone. The air left his lungs. He doubled over on the ground.

“Petrus!” Her hand gripped his shoulder. “Petrus, are you all right?”

He squeezed his eyes shut and dragged air into his lungs. “Don’t you dare apologize.”

Innis was silent. After a moment the hand left his shoulder. When he opened his eyes, he saw her crouched alongside him. Her expression was anxious.

Petrus sat up, biting back a groan. He felt his ribs gingerly and then climbed to his feet. “Last bout.”

Innis didn’t move. “Are you sure you’re up to it?”

“I don’t break that easily.”

Still she hesitated.

“If you hold back, we’ll do it again,” Petrus told her. “And again. And again.”

He saw determination settle on her face. The square jaw firmed. “No holding back.”

Innis kept her word. The bout was hard and fast, rough.

“Much better,” Dareus said, as Petrus scrambled to his feet after being thrown.

They circled, panting heavily. Petrus wiped sweat from his brow. He and Innis were evenly matched. No, not evenly matched; they were
exactly
matched. They had the same training, knew the same moves—and they now had the same reach, the same strength, the same weight.

Petrus blew out a breath and started forward.

Innis met him halfway. For a moment they grappled, each trying to tip the other, then Petrus managed to hook his foot around her ankle.

They fell, twisting for dominance. His head hit the ground so hard that he saw stars for a moment. The hands grabbing him gentled. “Petrus?”

“Don’t hold back,” he panted, trying to catch Innis in a choke-hold.

Innis wrenched free of his grip. A strong arm hooked around his throat. The next moment, his face was being ground into the dirt and a crushing weight was on his back. “Do you yield?”

Petrus tried to shrug her off.

The arm tightened until he couldn’t breathe. “Yield,” he wheezed.

Innis laughed, an exultant sound, and released him.

Petrus pushed up to sit, grimacing, panting. He spat dirt from his mouth. “I hope you get the chance to do that to the prince.”

“The prince?” Innis glanced at Dareus. “I won’t, will I?”

Dareus shrugged. “Noblemen often wrestle with their armsmen.”

“He certainly won’t want to wrestle with any of us.” Petrus heaved to his feet, stifling a groan.

“Well done, Innis,” Dareus said. “That was excellent. Get dressed. We need to start back.”

Petrus wiped dirt and sweat from his face. He walked across to where his shirt and boots lay.

Dareus followed him. “You were still holding back,” he said in a low voice. “You could have won that bout.”

Petrus glanced up sharply. Innis hadn’t heard; she was pulling Justen’s shirt over her head.

“She needed the confidence,” he muttered, reaching for his boots.

“I’m aware of your feelings for her,” Dareus said. “But you must treat her as a man. I won’t have her fail because of you.”

Petrus straightened. Dareus was shorter than him, leaner, but he carried the weight of decades as a Sentinel mage on his shoulders—judgments passed, punishments meted out. His authority was palpable.

“Yes, sir,” he said.

Dareus gave a curt nod. “See that you do.” He turned and spoke more loudly, so that Innis could hear. “From now on, you answer only to Justen.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

I
T WAS LATE
afternoon when Jaumé reached Neuly. The village gates were shut. Armed men stood atop the wall.

He halted uncertainly at the fringe of the forest. Were the gates closed because the curse had reached the village?

He listened, straining his ears. No screams came from within the walls. He heard only the soft rain. Everything was quiet, peaceful.

Hunger forced him from the forest. He walked towards the gates, his gaze lifting to the men on the wall. Before he’d covered half the distance, one of them shouted: “Come no closer!”

Jaumé halted.

“Go away!” the man shouted.

“I don’t have the curse,” Jaumé called out. “I haven’t drunk—”

“Be gone!” A stone struck the ground, spraying mud and water.

Jaumé stepped back a pace. “Please—”

This time the stone almost struck him. He stumbled backwards.

“Be gone!” the man cried again.

Jaumé swallowed. “But I don’t have the curse.”

The men on top of the wall made no reply. Their faces were grim.

“Please—” Jaumé’s voice broke. “Please may I have some food?”

“We keep our food for our own. Now go!” Another stone accompanied the words.

Jaumé blinked back tears. He turned away from the village.

After half a mile, he came to a farm. Smoke rose from the chimney. Jaumé wiped his face. He walked down the path and knocked on the door. It swung open, revealing an empty kitchen. “Hello?”

No one answered him.

Jaumé stepped into the kitchen. A fire still smoldered in the hearth, but the larder had been hastily emptied. Spilled flour lay on the shelves and the floor. The storeroom was bare apart from a string of onions hanging in the farthest corner. It was full of smells—cheese, cured sausages—that made his mouth water.

He went outside, into the rain. The farmyard was eerily silent. The hen house was empty, and the pig pen. No dogs barked a warning at him.

The garden had been stripped—pumpkins cut from the vine, carrots pulled from the ground—but in a far corner Jaumé found a row of radishes that had been overlooked.

He squatted in the dirt, pulling up radishes and eating them.

When he was finished, he started walking again. West. Away.

CHAPTER NINE

D
USK WAS FALLING
by the time they reached the new campsite. Sometime during the afternoon they’d passed from the royal forest into the unbroken tract of woodland that stretched to Osgaard’s eastern border. Nothing marked that boundary. The trees looked the same—oak and ash, rowan and yew. Innis saw no roads, no dwellings, nothing but trees and the occasional animal trail.

Petrus soared overhead, his pale-feathered breast tinted orange by the setting sun. The sky was hazy above the treetops, streaked with fiery bands of cloud.

“Are you having any difficulty holding the change?” Dareus asked.